Unbreakable Bond

by Gemma Halliday

  "That’s her."

  Donna Martinez.

  CHAPTER NINE

  _____

  "Donna Martinez lists her profession as actress," Maya informed us, clicking open another window. "But, according to the IMDB, she hasn’t had any significant roles. Not even a commercial."

  IMDB was the Internet Movie Database, and if Donna had done anything from extra work in an indie flick to voice-over in a cartoon, it would have been there. "Wanna-be," I concluded, not surprised as the title covered half the residents of the L.A. Basin. "So what does she really do?

  "Works nights as a cocktail waitress at Club Dante," said Maya, switching to another screen. "If her electronic fund transfers are any indication."

  "I know that place. It’s off Sunset," Caleigh jumped in. "It's nice. Swanky. I saw a Kardashian there last month."

  "She’s married to Miguel Martinez," Maya continued.

  "Why does his name sound familiar?" Danny asked.

  Maya clicked away at the keyboard, pulling up another window. "Miguel Martinez was arrested and sent to prison for aggravated assault last summer. He held up a liquor store and beat the clerk, who needed twenty stitches and suffered a concussion."

  "I remember that story," Danny said, nodding as recognition dawned. "Double-jointed Brandy talked about it non-stop one night. She lived around the corner from the store."

  Fascinating stuff, Danny.

  "Miguel’s no longer in prison. He died... oh."

  "Oh?" I asked, leaning forward to read the screen.

  "He died just last month. Stabbed by another inmate," Maya said.

  Danny moved his head up and down with slow, deliberate nods, a stupid grin plastered on his face. "Shanked."

  Caleigh, peering over Maya’s shoulder, tapped the screen with a fingernail. "He was sentenced by Judge Waterston."

  Damn. Talk about motive for revenge. The excitement buzzed through me, like a fluorescent light flickering to life.

  Danny and I exchanged ah-ha glances. "I’ll get the van," he said and hurried outside.

  "Maya, jot down her address." I ran to my office and strapped on my holster and gun. I shrugged into my jacket, and slid my phone into a pocket.

  When I turned, Caleigh leaned in the doorframe.

  "Are you sure it’s okay to go out there? What about the police?"

  Her concern made me smile. "I’ll be fine. If the cops knew about Donna, they’d also have the killer and no longer need me for anything. When I get back, this will be all over, and we can concentrate on our other clients."

  I squeezed her shoulder and walked back into the lobby.

  Maya handed me a sticky note with an address on it and wished us luck.

  In the van, I gave Danny the lime green square with the addy and fastened my seatbelt. The ride along the freeway felt like hours, even though we'd hit a rare traffic-free sweet spot. I jiggled my knee up and down, too much adrenaline making it impossible to sit still.

  Danny glanced over. "Antsy?"

  I tried to chuckle, but it was a strangled sort of sound instead. "What gave me away?" I joked.

  His tight smile did nothing to reassure me. Levine might be delusional, but Danny knew as well as I did how deep in dog crap I was. It wasn't a situation I was used to or, quite honestly, knew what to do with. Private investigators tracked down others. They didn’t become the prey.

  We pulled up outside of a squat, stucco building in North Hollywood with paint that was faded to a pale sun-stroked beige. It reminded me of a motel; two-stories tall, entrances facing the street. The building was divided in half, each with its own staircase weaving up the floors.

  The apartment number on the Post-It was 2B, which I spotted immediately. The front window’s curtains were parted, but with the sun’s glare, I couldn’t see any movement inside.

  So we sat and watched.

  I texted Maya for information on the type of car Donna drove, wishing I’d seen Faux Mrs. Waterston arrive and leave the agency. I mentally noted a beat-up green Hyundai, shiny, white Buick and muddy, black Trailblazer parked across from us now.

  "This whole thing will be cleared up by tonight," Danny said.

  I exhaled, grabbing onto his words with both hands. "I can’t wait. My celebration will consist of a strong drink and a hot bubble bath." I imagined sinking into the fragrant soapy goodness.

  "Alone? Or will you invite Mr. ADA?"

  I jerked my head toward him. "What?"

  "Just wondering. You two seemed pretty cozy last night."

  I frowned. "You have to be joking. That was a cat and mouse game. I was flirting to save my life, Danny."

  "Are you sure?"

  An image of Aiden’s cool eyes and warm smile flooded my vision. I quickly snuffed it out.

  "Positive," I said. But my voice cracked.

  Danny’s eyebrows rose. "Not convincing, Bond."

  "Jesus, would you drop it, Danny? Fine - Aiden Prince is an attractive man. Is that what you want me to say?"

  He turned his gaze out the window, his expression hidden. "No. It's not."

  I poked him in the arm. "Don't tell me you're jealous?" I teased.

  He let out a sharp bark of laughter. "Of what? Slick hair and a spray-on tan?" He patted his abdomen. "A six-pack beats that any day."

  I snorted. "You think pretty highly of yourself there, Casanova."

  "Hey, I've never gotten any complaints."

  I held up my hands. "I wasn't putting you down. Lord knows you've had every bimbo from here to Manhattan fall at your feet."

  He turned on me. "Is that it? Just because I get laid that somehow puts me in a different league than Mr. Ken Doll?"

  "What league, Danny?" I asked. "I said he was attractive, that's all."

  "Yeah, he's a real catch, with is flashy career, making peanuts working for the state, and his dead wife sympathy card."

  I stared at him, stunned into silence.

  He paused a moment, then averted his gaze, as if realizing how far below the belt that comment had struck. "I don't trust him, that's all," he mumbled.

  "That makes two of us."

  We didn’t say anything more, just sat there watching 2B.

  Maya texted back that Donna Martinez had a valid California state driver license, but there was no info on the type of car she drove. Same went for her late husband.

  Several tenants in surrounding apartments came and went, but there was no activity at Donna’s. After another thirty, butt-numbing minutes, I decided we’d waited enough.

  I grabbed the door handle. "Let’s go have a look."

  We exited the van and sprinted across the street. Early Friday afternoon meant most people were at work. Would that include wanna-be-actresses?

  I knocked on her door, praying no one would answer. As much as I wanted to haul her ass to the local precinct, I also wanted to find proof of her involvement in setting me up and murdering the judge. A handwritten document detailing her plan to frame me and kill the judge would be a bit much to ask for, but a girl could hope.

  When no one came to the door, I pulled a pouch of tools from my jacket pocket, ready to put my lock picking skills to work.

  But before I even opened the little black case, Danny turned the knob and pushed. The door creaked open.

  "Who doesn’t lock their door in North Hollywood?" he whispered.

  Agreed. This was not a good sign.

  We slowly stepped over the threshold, and I called out. "Mrs. Martinez? Anyone home?"

  Was it possible she’d seen us coming and hid? If so, I planned to go through every square inch. If she was quivering in a closet, we’d find her.

  Daylight streamed through the window, illuminating a small, pastel living area. A light blue sofa took up most of one wall. A white coffee table sat in the center of the beige carpet. A television, a couple of cheap end tables, a short bookcase, and a lemon-colored chair completed the tidy set up. The place looked like a photo shoot for Pottery Barn and smelled of cinnamon and vanilla. A
ll very feminine.

  A thin stack of mail sat on a side table. An electric bill, flyer for 20% off at Macy’s One Day sale and the latest copy of Cosmo were all addressed to Donna Martinez. At least we had the right apartment.

  Sadly, no murder weapons, no confessions, and no Donna.

  "Look." Danny pointed to a sheet of paper sitting on the coffee table. It had the same print as the striped envelope.

  I walked over and scanned it.

  Dear Mr. Sterling,

  Thank you for your consideration in the role of Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy Onassis. She was such a classic beauty and magnificent woman. I am so honored to have been given the opportunity.

  Sincerely,

  Donna Martinez

  I raised a brow and glanced at Danny. "Is she serious? What decade is she from? Who sends thank you notes to casting directors?"

  Danny chuckled. "Maybe she thinks this will raise her chances."

  "Yeah, of being laughed at." I returned the absurd letter to the table, beside a pack of matches and an empty envelope with a scribbled phone number. I pulled out my phone and entered the digits into my contact list for future inquiry. Then I wandered into the back hall.

  Three doors stood ajar. I poked my head into the first room. The kitchen counters and spotless stove stated Donna was either a clean freak or a take-out connoisseur. No desire to witness her OCD array of cans and boxes in the cabinets, I turned to the next room.

  I ignored the pristine bathroom, figuring I’d raid the medicine cabinet last, and entered her bedroom. The place were secrets where hidden.

  Holy fashion explosion.

  If the rest of the house was considered tidy, this room resembled the regurgitated remains of a bargain basement sale. The sheets on the Queen-sized bed were rumpled. A pink and white polka dot comforter was tossed in a heap on the floor. Clothing covered every surface, including the lamp shade and window sill.

  On my way to the open closet, I slipped on a grey graphic tee, and grabbed onto the door to prevent falling. Dresses, skirts, blouses and sweaters were neatly hung on half the rod. The other half was empty.

  I paused. Took a good look at the clothing on the floor.

  The room was covered in t-shirts, jeans… men’s clothes.

  Miguel’s things.

  I ransacked the top shelf of shoe boxes to find one stuffed with old photos of Donna and people I assumed were family and friends, and a wedding picture of her and Miguel. Crumpled receipts, dated as far back as three years ago, occupied another and a third held old letters from Miguel to Donna over the time he spent in prison.

  I raised an eyebrow. Those held promise. Miguel could well have hatched the plan to kill the judge from behind bars. Maybe the letters contained explicit instructions on how to hire a sucker.

  "Any luck in here?" Danny asked as he entered the room. Then paused. "Wow, tell me you didn't do this."

  "Nope. This is all Donna. I haven’t combed through the dresser yet."

  Danny nodded, crossing to the pastel pink piece of furniture.

  I sat on the edge of the bed, with the box in my lap and opened the first envelope. The letter was dated four months ago. He wrote that his cellmate was cool, but he missed her like hell, and it was unfair he was locked up.

  There was a letter for each week of his incarceration. While his love for her never wavered, his attitude about everything and everyone else did. Over time, he ended up hating his cellmate but grew remorseful over the robbery. Unfortunately, there was no mention of Judge Waterston.

  I returned the box to the closet. "Find anything useful?"

  Danny turned. A pair of fuzzy, pink leopard handcuffs hung from his pinky finger. "Do these count?"

  "Nice. Pure class."

  "Wanna take the bathroom?" Danny asked.

  I nodded, leaving him to explore the rest of Donna's goody drawer.

  The white tiles gleamed. Frosted glass doors encased the tub, closed now, and a pair of towels hung over its rack. Two toothbrushes, one blue and one pink, leaned in a daisy ceramic cup. Tylenol, a dozen facial cleansers, moisturizers and acne medication stood at attention in the mirrored cabinet. The one beneath the sink held extra rolls of toilet paper, sanitary products and condoms. She had no prescriptions, nothing that told me anything personal.

  Everything about Donna’s apartment seemed staged, like she lived one giant role from sun up to sun down. This trip was starting to feel like a waste of time.

  I turned to head into the kitchen, on the flimsy hope that her cabinets held the blueprint to framing Jamie Bond.

  But a flash of something dark through the frosted bathtub doors caught my attention. Something dark, sitting just below the porcelain surface.

  I slowly pushed the left glass door open, peeking inside.

  And found Donna Martinez staring up at me with vacant eyes.

  Dead.

  CHAPTER TEN

  _____

  Danny scratched his chin. "Her husband died, she sought revenge on the judge, and then killed herself. What a life."

  Regardless of how long I stared at her, Donna’s sunken eyes and deadpan stare continued to chill me as sharply as it had when I'd first seen her, screamed, and jumped back about fifteen feet from her body. Her eyes were glassy, her skin blue, the slack muscles in her face reminding me of a wax doll. She wore yellow bunny pajamas and matching fuzzy slippers, which led me to believe she'd been there awhile. Even actresses were up and dressed by noon.

  I shivered again, despite the jacket Danny had thrown over my shoulders. I was a P.I. who dealt with sex. Give me a spouse cheating with the maid, cheating with the nanny, cheating with the frickin yoga instructor. Not a stiff.

  I squeezed my eyes shut and took a few deep breaths. I could do this. I was a big girl. It was just a dead body. No biggie, right?

  I opened them again, trying to see the room without the cloud of squick factor. Two empty prescription bottles, one of generic hydrocodone and the other of Tylenol with Codeine, sat in Donna’s lap. Several pills were scattered around her body, as if she’d meant to take them, but they'd fallen from her hands or mouth. Her body was slumped in an uncomfortable position, though how much of that was post-mortem, I had no idea. Her head lay under the faucet, her feet tucked underneath her.

  I narrowed my eyes. Who sat in the tub in that direction?

  "No. This doesn’t feel right."

  "What do you mean?" Danny asked.

  "She was angry at Judge Waterston for sending Miguel to his death in prison so she kills him, sets me up, and then swallows a bunch of pills? It took a whole lot of anger to fuel that murder. Angry people don't suddenly go apathetic and kill themselves. I mean, why not go after the inmate who killed Miguel? The prosecutor who put him away? The public defender who failed?"

  I stepped back and stared at the walls and ceiling, waiting for my broken thoughts to piece into a cohesive puzzle.

  "Besides, look at this place. The furnishings, the colors and patterns. Does she seem like a woman who concocted an elaborate scheme to not only shoot the judge but also plant me as a suspect?"

  "Since when does color scheme have to do a person’s intelligence?" Danny asked, eyebrows furrowing together.

  "Not the colors exactly," I explained. "But everything just seems so simple here. So plucked from a magazine. She doesn't strike me as the type who has a whole lot of original or creative thoughts."

  Danny bit the inside of his cheek. "So... you think she was working with someone else?"

  I'll admit, I hadn't been sure, just processing out loud. But Danny’s question sharpened my suspicions.

  "Or for someone else. Someone hired her to play a part." It made perfect sense.

  Danny stared at the body, uncertainty splattered all over his expression. "Okay. Let's assume she was. Someone knows she's an actress, knows she doesn't exactly have a deep love of the judge. So, they hire her to play Mrs. Waterston and get you involved."

  "And once she sets me up, she kills the judge."


  Danny looked down at the woman in the tub again. "But something must have gone wrong. The partner gets nervous."

  "Or Donna gets greedy," I added, picking up his train of thought. "Either way, it's not safe to keep her around anymore."

  "So he kills her, then makes it look like a suicide."

  I nodded. "Now, if the cops get hold of me, there's absolutely no one to back up my 'crazy story' about a fake wife hiring me to spy on her husband. This guy gets away with it. Again. His second murder."

  Danny nodded. "It's a theory," he hedged.

  "Who gets in the tub and puts their head up against the faucet?" I pointed for emphasis. "Who lies in their bathtub to take pills? Why not her bed or the couch? Spend her last moments in comfort, staring at Miguel’s photo. People die in tubs after slitting their wrists, and not while wearing fuzzy slippers."

  "So now what do we do?" Danny asked.

  I let out a breath. Honestly? I didn't know. My leads had just died with Donna. And the knowledge that we ransacked her place while she was lying there dead left a new unsettled feeling in the pit of my stomach.

  Great detective work, Jamie.

  "Let’s get out of here."

  As I blamed myself for not being a bloodhound, we hurried through the living room. I opened the front door and poked my head out. I half expected cop cars to come screaming to the curb, but the sidewalk was empty; even the traffic had died. I thanked God for small favors.

  We dashed across the street and back into the van. The last thing I needed was my face plastered across the six o’clock news for another murder.

  The humidity inside the van instantly bathed my body in a fine sheen of perspiration. Danny had covered the vinyl seats with fake fur since stake-outs were synonymous with baking our internal organs or freezing off our extremities, depending on the time of year.

  I grabbed my phone, ready to call Aiden, and realized I held my Smartphone. I’d left the prepaid back at the office.

  "Find a pay phone."

  Danny turned and gave me a look. "What is this, nineteen-eighty? Are there any payphones left in L.A.?"