Poison and Prejudice

by Field, Chelsea

  Crap. All my humor drained away. I needed to tell him.

  But he went on before my exhausted brain could compose the words. “I’ve been thinking of you a lot since we last saw each other. Scheming about how I can ask you out again. The problem is it’s hard when you only come to visit when you’re poisoned or injured.” He deftly used my distraction to insert the needle. “So you let me know when you’re ready to be asked, okay? You have my number.” He stuck a Band-Aid over the injection site and squeezed my hand. “Now I had better get those flowers I stole back to Mrs. Brown before she wakes up.”

  He plucked the dahlias from my grasp, flashed his dimples at me, and limped briskly out of the room.

  A few minutes later, I checked out of the facility feeling like a total schmuck, even as my arm began to feel better.

  * * *

  “Shit.” A flash of horror brought me wide awake, and I lurched upright in Connor’s bed. After the events of last night, I’d forgotten to check on Zachariah.

  Connor chose that moment to return to the room, two mugs of coffee in hand. “Do you always swear first thing in the morning?”

  Seconds passed as my sleep-addled brain assessed the situation. Zac was probably fine. And if he wasn’t, then it was too late; rushing now wouldn’t save him. The only thing I could do was go and check on him. Soon. Before my guilt swallowed me whole. But pausing a few heartbeats to appreciate the man in front of me wasn’t going to change things either way.

  I took some deep breaths and accepted the mug. “I don’t like mornings.”

  Damn the man was gorgeous. He hadn’t bothered to put a shirt on yet, and the ripple of muscles under smooth skin snagged my attention.

  He leaned in and kissed me. Warm, inviting. “I think with enough time I could change that.”

  I swung my legs over the side of the bed with a groan. “Sadly, time is something we’re short of.”

  Unwilling to waste the minutes it would take to go home, collect my car, and change, I took a sip of the delicious espresso coffee and rummaged through my designated drawer. Someone had tidied it since the last occasion I’d used it. Connor or Maria? Regardless, it was handy that I’d had enough mishaps necessitating clothing changes over the course of our relationship to start keeping spares here. I showered and dressed in record time, and Connor dropped me off outside Zachariah’s loft.

  As I contemplated the stairs, I conceded that my tired body would’ve thanked me for respecting Oliver’s curfew. But at least today should be a quiet one. Instead of spending long hours attending Zac at the film studio, the actors and actresses had a day off while modifications were being made to the set.

  It might be even quieter if my misgivings last night had been founded on anything. That thought was enough to get me traipsing up the stairs.

  Zachariah’s one-bedroom loft home was set above a double garage and studio space and was modest by A-list celebrity standards. Notwithstanding the infinity pool in the backyard where he liked to do forty laps every morning. More excitingly for me, it housed a real coffee machine. That alone was enough to make Zac a wonderful client in my books.

  I knocked, then let myself in as I always did. Inside was dim and quiet. No lights. No television nor hum of the coffee machine. Zac must still be in bed recovering from that awful migraine. At least that’s what I was hoping. While they tended to last just a few hours, he’d told me they could last as long as twenty-four.

  Not wanting to make any noise, I took off my shoes and tiptoed to the bedroom. While I waited for my eyes to adjust to the inky interior, my ears strained to pick up any signs of life. I was reassured to hear quiet, rhythmic breathing.

  As long as it was Zac’s breathing.

  When I could make out shapes sufficiently to avoid bumping into anything, I drew closer. Despite logic, my own pep talks, and the breathing thing, relief washed over me when I spotted him in the bed, his chest rising and falling. His eyes were shut, but even in the dark, I could see the shadows under them. It would’ve taken hours for the pain to subside enough for him to fall asleep.

  I didn’t want to risk waking him by staying in the house and turning on the coffee machine, but I also didn’t want to face the day without a second coffee. I left a note saying I’d be nearby when he was ready for breakfast. Then I returned to the street below and remembered Connor had dropped me off. No car.

  Figuring Zac wouldn’t mind my taking his, I called Harper to see if she was free for a break. She started at six a.m., so I thought she’d be about due for one, and I wanted to find out whether Connor had really asked her for date advice. The thought made me grin all over again.

  Zac’s red BMW started up with a quiet purr, and I edged it out of the garage onto the street.

  A block away from Harper’s mechanic workshop, I got a phone call and pulled over to answer it. It was an unknown number, and I wondered if it might be Zac from the landline in his loft.

  “Hello?”

  “Good morning, ma’am. Have you considered what will happen to your loved ones if you die?”

  For a fraction of a second, my mind was transported back to the fiery hell of my burning apartment and the barrel of Bergström’s gun aimed at my frantically beating heart. “Excuse me?” I squeaked. Was I being threatened?

  “I’m Frank Cullen from Sleep Well Insurance, and I was wondering if you had a few minutes now to save your loved ones from unnecessary grief in the future.”

  Oh my goodness. I took a steadying breath. He was selling insurance.

  “Now’s not a good time.”

  “I understand it’s hard to prioritize something that seems so far away. You sound young, and I know it’s easy to feel invincible, that the possibility of death appears incredibly small and—”

  “Actually, the possibility doesn’t seem that small.”

  “Oh.” He paused, thrown off his rehearsed spiel. “Well, good. I mean, it’s good you can see then how crucial it is to make sure your loved ones are cared for in the tragic event of your death.”

  As much as I hated to admit it, the telemarketer had a point. I hadn’t considered getting renter’s insurance until after thugs firebombed the apartment, and I’d lived to regret it. I guess I wouldn’t live to regret not taking out life insurance, but in my line of work, it was a sensible thing to do. In fact, it was probably irresponsible not to do it.

  “I guess I have a few minutes,” I admitted.

  Five minutes later, Frank Cullen from Sleep Well Insurance had talked me into a personal consult for the following week, and I’d officially joined the percentage of the population that cold-calling worked on. I hoped it wouldn’t put me on some kind of green-light list that meant my telemarketing calls would quadruple from here on in.

  I pushed the ignition button, but while the engine made promising noises, the car didn’t start. Uh-oh. Should’ve gotten vehicle insurance too.

  Between the carpet, the spider, and now the car, I was beginning to hate the color red.

  But at least I had a date with the right person. I called Harper.

  “So. My car broke down. But I swear that’s not why I’m visiting. In fact, it’s not even my car.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “It’s Zachariah Hill’s car, so that’s kind of cool, right?” Maybe that would make it worth her while.

  “Doesn’t he drive a boring car?” She sounded utterly unimpressed.

  “I guess you could say that.” The four-year-old, entry-level BMW was pretty slick from where I was standing—well, until it had broken down—but it was rather tame from a famous celebrity standpoint.

  “Never mind. I’ll be right there.”

  I told her where to find me, switched the hazards on to make the car easier to spot, and entertained myself by prodding the fang marks on my arm. Even with the antivenom, the skin around the bite was puffy and red. Connor had been right to make me get it. Typical. But it did mean I needed to call Levi. Today. After my coffee with Harper, I decided.

  M
y coffee date and knight in navy overalls strode down the street, carrying a toolbox. Like her brother, she was tall and athletic with dark hair, gray eyes, and a determined jaw. The difference was in the hair—his was cut to almost buzz-cut severity, and hers hung in a braid that ended halfway down her shoulder blades—and her eyes, which shone with cheerful mischief.

  We hugged, then she stuck her head under the hood and poked around for a bit. “Okay, let me see what happens when you try starting the engine.”

  I pushed the button. The car purred to life the way it had in Zac’s garage.

  Harper smirked. “You sure you didn’t just forget to put your foot on the brake or double-check it was in park?”

  I scowled at her. “I’m sure.” Definitely not going to admit that I got suckered in by a telemarketer.

  “Well, there is at least one problem with the car.”

  “What?”

  “The left turn signal light is out at the rear. Might as well fix it for you so you don’t get pulled over.”

  “That’s very sweet of you,” I said, only half-sincere after her earlier accusation.

  She grabbed a screwdriver from her toolbox, popped the trunk, and peered inside. “Very funny, Izzy. You’ll fit into the family just fine.”

  “What? Why?”

  She reached in and pulled out what looked like a person’s hand. Then she waved it about. “Ooh, I was murdered and shoved in the trunk for Harper to conveniently find when the car conveniently broke down for no apparent reason.” She paused in the waving of said hand and looked down. “Geez, they really make them realistic these days. Even the texture of the skin and the weight feels real.”

  I experienced a strange reluctance to step forward as I ran through the movies Zachariah had been working on this year. They were all romances, which didn’t tend to include dead bodies. Though the latest was a vampire romance, so it was possible they’d somehow worked it in.

  “Is it bitten?” I asked.

  “What?”

  “Like by a vampire?”

  Harper didn’t answer. Probably busy questioning my sanity.

  Tension made my movements jerky as I forced myself to take the dreaded three steps so I could see into the trunk.

  Then I screamed.

  The woman was curled away from us, her face hidden by blond hair stained with a dark substance the color of old wine. Blood.

  Not again.

  Harper had gone back to looking amused like she thought this was part of the prank.

  My tongue felt thick and clumsy as I tried to tell her otherwise. “Harper, put it down. I think… it might be real.”

  Which meant Zac was a murderer.

  Or had lent his car to a murderer.

  Oh dear. He’d lent his car to me. Would the police think I was behind it?

  Harper took in my demeanor, which must have been somewhere between terrified and bursting into tears. “Well, shit. Now I’ve contaminated the evidence.” She dropped the hand. “We better call the cops.”

  Not again.

  “Are you sure she’s not alive?” I asked, waging an internal war with myself over the chance of saving this poor woman’s life versus touching her cold, dead flesh. I stepped forward and then back again. Her position combined with the bright orange baggy T-shirt she was wearing might make it possible to miss shallow breathing. “Should we check for a pulse?” I tried to remember when rigor mortis set in. Either she was alive, very freshly killed, or had been dead long enough for rigor mortis to have faded away. The lack of smell made me think one of the first two options. Could she have been there last night when we left the film premiere? Was that why Zac had come down with a stress migraine?

  Harper looked at me with pity in her eyes. “She’s definitely dead. Why don’t you go sit down while I call the police.”

  * * *

  Flashing lights announced the arrival of a police cruiser. Harper had shut the trunk of the BMW to prevent giving any passersby a coronary, and I was sitting on the sidewalk with my head between my knees. I didn’t want to puke in front of Harper who was remarkably unruffled by the revelation she’d been playing with a dead body.

  She had gone into a nearby restaurant to wash her hands however.

  “Which one of you works for Zachariah Hill?” the police officer asked.

  Well, at least someone hadn’t seen me on the red carpet. I raised my head. “That’d be me.”

  “Is there any chance Mr. Hill wouldn’t have noticed you took his car for a joyride?”

  “It wasn’t a joyride. I was just borrowing—”

  The officer held up her hand. “Time is of the essence. Does Mr. Hill know you’ve taken his car?”

  I thought it exceedingly odd that she was so interested in pinning me down on this point before she’d even taken a look in the trunk, but she was obviously in a hurry. “No, I don’t think so. He was lying in bed with a migraine when I left.”

  “Good. In that case, I’ve been instructed to ask you to return the car to Mr. Hill’s residence as soon as possible and act like you never saw anything.”

  “What?” Harper interjected on my behalf. “You know there’s a dead woman in the trunk, right?”

  “It’s above my pay grade. All I know is that Homeland Security said this is how we need this to play out. Even if Mr. Hill notices you took the car, he’ll have no reason to suspect you looked in the trunk since normally one wouldn’t ignore it and act like nothing was wrong.”

  That was true. Why the hell would anyone ignore a dead woman? Let alone return to the person who most likely murdered her and join him for breakfast.

  “But for your safety, we’ll have an unmarked car in place by the time you arrive and are requesting you put this listening bug in your pocket.”

  I woodenly took the gadget she was offering and cradled it in my hand like it might make me believe I was safe.

  “The agents in charge of the investigation will make contact with you shortly to bring you up to speed.” She seemed to notice my state of shock for the first time and put an awkward hand on my shoulder. “Are you okay to do this, miss? While I don’t know what it’s about, please be assured we wouldn’t ask this of a civilian if it wasn’t of critical importance.”

  I forced my brain to think it through. I trusted the LAPD and Homeland Security to uphold the law. Even Police Commander Hunt—the man who hated my guts and was currently dating Etta—strove for justice even if he didn’t strive for kindness. It was unlikely Zac was awake yet, and if he was, as they said, he’d have no reason to think I’d discovered the body. Plus, for all I knew, he wasn’t the one who put it there. Maybe he was being framed like Abraham Black had been.

  And I would be protected. The plainclothes police officers or Homeland agents would be listening in to any conversation and would rush up to defend me if I needed it.

  Ignoring the small voice pointing out that they wouldn’t be fast enough if he decided to shoot first and ask questions later, I croaked out an affirmation.

  The policewoman’s duty thus fulfilled, she headed back to her cruiser.

  “Don’t you even want to look at the body?” I asked.

  She paused and turned. “Are you sure she’s dead?”

  “Yes,” Harper said.

  “Then I’ll leave it to the higher authorities.” She got in her car and drove away.

  Nausea churned in my gut, but the faster I returned to Zac’s loft, the less chance he’d realize I ever left. I hauled myself into a standing position, and Harper searched my face worriedly. “Are you okay?”

  “Sure,” I lied. Then I vomited into the gutter, wiped my face, and climbed into the car. The one with the dead body in it. “Can you please let Connor know what happened? I need to concentrate on composing myself before I see Zac again.”

  She pulled a face. “Sure, make me be the one to bear the brunt of his overprotective wrath.” She leaned down and gave me a hug. “Be safe, all right?” Her words and warmth wrapped around me comfortingly.
“Otherwise, Connor will be really mad at me.”

  I smiled weakly and pushed the start button. The car purred to life without a hitch.

  Now I just had to see if the darn thing would get me to Cheviot Hills without breaking down again.

  4

  Until this moment, I’d never considered how creepy it might be to drive a car with a dead body in it. I hoped hearse drivers were paid well.

  Then again, I was betting it was a whole lot worse when the body had been murdered.

  What if a different police officer pulled me over and asked to look in the trunk? Would Homeland Security bail me out, or would my going to jail for the murder also suit its needs for this critically important thing? Whatever it was.

  I took excruciating care to signal with plenty of time, stay central to my lane, and drive a few miles under the speed limit. Never mind that Harper hadn’t gotten around to fixing the rear turn signal light.

  Despite my care, I winced at every bump in the road, imagining my involuntary passenger bouncing in the back. Probably obscuring the evidence of her untimely death.

  How did she feel about her murder investigation being postponed for the sake of a higher priority?

  “Sorry,” I whispered as we went over another bump. Because that would help.

  The thirty-five-minute drive felt like an hour, and I was torn between wanting to stop playing chauffeur to a dead woman and wishing it would take longer so I didn’t have to face her possible killer.

  Nothing had changed outside Zac’s loft. The blinds were down, which meant he was probably still in bed, and I couldn’t spot an unmarked police car on the street. Given they were supposed to be undercover, I was unsure whether that boded well or ill.

  I parked the BMW in the garage, being careful to position it the same way I’d found it, then gathered up my bag and made sure no items had spilled out. A quick spot check for anything I might’ve changed in the car’s interior revealed nothing. It was lucky I was the last person to have driven the car, so I didn’t have to try repositioning the seat and mirror to Zac’s usual angles. I was pretty sure anyway… Had I adjusted the mirror and seat on autopilot and forgotten? What if he’d driven it last night to collect his murder victim?