Secret Bond (Jamie Bond Mysteries)

by Gemma Halliday

  I wanted to laugh at her last inquiry, but my brain was too wound in knots to remember how.

  Charley caressed her daughter's hand. "Everything is fine, dear. Ruth's home with Frank, and Belle's still breathing. I assume. I haven't seen her."

  She turned to me and reached out for my hand. I gripped her fingers, and she gave mine a tender squeeze. "I came by to let you both know we're all okay. And to apologize."

  "So Ruth found Frank?" I asked.

  She nodded. "He'd spent the night at work. They talked it all out. They've agreed to go to counseling."

  Maya smiled. "That's great."

  "Yes, I'm amazed Ruth agreed to it. She doesn't open up easily, especially to strangers. But she's being brave and got Frank to promise he'd stay away from Belle."

  I took a deep breath. This was fantastic news.

  "And I'm terribly sorry for my role in all of this. I was foolish and never meant to put anyone, either of you, in a dangerous situation. If Belle had a gun in her home, this may have ended very differently."

  Neither Maya nor I said a word. Charley was right. We were lucky.

  She raised her right hand in true Scouts honor, letting mine go. "I promise there will be no more investigating for me. I'm retiring my spy status."

  Maya let out a loud sigh. "That's a great idea, Mom."

  Charley grinned. "Besides, I won't have much time. I signed up for surfing classes. Two hours a day with a tanned, muscled man who looks like a Greek God."

  "Mom?" Maya's voice rose an octave.

  "What? I am only going to look. He teaches on weekends, in his little spare time. He's in medical school, wanting to become a pediatrician. Isn't that adorable?"

  Maya narrowed her eyes, obviously suspicious of something.

  "He'd be a wonderful son-in-law."

  And there it was.

  Charley winked.

  Maya rolled her eyes.

  * * *

  The hostess directed the girls and me to a table outside, on the patio. Although I didn't care for baking in the sun, there was an awning, and I was more grateful we weren't seated at the table I'd shared with Aiden. The thought of him made my stomach sour. I grabbed a chair facing away from the spot, trying to focus on the task at hand. As I'd told Danny, emotion and PI work didn't mix. I needed to stay sharp today.

  Danny sat two tables across from us, closer to the street. Close enough for adequate pictures, but too far to overhear without our microphones.

  The server came to take our orders. I couldn't deal with deciding or the thought of putting much in my stomach. Luckily, he rattled off the daily special as grilled chicken frittata with a pesto lime dressing. We ordered three and a pot of coffee

  It was moderately busy, writers and agents comprising most of the clientele, doing early meetings and spreading their scripts out on the tables. It was almost ten. There were several empty tables, and the chatter was a calm buzz, but mixed with traffic, it was hard to distinguish what anyone was saying unless they were seated beside you.

  We sipped our waters. Anyone watching must've thought we hated one another because we didn't utter a word.

  Phillip arrived at exactly ten. There was something attractive about a punctual man. When he walked over, Danny rose and they hugged. I mentally crossed my fingers that we'd get some butt squeezing action or even a kiss, but it was one of those guy hugs, where it was more pec-to-pec with a pat on the back.

  Caleigh sighed. "Darn." Guess she'd been hoping for the same.

  The server hurried over for their order.

  "The daily special, please," Phillip said then pulled his phone from his pocket and laid it beside his silverware. He hadn't even looked at the menu or heard the special. Was he a regular or didn't care? He glanced at the phone twice while waiting on Danny to order. He was definitely preoccupied about something.

  The hostess directed two young women to the table beside us. The three of us rolled our eyes. The last thing we needed was chatty neighbors. A quick glance to them showed they were either sisters or best, best friends. One a bleached blonde (her eyebrows were almost black) and the other a light brunette, both had identical chin-length bobs. They each wore black mini-skirts and an off-the-shoulder top. One in pink and the other red. The blonde wore black gladiator sandals, while her friend-slash-sister wore a pair of leopard strappy sandals, with two-inch heels, which were to-die-for. She had excellent taste.

  "Why do you keep staring at your phone? Waiting to hear back from an audition?" Danny asked.

  I turned my attention back to the men.

  Phillip shrugged. "Something like that."

  "That's not enough. Push harder," I whispered.

  If he did, I didn't hear it. Our server arrived with our frittatas, then turned to take the next table's order. Two waters with lemon, and they were going to share a side of scrambled egg whites, no oil. Seriously?

  "His batting score was horrible last season. I wouldn't be surprised if they find a way to kick him off the team," I heard Danny say.

  "They can't just fire him, can they?"

  "If we split it evenly, this lunch will leave us with just enough calories to have a can of soup for dinner," said the brunette while tapping along on some sort of calculator beside us.

  The blonde nodded. "That's great. I think I'll have the chicken noodle. And we can split a yogurt for dessert. Yogurt is so good."

  "I know, right?"

  Sam placed a huge bite of mozzarella-melted chicken into her mouth, closed her eyes, and moaned. It was only slightly less orgasmic than that scene in When Harry Met Sally.

  I held my napkin to my lips, hiding my pesto grin.

  The two girls wrinkled their noses and faced one another.

  "So what are your plans for tonight? Because I thought maybe we could catch a movie or something, you know, just the two of us?" Danny asked. His tone was just flirty enough. I tensed as I listened for the answer.

  Phillip shrugged. "Um, yeah. Maybe. I kind of have plans . . . "

  "I saw those shoes we wanted, the ones with the wedge heels, at DSW. They look just like the designer ones."

  Dammit!

  I leaned into my plate, almost getting pesto-lime sauce on my blouse. "What did Phillip say? Who does he have plans with?" I asked, hoping it was some hot young thing and we could do the tail and get this over with.

  The girls shook their heads.

  I growled. "I can't hear a damn thing."

  Caleigh whispered, "I'm on it."

  "We should run over there after lunch," the blonde said.

  Caleigh fake coughed and sniffled, using her napkin to wipe under her nose. "I finally went to the doctor yesterday." She pretended she was talking low, but her voice was loud enough for a couple of tables to hear.

  Playing along, I asked, "What did he say?"

  "That's the crazy thing. He's not sure what's causing my rash."

  The two young women stopped chatting and leaned their bodies toward us.

  "Or my rapid weight gain."

  The women visually gasped.

  Sam snickered.

  I pressed my lips together.

  Caleigh widened her eyes. "And the worse part . . . " She coughed and sputtered. "He thinks it's contagious."

  The young women leaned away from our table.

  "Look." Caleigh lifted the hem of her skirt, showing her flawless thigh to us. The women couldn't see a thing, but a man to my left caught the action and smiled. I wasn't sure if he heard our conversation or not.

  On cue, Sam covered her mouth with her hand and appeared frightened.

  Then Caleigh turned her head and coughed several times in the women's direction. She hadn't covered her mouth, and I watched a drop of spittle fly onto their table.

  Gross.

  But effective. They scooted their chairs over, grimacing. The brunette called the server over and asked if they could sit inside.

  Once they were gone, Caleigh winked. The girl was good.

  I turned my att
ention back to the guys just as Phillip's phone rang. He held it to his ear. "Hello? Yes, this is Philip. Yes. Okay." A smile sprang onto his face. "Yes, absolutely. Monday at three. We'll be there. Thank you."

  He hung up but held onto his phone.

  "You look happy. Did you get a part?" Danny asked.

  "Much better. Do you mind if we cut this short? I have to speak with Craig." He pulled out his wallet.

  Danny glanced at us, looking confused and panicked. "Uh, can't you just call him?"

  "No. This is face-to-face kind of news." He tossed a couple of bills onto the table.

  "News? Good news, I hope?" Danny asked.

  Phillip met his gaze, and from my angle he looked like he was going to bust. "It's that secret I've been keeping from him. I didn't want to say anything until I knew for sure." He paused. "I really should tell Craig first."

  What was he talking about?

  "Oh, what the heck. It's not like you and Craig are friends." He leaned into the table and grabbed Danny's wrist.

  Surprisingly, Danny didn't flinch.

  "Do you have any idea how hard it is for a gay couple to get a baby? The agencies like to pretend they're progressive, but they're not. At least not the ones I looked into. So I've been meeting with a friend of mine from Cock Tails who went the private adoption route. I didn't want Craig to know anything yet because, well, I didn't want to get his hopes up in case this was another dead end. But my friend just called. He talked to his lawyer, and he thinks there's a baby available."

  I blinked. For once, I was speechless. A baby?

  Phillip let go of Danny and scooted out his chair. "Don't worry. It's perfectly legal. No pay offs. They do overseas adoptions. Now, I gotta run and tell Craig."

  "Wait. A baby?"

  "Yeah, isn't it great?" He stood.

  Danny did too. "This is about adopting?"

  But if Phillip picked up on Danny's weirdness, he ignored it. "I promise we'll get together soon. You can come over and have dinner with me and Craig. It'll be fun. I'll call you. Bye."

  "Bye."

  We all watched Phillip pass our table, oblivious to our staring, and rush through the cafe.

  I turned to Danny. Adoption. He wasn't cheating.

  Danny's expression appeared an odd mix of dejection and relief. I knew exactly how he felt.

  * * *

  After the cafe, I raced to Brumhill's home in Malibu. Well, raced as fast as mid-day traffic would allow, which meant I was there in a mere two hours. The estate sprawled for several acres, high above the Pacific Ocean with a view to die for. Most of the terrain in this area was hills and natural foliage, but around this home emerald green grass and carefully groomed shrubs replaced the wild growth. A stone and wrought-iron fence separated the house from the road, but surprisingly the entrance wasn't gated. I took the circular drive straight to the three-car garage without being stopped.

  A couple of men in green pants and matching shirts squatted in the bushes, pulling up weeds and speaking in rapid Spanish. They smiled as I stepped from my car.

  "This is the Brumhill home, correct?"

  They both nodded. The older man said, "Si."

  "Is Mr. Brumhill home?"

  "Si."

  I started to climb the steps to the ornate double doors.

  "But he is not there," the man stopped me, his English heavily accented.

  "He's not?"

  The man pointed off behind him. "He is at the stables."

  Of course they had stables. Probably a petting zoo too. All financed with drug money. This was better though. Inside I'd probably be harassed by the hired help. Outdoors, there wouldn't be anyone to rush me off before speaking to him. "That way?"

  The gardener stood up and brushed loose dirt from his knees. He smiled and walked with me to the side of the house. He pointed to a barn-like structure in the close distance. "There."

  "Gracias," I told him.

  I headed off, across the expansive lawn. The right heel of my pink pumps sunk into the soft grass. I yanked my foot to remove it. On tiptoes, I quickened my steps. When I reached the stables, I was mildly panting. I found Brumhill brushing a small brown colt on the far side. I recognized him immediately, though he looked like he'd aged a good ten years in the last three, his hair now much more salt than pepper. Guilt did that to you.

  "Mr. Brumhill?"

  He looked up, brush mid-air, narrowing his eyes. "Who are you?"

  "Jamie Bond. I have a few questions if you have time." Not that I was leaving if he didn't, but diplomacy usually went a long way.

  He turned back to the colt and resumed brushing its coat. "Bond? Do we have an appointment?"

  I shook my head. "No. But you've probably met my father, Derek Bond."

  He continued brushing, as if he wasn't even aware I stood there. Then finally, he said, "Ah, yes, the private investigator. I've heard of him."

  Yeah, I bet.

  He looked back at me, and his gaze roamed my body—slow and deliberate. "Is it a family business?"

  "Something like that. He's beautiful." I nodded to the young horse.

  "Do you know anything about horses?"

  "No. I always wanted lessons though." In junior high I became obsessed with the idea of riding. It started after watching a movie about a teenage girl who fell in love with a stable boy. Her family forbade them from seeing one another. It was quite tortured and, of course, had a happy ending. Great pre-teen fodder.

  "They are fine, strong creatures." Brumhill patted the colt's side and put the brush down. "So what can I do for you, Ms. Bond?"

  I'd seen Brumhill on the news plenty of times, but I'd never paid close attention. He was just another politician making empty promises. Since his retirement he'd grown a beard—silvery-white and cropped short. It suited his round, almost elfish face. He stood several inches shorter than me, something I didn't expect.

  "I'm looking into who shot my father, three years ago."

  The sunlight made him squint. He raised a hand to shield his eyes. And obscure my ability to read his expression. "Sorry to hear that. Is he okay?"

  "He's fine."

  "You said three years ago. Isn't it a bit late to be investigating?"

  "New evidence has surfaced."

  "Oh?"

  When I didn't offer more information, he busied himself with patting down the colt. "What does this have to do with me?"

  This was the moment when I had to choose between blurting out all I truly knew, which meant accusing our ex-mayor of crimes, or putzing around to see what he may slip up and say. It was unlikely he'd been agonizing to clear his conscience, with his mansion and horses and hired gardeners, but going too indirect would get me nowhere. I chose to straddle both sides.

  "The gun used to shoot my father was also used to kill an attorney named Bernstein."

  He continued patting. It started out slow and gentle, then picked up speed. I was certain the colt wanted to kick him. He wasn't touching me and I wanted to. "Isn't that the cop trial?"

  "Why, yes, it is," I said, faking surprise that he kept abreast of the tawdry scandals of a corrupt cop. But we both knew why I was really here. He had to have put the pieces together by now.

  "You still haven't said what this has to do . . . "

  With him? Yeah, yeah. "My father remembers seeing you at Mr. Bernstein's office one evening, shortly before he was killed."

  This caused him to stop torturing the colt and give me his full attention. "I visited lots of people's offices three years ago. I was the mayor back then. I'm not sure I understand-"

  "After office hours?" I interrupted. "It was dark when you were . . . spotted." No sense in letting him know there was video.

  "The mayor doesn't keep nine-to-five hours." His mouth was tight now, tension present.

  "Funny you don't remember it," I said. "Considering the case has been all over the news, and Bernstein's name is practically on everyone's lips, I'd think your memory would have been jogged by now."

&nb
sp; Brumhill stared at me, his eyes dark and unreadable. For a small man he suddenly had a large presence, and I could easily see how he had commanded one of the largest cities in the country.

  "Whatever my dealings, young lady," he finally said, his voice tight and even, "I guarantee they had nothing to do with your father's shooting and are none of your business. You may leave now." He stood straight and centered, with all his weight evenly distributed on his feet.

  Part of me wanted to refuse. Who was he going to get to physically remove me? One of the gardeners?

  We stared at one another, and the longer I didn't budge, the more blank his expression grew. If he was guilty, he should've gone into acting. If he was innocent of trying to kill Derek, then I'd just made another enemy. C'est la vie!

  I flashed a grin. "Thank you for your time."

  I turned and headed back to my car. The sun beat on my head. Sweat trickled behind my ears. But the burning sensation that ran along my back had nothing to do with the sun and everything to do with Brumhill's stare. I refused to turn around to give him the satisfaction of meeting it though. I nodded good-bye to the gardeners and settled into the convertible. I contemplated putting up the top, but the full breeze was welcome, so I left it down. I pulled my hair back in a bun, and drove along the driveway to the road, then back out to the 1.

  While I had a feeling that asking Brumhill outright wasn't going to produce a confession, it had served one purpose. He was rattled. And when guys were rattled, they made mistakes. That's where my surveillance came in handy.

  I popped my earpiece in, then grabbed my cell and dialed Danny's number as I drove. Three rings in he answered.

  "Hey, Jamie."

  "Hey, what are you up to?"

  "Photo shoot. I'm at the Beverly Hilton, poolside."

  "Gee, rough life," I joked.

  "It's a living. What's up?"

  "I've got another job for you," I told him.

  He groaned. "Have mercy. I'm not cut out for this acting gig."

  I grinned. "I thought you played a pretty hot gay guy, myself."

  "I'm not sure if I should be offended or enjoy the fact you just called me hot."