by Unknown
“Stop it. It’s not what you’re thinking,” she said. “I’ve known Fido for more than five years now. He’s a very good listener, but I don’t think he’d touch me with a ten foot pole. The man has integrity. One of the reasons I like him so much.” She headed toward the back of the house. “C’mon, let’s have a drink.”
Kim followed Stephanie down a wide hallway and into a step-down living room with thick white carpeting and a massive circular bar on the far end. Three sets of French doors gave a perfect view of paved pathways in the manicured back lawn that led to different sections of the estate. Kim spotted tennis court lights off to the left, a pool off to the right and a guesthouse directly in the back.
Stephanie went straight to the bar and poured herself a stiff shot.
“Soda for me,” Kim said. Her days of drinking hard liquor were few and far between.
Taking a sip of her shot, Stephanie smiled sadly. “Looks like my girl has changed.”
“Yeah. I had to. I didn’t like what I saw in the mirror.”
There was a long pause before Stephanie downed the rest of her shot. “Maybe that’s why I quit looking in the mirror.” Then she poured herself another.
Chapter Three
Abbey walked out of the police station nearly five hours later, after waiting and interviewing several times over. A near full moon cast light over the mostly empty parking lot. “That poor guy,” she said, relieved to breathe fresh air. Julie, Troy and Blake surrounded her. “Who knows where those men have taken him? He could be dead by now.” She’d never forget his scream and the panic in his voice as he’d called for help.
“The good news is that you are not dead,” Troy said. His voice of reason always cut to the chase.
“I won’t argue with that,” Abbey muttered, checking her watch. Almost one in the morning. The small basketball in the center of her watch reminded her of something.
The tickets.
She froze and Blake bumped into her.
“Whoa. Sorry,” he said, grabbing her shoulders to steady them both. His warmth seeped through her thin shirt, but she turned and he had to let go.
“What’s wrong?” Julie asked.
“The Lakers tickets.” She glanced between the three of them. “I lost the Lakers tickets. I didn’t think about it until just now. What if the gunmen took them?”
“More likely someone else found them,” Troy said. “I doubt the gunmen stopped to pick up what you dropped.”
“But what if they did, thinking it was some sort of ID? Do you think they’d use the tickets? Maybe we could find them that way.”
“They’d more likely sell them,” Blake said.
Troy nodded. “Probably. We can tell the detectives and it’s something I can check out. I’ll make a few phone calls and we’ll see if anyone shows up in the seats.”
Julie looked sympathetic as she reached for Abbey’s hand and pulled her toward the car. “C’mon, let’s get you home. Big day tomorrow. You need to get some sleep before meeting with the sketch artist.”
“I don’t think they call them that when they’re working with a computer app,” Abbey said.
“Whatever. The point is you have to be back in a few hours. How about you stay with us tonight?” she asked.
“That’s a good idea,” Blake said.
Abbey glanced over her shoulder and glowered at him. What gave him the right to an opinion on this?
“What?” He pulled his innocent face with his brows slanted and eyes wide. He moved in close and whispered in her ear. “The last thing you need is another panic attack while you’re alone. C’mon, Abbey. I don’t want to worry about you.”
Someone could have knocked her over with a feather. How could a guy she’d ignored for the past year care about her? Moving away, she got some distance from his mouth-watering scent. “You don’t have to worry about me. I’m not your responsibility.” She reached for the door.
“I didn’t say you were.” He stopped her with a hand on her arm. “But you are my friend.”
The concern in his blue eyes struck a chord and Abbey pulled out of his grip. Yes, they’d had to work together a lot this past year, but friend? She never would’ve called him a friend. It wasn’t that she didn’t want him as a friend, she just didn’t know how to be around him.
Her adrenaline had crashed a while back and she was tired. She kept a few extra things at Julie’s house in case of emergencies, but emergencies had never included anything like this. They usually entailed really early trips to the airport or really late events when Julie didn’t want her on the road. Of course both of those loads had lightened when Julie married Troy since he was now the one taking her to late night events.
“Fine.” Abbey didn’t want to argue and he had a point. Besides, her car was at their house anyway because they’d all gone to the concert in Troy’s BMW. “Sorry you missed the concert.” Just one more thing to feel bad about. A stellar night. Of course missing the concert was better than a bullet to her brain.
Blake opened the back door for her, but Abbey hesitated. She couldn’t get the man’s scream out of her mind. The fear and pain in the sound would be with her for a long time. And the man who chased her… A chill spread down her spine despite the warm night.
The three people she spent the most time with hovered around her. It was the oddest sensation to know these people had her back. She expected it from Julie. Yes, Julie was her boss, but she was also a friend. What she hadn’t expected was Troy’s alliance and Blake’s sudden possessiveness. In one horror of a night, all three had become her support system.
She felt Blake’s heat at her back as Julie and Troy got in the front seats. He didn’t touch her, but he let her know he was there.
“It’s going to be okay,” he whispered. “The detectives will figure out what’s happening. These guys are good. What’s important is you’re okay. You’re safe.”
She didn’t see how they were going to find the injured man before it was too late. As far as her being safe… God, she’d lived the last nine years trying to feel safe and knowing everything could change in an instant. For the second time in her life, it all had.
Kwami paced his Culver City apartment waiting for news. The downstairs neighbor he’d hired to clean hadn’t shown again and his place was a pit. Beer bottles overflowed the trash can and empty plates littered the chipped white tile counter. His dirty clothes lay in a mound in the hallway because he didn’t have any fucking time for laundry. It was way past time to move out of this dump, but that wouldn’t happen for another couple of years, not until Mal graduated college.
The phone rang—finally—and he snatched it off the table and checked the screen. Damon. “Talk to me.” It was almost one already. Waiting had been agonizing.
“I got her,” Damon said. “She just came out of the police station. She’s with the same group of people from the concert and I swear one of them is Julie Fraser. Can you believe it? Julie fucking Fraser.” He laughed. “Must be California. Didn’t deal with shit like this in New Jersey. Anyway, I’ll follow her home. It won’t be long now.”
“Just get her fucking name. I don’t care how you do it. I want her name and I want an address.” He pulled the kitchen chair back and sat down.
“You’ll get it. Quit snapping at me.”
“If you weren’t such a douche bag, maybe I would. You put us in this position, so you better fucking fix it. I told you we were only supposed to scare him. You fucking sliced Berman in two. What the fuck?”
“Stop ragging me about it. I told you, the little shithead lifted up into my knife after I tackled him. Besides, he got what he deserved. It was going to happen sooner or later. Did you dump him?” Damon asked.
“Yeah. He’s gone. You’re fucking welcome.”
Damon laughed. “Try doing an Internet search of Julie Fraser. Maybe you’ll find a picture or article with this chick. They seem pretty tight. Hey. Gotta go.”
“Don’t lose them.”
“
Not a chance. I had to fucking shave off my ’stache because of this bitch. She’s not getting away from me.” Damon’s Fu Manchu had been too recognizable and she’d gotten too good a look at Kwami when she’d originally come out of the door, so Damon had taken a pair of scissors then an electric razor to remove his signature look. He’d added a baseball cap and sunglasses, and Kwami had sent him to mill around the scene like all the other idiots watching the cops and, more importantly, watching their girl.
The call ended and Kwami tossed the phone onto the table. He shoved back and the chair slammed into the floor. There shouldn’t have been any witnesses. He couldn’t afford the attention. Shit. Once the boss found out, if the boss found out, his ass was going to be in a giant sling.
His mobile rang again. Now what? But when he checked the screen and saw his brother’s name, his anger evaporated. “Hey, what’s up? Everything okay?” The kid probably needed money.
“Dude, you won’t believe this.”
Kwami pictured Mal’s gap-tooth grin and a shot of brotherly love warmed his cold heart. “What? You won the lottery?”
“I got a fucking ninety-four on my English test! A ninety-four! Can you believe it? Oh man, I am freaking out!”
Pride burst in Kwami’s chest. “That’s great. I said you could ace that test, didn’t I? You just have to do the work.” He looked around his pit of an apartment as Mal rambled about the essay he wrote and decided the sacrifice was worth it. “Do you need any money?” he asked when his little brother stopped for a breath.
“I think I’m good this month. I’m learning to budget a little better.”
“Well, hallelujah for math class.”
Mal laughed. “I’m on the home stretch,” he reminded him. He paused before continuing. “Can I come home this summer?”
Kwami swallowed, his gut twisting into a ball. “We talked about this. You’re better off taking some summer courses and keeping your job. You’ll graduate quicker. Find a good job quicker.” Besides, he didn’t know how long he’d be dealing with little miss witness and he wanted Mal as far away as possible.
“You’ve got a good job and you didn’t graduate college. Maybe when I graduate and start work, you can go back to school,” Mal suggested softly.
“We’ll talk about it when the time comes.” Kwami sometimes wondered if he’d live to see the day that Mal graduated. He’d had a few too many close calls lately. Working for Facinetti’s operation had decimated his personal code of honor, but the money paid for Mal’s education so he couldn’t back out now.
“You always say that and I think it’s just a bunch of bullshit.” The bite in his tone cut through Kwami. “I’ll talk to you later.” The connection went dead.
“Fuck.” Kwami threw his empty beer bottle in the sink and it cracked into four chunks. The last thing he needed was to have Mal pissed at him. Maybe if he handled this situation quickly enough, Mal could come home for a week or two this summer.
Kwami paced the room, needing a plan. That chick got a look at both him and Damon, and he couldn’t afford to be identified. He’d never intended to murder anybody. Douche bag Damon had screwed him big time by killing Berman.
Now he really would have to make someone disappear and he didn’t see a choice. No way in hell would he let Mal end up the way he had. He’d do anything to keep his little brother in school, anything to protect him, and that meant staying out of prison.
“Bye, Mr. Frost! Have a good day,” the production assistant chirped with a shy wave from behind her cluttered desk. Her straight blond hair hung down her back in shiny waves and her surgically enhanced breasts pushed out high and full against her snug white T-shirt.
“Now…” He didn’t remember her name so he skipped it. “What did I tell you when I got here?” he asked, his signature smile in place.
“Leo,” she said, flushing. “Have a good day, Leo.” Her blush brightened. It wasn’t every girl in town who got to be on a first name basis with one of America’s biggest action movie heroes.
“You know it. You, too, babe.”
“I’m really looking forward to seeing your new film,” she added. Was she hoping for an invitation to the premiere party? Not a chance in hell of that happening. He was done with her type.
Still, he had a reputation to uphold, so he winked at her and opened the double doors as the rising sun blazed into his eyes. “Hope you like it!” He set his sunglasses in place as he strolled to Stella, his black Boxster S Porsche and the only female who understood him. His cell phone buzzed in his pocket and he checked the screen. His pulse stuttered.
The Marion Institute.
Megan.
The last thing he expected this morning was to hear from the East Coast. A wave of heat rolled beneath his skin as he quickly punched the accept button. The Institute rarely called and when they did, he panicked. It meant something had happened to Megan. He moved quicker to his car for privacy. Cameras could show up from out of nowhere.
The woman spoke so fast he barely heard her. But a few words definitely stuck out as he opened Stella’s door and eased into the soft leather driver’s seat, like, checks, bounced and debt collection.
“Wait. Slow down. That’s not possible,” Leo told the accounting department representative. They’d spoken last month as well. The fact that he’d been awake since O-dark hundred to promote his new movie on L.A.’s top-ranked morning show seriously limited his comprehension. “I’m sorry, what was your name again?”
“Tanya Brubaker.”
“Right. Tanya. I’m sure there was a mistake. I’ll make a couple of calls and get this straightened out.” As soon as the rest of the West Coast woke up. It was still damn early.
“Mr. Frost, you said that last month, too, and it hasn’t been straightened out. I’m afraid we’ll need a cashier’s check to cover the last two months’ payment and that comes to forty-two thousand dollars.”
“Wait a minute? Last month never got taken care of? I was told otherwise.” Now the bill was doubled? Forty-two grand was a drop in the bucket, so why hadn’t his accountant/business manager sent the money?
“Mr. Frost, are you there?”
“Of course. Not a problem at all. I’ll get that to you ASAP. Talk to you soon. Bye now.” Leo disconnected the call and ran his hand through his hair. “Time to find out what the fuck is happening.”
He called Nathan and immediately got rolled over to voice mail. “Nathan, you’re getting on my every last nerve. Wake up, dammit. Call me back before I take my business and money elsewhere. This isn’t funny anymore. I don’t care if we’ve been friends for twenty years, because this is bullshit. The Institute wants to know why my last two checks have bounced and frankly, so do I. Call me back. Yesterday.” Leo disconnected and rested his head against the seat.
Now what? Now he had to wait for a fucking bank to open so he could get a fucking cashier’s check for forty-two grand. What if the press got wind of that? Screw it. He’d think of something. He’d leak a well-disguised drug habit or something sordid to keep the public happy. It had been working for years, hadn’t it? As long as they thought the worst of him, no one dug deep enough to find out what he didn’t want them to know. Give the people enough dirt to discuss up front and they didn’t think you were hiding something. The public was predictable. Leo knew that all too well.
The industry knew him as a shallow, egomaniac who only cared about himself and he was happy to keep them thinking that. He didn’t give a shit what they said about him anyway. As long as they didn’t dig into his life, they could think anything they wanted.
His phone rang. “About time, Nathan.” But he checked the screen and it wasn’t Nathan. “Shit.” He didn’t want to talk to Candace. Hell, he barely remembered her face, but she’d snagged his phone and programmed her number into it and never failed to call him at the worst possible times. She must have seen his interview and knew he was awake. He let the call go to voice mail.
He barely remembered the last time he’d
had sex, but he knew it had been with Candace. He also knew he didn’t want to have sex with her again. Using Candace to get Carrie Ann Loughlin off his mind had been a big mistake, but he wanted to believe he hadn’t been the one to drive his co-star to insanity. It wasn’t every day a guy worked with an actress who went off the deep end and committed murder. Sleeping with Candace had seemed like a good way to get back some confidence. Good news was Candace hadn’t gone crazy. Bad news was that she was driving him crazy.
Never in a million years had he thought he’d get tired of having sex, but that had happened too. The physical relief wasn’t worth the emptiness he felt afterward. Everyone wanted a chunk of him and for years he’d played the game. He took what women offered him because it made them happy. For a while it had made him happy, but now, after so long, it only made him feel like shit.
It wasn’t that he wanted a relationship or marriage. Hell no. But he did want someone to talk to, someone to trust. Someone who wouldn’t run to the rag mags with his real secrets, not the fabricated ones he fed to the press. He hadn’t found that person. Hell, he probably wouldn’t even know if he did. He’d become as jaded as he made himself out to be, all in the name of privacy.
Blake let himself into Troy and Julie’s mammoth kitchen from the back patio. This wasn’t the first time he’d crashed in their pool house and he doubted it would be the last. It seemed stupid to go home and sleep for three hours just to be back first thing this morning, so he’d stayed. Abbey, Troy and Julie had told him to go home, that he didn’t have to go to the police station, but he wouldn’t consider the idea. He wanted to be with Abbey as she built the composite sketch of the suspect. Something about the way she’d described the guard at the door made his insides buzz. The words broad forehead and bushy beard stuck in his head like an old wad of gum and brought to mind a face he’d never forget.