Secret Bond (Jamie Bond Mysteries)

by Gemma Halliday

  The air was still. Not a sound, not a bird. My first thought was that it was the calm before the storm.

  Then the storm hit.

  A gunshot echoed from inside the house, followed by a shattering sound.

  I raced up the steps, Danny a beat behind me, and pushed open the door. Derek stood in a room directly to the right of the entrance, next to an old-fashioned loveseat on swirly, thin legs. Brumhill stood across the room from him, by a stone fireplace. No one was bleeding, but shards of glass were scattered by Brumhill's feet. He looked bewildered, staring down at the broken vase, a small puddle of water, and a handful of dying tulips.

  "Next time I aim for your nads, Brumhill. Admit you shot at my daughter." Derek's voice was direct and commanding. And the gun in his hand, pointed at said nads, only added to his menacing air.

  "Are you fucking crazy? You can't enter my home and wave a gun around. You're going to jail for this, Bond."

  "Not if I kill you first."

  "Derek. Stop."

  Derek threw only a cursory glance my way, his attention never leaving Brumhill. "Stay out of this James."

  Brumhill, on the other hand, looked infinitely glad for the interruption. "You named your daughter James?" he chuckled, but there was no laughter in his eyes. He was stalling. He knew as well as I did that the look on Derek's face was deadly serious.

  "Admit what you did, Brumhill."

  "I've done nothing. I have no idea what you're talking about, you crazy old drunk."

  Personally, I didn't think Derek looked drunk. He looked scary sharp. If I were Brumhill, I'd be stalling too.

  Danny took a step toward Derek, edging around the back of him, his eyes squarely on the gun. Though neither Derek nor Brumhill seemed to pay attention to either of us. They were locked in a silent sparring match, eyes intent on each other, waiting for the other to flinch first.

  I took a step back, feeling under my blazer for my Glock 27. Though who I planned to point it at, I wasn't sure. It wasn't like I was going to shoot Derek.

  "It was you that hit my daughter's car today, Brumhill, and you that hit me three years ago."

  "You're delusional. I was here all afternoon."

  "Sure you were. You never get your own hands dirty."

  "Which is why you'll never pin anything on me."

  I pulled my gun from its holster, my hands loose on the trigger, ready to spring as I watched Danny close in on the old man.

  Derek glanced his way briefly, but I could tell there was little short of a bomb going off that would deter him at this point. "The Assistant District Attorney knows all about you, Brumhill," Derek told him. "He has evidence of you taking money from Campbell. Think he'll sing now?"

  Brumhill narrowed his eyes. "If he lives. Prison is a dangerous place."

  Derek growled, and took a step toward Brumhill.

  "Derek, put the weapon down," Danny said, moving closer as well.

  Derek practically rolled his eyes. "Stay out of it, Flynn," he ground out.

  "You've got nothing on me," Brumhill said, taking a small step backward. Though I noticed his voice wavered. "And if you really think a coerced confession at gunpoint is going to stick, you're dumber than you look, Bond."

  "I'm not looking for a confession," Derek said, his voice hard. "I'm looking for justice."

  "Dad, please, put the gun down," I pleaded, my voice as low and calm as I could make it given the circumstances.

  "Yeah. Listen to James," Brumhill said, adding emphasis to my name. Then he picked up a photo frame and threw it like a boomerang at my head.

  Me! Not the man with the gun.

  I didn't have time to react. It clocked me in the temple. Pain flashed through my head and down my neck. Derek's eyes cut to me. Danny took the opportunity to pounce, lunging at the gun in Derek's hand. That was all I saw before I staggered and fell on my butt.

  It took me a minute to refocus. My Glock had been knocked from my hands, skidding across the floor. I heard loud, scuffling footsteps and a string of curses that would make a sailor blush. When I got my bearings again, Derek was on his knees, searching under the loveseat. He must've dropped his gun when Danny hit him. Danny was on the floor too, on the other side of the loveseat, trying to find the gun first. Brumhill was bent over one of those old-timey desks with the roll top, opening drawers. I watched in horror as he slammed one shut, then turned, holding a pistol in his right hand.

  Was there anyone in L.A. who didn't own a weapon?

  "Watch out," I screamed and struggled to my feet.

  Time seemed to slow down just so I could watch the events unfold.

  Derek and Danny looked up as one to see Brumhill moving toward Derek, gun first.

  Defenseless, Derek's expression flipped from shock to fear.

  Danny, with one hand still beneath the sofa, got to his knees. As he rose, I noticed Derek's gun in his hand. He turned it on Brumhill.

  But Brumhill was only focused on Derek, a victorious smirk contouring his features. He didn't hesitate, didn't flinch, but wrapped his finger around the trigger and pulled.

  Danny dove toward Derek, firing in Brumhill's direction.

  Shots filled the air, and I heard screaming erupt from my throat.

  A bullet hit Brumhill, making his body twist and fall backward onto the desk. Danny collapsed onto Derek.

  I gulped in air, the smell of gunfire stinging the back of my throat. Brumhill wasn't moving. Danny lay across Derek's legs. His grip had loosened, and the gun fallen to the floor. A dark red stain spread across his left shoulder.

  I blinked, not able to process what I was seeing.

  Derek moved with lightning speed, pulling off his shirt, bunching it into a ball, and pressing it against Danny's wound.

  Danny grunted. His eyes were stuck at half-mast.

  I stifled a cry.

  "You'll be fine, Flynn" Derek said, then looked at me. "Get Brumhill's gun away from him. Be careful."

  I walked around the sofa to the desk. Brumhill had slumped to the floor, on his stomach. The gun was above his head. I kicked it into the middle of the room, then exercised all my arm muscles to flip the heavy man over.

  Danny's bullet had struck him square in the chest.

  I checked for a pulse in his neck.

  Nothing.

  * * *

  Derek and I walked into hospital room number two-thirty-six holding a small bouquet of daisies and a fifth of scotch. The liquor was Derek's idea. The daisies were mine.

  Danny was in the bed closest to the door. The cloth partition to the neighboring space was partially closed, but I could see the other bed was empty. The TV facing Danny played the news.

  When he saw us, he pushed the mute button on his remote, and greeted me with a lopsided smile that sent a rush of familiar warmth flooding through me. It was a smile I'd taken for granted, but had spent a good part of the night worrying that I'd never see again. Danny was always there. The thought of him suddenly not being there had shaken me more that I wanted to admit even now, hearing the steady, reassuring beeps of the monitors hooked up to his vital signs. He'd saved my father's life. The man who never liked him, always gave him crap—whether directly to his face or just to mine. Danny saved him. And I knew he'd done it for me.

  "My hero," I said, leaning in to give him a peck on the cheek. While my tone was light, I hoped he knew I was only half joking. I set the flowers on his bedside table.

  "Is that all it takes to get a kiss from you, Bond? A gunshot wound?"

  I swatted at his good shoulder.

  His hair was more tousled than usual, but other than his bandaged left shoulder, he looked like his color was good and he'd slept well. I couldn't say the same for myself, as I'd spent the night in a hard, plastic chair in the waiting room, chewing my nails while they wheeled him into surgery. The doctor had reassured us that the bullet didn't look like it had hit any major arteries, but it wasn't until Danny had been in recovery, sleeping off the effects of the anesthetic, that I'd be
en able to breathe a sigh of relief.

  Derek hadn't sustained any injuries, and other than it being sore when I touched my head, my wound only required a Band-Aid. Brumhill, however, was definitely dead. Whether he'd be buried as a celebrated ex-mayor or a corrupt politician was yet to be determined. Derek and I had given statements to the police as soon as they'd arrived at the scene, but I could tell that our stories were way beyond the paperwork that the responding officers knew how to process. I wasn't sure what the DA's office was going to do with the whole mess, but no one had arrested Derek or Danny yet, which I took as a good sign.

  Derek walked to Danny's right side and held out his hand. "I didn't get a chance to thank you yesterday. You saved my life, Flynn."

  Danny looked at Derek's hand as if it might bite him any second. But he took it, gripping tightly. "My pleasure. Sir," he added.

  Derek withdrew his hand and cleared his throat, the emotion in the room clearly having hit his tolerance level. "We brought you booze. Don't mix it with pain meds, kid."

  Danny grinned. "Thanks. I won't."

  Derek pointed to the door. "I'm going to see if I can find something edible in the cafeteria. You want anything, James?"

  I shook my head. "I'll catch up to you in a bit." I paused. "And leave the candy stripers alone," I called after him.

  He shot me a grin over his shoulder that said he was clearly going to ignore that advice.

  "Can't teach an old dog new tricks," Danny observed with a laugh.

  I shrugged. "He's an old dog, but I couldn't live without him." I sat on the edge of his bed. "Thanks."

  Danny took my hand. "You're welcome, Jamie."

  While it should have been uncomfortable having my best friend hold my hand in his, his thumb rubbing the back of my fingers in something akin to a caress, it suddenly felt like the most natural thing in the world. I reached out and brushed a few strands of his tussled hair from his forehead. His eyes were a pale, ocean green in this light, little flecks of blue dancing in them as he stared at me with an emotion that for once I wanted to hear him voice.

  "You said there was something you wanted to talk to me about?" I prompted him.

  I watched his Adam's apple bob up and down. "There was."

  "Well, I'm here. No time like the present."

  Danny took a deep breath, licked his lips. His face was serious, his expression open, the charming, jovial facade completely stripped away.

  I felt myself leaning in.

  "Jamie," he started.

  But that was as far as he got before someone cleared their throat from the doorway.

  I looked up to find Aiden standing there, a small frown pulling between his brows. "I'm not interrupting anything, am I?"

  I quickly pulled my hand back from Danny, getting up from the bed like I was guilty of something.

  The frown deepened.

  "ADA Prince," Danny said, his voice deadpan. If he resented the interruption, he didn't show it.

  Aiden nodded to Danny, then me. No smile, no hello. Just a tight nod.

  "What? No gift?" Danny said, gesturing to our offerings on the table beside him. Clearly the facade was back, whatever emotion he'd felt a moment ago swallowed.

  Aiden ignored the jibe. "Glad to see you're doing well, Mr. Flynn."

  "I am." Danny's eye briefly glanced my way, as if I had something to do with his state of wellness. I looked down at my hands. Why did I suddenly feel so guilty? Like the air was charged with testosterone, all aimed at me?

  "To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, Prince?" Danny asked. "Come to arrest me for shooting our good mayor?"

  I could have sworn Aiden entertained the thought for a moment, not altogether hating it. "No. Actually, I came to tell you that Campbell is talking."

  I perked up. "What's he saying?"

  "He confessed to paying off Brumhill. You were right. We also discovered that Brumhill owned a 9mm years ago. We can't be certain it's the same one found in Brady's possession, because the numbers were filed off, but knowing that Bernstein and Brumhill were both involved with Campbell, it's not a leap to imagine he gave the gun to Bernstein."

  "With instructions to kill Derek and Brady before they could show anyone the video," I added.

  "We'll never know for sure who pulled the trigger on your dad, but the scenario fits the evidence," Aiden hedged.

  "Then Bernstein really did go to Brady's to kill him?"

  Aiden's jaw tightened. "Possibly."

  Which I knew put a big hole in his case against Brady.

  "So, I get a free pass on this one then, Mr. ADA.?" Danny asked.

  Aiden nodded. "There is no evidence to suggest that Brumhill's shooting was anything other than what you claimed: self-defense."

  Danny grinned. "In fact, doesn't it make me kind of a hero, taking out a guy like that? Do I get a medal or something?"

  Aiden shot him a look. "Don't press your luck. The gun you shot him with was unregistered."

  I rolled my eyes. I was gonna kill Derek.

  "Anyway," Aiden said, clearing his throat again, "I just thought you'd want to know." He addressed Danny, but his eyes were on me.

  "Thank you," I told him.

  "I'll . . . see you around," Aiden said, still looking my way. And if I didn't know better I'd have said there was a note of hope and a question mark at the end of that statement.

  I paused. Then nodded in the affirmative. "Definitely."

  Aiden gave me a small smile, then turned and walked out, his shoes clicking along the tiled floors.

  "That guy is wound tighter than a top," Danny said after he left.

  "Give him a break. He's under a lot of pressure."

  "You've got a thing for him don't you?" Danny asked, cocking his head to the side.

  I watched Aiden's back retreat down the hall. Honestly, at the moment I didn't know who I had a thing for or what kind of thing that might be. All I knew was I needed a hot shower, a long nap, and a strong cocktail. Not particularly in that order.

  "You know me, Danny," I answered. "I'm a low commitment kind of girl."

  Danny grinned, showing off that dimple in his left cheek. "I'll take that as a sign I still have a chance, then."

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  I pushed through the doors of Mel's diner the following week and was immediately greeted by the scents of pancakes and French Fries. It was mid-afternoon and the place was dead, a few scattered patrons still lingering over their late lunches, but the early-bird special crowd not yet having made an appearance. I spotted Jillian wiping down a booth in the corner.

  She spied me right away, gesturing to the table she'd just cleaned as she sat.

  "Hi, Jillian," I said, sliding into the seat opposite.

  Her eyes held bags under them and were puffy and swollen as if she'd been crying more often than not in the last few days.

  "Hey. Thanks for meeting with me," she said.

  "Of course."

  I'll admit, I'd been surprised when she'd called yesterday, saying she was working a double and wanted to meet with me this afternoon. She said she'd kept my business card and there was something I needed to know. Of course, being the curious cat that I was, I'd immediately accept the invitation.

  "I, uh, I wasn't sure if I should call you or not."

  "Is everything okay? I asked.

  Her eyes darted from the door to the empty counter and back as she licked her lips. If I had to guess from their chapped state, it was a gesture she'd been indulging in a lot lately. "Yeah," she answered. Though I didn't quite believe her.

  When she didn't go on, I prompted, "You said you had something you wanted to talk about?"

  She nodded, clasping her hands in front of her so tightly that her knuckles went white. She took a deep breath. "He's gone."

  "Brady?"

  She nodded. "Took off last night."

  After the evidence supporting Brady's version of events the night Bernstein died surfaced, Aiden had been forced to drop the murder charge ag
ainst him. He'd made a deal with Brady's lawyers to submit to a lesser charge of being in possession of an unregistered weapon, but Brady had only been sentenced to time served. He'd been let go a free man. As much as I was sure there were plenty of things that Brady was guilty of, killing an unarmed man in cold blood was not one of them.

  At least, not this time.

  "Jack said he was done with this town," Jillian continued. "That we could all go to hell." Her voice cracked on the last part, and I felt a mix of sympathy and irritation with her. I'd hoped this case would open her eyes to who he really was and give her the courage to leave him. I'd never guessed it would be the other way around.

  "You're better off without him," I blurted out.

  She sniffed and nodded. "I know." She paused, then brought her eyes up to meet mine. "I really do," she said with more conviction this time. "It's just . . . hard. Our relationship is complicated."

  Complicated relationships I understood.

  "What was it you wanted to talk to me about?" I prompted her again. Whatever it was had been urgent enough that she'd wanted to see me right away, but now it seemed as if she was dancing around it.

  She took another shaky breath. "Look, I know Jack threatened you. It was in the papers," she explained. "But he wouldn't have really hurt you."

  That I doubted, but I nodded anyway, motioning for her to go on.

  "He was just sacred. Before he left, Jack told me everything." She paused, licked her lips again as if unsure how much to share with me. But eventually she went on. "Brumhill told him that Bernstein acted on his own. When your dad showed Jack that tape, he knew Brumhill was too big of a fish to ever go to jail over it. So Jack took matters into his own hands. He threatened Brumhill and Bernstein, said if they didn't quit protecting drug dealers on his beat, he'd go after them both personally."

  "I can image how that went over."

  Jillian nodded. "Yeah, well, Jack always had more heart than brains. Anyway, Brumhill said it was Bernstein's idea then to take out both Jack and your dad in order to keep their arrangement quiet. Brumhill said it was Bernstein who shot your dad."