I bit my lip. It was a pretty convenient story for Brumhill to tell with Bernstein dead. But the truth was, Derek was right. We'd probably never know which of the two had pulled that trigger, or even if they'd hired Campbell or one of his gang thugs to do the deed for them. As much as it pained me to say it, my dad's shooting was one case that would never really have a pretty bow tied around it at the end.
"So then Bernstein went after Brady?" I asked.
Jillian nodded. "Only Jack was ready for him, and Bernstein ended up dead. When they arrested him, Brumhill promised that if Jack kept his mouth shut, he'd make sure that the trial was thrown. Jack would walk, and everyone would be happy. Brumhill was even paying his lawyer's fees."
Why was I not surprised to hear that the weasely Richmond had been in bed with Brumhill, too? "But if Brady talked?" I asked.
"Then Brumhill would make sure he went to prison, innocent or not." Jillian licked her lips again. "Bad things happen to cops in prison. Especially rats."
"That's why he wanted me to drop it," I said, pieces falling into place. "He was afraid that if I pressed, Brumhill might think he'd had talked to me, and he'd make sure Brady went down for the murder."
Jillian nodded. "He was scared. Look, I'm not stupid. I know that Jack wasn't an angel. But he wasn't a bad guy. Once in awhile he took justice into his own hands, but he never hurt anyone who didn't deserve it."
"Except you?" I couldn't help blurting out, remembering the domestic incidents Aiden had mentioned.
Jillian's cheeks went red. "Those were misunderstandings. Which is what I told that ADA guy. Jack had a temper. Sometimes he got loud and a little . . . scary."
I had to agree with her there.
"Do you know where Brady went?" I asked. "Where he's headed now?"
Jillian shook her head. "He said it's better if I don't. He needs to disappear." She paused, lowering her voice, eyes darting to the door again. "Because he said he's still a loose end, and they're still after him."
I froze, the hairs on the back of my neck standing up. "They?"
She didn't answer, instead staring down at her hands, her knuckles stark against her work-worn hands.
"Jillian," I softly prompted. "Who was Brumhill going to pay off to make sure that Brady's trial was thrown?" Even as I asked the question, I felt nausea settle in my stomach. There was only one way he could have pulled that off, and it was if Brumhill had someone inside the DA's office.
But Jillian didn't meet my gaze. "I don't know. Jack didn't either. But he was scared."
I had 100% faith that Aiden was not involved in anything that had to do with throwing the trial. For one thing, three years ago he was in Kansas City. He hadn't even moved to town until after Brumhill left office and couldn't possibly be in Brumhill's fold. But there were plenty of people who could be. Aiden's vigilant, dark-haired co-counsel? The District Attorney himself? Or did this go higher, all the way up to the Judge Judy look-alike presiding over the trial?
I tried to calm those hairs on my neck down and tell myself it didn't matter now. Brumhill and Bernstein were both dead, Campbell was spilling names like a sieve, and Brady had probably just spent so many days looking over his shoulder that he couldn't remember what safe felt like.
"Look, I don't know if Jack was just being paranoid or what," Jillian went on, voicing my same thoughts, "but I just . . . well, I just thought you should know. You know, why Jack threatened you. He never meant to hurt you or your dad. Honest."
I nodded, sure she believed that even if I still had my doubts.
"Order's up, Jill," the stocky guy in kitchen yelled through the window separating the dining room, setting a plate of eggs down on the sill.
Jillian glanced at the platter. "I gotta go." She shot a weak smile my way. "It's my last day here."
I raised an eyebrow. "Really? Good for you."
"Yeah, I've got a cousin in San Jose who says she can get me a job at a start-up." She shrugged. "It's just answering phones, but anything's better than sticking around here now. I'm so over this place."
I smiled, genuinely happy for her. She'd been through some rough times. Hey, even the best of us could have bad taste in boyfriends once in a while. I hoped her life started looking up soon.
I watched her slip out of the booth, cross the checkered floor, and grab her order, depositing it at a table near the windows where an older couple sat. I was just imagining her swapping her apron and saddle shoes for a pencil skirt and pumps in Silicon Valley e-commerce when my cell rang.
"Bond?" I answered.
"Hey, it's me," I heard Maya's voice in my ear. "A new client just came in, and she wants to meet with you this afternoon. You free?"
"What's' the case?" I asked, slipping out of the booth and stepping back into the sunshine outside.
"You're gonna love this one," Maya said, a grin in her voice. "Mother-of-the-bride wants to test her daughter's fiancé before the wedding."
I felt an answering smile hit my face as I walked to my rental car, parked at the curb, and beeped the alarm off. "Don't tell me we're crashing a bachelor party?"
"I don't have deets yet. But Caleigh is practically giddy over here," she told me. I could hear the blonde giggling in the background, shouting something to Maya. "She says she has this move where she jumps out of a cake that always kills."
I couldn't help a chuckle as I opened my door and slipped behind the wheel. "There's a great story that goes with that, isn't there?"
"One can only hope. So, should I schedule her for, say, four?"
"I'll be there," I promised before hanging up.
I flipped my sunglasses down over my eyes, turned my engine over and pulled out of the parking lot, heading east on Ventura.
The sun was shining, the clients were flooding in, and I was about to pay a girl to jump out of a cake. For a Bond, life didn't get much better than this.
About the Authors
Gemma Halliday is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of the High Heels Mysteries, the Hollywood Headlines Mysteries, and the Deadly Cool series of young adult books, as well as several other works. Gemma’s books have received numerous awards, including a Golden Heart, a National Reader’s Choice award and three RITA nominations. She currently lives in the San Francisco Bay Area where she is hard at work on several new projects.
Sign up for Gemma's newsletter to be the first to know about her new releases and sales, get free books, coupons and more!
http://www.gemmahalliday.com/contact/
To learn more about Gemma, visit her online at http://www.gemmahalliday.com
Connect with Gemma on Facebook at:
http://www.facebook.com/gemmahallidayauthor
Jennifer Fischetto, national bestselling author, writes dead bodies for ages thirteen to six-feet-under. When not writing, she enjoys reading, cooking, singing, and watching way too much TV. She lives in Western Massachusetts with her two awesome children, who love to throw new ideas her way, and two fuzzy cats, who love to get in the way.
Unbreakable Bond is her debut novel.
For more information, follow her on Twitter: @jennfischetto or visit her at http://jenniferfischetto.com.
OTHER BOOKS BY GEMMA HALLIDAY
High Heels Mysteries:
Spying in High Heels
Killer in High Heels
Undercover in High Heels
Christmas in High Heels (short story)
Alibi in High Heels
Mayhem in High Heels
Honeymoon in High Heels (novella)
Sweetheart in High Heels (short story)
Fearless in High Heels
Danger in High Heels
Hollywood Headlines Mysteries:
Hollywood Scandals
Hollywood Secrets
Hollywood Confessions
Jamie Bond Mysteries:
Unbreakable Bond
Secret Bond
Tahoe Tessie Mysteries:
Luck be a Lady
(coming s
ummer 2013!)
Young Adult Books:
Deadly Cool
Social Suicide
Wicked Games (coming late 2013!)
Other Works:
Play Nice
Viva Las Vegas
A High Heels Haunting (novella)
Watching You (short story)
Confessions of a Bombshell Bandit (short story)
SNEAK PEEK
of the first
Hollywood Headlines Mystery
by Gemma Halliday:
HOLLYWOOD SCANDALS
* * * * *
CHAPTER ONE
TEEN SENSATION ON MORAL VACATION
LAST NIGHT THE INFORMER CAUGHT EVERYONE’S FAVORITE TEEN ACTRESS, JENNIFER WOOD, AT THE HOLLYWOOD MARTINI ROOM WITH A MEMBER OF A BOY BAND IN ONE HAND AND MARY JANE IN THE OTHER -
“Shit!”
“Tina!”
I swiveled in my chair to face my boss, Felix Dunn, standing in the doorway to his office, hands on hips.
“What?”
“Swear Pig.”
I pursed my lips. “That doesn’t count.”
“I just heard you say ‘shit.’”
“It was computer related. Everyone knows computer-related swearing doesn’t count.”
He narrowed his eyes. Clearly my argument wasn’t cutting it.
“It’s your own fault, you know,” I protested, changing tactics. I’d been typing up a juicy tidbit about the It teen actress, who’d been caught with a joint in her hand at last night’s after-party, when my backspace button stuck, taking out one very cleverly worded line, even if I did say so myself. “I mean, how many centuries old are these things anyway?” I went on. “Would it kill you to buy some new hardware once in a awhile?”
He shook his head. “Swear Pig, Bender,” he repeated, then disappeared back into his office.
“Shit.”
“I heard that!”
I stuck my tongue out at his door and dropped two quarters into the purple piggy bank on my desk. Somehow our newly appointed editor in chief was under the impression that yours truly swore too much. I have no fucking idea where he got that impression. But he’d set up the Swear Pig as a way to break my bad habit. Personally, I was fine with my bad habit. It’s not like I was shooting heroin or anything.
Which brought me back to my story.
I swiveled around, pushing my glasses back up onto my nose and put my fingers to keyboard, recreating my perfect line.
IT MAY BE ONE JOINT TODAY FOR OUR FAVORITE FAIR-HAIRED TEENY-BOPPER, BUT WITH THE WAY HER LIFE IS SPIRALING OUT OF CONTROL, CAN COCAINE, METH, OR EVEN HEROIN BE FAR BEHIND? HOW MANY BLONDES DOES IT TAKE TO SPELL “REHAB?”
I sat back in my chair, surveying my work. Okay, so it was a little mean. And the truth was Wood claimed someone had thrust the “stinky cigarette” into her hand just before the paparazzi flashbulbs went off, after which she’d promptly threw it out. But, seriously, she played the perky “Pippi Mississippi” in a tween cable show. This was tabloid gold.
I hit “send” letting my daily gossip column zip through the L.A. Infomer’s network to Felix’s inbox, then gave my knuckles a satisfying crack.
I glanced at the clock. Quitting time. And somewhere there was a big beefy burrito dinner with my name on it. I grabbed my Strawberry Shortcake lunchbox that doubled as my purse and made for the exit.
Unfortunately, not before Eagle Eyes Dunn could catch me.
“Bender?”
I thought a dirty word and turned around to find him leaning against his office doorframe. “Did you want something, chief?”
“You finish up that Wood piece yet?” he asked.
“Just emailed it to you.” I loved it when I was one step ahead of the boss.
“What about Pines?”
“Pines?”
Edward Pines was the director who’d recently been arrested when police found a stack of pornography under the seat of his car during a routine traffic stop. Not that naked bodies were a novelty in Hollywood, but these particular magazines had included photos of thirteen-year-old boys in the buff. I don’t care how much his last action pic grossed, that guy was total Hollywood roadkill now.
“What about him?” I asked.
“Being arraigned today. It’s your story, right?”
Damned straight. My headline the morning after Pine’s arrest had read: PINES PINES AFTER PINT-SIZED PRE-TEENS. What can I say? I have a thing for alliteration.
But as much as I was relishing the story, I wasn’t thrilled with the timing.
“He’s being arraigned now?” My stomach growled. “It’s dinner time.”
“The news waits for no one, love. Cam’s meeting you at the courthouse,” he said, ducking back into his office.
So much for my burrito. “Shit.”
“Bender…”
“I know, I know.” I reached into Strawberry Shortcake, pulled out another quarter, and dropped it into the ceramic pig on my way out.
At this rate, I’d be broke by Christmas.
* * *
The Beverly Hills courthouse was located on Burton, just a block south of Santa Monica. An unimpressive building, it had a sixties glass-and-concrete esthetic going on that made me think of a Doris Day movie. Totally outdated, totally utilitarian, totally at odds with the rows of Jags and Beemers in the parking lot.
I slipped my Honda Rebel into a space near the entrance. Yep, that’s right, I ride a motorcycle. A bitchin’ hot pink motorcycle. With yellow flames. I’ll admit, it was no Harley, but for a gal my size, 5’3” on a good day, it fit just right. And with L.A. gas prices shooting through the roof, it was the only way I could afford my rent and my regular Swear Pig deposits.
I pulled off my helmet, locked it to the handlebars with a metal chain, and shook out my hair. Luckily when your hair is as stick straight as mine helmet head isn’t much of a problem. I gave it a good fluff and felt the shag cut fall back into place. Currently it was auburn with deep purple highlights. Though, I’ve been through so many shades in my lifetime, I’m not even really sure what my natural color is anymore.
I grabbed Strawberry Shortcake and made my way inside, the cool air-conditioning a sharp contrast to the heat outside. Even in fall, the temp in So. Cal never goes much below 70, and this week we seemed to be hitting Indian summer in spades. After sending my purse through the conveyor belt and stepping through a pair of metal detectors, I made my way up to the second floor where Pines was scheduled to be arraigned.
A towering blonde in jeans and sneakers, holding a big, black Nikon, leaned against the drinking fountain outside the room.
“Hey, Tina,” she said, raising a hand in greeting.
“I see Felix gave you late shift too, huh?” I said, gesturing to her camera.
She nodded. “Caught me in the middle of the dinner rush at Mr. Chow. And Britney had reservations today, too.”
Cameron Dakota was the Informer’s only full-time photographer. Most of the time Felix found it cheaper to pay freelancers by the picture, but Cameron had a knack for not only capturing celebs with their pants down (literally, if she was lucky) but also providing clear, quality shots that kept readers coming back time and time again to the Informer’s pages. And, oddly enough, she actually seemed to enjoy being stuck on Brit watch. Personally, if I had to follow Hollywood halfwits to Starbucks every day, I’d shoot myself.
Lucky for me, I only had to cover them in court.
“Pines in there yet?” I asked, gesturing to the large, oak doors.
Cam shook her head, long blond hair whipping at her cheeks. “He’s up next. Right now he’s in the room next door with his lawyers. No cameras allowed in the courtroom so I’m waiting for a walk-of-shame shot.” She gave me a wink.
“Go get ‘em, tiger.”
I pushed through the doors and slipped into the back of the courtroom.
Contrary to the world of L.A. Law, there was nothing glamorous, sexy, or exciting about sitting in L.A. County Court. The rooms were squat
, square boxes filled with metal-framed tables, hard wooden chairs, and depressingly beige walls. Think DMV décor. Only worse. Since this was only an arraignment, no jury was present, just a bunch of people sitting in the gallery, family members who’d likely be putting up bail for the various guys in orange jumpsuits being paraded through the room. Currently up was a guy with earrings the size of nickels stuck in his ears, apparently pleading no contest to a drug possession charge.
Yawn.
I shifted in my seat, pulling my digital recorder from my back pocket as they let Mr. Meth out the side, telling a skinny brunette with tattoos that she could post his $50,000 bail downstairs.
But I sat up straighter as the side door opened and the next defendant shuffled in.
Edward Pines was in his fifties, though he looked about seventy-five today. Apparently jail did not agree with the man. Dark circles ringed his eyes, his jowly features softer and flabbier than the last photo Cam had snapped for our front page. He walked with his head down, as if already playing contrite despite the absence of jurors. Beside him stood his attorney—tall, pressed suit, pasty complexion. I didn’t recognize him, but that wasn’t surprising. High-profile pedophiles didn’t make legal careers.
“Mr. Pines, you’ve been charged with possession of child pornography,” the judge boomed from his bench. “How do you plead?”
The pasty attorney took his cue. “The defendant pleads not guilty, Your Honor.”
I raised an eyebrow. Pines had been caught red-handed by police. I wondered just how his attorney planned to tap dance out of that.
“Very well. Prosecution on bail?” The judge turned to the pencil-thin district attorney, who, with the exception of his slight height, could have been a carbon copy of the pasty defense attorney. Didn’t any of these guys ever see the sun?
Secret Bond (Jamie Bond Mysteries) Page 19
