I tumbled forward off the cliff with an eagerness that surprised me. And what surprised me even more was the man who unveiled himself in that moment.
I’d never even fathomed that underneath that gruff, irritating, moody, petulant exterior, Shepherd could hold such a deep and glorious sensuality. He kissed, and stroked, and moved with a rhythm and a touch that did things to me that I couldn’t even put into words if I tried. He led me to a well of desire that I’d never even known existed, and there he offered me cup after cup of its sweet water, and I drank until my thirst was good and satisfied.
Much later, I led him to my bedroom, and drank long and deep one more time for good measure.
Shepherd left just before dawn. I’d barely been aware that he was up and moving, but I did feel his lips softly kiss my cheek, and his fingers stroke my hair, before hearing the front door gently close. I drifted back to sleep for another two hours and dreamed of him. Of us.
The smell of coffee woke me again, and I rolled over, squinting in the daylight streaming in through the windows. I sniffed the air tentatively. Yep. Someone was brewing coffee in the kitchen.
And then the smell of bacon wafted to my nose. And what smelled like French toast.
With a jolt, I realized that Gilley was downstairs, cooking breakfast, which wasn’t at all alarming until I remembered that most of my clothing was littering the floor of the adjoining family room, and I remembered the state of the family room after Shepherd and I had finished our . . . workout.
“Son of a . . . !” I hissed, scrambling out of bed and racing to the bathroom to quickly grab a robe.
Gilley had taken my big white fluffy robe, so I was left with the silk kimono. I didn’t even pause to look at myself in the mirror, too intent on getting downstairs and recovering my clothing while Gilley was turned toward the stove.
“Maybe he hasn’t seen it,” I whispered, hustling down the stairs with my fingers crossed.
Rounding into the kitchen, however, all my hopes to keep last night’s adventures with Shepherd a secret flew out the window when Gilley greeted me over a mug of coffee with an overly enthusiastic, “Well! Goooood morning!”
My gaze flicked to the family room. It was neat as a pin. Then it drifted to the pile of clothing, neatly folded—à la Marie Kondo style—on the countertop.
Heat rose up from my chest, enveloped my neck, then traveled to engulf my entire head.
“Gilley,” I said, greeting him tersely.
“Catherine,” Gilley replied, his tone so giddy I wanted to sock him.
I cleared my throat, lifted my chin, and walked over to the pile of clothing. “Thank you for straightening up the family room. I was . . . ahh . . . decluttering last night when I had a pretty intense hot flash. I’ve been getting those, you know. Perimenopause setting in . . . probably.”
Gilley nodded with wide, innocent eyes. “Decluttering, hmm?”
I pulled at the collar on my robe. At that moment I probably looked like I was having a hot flash.
“Yes,” I said, sticking to my guns.
“Huh,” Gil said. “I can only imagine how lively a time that must’ve been. I found your thong hanging off the bookshelf.”
I closed my eyes, absorbing the enormity of my embarrassment. But Gilley wasn’t through having a bit of fun at my expense. When I opened my eyes again, he turned sideways and said, “Hey, Cat, does your underwear spark joy in your life?”
Turning the other way and adopting a breathy, falsetto voice, he said, “Why no, Detective Shepherd. It doesn’t!”
Turning back, Gilley laid out his hand as if asking for something to be handed over and then he switched again where, pretending to be me, he shimmied out of a pair of pretend underwear, handed it over to himself, took up the dish towel, twirled that above his head, and said, “If it doesn’t spark joy in your life, then set it freeeeeeeeee!”
The dish towel launched into the air and it fell with a plop onto the island.
Turning to me, and rather proud of himself, Gilley curtsied and grinned from ear to ear.
I made sure to glare extra meanly at him. “This coming from a guy who just went allllll the bases with an alpaca. . . .”
Gil’s hands found his hips and he screeched, “What Mr. Studly and I shared was sacred! Sacred!”
I rolled my eyes. “Fine,” I said, irritated that he was making such a big deal out of my tryst with Shepherd. “You caught me. Shepherd was here and we sparked some joy together. Happy?”
“That depends,” Gilley said, smoothly setting a fresh cup of coffee in front of me. “Are you happy, Cat?”
I sighed. The ruse was up and I lowered my shoulders back to neutral. Picking up the coffee, I let the moment of silence play out for a bit before I muttered, “Yes. Quite.”
Gilley giggled and turned back to the stove. “Speaking of quite, you’ve had quite the love life lately, haven’t you? Two beautiful men desiring you all in one week. How’re you going to manage?”
“Oh, God,” I said. “I completely forgot about Maks!”
Gilley eyed me over his shoulder. “Huh,” he said. “Shepherd was that good?”
In answer I simply melted onto the countertop, laying my face against the cool marble.
“Wow,” Gilley said. “I never would’ve guessed.”
Lifting myself back to a sitting position, I nodded. “Me either, but oh, my God, Gilley. What that man did to me . . .”
Gilley toasted me with his coffee mug. “Good for you, sugar.”
I giggled. “It was. It really, really was good for me.”
Over breakfast I caught Gilley up on Miranda’s murder, and how I’d finally told Shepherd about our theory of the motive behind the hit on Lenny.
“How’d he take it?” Gilley asked when I got to that part.
“Stunned,” I said. “But he agreed that it was the most likely scenario.”
“The real question now is, who killed Sutton and Basayev, and why?”
I stared at Gil. “Why would we be concerned with them? Clearly someone within their organization was behind their murders. I mean, it’s very likely just a power grab.”
“But why frame Chanel?” Gilley asked. “I mean, if I’m looking to move up in the organization, and I want to take out the big boss, I’m not going to pin it on some poor twentysomething real estate agent. I’m going to make sure that everyone knows it was me, and strike some fear into the heart of any of his loyalists.”
I tapped the countertop with my finger. “That is a very good point, Gilley.”
“And the other question is: what does Chanel have to do with all this? I mean, yes, she was representing Basayev in the selling of his home, but why her? Why did he choose Chanel out of all the real estate agents in the Hamptons? After all, that was probably her only listing, Cat. She’d just arrived back in the area, she was clearly treading water financially, and her agency only offered her what was probably a converted broom closet to work out of. So why hire Chanel when Basayev could’ve hired one of the Bennetts and been better represented?”
I bit my lip. Gilley was making some very valid points and asking some truly puzzling questions. My mind began whirring, trying to fill in the dots. “You know,” I said, “when I look at all these dots, all these murders that don’t necessarily appear to be easily connected together, the one person they all have in common is Chanel.”
Gilley nodded. “And, since yesterday, she’s in the wind, and you’re out two-hundred big ones if we don’t find her.”
I gulped. I hadn’t even thought of the fact that, if Chanel had truly gone into hiding, the twenty thousand dollars I’d put up as 10 percent of her bond would quickly turn into two hundred thousand plus whatever Marcus’s bill would be.
And while I was more than financially comfortable, I wasn’t at all comfortable with the idea of losing almost a quarter million dollars to someone who’d simply decided to skip town.
So I turned to my phone and immediately called Marcus. “Catherine,”
he said smoothly. “Have you heard from Ms. Downey?”
“No, Marcus, I haven’t. Which is why I’m calling. I have reason to suspect that Chanel has skipped town, and I need to understand what my obligation is should she not show up for trial.”
“You know, when you called me last night and said that you hadn’t heard from her, I was afraid of that. So, maybe I can offer you some hope, because I know you must be thinking that you’re going to be out the two hundred large, right?”
“I’m terribly worried about that scenario, yes.”
“Well, I could move forward with a motion for dismissal. The evidence against Ms. Downey is so flimsy and circumstantial that it wouldn’t last two days at trial. Shepherd only has the fact that Ms. Downey had access to the house and her lipstick to tie her to the crime. I told her to jot a note for me on my legal pad that included all of the same letters used in the message on the mirror, and not one of the letters matched the writing on the mirror, so I’m confident she wasn’t the person who murdered Basayev, and whoever it was must’ve discovered her lipstick lying on the ground after it fell out of her purse, or something, and used it to shock or surprise Basayev when he came home that day.
“The M.E.’s report talks about the fact that Basayev was murdered in front of that mirror, so it’s likely he went into his living room, saw the message, moved forward to inspect it, and was shot by the intruder when they stepped out of the shadows.”
“That does sound like a likely scenario,” I said. “And I’ve had things fall out of my purse before. Your theory rings very true, Marcus.”
“I’m glad you like it,” Marcus said, and I could hear the bit of humor in his voice. “More importantly, I can’t see a judge refusing to toss the case out on those two flimsy pieces of evidence, and Chanel doesn’t necessarily have to be present at that pretrial hearing. I could come up with a simple excuse to have her absent. As long as I can get the judge to agree the arrest was bogus, you won’t forfeit your bond, or have to fork over the rest.”
I blew out a sigh. “Phew!” I said, giving a thumbs-up to Gilley, who was leaning in to hear the conversation.
I was about to thank Marcus for his time when I thought of something else. It bubbled up from my memory banks and, even though I was fairly certain Shepherd wouldn’t aggressively pursue the case against Chanel, I wanted to be extra sure that there were no more evidentiary surprises to be had. “Marcus?”
“Yes?”
“What about the necklace discovered at the scene?”
“You know, I haven’t heard back from the D.A. about that. It’s time to go right to the source. I’ll call Dr. Beauperthy now.”
“The medical examiner?”
“Yes. If the locket was purposely held back as exculpatory evidence, it’ll help our case even more. I’ll let you know what I find out,” he said, and clicked off the phone.
After setting my cell down, I looked at Gilley, who was looking back at me expectantly. “What necklace?” he asked.
“The medical examiner came out to greet Shepherd when he first arrived on scene at Basayev’s house. I saw the exchange between the two men, but I couldn’t hear what they were saying. Anyway, the M.E. handed Shepherd a gold necklace with what I think was a heart-shaped charm. I assumed that Basayev probably pulled it off the woman who murdered him right before she pulled the trigger.”
“So, Shepherd withheld it on purpose?”
“He wanted to put Chanel safely behind bars where Basayev’s people couldn’t get to her. I didn’t know any of that before I set her free, which is why she took off, obviously. But I could see why Shepherd would withhold evidence that would link Basayev’s murder to another woman. He just wanted to keep Chanel safe.”
Gilley winced. “And now, by mentioning the necklace to Marcus, you’re likely getting Shepherd in hot water.”
I sucked in a breath. “Oh, no! Gilley, you’re right!”
I picked my phone back up and dialed Marcus’s number, but it went to voice mail. Then I called Shepherd, but his phone also went straight to voice mail, and I had a bad feeling that I’d started some trouble. I knocked my forehead with the phone. “Why did I have to mention it to Marcus?”
“You weren’t thinking,” Gilley said, reaching up to grab my arm to stop the pounding I was giving myself. “But it’s okay, Cat. Shepherd’s used to landing in hot water. I’m sure he’ll talk himself out of it, and he’ll have to drop the charges against Chanel, which will save you not only the two hundred thousand, but additional attorney’s fees as well.”
I brightened. “You know, you’re so right. Thank you, Gilley.”
“You’re welcome. Now, why don’t you go take a shower and get ready for the day while I clean up the breakfast dishes.”
“I have to wait for Marcus to call me back,” I said.
Gilley took my phone. “If he calls, I’ll answer, I promise. Now, shoo! Go enjoy a nice hot shower.”
With a sigh I headed upstairs, pausing at the doorways of both of the boys’ rooms, sighing wistfully. I missed them and I vowed to reach out with a call later on in the day.
Then I made my way to my bedroom and fished through my closet for something appropriate to wear. I owned a dazzling red sweater with a deep V-neck that always made me feel sexy, and since I was feeling that already, I thought that donning it would be appropriate. Next, I selected a pair of black knit pants, and some booties.
I didn’t know if I’d see Shepherd again today, but I was secretly hoping I would.
After making the bed, I dragged myself toward the shower, feeling sluggish after a night with very little sleep and a whole lot of . . . um . . . calisthenics. (Ahem.)
So, perhaps I was a bit distracted when I walked into the master bath, flipped on the light, looked in the mirror, and screamed.
Chapter 16
Gilley entered the bathroom clutching the handle of a cutting board, held aloft like a bat. “What’s the matter?!” he gasped.
I pointed at my reflection. “Why didn’t you tell me I looked . . . ?”
Gilley lowered the cutting board, and a smirk replaced the look of alarm he’d entered with. “Tousled? Disheveled? Like you’d been properly rolled in the hay?”
Mascara had smudged the area under my eyes, my lips were bright red—as if they’d been burned, and speaking of burn, Shepherd’s five o’clock shadow had given me quite the burn all around my chin, my neck . . . and, oh, God . . . my bosom . . . not to mention the gigantic hickey on my neck. But all of that paled in comparison to the hot mess happening on top of my head.
My hair, which I now kept long, is especially fine, so it’s constantly susceptible to becoming unruly and tangled. In other words, last night’s romp had been more than a little catastrophic to its appearance.
The more I stared at my reflection, the more I could see a resemblance between me and Animal, the Muppet. I buried my face in my hands. “I’m humiliated,” I moaned.
Gilley chuckled lightly. “Oh, Cat, don’t be. I’m just glad that Stella got her groove back. Now hop in the shower, put some balm on that rash, and meet me downstairs. Marcus just called back with some news.”
Gilley turned to leave but I caught his sleeve. “What? What news?”
“Shower,” he ordered. “Then news.”
And the irritating schmuck flounced out of the room. Twenty minutes later I was back downstairs, wearing a towel wound round my hair turban style, a black turtleneck that hid all the beard burn, and roomy boyfriend jeans that I opted for instead of the tighter knit pants because my face and chest weren’t the only things left with a little burn on them. (Ahem!)
I found Gilley on the sofa, watching HGTV.
Moving over to the remote, I clicked the mute button and stood in front of Gilley with my hands on my hips. “Tell me.”
“Marcus confirmed that the M.E. found the necklace on Basayev. He says he gave it to Shepherd and told him where he found it. Then Marcus called the D.A. again and raised some hell, but the D.
A. insisted that the evidence report they got from Shepherd didn’t include the necklace. Now the D.A.’s office is super uptight about it, and they vowed to get to the bottom of it.”
I frowned. “Why would Shepherd withhold evidence from the D.A.? I mean, even if the necklace didn’t belong to Chanel, I’m sure the D.A.’s office would’ve proceeded given the lipstick and easy access Chanel had to the property, along with the knowledge of Basayev’s schedule. The necklace could’ve been explained later.”
Gilley shrugged. “Beats me. But maybe he forgot about it?”
I tapped my lip. “Maybe,” I said. But that would’ve been unusual for Shepherd. With a shrug myself, I turned and headed back upstairs to blow-dry my hair, which took very little time as it was nearly dry from wearing the towel, all the while thinking about that necklace.
There was something not quite right about it, and I couldn’t put my finger on it.
While I was straightening up the bathroom, I heard someone knocking on the front door. I came to the landing overlooking the first floor just as Gilley approached the door. “Pssst!” I said, to get Gilley’s attention. “See who it is first!”
I was wary about who might be showing up at the house unannounced, remembering the circumstances of Miranda’s murder.
Gilley peered through the peephole and turned to me. “It’s Shepherd,” he said quietly.
“Oh?” I replied, my voice going up an octave. This would be a pleasant surprise.
“He doesn’t look happy,” Gilley said.
“Oh,” I said, my voice going down two octaves. Maybe this wouldn’t be so pleasant after all.
“Well, let him in,” I said, moving to the stairs.
As I descended the steps, Shepherd breezed into the foyer looking mad enough to spit. It was particularly hurtful, I think because I was still floating on air from our night together, and to see him like this, so clearly irritated, was a bit of a blow to the ego.
To Coach a Killer Page 25