I swallowed hard, my body tensing as I watched his eyes fall back onto the memory.
"You trembled in my arms. You tried to pass it off as the night breeze from the ocean, but I knew it was nerves."
"I was eighteen and terrified all the time," I said, brushing off the moment. Despite the glamour and constant attention, some great and some very critical, I hadn't a clue how to be a model or an adult back then. Mom was gone and Derek was… well, Derek. He didn't exactly have training in raising young ladies.
"You didn't show it," Danny said.
"That's why I was such a successful model. I knew how to fake it."
"You were a natural. Elegant, poised."
"I was a kid. I'm surprised you noticed."
He cocked his head at me. "You were eighteen. And I have a feeling, Bond, that you were never really a kid."
I looked away, trying to hide the truth of that from my eyes. "Yeah, well, that was a long time ago."
"It was. You're definitely not a kid anymore," he said, his voice low and filled with some meaning that I wasn't sure I wanted to try to interpret.
The song ended, and Danny let go of my hand, instantly putting distance between us, as if he didn't want to interpret that meaning any more than I did.
I tucked my hair behind my ear, glancing at Caleigh. The poor girl was still trying to slow dance closer to Martin. I mentally made a note to give her a raise.
I grabbed a cup of punch and positioned myself near the DJ to catch any misdeeds. Sam stood opposite from me, moving every now and then to find a better angle. Danny mingled, chatted with the "cougars," glanced every now and then at our mark. Caleigh danced her butt off, and chatted and giggled as if she was actually on a fun date. Every once in a while, she'd look my way and roll her eyes for the camera.
When the night finally ended, he still hadn't hit on her.
"You think he's ever going to bite?" Sam asked after we walked back to our room. She grabbed a bottle of water from the mini-fridge.
"Absolutely. He's warming up. I can tell." Caleigh sat on the sofa and slipped off her heels, looking like she was ready for a hot shower and long night's sleep.
"We'll give it until the end of tomorrow. If he doesn't try something by then, I'll give the report to his wife," I decided. Though I didn't share Caleigh's hopefulness. She was a stunning woman. If Martin hadn't taken the bait yet, what would change his mind in a day?
"I wish I could stay," Sam said. "But the babysitter can't spend the night."
Guilt wormed its way through my body. I would've loved to stay as well. A slumber party with liquor. But I couldn't relax until I had answers about Derek's shooting. I wouldn't be good company, and there was still more digging to do.
Caleigh waved a hand. "I don't mind. Really. I'm going to crash as soon as y'all leave."
"I'll be back first thing in the morning," Sam promised.
"And I'll be along by the afternoon," I added.
No one asked why, but they all stared.
"I gotta take care of something for Derek," I mumbled.
No one pressed further, though I could feel questions swirling in the air.
Join the club.
CHAPTER SIX
Danny dropped Sam and me off at the agency parking lot, saying something about an early photo shoot in the morning before taking off. After he left, I gave Sam a wave and a,"'Night, Sam," then watched her walk to her car.
I grabbed the door handle on my roadster, pretending I was leaving too, and watched her pull out. It was foolish to hide my actions from Sam. I was a big girl. If I wanted to work late, I could. But I didn't want to lie about what I was doing either.
After a quick change back into my street clothes, I sat at my desk, turned on the light beside my computer, and pulled up my Google research on Brady. This felt foolish and unproductive. Googling was for researching Chicken Piccata recipes and reading the latest celebrity gossip. But I'd already run his financials and checked into everything personal. It all led nowhere. Derek hadn't appeared to be connected to any part of Brady's life. So this is what I was left with. If nothing panned, I'd have to get Maya or Caleigh involved. Their computer skills were a million cuts above mine.
I clicked the first link when I heard the agency's glass doors open and footsteps whoosh across the carpet.
What was Sam doing back here?
As I listened, my heart lodged in my throat. Those weren't female footsteps.
Damn, I'd been so preoccupied with Brady that I forgotten to lock myself in. I reached toward my gun, strapped to my holster, as the figure rounded the corner and stood in my doorway.
The light cast shadows on his face, but it lit up the legs of his Brooks Brothers slacks. Aiden.
My hand flew to my chest and my relief turned into an extended nervous chuckle.
He raised his brows and stepped inside. "I didn't mean to scare you."
"It's okay. I should've locked up. What are you doing here?" I glanced to my computer screen and stood, meeting him on the other side of my desk. There was no crime in googling someone, but I didn't want him jumping to the right conclusions.
"I was on my way home and saw your car."
His home—a condo off Wilshire. I drove by once, just wanting to catch a glimpse of where he rested after a hard day of work. Okay, and maybe to check up on him a little. What can I say? The investigator in me was hard to silence. Unfortunately it was a gated community, and I couldn't get in without being announced.
His eyes looked tired, his jacket crumpled.
"You have a big day tomorrow," I said, referencing Brady's trial.
He nodded. "Bright and early."
"Do you think you'll win?"
"I never lay odds on a case. And it's not about winning. It's about justice."
Times likes this, I knew Aiden was way too "good" for me. I think I was about ten when I stopped believing in the fairytale of any sort of real justice being served by the American courts system. We fell into a silence, each thinking about our own ideas of right and wrong. It lasted just long enough to be awkward.
"Well, I should get going," Aiden finally said.
"Did you want something?" I asked, wondering why he'd stopped by in the first place.
He smiled in that confident way that made me question just how bad it would be to fall for a "good" guy.
"I just wanted to see your face," he said.
I grinned back at him. "Be still my beating heart."
He laughed, a chuckle that spread across the room to me. "Are you heading out? I'll walk you to your car."
I glanced at my computer. It could wait until tomorrow. Besides, if Jillian got the information I needed, Google would be a waste of time. I turned off the machine and collected my things.
Outside the night held a light breeze, cool around the edges, and a welcomed respite from the heat. This was my favorite time of day.
Aiden walked me to my car, held the door open, and leaned inside after shutting it. He smelled of fabric softener. Did he do his own laundry or have it done? Did he hire a cleaning woman to pick up after him? There were so many things I still didn't know about him.
A five-o'clock shadow lined his jaw. I wanted to reach up and caress the stubble, but we hadn't taken this to the touchy-feely level yet. But why should that matter? Just because he was ever so professional?
I lifted my arm…
"Goodnight, Jamie," he said, waved at me, and turned to go.
* * *
I arrived at Hal's diner around eight. I had tossed and turned for the second straight night in a row, and this morning I felt like someone had replaced my blood with sludge. I finished my Macchiato, allowed the caffeine to worm its way through my brain cells, then headed inside.
The place was slammed this morning. Every table was occupied, and four waitresses worked the floor. Jillian was behind the counter again. I caught her eye. She gave me a busy, pained expression that clearly said I'd have to wait.
The jukebox coupled
with the dinging kitchen bell, orders being shouted, the chatter of the crowd, and the cook barking made my head spin.
I'd figured there'd be a breakfast mob, but I anticipated it ending around now. Didn't people work?
After a few minutes, a man at the counter stood and left.
I hurried to the empty seat as Jillian wiped the area down. She poured me a glass of water. She looked more frazzled than yesterday. "Sorry, it's so crazy. I'll be with you as soon as I can. Do you want anything?"
The bell above the front door chimed, and two young women stepped inside.
I didn't want to take a potential tip away from Jillian, so I turned to the menu tacked to the wall. It listed at least thirty options, and I felt rushed to make a decision, so I blurted out, "Um, the special, please."
She nodded, wrote it down, and shouted to the line cook, before hurrying to the woman at the end and refilling her toxic coffee.
Jillian remained hectic and scrambling for a good ten minutes, and I wondered if I should come back later. But I only had a couple of hours before I needed to get back to the camp and finalize the Martin case.
Several neighboring customers left, and new ones took their seats. My order arrived: a steaming plate of French toast smothered in butter and powdered sugar. Jillian set a glass dispenser of syrup in front of it before rushing off to another customer.
It looked amazing, and tasted even better.
After my third forkful, Jillian finally stopped in front of me and took a deep breath. "Sorry about that. I should've mentioned we don't calm down until nine-ish."
"No problem. This is fabulous." I pointed to my half-eaten food.
"Makes up for the coffee, doesn't it?"
The customer to my right handed her a generous tip then left.
She cleared off his plate and cup and began wiping down the counter. "I talked to Jack last night."
I set down my fork, ready to hear all the juicy tidbits.
She shook her head. "He said he doesn't know any Derek Bond."
My shoulders slumped. "Are you sure?"
Jillian bit her lip. "I'm sure he said that, yeah." She paused. "But I think he's lying."
I leaned forward. "You do?"
She nodded. "I couldn't say why, but I just got the feeling he was holding something back."
In my experience, the girlfriend's lie detector was usually on point. "He wouldn't say what?"
She shook her head. "I pressed him, but he still denied it. I'm sorry I couldn't be more help."
I was too. But at least it confirmed what I'd already suspected from my own encounter with Brady. The name Derek Bond definitely meant something to him. I just had to find out what.
* * *
Before heading up to check on Caleigh and Martin, I went to the office and back to my unfinished googling. I instructed Maya I was not to be disturbed, then sat at my desk and typed in the keywords: Jack Brady Derek Bond.
The first page of links led to Brady's murder trial and his attorney, who happened to be named Derek Richmond. According to the reporter, Richmond was a shark in the courtroom. He rarely lost a case and wasn't above using tricks and games to get the jurors' sympathies.
Aiden would hate Richmond's tactics.
I clicked to the second page and scrolled through more articles that had nothing to do with Derek. Brady saving a small child from a car after it careened over an embankment. Brady accused of assaulting a suspect while taking him into custody. Brady named Police Officer of the Year by the city. Brady rumored to take bribes from members of a known drug cartel.
This case was far from black-and-white. Half the city believed Brady descended from the angels, while the other wanted his head on a platter.
At the bottom of the third page I spotted a link with the words Jack, Brady, and McNeil's in bold. The name sounded familiar. It led to an article about a domestic dispute between a drunken couple at McNeil's Bar three and a half years ago. Their verbal sparring escalated when the wife threw a glass at her husband's head, nicking him above the ear.
When the angered, and rightfully so, man grabbed his wife by the throat, Brady and his drinking buddy broke it up, quickly and effortlessly. The couple left, separately, and no charges were pressed. Whoever wrote the article made Brady and his associate sound like heroes.
A grainy photo showed the profile of Brady and the back of another man seated at the bar. As I ran my cursor over the picture, the arrow turned into a hand. I tapped on the touchpad and the photograph enlarged.
Both Brady and his friend wore jeans, work boots, and plaid shirts. This was a casual night out interrupted by the couple. So who was Brady's friend? If I could identify him, maybe he knew Derek.
I leaned closer and squinted. Two beers sat on the bar. The friend gripped his mug, as if he'd just set it down or was about to pick it up. His sleeves were rolled up a quarter of the way, and tattooed on his forearm was a…hook with a fish?
I gasped and sat up straight.
No, that was a mermaid wrapped around an anchor. I knew every line of that damn thing. I'd spent my childhood staring at it while on stakeouts.
It belonged to Derek.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I leaned against the paneled wall and waited for Derek to emerge from his bathroom. I tried to ignore the swaying vessel and the queasiness in the pit of my stomach—not sure if was due to my diner breakfast or my current task. Derek had lied to me. Derek was hiding something.
Derek was about to get an earful.
The door opened and Derek flinched, his eyes widened, and he placed a hand over his chest. "Jesus, James, you scared the crap out of me."
I would have laughed at the bad pun, but I wasn't feeling that charitable toward him at the moment. "Hi, Derek."
He chuckled, shaking his head as he led the way into the galley. He grabbed a mug and poured thick, black coffee into it.
"Want some?" he asked, not turning around to meet my eyes.
"No, thank you."
Derek took his cup to the table. I followed, sliding into the seat across from him.
He held the cup to his mouth and took a long sip, staring at me the entire time. His eyes were full of questions. He knew something was up. How could it not be? I used to avoid spending time with dear old dad, and now here I was, at his doorstep twice in one week.
He set the mug down and swallowed hard. "Are you going to say something?"
Yes. I just wasn't sure how to broach the subject. I thought about each word, carefully played them out in my head on the ride over. I couldn't let him shoot me down again.
"You and Brady were drinking buddies," I blurted out. Nothing like the direct approach.
I watched his face, waiting for a mouth twitch, eyebrow raise, anything that would give him away. Before I saw a tell, though, he got up and poured more diesel into his cup. Classic avoidance move.
"You know Brady," I pressed.
He shrugged, back still to me. "I don't know what you mean."
I rolled my eyes. He was going to make me earn this confession. I opened my purse and pulled out a sheet of paper. The photo was even grainier after a trip through the office's cheap ink jet, but the tattoo was still visible enough that pressed up against Derek's arm it would be unmistakable.
"Busted." I pushed the paper across the table.
He took his time sipping before facing me again. He squinted, pretending he couldn't see it from his distance, but according to his last exam, his vision was 20/20. He stepped closer, the whole time probably churning a thousand excuses in his mind.
What was so secretive that he had to lie?
"Instead of finding a way out of admitting it, why don't you just come clean?"
I expected his brow to furrow, for color to rise into his neck, but that didn't happen. Instead, he continued his blind routine.
"That's your arm." I pointed to the tat. "You were drinking at McNeil's with Brady. Why didn't you mention that earlier when I brought up his name?"
One shou
lder rose and fell. He sat across from me again, setting his mug on the photo, directly on the mermaid. No doubt on purpose. "It was just a drink."
"But you knew him."
"A drink," he said again, more forcefully this time. "It wasn't a big deal."
I scoffed. "Are you serious? The gun . . . his gun . . . "
Derek held up a hand. "I simply ran into Brady that night. I'd hardly call us buddies."
A chill settled across my shoulders as I watched his eyes avoid mine. "Then why didn't you just say that earlier?"
"It didn't seem relevant."
Bullshit. How dumb did he think I was?
I looked away, out to sea and the sunny horizon, anywhere but in his dark eyes. Was he somehow involved with dirty cops? How deep? Did he take bribes? Look the other way at illegal activity? It couldn't be true. Derek was fond of sin in magnitude from fast cars, fast women, and fast money, but I'd never known him to do anything criminal. Would I, though? Surely that wasn't something he'd flaunt to his daughter.
I faced him again.
He sipped his coffee, trying way too hard to be nonchalant.
"Did you know the guy Brady shot, too? Edward Bernstein? It happened right before you were shot."
He narrowed his eyes. "Is that supposed to mean something?"
"You tell me."
We stared at one another, and I would've given anything to know his thoughts right then.
He glanced away. "There's nothing to tell."
I shook my head. I didn't have time for this. I had naked old people to attend to. "I wasted hours finding out what you already knew, and now you can't even tell me the truth."
Now his brows furrowed and color rose into his cheeks. "No one asked you to. In fact, I explicitly told you to leave it alone."
"Excuse me for wanting to know who almost killed my father."
"It's not your case, James."
"It's my life!"
The words flew out of our mouths, both talking at the same time. I barely heard what he said, and I was certain it was the same for him. We were both too stubborn to surrender, and listening meant defeat, in some bizarre way.
Secret Bond (Jamie Bond Mysteries) Page 5
