by Kristi Lea
Accomplice
By Kristi Lea
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, events, and characters are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real people, places, or events is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2014 Kristi Lea
All Rights Reserved
Original Cover Design by Kristi Lea
Stock Photography by Hot Damn Stock www.hotdamnstock.com
Acknowledgements
Thank you to my critique partners Amanda, Jeannie, Shawntelle, and Dawn who suffered through multiple first drafts of this book. Thank you Erin Schmidt for suffering through my last draft. Finally, thank you to the ladies and gentlemen of the MORWA. I have learned and continue to learn so much from all of you.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Epilogue
About the Author
Chapter 1
Photographers flocked around the gates of the Kingsbury mansion like pigeons around a popcorn tub. News of the theft had hit Twitter almost before the police received the first call from Kingsbury’s private security. No doubt the FBI’s presence at the crime scene would be all over the blogosphere before Special Agent Noah Grayson could even flash his badge to the guard at the gate.
“Lieutenant Thompson is waiting for you inside the residence.” The uniformed cop waved Noah and his partner, Cole Miller, inside and away from the dozens of gawkers who crowded the sidewalks.
“Must be a slow week in Hollywood if a little jewelry theft is enough to draw this kind of a crowd,” quipped Cole as he pulled their car onto the circle drive leading up to the wide marble steps at the entrance.
“It’s not the crime they care about. It’s the victim.”
Cole laughed. “Victim. Hah. The press would throw Jessica Kingsbury under a bus themselves if they could get a good shot of her cleavage.”
Noah didn’t answer as they climbed out of the car and made their way around half a dozen squad cars and evidence vans. Since getting assigned to work on the Kingsbury case a year and a half ago, he had come to both hate and depend on the press’s coverage of the starlet. He was painfully aware of the tabloid’s fascination with her bustline.
A thick-necked man in street clothes blocked the open front door. Noah noted the telltale bulge of a shoulder holster under the man's linen blazer and a wireless headset on one ear. Private body guard.
“FBI? What are you doin' here?” The man's New Yorker accent was something out of a Godfather movie.
“Lieutenant Thompson called us in as a consult. Standard procedure in big cases like this.” Noah offered up his badge.
“Thompson is in the sitting room. First door on the right.” The man passed back the ID with a ham-sized fist.
Ham-fists stepped aside and Noah strode forward into a long tall hallway with a domed ceiling painted with frolicking angels.
“This place is crazy.” Cole said under his breath.
Noah shrugged. Crazy mansions were the norm in this stretch of the hills, where movie stars and mobsters reigned from their own private palaces. His entire house might fit in the entry hall. His entire salary might cover the electric bill for a week.
Through the doorway, they entered the sitting room. More like the you'd-better-be-sitting-when-you-see-how-much-it-costs room.
He barely noticed.
Jessica Kingsbury sat in the center of that sofa, wearing a sundress in a brilliant pink that overpowered the muted elegance of the room. Long hair in every shade of gold from fresh cream to deep sunset flowed around tanned shoulders and skimmed the tops of barely concealed breasts. His mouth went dry.
Damn. She was just as beautiful in person as on the cover—or the centerfold—of a magazine. He looked away, at the wood floors, the crown moldings, the furniture that probably required a mortgage of its own. He wasn't here to drool over the woman dubbed Hollywood's most infamous Lolita. He was here to investigate her involvement in an embezzlement and money laundering scheme rumored to have amassed a fortune to rival a Saudi Sheik’s.
Not that he was going to tell her that. Yet.
He did intend to consult with the LAPD about the robbery. Help them trace the goods through the black market, while looking for clues for his own investigation.
He was walking a fine line and he knew it. Hard evidence wasn’t worth the paper it was printed on if it was inadmissible in a court because some hot-shot agent couldn’t be bothered to follow the rules. It was a lesson he had learned as a kid. His own father was a hot-shot agent who couldn't be bothered with rules and got himself killed on the wrong side of a fence with no warrant.
Noah took a breath and took a moment to straighten his tie and smooth the wrinkles from his sport jacket. A bubble of feminine laughter tickled at him and he glanced back up in spite of himself.
She was talking to a man in white shirtsleeves. Thompson, the LAPD lieutenant in charge of the robbery investigation. Noah couldn't help but notice that the man's gaze focused somewhat south of her eyes. He wished he could smack the guy on the back of the head for rudeness, but that wouldn't help the credibility of either the locals or the feds. And he didn’t want anyone smacking him on the back of his head before the afternoon was done.
“If I think of anything else, I will call you right away, Officer Thompson.” Her voice had a soft southern lilt. Not quite Deep South. Kentucky or Arkansas, maybe?
Jessica's publicist claimed she was from Florida, but so far, Noah had not been able to find any trace of her childhood. The lingual expert in the office had guessed that years of California living and possibly voice coaching had muddied up her natural speaking patterns, though the southern accent wasn’t entirely contrived.
She glanced up then and caught his gaze. Her trademark cornflower blue eyes bored into his and her lush lips tightened into a firm line. “Tony, who is this?”
Noah hadn’t noticed that Ham Fists from the front door had followed him in. Tony touched his earpiece and said something that Noah couldn’t quite hear.
Noah ignored him and stepped forward, presenting her with his warrant and his badge. “Noah Grayson, FBI. This is my partner, Cole.
Thompson stood up and presented his hand to Noah. “Nice to see you again Grayson. I see you get my message?”
Noah shook his head. “We were en route from the other end of town, and the call was garbled. I gather some jewelry went missing?”
Jessica’s eyes settled on him, and Noah had the distinct impression that she did not entirely like what she saw. Her lashes looked long and thick and dark under faint lines that creased her forehead. Faint shadows under her eyes were not completely concealed by her makeup. Close up, she looked just a touch less perfect. More authentic. More fragile. For a half second he was caught up in the image of vulnerability and innocence that she portrayed.
Then she did something he would never have expected, in either his darkest imaginings or in any of the hours of video footage he had watched during the course of the investigation.
She snorted.
And followed that noise with a laugh that was high and forced and tinged with som
e darker emotion.
“It isn’t just any jewelry that I’m missing. The Hearst Diamonds have been stolen.”
***
A hard knot of ice formed in Jess's stomach as she stood outside her home. Dozens of strangers with guns, fingerprint kits, and legal documents pawed through her personal belongings inside, supposedly looking for evidence. Legal or not, the thought made her sick. This was almost worse than the theft itself.
No amount of money would ever buy her privacy. Or peace.
The early August sun beat down on her shoulders and the exposed skin felt hot. She would burn if she stayed out much longer.
So what. Burn already. Except she knew better. She had a runway show in a week. Her first big public appearance since her husband’s death thirteen months ago, the proceeds would fund cancer research. The producers were practically giddy with excitement when she had signed on, and they had spent a ton of money on publicity. Every camera in Hollywood would be on her that night, and her every flaw, every jiggle, every mole, every zit would be shown in high-def.
The very thought of it made her physically ill. She was too old, too out-of-shape. Too notorious. If her estate weren’t held up in court, she would have written the foundation a fat check and stayed home, safe behind her high stucco walls.
Maybe the walls weren’t that safe after all.
Tony, her most visible bodyguard, stood by her shoulders. Two additional security monitors were inside, reviewing recordings from surveillance cameras. There were three gardeners, two housekeepers, and one driver, too. All sprawled in the grass or perched on a garden bench while the various law enforcement agencies conducted their dueling searches. None of the household could leave until both the LAPD and the FBI released them.
So many people, and yet she was completely alone in this.
There was no one here she could trust. Tony wouldn’t flinch at taking a bullet for her—a clause in his contract promising a fat bonus ensured that. And the rest of the household staff were well enough paid and were well enough vetted for her to know that no inside photos of the police action would be on the internet tonight. Her staff was as loyal as they came.
Yet her Hearst Diamond necklace was missing. Charles' study, left unchanged for the past thirteen months, three weeks and five days had been trashed. Furniture toppled. Every picture torn from the wall. Every drawer opened. Every cushion slashed. The upstairs gallery had been ransacked too, with most of the artwork left in a heap in a corner. Museum quality works by well-known artists, treated like garbage.
Nothing else had been taken besides that damned necklace. Nothing else that Jess knew about.
She had been away for the weekend at an Arizona spa, trying to hide herself in yet another gilded prison, so the household staff had been minimal. No one had seen anything until this morning when she got home.
Someone knew access codes. Someone knew the floor plan. Someone knew where Charles used to keep valuables. Where Jess still did.
She squinted at the sun and glared at the upstairs window where Special Agent Grayson stood with his back to the gardens. There was no mistaking his tall, powerful build, the dark suit coat that draped from broad shoulders, or the self-assured way he directed everyone around him.
She knew that name. Grayson. He had been the one investigating her late husband. She knew Charles had met with him more than once. Charles had called them “friendly chats”, but she could see the stiff set to her husband's shoulders and the slight narrowing of his eyes as he mentioned the meetings.
She had imagined Special Agent Grayson as balding and pot-bellied, chewing on a fat cigar as he grilled Charles about business dealings. Not this clean-cut, all-American Ken doll of a man with slightly curly sandy brown hair, chocolate eyes, and smelling of cedar and spices. She hadn't meant to notice any of those things.
Lieutenant Thompson approached, his high forehead glistening with sweat in the afternoon heat. He had an honest face. “Ma'am, my team is almost finished. If your people come up with any more clues, please let us know.”
She took his offered business card. “Can I go back inside?”
He adjusted his collar. “Uh, probably best not to. Well, goodbye then.”
The trail of men in dark blue filed into their various vehicles.
Lindsay, her chief of security, strode up and shoved a bottle of water into Jess's hand. “Drink it. You'll get dehydrated out here in the sun.”
Jess handed back the business card with a mumbled “Thanks.”
The women were nearly the same size, both around five-six and a hundred thirty pounds. Lindsay was trimmer and tighter all over, her weight all solid muscle where Jess's was concentrated at her breasts and hips. Lindsay's wiry blonde hair kept pulled back into a severe bun at the back of her head, and she had a gun tucked into a belt holster under her jacket. The woman didn't look intimidating, but she was just as good a protector as Jess's two giants were, in her own way.
“Don't worry, hon. The feds will be done soon, too.”
Jess took a sip of her water, careful to hold the bottle so that it wouldn't smudge her lipstick. It was second nature now, like how she never touched her hair without a mirror and how she forced a permanently pleasant expression on her face. And sucked in her belly. You never knew when the paparazzi were lurking behind a bush, ready to snap a bad photo. Once upon a time, she had feared the “Baby Bump?” headlines more than anything. These days it was the dark circles under her eyes or a wrinkle over her brow that she wanted to hide.
Never let them see you sweat. Never let them see you cry.
She wished the water were vodka instead.
“What do the police think? Did they find any fingerprints?”
Lindsay snorted. “Only about ten million. They want every member of the household staff to come down to the station in the next few days to be printed so they can rule us all out. And Agent Grayson wants us all to come to his office to make statements.”
“Can’t they do both at once?”
“Apparently not. Here comes Mr. Special Agent now.”
Noah Grayson didn't just cross the wide stretch of manicured lawn. He walked with the easy grace of a natural born athlete and the unconscious authority of a man who is used to being looked at and looked up to.
Jess looked up and down. There was a lot of him to take in: wide shoulders, tailored dress shirt that hinted at rock-hard abs beneath, powerful thighs, and tanned hands with neatly trimmed nails and calluses. Hands used to work but clean all the same.
He nodded politely to both of the women and gave Tony a look over Jess's shoulder.
Beyond him, she saw his men carrying out a large rectangular bundle. Her stomach flipped. “Is that one of my paintings? Why on earth are you taking my paintings?”
“They are good representations of the missing necklace, and we don't want to damage anything. Our forensics team has safe ways of checking for prints. We will provide you with a detailed inventory of everything,” he replied smoothly. “I have a couple of questions for you, Mrs. Kingsbury.”
“Her lawyer is due to arrive any minute. Questioning can wait until then,” said Lindsay.
“Off the record. I promise.” His raised eyebrows made him look sincere.
Lindsay snorted again. “Yeah, right.”
“You promise that I'm off the record right now?” Jess asked. “You're not recording this or writing it down?”
“Scout's honor.” Damned if she didn't believe that he actually was a boy scout.
Jess took a deep breath. “Fine. Gather up your little crew of lookie-lous and get the fuck out of my house.”
She felt immense satisfaction at the way his jaw dropped half an inch.
“Jess.” The word from her security guard was half warning, half admiration.
“Don't shush me. He said we were off the record. He promised on his honor. Well, on my honor I swear that if one more person invades my privacy I'm going to--”
He held up one finger. “Don't finish
that.”
She stared him down, despite eyes so sensual and wide they made her toes curl. Despite the square jaw with the barest hint of stubble on his cheek. Despite the vein that ticked slightly at his temple, and despite the way he had loosened his tie a notch and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. The skin of his neck looked so smooth and supple that she wanted to lick it.
Dear lord, she must be suffering from heat stroke. There was no other good reason she should feel weak in the knees at the sight of Grayson and his holier-than-thou scowl.
Jess took a quick breath. “Let’s just say I've had a stressful week. The one thing I have been looking forward to is having a little peace and quiet. And then some thief broke into my home, trashed it, and took something that was very, very precious to me. Before I can even process all that, you show up with your Boy Scout brigade and your legal papers that give you the right to trash my home some more, and invade my privacy.”
He just stood there and took her verbal onslaught, his face so impassive it made her want to scream at him.
“Don’t pretend that you are just here helping the police. I know your name. You were investigating my husband.”
He didn’t back down from her gaze. But he didn’t deny it either.
She threw up her hands and looked away. Was it extra bad to hit an FBI officer? She bit her bottom lip until she got her rage barely under control. Enough to grind out her next words instead of shrieking them. “Charles. Kingsbury. Is. Dead. Even if you do find evidence against him, what are you going to do, dig him up and put his corpse on trial?”
Agent Grayson's eyes almost softened. But the line of his mouth was grim. “I am truly sorry for your loss of your husband. I am not looking for evidence of his guilt.”
“But you are looking for something. Besides my necklace.”
His eyes remained impassive and his face stilled. Damn but he had a good poker face. “I am sure you have had a rough day, Mrs. Kingsbury, and I need to get back to my office to file my report. Please rest assured that we won’t stop looking until we find the guilty party.”