Secret Bond (Jamie Bond Mysteries) Page 8

  Before I could react, however, the back door opened and a wave of warm air permeated the car. It slammed shut, and I exhaled. I twisted faster than a tornado and locked all the doors. I watched Brady glide across the street to his car, my heart racing in my chest now even though Brady appeared without a care in the world. As if he hadn't just waved a gun in my face and talked about my death.

  Up until this point, I hadn't wanted to believe that Derek was really involved with someone like Brady. But the fact that Brady hadn't denied knowing Derek sealed it. He knew him. It was more than just the one drink the two men had shared. It was something big enough to make Brady threaten my life. I pressed my fingers to the spot on my neck where Brady's lips had been.

  My phone buzzed, causing me to flinch. Without thinking, I snatched it out of the holder and pressed the green receiver button. "Aiden?"

  He hesitated long enough for me to wonder if I'd lost the connection. "What's wrong?"

  He could tell. Damn. My head swam with possible scenarios if I told him the truth. The worst being that Aiden would involve the police, Brady's bail would be revoked, and there went any chance I had of finding out what he had to do with Derek's shooting.

  "Jamie, where are you? Are you okay?" Aiden's tone went from concern to fear.

  I turned the key in the ignition, hoping the roar of the engine would help me push some words out. "I'm fine. Just spooked."

  "Why? Are you home or at the office?" His breathing came fast, as if he was running.

  I glanced at the brick building and backed onto the street. I didn't want to stay here another minute. "I'm on my way home. It's not a big deal."

  But it was. Despite this line of work, I've had a gun pointed at me only twice. A few months ago on another case that had gone horribly wrong and just now. Brady may have only meant to scare me, but the first time I'd been on the business end of a gun, I'd almost died. I wasn't particularly calm around bullets anymore.

  "I'll meet you there."

  I wanted to tell him no, that I didn't need his hand holding, but who was I kidding? Some hand holding, and maybe even some body holding, was exactly what I needed.

  * * *

  By the time Aiden arrived, I was already in my apartment, shoes kicked off and swallowing a fiery shot of tequila. I let him in, and the bottle of Cuervo was the first thing he noticed, his eyebrows furrowing in concern. The first thing I noticed, however, was the way his navy T-shirt hugged his biceps and chest. He was in jeans and sneakers, his hair still wet at the ends as if he'd called me fresh out of the shower.

  "Hey," I said. Lame, but after a couple of shots, I wasn't a master conversationalist.

  "Hey." Aiden stepped into the room and immediately cupped my jaw with his hands. His gaze roamed my face from forehead to chin several times, as if my worry lines were a map to my secrets. "Please tell me what has you so upset you're doing shots at midnight?"

  I gulped, his hands warm and smelling like soap. It was nice. Comforting. Now that I was securely in my home, the immediate shock was wearing off, and I was able to deal better. I couldn't tell him the truth. In addition to my earlier reasons, I was a licensed PI. How would it look if I needed the Assistant District Attorney to save me? Who would hire the Bond Agency again? Plus, I would hate for Brady to think he won.

  I rounded my shoulders and tried to shake any insecurities from my expression. "It was actually silly. Not a big deal, and I'm now ashamed that you drove all the way here for no reason."

  Yes, the bullshitting was necessary to give me enough time to think up an appropriate and believable story. Man, I hated lying to him.

  "What happened?"

  I pointed to the bottle. "Do you want a drink?"

  He dropped his hands and quirked a brow. He knew I was stalling. "No, I can't stay long. I have court in the morning."

  I bit my lip. "Then I'm twice as sorry you came out here for no reason."

  He narrowed his eyes, putting on the same penetrating look I'd seen earlier when he questioned the officer on the stand. "What happened, Jamie?"

  I cleared my throat, looking down at the Cuervo to avoid his gaze. "I-I parked in the back corner of the lot beside the agency. When I went to my car, a man spooked me." There. Not a lie.

  "Who was he?"

  "Um, just a . . . homeless guy." Okay, so a little lie.

  Aiden grabbed my hands. "Did he touch you, hurt you?"

  "He didn't lay a finger on me." And technically, Brady hadn't. Just his lips.

  Aiden let out a deep sigh, running a hand through his hair. He was really worried. Maybe it was the tequila working its way through my system, but I found the thought totally endearing. And kinda hot.

  I stepped closer, catching a whiff of aftershave. "I'm sorry I made you rush over. You should be resting for tomorrow. You were excellent today."

  He shook his head. "I got creamed. Not only did Wylie look like a puddle of sweat, Richmond also shredded my weapons expert, Dwyer."

  So that's who had walked in as I hightailed it out. "How?"

  "He kept objecting and commenting on how the gun didn't belong to Brady. Most of what he said was overruled, and even though the jury's directed to not pay attention, they still hear. You can't tell me they forget and ignore that information when it comes to decision time."

  In the few months we've known one another, I'd come to associate Aiden with confidence. This uncertain side of him was something new. It left me with an instinctual urge to comfort him.

  "I'm sure you've scored more points than you think."

  He ran a hand through his hair again and stared off into space. "Yeah, maybe."

  "You sure you don't want that drink?" I asked, holding up the Cuervo with a smile.

  But instead of taking me up on the offer, Aiden turned his penetrating lawyer look on me again. "What was going on between you and Brady in the courtroom?"

  I knew he'd get to that eventually, but it didn't stop me from cringing. I considered adding another lie to the mix, but I was tired. And he deserved more. "I spoke to his girlfriend to see if she knew anything about Derek's shooting."

  His brows rose. "Did she?"

  "No. It was a waste of time."

  He held my gaze for a second, waiting for me to continue. When I didn't, he let his eyes wander over my place, as if finally seeing his surroundings. "This is the first time I've seen your apartment."

  I waved a hand. "What do you think of my humble abode?"

  "Nice. Cozy."

  He was being polite. It was tiny. And with the minimal amount of time I spent in it, far from homey. But it did have one definite selling point.

  "You haven't seen the best part yet." I parted the vertical blinds along the back wall. I didn't own the greatest furniture, second-hand pieces from estate sales, plus the occasional table from a discount store. But what my place lacked in decor, it made up for in view. The night shone with dotted lights of the Hollywood skyline below.

  Aiden walked to my side. His shoulder brushed mine. "It's breathtaking."

  "Yes." And I wasn't just referring to the view.

  Here's the thing, between Aiden's sometimes stoic demeanor, our crazy schedules, and my occasional burst of playing hard-to-get, we had yet to cross that line from "will they, won't they?" to "my place or yours?" Our flirtatious Ping-Pong game left me confused, not quite sure whose side of the table the ball fell off last.

  "I'd like to come back some evening when I can truly appreciate this," he said, as if reading my thoughts.

  Maybe it was the tequila again, but I was feeling bold. I turned to him and placed a hand on his chest. I counted his heartbeats until he lowered his face to mine. One, two, three, four . . .

  Then he leaned in, and his lips pressed against my forehead.

  My forehead.

  Are you kidding me? This is the kind of kiss you give your child . . . or dog.

  When he straightened, he looked like he'd dozed off during that peck. His eyes were hooded, and I could swear he hid a
yawn.

  "I'm sorry. It's been a long day."

  I bit the inside of my cheek. I wasn't sure if that was a brush off or his way of saying he was actually too exhausted to think of anything as aerobic as ripping each other's clothes off.

  "Sure. Rain check," I said, hopefully doing a decent job of hiding my disappointment.

  When we reached my door, he glanced back. "Hey, thanks for showing up in court today. I appreciate the support."

  The look on his face was so genuine, my heart did a little flip in my chest. "Any time."

  Which was another lie. There was no way I wanted to face Brady ever again, not even with a big, safe courtroom full of people between us.

  * * *

  The next morning, I stepped into a racer-back tank dress, a pair of pumps, and a loose cotton blazer. I added extra mascara to make up for the fact I'd spent another night tossing and turning, and hopped into my roadster, heading south on the 405 toward Brentwood. According to the county records I'd accessed after Aiden left, Mrs. Rebecca Bernstein did still own her home there. I hadn't seen Bernstein's wife in court yesterday, so I took a chance that she was staying home to avoid the media attention. I pulled up to the address and found a two-story brick structure with a semi-circular driveway and enough planted flowers to supply the Rose Parade. I parked by the front door. As I lifted the brass knocker I went through the different roles I could play to gain access. Reporter, one of Bernstein's old clients, a client's wife . . . but none seemed to fit. And since I hadn't had my daily dose of caffeine yet, I was cranky and simply tired of playing games.

  The door opened, and a woman with dark hair and startlingly light green eyes greeted me. I recognized her face from the news articles I'd seen on the trial, but she was much more put together today than the grieving widow I'd seen depicted in the media. Her hair was pinned up into a bun, a single strand of pearls circled her neck, and she wore a simple floral, sleeveless dress. "Hello, may I help you?"

  I extended my hand. "Hi, I'm Jamie Bond. I'm a private investigator with the Bond Agency."

  Her eyebrows rose slowly. If I had to guess, their rise was impeded by Botox.

  "Are you Mrs. Bernstein?" I pressed.

  She nodded. "Yes, please come in." She stepped back and held the door open for me.

  I entered and immediately my nose tickled. The air was heavy with perfume, as if she polished the wood with it. The foyer was grand yet simple at the same time. Light-colored walls with dark wood floors and moldings. The staircase semi-circled like the driveway and led to a second floor landing with a large bay window. The sunlight spilled onto the stairs and made diamond shaped beams by my feet. Bernstein must've done very well in life. According to Derek's file, he'd been a criminal attorney. I wondered what sort of clientele he'd defended.

  "May I help you with something?" Mrs. Bernstein asked.

  I smiled at her. "You hired Derek Bond a few years back?"

  She motioned for me to follow her into a room to the right. "Yes. Are you related?"

  The living room held the typical furnishings, all in muted shades of yellow and light blue. Every surface, including the floor before the great windows facing the front of the house, was lined with vases of flowers. Roses, daises, tulips, and ones I didn't know by name, in all colors.

  "Yes. He's my father." I sat on the sofa.

  She grinned. "He's a wonderful man."

  I nodded, though I wasn't sure I believed her.

  "May I get you some tea or coffee?" she offered.

  I was so used to doors slamming in my face lately that her friendliness made me suspicious. But who was I to give up free caffeine? "Coffee would be great."

  Her smile grew and she hurried off. I expected her to summon the help and put in our order, but I didn't hear any voices, just cupboard doors and the faucet turning on and off. Maybe it was the maid's day off. Surely Mrs. Bernstein didn't clean this place by herself. If she did, I needed to hire her. But the moment she spent away gave me enough time to admire her taste.

  As well as snoop, of course.

  There wasn't much personal material in this room, aside from several framed photographs stuck between vases. There was one of Mrs. Bernstein with a woman that resembled her. They were around the same age, so probably a sister. And the others were of small children. Since this didn't appear to be a house with scattered toys or the sounds and smells of little feet, I assumed they were nieces and nephews.

  The wall above the fireplace had a large, lighter colored rectangle in the center. At first I thought it was the sunlight casting a shadow, but then I realized there must've been a picture there before. Perhaps a family portrait that had been removed after her husband's death.

  Mrs. Bernstein returned with a tray of coffee and Danish. She set it on the table and handed me a cup. "There's cream and sugar. And please help yourself to a pastry. They're fresh from the bakery this morning."

  "Thank you." A quick glance at my watch reminded me it was barely nine-thirty. I'd worried it was too early to visit, and she'd already been up and to the store.

  "So how can I help you?" She dumped three spoonfuls of sugar in her dainty china cup then settled into an arm chair across from me.

  "I was looking into some old cases and came across yours." It was a weak intro I knew. Who would be interested in her three-year-old file about a man who was deceased? I swallowed a large mouthful of coffee, and hoped my brain would kick in harder soon.

  "Your father was a big help to me and my marriage."

  "Oh?" I sipped my coffee again and let her talk.

  "I was certain my husband, Edward . . . Eddie, was being unfaithful." Her eyes became moist. She grabbed a napkin and dabbed at their corners. "I'm sorry."

  "Don't be." I sat back and hoped she'd continue.

  "He's dead now. I'm sure you've heard about the trial. It's all over the news."

  I nodded. "I have. I'm sorry. It must be difficult for you."

  "Thank you. I know I should be in the courtroom, but I honestly just don't think I can face that man."

  I noticed she didn't use Brady's name. "I understand," I told her, meaning it more than she knew.

  "Anyway, um, what was I saying?" she asked, doing more eye dabbing.

  "You hired Derek to follow your husband?"

  She nodded. "Right. Well, Eddie had started staying late at the office. Later than usual, I mean. His cell phone would ring, and he'd leave the room to talk, or would stop talking when I'd enter."

  "That isn't usual for an attorney? They keep odd hours, have to maintain confidentiality?"

  She rubbed her hand across her midsection. "Yes, but I knew in my gut that this was different. Or so I thought."

  In my experience, the wife always knows. "So you hired Derek?"

  "Yes, yes. He came highly recommended from a friend. But after a couple of weeks of following him around, your father concluded that Eddie was actually doing business and not having an affair." Her smile was as watery as her eyes.

  "That's good."

  She drew in a long breath. "Yes, I just wish I'd known sooner. Then we could've spent more quality time together before he was killed."

  She felt guilty for suspecting him. Understandable. "Do you still have a copy of any photos or any tangible evidence that Derek gave you?"

  She frowned. "No-no, he didn't show me anything. There wasn't anything to show."

  Now it was my time to frown. Even when there's no evidence to support adultery, there's evidence to disprove it. Derek always gave photos to the wife. It was one of the first things he'd taught me.

  So where were they?

  CHAPTER TEN

  I left Mrs. Bernstein's and drove back to the agency, parking near the entrance. Top down today. I wasn't in the mood for any more surprise visitors in my backseat.

  Maya was on the phone, as usual, but instead of giving me a wave as I walked by, she ignored me, a frown between her brows. Not that I expect to be greeted with cheers and excitement every time I enter
ed the office, but I'd never known Maya to be distracted to the point of not handing me a stack of messages the second I walked through the door. She was shaking her head, biting her lip, clearly not liking whatever was being said on the other end of the phone.

  I took slow steps toward my office, lingering in hopes of catching a snippet of her conversation. Yes, being nosy was not only a part of my job description, but my nature.

  As I reached my door, I heard her say, "Yeah, Mom, I know how important it is to you. I'll try to make it, but work is really busy."

  I waited until Maya hung up, then turned and walked back to her desk. "Is everything alright?"

  She flinched and widened her eyes. "Sorry, boss. I didn't see you walk in."

  "I noticed. That phone call seemed intense."

  She pushed a lock of her dark hair behind an ear, grabbing a stack of pink papers and handing me my messages. "It's my mother," she explained, "and her bi-monthly Vagina Meeting."

  I blinked. "Excuse me?"

  She rolled her eyes. "My mother, Charlotte Emily Alexander—named after the Bronte sisters—lost my father six years ago, and since that time she's gone from a hopeless romantic to a feminist who holds luncheons disguised as discussions on how men suck. The only problem is she still believes the man should pay the check while the woman just looks pretty. She's a walking oxymoron."

  I tried not to smile. "And she wants you to attend?"

  "Oh, no. She expects it. And in the midst of the man-hating, the conversation always circles around to how sexist my Playboy spread was and what self-respecting man will want to marry a girl who showed that much skin." She cocked a brow before I had time to comment. "Not directly, but in gist. I usually screen my calls every other Monday, but I got careless and picked up today. Big mistake."

  I felt for her. Most of the time, I did the same with Derek. Lately, I understood complicated parent-child relationships as well as anyone. "Sorry," I said, laying a hand on her arm.

  Maya shrugged. "I'll live. I just may need to drink heavily afterward, so if I call in sick with a hang-over tomorrow, you know why."