Crimes Most Merry and Albright

by Larissa Reinhart

"Private investigations for celebrities, of course. You'll move into the office I secured on the next block. They're putting shiplap on the brick walls as we speak. With my connections, this company will be in the black in three months. From now on, all cases have to be approved by me first. Ms. Wonderly was the last client you take without my approval."

  Nash opened his mouth, then firmed his lips into a tight line, making his scar pulse.

  "Vicki," I said. "This isn't fair."

  "I have the controlling interest in this company, how is that not fair? I'm paying off debts and back taxes. Giving you health insurance and other benefits. Company car and phones, Maizie. Mr. Nash can stop living in his office. Pay off his numerous bills."

  Nash jerked his head up. "Hey, that's not any of your business."

  She gave him a quick, cool glance. "You're not the only one who can do due diligence. You see, I'm saving this godforsaken rattrap you call a business. For my daughter. Not for you. I don't care about you."

  "The feeling is mutual," growled Nash.

  "But you will benefit financially. And as long as Maizie stays, I'll continue to manage this business. In two years, her apprenticeship finishes, and she can fulfill her absurd dream of becoming a private investigator. Or not. Then, Mr. Nash, you're on your own to let the business go to hell once again."

  Nash folded his arms. The way he clenched his biceps, it wasn't hard to guess who he prevented himself from choking.

  "And Maizie." Vicki sighed. "I have spent all my adulthood trying to do best by you and your career choices."

  "At age three, I don't think the choice was really mine—"

  "But, since following you back to Black Pine," she continued, "I've learned I can wait out this purgatory. Two years is nothing. Well, not in the entertainment world where they forget you in a heartbeat. But if you insist on staying out of the industry for that time—"

  "A judge insisted I get a new career as terms of my probation."

  “Whatever. That should be up in two years, too." She waved a hand. "I'll be here when you're done."

  She walked out.

  Nash and I sat in awkward silence, staring at the floor.

  "What did she mean by that?" I muttered. "She'll be here when I'm done?"

  "I have to move out? In a week?" He muttered. "I can't choose my clients?"

  I gazed at him. "Are you sorry you met me?"

  "What?" He regarded me wearily. "Why would you say that?"

  "Since I first walked into this office, I've caused you nothing but trouble. Particularly because of all the baggage I bring with me. Like crazy celebrity stalkers. And manager-mothers who take over your business and kick you out of your office."

  "I tell you what." Nash slid toward me.

  "What?" I met his slide with one of my own.

  "I'll take on your trouble if you stop getting yourself almost killed." He waggled his brows. "And you can take care of me some, too. Watch my six, you know.”

  I smiled. "It's a deal."

  "It's a new year." He drew me towards him. "Change can be good."

  "You told me once that you don't like change."

  "And then I hired you."

  * * *

  The End.

  Until you begin reading 18 CALIBER.

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  18 CALIBER (#6): Chapter preview

  #EyeSpyANotSoDeadGuy

  You'd think with the explosion of DIY home security, Nash Security Solutions would lose a lot of clients. Not so when a celebrity management company acquires your private investigations office. Our clients — rich and posers alike — wanted to hire someone to set up their Ring and Google whatnots. Except for the paranoid few who want their homes to look like a Mission Impossible set, most were content with the self-service models, not the high-tech systems we specialized in.

  We — Wyatt Nash, a professional PI, and me, Maizie Albright, his apprentice — had gone from private investigations and security specialists to handymen. Or handywoman in my case. Makes me miss cheating spouse surveillance.

  Still a paycheck is a paycheck.

  "Hand me the screwdriver, Miss Albright. Phillips." His eyes on the door of a trailer, Wyatt Nash held out a hand. A large hand. Calloused. Pocked with a few small scars. But with long, nimble fingers capable of a gentle touch.

  A touch that can induce feelings of wondrous and rapturous delight, I might add.

  Nash glanced at me. "The one you named Phyllis."

  I grabbed the screwdriver from his adorable red metal box and placed it in the center of his big hand. Then dragged my fingers across his palm before he could close it.

  His ice-blue eyes darted to my sea glass greens. "Miss Albright. We're working."

  Holding back a pout, I examined the bright blue sky with bare puffs of clouds gliding on the horizon. Winter in the North Georgia mountains was much colder than winters I'd experienced in LA, naturally. But there were days like today, when the sun changed the temperature from chill to brisk. The blue and gold sky lit the tops of the tall Georgia pines, disguising all the dull brown that became more apparent with gray skies.

  The sun made me hopeful. I looked back at Nash, who concentrated on screwing in a peephole camera. The tall, muscular body leaned toward the door. The sleeves on his flannel-lined denim jacket straining to accommodate his biceps and chest. Levi’s fitting him snugly in all the right places.

  I gave into a pensive and mournful sigh. Wyatt Nash was no longer my boss. Officially, I had dibs on him romantically. But he was still the southern gentleman through and through. Which meant a strong division between work and play. Stronger than concrete, steel, or diamonds. And not even flexible-strong like bamboo or spider silk.

  He was carbon fiber among men.

  And it wasn't just because our boss, Vicki Albright — still-owner of Always Albright Celebrity Management and new-owner of Nash Security Solutions — made clear the rules for our working relationship clear. No hanky-panky on the job site.

  As if.

  Nash had been offended she'd even raised the issue. And I had morals and ethics and all that. Even after growing up in Beverly Hills.

  Sort of, anyway. The more time I spend in Georgia, the more I wondered about my prior values.

  The real problem lay with Vicki's celebrity connections. We worked non-stop. Which is totally awesome if you're trying to re-establish a foothold in the once slippery position of private investigations and security systems in our town of Black Pine, Georgia. Not so awesome, if you want to date your co-worker and you're working twenty-four-seven-three-sixty-five.

  Not that I was working. Not at the moment, anyway. We'd split up the trailers and I had finished my jobs. Yay me for grabbing the electric screwdriver first.

  "I'm going to check the special case," I said to Nash. "See what extras were added to the list."

  He nodded and continued to screw the camera into the door.

  Times like these made me jealous of Phyllis.

  I hiked my Golden Goose sneakers across the backlot's pavement. The trailers were rented by a new production — some kind of martial arts action film — and would be hauled to various locations in the mountains when they weren't sitting behind one of the big sound stages that took a large chunk of land on the outskirts of Black Pine. Black Pine Studios was new to the area, although the land had been bought and construction s
tarted several years ago. The film industry had recently exploded in Black Pine due to Georgia's generous tax shelters, cheap land, and cheaper labor.

  I entered the three-room trailer. Checking the clipboard lying on the table near the door, I noted their security needs. Nothing over-the-top — not like the retinal scanners we'd recently installed in a producer's rented home — but it would need more work than the others. Alarms on all the windows. Emergency button in the bathroom. Scan for hidden cameras and microphones.

  I made a quick list of supplies we'd need, then began my walk-through for the alarm count. Like their security feature wish list, the trailer was lavish but not outrageous. The roomy living area had a galley kitchen featuring an eat-in peninsula. Cherry wood and marble. Below a large flatscreen was an inset fireplace. In the mountains, Georgia did get cold this time of year. Large makeup station in the bathroom, complete with Hollywood lighting. King-size bed in the bedroom.

  Where a man lay dead.

  "Holy Hellsbah," I shrieked and backed out of the room. "Not again."

  The dead man rolled over, then sat up.

  "Thank God." I slapped a hand over my heart. "You're not dead."

  From the doorway, I examined the youngish man. Dressed in (rumpled) trendy clothes with sandy brown hair, he didn't look like a derelict. But if he worked in the business, he would know he shouldn't be in the trailers. "Why are you sleeping here?"

  "I was tired." He had an impish smile. "Why did you assume I was dead?"

  "Long story but mostly bad luck." I folded my arms. "You can't sleep in these trailers. And you shouldn't be on-set without permission."

  Sliding across the bed, he grabbed a lanyard from an end table and held up a plastic badge.

  "Then you should know you can't sleep in these trailers." I raised my chin. "Who are you?"

  "Jeff Johnson." He grinned. "Who are you? Besides a ginger with a nice…clipboard."

  I narrowed my eyes. "What are you? I mean, what do you do?"

  "Awesome." He waggled his brows. "And wouldn't you like to know."

  "I would. Like to know. Considering I'm installing the security in this trailer."

  "No worries, doll." He slid to the edge of the bed.

  I wasn't security-security. I was a contractor who screwed in doorbell cams then uploaded the app to the client's phone because they were too busy (lazy) to do it themselves. However, I should report Jeff Johnson. For unofficial napping.

  "Before you go, let me see your badge." I used my official security voice, one I'd developed for a Julia Pinkerton, Teen Detective movie that went into production but was abruptly canceled after the producers (and their marketing department) decided the script wasn't pro-STEM enough. Julia had already graduated from high school and the writers decided as a vigilante she'd major in pre-law.

  Instead of engineering as the marketing department would have liked.

  At the time, I had majored in criminal justice at U Cal Long Beach, so pre-law made all kinds of sense to me. But what did I know about pre-teen demographics? Anyway, I'd had a two-year hiatus from starring in the Julia Pinkerton, Teen Detective TV show, and thought for the movie, I could make her more edgy with a scholarly, pandering raspy drawl. I had the college sneer down pretty good, too. Now I used it with on-the-job pests.

  I loved finding new uses for old character traits. Recycling always made me feel like a productive citizen.

  "Badge," I repeated, extending my hand.

  "I'll show you mine if I can see yours." Jeff Johnson countered my collegiate sneer with a frat boy smirk. He crooked a finger and deepened the smirk. "Show and tell time."

  "Yours first." I'd reverted from collegiate to grammar school.

  Jeff chuckled and held out the badge. "Feisty. I like that."

  Instead of calling him something that would lower me to his standards (and possibly get me in trouble), I snatched the badge from his hand and examined it.

  "You're a visitor for Unlucky 18? The martial arts movie? How did you get this?" I handed him the badge. "They haven't started filming. This is pre-production. You shouldn't be here."

  "That's an all-access pass. Ask around. Everyone knows me."

  "Visitors have restrictions. Someone from the set should be accompanying you."

  Looping the lanyard around his neck, he winked. "You know what they say about all work and no play. Are you always this strict, doll?"

  "Yes." Not really. Only with this dude. I folded my arms. "These trailers are under surveillance. I'd advise you to find whoever got you the pass and stay with them."

  "All right. No harm, no foul, right? Can't blame a guy for trying to find some peace and quiet with all the banging on set." He chuckled and repeated "banging" to himself.

  Frat boy humor.

  "Just get out of here." It was difficult to nap during pre-production. I'd longed for many a nap on-set. But I wasn't telling him that.

  Jeff exited. I resumed my checklist, then straightened the bed. I didn't want anyone to think we'd been napping on the job. Exiting the bedroom, I heard the trailer door open and scurried into the living area.

  Nash glanced around, scowling. But that was his MO. Which made his smiles even sweeter, IMHO. "Did I see a guy exiting this trailer?"

  "Jeff Johnson had a visitor badge. I kicked him out. Caught him napping." I pointed to the clipboard. "We're going to need some extra equipment for this one. I guess that's why Vicki told us to do it last."

  Nash peered over my shoulder. "They want this swept for bugs? We've not done that before. And a camera on the roof? What the sam hell? Whose trailer is this?"

  "Maybe it's for a producer or director. They can get a little paranoid about leaks."

  Nash rolled his eyes. "This industry."

  "A billion-dollar industry. Unlucky 18 is a big-budget action movie. Vicki said the production company teamed up with an international consortium. There's a lot of money at stake, so they're just being careful."

  "Why do you always defend the dopey decisions these movie people make?"

  "I’m explaining their reasoning. It’s why they hired us. In their minds, it’s important." I shouldn’t defend them. The entertainment industry had eaten me up and spit me out like a polar bear on a baby seal. At the same time, this was the work we were given. By Vicki.

  I loved polar bears. My favorite animal to watch at the zoo. But on a documentary, I'd seen a polar bear play with a seal before ripping off the head, devouring the meat, and tossing the carcass for fish food. Poor baby seal.

  At least its mother hadn't auditioned him for the polar bear.

  "And Vicki. You're always making excuses for her." Nash folded his arms. "You don't have to pretend this situation is okay. It sucks. For both of us. You more than me."

  "It's not that bad," I pleaded. "We're working."

  "On stupid projects. And dealing with obnoxious people."

  "We've dealt with obnoxious people before. Most of the people we know are obnoxious."

  He picked up the clipboard. "I have a scanner in the truck. I'll see if it picks up any interference from hidden mikes or cameras. Why don't you start installing the sensors?"

  I nodded, glad to ignore the elephant — or polar bear — in the room. Nash hadn't wanted an ex-actress as an apprentice. I'd won him over then ruined his career by bringing media attention to a splashy case. Cost him his credibility in the community. He lost jobs then his company. In that situation, I wasn't exactly the polar bear. But I'd accidentally unleashed the real polar bear on him. Vicki. He said it wasn't my fault. He'd had some bad luck. Also an ex-wife with her own ursine qualities. Grizzly, IMHO. Jolene gladly traded her half of Nash’s company to Vicki for a hefty catch. Money not salmon. Although Jolene would have eaten the baby seal if given the chance.

  After a lot of good breaks as a child star, I'd had nothing but bad luck as an adult. I couldn’t help but feel I'd jinxed Nash. And I only knew one way to make it up to him.

  Well, two ways. But the one I could do at w
ork was to stay positive.

  While I attached sticky-backed sensors to the windows and doors, Nash returned with a hand-held gadget that looked like a TV remote. He moved through the trailer, playing hot and cold, listening to the crackling sounds turn to beeps. It squawked next to a lamp in the living area.

  Hidden mike.

  We found a pinhole camera inside an empty screw hole in the thermostat panel. And in a wall socket next to the makeup station, another mike.

  "Wow." I followed him into the master bedroom where the beeping intensified. He found the bug and a tiny fisheye camera in the overhead ceiling light.

  "Nash, that Jeff Johnson. I don't think he was napping." I swallowed hard and sank onto the bed. "Hells. I caught a spy."

  "Caught?"

  "You're right." I blew out a long, slow breath. "More like let him go."

  Tap to continue reading 18 CALIBER.

  TV & Movie References in 17.5 CARTRIDGES

  101 Dalmatians

  Bad Santa

  Batman

  The Bangville Police

  Bridget Jones's Diary

  The Call of the Wild

  Dick Clark's New Year's Rockin' Eve

  The Dukes of Hazzard

  Fast Times at Ridgemont High

  Glee

  Goldfinger

  How the Grinch Stole Christmas!

  Julia Pinkerton, Teen Detective

  Kung Fu Kate

  The Maltese Falcon

  The Princess Bride

  Raiders of the Lost Ark

  Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer

  Spider-Man

  Sunset Boulevard

  Warhead Girl

  Young Frankenstein

  Larissa’s Series

  The Maizie Albright Star Detective series

  15 MINUTES

  16 MILLIMETERS

  NC-17

  A VIEW TO A CHILL

  17.5 CARTRIDGES IN A PEAR TREE (novella)