"Okay, so get the Norton files to her lawyer, then work Mr. Peters with Caleigh."
Sam nodded. "Will do."
"So… new cases this week?" I asked, turning to the woman on my left.
Maya Alexander handled all of the admin for the agency, including scheduling appointments with prospective clients. And if her face looked a little familiar, it was because she was March's Playmate of the month. Lucky for me, not many men recognized her with her clothes on.
"Uh-huh. Two possible new cases. Mrs. Shankmann, who claims her husband, and I quote, 'shtupped the freakin' au pair,' and a Rachel Blake who wants us to test her fiancée before the wedding."
Caleigh raised her hand and bounced in her seat. "Oh, me, me. I love doing bachelor parties."
"Done." I noted it down. "I'll take Mr. Shankmann if we get the account. Right. On to tonight. Judge Waterston."
All three girls leaned forward in their seats.
"We all know how high profile, i.e. high dollar, this account is."
Three heads nodded.
"So, this needs to go off flawlessly. Mrs. Waterston is a big name. She has big friends, who all have big cash on the line should they decide they need our services to bust their prenups."
"We're hitting him at the party?" Sam asked, checking her notes.
"Black tie benefit at the Beverley Hilton. So, I want everyone to look sharp, okay?"
Again with the nods.
"I'm personally running game on this one. Sam, you're camera one. Caleigh, I want you on two. Danny will direct from the van." I paused. "Girls, we need this guy. We can't fuck it up."
I didn't add because without him, one of them was looking at unemployment.
CHAPTER TWO
The Beverly Hilton is located on Wilshire in the part of Los Angeles where Mercedes outnumber homeless people fifty to one. An iconic piece of Hollywood history, the hotel has played host to countless stars, dignitaries, and legends, and holds over one hundred red carpet events each year.
And tonight's affair did not disappoint.
The plush banquet room was decorated in tactful hues of red and gold, accentuated by floral arrangements at every column. A jazz group played in the corner, creating mellow mood music for the hundred-some guests in suits and subdued cocktail dresses, nibbling at their fat-free hors d'oeuvres.
Caleigh stood to the right of the band, wearing a strapless emerald green number. In the center of her bodice sat a jade colored brooch, pointed straight at me. Sam was directly across the room from her, wearing a tight red mini-dress with a silver brooch of her own attached to her right shoulder strap. She held a glass of chardonnay in one hand and swayed slightly to the rhythm of the upright bass.
I leaned against the bar, ignoring the jab of my Glock strapped to my thigh, and lifted a single olive martini to my lips to disguise their movement. "Tell Sam I'll be intercepting the target to her right, near the front entrance," I murmured into my décolletage.
"You got it," a voice sounded in my earpiece.
I waited two beats; then Sam changed her position ever so slightly, shifting to face the entrance.
"She's got a clear shot," piped my earpiece.
"Thanks, Danny."
"Anytime, boss," he replied. Then, "Shit. Incoming at two o'clock, Jamie."
I turned to my left…
But was too late to avoid the guy in the Brooks Brothers suit with "hook-up" written all over his tanned face.
"Hi there," he said, suddenly well inside my personal space.
I took an instinctive step back, giving him a quick once over.
His hair was cropped close in a conservative style, blond, gelled into place. Green eyes, creased just a little at the corners. Broad shoulders that spoke of either high school football or a dedicated personal trainer. Not bad looking, but polished to a high sheen. In fact, if my name were Barbie, I'd say he was the perfect catch.
I gave him a semi-polite "kiss off" smile.
"Nice party, huh?" he persisted.
"Sure."
"I just moved here recently. I tell you, they don't have parties like this where I'm from."
I nodded. Sipped my drink. Prayed he'd go away.
"You from around here?" he asked.
Again, I gave the noncommittal nod.
"Well, I gotta say, the weather out here is fantastic. Sunny and seventy year round. Paradise."
Jesus, was this guy seriously trying to pick me up with talk about the weather? I'd seen better game from a ten year old.
Danny piped up in my ear. "Detach the suit, Jamie. Our mark just walked in."
I whipped my head around to the entrance. A balding, sixty-ish man stood in the doorway. Dark suit, navy tie, sharp eyes. Almost immediately a young guy with "future politician" stamped all over his pinstriped jacket was on the judge like pumps on a prostitute, jiggling his hand up and down.
"Excuse me," I said, setting my martini on the bar and turning to go.
"Aiden Prince." Brooks Brothers stuck a hand out to bar my way.
I paused. Then quickly shook it.
"And you?"
"What?" I glanced over his shoulder. The judge had detached the eager beaver. He was alone. Perfect.
"Your name?"
"Oh. Uh, Jamie. Jamie Smith." At least tonight.
He smiled, showing off a row of perfectly bleached teeth. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Jamie Smith. Can I buy you a drink?"
I pointed to the martini, still virtually untouched. "Got one, thanks. Now if you'll excuse me-"
"Here." He shoved a cocktail napkin at me, a phone number hastily scrawled on it beneath the name, "Aiden."
"My number. You know, just in case you feel like playing tour guide for the new guy some evening." He grinned.
I'll admit, the "new kid in town" thing was kinda cute.
Unfortunately, I didn't have time for cute. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the judge moving toward a group of men smoking cigars on the balcony. It was now or never.
"Thanks," I mumbled and shoved the napkin into my cleavage.
Danny piped up in my ear again as I threaded my way through the growing crowd. "I thought that guy would never give up."
"You and me both," I mumbled.
"There he is," Danny directed. "Near the French doors."
"I'm on it. Sam's in position?" I asked.
"She's right behind you."
I quickly glanced over my shoulder to see the brunette keeping pace three feet behind.
"Then it's show time."
* * *
I stared at the "new voicemail" alert on my cell, trying to ignore it.
Last night had gone off without a hitch. So well, in fact, that after reviewing the footage with Danny, he'd taken off for an early morning shoot in Malibu, and the girls and I had gone out for mojitos to celebrate. Until two a.m. The resulting headache this morning was a cruel reminder that I was no longer twenty-one. And the last thing that mixed well with a killer hangover was an early morning chat with him.
I shoved my cell into my bag.
Maya popped her head into my office. "You want to go over your schedule for the day?"
I grunted in the negative.
She set a large Starbucks cup down on my desk. "How about now?"
"I love you." I grabbed the cup, gratefully taking a sip. It was so hot it burned my tongue. Perfect. "Okay, hit me."
Maya recited the appointment book from memory. "You've got an eleven-thirty phone conference with Mrs. Chen's lawyer—they're withholding payment. Mr. Chen's lawyer said the footage was too blurry to clearly make out Mr. Chen's face."
I rubbed my temples. "Fabulous."
"You have Maguire this afternoon, and the landlord called about the rent check. Apparently," Maya averted her eyes, "it bounced."
I cringed, trying not to picture Levine's pinched face as he wagged his proverbial finger at me. "I'll take care of it. Anything else?"
"Mrs. Waterston is waiting in reception."
I nodded. "Give me two
minutes, then show her in."
"Okay. Oh, and, uh," she bit her lip. "Derek left two messages here last night."
"I figured. He left one on my cell, too."
"Do you want me to call him back?" Maya asked, even though I could tell she dreaded it as much as I did.
"No, I'll call him later," I said. At least halfway meaning it. "But thanks."
Maya's face brightened, visibly relieved. "Okay. Two minutes then," she said, then left.
I drank the rest of my coffee as I pulled Mrs. Waterston's file from my bottom drawer. It was, admittedly, slim. My typed report on the evening, a couple of blown up stills—eight by tens always added more drama when it came time to negotiate settlement terms— and the copy of the footage Danny had shot last night. Then I opened a fresh box of tissues and set it on the corner of my desk.
Just in case.
I popped Danny's disk into my computer and pulled up the media player just as Mrs. Waterston came into the room.
"Good morning, Miss Bond." Her voice was soft and evenly modulated, hinting just the slightest of an indefinable upper-crust accent. It reminded me of an old Hepburn movie, and I wondered if it was natural or carefully cultivated.
She was young, slim, the obvious trophy wife. While her husband had spent one too many nights in the pursuit of cigars, scotch, and blondes, his wife looked to prefer spending her time at the spa, the salon, and cruising Rodeo. She wore a simple cashmere twin set and dark slacks, nervously twisting her hands together in front of her.
"Mrs. Waterston, please have a seat," I said, gesturing to the chair opposite my desk.
"Thank you. You have something I can take to my lawyers?" she asked, the tension in her stiff posture almost palpable.
I put on my best sympathetic voice. Which wasn't very hard. After one evening with Judge Grabby Hands, I had enormous sympathy for anyone who'd had to endure him for years. "Yes, I'm afraid we do."
She nodded. "Alright, let's have it."
I nodded, hitting "play".
As the video began, she sat silently, both hands clasped in her lap. Behind her poker face I had no idea what she was thinking, but she didn't move a muscle.
I watched myself sidle up to Judge Waterston on the screen. I giggled, touched his arm. He offered to buy me a drink, leaned in just a little too close. It didn't take long before his hand found its way to my thigh, and he was propositioning me for a private evening of hide the gavel.
"I've got a room upstairs," I heard myself respond. "Three-eighteen. Don't disappoint me." I slid off my stool with practiced seductiveness, and Sam got the perfect shot of the judge grabbing my ass as I walked away.
Then the screen went blank.
I cleared my throat, trying to clear the awkward silence from the room with it.
"I'm sorry. I know this must be hard to watch."
"Yes, it is," she agreed. She looked down, picking at invisible lint on the arm of her chair. Her face was pale and placid, but I was glad, at least, there weren't any tears. I hated tears.
"If there's anything I can do?" I said, leaving the vague offer hanging.
"No, thank you, Miss Bond. You've done enough." She opened her clutch and slipped on a pair of small, calfskin driving gloves, before pulling out a matching wallet. "What do I owe you for your services?"
"We'll send you a bill later. You don't have to worry about that now."
"No, I'd prefer to pay now, if you don't mind."
I nodded. Hey, if writing a check helped her work out her grief, who was I to argue? "Then Maya will give you a balance."
"Thank you." Mrs. Waterston stood up and stuck out one small hand. I shook it, her gloves soft and cool against my palm.
"The disk." She gestured to my computer. "May I have a copy of that?"
"Of course. You can take this one." I popped the disk out and handed it over to her. "Again, I'm sorry."
Mrs. Waterston slipped it into her clutch and stood up. "No need to be. I've known he was a cheating bastard for years. I thank you for finally giving me the proof I need to bury the man." She paused and smiled at me. "In court, that is. Thank you again, Miss Bond. It's been a pleasure doing business with you."
With that, she turned and strode into the reception area, where she paused only briefly to speak with Maya, then handed over her balance in cash. Which was no big surprise. Most of the women who came in here didn't want their husband finding a charge to a P.I. firm on their monthly credit card or bank statements. Cash was the common payment. Don't worry, I reported every cent to the IRS.
I watched as Mrs. Waterston took her receipt, then walked out the frosted front doors, painted with the single word "Bond" in bold black letters.
CHAPTER THREE
"Derek called this morning."
Danny looked across the table at me. "And?"
"Five times. He called five times. Somehow I get the feeling he doesn't trust me." I paused. "He thinks I'm too girly to do this job."
Danny grinned, a crooked thing that made the corners of his eyes crinkle, then let his gaze slowly rove my person, taking in my silk blouse, pencil skirt, and pink high heeled pumps. "Newsflash. You are girly."
I threw a tortilla chip across the table at him.
We were at Bosco's Cantina, a hole-in-the wall place near the beach, munching on chips and salsa while waiting for Maguire to make his appearance. According to the man's wife, he was always "at the gym" lately. According to his credit card statement, a dozen roses had been delivered to the pink apartment building across the street last month. To a Miss Lula LaRue. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out what kind of "work outs" Maguire had been engaging in.
"So, how was the Malibu shoot this morning?" I asked Danny, loading a chip with chunky salsa.
"Hot." He leaned back in his chair, clasping his hands behind his head, a gesture that stretched out all 6'2" of him.
I'd met Danny on my first professional photo shoot when I was fifteen - all gangly legs, and scared shitless at the thought of standing in front of all those cameras in nothing but my itty bitty bikini. He'd immediately stepped into the role of big brother, putting me at ease and showing me the poses that made my ugly ducking shape instantly resemble a swan. The pictures had been good enough to get me a three page layout in Seventeen, and we'd been friends ever since.
Though I never actually asked his age, I figured Danny was somewhere in his early forties. Old enough that fine laugh lines creased his eyes, but still young enough to pull off that rugged California guy thing. Natural outdoor tan, light brown sun-streaked hair, just a little too shaggy to be fashionable, if, in fact, too-shaggy weren't the current fashion. And exotic pale eyes, sort of an indistinguishable color somewhere between blue and green depending on the light. He'd once told me he got into photography to meet chicks, and I can't remember a time when Danny didn't have a bulging little black book.
"Malibu was hot," he repeated. "The sun was shinning, the water was clear, and the bikinis were tiny. Heaven."
I rolled my eyes. "It's all about the bikinis for you men, isn't it?"
"That's what keeps you in business, babe." Danny popped a chip in his mouth. "Speaking of which, how'd the footage from last night work?"
"Perfect. The judge is toast."
"It was the dress. You were smokin' in the dress."
"Thank you. I thought so, too."
"You give it to the wife?"
"This morning."
He lifted his beer in the air. "Then cheers to a job well done."
I lifted my water glass and clanked against the side of his bottle.
"So," Danny said, eyeing me as he took a slow, deliberate sip. "Last night. What did you do with the number?"
"What number?"
"The one Ken Doll slipped you. Got the feeling he thought you were pretty smokin' too."
"Seriously?" I pinned him with a look. "I tossed it. The guy was hitting on girls at a charity event. How hard up is he?"
"Huh." Danny picked his camera up of
f the table and lifted it to his eye, shooting off a couple pictures of the peeling pink paint across the street.
I hated it when he did that. Masking his expression with photographic equipment was conversation-cheating as far as I was concerned.
I nudged him with my foot. "'Huh' what? What's the 'huh' supposed to mean?"
He kept shooting as he answered. "Nothing. I just thought he looked like your type."
Oh, this was going to be good. "And exactly what type would that be?"
He shrugged, setting the camera down on the table between us. "Polished, GQ, hair sprayed into place with lacquer."
"Hey, it moved when he nodded."
Danny grinned.
"And, I'll have you know, that is so not my type."
"Oh yeah?" He leaned both elbows on the table and trained his eyes – green now in the bright afternoon sun – on me. "What is your type then, Bond?"
Luckily, I've known Danny long enough that I didn't take the bait. "I'll let you know when I see it," I mumbled instead, lifting my drink to my lips.
"Good." Danny leaned back in his seat. "Then I still have a chance."
I threw another tortilla chip at him.
"Soooo," I said, drawing out the word, "tell me more about your bikini shoot. Did you get a phone number?" For those of you paying attention, yes, that was my attempt at a clever conversation change.
Danny got a wicked look in his eyes. The same one that the pirated-out Johnny Depp had in Maya's screensaver at the office. Total ravage and plunder.
"Numbers. Plural." He held up two fingers, his grin stretching.
"Never mind. You've told me enough."
"I think they were twins. And, man, were they a flexible pair. The one could wrap both legs around her-"
"You are such a pig."
"I'm a pig, you're girly—we're the perfect pair."
A glimpse of blue metal flashed over Danny's shoulder, and I sat up in my chair as Maguire's vintage Mustang pulled up in front of the apartment building.
"Oh yeah? Well, watch and learn, Porky. This is how Girly gets her mark."
Danny swiveled in his seat just in time to see Maguire—tall, wide, and all veiny muscles—slip into the third unit on the bottom row. I threw a twenty on the table, Danny grabbed his camera, and we sprinted across the street.
Homicide in High Heels Page 22