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  FATAL BOND

  by

  GEMMA HALLIDAY

  &

  JENNIFER FISCHETTO

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  Copyright © 2018 by Gemma Halliday

  Gemma Halliday Publishing

  http://www.gemmahallidaypublishing.com

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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  CHAPTER ONE

  I'd heard of people who experienced the Sunday Night Blues, a kind of letdown at the end of the weekend as the workweek loomed ahead of them. Luckily I loved my job and rarely lamented a Monday morning. Rarely. This might be the exception, as so far I was experiencing the mother of all Monday Morning Miseries. I'd been out of bed for less than two hours, and I'd already managed to burn my tongue on my caramel macchiato and dribble it down the front of my pink silk blouse. There was standstill traffic on the freeway all the way into the office, and I realized I'd grabbed my Coral Crushed lipstick rather than the Pink Petals, totally clashing with my top.

  I stepped out of my cherry red roadster, in the Bond Agency parking lot, and rubbed the small stain just beneath the top button with a french fry–smelling napkin from Wendy's that I'd found in the glove compartment. It was useless. I wasn't getting the light brown spot shaped like Florida out, and I didn't want to transfer the napkin's scent to my blouse and spend the rest of the day dreaming about greasy, salty goodness. I should've turned back home and changed, but that would have entailed braving the traffic again—in both directions. I was already running late. Plus, this was the first day back from my weeklong absence from the office, and who knew what state that had left the agency in.

  Not that I didn't have faith in my Bond Girls, as I'd lovingly dubbed my all-female staff of PIs, but I knew this was a fickle business. One day you were up, and the next day you were down. Case in point: my father, Derek Bond.

  Derek Bond had started the "discreet private inquiries" agency years ago, quickly becoming a specialist in tracking down cheating husbands for the housewives of LA County. I had many memories of being in the back seat of his Bonneville as he sat on stakeouts—taking a nap or playing with my Barbies, and later doing my homework and a lot of eye rolls at being in the parking lot of a cheap motel in North Hollywood instead of at the mall with my friends. I practically grew up on a stakeout, and I'd never had any intentions of spending my adulthood doing the same thing. I'd leaned more toward sharing Barbie's career as a fashion model (though my measurements might be a slight bit larger than hers), which had worked out for me until the ripe old age of twenty-six, when I'd aged out of the modeling industry. It had been that same year that Derek had been shot in the shoulder, and on doctor's orders, he'd taken early retirement, handing the keys of the Bond Agency over to me.

  Keys that jingled in my hands now as my stiletto heels clacked toward the building.

  When I'd hastily booked my flight a week ago and declared I was taking an impromptu vacation, the Bond Girls had said they could handle things in my absence. No problem. And they'd kept to their words. Seven days without a peep from anyone. Not even Derek, who usually checked in at least seven times a day to make sure I wasn't running his baby into the ground. I couldn't believe it. I'd almost expected to return to the States and learn that California had fallen off the map. Of course, I'd returned much sooner than I'd planned to…

  Lost in thought, I sidestepped a shiny, brand new white Tesla parked crookedly near the entrance, and my ankle twisted. Pain shot through my leg as I cursed this Monday morning once again. I held my breath then let it out slowly as I made certain I didn't need to spend the rest of my morning in the ER. Ankle moved okay. I tried putting pressure on it. Painful, but after a couple of steps it started to subside.

  "Jamie!"

  I turned my head in the direction of my name and spotted a Honda Civic in the street. It had stopped at the parking lot's entrance. The passenger window was lowered, and a figure in the driver's seat waved. It was Elaine.

  Elaine was on the generous side of fifty, preferred animal print outfits in two sizes too small for her curvy frame, and had a heart of gold, even if it was tarnished a bit from years of hard booze and bad men. She'd been seeing Derek for a few months, though I was never sure what their relationship status was—probably due to the fact that the longest relationship I'd ever witnessed Derek have was with a cigar brand. At last count they were in an "off again" stage due to a recent falling out, though I tried not to stick my nose into Derek's affairs.

  Elaine pulled into an empty space near me and stepped from her car. She opened her arms for a hug, but at just over five feet tall, she ended up meeting my chest. I leaned down and embraced her.

  "What are you doing here?" I asked. Early morning gatherings weren't our thing. Actually, we didn't really have a thing, other than Derek.

  "I was just passing by," she said.

  "On your way to work?" I asked.

  She wore a gray pencil skirt, black pumps, and a white blouse under a black tailored jacket. Not her usual cheetah print spandex.

  She raised her hand and used it as a visor against the bright sun struggling to break through the upper layer of smog. "Actually, I'm on my way to a job interview."

  "Oh? I didn't know you were looking for a new job." I started to say how Derek hadn't mentioned it, but seeing as I wasn't even sure she and Derek were on speaking terms at the moment, I didn't want to poke a sore spot.

  "It's a spur-of-the-moment thing. I just learned about it a couple of days ago," she said.

  "Well, what kind of position and where?" I couldn't tell if she was excited or not.

  A half smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "It would be a dream. I'm applying for assistant producer at KOMO."

  I'd never heard of it, though I knew she currently worked as a receptionist at Channel Four, which was the bottom of the barrel as far as local news went, so this could only be a step up. "What station is KOMO?"

  "It's the ABC affiliate in Seattle," she said.

  I blinked at her. As in Washington? "You're leaving California?" My surprise hitched my voice up an octave.

  She looked to the ground and shrugged. "I don't know anything yet. I'm just interviewing with the station manager while he's in LA. I may not get the job, but I can't not try. Right?"

  Her voice wavered on her last word, as if she was looking for my approval.

  "Does Derek know?"

  She shook her head hard. "No, and I'd appreciate it if you don't mention it. I'm still…well…he and I have a lot to talk about. But until I know whether or not KOMO is an actual thing, I'd rather not say anything. Please."

  "Of course," I promised, though I wasn't sure how long I could keep it from him. Derek might be lacking in a lot of departments—fathe
r, boyfriend, regular rent-paying tenant—but he was a top-notch PI. Not much got past him.

  She glanced past me for a moment and then softly smiled. "You look lovely today. Pink suits you."

  Ah, changing the subject. It was good to know she hadn't noticed the stain though.

  "Thanks. Good luck on the interview."

  Her smile brightened. "Thank you. I should run. Tell the girls I said hi."

  She jiggled back to her car and pulled out of the lot.

  Now I was really late.

  I hurried the last few steps toward the door and reached for the handle. But somehow my mind was still elsewhere, and I accidentally caught my index finger on the edge of it, snapping a nail. I snatched back my hand and mumbled a string of curse words that would curl the hair on a hardened prisoner. The nail on my right index finger was diagonally torn. It hadn't been low enough to cause bleeding, but it felt like my finger had been ripped off.

  Could this day get any worse?

  I glanced up to the sky, looking for meteorites, as I realized it totally could.

  Two minutes later I'd made it to the second floor without incident and pushed through the glass doors to the lobby embellished with the single word Bond in black letters. The gentle tapping of a keyboard, the scent of coffee, and Maya's favorite coconut vanilla body spray filled the air. Sunlight streamed in from the window on the other side of the front office and gave the room a bright yet warm glow.

  Upon seeing me, Maya stopped typing, gathered her tablet, a thick handful of pastel pink messages, and jumped to her feet. Her long dark hair cascaded over her bare shoulders. She wore an off-the-shoulder, light gray sweater dress—which was very on trend for fall, though its short sleeves were a concession to the fact that fall in LA meant we might hit a low of 75. She'd paired it with a pair of very cute, thigh-high, laced pewter boots. Her straight black eyeliner created a subtle cat's eye between thick blackened lashes and a light copper shadow that blended perfectly into her brow bone. She looked adorable, and when I had a moment, I planned to ask where she'd bought those boots.

  While some other PIs in town might have dressed along the casual route, we at the Bond Agency took fashion very seriously. And not just because we'd all come from that industry originally. It was easier to make a client's alleged cheating husband turn his head if we looked like Victoria Secret's angels. Yes, it was sexist, but I didn't write the rules, and there wasn't any reason to not use our assets to the best of our abilities.

  We don't just nab your cheating spouse—we do it in style.

  "Hey, Boss, how was your trip?" Maya inquired.

  "Don't ask," I said shortly. Maybe more shortly than I'd intended.

  My administrative assistant gave me a look, but she was too savvy to pry further. She glanced to her tablet. "Your nine o'clock is here in the conference room. Sam and Caleigh are in there waiting for you."

  I disliked when people kept me waiting. I seriously disliked when I did it to others.

  Maya thrust the messages at me. "There are calls from prospective clients who wanted to talk to you personally before making an appointment."

  I shuffled through them. At least a dozen. Good to know business hadn't died off in my absence. Unlike buying a toaster online, most new clients were skeptical when it came to hiring a private investigator. It still had a cloak and dagger cliché about it, invoking visions of Humphrey Bogart, trench coats, and heavy smokers who used words like dame. I'd have to block out some time in the afternoon to call them all back. A lot of time, I realized as I shoved the large stack into my bag. "Anything else pressing?" I asked, thinking things had run almost too smoothly without me for the last week if this was all she had to report.

  Maya shrugged. "Candy from The Spotted Pony has called three times this morning."

  "What did she want?" Candy was an exotic dancer whom we'd met during a previous case. She and her best friend, Apple—yes, they often did acts together wearing bright red and doing things to a pole I could never be limber enough to achieve—had run a couple of plays for us in the past when we'd needed an extra pair of eyes on a mark.

  Maya shrugged again. "She didn't say. Just that she needed to speak with you ASAP."

  I shook my head. I couldn't keep the client in the conference room waiting any longer. "I'll call her back later," I called over my shoulder as I stepped into my office. I hung my purse on the hook behind the door and shrugged off my light jacket because despite the time of year, I was already overheating. I then grabbed the file Maya had created for the new client, which sat directly in the center on the top of my desk, and hurried back across the lobby to the conference room.

  When I entered, I was taken aback. Two women were seated at the table with my investigators, Sam and Caleigh. I glanced down at the manila file and saw the last name Hampshire written in Maya's neat block lettering.

  Caleigh stood upon seeing me and smiled brightly. Blonde, blue-eyed, and southern as a plate of fluffy biscuits, she always had an air of sunshine around her. Like a Monday Morning Misery would never dare darken her Disney Princess door. Caleigh Presley—distant cousin to Elvis, at least according to her—was a former swimsuit model who'd been forced into retirement when she'd dared to say no to a noted photographer's advances. While her Southern belle looks had landed her many a magazine cover, any guy who labeled her as dumb blonde was likely to be told off in all of the five languages she spoke. And then have his email accounts hacked by the blonde in question, just for kicks.

  Beside her sat her polar opposite—Samantha Cross. She was all legs, with dark curls and mocha skin. She was raised as a military brat and had been a finalist in the first season of the reality TV show America's Next Hot Model. There wasn't a man who didn't turn his head when she passed by, which was certainly an asset in our line of work. Though, a bigger asset might be that she knew more about guns than the NRA and her aim was flawless enough to bull's-eye every time. She'd joined the Bond Agency after having her son, Julio, because the modeling world couldn't handle a smidgen of extra pregnancy weight, even though, in my humble opinion, she looked as amazing today in a burgundy suede miniskirt and black sweater as she had in the teensiest bikini.

  "Jamie, I'm so glad you're here," Caleigh said. "This is Colleen and Erin." She indicated the other two women seated at the table.

  "Sorry I'm late," I said, turning to face them.

  The pair were dressed eerily similar in plain slacks in subdued colors and button-down shirts. The one Caleigh had nodded to as Colleen was in khaki and brown, while the other went navy and gray. Neither looked particularly a slave to fashion, though I noticed Erin wore small diamond studs in her ears, and a delicate string of pearls rested on Colleen's collarbone. Their jewelry, while modest, looked to be the real deal. Of course, nowadays, looks could be deceiving, but apart from biting on one of Erin's earrings, I had to assume my calculations were correct.

  I pulled out the black leather chair at the end of the table and sat down, careful to set my coffee close enough to reach but far enough to not accidentally spill and inflict anyone else with my morning's bad luck.

  "It's nice to meet you both. Which one of you is Mrs. Hampshire?" I asked.

  They glanced to one another before saying in unison, "We both are."

  I blinked. Sisters? Though, they didn't look alike. Besides the fact that Colleen was brunette and Erin a redhead, their bone structure was very different. Colleen had thin, delicate features, and Erin's were more robust.

  "Maybe I should rephrase. Which of you is the Mrs. Hampshire here about her husband?"

  "We both are," Colleen repeated.

  "I don't understand. You both have husbands you suspect of cheating on you?"

  Colleen look to Erin. Erin licked her lips and glanced at the conference table nervously.

  "This is confidential, right?" Erin asked. "Like with an attorney?"

  Legally? Not exactly. But we were nothing if not discreet. "Of course," I assured her.

  Colleen cleared
her throat. "There is just one husband. We-we're both married to him."

  "Wait, you're…"

  "We're sister-wives. We're polygamists," Erin supplied.

  Sam pursed her lips. A smile tugged at the corners of Caleigh's mouth. Neither of them said a word. Some friends they were.

  My gaze pinged between the two clients. While I'd seen them on TV, I'd never personally met polygamists before, and we'd certainly never had any as clients. I flipped open their file, needing a quick moment to recover from my shock. I could've sworn the new client, as in singular, was here to find out if her spouse was cheating. My gaze landed on that exact part of the preliminary work Maya had done.

  "Uh, we may not have been completely forthcoming with your secretary," Colleen admitted, watching me scan their file.

  I raised an eyebrow her way. "I see."

  "It's just that…well, we're not always received the right way when people hear the word polygamist," Erin explained.

  "People tend to have these perceptions," Colleen agreed.

  I nodded. I had to admit, if I'd heard the word without seeing these two, I probably would have thought of prairie dresses in Utah myself. I shut the folder and clasped my hands on top of it. "How can I help you both?" I asked.

  Erin's shoulders seemed to relax, and Colleen sat a little looser in her seat.

  "We're here about our husband," Colleen said. "That much was true."

  "You suspect he's…uh, cheating?" It felt odd to think of a man with multiple wives stepping out on them. Didn't have his hands full enough?

  Colleen and Erin shared that knowing look again. "Not exactly," Erin said. "We suspect Harold is scouting."

  "Scouting?" Sam asked, having apparently found her voice.

  "To add a third wife to our family," Colleen explained.

  "And we'd like for you to find out for sure," Erin added.