Locked, Loaded, & Lying

by Sarah Andre

  “But if her cocaine addiction was out of hand, maybe Carlotta pulled the plug to protect the family name.”

  “Maybe.”

  Jordan busied herself jotting notes, and he went back to his new favorite pastime—watching her work. Seeing how her mind went after a subject like a terrier, even when it was his ass being chewed; how she pursed those luscious lips while she wrote; the snappy brilliance in those dark blue eyes when she thought up another question… All the stuff he hated about the media, and yet here he sat, unable to stop ogling her. She glanced up, and he felt the power of her gaze shoot straight to his groin.

  “If Carlotta and Marcy held so much control over Tiffany’s life, why weren’t they all over her the second she began snorting coke?”

  He spread his hands helplessly. “Something happened that last month. Maybe her family lost their influence over her. I know I couldn’t stop her.”

  Those long black lashes blinked a few times as she thought. He gawked openly, pretending to wait for her to speak. Eventually she nodded.

  “You’re right. Especially if she came to you for money.”

  She tilted her face to the ceiling and sighed. He tried to focus on Tiffany’s drug use and not the graceful arch in Jordan’s neck.

  “I still think there’s something odd here,” she muttered. “She’s an heiress with a formidable grandmother, yet constantly acts out in public. She turns to cocaine, cheats on you, and then functions completely normally at a charity event. After the event, she goes off the deep end. Just because of a reality show? Just because you no-showed at the auction?”

  Lock scratched his beard, truly frustrated on how to describe Tiffany. “Her personality was normal one minute, manic the next. She loved me—” He stopped for a breath. “Or hated me. There was no in between. Never with her.”

  “Okay, but why the secrets near the end? Why keep the Roberto affair from her cousin?”

  This was an amateur guessing game. “Because Marcy bossed her around, and Tiff didn’t want outside interference when it came to him?”

  “I can’t believe anyone had enough influence to change Tiffany’s mind about an affair.”

  “You’re not getting it.” He leaned on his knees. “Marcy manipulated her all the time, and once in a great while I pulled it off too. I have no doubt Vannini caught on real quick. We should be focused on him, Jordan. Not Tiffany or Marcy, or my love life.”

  She tossed the pen down. “And by love life, you mean your ‘I did her’ life.”

  “Whatever, babe.” He dropped his gaze to her scowling mouth and let it linger there until she blushed. Hard. Having made his point, he casually pulled a throw pillow across his lap. Christ, he better shovel more snow soon. Being this close to her hour after hour, staring at the perky curve of her breasts or her shapely lips, strained every sexual nerve in his body. “What else did Marcy say?”

  Jordan busied herself clicking keys on her laptop, but he was pleased to see her fingers trembled and the blush remained on her face. “Have you ever heard of Russell or Randy Reeves?” she asked.

  “Nope.”

  “There’s only one Russell, let’s start with him.” She brought up a Facebook page, and Lock leaned in to get a closer look, inhaling that forest fragrance before he caught sight of the photo. A chiseled, unsmiling man stared back at him.

  Something nudged his brain. “He looks familiar,” he muttered.

  “Something to do with skiing?”

  “No. Not in a good way.” He frowned and scratched his beard. Maybe that guy from TMZ who’d filed a civil suit last year?

  “Marcy said Tiffany went on a few dates with him while you were in New York.”

  He shouldn’t have been surprised to hear about another guy, but the stabbing sensation cut him to the quick. He studied the bastard’s photograph intently. Try as he might, he drew a blank. “What’s his profile say?”

  “He didn’t fill it in. I can’t get any more information unless he accepts friendship.” She typed in Allison May and hit Enter. A picture of a completely different woman came up. Red-headed. Pretty. But nothing like Jordan.

  “Who’s that?”

  “My friend, Rebecca. My boss’ partner, actually. He forbids us to have a real page. Way too much privacy handed out.” She brought Reeves’s profile back up and clicked the request button. “Marcy told me he lives near Aspen, so let’s visit after my interview with Vannini.”

  She clicked on the white pages and jotted down his address, then texted something. Presumably to her boss to check this Reeves guy out.

  Lock sank into the sofa. They were onto something big. Vannini and another dude dated Tiff the final two weeks of her life?

  What were their reactions when her little sex-kitten routine dropped away and they faced the other Tiff? The crazy Tiff no one controlled.

  He stared at Jordan texting away and fought the urge to reach out and squeeze her into a bear hug. The hope she was instilling in him, the widening sense of relief that his blackout may have only been a blackout and not a murderous rampage, was indescribable. Now they only had to prove it.

  Chapter Twenty

  At eleven that night, Leo handed Jordan a stack of papers. “The reverse lookups for Tiffany’s phone.”

  He looked gray and exhausted, and she thanked him sincerely. “I’m sorry we keep taking you away from your editing.”

  “Whatever my brother needs.” He said this without glancing over at Lock in the club chair, which was weird, but not for them. “Although I’ll probably beg off going to Aspen with you guys tomorrow.”

  Oddly, Lock’s face brightened.

  Leo handed her some pain pills and watched carefully as she swallowed them and drank all the water. Bidding them goodnight, he headed upstairs, his limp more pronounced than usual.

  Jordan turned to Lock, pen poised and heart giddy. Even after crashing her car, having no phone charger, and Lock’s innate suspicion of her reporter side, she’d finally triumphed. The picture she’d snapped as he’d left to get a beer was perfect. Quickly emailing it to the Starr News address Rebecca had texted earlier, she’d included her own text:

  Here’s proof. Require immediate $200K deposit before article. Explosive details. Text for wire transfer instructions.

  No response from the tabloid editor as yet, but just to be safe, she’d take an additional shot tonight, hopefully while Lock slept. She ignored the flash of self-hatred at selling him out; he was already off the team. And she wasn’t part of his life. There wasn’t a connection between them other than physical attraction—no denying that, but no way would she act on it and become just another “I-did-her” chick he’d soon forget.

  So it all worked. Her mother would be safe as soon as the money was wired.

  With a fresh burst of confidence, she leaned forward, unable to resist a completely none-of-her-business question. “All the bickering between you and Leo…what’s under all that?”

  “You must not have brothers. This is perfectly normal.”

  She paused, unconvinced, and went at it from a different angle. “He has a degree in medicine. Why is he a crime writer?”

  “You’ll have to ask him.”

  Something in the way he glanced away raised her suspicion. “I’m asking you.”

  He pressed his lips, and she folded her arms, determined to get an answer. She didn’t care how long it took, since this deadlock of wills allowed her to stare openly at him and that whole badass factor he had going on.

  God, he was crazy handsome in this romantic firelight: the stubbornness in his hard jaw, the insolent set of his mouth, those smoldering eyes. His magnetism mainlined straight into her veins, searing her insides.

  Unfortunately, he broke the stalemate with a resigned sigh. “Leo wanted to be an ER doc even back when we were kids. After med school, he did a rotation with an EMS crew, and they went out on a call one night in the middle of an ice storm. They picked up a boy, about six…He’d been running with scissors and fell on them.
” He poked himself just below the heart. “Leo was in back, helping stabilize the boy when the van slipped off the road. Rolled down a ravine.”

  “Oh my God,” she whispered.

  “The two techs were unconscious, the boy critical. The ambulance was so twisted Leo couldn’t get to the radio.”

  “Oh, Lock.”

  “He managed to crawl out of the van to seek help, but he has this leg thing. Whenever he’s over-stressed or frightened, his left leg numbs up, and he can’t coordinate it. By the time he flagged down help all three were dead.

  “He immediately quit medicine. Still blames himself—after a few beers once, he told me that he’d killed them.”

  “That couldn’t be further from the truth.”

  Lock nodded. “He said he just froze. Who to save first? What to do for each of them? Where were the supplies he needed? He couldn’t get his act together, so he crawled for help. The mental paralysis was the wakeup call, according to him. He didn’t have the courage to triage in the ER or deal with a patient’s death.” Lock’s gaze wandered to the crackling fire. “He had to stare down his worst nightmare the night I carried you in here. You looked half-dead.”

  Jordan stared at the page before her, the handwriting meaningless. Poor Leo. The misplaced guilt he carried around, and believing he didn’t have courage. To have a life-long dream go up in smoke and isolate himself in a cabin writing about violent crime.

  “And if this little piece of gossip finds its way into your article, you and I are going to have a serious problem.”

  Startled at his tone, she glanced up. A ripple of unease spread through her. Those granite eyes stared intently into her soul, as if he knew all along about the tabloid. As if he saw through all her lies. Her skin felt tight, maintaining her poker face. “What article?”

  “Whatev. What’s next?”

  She glanced at the list of questions on her page, desperate to regroup. Technically she could ask pointless questions; her mission was almost accomplished, but a part of her itched to help Lock beat the charge. There were clearly more men in Tiffany’s life than just Lock. Maybe one had better motives or uncontrollable rage issues. Rage. The YouTube video flitted through her mind.

  “So, um…how long had you and Tiffany been fighting like you did at the Avalanche?”

  “More than a year, I guess.” He picked at the label of his beer.

  “Why didn’t you break up?”

  “We did. A lot.”

  “Why did you keep going back to her? Even you agree the relationship was toxic.”

  He didn’t answer for a long time, and she waited patiently, listening to the logs burn to a crisp, watching the flame etch light and shadows on his somber face.

  “She was a goddess,” he said at last. “When Tiffany was clean and sober and happy, no woman on earth came close to matching her.”

  Jealousy knifed into Jordan, stunning her with its intensity. “And what are the attributes of a goddess?” The question came out much more sarcastic than intended, but she bore up under his perceptive gaze pretty well.

  “Energy. Beauty. Passion for life.” He chugged the remaining beer. “Tiffany had this innocence—”

  “Marcy called it naive.”

  He nodded. “A sheltered little rich girl jumps from a small town into the big bad world. All that new freedom and attention is addictive. Then throw coke into the mix…” He shrugged. Another long minute passed where all she heard was the soft sputter of flames and the scratchy sound of him tearing at the label.

  “That last month,” he finally said, “maybe it was the van der Kellen pressure. The older she got, the more she was expected to represent the family, learn the diamond business, become a philanthropist. She bitched about that a lot.”

  “She didn’t want to be a part of the empire?”

  “It bored her. And thanks to the hounding paparazzi, she was constantly treated like an important celebrity. There’s a real disconnect. I think it really messed with her mind.”

  “Disconnect?”

  “She was good at being a famous party girl.” The corners of his mouth turned down. “See, they trick you into thinking you’re more important than the average person. You start believing the hype. You start craving it.”

  “Is that why you created Lock and Load? To deal with your own disconnect?”

  He shredded his label, ignoring her.

  She glanced around the warm, pine living room. Snow fell listlessly out the window, the fire flickered several feet away, and she could hear the shower running upstairs along with the quiet murmur of a television.

  The incongruity of this peaceful scene was perfect for her article. A warm, romantic evening shared with an Olympic champion discussing the gory details of a murder case that was all but locked up against him. A curious thought came to her. “Besides Vannini, would someone want to frame you?”

  “No one comes to mind.”

  She snorted. “For a notorious playboy, you sure answered that fast.”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “You got a suspect, Miss-Know-it-All?”

  “Think big picture. Perhaps a woman you slept with didn’t appreciate being tossed asi—”

  He slammed the bottle onto the coffee table and rose, towering over her.

  …

  “Enough with my sex life. What does any of this have to do with Vannini killing her, damn it?” He fixed Jordan with an infuriated glare, and she blinked once. That was her only reaction to his outburst, which steamed him up more. “You know, your boss said you were crafty, but I’m not seeing a lot of theories, Jesselynn.”

  As soon as he uttered that name he was sorry, because her face got all pinched-looking. He opened his mouth to apologize just as she pulled the computer closer with a small sigh. “I’m up to three suspects.”

  His mouth stayed open. If she’d just confessed to the murder, he’d have been less shocked. “Three?”

  She patted the sofa, and he grudgingly plopped next to her, making sure no body part was in danger of brushing hers. He was seriously losing his grip. One second everything she said infuriated him; the next, he fought sexual urges as primitive as a club-wielding caveman.

  When he cocked his head to see the screen, he smelled her warm forest-y scent and was only vaguely aware she’d clicked on a website.

  “Jefferson wanted us to look at this.”

  Thumbnail pictures filled the screen which she randomly clicked. Flashes of Tiffany sped by. Candids of her walking the streets of New York, talking on her cell. Posing in outrageous designer clothes. String-bikini shots on a beach that looked familiar—maybe the SI Swimsuit Edition. Glammed up on the Hollywood carpet. Drunk and saluting the camera with a beer while hugging a girlfriend.

  “Have you seen these before?” she asked, clicking and clicking.

  “Some. Why?”

  “I’m showing you the ones that look like they’ve been taken by paparazzi. Did she ever mention any problems she had with a photographer?”

  “No. You asked Marcy that too. Is this a lead?”

  She didn’t answer as she paged-down over and over, scanning the thumbnails. She inhaled sharply and clicked on one.

  He stiffened in shock. The black-and-white was a candid and very, very wrong. The gauzy image displayed the backside of Tiffany, nude, her long platinum hair in snarls. Her arms stretched languidly above her head like she’d just woken and gotten out of the unmade bed, which was slightly out of focus in the background.

  He knew the gauze was her sheer curtains, recognized her bedroom furniture and the giant framed photograph of her hanging to the right of the door. But the most alarming detail was that this angle was straight on, and her bedroom, the room he’d blacked out in, was on the second floor. The only way this photo could’ve been taken was from up in the Aspen tree in her enclosed, locked courtyard.

  “Do you think she posed for this?” he heard Jordan ask from far away.

  Speechless, he shook his head.

  “What about
this?”

  The next photograph was the same gauzy shot of the bedroom, capturing the frozen moment where her thong underwear slipped into her ass crack. Her face was in profile as she watched herself in the mirror, fingers still grasping the elastic on either side, those luscious, curvy butt cheeks thrust out at the camera.

  It was innocent and obscene, and the spaghetti dinner churned sickly in his stomach. “No. This isn’t right. She didn’t know about this. Who took these?”

  “Jefferson said he’ll trace the webmaster if you think the shots aren’t legit.”

  “Trace the sonofabitch.”

  She texted with her cell in one hand and clicked a picture with the other.

  Same setting. Now the thong was on, but a still topless Tiffany posed in the mirror, hands splayed in her hair, lips pouting.

  Click. Tiffany beginning to kneel on the unmade bed.

  Click. Her hand slipped halfway inside her thong, still watching the mirror, eyes hooded, lips parted…

  “Enough,” he choked.

  Jordan clicked the X in the upper right corner, and the grainy image disappeared.

  “My boss will find him. Just from the sheer volume of pictures on here, we’re looking for someone clearly obsessed. You’re sure she didn’t mention a stalker fan or sick photographer?”

  “That’s beyond sick. I need to call Parker.”

  She arched an eyebrow. “It’s almost midnight.”

  He exhaled hard, wanting to hit something. “First thing tomorrow then.”

  “My boss sent this over.” Her fingers sped over the keyboard. “I think I’ve figured out when Tiffany realized Roberto was in the bar. Who knows how long he was there before she noticed him. Marcy couldn’t answer, she’s never met Vannini.”

  Jordan clicked play. Suddenly Tiff filled the screen, scathingly angry and very much alive. His heart stopped for an instant, then pounded so rapidly he thought it might go into fibrillation. It was the YouTube video. Right before his eyes, he was trading barbs with a flippant Wolf, arguing with Marcy, and hauling Tiffany from the booth.

  “Jesus Christ,” he whispered, but onscreen Tiff staggered next to him, intent on getting her wrist free.