"Well, you're no fun. Surely you girls need a little back-up on this case?"
"I tell you what," I said, strapping my Glock back on. "I'm going back up to the resort tonight. You can ride shotgun if you want."
"Oh, I want," Danny said, turning around. His eyes zeroed in on my cleavage area as if already imaging the region in the buff.
I crossed my arms over my chest. "Okay, but when your corneas are scarred for life by the parade of unsightly nudists, don't say I didn't warn you."
Danny just grinned. "I'll take my chances."
"Now, if you'll excuse me," I said, grabbing my purse and heading for the door again.
"Where you off to?" he asked. "I was hoping we could do lunch."
"Sorry, rain check," I told him. "I've got to go see a man about a gun."
* * *
Derek lived on the humorously named Black Pearl, a cabin cruiser perpetually docked in Maria Del Rey. It wasn't docked in the ritziest marina in the L.A. area, but even among the modest crafts, Derek's old clunker looked like it was about to sink at any second. It was dented, discolored, and painted different colors in different places, just depending on what paint happened to be on sale that day. The deck sported a couple of rusted patio chairs and a table, the interior modestly furnished in eighties cast-offs. It held a bedroom, with a bathroom that was just big enough to turn around in, a pair of bunks in the mid cabin next to a storage closet, and a small galley that served as his kitchen. I stepped on board, my heels clacking against the uneven wooden beams and took a minute to let my balance catch up with the sway of the boat before proceeding below deck.
"Knock, knock," I said as I descended the stairway, banging a fist on the entryway to the galley.
A few resulting rustling sounds greeted me from the bedroom.
"You here, Derek?" I asked. The kitchen counter held the remnants of last night's dinner – frozen pizza, an empty six pack of Budweiser, and a half eaten apple pie. I felt an eyebrow raise. The pie was interesting. I could no sooner imagine Derek baking than I could myself drinking domestic from a can.
"I'm giving you a five count, then I'm coming in," I yelled. An idle threat. I'd seen enough naked people today to last a lifetime. The last thing I wanted to walk in on was Derek sleeping in the buff.
"I'm up," I heard from the back in an almost human growl.
I looked down at my watch. It was past two.
A minute later, Derek emerged, clad in a pair of boxers and an L.A. Dodgers T-shirt with a suspicious looking yellow stain on the front. "What are you doing here, kid?" he asked, stumbling to a coffee pot in the corner.
"I wanted to talk. You didn't get my messages?"
"Been busy," he growled, pulling a can of Folgers from the cupboard.
I was about to ask if sleeping qualified as busy, when I heard a second set of rustling sounds from the bedroom. A bleached blonde wearing an oversized T-shirt and a bad case of bed head, emerged, swaying in the doorway like she had a hell of hangover. "Coffee. Must have coffee," she croaked out through a pack-a-day cough.
I raised an eyebrow at Derek. "Ah. I see. Busy."
"James, you know Elaine," Derek said.
I did. Sort of. I'd met her a couple of times, though I had to admit I hadn't made an effort to get to know her. Derek went through women like I went through handbags. Just when one started to get comfortable, he moved on to the next. Elaine had been flavor of the moment for over a month now. Her shelf life was near expiration if Derek's track record was any indication.
"Good morning," I said, giving her a little wave.
To her credit, she attempted a smile in my direction before grabbing a coffee mug.
"Can we go up top?" I asked Derek as he poured himself a cup. "I'd like to talk to you in private."
Elaine waved in my direction. "Don't mind me. I gotta get to work anyway," she mumbled, taking her steamy mug of black coffee back to the bedroom, only sloshing a little on the floor in her unsteady wake.
I gestured to her retreating back. "Careful, Derek. She's becoming a regular."
He grinned, sitting at the small galley table, some of the growl coming out of his voice as the coffee worked its magic. "That's not all bad. She bakes a mean apple pie."
I tore a piece of crust off, nibbling as I joined him. "Agreed. Not bad."
"So, what's on your mind today, kid?" Derek asked, sipping at the steaming liquid.
I cleared my throat, not really sure where to start. If Aiden's news had stunned me last night, it was bound to freak out Derek. The last thing I wanted to do was give the guy a heart attack.
"I have some information regarding a past open case," I said, trying to ease into it.
"An open case?" he asked, his eyebrows furrowing together.
I understood his confusion. We didn't have many of those. Usually we stuck with a guy until we proved either he was cheating or his wife was paranoid. Very few remained "unsolved" in our particular line of work.
"Yes," I said. I looked down to his chest where I knew a large, circular wound was hidden under his stained T-shirt.
"I'll bite," Derek said. "Whose?"
"Yours."
He paused. "What do you mean, mine?" he asked, his voice flat, his eyes suddenly sharp, all sleep having been chased from them.
I cleared my throat again. "Aiden is trying the case of Jack Brady. You heard of him?"
Derek nodded. "He's the dirty cop, right?" he said, no indication of recognition beyond the media's version of the story registering on his face.
"Right. Well, while Aiden was prepping for the trial, it came out that the gun Brady used to shoot his victim was used in another crime." I paused. "Against you."
Derek's hand immediately went to his chest, an unconscious gesture I was sure. A range of emotions swam through his eyes, one after the other so rapidly I'd be hard-pressed to identify them. Finally they settled into something hard and unreadable.
"I see," he said, his voice tight. He grabbed his mug with both hands, sipping again.
"Look, I don't know what this means yet," I told him. "If Brady was the guy who shot you, or if he knows who did, or what. But I promise you, I'm going to find out."
But to my surprise, Derek shook his head. "No."
I blinked. That was the last thing I expected him to say. "No?"
"No. Leave it alone."
I cocked my head at him. "I'm sorry. I just give you critical information regarding a shooting – your shooting – that has been unsolved for three years, and you want me to just leave it alone?"
Derek looked up from his coffee, his eyes softer. "Look, James, where there's one dirty cop, there are more. You don't cover up things like murder on your own. Leave this to Aiden. I don't want you getting involved."
While his words said I'm worried about you, his eyes said something else. Something along the lines of, I don't trust you to handle something this big.
"Derek, Aiden is busy with the trial. Your shooting isn't his case. It's not even on his radar until there's an arrest."
"Did he hand the evidence over to the original investigators?" Derek asked.
I paused. Good question. One I hadn't specifically asked. "I-I would assume so," I told him.
Derek nodded. "Good. Then let them handle it. If there's a connection, they'll find it."
"But-" I started to protest.
But Elaine picked that moment to come out of the bedroom, clothed now in a pair of stretchy capris and a tank dress that was clinging to her body tighter than a boa constrictor. "Sorry to interrupt, but I gotta go. I'm late for work."
"It's okay," Derek said, standing. "James was on her way out, anyway."
I pursed my lips together. I hadn't been. But clearly this was Derek's way of saying he was done talking.
"Nice to see you again," I said to Elaine. Then to Derek, "We'll talk later."
He gave me a stiff nod.
I walked back up to the top deck, then got into my car. I watched as Elaine emerged a moment later
, Derek attached to her hip, giving her a kiss with more tongue than I ever wanted to see. Then she stumbled over the gangplank, leopard printed pumps in hand, toward a Honda Civic parked a few slots down. Derek watched her go, then slipped back down into the Black Pearl without so much as glancing my way.
I chewed my lip. If I'd just found out someone might know who had tried to kill me, I'd be a lot more into finding out who than Derek was. Maybe reliving the incident was too much for him. Maybe telling me to leave it alone was his macho way of saying he couldn't deal with this. Though I had a hard time picturing Derek as vulnerable, his tough shell held a fragile ticker that, since the shooting, was on three different kinds of medications to keep it going. Maybe his heart really couldn't take this.
Maybe.
But one thing was for sure. My heart was fine, I could take reliving it, even the rough moments, and I did not have Derek's faith in the over-worked original investigator's interest in following up on a three-year-old cold case.
And there was no way I was leaving this alone.
CHAPTER FOUR
I parked a few houses down from Jack Brady's Spanish-style stucco bungalow in Burbank. As I expected, the press were camped out on his sidewalk, waiting for a camera-worthy moment. A few were slumped against the curb roasting in the sun, while the others sat in their cars with their windows rolled up, undoubtedly blasting the A/C.
Brady's black SUV sat in the driveway, and going off of the three drive-bys I'd done before parking, it hadn't moved in the last forty-five minutes. With the trial starting in the morning, it was unlikely he would go out today.
I needed to talk to Brady, and Brady wasn't budging. Which meant I had to get into that bungalow. Luckily, I'd already run through several possible roles I could play to get through his front door, and I'd arrived prepared.
I flipped down my visor and surveyed myself in the attached mirror. My chestnut brown wig sat slightly crooked. I pulled on the pigtails, readjusting the center part before glancing down at the denim shorts and red blouse I'd grabbed from my apartment. I prayed I'd pass for a delivery person. The research I'd done on Brady gave me precious little information. Looking for leads online was as effective as starting my day without caffeine. But I had found one tagged Facebook photo of him with his girlfriend, a busty brunette. I prayed I passed for his type as I unbuttoned the last three buttons on my shirt and tied the fabric into a knot above my navel. I grabbed a box of Papa Gino's large supreme from my passenger seat and climbed out of my car.
As my heels click-clacked against the pavement, the news guys turned and smiled. At least I had someone's attention.
"Hello, boys." I smiled and kept up my don't-derail-me-I-gotta-get-naked-soon pace.
"That sure smells good," one of them bellowed. "Want to share?"
"Another time," I called, waving him off with my free hand.
I turned up the walkway and hurried along the cracked stone. While the news crews weren't camped out directly on Brady's front lawn, I felt them close in as I approached the door. I had no doubt they'd use my arrival as a way to capture any pictures of the accused that they could.
I grabbed the wrought iron knocker, struck it against the door twice, and waited. And waited. A car door slammed behind me, footsteps scurried. A quick glance over my shoulder told me the press still stood on the sidewalk, but they were poised for action.
I closed my fist and pounded on the door again, each whack matching each bead of sweat trickling down my back. "Delivery," I shouted.
The door flew open. "What is it?"
The guy's red face was contorted into a snarl. He wore a pair of jeans and nothing else, displaying a light smattering of golden hairs across his chest. He was older than I was by a good decade, a worn-hard look about him that said this current trial wasn't the first trouble he'd experienced in his life.
I flinched at his abrasiveness but kept my composure. Angry, naked men were a part of the job description.
"Delivery," I repeated, gesturing to the pizza in my hand.
His eyebrows drew together, gaze pinging from me to the vultures behind me.
I heard a camera go off and prepared to have the door slammed in my face. I stepped forward so I was just this much over the threshold. I donned a big, bright smile, and shifted the hot box to one hand, cradling it in the crook of my elbow. "You ordered a pizza?"
He blinked at the sunlight. The interior of the house was dim, and all I could make out were shadows of furniture. "No, I didn't."
"You sure?" I asked, leaning closer, doing my best giggling-flirt thing. "'Cause I could swear this had your name aaaaall over it," I said, drawing out the word in an obvious sexual innuendo.
Brady paused, his gaze slowly roving my body. The left side of his mouth curved up.
I smiled and wiggled my hips. "Hi, I'm Jamie."
Camera shutters clicked behind me again.
Brady briefly glanced over my shoulder. Then before I could react, he grabbed my arm and yanked me inside. I held onto the pizza box with both hands, hearing the eight slices slide back and forth. Good thing he hadn't ordered this because the cheese was probably sticking to the lid.
He slammed the door shut so hard my teeth chattered.
We stood in a small living room. The only source of light came from the flickering television in the corner. A blanket was crumpled on the sofa, and an empty plate sat beside a full ashtray and a bottle of Jack Daniels on the coffee table. No glass.
"Okay, Jamie, who sent you, and who are you really?"
Damn, he was good. Then again, he was a cop. And the dirty ones were even more suspicious than those who believed in upholding the law.
But I still played along, widening my eyes. "What do you mean?"
He smirked. "Ever since the robberies a few months ago, Papa Gino's only hires male drivers."
Well that's just sexist. And smart. And information I wish I'd had about half an hour ago
"So again, who are you, and what do you want?" His gaze shifted to my chest. Apparently, whoever I was, he didn't feel threatened by me. With his six-foot, daily-gym body, I couldn't exactly say the same.
"I was hoping we could talk."
"About?"
I figured I had nothing to lose by going the direct route. "The gun that you used to shoot Edward Bernstein."
His smile disappeared. "Get out."
"I just need a moment."
He braced the doorframe, brushing his torso against me. "I don't talk to the press."
I dug my heels into the threadbare carpet and shook my head. "I'm not a reporter."
He grabbed the pizza box from my hands and tossed it onto the coffee table, sending his plate to the floor. It spun then settled upright. He brought the liquor bottle to his lips and swallowed a shot's worth before facing me.
"You another lawyer? 'Cause in case you haven't heard, I have no use for them." His grin was bitter and menacing.
"I'm not a lawyer."
"Then you got two seconds to tell me who the hell you are before I throw your fine ass out on my porch."
I felt a chill between my shoulder blades, certain it wasn't an idle threat.
"I'm Jamie Bond," I responded, watching his reaction closely, then added, "Derek Bond is my father."
Brady's mouth tightened ever so slightly. "I got nothing to say to you."
Which told me the exact opposite. That little gesture was enough to say he was full of pertinent information.
"You know him?" I was becoming more and more convinced that Derek's shooting had nothing to do with the adulterous husband he'd been staking out, like everyone wanted me to believe, and everything to do with Brady.
But Brady didn't answer, instead growling, "Get out." He punctuated the command by reaching past me and opening the door with a jerk. Then he gripped my forearms and propelled me out the door as easily as if I were a rag doll.
"But I…"
And that's as far as I got before he stepped back and slammed the door in my face.
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I stared at the closed door. "Nice talking to you, too," I shouted.
"Hey, what was that about, pizza girl?" one of the press asked as I walked back to my car. "Not enough cheese?"
Several of them laughed.
I resisted the urge to give them the finger as I headed back to my roadster. Once inside, I took a deep breath to slow my heart rate, then grabbed my cell from my purse, pulling up a screen with the notes I'd made earlier.
Okay, so Brady wasn't going to dole out information freely. No big surprise there. But that meant I needed to talk to someone who would. I flipped to the page with the name of Brady's girlfriend. She worked at a diner, the address a few blocks away. Hopefully she was a little more friendly.
* * *
According to her Facebook page, Jillian Granger waited tables at a retro, 50's style place that catered to tourists and studio types. Inside, black and white checkered floor tiles seemed to stretch for miles. The walls were covered in framed movie posters of stars from long ago: Grace Kelly, James Stewart, John Wayne, and of course Marilyn Monroe. An old-fashioned jukebox in the far corner played Elvis's "Hound Dog."
A waitress sporting an auburn beehive, white blouse, black poodle skirt and a red apron passed by carrying a tray of soft drinks. "Take a seat anywhere, hon, and we'll get to you."
Her name tag read: Brenda. She headed to a corner booth where four guys were bent over a script plastered with Post-it notes. The other side of the room held a lone man nibbling on a cheeseburger while reading Variety, a trio of men in their mid-forties wearing ties, and an older couple sipping on ice cream sodas.
The counter was empty except for the waitress behind it. She was loading straws into an old-fashioned dispenser. Her head was bent, focusing on her task, and she wore the same uniform as Brenda, except she was a brunette. And she didn't seem to have the bubbly vivaciousness of her co-worker. There was something solemn in her posture.
I approached the red Formica counter and sat on a matching vinyl stool.
Without glancing up, the woman asked, "What can I get you?"
I hadn't eaten in hours, and the scent of fries was almost unbearable. "Cheeseburger and fries. And coffee, please."
Secret Bond (Jamie Bond Mysteries) Page 3
