Bye Bye Bones (A CASSIDY CLARK NOVEL Book 1) (15 page)

“Calm down. Where are you now?”

“I’m at Michael’s house.”

“Did you get a license plate?”

“I just told you it followed me. No front plates. No.”

“What else did you notice?”

“Too dark. Too bright. Damn. I don’t know. I left the station. That’s when I first saw it.”

“Your station or Michael’s?” It was an obvious question with their impropriety in comingling of newscasts.

“Mine. I had to drive to the south side for a report on a cheating pawn guy. I left there and made three quick stops. I swear, Cass, it was the same van, every place I went.”

“And you drove to Michael’s. Good idea. Were you followed?”

“I made several zigzags right before I entered his subdivision, so I don’t think so.”

“For now, I’m glad you’re there with Michael.”

“He doesn’t know I’m here. He’s at work. It’s probably about airtime for him and he’s—”

“What?”

“He’s still pissed at me that one of our lead reporters pulled off that interview with Chief Manning the same time he ran the story with Jessica Silva on all the missing women. The man has an ego. And you and I can both get that.”

“I’ll come get you. You can leave your car there.”

“Not a chance. Michael says it has an oil leak. Makes me park on the street, and he still gets all crazy.”

“Where’s Tessa?”

I repeated, “Tracy. Where’s your daughter?”

“With her father. She’s been there for weeks. Daddy swooped down with some legalese and took her away right before her birthday.”

“I’m sorry. Right now, drive to the parking lot at the Trader Joe’s nearest you. I’ll meet you there, and follow you to your house. You’re going to grab some things, and you’re going to stay with me for a few nights.”

“Cassie, I’m scared.”

I was, too.

“You did all of the right things,” I said.

Why couldn’t she stay with Michael but for an oil leak? As much as I had encouraged the relationship I now had the whispers of bad tidings in my head.

“I’m live on the scene at Joesler Village, on River and Campbell, where a late model Jaguar has been completely consumed by fire. We’re on the far west side of the parking lot. You can see behind me what remains of the car. Officials have roped off the area. There is no report as to if the car was occupied. Stay tuned and we’ll bring you updates as they occur.”

Jessica’s eyes widened. She turned away from the desk and covered her mouth. Falling to an ashen gray with a twinge in her stomach, she looked toward Michael Scores. His eyes had narrowed before an exaggerated sigh.

She was a professional but she was also human. Jessica stammered a few times but they finished the broadcast that led to the sports report. The live reporter never returned with an update. Jessica got up to leave the station desk and rush out the door.

“Where are you going? You can’t leave now,” Michael said.

“Bite me! You know damn well that that was Jaxon’s car set afire.”

“And you need to stay here, do your job, and everyone will know where to find you.”

“What planet are you from, Michael? He’s your damn brother. I’m off. You can handle our little waves goodbye for one night and maybe have the decency to catch up with us later.”

She saw Jaxon’s car. She could barely make out the last three letters of his vanity plate. GAL. His plates read FRUGAL. When she first had seen the new car and the plates, she laughed. Jaxon corrected her. He was in the business of helping real estate investors. He was helping them get the most for their money.

Jessica tried to slide under the shiny yellow police tape, but was quickly held back.

“I have to see inside. Please!”

“Ma’am, do you own this car?”

“No, but—”

“You’ll have to stay back. Far back. Is that clear?”
Jessica forced her way through the gawkers. A sizeable crowd for that time of night and in a quiet section of a parking lot. She spotted an associate of Jaxon’s.

“It’s Jaxon’s car. Anything?”

“They won’t say a word. Not yet. You need to remain calm. Stay right here with me. I’m not going anywhere.”

Jessica and Jaxon were close, but they didn’t compare calendars every day. She looked up toward the office building. Dark.

“Where are you going,” the office associate asked her.

“I just need to breathe.”

“Not in this air, you can’t.”

She walked toward the front of the building and looked up at the second floor again. There was the one lone light. She knew it. She knew it was Jaxon’s competitor and friend that worked late hours, not being particularly eager to go home.

Jessica ran back to the side and up the single flight of stairs. The door was locked, so she pounded. Screamed. Pounded again.

Finally she saw the man round the corner.
“Jaxon’s not here, Jessica,” he said.

“Haven’t you heard all of the sirens?”

“I’m hammering out a big deal with a buyer. The paperwork is due on the east coast by seven in the morning, their time. I didn’t—”

“Where is Jaxon?”

He offered a small gesture of hands in the air.

Jessica turned to run back down the concrete staircase.

“Wait, Jessica. I think he had a client with him and they were heading over to Sullivan’s.”

Jessica kept running. To the ground, clipping the corner, and racing toward the restaurant. She pulled off her high heels. Another police tape marked off the side parking lot from the businesses that were open for commerce. She ran past two bustling restaurants until reaching the steakhouse at the far end.

The hostess greeted her. Pleasant enough, but moving back from her station and trying to control a slight shudder while wondering what the shoeless woman wanted.

“Jaxon Giles,” Jessica demanded. Is he here?”

The hostess’ eyes fell back to Jessica’s bare feet. “Ms. Silva?”

“Yes.”

“I almost didn’t recognize you.”

Jessica looked down at her bare feet and her shaking hands.

“Please! Where is he?”

“They’ve just moved out to the patio. They finished dinner and he’s with his guest smoking cigars and drinking brandy. His routine.”

Taking a deep breath that did nothing but cause her to gasp, Jessica spotted Jaxon, toasting warmed snifters with a man.

“Why are you here, Babe?”

Jessica regarded the guest with a quick and forced smile. Then gave up her brave front.

“I know you,” the man said. “You’re on the news.”

She ignored him and pushed herself in to the patio chair nearest Jaxon’s side of the table.

“Jaxon, it’s your car!”

Jaxon loved his car. Not as much as Gecko, and now maybe not as much as his new puppy, Lizzie, and Jessica knew she ranked up there somewhere at the top of the list.

“What? Did someone steal it?”

“All the sirens we heard?” the guest asked.

“Don’t you smell this smoke? It was a fire. An explosion. I don’t know,” Jessica said. “I just know that it’s your car and it’s totally destroyed.”

Jaxon tossed an ample pile of bills down on the table, apologized to his client, and followed Jessica back to the far side parking lot.

The forensic team and arson investigators had arrived, but the car was still smoking so they stayed just outside the crime scene tape.

Jaxon confirmed that the car was his, and that to the best of his knowledge the Jag was locked, alarmed, and no one was inside.

After exchanging information, he was advised that there was nothing he could do at this point.

Jessica drove Jaxon to his home, where at least he would have his SUV in the garage.

Jaxon blew up. Almost sobbed. Blew up again, fuming over his beloved Jag.

“Jessica, you know damn well once again, there will be no evidence. And for the record, half-brother Scores was on the air with you.”

He slammed down his drink on to the glass table, hard enough to hear it rattle. Rubbing his fingers through his silky black hair, he turned toward Jessica.

“I’m sorry, babe. I really am.”

“We’re dealing with danger. What happened to your car is an atrocity, but it’s just a car. Mega-inflamed vandalism. But it’s just a car. I’d rather have you.”

Jaxon replied, “I have to make a call.”

“I just arrived home, Cassidy, pimping a ride with Jessica because I suddenly don’t have wheels. Where was that bitch tonight?”

I answered with the truth. “I can’t account for her every minute.”

“What the hell do you mean? I pay you good money to know exactly where she is.”

“Our surveillance operator texted Schlep that he had followed Vickery to Sunrise and Swan, where she entered a shop. That’s the last we heard from him, until about twenty minutes ago, when police recovered his ID. He’s been shot and left for dead on the side of a quiet residential street. His body had been rolled down into a wash, but he is alive.”

“Where is she?”

I grew to my own point of rage, feeling the blood pulsing at my temples. “You mean
he
. He’s at Memorial Hospital with three bullets in his body. Specifically, he is in ICU.

“And don’t for a minute think that we don’t have back-ups in place for you. I had a woman do her best to pick up the tail. Your ex is now back at her house.

“It’s time you meet with me and we can determine our next move. We’ll have more information in the morning. You can bet that I’ll receive it all night long, but in the meantime give me a break. I have a man down, fighting for his life. You have a burned-out car and that sucks. If you want to work with me, I’m there for you but we have to be on the same page. Life trumps cars. Even really really nice cars.”

“We believe it to be arson. No one was hurt. The owner of the vehicle, commercial real estate advisor Jaxon Giles, was not in the car at the time of the fire.”

“Explosion?” gasped a reporter.

“Oh my God. Just like Triano back in 1996,” another said.

“The car was on fire and the car exploded.”

“Don’t you have to turn on the car or something for the explosion to occur?” Another reporter.

“Only in the movies,” Manning answered. “At this point we have no information that it was a car bomb. Let’s stick to the facts.”

And what about my guy in ICU? And our women of Tucson we can’t find? What about it, Chief? Rambling thoughts of mine.

I’d encouraged her to rent a plain vanilla Chevy while we stored her car in my garage. She stayed on with me, but she wasn’t my same perky friend. Fear carved out deep frown lines on her beautiful ebony face. And for a fact, I know Michael didn’t call her, even with the scare over his half-brother and his burned out Jag.

She cooked us the most incredible collard greens, once I learned the trick of pouring Tabasco sauce on them. Tracy was big on the vegan lifestyle. She brought in tofu by the tubs. I asked her to add some meat. She told me I should go swat a fly and she’d toss it in to whatever she was making. And I never thought of myself as the messy type, but she went through my pantry, cabinets, and linen closet, organizing everything I owned. My spices were in alphabetical order and my winter sheets—yes, we do have winter sheets in the high desert, were all in my linen closet and wrapped with ribbons for another eight months or so.

A darn good guest.

We operated the way university housemates might. Coming and going. Not really checking in. And that was a good thing with my wacky hours. I was pulling some extra hours doing surveillance, and somehow, ticking out the draft for my next book.

Tracy was safe. With me.

His dog, Gecko, had died from cyanide poisoning. Not the chloral hydrate as I suspected. It had made so much sense. I guess it made no sense. I should have known better.

“Damn. I just need one break,” I mumbled while dialing Jessica’s number, even knowing the trauma she and Jaxon had endured.

“Everything okay at your house?”

“We’re fine.”

Did she sound curt? She deserved to be.

“I know you filed a police report, but please. Tell me what happened that day you dozed off at the news desk. Anything you can think of that might help us. Maybe even the day before,” I urged.

“Like you said. I’ve been over this with the police.”

“Please. Indulge me.”

“The night before was quiet. I joined some friends at a pizza joint and left early. One glass of wine. One slice of pizza and a small garden salad.”

I jotted down the name of the restaurant.

“And the day when you fell ill?” I searched for the right words and that’s all I could come up with. They were all wrong but she knew that I was referring to the day of the dreadful news broadcast.

“I couldn’t sleep. I’m not a great cook but I wanted to make my grandmother’s lemon bars. Therapy for me, I guess. I got up early and started baking.

“I made the bars, and took several to the office, which I knew would be snatched up.

“I felt tired. All day. Maybe because I couldn’t sleep and I was up cooking in the early morning. I don’t know.”

I coaxed, “Then what?”