Unbreakable Bond (11 page)

A twig snapped, and I honed in on a figure approaching from the parking lot. I had expected him to be wearing another tailored suit, highly professional and coiffed. Instead he was in a pair of casual blue jeans and a black T-shirt. The change in attire took me off guard for a moment, and I suddenly wondered if it was intended to do just that.

"The street’s clear. He seems to be alone," Caleigh whispered in my ear, as he approached the gazebo.

He looked around, scanning the park as I'd done. Clearly he didn't see me, as he shoved his hands in his pockets and sat on a white bench in the gazebo. Though I noticed that he perched on the edge. He was as antsy as I was.   

I took a couple of deep breaths. It was now or never.

I slowly got up, stepped carefully out of the shadows, and made my way toward Aiden.

He heard me approaching and looked up, a smile that I could have sworn held genuine pleasure lighting his features under the dim glow of the streetlamps.

"Jamie," he spoke, standing as I entered the gazebo. Ever the gentleman.

"Aiden."

He nodded to the bench beside him. "I’m glad you agreed to this."

"I hope I didn’t make a mistake." I sat beside him, careful to keep distance between us. 

"You didn’t." There was that confidence again.

"So, you know who I am."

He nodded. "I'm curious," he said, cocking his head to the side. "What makes someone go from runway model to private investigator? It's a big switch."

I shrugged. "You’d be surprised how often the two jobs call for the same skill set."

"Like catching the eye of the judge at the benefit dinner."

Right to the point.

I inhaled, catching a whiff of his musky aftershave, as I prepared to take a gamble and lay my cards on the table. "His wife, or rather, the woman posing as his wife, hired me to get proof her husband was cheating."

"And did you?"

"Yes.  Only the woman I gave it to wasn't really Mrs. Waterston.  It was Donna Martinez.

"So, that's the link. Donna posed as the wife and hired you to bust the judge?"

"Yes." I paused. "But someone hired her to hire me."

He raised en eyebrow.

"Look, I know this is starting to sound like a conspiracy theory, but, well..." I paused, biting my lip, not having felt this nervous since my second grade spelling bee. "It is. A conspiracy, I mean. Someone went to a lot of trouble to frame me."

"Why?" Aiden asked, his tone flat, even, not betraying the slightest hint of belief or disbelief.

"I wish I knew."

He digested this for a moment. "Ms. Martinez. She paid you for your services?"

"Cash. Not traceable."

"That's not odd?"

"Not in my business."

"Anything else you can tell me about her?" he asked, clearly fishing for something, though I wasn't sure what.

I shrugged. "Honestly, she looked like every other wife I deal with daily. She was considerably younger than him, but if that’s a crime, half of L.A. would be arrested."

A corner of his mouth lifted. "True."

"Infidelity is a private investigator’s specialty. Our bread and butter."

"The police usually handle murder."

"And I’d gladly let them if they weren't accusing
me
." Irritation filled my tone.

He stared at me, eyes unreadable. I noticed his demeanor was much less affable than it had been at dinner last night. All pretense of flirtation was gone, his witty banter replaced with bare facts. Even so, I felt a current of something running just under his words. His eyes lingered a little too long on my hemline, his body language just a little too relaxed, words drawled a little too slowly. Whether it was unintentional or by design to make me uncomfortable, I wasn't sure. But I felt myself shifting under his gaze, heat filling my cheeks. Open leering I was used to. Occupational hazard. But this slow, assessment, flirting with the border of sensual and clinical, was new.

"So when did you realize Donna Martinez was not what she seemed?" he asked.

I cleared my throat. "When I saw the real wife on the news."

He nodded, pieces clicking into place. "Along with the video of you."

I nodded back at him in agreement. "We tracked the package the video was delivered in to Donna."

"I thought it was an anonymous delivery?"

"It was, but we found her through the stationary."

The corner of his mouth hitched up. "Clever."

I thought so, but now wasn't the time to gloat. Instead I cleared my throat again. "Okay, I've shown you mine, now show my yours."

The smiled hitched higher, definitely falling closer to the sensual side of the border. "Mine?"

"Everything the reporters on TV are saying points to me. But you must have other evidence, or else I'd be in handcuffs right now," I pointed out with a lot more bravado than I felt.

Aiden shook his head. "I'm sorry, there's not much I can tell you. It's an ongoing investigation."

I felt my teeth grind. "But you believe me?" I asked, hating just how desperately I wanted him to say yes.

Like the lawyer he was, he didn't answer.

"I don't like to lose," he said. "I want my ducks in a row before I go in front of a jury."

I gave him a hard stare, wondering just what ducks he was trying to line up tonight.

As if to answer my question, he followed that up with, "When was the last time you saw Donna Martinez alive?"

I shook my head slowly. "You haven't shown me yours, yet," I pointed out.

He might have been annoyed, but instead that slow smile spread across his face again, this time even touching his eyes. "Okay, I can play fair. The medical examiner says Donna Martinez died of an overdose of an amphetamine-type stimulant. It wasn’t any of the pills she had a prescription for. There’s no sign of forced entry or anything to conclude she hadn’t taken them voluntarily."

"Wait-" I said, holding up a hand. "If the pills in her system were not prescription, then they weren't the ones I saw scattered around her body?"

The smile widened. "Beautiful and smart. No. The pills we found with the body were not in her system. They were similar, likely having caused a similar effect. And, had there not been extenuating circumstances-"

"Me finding her and linking her to the judge," I supplied.

He nodded. "-we likely never would have tested them as closely as we did."

"She would have just been written off as a suicide. A woman distraught over the death of her husband."

Aiden nodded again in the soft light. "Something like that."

I paused, taking this all in. "But why not just kill her with the pills she had on hand?"

"Painkillers mostly, given to her by her dentist after extracting a molar, six months ago. They could have killed her in a significant enough dosage, but it would have taken some time. Enough, possibly, for her to realize she was in trouble and call for help. There were no ligature marks on the body, no sign of restraint."

"That would have raised a red flag with the police," I mused.

"Exactly. Whoever administered the stuff needed to do so in a way that she'd willingly take it, then never know what hit her. Which is exactly what the tox screen showed."

"So, what drug did kill her?"

"Designer club drug. Though, her system showed levels far above anything we've seen coming into the ER in party-goers. They call it Shooting Stars, and my sources in vice say it’s costly."

"Not something a struggling actress could afford," I pointed out.

"No."

Relief should’ve flooded through me. I was right. There was a mastermind behind all of this who had killed Donna. And Aiden knew it. But the look on his face wasn't as reassuring as I'd like.

"So this means I’m cleared?"

His laid-back expression twitched. "Donna’s death is being ruled murder. But I have no physical evidence linking her to the judge."

"But you said-"

"
Physical evidence
," he repeated.

Shit. He was right. The stationary only proved that Donna
could
have been the one to send the video to the police station. Not how she got it or why. And the drugs only proved she was killed by someone, not who, not that it wasn't me, not that it had anything to do with the judge.

Aiden leaned forward, closing some of the distance between us. "Look, I want to believe you, Jamie," he said, his voice low and softer now. "I really do."

I swallowed hard, his sudden foray into tenderness surprising me.

"But you can't," I answered.

He slowly shook his head back and forth, the apology in his eyes clear. "I wouldn't be doing my job if I ignored evidence."

"I'm not asking you to ignore," I countered. "Just... keep an open mind."

"I'm here, aren't I?"

I nodded. He was. Though I still wasn't quite sure why.

"Jamie, I'm sorry," he started, leaning just that much closer. His eyes shone under the lamplight, a brilliant blue. His mouth softened, his eyebrows drawing together in genuine concern.

As he opened his mouth to say more, I felt myself softening in response.

But he stopped there.

An unmistakable wee-ooh sound of sirens blared through the night air, shattering the calm.

For one second our eyes locked.

"Oh, we got trouble, Jamie," Caleigh said in my ear.

Fury snaked up my back, clenching my muscles, making me tremble. This wasn’t happening. Not again.

I jumped up at the same time as Aiden.

He reached toward me.

Did he expect to hold me down, wrestle me to the ground so the police could arrive and cuff me? He had another thing coming.

I curled my fist and swung.

CHAPTER TWELVE

_____

My heels seeped deep into the sand at the playground. It slowed me down, making each step more difficult. My thigh muscles ached, but I wasn’t stopping. Sirens blasted from the west, so I booked it east.

And I wasn’t alone.

Aiden, after recovering from my right hook straight to his eye, followed me. I felt him a few steps behind. He called my name as I rounded the seesaw, but I didn't turn around.

Perspiration pressed my blouse to my back and dotted my forehead. My ear piece fell out somewhere near the slide. The mic jiggled between my boobs.

"I’m exiting near the swings," I yelled into my chest, gasping for air, in case they could hear me.

Hopefully Aiden couldn’t.

My main thought,
I can’t believe I let him trick me again
, pumped adrenaline through my legs and kept me moving.

By the time I neared the exit, flashing red and blue lights illuminated the night sky. They were too close. Aiden’s slapping footsteps gained distance. I considered kicking off my pumps, but a) they were snakeskin, b) they cost way too much to leave on the side of the road, and c) running barefoot on cement and pebbles was painful.

My lungs burned. My pulse pounded in my ears, competing with the sirens. The sandy ground turned into concrete, and I lunged forward, gaining new momentum. My skin burned. I wanted to shrug it off. I would’ve settled for removing my jacket, but my gun was still holstered to my side. It was the last thing the police needed to see.

The Welcome and Please Don’t Litter signs blurred as I ran past. Once I hit the street, I stopped for a second to gather my wits. Perspiration slid into my eye. I pushed it away with the back of my hand. The blue and red lights were up ahead, by the west entrance. Could they see me?

Cars sped down the road. There was no sign of the girls. Knowing Aiden was a step behind, I darted across the street. Horns blasted, but I couldn’t take the time to cross safely. I headed east, knowing the area somewhat well.

I weaved around a couple holding hands, a group of teenagers smoking cigarettes, and a homeless guy begging for change. I neared the corner and charged forward, hoping that once I turned I’d have a moment to hide and get Aiden off my tail. I didn’t look back, didn’t want to see how close he was, but I knew he was still back there. I sensed his proximity.

As I leaned into the turn, a man appeared, and I plowed into him.

I lost my breath and bounced off his chest, like a rag doll. Instead of landing on my back, I twisted and fell into a bicycle propped against the store front.

We both slid to the ground. Me and the bike. Not me and the man. The man kept going, never stopping to see if I was okay, or if a handlebar was jammed into my ribs.

Rude much?

I sprawled across the metal hunk of junk. My palms scraped the sidewalk, but my left knee took most of the brunt, stuck between the wheel spokes. Bolts of fire shot into my thigh. On the verge of tears, I wanted to cry, scream and throw a two-year-old tantrum.

I didn’t have time to nurse my bruises though, physical or emotional. Self-preservation brought me to my knees. Indecent, manly grunts tore from my chest as I climbed to my feet. I wobbled around the corner, hoping my leg wouldn’t cramp. I hurried around a woman shouting into her cell and turned to the neon red sign in my peripheral vision.

The Spotted Pony.

Exhilaration spread through my weary bones. How could I forget this place was here?

I limped across the street with a smile. The girls and I worked a case here six months ago. A near-hysterical wife hired us to get the goods on her husband who was frequenting the club. She suspected he was sleeping with a dancer named Luscious Lavender. After a week of stake-outs and an offer from the owner to dance, we discovered the man had been married previously. He’d lost touch with his first wife, who fled from the relationship three months pregnant. Luscious Lavender was the guy’s daughter.

I pushed open the heavy wooden door and rushed inside. No one manned the entrance, so I sprinted into the club mindful that Aiden and his cop parade could barge through at any moment.

I slipped to the left, trying to blend in with the horny crowd. The woman on stage hung upside down, with her legs wrapped around a pole. Several young guys in the front row cheered and barked. It was either a bachelor party or their first time.