Lethal Bond: Jamie Bond Mysteries Book #3

by Gemma Halliday

  Confessions of a Bombshell Bandit (short story)

  BOOKS BY JENNIFER FISCHETTO

  Jamie Bond Mysteries:

  Unbreakable Bond

  Secret Bond

  Lethal Bond

  Disturbia Diaries:

  I Spy Dead People

  We Are The Weirdos

  * * * * *

  SNEAK PEEK

  of the first Tahoe Tessie Mystery

  by Gemma Halliday & T.Sue VerSteeg:

  LUCK BE A LADY

  CHAPTER ONE

  When I was ten, my dad taught me how to play blackjack. I'd proudly shown him my fourth grade report card bearing the A I'd earned in math, and he'd said, "Nice work, Tessie. Now let's put those skills to good use." He'd taken me upstairs to the VIP blackjack tables in the back of his casino, set me up with one of his dealers in a crisp, white shirt, and taught me the art of counting to twenty-one. I heard him bragging later to his director of operations what a quick study I was. In two hours, I'd cleaned him out of $600 in chips.

  That was almost twenty years ago, but it was still one of my most vivid memories of him. Though, to be honest, I didn't have a whole lot of memories of my father to choose from. Mom and he split when I was just two, and she'd promptly moved me south to Berkeley and away from the high-rolling life my father had carved out for himself here. I'd grown up only seeing him every other Christmas and during summer breaks. Our relationship wasn't what you'd call close, but it wasn't strained either. I guess I'd always looked at Richard King more like one would a fun uncle than a father figure.

  Which is why I was surprised at how hard it was to keep tears from running down my face as they lowered his casket into the ground. I sniffed, my nose starting to run as much from the cold as the grief, as I tried to look anywhere but at the polished mahogany surface in front of me.

  Across the grass, still spotted with melting snow, stood my father's widow, Britton. Britton was blonde, thanks to her stylist, busty, thanks to her plastic surgeon, and at least twenty years my dad's junior. She was dressed in all black, a skin-tight Donna Karen dress underneath a faux fur that engulfed her petite frame like a giant gorilla suit. While I enjoyed my designer shoes as much as the next girl, Britton took the notion of fashion to a whole new level. One that was bedazzled, bling-ed, and bleached within an inch of its life.

  Beside Britton stood Alfonso Malone, or Alfie, my father's Director of Operations and head of security. Tall, grim, and not someone I'd want to meet in a dark alley. A scar ran across his cheek, his nose lay at a crooked angle, and his voice held a deep gravel that spoke of a hard life before donning the expensive suits he wore to be my dad's right-hand man. He had a comforting arm around Britton, but his eyes were firmly fixed on the casket, almost as if he was examining it for proof my dad was really in there.

  Surrounding them was a slew of people dressed in black who I didn't know. Not surprising, considering it had been some time since I'd seen my father. A year? Two? I couldn't remember now. To be honest, the allure of the blackjack tables had long ago faded for me. While I'd inherited my father's blue eyes and strawberry blonde hair—leaning just a little more to the strawberry than blonde—he'd failed to pass on his love of high-stakes games. Especially ones that favored the house.

  I shifted, my feet going numb from the cold in my black pumps as the priest said his final words over the casket. Mourners began to disperse, nodding sympathetically in my direction, patting Britton on the shoulder, awkwardly shuffling back to their cars in their overcoats and boots, trying not to slip on the icy mud.

  In the winter, Tahoe was a magical wonderland, the pristine snow on the evergreens and jagged mountains brilliant enough to take your breath away. In the spring, the snow melted to reveal enough mud puddles to make a kindergartener squeal with delight. This was March, and the town was just starting to lose its magical sheen.

  "Hey, Tessie," I heard a deep voice say behind me.

  Even before I spun around to face him, I knew who it belonged to. Rafe Lorenzo. Pro snowboarder, sponsored by my father's casino, minor local celebrity, and my first crush.

  "Rafe," I said, turning away from the casket to face him.

  "I'm so sorry, Tess," he said, emotion etched on his face.

  I nodded. "Thank you," I responded, trying to adjust my eyes to the adult version of the first boy I'd ever doodled my name in hearts with.

  When I was a teenager, Rafe had been in his early twenties, just coming into his own on the mountain, and charming enough that my father had threatened to take out his knees if he ever so much as held my hand. Not that the threat had kept me from fantasizing about just that. The same daredevil charm and charisma that had made him such a lucrative ambassador for my father's resort also made for a dangerous temptation to a girl whose adolescent hormones were running amuck.

  While Rafe still wore his dark hair a little too long, letting it curl at the ends around his neck, his face was leaner and more angular now than it had been. A few faint laugh lines tickled the corners of his eyes, but his skin was the same warm, Mediterranean tan I'd remembered. And his eyes, staring at me now with genuine concern, were the same brilliant green and rimmed in long, black lashes that I'd gotten lost in as a teenage romantic.

  I strongly reminded myself what good practice I'd had at keeping my hormones in check since then.

  "You look great, Tess," Rafe observed. "You haven't changed a bit."

  My cheeks heated despite the biting wind. "Thanks," I mumbled. "You too."

  "Bullshit. I totally look ten years older," he replied, though the corners of his mouth turned up, deepening those laugh lines at his eyes.

  I felt a small grin pulling my lips in response. It felt good. I realized it might have been the first time in days that I'd smiled. "Has it really been ten years?"

  "At least. Last time I saw you, you were heading off to art school, planning to make your mark as the next great American painter."

  "That was a long time ago," I agreed, feeling the smile drop from my face. "I curate now. A small gallery in San Francisco. Mission Arts."

  "Don't tell me you've given up painting?"

  I shrugged. "Turns out being a starving artist isn't actually as glamorous as I thought."

  He chuckled, the sound warm, rumbling, and totally incongruent with our grim surroundings. "Well, I'll have to check out your gallery next time I'm in The City."

  The fact that we both knew it was a hollow threat pulled an awkward pause over the conversation. I shifted in my pumps again. Rafe ran a hand through his thick hair.

  Finally Rafe broke the tension by asking, "So how are you doing? You okay?"

  I nodded, stealing a glance at the casket again. "I will be," I replied by rote. I'd fielded this same question at least a dozen times since getting the news via Britton's text message that my father had suddenly passed away. The past two days had been a blur of last-minute travel arrangements and subdued murmurs of sympathy from strangers. Or, in Rafe's case, resurrections from my past.

  Rafe shook his head, his hair skimming the collar of his wool coat turned up against the cold. "Heart attack," he said, eyes cutting to the closed casket, too. "Who would have thought any part of Richard King was weak, let alone his heart?"

  I nodded in agreement. Shot execution style, I might have expected in his line of work. Possibly dumped in the frigid waters of Lake Tahoe. But my father succumbing to something as mundane as a heart attack? I could almost hear him rolling over in his freshly-dug grave at the thought.

  "You coming back to the casino?" Rafe asked. "Britton's hosting a wake of sorts in the penthouse."

  "Oh, I, uh, I'm not sure..." I trailed off. I watched Britton get into a town car, the other guests filing into their vehicles. Honestly, the last thing I wanted to do was replay the same awkward sentiments of sympathy with a roomful of people who all knew my father better than I did. What I wanted to do was go back to my rental car, crank up the heater, and listen to old Sinatra songs—my dad's favorite—as
I made the drive over the hill and home to San Francisco.

  He must have sensed my hesitation, as Rafe put a hand on my arm. "He loved you, Tessie."

  This admission took me by surprise. "I, um, I loved him, too," I said, the words sticking in my throat, causing those tears to back up again.

  "Come back to the casino, Tessie." He paused. "At least to say good-bye."

  Put like that, how could I refuse?

  * * *

  The Royal Palace Casino and Resort was located on the border of South Lake Tahoe, California and Stateline, Nevada. And when I say "on the border," I mean the state line ran the entire length of the parking lot. One inch over the Nevada border, Dad had erected the first line of slot machines on casino property.

  South Lake Tahoe was primarily a tourist town, playing host to Silicon Valley execs and wealthy entrepreneurs on their three-day weekends. The locals were die-hard skiers and snowboarders whose jobs largely centered around the tourists, a small trade-off for living in the winter sports paradise. The landscape was dotted with million-dollar ski chalets mingling with weather-worn cottages and old motels converted into apartments. Ski bums and nature lovers who worshiped the mountains mixed with weekenders who worshiped the casinos, spas, and souvenir boutiques lining Lake Tahoe Boulevard.

  And in the center of it all sat the lake itself, almost two-hundred square miles of crystal blue waters. My father named me after the legendary "Tahoe Tessie" monster that was supposedly the local version of its more famous Loch Ness cousin. Not that I really believed in that kind of folklore. And, trust me, my father hadn't been the fanciful type either. But he knew a publicity opportunity when he saw it. Any chance to draw more tourists to the Royal Palace's slots, that man was all over it. Even when it came to naming his only child.

  Next door to the Royal Palace sat Harrah's casino, and just across the street were their two competitors, Harvey's and the Deep Blue. And just over the border on the California side sat a handful of boutiques, restaurants, and ski equipment rental shops, soaking in the casinos' tourist overflow.

  I pulled up to the front of the Royal Palace. It was eighteen stories of neon-rimmed glass and steel. The main gambling floors sat in front, windowless chambers with flashing signs advertising showgirls, magicians, and the latest aging rock band booked into the amphitheater behind the parking structure. Flanking the main building were the turret style towers, holding guest rooms. They jutted into the bright blue sky, breaking up the scenery of pine trees and snow dusted peaks with giant billboards at their apex, letting everyone know that the buffet was only $4.99 on Wednesdays.

  While there was no other word but "gaudy" to describe the building, it had an almost predictably commercial charm about it that was oddly comforting.

  I left my car with a valet sporting dark hair and lots of freckles and entered the lobby. Here the gaudy goodness was even more prevalent, my father having delighted in being the "King" of his "Royal" palace. He'd embedded touches of his theme everywhere, from the "Princess Day Spa" on the second floor, to the "King's Court All You Can Eat Buffet" located in the west wing of the building. In the lobby, the floors were polished marble leading to the check-in desk, lined in gold and dotted with fake family crests. The gaming floor dinged with a thousand slot machines all going at once, and the air held a thick haze of cigarette smoke, indoor smoking being legal on this side of the border. It was a scent I should have hated, but it instantly brought me back to my childhood, dragging with it bittersweet memories that threatened those tears again.

  I swallowed down the lump in my throat as I hit the east bank of elevators, stepped into an empty carriage, and keyed in my code for the penthouse.

  "Ohmigod, Tessie, I'm so glad you came!" The second I walked into the penthouse suite, Britton attacked me with air kisses.

  "Hi, Britton," I said, extracting myself from an embrace that smelled like peaches and Chanel No. 5. I scanned the room behind her for a glimpse of Rafe's tall frame, but the room was a sea of people in black who all blended together.

  "When did you get in?" Britton asked, twirling her hair with one hand, holding a martini with the other.

  "Just a couple of hours ago," I answered, craning around her to see where she'd gotten the drink from. I could definitely use one.

  "Well, we'll totally have to catch up. Lunch tomorrow?"

  I shifted my feet. "Actually, I'm not staying."

  "What do you mean you're not staying?"

  "I...have to get back to work." Which was true. While the owner of Mission Arts had told me to take as much time as I needed, we had a show this weekend. I was already starting to get antsy about leaving my artists in someone else's hands.

  "Oh. Right. Work," Britton said, wrinkling her nose up at the four letter word.

  She sipped at her drink, letting her eyes wander around the room, an uncomfortable silence falling between us. I'd only met Britton a couple of times. In fact, since leaving for college, I'd only been to Tahoe a couple of times. Work, life, and schedules had gotten in the way. Two-and-a-half years, I decided as I stood there, coveting Britton's drink. That's how long it had been since I'd stepped foot in the penthouse. Not that anything had changed. The walls were still covered in the same flocked, fleur-de-lis wallpaper and spotted with museum-quality paintings. Imported Persian rugs covered polished hardwood, the chandeliers dripping from the ceiling with crystals from the Liberace collection. The penthouse was exactly the same, the casino exactly the same. Even Britton was the same. With possibly the exception of her lips, which seemed a little fuller.

  "I had them done."

  "What?" I asked, blinking at her.

  "My lips. I saw you staring at them. I had them done. Restylane."

  "Oh, I, uh…"

  "It's awesome. Lasts for like six months without a follow up. You should totally try it."

  I wasn't sure if I'd just been insulted or if this was Britton's brand of small talk.

  But before I had a chance to respond she completely changed gears. "God, it's not going to be the same without him around here," she said, taking a generous gulp of her martini.

  "He was a presence, wasn't he?" I agreed.

  Britton sniffed loudly. "It was just so sudden, you know?" she said, cocking her head at me. "One minute totally lively, the next, like, gone."

  I felt that odd lump in the back of my throat again and squashed it down. "Was he sick?" I asked.

  She shook her head. "No. I mean he was, like, totally healthy. Energetic, strong, virile as hell…"

  "Okay, that's enough." The last thing I wanted to hear about was my dead father's virility.

  Britton teared up. "I'm just gonna miss him so much, Tessie."

  And then she hugged me. Not a dainty air-kiss thing, but a full-bodied hug that threatened to spill vodka down the back of my little black dress.

  I awkwardly put my arms around her shoulders, patting her back. I glanced around the room, trying to catch someone's eye for help.

  Unfortunately, the eye I caught was dark, beady, and belonged to someone I recognized only too well. Buddy Weston, owner of the Deep Blue casino across the street. He was short, stocky, and wore a gaudy, teal silk shirt and matching tie beneath his blazer, both of which shimmered under the chandelier's lighting.

  "Ladies," he said, approaching us.

  At the sound of his voice, Britton detached herself and turned around to face him. Immediately her eyes went from tearful to suspicious, narrowing beneath her false lashes as her jaw tensed. "What the hell are you doing here, Weston?"

  He raised an eyebrow at her, one big, bushy thing. "I came to pay my respects. Dick and I had our business differences, but we were peers of a sort."

  "Ha!" Britton blasted out. Loudly enough that I wondered just how many martinis she'd had since returning from the cemetery. "You tried to shut Dick down every chance you got."

  "Business. Nothing personal."

  "Easy to say now that he's gone," she shot back.

  Weston smiled ti
ghtly, a benign thing that didn't quite reach his beady eyes. "I guess we're all in a better financial place now that he is, aren't we, Britton?"

  Her eyes narrowed so far they were just tiny slits, her brows pulling down into angry slashes. "Exactly what are you implying, Weston?"

  "Nothing. Nothing at all." Buddy cut his eyes to a painting on the wall. "Is that a Vermeer? Lovely. Priceless. Yours now, no?"

  "Get out!" Britton shouted. Causing several heads to turn our way. "Get the hell out of our casino, and don't you dare come back."

  Weston smiled his tight smile at Britton again, any emotion behind it completely unreadable. Then he turned to me, nodded, and made his way toward the exit.

  Britton waited until the heavy double doors closed behind him before letting out a long sigh, declaring to the room in general, "God, I need another drink," and heading off toward the bar I'd yet to find.

  "Hurricane Britton strikes again," a gravelly voice at my elbow observed. Alfie.

  "In her defense, he's a jerk," I pointed out.

  Alfie nodded. "That he is," he agreed. Then he turned to face me. "It's nice to see you, Tessie. I wish it were under better circumstances."

  "Thank you," I answered, knowing that was as close to emotion as Alfie was likely to display.

  "How long are you in town for?" he asked.

  "Leaving tonight," I said, making the decision on the spot. I'd had enough of the Royal Palace.

  Alfie frowned. "I had hoped you'd stay for a few days. I have an appointment set up for you with your father's attorney tomorrow."

  "His attorney?" I asked. "Why?"

  "To go over the terms of your father's will."

  I bit my lip. While my father lived large, I had no idea what his actual net worth was. I guess I'd always figured most of what was in his penthouse belonged to the casino. He lived on site, drove company cars. It was a lifestyle, but I didn't know how much of it he actually owned. I couldn't keep my eyes from straying to the Vermeer hanging on the wall.