I opened my brand new Kate Spade clutch and pulled out the black cloth packet of lock picking tools I’d bought online. I’d had to practice my new hobby incognito because my best friend and boss, Kate McClean, sometimes got an eye twitch when she knew the lengths I’d go to research my job.
My name is Addison Holmes, and I’m a private investigator in training for the McClean Detective Agency. That basically means I spend most of my time spying on adulterers, making coffee, and being babysat by my trainer since I have a tendency to get into trouble whenever I’m out on my own. But in my defense, I usually managed to get the job done. I had the scars to prove it.
I’d been practicing my B&E skills by watching YouTube videos and using the back door of my house as a test dummy. It had only taken me three tries before I’d managed to click the tumblers into place, which was terrifying considering I was a woman living alone and there were more talented lock pickers than I out there. I couldn’t really afford better locks, so I kept a chair pushed under the door and my gun under my pillow.
It was fortunate the back door of the clinic I was trying to break into couldn’t afford better locks either, but it still took a good fifteen minutes before the lock gave. The night air was cool, but I was sweaty as a stripper’s G-string because of nerves. I had to rub my hands on my shorts twice before I could turn the knob. I cursed as I thought about fingerprints, so I quickly wiped off every surface I’d touched with the hem of my Bon Jovi T-shirt, pulled a pair of rubber medical gloves out of my purse and snapped them on.
I slipped into the clinic, closed the door at my back and then bit back a yelp when the air conditioning unit came on with a rumble.
“Shit,” I breathed out. I relaxed and decided I should’ve gone to the bathroom before I’d left the house. My bladder couldn’t take the stress of illegal activity.
The clinic smelled of Lysol and antiseptic and it was long and rectangular in shape. Ugly gray brick on the outside, metal roof, and white industrial blinds were on all the windows so those who frequented the clinic had ultimate privacy.
The reception desk divided the rectangle into two parts—offices on the left and the patient rooms toward the right. Even the thought of what happened in those rooms made me throw up in my mouth a little. There wasn’t enough Lysol in the world to cleanse away what happened in there.
The door I’d entered was on the side with the offices, and I passed through a long narrow hallway with white floors and wood paneled walls. The lights were off and the only reason I could see at all was because of the red nightlights spaced every twenty feet or so in the ceiling.
I stifled a nervous giggle at the thought that I’d once seen a horror movie that reminded me an awful lot of my current situation. I reached into my purse and pulled out my gun just in case there were zombies. At least I’d worn tennis shoes instead of high heels in case I had to make a run for it.
I’d wasted enough time building up my courage so I set forward with determination. I snuck past two bathrooms and a water fountain and wondered if it was against the criminal’s code to sneak into the bathroom and relieve myself. But with my luck, that’s when the SWAT team would break down the doors and the Enquirer would be standing there to take pictures.
I pulled the strap of my purse over my body and held the gun in a two handed grip. In my mind I was just like Laura Holt from Remington Steele, only curvier and without eighties hair. I made my way to where the hallway met the main area, squatting low and peeping around the corner to make sure I was alone.
The place was silent as a tomb and I crossed in front of the reception desk without even a squeak from my sneakers. My stealth abilities had improved by about a hundred and fifty percent since my first day on the job. Which wasn’t saying much. It was the same thing as saying a kindergartner could finally use the paste without eating it.
My heart was thudding a hundred miles a minute and the red glow from the lights was creepy as shit. My goal was fairly simple: I needed to get into the locked room I’d noticed on my first visit to the clinic and search the files. The room was at the end of the opposite hall past the patient rooms, made to look more like a janitor’s closet than anything else, but I’d glimpsed the rows of file cabinets during my tour a couple of days before.
I was halfway down the hallway when I heard a horrible moan. My heart stopped and I turned around to run back from the way I’d come when I heard it again. And though it was horrible, it wasn’t a death moan. I’d heard a few of those sounds over the past months. Back when I was having regular sex I’d even moaned like that myself. From the increasing volume I was guessing she was enjoying herself, whoever she was. Either that or she was declawing a cat without anesthesia.
To say my curiosity was piqued was an understatement. I’d never been very good at listening to the part of my mind that told me I shouldn’t stick my nose where it didn’t belong. I made my way closer to the sounds, hurrying my steps because it sounded like she was winding up for the finale, and I noticed the door was open a crack and light flickered from beneath.
I meant to be quiet. I really did. But the sight that greeted me was enough to draw a gasp from my lips. A pair of familiar blue eyes met mine and widened in surprise. My own eyes narrowed and I felt sick to my stomach as I took in the scene. It was worse than I could’ve imagined.
The woman reached a climax shrill enough to break glass and the tension ratcheted up the temperature several degrees. A pregnant silence followed her cataclysmic orgasm, and I realized if I didn’t breathe a little slower I was likely to end up hyperventilating.
“I should’ve known you’d show up here,” Nick Dempsey said, closing his eyes and shaking his head in disbelief. “I don’t suppose I could talk you into turning around and going back home so I can get this straightened out.”
I raised a brow and cut my eyes to the loaded weapon in his hand. “No, I don’t think so.”
He sighed and put his gun away, reaching over to turn the TV off and the X-rated flick that had been playing. The smells of old sex and new death assaulted my senses, and I swallowed back the bile that rose at the sight of the body at Nick’s feet.
“At least you put on gloves when you came in,” he said, nodding at my hands. “I’d hate to think you smudged the prints of whoever broke in.”
“Someone broke in?” I asked, guilt sending a rush of heat to my cheeks.
“You didn’t see the front door shot to shit and standing open when you came inside?”
“Umm…sure I did. How could I have missed that?”
Chapter One
Friday, Four Days Earlier…
“Fif—ty…”
I flopped back onto my yoga mat with a thud and a whoompf of expelled breath, and I stared longingly at the cup of coffee I’d placed at the edge of the kitchen counter for inspiration. Too bad I didn’t have the energy to get up and get it, not to mention it probably wasn’t all that hot anymore.
“Go-go-gadget arm.” I flung my limp hand out toward the coffee cup, but much to my continual disappointment, that saying never worked.
My abs burned like fire, and it felt like someone had rearranged my intestines. I stared at the clock for a few seconds, waiting for my vision to come into focus, and I groaned at the time. “Fifty sit-ups in eight-minutes and fifty-two seconds. A personal best. But still pathetic, Addison.”
It was never the first thirty sit-ups that gave me any problems. I could do thirty in about two minutes. It was the last twenty that had me using every creative curse word I’d ever heard as the daughter of a cop. I couldn’t seem to get over the hurdle. And my time was running short.
A couple of months ago I’d lost my job as a teacher in the small town of Whiskey Bayou where I’d been raised. It hadn’t come as that big of a surprise since I’d gotten caught stripping at a gentleman’s club in an act of desperation to bring in some extra cash. It hadn’t mattered that I’d been the worst stripper ever born or that I’d only managed to hold the job for the minute and a hal
f I’d been on stage. It had been long enough for my principal to see me and snap off a couple of photos.
I’d like to think I could’ve bribed or blackmailed him into keeping my secret safe, but by the time I’d made it to the parking lot he was already dead. I fell over him quite literally, and the rest, they say, is history. Once the police became involved there was no way my secret wouldn’t get back to Whiskey Bayou and the residents there who thrived on gossip as if it were mother’s milk.
Needless to say, my financial situation hadn’t improved since the loss of my job. My unemployment benefits were only good for another couple of months, and I had regular rent payments I had to make and all the bills that went along with living in a house. Not to mention credit cards I was still paying off from a wedding that never took place.
It was a good thing I’d been moonlighting at the McClean Detective Agency to bring in a little extra cash before my unfortunate dismissal from James Madison High, otherwise I never would’ve had the opportunity to talk Kate into hiring me full time. I wasn’t exactly a full time employee yet. I did contract work and a lot of background checks—spying on adulterous spouses and the occasional case of fraud. Savannah, Georgia was a hotbed of lust and debauchery if the cases that crossed my desk everyday were anything to go by.
I’d basically caught Kate at a low moment when I’d convinced her to hire me on as a full time private investigator. The only stipulation for my employment was I had to pass all the tests at the top of my class.
I’d spent the last couple of months taking the Citizen’s Police Academy classes once a week, studying manuals thick enough to use for kindling, practicing my shooting at the range, and…exercising. I’d passed my conceal to carry test with flying colors, mostly because my dad had taught me how to shoot when I was still in diapers. A cute little H&K my mom and her new husband had bought me as a congratulations gift sat in my purse on the counter. Though if anyone had tried to break in at the moment I would’ve been too tired to grab it.
The written exam I had to take the week after Christmas would be a piece of cake as well. I was an expert researcher and test taker thanks to my degree in history. I could recite rules and regulations out the wazoo. The problem was my mind didn’t always want to follow those rules and regulations. Sometimes a situation called for thinking on your feet instead of going by procedure. I just made sure to leave the thinking on your feet parts out of any reports I had to write for Kate. Bless her heart, she was a rule follower through and through. She always had been, even when we were in grade school.
The only section of the test I couldn’t quite seem to master was the physical fitness portion. At the rate I was going, I wouldn’t pass at all, much less be in the top of the class. The requirements were a two-mile run in under thirty minutes, followed immediately by fifty sit-ups in five minutes, followed by 10 pushups in however long it took you to do them. And those were just the minimums.
I rolled over onto my hands and knees, thinking I probably needed to run my yoga mat through a car wash since it was soaked with sweat and smelled of things that no southern lady should ever smell of.
A whimper escaped my mouth, and I crawled from the living room to the kitchen where my cold coffee waited for me. I managed to use the drawer handles as a way to lever myself to a standing position. My hands shook like a wino’s in a dry spell, but I managed to wrap them around the cup and bring it to my lips, only spilling a little down the front of my sports bra.
The cobwebs started to clear little by little and I groaned as I realized I still had to fit in a run. I’d finally made it to the mile mark without having to stop and throw up in someone’s yard, so I was at least making progress on that front.
I grabbed the binoculars from my kitchen drawer and went to stand at my front window, just like I did every morning. I cracked the blinds just the slightest bit and then put the binoculars to my face. They were already adjusted exactly how I needed them to be.
When I’d rented this house a couple of months ago, it was at the suggestion of a very sexy FBI agent I’d been working with at the time. His name was Matt Savage and I’d never met anyone whose name fit more perfectly. He looked like the love child of The Rock and Pocahontas—dusky gold skin stretched over sharp features and muscles that would make any woman sit up and take notice. I’d taken notice all right. But as much as I liked Savage and as much as I was curious to find out what he looked like under those black suits he always wore, I’d decided to keep my distance.
Savage was a nice guy, but he wasn’t someone who’d be great for the long term. He liked to play fast and reckless, and there was an element of danger about him that not even I was comfortable with. And that was saying something.
But when he’d made the suggestion about the house I was currently residing in, I’d had no idea he lived just across the street. This caused me a lot of anxiety. Mostly because I was currently single and every time he got in a five-mile radius my hormones started to sing. So I’d gone out of my way to make sure I had as little contact as possible. That didn’t stop him from coming over with takeout or mowing my lawn like clockwork every Saturday, but I was still trying to make an effort.
Men like Savage were no good for small town girls like me. And as odd as it seemed as a woman in twenty-first century America, I still had hang ups about casual sex. I couldn’t do it without there being some kind of emotional attachment or hope that something long term could come from it.
I held the binoculars up to my face and watched Savage’s house for a few minutes. He liked to run first thing in the morning before he went to work, and I tried to coordinate my schedule so he was already gone before I took my turn through the neighborhood—mostly because I didn’t want him to witness my resemblance to an arrhythmic heffalump.
There wasn’t a car parked in the driveway, but that wasn’t unusual since he normally parked in the garage. The blinds were all closed up and I couldn’t see any lights on throughout the house. I let out a relieved breath and scanned the street in both directions just in case he was still out running, but I was pretty sure the coast was clear.
It was on my second scan down the street that I got a weird tingly feeling at the back of my neck. Usually that was my internal warning that something bad was about to happen, but considering the results of my morning workout, it could’ve been nerve damage as well.
I don’t know what made me glance at my neighbor’s house—the one directly to my right. It was a little square of a house almost identical to mine, only it was painted canary yellow with white shutters. I’d never even met who lived there or seen them for that matter since my work hours were on the odd side.
The binoculars stopped of their own volition and straight into a large square window with slatted blinds that were all the way open. Another pair of binoculars stared straight back at me, wide blinking eyes magnified through the opposite end of the lenses.
“Jesus,” I screeched, stumbling back a step and tripping over a rug so I landed on my ass. My lungs heaved as I tried to suck in oxygen and figure out what had just happened.
Obviously my neighbor was a peeping Tom. The only problem was technically so was I, and I couldn’t exactly make accusations. I crawled on hands and knees back to the windows and closed all the blinds.
A knock at the door had me biting back a scream, but I realized I needed to get a grip. I was supposed to be a professional for Christ’s sake. Adrenaline gave me an added rush of strength and I vaulted myself toward the kitchen and pulled my gun out of my purse before skulking to the door and looking through the peephole.
I didn’t recognize him, but I had a sinking feeling I was about to meet my new neighbor. He was probably an inch shorter than me and had a face soft with baby fat. His eyes were very round in his pudgy face and I couldn’t tell if he had eyelids because he didn’t blink. At all.
Black hair stood in wild tufts around his head and a pencil thin mustache I was pretty sure he’d drawn on sat just above his lip. He wore khakis
that were at least a size too big and a Star Trek T-shirt, and his binoculars hung around his neck.
I stood as still as possible, wondering what I should do, and praying he’d get tired of waiting and go back to his own house. He kept staring at me through the peephole, never blinking, and when my fingers cramped I realized I was squeezing my gun too tight.
“I can hear you breathing,” he finally said through the door.
I let out a sigh as I unlocked the deadbolt and undid the chain, but I didn’t bother to hide my weapon.
“You’re Addison Holmes,” he said, and I was slightly taken aback by the fact that he not only had been spying on me but also knew my name. “Agent Savage speaks highly of you, but I had to see that you would fit in for myself. We don’t just take anyone off the street you know.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Neighborhood watch.” It was then I noticed he had a folded T-shirt in his hand and a dayglow orange vest, and he shoved them both at me. “I’ve been watching you since you moved in, and I could tell this morning that you have a good eye for what’s happening in the neighborhood. We try to keep crime to a minimum here. I’m Leonard Winkle, but everyone calls me Spock. I’m the president of the NAD Squad. It’s your turn to host tomorrow since you’re the newest member. We’ll be here at 9am sharp. Wear your shirt. Mrs. Rodriguez likes cranberry muffins.”
With that he turned on his heel and headed back across the small expanse of lawn that separated our houses.
“What the fuck?”
I closed the door and locked it up tight. I put my gun back in my purse and tossed the ugly vest on the counter before holding the shirt up in front of me so I could see what it said. NAD was spelled in giant block letters in the same dayglow orange as the vest across the front of the shirt. And underneath it was the word SQUAD in much smaller letters.
Whiskey Sour (Romantic Mystery/Comedy) Book 2 (Addison Holmes Mysteries) Page 22