Aiden blew out a breath, finally looking up, and sent a weak smile my way. "I should have known I couldn't dance around it with you."
"Dance around what? What crime was the gun used in?" I asked, even though that dread, growing into a hard ball now, gave me a sneaking feeling I already knew.
"A shooting. Three years ago." Aiden leaned in. "Your dad, Jamie. Brady's gun was the same weapon that was used to shoot Derek."
CHAPTER TWO
I'd been on location in the south of France. It was a shoot for Italian Vogue, one which my agent, Maurcess DeLine, had been giddy to book for me. Couture dresses, European elegance, top photographers, including my best friend, Danny Flynn, and a never-ending river of champagne that flowed throughout our days.
We'd been up drinking all night, me and the two other models booked on the shoot, in our suite at the Champ de Marie hotel. Danny was drunk, entangled with a redheaded model, while I'd been giggling and acting like a tipsy fool with a French photographer who spoke zero English but had mastered the universal art of body language. Dawn was just starting to peek over the clay-tiled rooftops outside our balcony when the suite's phone rang. Danny answered, and I watched his expression from across the room, going from mellow-with-redhead-and-booze to stark white.
"Jamie?" he'd said, his voice tight, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. Something was wrong. Really wrong.
And then he'd said the words. "It's Derek."
As I'd taken the phone from him and listened to a nurse on the other end say things like "tissue damage", "ICU", and "unstable condition," my entire childhood had flashed before my eyes. As much as I might have resented Derek's brand of parenting, after Mom died, he was all I had left.
I'd gotten on the first flight home, arriving jet lagged and puffy-eyed at the hospital where I had hardly recognized him. Tubes spilled out of his arms, nose, and mouth. A machine breathed for him, another feeding him, and a third sending medication to his body to keep his heart pumping. The bullet had hit him in the chest, miraculously bypassing his heart and major arteries as it lodged into his shoulder. He'd been lucky. An inch to the left, and he would have been dead on arrival. As it was, the doctors had given him a fifty-fifty chance. I should have known then that Derek was too stubborn to die. But I hadn't. I'd just known that as much as my father was a pain in the ass, I'd wanted him to live.
And I'd wanted to kill the person who'd done that to him.
"Are you saying that Brady shot my father?" I asked Aiden, the words sounding oddly disconnected even to my own ears, almost as if I was listening to someone else say them.
Aiden sighed, fiddling with his breadstick some more. "No. I'm saying the same gun was used to shoot your father."
"Where is the gun now?" I asked, my wineglass forgotten.
"In evidence. Same place it's been since they arrested Brady."
"Was it Brady's service revolver?"
"No. It was an unregistered street weapon. 9mm."
"So it could have belonged to anyone? I mean, Brady could have gotten it from the guy who shot Derek before he shot the attorney."
Aiden nodded. "That's possible."
"Or Brady could have done both shootings himself."
"That's possible as well."
He wasn't giving me much. But I knew one thing was for sure.
A new case had just jumped to the top of my priority list.
* * *
As soon as I got home, I logged into the agency's remote files and pulled up our case notes on Derek's shooting. There weren't a lot. Derek had, obviously, been laid up, and I'd yet to take on the role of any sort of investigator. Still, there were police reports and a few random thoughts Derek had typed up after the fact.
Derek had always believed that it was the husband he'd been tailing that night who'd shot him. Benson Booker. It had been a typical adultery case; the Bookers were married ten years, three kids, the husband suspected of seeking "professional company" with Russian hookers. One night Derek was staking out a motel in NoHo where Booker was thought to meet with his ladies, in hopes he'd show. Instead, a masked man had come up to Derek's driver's side window and shot him. Didn't say a word, didn't ask for money, just shot him, point blank. Then he took off, leaving Derek for dead.
Unfortunately there had never been any hard evidence in the case. A bullet pulled from Derek's shoulder had been the sole physical evidence left at the scene. Not enough to implicate anyone in particular.
Until now.
I stared at the screen in front of me. Could it be that Brady had shot my father? Had Booker and Brady known each other? Had Booker hired the dirty cop to do the deed for him? Or did this have nothing to do with Booker at all. Had Brady had something personal against Derek?
I grabbed my cell, keying in Derek's number. Five rings in, I got voicemail.
"Call me back," I told his machine. "We need to talk."
* * *
I spent the night tossing and turning, reliving those horrible moments in the hospital, watching Derek flirt with the big stake-out in the sky. I awoke still tired, achy, and wanting answers.
I stumbled into the bathroom and frowned at the bags under my eyes in the mirror, adding extra mascara to combat their appearance, then dressed in my usual uniform of a pencil skirt, heels, silk tank and loose linen jacket. It was as professional as I got without roasting in the heat. I grabbed my Glock 27, briefcase, and purse, heading for the elevator, then crossed the already sizzling macadam parking lot to my red roadster. I didn't have kids, didn't have a pet, and had no intentions of purchasing a bungalow in the burbs anytime soon. My disposable income was all sports car.
Twenty traffic filled minutes later, I was pushing my way through the frosted glass doors of the agency, embellished with the single word "Bond" in bold, black letters. The lobby was small, but tastefully decorated by Maya's hand. Two black, leather chairs along one wall, a reception desk on the other, and framed modern art on the walls. A short carpeted hallway opened up to my office on the right and a conference room done in light, modern colors and dark woods on the left.
Maya was at the reception desk, manning phones, and I spied Caleigh and Sam already at the conference table, nursing a couple of coffees. As soon as I walked into the room, Caleigh placed a third cup in my hand.
"Bless you," I told her, taking a grateful sip.
"Late night?" Sam asked.
I nodded. "Sort of." I hesitated to drag the girls into what Aiden had told me. It wasn't technically an agency case, and it was definitely personal.
I'd left Derek two more voicemails this morning, though I didn't actually expect to hear from him until after noon. One of the perks of being a retiree is that the man slept ten hours a day.
"Late night sounds promising," Caleigh said, leaning both elbows on the table. "Did you and Aiden finally seal the deal?"
I blinked at her. "Excuse me?"
"You did have a date with the ADA last night, right?" Caleigh prompted.
"Oh. Yeah. Right."
"So . . . come on, deets!" she demanded.
Honestly, there were precious few to relay. After his revelation, we'd both picked at our meals, then I'd passed on tiramisu and headed home right after, anxious to look at our case files. Okay, there had been a very brief hug and a kiss on the cheek from Aiden, but it was hardly the passionate "late night" I was sure Caleigh envisioned.
"No deets to give. It was dinner," I said, sitting in a leather chair. "What's on the agenda for today?"
Caleigh opened her mouth to protest, but Sam nudged her under the table, shooting her a look that clearly said to drop it if she valued her job. Sam was a smart girl.
As if on cue, Maya walked through the conference room door, flicking her fingers across her tablet. "No new business this morning," she informed the room. "But Mrs. Mueller will be in this afternoon to pick up the photos of her husband and his fling at the motel."
"Fab."
"And," Caleigh interjected, "we have Martin today."
> "Martin?" I asked, the caffeine slow to penetrate my brain this morning.
"The nudist!" There was Caleigh's giddy face again.
I groaned. I'd forgotten all about him. "Please tell me that you two are working this one without me?" I asked.
Sam shook her head. "Sorry, boss. Mrs. Martin requested you specifically."
"Swell."
"But don't worry," Sam said. "I talked to Mrs. Martin, and she said not everyone at the resort goes full monty all the time."
"Sometimes they wear cover-ups. You know, to protect themselves from the sun," Caleigh added. "Which Sam bought for us."
Thank God for small favors.
"Fine. Let's get this over with," I said.
Famous last words.
Half an hour later Caleigh, Sam and I had all donned loose cover-ups that looked like skimpy wrap dresses, leather sandals, and sunglasses, and I was following Sam's Cherokee up the 330 in my roadster, heading toward the lake.
The Bare Necessities nudist colony was located in Big Bear, a recreation area just east of Los Angeles, known for its sparkling blue lake in the summer and world class ski slopes in the winter. Only an hour and a half drive from the office, the wall to wall concrete gave way here to towering pine trees and an odd scent that Caleigh informed me was called "fresh air". Communities of vacation retreats, small cabins, and campgrounds dotted the landscape, and the roads wound increasingly higher up the mountain, growing increasingly more narrow before leading us to a carved wooden sign proclaiming we'd found a "natural paradise" at the colony. I followed Sam onto the paved road, which led to a resort that looked like any other ski resort in the area. Of course, at this time of year snow was noticeably absent, replaced by thick, dry grasses and blazing sunshine. Though, thankfully, at this elevation the heat wasn't quite as intense as in the valley.
We parked, and Sam checked the three of us in, using the reservation number Maya had secured the day before. We were booked for two nights—exactly the same as Mr. Martin. I hoped it would be enough to catch the guy in the act.
After getting our room number, we drove around the back of the resort, pulling into parking slots near the room.
"This is going to be so fun," Caleigh squealed, stepping from Sam's car, eyes already scanning the walkway for hot, naked men.
"Let's focus, shall we?" I suggested.
"Right. Martin's wife said he likes to hang out near the pool," Sam offered.
"Perfect! Let's hit the pool!" Caleigh said, clapping her hands.
I wished I could share her enthusiasm as we walked toward the center of the complex.
But as soon as we hit the courtyard, I felt my jaw drop open. The setting was beautiful, the sparkling water surrounded by rocks made it look like the chlorinated pool had naturally sprung up in the middle of the pine groves. Trees flanked the area, green and fragrant, towering over the scene. Chaise lounges lined the poolside, and two private cabanas sat off to the right. A wooden bar sat on the other side, manned by a bartender that was, at least from the waist up above, totally nude. As were all of the resort patrons, lounging on their chaises. I counted ten people and only one bikini bottom.
And, unlike the visions Aiden was having last night, not all of them could qualify as supermodels. Or even non-super models. In fact, the average age of the patrons seemed to be somewhere in the mid-fifties, and I could easily see what a lifetime of nude sunbathing had done to their skin. Wrinkling, leathery, sagging in all the wrong places. While I was usually the last person to judge another based on the size or shape of their body, I was having a hard time looking away from the train wreck of human flesh.
"Where are the hot guys?" Caleigh asked, her voice high.
"Maybe they hide them in another part of the resort," I whispered back.
"I changed my mind," Caleigh said, swallowing hard. "I don't think this is going to be all that fun after all."
After asking around, we found Mr. Martin was one of the sunbathers near the end of the line of loungers. He was a pale, freckled redhead, applying copious amounts of sunscreen to his arms. (I prayed we got out of here before other parts of him needed sun screened!) Sam and I hung back, sending Caleigh in first. I could see her trying to avert her eyes and stare at anything other than his freckled little Mr. Martin as she engaged him in conversation.
Sam and I watched, taking up spots at the bar beside the pool and ordering a pair of margaritas from the bartender who was, in fact, nude from the waist down as well. I'll admit, I peeked behind the bar to check.
He gestured to my cover-up as he handed my drink to me. "First timer to the resort?"
"Uh, yeah."
He winked. "I thought so. I can always spot nudity virgins."
Sam choked a little on her margarita next to me, stifling a laugh.
"Don't worry," he said. "You'll get more comfortable. Everyone starts out a bit shy."
I sent him a wan smile. "Oh, I'm sure I'll be strutting my nude self in no time."
"I can't wait for that," he said, giving me another wink.
I think I heard Sam snort next to me as he turned away.
"Please let Mr. Martin be a quickie," I mumbled.
"Well, look at it this way—he's already got his clothes off. That's gotta save some time," Sam joked.
I grinned at her. "Let's hope."
"Speaking of getting naked . . . " Sam said. "What really happened with Aiden last night?"
I shrugged. "Like I said. Nothing."
"I thought you were hot on him?" Sam eyed me.
"I am. Sort of. I guess. I don't know. I mean, we'll see."
"Well, that was definite."
I shot her a look. "Aiden is fine. I just…" I trailed off, not sure how personal I wanted to get here.
"You're holding out on me," she said, reading my mind.
"Okay, he told me something. About a case he's trying. It was… surprising. It kinda shook me."
"Want to share?" Sam asked.
I paused. Then shook my head. "Not yet."
"Fair enough," Sam said, taking a sip of her drink. "I'm here if you do."
I sipped, too, grateful she wasn't pressing it.
We sat in silence, both trying to avert our eyes from the flabby, sagging, and generally horrifying sights of the human body in various forms as more patrons filled the pool area in the early afternoon sunshine.
Finally Caleigh came jogging back toward us.
"Any luck?" I asked.
She shrugged. "He didn't proposition me, but…" She paused. Her face turned red. And she lowered her voice. "But without pants, it was pretty hard for him to disguise his interest."
I snorted my margarita, feeling lime juice go up my nose. "Well, that's a start."
CHAPTER THREE
I left Sam and Caleigh in the room to strategize their next attempt at Martin. I was confident they could carry on without me for a few hours. At least until the "Bare Boogie" dance that night in the recreation hall that the resort brochure had promised. I think I'd seen Caleigh visibly shudder when she'd read it.
Me—I had other things to look into. I drove back to the office, cranking the AC the entire way. I entered the reception area, still wearing my loose cover-up that, while it had seemed downright prudish at the nudist colony, here in clothing-not-optional land was barely covering my important parts.
A fact that my best friend Danny let me know as soon as I walked in the door.
"Hell-o, skin," he said, a toothy grin spreading across his face as he rocked back on his heels. "I'm suddenly seeing the upside of the heat wave."
"Contain yourself. It's for an assignment," I said, trying in vain to make the cover-up cover more up.
"Whatever it is, I'm loving this assignment," he said, following me into my office.
"Nudist colony," I replied.
That stopped Danny in his tracks, his eyes getting that same giddy, glazed look that Caleigh's had at first. "And you didn't call me? I'm hurt, Bond. Truly hurt."
I shook my head.
Danny Flynn was tall, spent enough time at the gym that he liked to show it off, and had a warm outdoor tan and sun-streaks in his light brown hair year round. He was older than I was by a few years, but the only betrayals of his age were fine laugh lines at the corners of his eyes, which somehow only added to his boyish charm instead of detracting from it. His eyes were somewhere between a sea green and a pale blue depending on his mood, and he was a swimsuit photographer who had a bad habit of taking his work home with him. I'd met Danny on my first modeling shoot, when I was fifteen and feeling downright gangly and awkward in my bikini with a dozen lights blaring at me. Danny had immediately stepped into the big brother role, putting me at ease and showing me how to make my skinny limbs look like graceful art on camera.
Over the years, Danny had morphed from big brother to best friend, but there were times recently when I'd sworn there was an emotion that read deeper than friendship lurking behind his pale eyes. I wasn't quite sure how I felt about that yet.
"Down, boy," I told him, grabbing my pencil skirt and tank from the hangers on the back of my door. "It's not all it's cracked up to be. You ever see a naked forty-something mother of four with C-section scars and stretchmarks up close?"
Danny paused, having to think about that one. "I don't think so."
"I have. It's not pretty."
"Hmm. I'll take your word for it," he said, though I could still see visions of nude hotties dancing in his eyes.
"Turn around," I instructed, pulling my pencil skirt on under my cover-up.
Danny did as told, turning his back to me. "So . . . you and the girls going in the buff?"
"Not if I can help it. This cover-up is as far as I want to go," I said, dropping the item in question and slipping my tank over my head.
"Bummer."
I swatted his backside. "You are incorrigible."
"Hey, I have a healthy interest in the female form." He paused. "Particularly yours."
I rolled my eyes at his back, stepping back into my pumps. "Flattery will get you nowhere, pal."
Secret Bond (Jamie Bond Mysteries) Page 2
