Unbreakable Bond Page 2

  I shoved my cell into my bag.

  Maya popped her head into my office. "You want to go over your schedule for the day?"

  I grunted in the negative.

  She set a large Starbucks cup down on my desk. "How about now?"

  "I love you." I grabbed the cup, gratefully taking a sip. It was so hot it burned my tongue. Perfect. "Okay, hit me."

  Maya recited the appointment book from memory. "You've got an eleven-thirty phone conference with Mrs. Chen’s lawyer – they’re withholding payment. Mr. Chen’s lawyer said the footage was too blurry to clearly make out Mr. Chen’s face."

  I rubbed my temples. "Fabulous."

  "You have Maguire this afternoon, and the landlord called about the rent check. Apparently," Maya averted her eyes, "it bounced."

  I cringed, trying not to picture Levine’s pinched face as he wagged his proverbial finger at me. "I’ll take care of it. Anything else?"

  "Mrs. Waterston is waiting in reception."

  I nodded. "Give me two minutes, then show her in."

  "Okay. Oh, and, uh," she bit her lip. "Derek left two messages here last night."

  "I figured. He left one on my cell, too."

  "Do you want me to call him back?" Maya asked, even though I could tell she dreaded it as much as I did.

  "No, I'll call him later," I said. At least halfway meaning it. "But thanks."

  Maya’s face brightened, visibly relieved. "Okay. Two minutes then," she said, then left.

  I drank the rest of my coffee as I pulled Mrs. Waterston's file from my bottom drawer. It was, admittedly, slim. My typed report on the evening, a couple of blown up stills – eight by tens always added more drama when it came time to negotiate settlement terms – and the copy of the footage Danny had shot last night. Then I opened a fresh box of tissues and set it on the corner of my desk.

  Just in case.

  I popped Danny's disk into my computer and pulled up the media player just as Mrs. Waterston came into the room.

  "Good morning, Miss Bond." Her voice was soft and evenly modulated, hinting just the slightest of an indefinable upper-crust accent. It reminded me of an old Hepburn movie, and I wondered if it was natural or carefully cultivated.

  She was young, slim, the obvious trophy wife. While her husband had spent one too many nights in the pursuit of cigars, scotch, and blondes, his wife looked to prefer spending her time at the spa, the salon, and cruising Rodeo. She wore a simple cashmere twin set and dark slacks, nervously twisting her hands together in front of her.

  "Mrs. Waterston, please have a seat," I said, gesturing to the chair opposite my desk.

  "Thank you. You have something I can take to my lawyers?" she asked, the tension in her stiff posture almost palpable.

  I put on my best sympathetic voice. Which wasn't very hard. After one evening with Judge Grabby Hands, I had enormous sympathy for anyone who'd had to endure him for years. "Yes, I'm afraid we do."

  She nodded. "Alright, let’s have it."

  I nodded, hitting "play".

  As the video began, she sat silently, both hands clasped in her lap. Behind her poker face I had no idea what she was thinking, but she didn't move a muscle.

  I watched myself sidle up to Judge Waterston on the screen. I giggled, touched his arm. He offered to buy me a drink, leaned in just a little too close. It didn’t take long before his hand found its way to my thigh, and he was propositioning me for a private evening of hide the gavel.

  "I’ve got a room upstairs," I heard myself respond. "Three-eighteen. Don't disappoint me." I slid off my stool with practiced seductiveness, and Sam got the perfect shot of the judge grabbing my ass as I walked away.

  Then the screen went blank.

  I cleared my throat, trying to clear the awkward silence from the room with it.

  "I’m sorry. I know this must be hard to watch."

  "Yes, it is," she agreed. She looked down, picking at invisible lint on the arm of her chair. Her face was pale and placid, but I was glad, at least, there weren’t any tears. I hated tears.

  "If there’s anything I can do?" I said, leaving the vague offer hanging.

  "No, thank you, Miss Bond. You’ve done enough." She opened her clutch and slipped on a pair of small, calfskin driving gloves, before pulling out a matching wallet. "What do I owe you for your services?"

  "We'll send you a bill later. You don't have to worry about that now."

  "No, I'd prefer to pay now, if you don't mind."

  I nodded. Hey, if writing a check helped her work out her grief, who was I to argue? "Then Maya will give you a balance."

  "Thank you." Mrs. Waterston stood up and stuck out one small hand. I shook it, her gloves soft and cool against my palm.

  "The disk." She gestured to my computer. "May I have a copy of that?"

  "Of course. You can take this one." I popped the disk out and handed it over to her. "Again, I'm sorry."

  Mrs. Waterston slipped it into her clutch and stood up. "No need to be. I've known he was a cheating bastard for years. I thank you for finally giving me the proof I need to bury the man." She paused and smiled at me. "In court, that is. Thank you again, Miss Bond. It’s been a pleasure doing business with you."

  With that, she turned and strode into the reception area, where she paused only briefly to speak with Maya, then handed over her balance in cash. Which was no big surprise. Most of the women who came in here didn't want their husband finding a charge to a P.I. firm on their monthly credit card or bank statements. Cash was the common payment. Don't worry, I reported every cent to the IRS.

  I watched as Mrs. Waterston took her receipt, then walked out the frosted front doors, painted with the single word "Bond" in bold black letters.

  CHAPTER THREE

  _____

  "Derek called this morning."

  Danny looked across the table at me. "And?"

  "Five times. He called five times. Somehow I get the feeling he doesn’t trust me." I paused. "He thinks I’m too girly to do this job."

  Danny grinned, a crooked thing that made the corners of his eyes crinkle, then let his gaze slowly rove my person, taking in my silk blouse, pencil skirt, and pink high heeled pumps. "Newsflash. You are girly."

  I threw a tortilla chip across the table at him.

  We were at Bosco's Cantina, a hole-in-the wall place near the beach, munching on chips and salsa while waiting for Maguire to make his appearance. According to the man’s wife, he was always "at the gym" lately. According to his credit card statement, a dozen roses had been delivered to the pink apartment building across the street last month. To a Miss Lula LaRue. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what kind of "work outs" Maguire had been engaging in.

  "So, how was the Malibu shoot this morning?" I asked Danny, loading a chip with chunky salsa.

  "Hot." He leaned back in his chair, clasping his hands behind his head, a gesture that stretched out all 6'2" of him.

  I'd met Danny on my first professional photo shoot when I was fifteen - all gangly legs, and scared shitless at the thought of standing in front of all those cameras in nothing but my itty bitty bikini. He'd immediately stepped into the role of big brother, putting me at ease and showing me the poses that made my ugly ducking shape instantly resemble a swan. The pictures had been good enough to get me a three page layout in Seventeen, and we'd been friends ever since.

  Though I never actually asked his age, I figured Danny was somewhere in his early forties. Old enough that fine laugh lines creased his eyes, but still young enough to pull off that rugged California guy thing. Natural outdoor tan, light brown sun-streaked hair, just a little too shaggy to be fashionable, if, in fact, too-shaggy weren't the current fashion. And exotic pale eyes, sort of an indistinguishable color somewhere between blue and green depending on the light. He'd once told me he got into photography to meet chicks, and I can't remember a time when Danny didn't have a bulging little black book.

  "Malibu was hot," he repeated. "The sun was
shinning, the water was clear, and the bikinis were tiny. Heaven."

  I rolled my eyes. "It’s all about the bikinis for you men, isn’t it?"

  "That’s what keeps you in business, babe." Danny popped a chip in his mouth. "Speaking of which, how’d the footage from last night work?"

  "Perfect. The judge is toast."

  "It was the dress. You were smokin' in the dress."

  "Thank you. I thought so, too."

  "You give it to the wife?"

  "This morning."

  He lifted his beer in the air. "Then cheers to a job well done."

  I lifted my water glass and clanked against the side of his bottle.

  "So," Danny said, eyeing me as he took a slow, deliberate sip. "Last night. What did you do with the number?"

  "What number?"

  "The one Ken Doll slipped you. Got the feeling he thought you were pretty smokin’ too."

  "Seriously?" I pinned him with a look. "I tossed it. The guy was hitting on girls at a charity event. How hard up is he?"

  "Huh." Danny picked his camera up off the table and lifted it to his eye, shooting off a couple pictures of the peeling pink paint across the street.

  I hated it when he did that. Masking his expression with photographic equipment was conversation-cheating as far as I was concerned.

  I nudged him with my foot. "'Huh' what? What's the 'huh' supposed to mean?"

  He kept shooting as he answered. "Nothing. I just thought he looked like your type."

  Oh, this was going to be good. "And exactly what type would that be?"

  He shrugged, setting the camera down on the table between us. "Polished, GQ, hair sprayed into place with lacquer."

  "Hey, it moved when he nodded."

  Danny grinned.

  "And, I'll have you know, that is so not my type."

  "Oh yeah?" He leaned both elbows on the table and trained his eyes – green now in the bright afternoon sun – on me. "What is your type then, Bond?"

  Luckily, I've known Danny long enough that I didn't take the bait. "I'll let you know when I see it," I mumbled instead, lifting my drink to my lips.

  "Good." Danny leaned back in his seat. "Then I still have a chance."

  I threw another tortilla chip at him.

  "Soooo," I said, drawing out the word, "tell me more about your bikini shoot. Did you get a phone number?" For those of you paying attention, yes, that was my attempt at a clever conversation change.

  Danny got a wicked look in his eyes. The same one that the pirated-out Johnny Depp had in Maya's screensaver at the office. Total ravage and plunder.

  "Numbers. Plural." He held up two fingers, his grin stretching.

  "Never mind. You've told me enough."

  "I think they were twins. And, man, were they a flexible pair. The one could wrap both legs around her-"

  "You are such a pig."

  "I'm a pig, you're girly - we're the perfect pair."

  A glimpse of blue metal flashed over Danny’s shoulder, and I sat up in my chair as Maguire’s vintage Mustang pulled up in front of the apartment building.

  "Oh yeah? Well, watch and learn, Porky. This is how Girly gets her mark."

  Danny swiveled in his seat just in time to see Maguire – tall, wide, and all veiny muscles - slip into the third unit on the bottom row. I threw a twenty on the table, Danny grabbed his camera, and we sprinted across the street.

  "I’ll take the back," I called over my shoulder as Danny slid with his back against the wall toward the third door. He nodded once, then aimed his camera at the front window.

  Trying to do a mix of nonchalance and speed, I rounded the corner of the building, counting the tiny, fenced-in patios until I found Maguire’s gal’s. With a quick look over my shoulder, I hiked up my skirt and hoisted myself up and over the fence, landing on a cracked cement patio that looked into the back rooms of the apartment. A sliding glass door with a ripped screen led into the living room. Next to it was a high window emitting tell-tale moaning sounds.

  "Right there, baby," a woman’s voice encouraged.

  Maguire grunted in response.

  I slipped a slim digital camera from my pocket and stepped on tip-toe, lifting my lens just above the window sill.

  Maguire was naked, his steroid pumped ass pounding into an African American woman in a pink negligee.

  "That’s it, do it to me, baby," she moaned.

  I popped off a series of shots in rapid succession. This was almost too easy. I shifted under the window, getting three more incriminating photos of full frontal Maguire, and was just about to slink away and do a victory dance when a car horn sounded somewhere behind me.

  And Maguire looked up.

  Our eyes locked for a full two seconds before the light bulb moment hit him, and his face contorted with rage.

  "Oh. Shit."

  I shoved the camera in my pocket, and ran for the fence, grabbing on and hoisting myself up as adrenaline surged from my belly. I had one leg over before Maguire’s naked form burst through the back door.

  "Give me that camera, bitch!"

  I quickly pulled the other leg up, dropping with a thud on the other side and took off running.

  But unfortunately, since I wasn’t hopped up on muscle juice, Maguire was a whole lot faster. Three strides into it, he caught me, pouncing from behind.

  "Uhn!" I fell forward from the force, scraping my hands as I hit the pavement.

  "My fuckin’ wife send you?" he spat out as he flipped me over. He straddled me, his beefy hands pinning my wrists to the ground.

  I pushed against his weight, but there was no way I was winning this wrestling match. I wriggled underneath his bulk, twisting my head to the side to avoid his hot breath on my face. I pushed up against his hands, causing him to shift his weight forward as he continued to pin me. I pushed up again. Once more… then quickly slid both arms straight down to my sides. Predictably, his body pitched forward, face first. I lifted my forehead with a jerk and head-butted him in the nose.

  "Hell!" he yelled. Blood oozed from his nostrils, stunning him, his hands immediately flying to his face. I took the opportunity to kick my right leg upward and over his, flipping him onto his back. Then sent a swift knife-hand chop to his neck, hitting his carotid artery.

  I stood up and quickly backed away as he gasped for breath, wheezing like a sick animal.

  As I labored to get my own panic-fueled breathing back under control, Danny jogged around the side of the building.

  Gotta love the man’s timing.

  "Hey, you okay?" he asked.

  "Yeah." I glanced down at my silk blouse. An ugly red stain was spreading down the front. "But he ruined my shirt."

  Danny looked from me to Maguire, concern quickly melting into a smile as he shook his head. "Jesus, I can’t take you anywhere, Bond."

  * * *

  After an afternoon with Maguire I needed a long, hot shower and a drink. Not necessarily in that order.

  Unfortunately, as soon as I got home I realized I had racked up two more voicemails from Derek.

  I dropped onto my sofa with a sigh. I thought about ignoring them, but sadly, knowing Derek, that wouldn’t make him go away. Instead, I reluctantly keyed my pin number into the voicemail system.

  "Hey, it's me," came the first one, dated last night. "Just checking in. How'd things go with the judge? Call me."

  I hit delete.

  Even though Derek had officially retired to his houseboat last year after being shot in the shoulder by a married father of three caught with a Russian hooker in North Hollywood, he still wanted a report on every mark. I'd like to think it was because fishing in Marina Del Rey wasn't enough to occupy the mind of a twenty-seven year veteran of the P.I. business and not because he thought I needed checking up on.

  That's what I'd like to think.

  "Me again." Derek's voice filled my apartment as the second message clicked on. "Aren't you back yet? What the hell is taking so long? This was an in-and-out case, James. Don'
t tell me you’re still working him? It's nine-fifteen for Christ’s sakes. I'd have had him in twenty minutes. Call me."

  I gave my phone the finger.

  The next few messages followed in similar fashion, growing increasingly pissed.

  I deleted them all and crossed to the kitchen, pulling out a white egg timer.

  When I was seventeen and doing a shoot for French Vogue in Cannes, I'd been stupid enough to try a line of coke an over-friendly photographer had offered. I'd ended up in the emergency room, not because of the coke, but because my high alter ego had suddenly thought herself invincible and dove off the top tier of a yacht into the Mediterranean in the middle of the night. I'd broken two ribs and smashed my face into the rotor, which left me bruised beyond the help of airbrushing for a month. My agent had been furious. He'd sent me to therapy to make sure this kind of "self destructive behavior" never dented his bank account again.

  The therapy, honestly, hadn't been all that bad. Having someone actually look at me for me and not as a clothes hanger was a novelty, and it had been nice to talk to someone who was required to at least pretend to listen to me. Unlike Derek.

  The best advice I'd taken away from the therapy was to set limits when I talked to Derek. Take him in small doses. Hence, the egg timer.

  I wound the timer up for five minutes, took a deep breath, and dialed his number.

  It rang six times, and I was just about to give up when a woman's voice answered.

  "Yell-o?" she called. Followed by a cigarette stained giggle.

  "Is Derek in?"

  "Who's askin'?" Her accent was part Valley Girl and part trailer park, and I could hear a muffled male voice in the background.

  "Jamie."

  "Well, Jamie, Derek is otherwise occ-u-pied," she drew out the word. Then there was more muffled noise, followed by a swatting sound and a high pitched, "Oh, you naughty boy."

  I took another deep breath, inhaling patience. As much as I wanted to hang up now, I knew it would only mean three more messages by tomorrow.