Fatal Bond

by Gemma Halliday

  Kendall glanced my way again. "I guess she's an upgrade over Stephanie."

  Gee, thanks.

  I shook my head. "I'm not applying to be your dad's personal assistant. I'm a private investigator."

  "Are you okay? Did they hurt you?" Wendell asked again. He gazed over her body, patting her arms and shoulders as if assessing for injury.

  She scoffed and stepped away. "Okay, someone tell me what's going on here. Now."

  I took a step forward. "Your dad received a call last night saying you'd been kidnapped. They were asking for ransom."

  She let out a high-pitched laugh. "Are you serious? Dad, did you hire these guys to mess with me?"

  He looked baffled. "This is not a joke, Kendall. This is serious."

  "Dude, this is ridiculous. I'm fine." Kendall rolled her eyes. There was a faint mascara smudge under the right one. The kind you get when you don't wash your makeup off before bed. It did not look like the kind of wreckage you'd have after several nights of crying and fear associated with being taken and held hostage.

  "Where have you been?" I asked. A knot had settled in my stomach. Things weren't adding up, and I wanted answers.

  "What's it to you?" she asked, flipping her ponytail to one side.

  "Kendall!" her dad admonished. "Please. Jamie here's to help."

  The girl rolled her eyes again, but she answered this time. "I've been with my boyfriend. Geez."

  Wendell's brows lowered and confusion settled on his face. "What boyfriend?"

  "You don't know him." She said it fast and nonchalantly, but the way she averted her gaze made me wonder if she didn't want to tell her dad who he was. As if she knew he wouldn't approve.

  "Who is he? What's his name, where does he live, what does he do?" Wendell didn't strike me as an overprotective father, but clearly he was annoyed.

  So was I.

  She rolled her eyes again, this time so hard I thought she was having a seizure. "His name is Dylan. And I met him Saturday afternoon. He called during the party and asked me to hang out, so I did. What's the big deal?"

  "Why didn't you tell me you were leaving?" His voice shot up an octave.

  "Um, right. I'll just interrupt your tryst with a stripper to ask permission. Give me a break."

  Wendell at least had the good grace to look embarrassed by the comment. "Why didn't you answer your phone? I've been calling all weekend," he said.

  "Dad." She gave him a look. "Because I was with my boyfriend. I didn't want to talk to my father while Dylan and I were cuddling. That's super gross."

  "How did you get home?" I asked, remembering her car still out front.

  She blinked at me as if not understanding the question. "I drove."

  "In what?"

  "A car."

  "Whose. Car." I gritted through my teeth. It was a good thing she hadn't been kidnapped. She never would have survived. Three minutes with this girl, and I was ready to kill her.

  "My father's," she said.

  "What?" Wendell asked. "Which one?"

  "The Bentley," she said quietly. "Look, I know you hate when I borrow it, but it's just so pretty. And I was trying to impress Dylan."

  I turned on Wendell, my frustration reaching a boiling point. "You didn't think to tell us one of your cars was missing?!" If he'd told us one of his vehicles wasn't there, we wouldn't have spent the time and manpower to look for a woman who wasn't kidnapped.

  His shoulders met his ears in an exaggerated shrug. "I-I didn't think to look. Her car was still here."

  I wanted to snap at him, shout, scream. I was very proud of myself that all I did instead was a very exaggerated eye roll to rival his daughter's. "Clearly Kendall was not kidnapped," I pointed out.

  "But if you've been with this Dylan"—Wendell said the name like it tasted like dirt—"then who called me?"

  "What call?" Kendall asked.

  "The ransom call," I answered, my train of thought heading to the same station. "Who knew you were with Dylan?"

  She shrugged. "No one, I guess. I mean, he just called, and I went over. We've been at his place the whole time."

  "Since Saturday night?" Wendell asked. "Doing what?"

  Kendall and I gave him simultaneous get real looks.

  Wendell's cheeks colored, though with anger or embarrassment, I wasn't sure. "It just doesn't make sense," Wendell repeated. "Who tried to extort money from me?"

  Actually he was wrong. I had a faint idea that was beginning to brew, and things were finally making sense for the first time since I'd entered Wendell Manchester's world.

  "Tell me about Apple," I told Wendell. "And this time I want the truth."

  Wendell ran a hand along the top of his head. He looked like a man who'd been put through the emotional wringer—relief, confusion, and concern all warring on his features. Finally he said, "Fine, yes. I remember Apple. She was hot, so we decided to take the party up to my room." He paused. "That's not a crime," he defended, his gaze pinging from his daughter to me.

  "What happened next?" I asked.

  "Ew," Kendall said, turning to leave.

  But I stopped her with a hand on her arm. No one was going anywhere until I had answers. "You got Apple up to your room alone. Then what?"

  "Then I showed her around a little," Wendell said.

  "Double ew," Kendall said, scrunching up her nose, which I highly doubted was the original one she'd been born with.

  Wendell shook his head. "No, nothing happened. Not really. Look, she was a bit tipsy. She spilled her wine. Cabernet. It got all over her dress, and she was really upset, so I gave her something new to change into."

  "Hold on—where did you get something new?" Kendall was suddenly very interested in the conversation.

  "I just grabbed something from your closet," he told her.

  "From my closet?!" Kendall blinked at him like he'd just said he'd borrowed a kidney, not a dress.

  "Yeah. You have tons of things."

  "Tons of designer things. Ohmigod, Dad, what did you give her?"

  Wendell was frowning like he couldn't figure out what the big deal was. "I dunno. It was a jumpsuit. Black, I think. It looked like it would fit her."

  Her gasp could've been heard in the next county. "The Halston Heritage strapless?"

  He blinked at her again. "I dunno."

  A wounded look took over her face. "How could you? That was, like, my second favorite jumpsuit ever. It totally fit me, like, perfect. I had to custom order it! Do you know how special my clothes are?"

  "Yes, I paid the bills," he said matter-of-factly.

  But she didn't seem to hear him because she kept going. "One of a kind. That jumpsuit was one of a kind, and you give it to some common, drunk—"

  "What happened after Apple changed?" I cut in.

  Kendall shot me a dirty look but stopped her tirade.

  "Nothing," Wendell said.

  "Be more specific," I pushed.

  "Nothing. Honestly."

  "You didn't show her around more?"

  He sighed. "No, I…look, after she changed into Kendall's outfit, I just…well…she looked too young. Too much like Kendall or one of her friends. I just…the moment was ruined."

  "So ew. I'm gonna, like, need therapy," Kendall said.

  "The last I saw your friend Apple, she was heading back out to the party. Alive and well."

  "I'll bet she was well. Dressed in my designer outfit," Kendall mumbled.

  I turned my gaze to his daughter. Her build, height, and coloring. It was all very similar to Apple. I imagined Apple in one of Kendall's outfits.

  And it all made sense.

  Kendall had been the target all along, but someone had grabbed Apple by mistake. It had been dark, noisy, busy. Maybe the kidnapper hadn't known Kendall that well, and it had all happened so fast. The kidnapper had tried to ransom Apple as the daughter, so clearly they hadn't realized their mistake.

  I tried not to think about what might happen when they did. It was one thing to lend a
dancer some clothes. But I doubted Wendell would invest five million big ones in her well-being.

  I turned to Kendall. "Who did you see this weekend?"

  She shrugged. "No one. Just my boyfriend. I told you, we spent the weekend in."

  I nodded. Perfect. "Good. You're going to have to stay in for awhile longer."

  "Wait, what do you mean?" she asked.

  "The longer you stay out of sight, the more time we buy until the kidnapper realizes his mistake."

  Wendell squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. "What are you talking about?"

  "Apple was your daughter's height, age, coloring, and wearing her clothes. Someone meant to kidnap Kendall at your party—"

  "—and they got your friend by mistake," Kendall finished for me. For the first time her face registered some emotion other than annoyance. If I had to guess, it was akin to real fear.

  "The fact that they called in a ransom means they haven't realized their mistake. Which is good. As long as they think Apple is worth something to them, they'll keep her alive." At least I hoped. I knew as well as anyone that kidnappers didn't always make good on their promises.

  Wendell shook his head. "Wait, you don't actually expect me to pay their ransom for some dancer I barely know?"

  I shot him a look that could freeze a volcano. "You are the only reason she's in trouble right now."

  "But I barely know her!" he repeated.

  "You should have thought of that before you took her upstairs to your private party."

  He gave me a look like he didn't get it.

  "Look, we're not actually going to pay their ransom, but we need to buy some time," I told him. "Kendall needs to keep hidden so the kidnappers don't realize they've really got someone else. We need to play along with their plan. For now."

  Wendell looked like he was about to argue, but he must have realized how much leverage I had against him. Exotic dancer abducted from his home…after being rejected by him as a hookup because she reminded him of his daughter. One breath of this to the press and he'd have all sorts of feminist hashtags being attached to him by morning. Hollywood wouldn't touch him with a ten-foot boom pole.

  "Fine," he relented. "What do we need to do?"

  "Both of you have to keep this a secret. Who else is here now?" I asked.

  "No one."

  "Stephanie?" I asked after his faithful assistant.

  "She's at the office downtown," Wendell said.

  "Good. Kendall, you're coming with me."

  "What?!" She turned a pleading look to her father. "Dad?"

  "If anyone sees you here, word could get back to the kidnapper. Until we know who he is and where he has eyes, you need to stay hidden."

  Wendell nodded reluctantly. "She's right."

  "So unfair!" Kendall crossed her arms over her chest, pouting like a two-year-old. If two-year-olds had their lips done.

  * * *

  I sent Kendall upstairs to pack a bag, and while her father poured himself a morning cocktail, I called Caleigh to see if she could watch Kendall for the evening. Which she said she was only too happy to do. "It'll be like having a little sister," she'd said. I didn't have the heart to tell her that Kendall Manchester was more likely to be a little millennial pain in her rear end.

  Once I finished, I dropped my phone back into my purse and turned to find Wendell sucking down bourbon like it was water as he stared out at the pool through the glass French doors.

  I cleared my throat to get his attention. "I visited with Delphine King today," I told him.

  He looked at me over the rim of his glass. "So?"

  "So she didn't have very nice things to say about you."

  He scoffed. "She can join the club."

  "Is it a large club?"

  "I'm a businessman. And I'm good at it, which means not everyone loves me, okay?"

  "Someone targeted you, specifically," I pointed out. "This was not a random crime."

  "If you want to know who hates me, the list is long," Wendell said.

  "Okay, so let's start with who hated you and was at your party," I countered.

  "I'm not exactly in the habit of inviting enemies to my parties, Ms. Bond."

  Valid point. "Anyone show up uninvited?"

  He gave me a blank stare for a moment before his face changed. "Yes. Yes, someone did. But he was only here for a few minutes before I had security throw him out. I have a restraining order against him and could have had him arrested."

  I liked the sound of this. "Who is he?" I asked.

  "Kent Perkins."

  "Another business associate?"

  "No, we used to be friends."

  "Used to be?"

  Wendell sucked in his cheeks, narrowing his eyes at me. "Look, he might have gone a little crazy when he found out that I slept with his trophy wife."

  Why was I not surprised? "Yep, that would end a friendship." I paused. "What exactly is a little crazy?" I asked.

  "He tried to kill me with a golf club. But instead he killed my Mercedes."

  "Ouch."

  "Yeah, I loved that car."

  "I bet Kent loved his wife."

  Wendell shot me a look. "Get real. Kent was mad because the wife left him after he confronted her with the affair. And now she's taking him for everything he's worth. The poor sap didn't have a prenup. Can you imagine?"

  I could imagine it could make this friend hard up for five million dollars.

  "I'm going to need Kent Perkins' number," I told him.

  * * *

  Half an hour later I had Kendall Manchester and two large suitcases and a carry-on, which was really anything but, loaded into my car. She insisted taking over my sound system as we got onto the freeway, blasting some pop rock from her phone that sounded like Katy Perry had become the front woman for Metallica. It was so awful that I hesitated to even call it music. Especially when Kendall sang along at the top of her lungs, completely off-key. By the time I reached Caleigh's place, I had a headache brewing and was more than happy to unload the socialite.

  As soon as I pulled away from Caleigh's, I dialed Kent Perkins, but the call went straight to voicemail. I left a message asking him to call me back.

  I drove back to the office, where I asked Maya to dig up whatever she could on Perkins. She dove into the project, as I sent Sam to keep a tail on Delphine King for the evening, just in case our filmmaker was the one looking to cash in on Kendall's kidnapping.

  Then I holed myself up in my office as I called Antonio again just to be sure Apple hadn't shown up in any emergency rooms or morgues. Negative. Which should have made me feel better, but it did anything but. Apple was out there somewhere, with someone desperate enough to abduct a woman for money, and I was no closer to finding her than I had been that morning.

  I spent a good hour digging up everything I could on Peter Rivera, which, granted, was not a lot. The guy had an arrest record the length of a football field, but most had been gang-related stuff—minor drug possession, vandalism, carrying an unregistered weapon. Nothing that had escalated to the level of kidnapping. For kicks, I ran Delphine King and Kent Perkins through the database as well, but neither had an arrest record.

  As I left the office—telling Maya to go home even as she still clacked away on her keyboard—I dialed the number for the sick caterer, Peter Rivera again. Straight to voicemail again. I plugged the address his boss Finley had given me into my GPS and merged onto the freeway. Half an hour later, I was sitting in front of a warehouse that sold adult "toys" in the Valley. Nothing residential for a good city block. Whether or not Rivera'd had anything to do with the kidnapping, he'd given his boss a fake address.

  I drove away, getting back on the freeway. Though, instead of going toward my own condo, I found my car pulling me toward the marina. As much as I hated to admit it—and I never would to Derek!—sometimes I needed him as a sounding board. As competent as I felt most days at my job, today was not one of those days. I parked in the lot and walked along the pier to Derek's hou
seboat, the Black Pearl. It was a relatively quiet evening with just minimal chatter from another boat several slips over and from a few seagulls nearby. The water's lap was gentle, almost inaudible.

  If I shut my eyes, I remembered all those weekends Mom would take the two of us to the beach. She adored the water, and at bedtime she'd often make up stories about mermaids. I'd been young, but the memories were mostly clear. She'd pack a picnic, and when it was too cool out to swim, we'd listen to a portable radio. Sometimes she'd read aloud from my favorite books.

  Derek had always been working or doing who knew what, so he'd never gone on those trips with us. But years later I learned that she'd filled him in on each and every one of them, every minute detail. I could only assume that she'd done it to try to make him feel like he was a part of our special days.

  I reluctantly let the memory of happier times go as the Black Pearl came into view. Derek was lounging on the top deck, holding a beer and chatting with someone. He had a guest. Was it Elaine? God forbid it was another woman.

  I took a couple of steps closer, contemplating turning back, but I spotted large blue sneakers and the cuffs of jeans. The person was definitely not female. He held a beer bottle too. I didn't know Dad to have too many guy friends. Striking up a conversation with a woman had always been easier for Derek.

  I took another step forward, and the face of his guest came into view.

  I froze, my stomach clenching.

  Sitting on the deck, chatting and drinking a beer with dear ol' Dad, was my former best friend and current New Zealand disaster, Danny Flynn.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Before I figured out how to blend in with the wooden planks, Derek turned, spotted me, and waved me over.

  Crap.

  I raised a hand in a weak attempt at a friendly wave back, though I'm pretty sure the forced smile on my face looked more like a grimace.

  When had Danny gotten back? And why? His assignment was supposed to be for six months. Had he somehow spotted me stalking him and his new girlfriend down under? And since when did Danny hang out with Derek? I distinctly recalled how much Derek had disliked Danny when he'd first met him. He hadn't trusted him then—though what father would?—and while I knew their relationship had become a little warmer in recent years, I hadn't pictured them as drinking buddies.