Secret Bond (Jamie Bond Mysteries)

by Gemma Halliday

"And the man on the floor?"

  "I checked for a pulse, but he was already dead."

  "And did you later ascertain that the deceased was Edward Bernstein, a criminal attorney?"

  "Yes."

  "Okay, so you walked into the room, saw the man on the floor . . . and what was going on with the defendant?"

  The defense attorney, Richmond, stood. "I object. The witness cannot know my client's mental state."

  Before Judge Noone, a middle-aged woman oddly reminiscent of Judge Judy, could reply, Aiden said, "I just want the witness to state what he saw. Was the accused crying in a corner or jumping for joy?"

  I smiled. Aiden did have a way with words.

  "Your honor," Richmond shouted.

  Judge Noone raised a hand, palm out, to silence everyone. "Strike the counselor's last statement from the record. The jury is to disregard the prosecution's posturing."

  "Thank you, your honor." Richmond returned to his seat.

  The judge pointed to him. "But your objection is overruled."

  Even from the back of his head, I could see the small smirk that lined Aiden's mouth. "Officer Wylie, please describe what you saw in regards to the defendant."

  Wylie ran a hand through his short hair, making the spiky ends stand more erect. "Um, Brady was just sitting there, shoulders slumped."

  "Was he holding a weapon?"

  Wylie nodded. "Yes. A 9mm."

  "Was it his service pistol?"

  Wylie wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. "No."

  "Did he say anything?"

  "That Mr. Bernstein had broken in and tried to shoot him."

  Aiden turned ninety degrees and faced the jury. "Did the deceased have a weapon on him?"

  "No."

  "Were any guns registered under Mr. Bernstein's name?"

  "No."

  "So as far as we know, Mr. Bernstein never owned a gun and didn't bring one to Brady's residence?"

  "Yes."

  Aiden just stood there for a heartbeat, giving the jury a few seconds to digest this information. I hadn't known he possessed a dramatic flair. It looked good on him.

  "I have no further questions." Then he turned to walk back to his seat. As he did, his eyes roved the room, locking briefly on mine.

  I smiled and did a little one-finger wave in his direction.

  A slight nod of his head was all I got in return before he sat, facing the judge again.

  I tamped down a flutter of disappointment. I mean, what did I expect? It's not like he could blow me kisses from across the courtroom.

  "Your witness, Mr. Richmond," the judge said.

  Richmond was already on his feet. "Officer Wylie, were any other guns found in Mr. Brady's home?"

  Wylie opened his mouth and frowned, perhaps unsure how to answer. "You mean . . . "

  "Any weapons at all?"

  "Yes. We recovered a second gun in the bedside table."

  "And was this gun registered to anyone?"

  "Yes, Jack Brady."

  Richmond tapped his temple with his fingers. That was either his normal way of processing his thoughts, or he was now the one posturing for the jury. "And the gun that my client was holding when you found him, who was that registered to?"

  "Um . . . no one."

  I watched Richmond's profile. He gasped in mock surprise. "How can that be?"

  This must've been what the article meant by Richmond's courtroom antics. His routine reminded me of Joe Pesci in My Cousin Vinny, except Brady wasn't some innocent kid like Ralph Macchio's character. Brady was one of the bad guys. And this wasn't fiction.

  "It's what's considered to be a street weapon. The serial number had been filed off, so any previous owners can't be traced." Wylie grinned, wide, to the jury, as if proud to be schooling us common folk on big police terms. He probably spent his days off watching reruns of Law & Order.

  "Is it possible . . . " Richmond paused, pointing toward Aiden. "I know you're not an expert, Officer Wylie, but is it possible that Mr. Bernstein brought the murder weapon to Mr. Brady's house, and, during a struggle, my client took the gun from his assailant and shot him in self-defense?"

  Aiden jumped up. "Your honor . . . "

  I tuned out his objection, laden with legalese, and focused on the jury. A couple of young women giggled at Richmond's theatrics. He was a striking man, dark hair, light eyes, a tall and fit physique, if you were attracted to sewer rats. So Brady claimed it was self-defense and not his gun. Was he lying? And if he wasn't, then the gun that shot Derek belonged to Bernstein. Had Bernstein had a beef with Derek? I added him to my mental list of people to check up on.

  The judge banged her gavel, pulling me from my thoughts. "Overruled."

  Aiden sat down and glanced back at me, almost apologetically. I knew it pained him to lose a jury point to Richmond. Twice as much for me to witness it.

  Richmond repeated his long-winded question to Wylie again.

  Wylie shrugged. "I guess." From the scrunched up look on his face, he obviously hadn't thought it possible on his own. He thought Brady was guilty, too.

  I glanced at my watch. I needed to get in touch with the girls and arrange to meet with Mrs. Martin, but I didn't want to leave yet. I hoped I'd witness Aiden score a home run first.

  "No further questions." Richmond turned on his heel and returned to his seat. A smug look stretched across his face.

  "You may step down, Officer Wylie," the judge said.

  In that instant, Brady turned in his seat to survey the courtroom, and he spotted me. Confusion swam across his expression, probably him trying to picture me with brunette pigtails. I hadn't been afraid of him when I approached him at his house, but something in the eyes now made my stomach squirm.

  Without taking his gaze off me, Brady leaned to Richmond and whispered in his lawyer's ear.

  "Mr. Prince, call your next witness."

  "I call Fred Dwyer to the stand."

  I couldn't take my eyes off Brady. Aiden's warm voice washed over me, trying to thaw the chill running through me. Brady's eyes were hard. Calculating. This was a guy no one would deny was dangerous.

  Richmond turned and stared at me, whispering something in return to his client.

  I blinked and looked ahead, trying to pretend I was just an observer here.

  Aiden glanced at Brady and must've followed his glare, because Aiden turned to me. Brows furrowed, he shrugged as if to ask, "What's going on?"

  I shook my head and slung the strap of my purse onto my shoulder. This definitely wasn't the place to get into it, and I wasn't quite ready to admit I'd visited Brady. In hindsight, knowing what I just learned about the night Bernstein died, it had been a brash decision to go alone.

  The doors swung open and Fred Dwyer, a pencil thin man with a bad toupee, walked in. When he passed my aisle, I stood and hurried out. I'd deal with Aiden's questions later.

  * * *

  I opened the box marked DB in black Sharpie and sat on the office floor. There had been three boxes stuffed into the corner, beneath the Valentine decorations (which Maya and Caleigh insisted on hanging every year) and other holiday paraphernalia. The others boxes had held miscellaneous items just like Maya had said—the Hula dancer, a pair of fuzzy dice (really, Derek?), and other oddities. This last one didn't rattle like the others, but I wasn't holding my breath for secret diaries.

  Dust puffed up and I sneezed. Twice. Rummaging through old boxes was exactly how I loved to spend my nights. It was up there with laundry and washing windows. Two tasks I didn't do often enough. Filtering through the box, I uncovered receipts, stacks of the short, white slips of paper held together in little packs by rubber bands. I grabbed the nearest stack and untied it, shuffling through. They showed a pattern in Derek's habits. Coffee and three donuts at two a.m. A meatball sub at three in the afternoon. Pork rinds and a Red Bull. It was a wonder his heart hadn't given out sooner.

  Beneath several layers of stacks was a leather bound book. I pulled it out and stared at the
gold initials monogrammed in the bottom right corner. DBM. Derek Matthew Bond. Maybe I'd hit the jackpot after all.

  I opened and stared at a ledger. At first glance, it appeared to be the books for the agency. Derek hadn't been convinced computers weren't evil, a way for Big Brother to spy on your business. I tried to explain they were necessary in today's world, but he hadn't wanted to hear it. That was four years ago. Today, his militant views on computers had weakened, but he still believed the Internet did more harm than good.

  But the more I looked at the ledger, the less I was convinced it was a simple accounting system. There were no totals anywhere. I realized it wasn't financial records but some kind of file system. Dates, initials, four digit numbers. I flipped to the date Derek had been shot. April tenth, three years ago. There was no entry for that date, but there was one two days earlier. And it was easy to find because it was the last entry. After that Derek had been in the hospital, and his files had been packed up by a moving company I'd tearfully hired to clean out his office. I stared down at the last entry.

  0408/RBS/0178

  What the hell did it mean? The date before that was 0330/ABM/0177. Assuming it stood for date then client's initials, what did the last number stand for? I could call Derek and ask, but I wasn't certain he'd be honest. And I'd rather not have him know I was still digging. It saved me from having to buy stock in Advil.

  There was nothing else in this box. I pushed it back into its original spot, turned off the overheard bulb, and shut the door, taking the ledger with me. The lobby was dark except for a tiny glow from the printer Maya forgot to turn off and a shadowy light from an outside street lamp. I'd parked in a far, dark corner of the parking lot and locked the agency door behind me when I came in. No interruptions. Not that I wouldn't have welcomed Aiden's company, but I wasn't ready to share what I'd learned. Aiden was a black and white kind of guy when it came to the law. I wasn't sure how he'd feel about Derek and Brady being old drinking buddies.

  At least not until I knew that was all they'd been.

  I sat in Maya's chair and stared at the room from a different angle. I twirled and faced the filing cabinets. If the initials stood for clients, we should have records of them.

  I wheeled the chair to the last cabinet where we kept closed cases and tugged on a handle. Locked. Back at Maya's desk, I opened each drawer, searching for the tiny silver key. Gum, Chapstick, a movie theater stub, pens, notepad. Finally my fingers stumbled on a key. I unlocked the cabinet and stared at the manila files. The first time I'd combed through these, I'd been green. I recalled studying Derek's notes. How he hired actresses to help him catch his marks in the act. How he billed the wives. How long he was on stakeouts. I'd been in training mode then. I hadn't been vested in memorizing client names. It was unnecessary, since they were all closed cases anyway. But now I couldn't help but feel a nudge of guilt. What if I'd glossed over something that held the identity to Derek's shooter?

  At the time, Derek had been working on the Booker case. I searched the files but there was no Booker listed in the B's. I sat back, my eyes roving the massive wall of files. I absently ran my hand over the ledger's smooth, leather cover. My wrist touched the cool, gold letters. Derek Matthew Bond. Or in this case, Derek Bond Matthew. Why was it custom practice to put the initial of the person's last name in the middle? That never made sense to me.

  Something clicked. March thirtieth had listed ABM. Had Derek filed them in the same order? Something Booker something.

  I hurried to the M's and there it was: Abigail Booker Marie.

  I laughed loud. Derek's own filing system. Maybe he thought Big Brother could point their satellites through the front windows. I yanked Booker's file from the drawer. Okay, so who was RBS?

  I had a suspicion, but I didn't want to get my hopes up until I found it. And there it was, all shiny and sparkling, at least in my mind. Rebecca Bernstein Susan.

  I pulled the Bernstein file, my mind churning over just what this meant. Bernstein's wife had been one of Derek's clients. The same man Brady allegedly killed.

  Funny Derek never mentioned that bit of info either.

  I locked the cabinet, returned the key to Maya's drawer, and hurried into my office. I almost knocked my desk lamp onto the floor in my haste to turn it on. I sunk into my chair and opened Bernstein's file first.

  Mrs. Rebecca Susan Bernstein had hired Derek to follow her husband, Edward Daniel Bernstein, and discover if he was cheating. He'd been coming home later than usual, wasn't at the office when he said he was, and had become distant. It was a familiar story, one we heard a dozen times a year. Accordingly, Derek ran the usual surveillance and hadn't uncovered anything conclusive. There were no pictures in the file, however, just all handwritten notes.

  I leaned back in my chair and shut my eyes, picturing when I first came on board. Derek had just gotten out of the hospital and was staying on the boat. I'd been more focused on his recovery, starting a new life, learning to keep the business afloat than investigating his shooting. I hadn't thought much of it at the time, but Derek had been largely uninterested in investigating it also. He'd assumed it was an unhappy client or spouse. Lord knew enough of them wanted to shoot the messenger. We just both assumed someone actually had.

  At the time he'd said he only had two open cases. Booker and Anderson, some elderly couple. But it turned out that Mr. Anderson had been sneaking around with Mrs. Anderson's sister in order to plan a surprise birthday party for the wife. Everyone was happy, albeit not surprised, at the end. Booker had seemed the likely culprit.

  Of course, he had failed to mention the Bernsteins.

  I grabbed the Bernstein file again, flipping it open. Tons of notes, no pictures. Why? Where was all the surveillance that Derek had written about doing? Derek was a stickler for record keeping. If the photos were gone, it wasn't because they'd been misplaced. They'd been purged on purpose. Which in itself was enough to light a burning desire in my gut to see those pictures. Had Derek taken the photos? It was possible. It wasn't like I'd guarded our past client files in those early months of Derek teaching me the ropes. He'd been in and out of the office as much as the doctors would allow, and I wouldn't have looked twice at him leaving with a file under his arm.

  Which meant if they did exist, they were on Derek's boat. Fat chance of getting to them there. Derek rarely left these days, and as tidy as his files were, clearly his home was not.

  But there might be one other place I could see those pictures.

  I glanced at the time. It was near eleven, and I had an appointment with Mrs. Martin at noon, according to the sticky note Maya had left on my desk. That meant my morning was free. According to the files in my hand, Mrs. Bernstein had lived in Brentwood at the time she'd hired Derek. If I was lucky, she might still live there. And she might still have copies of those pictures.

  I switched off the light, stuffed the files into my purse, and locked up. Outside the temp had dropped a few degrees, but it was still hot enough to opt for air conditioning over throwing the top down on my convertible.

  My phone vibrated as I got in. It had done that several times tonight. I hadn't checked who was calling, but I assumed it was Aiden. I was torn between ignoring the calls and wanting to hear his voice. Maybe I could steer the conversation away from court? Fat chance. When Aiden made his mind up, he didn't budge. A great lawyer trait, but not so great in the potential boyfriend department.

  I slid behind the wheel and slammed the door shut. I tossed my purse onto the passenger seat and placed my cell in a cup holder, watching the display light up with Aiden's private cell phone number. I ignored it and pushed my key into the ignition.

  But from the corner of my eye, I caught movement in the rear view mirror.

  I looked up and gasped.

  Jack Brady was in my backseat.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Jack's eyes held that same cold, hard stare from the courtroom. He leaned forward slowly, as if he purposely wanted to threaten me. His approach wor
ked. I reached for my purse, but it was too far from my grip. I'd taken my gun out of my holster and tossed it into my bag when I first got to the office. Instinct screamed for me to not make any sudden movements. I was pretty certain he could snap my neck like a chicken bone.

  "What do you want?" I kept my voice at an even level. He didn't need to know my knees were shaking.

  "Funny. That's my question to you. You come by my house, harass my girlfriend, and then show up in court. Who sent you?"

  Did Jillian say I harassed her? She hadn't seemed overly upset at my questions, but then again, I had no idea how she'd presented them to Brady. I had a feeling Brady was about as sharp as he was menacing. It wouldn't take much to see through Jillian if he was already suspicious.

  Or hiding something.

  "I asked you a question." He hissed the words.

  Goosebumps raised along my arms, but I refused to let him see my fear. "It's a public trial. The better question is, what the hell are you doing sneaking into my car?"

  I tilted to my right, trying to discreetly grab my purse. He must've noticed my movement because he leaned all the way forward, his breath ruffling the hair next to my ear. It took all of my restraint not to gasp out loud. He raised his arms so they laid across the back of the seat, as if we were old friends just chatting about the past. In his right hand, he gripped a gun.

  A delivery truck rattled by, and shouts echoed from down the street. Perspiration pressed my blouse to my back.

  "Stay out of my business. Do you understand?" he growled.

  I should have nodded and agreed to his demands, but I didn't like being told what to do. "I won't stop looking for the truth about Derek."

  He didn't make a sound, and from the mirror, I couldn't tell if he was seething or processing. Finally, he leaned even closer; his lips touched the back of my neck. It was an intimate move that felt all kinds of icky with a gun pressed to my side.

  His breath whispered along my skin. "Then you're either stupid or you want to die."

  My heart froze in my chest, time standing still for a moment at the threat I had a sinking feeling was not in any way idle.