Fatal Bond

by Gemma Halliday

  "Have you gone to the police?" I asked.

  Candy nodded. "But I don't think they took me seriously," she said, confirming my earlier suspicions. "I don't think they even cared." A new onset of tears threatened.

  "Well, I care." I patted her hand and stood. I jerked open my door and waved Maya in. I then hurried to the other side of my desk to jot down everything Candy had told me. I didn't want to forget a single word. "Do you have a recent photo of Apple you can send me?" I asked.

  Candy nodded. "So you'll help?" Candy stood up on shaky legs and stared at me with watery eyes. She was still a blubbering mess, and rightfully so, but there was a lightness to her voice. As if she'd found the hope that the cops had stomped on.

  Oh, I planned on doing more than just helping.

  "I promise I'll find Apple."

  CHAPTER THREE

  After I walked Candy to the door, I gathered my troops.

  "Caleigh," I barked. "You're on the polygamy case. Follow the husband, Harold Hampshire, and find out if he's looking for a potential third wife."

  She nodded. "On it!"

  "Maya, I want you to assist Caleigh from here in digging into Harold Hampshire's life. Find out where he likes to hang out, where he works, what his habits are."

  She nodded as well, grabbing her tablet.

  "And see what you can find out on a Wendell Manchester too," I added. If the guy was really the high roller Candy seemed to think he was, I had a feeling his closet held a few skeletons. You didn't get to the top of the Hollywood heap by playing it straight and narrow. And the fact he'd hired strippers as ambience didn't speak to him being a Boy Scout.

  "Done," she agreed. She handed me a sheet from a memo pad. "While Candy was in your office, I did some light digging into Apple. This is her real name." She paused. "Well, hers and Candy's. I couldn't help being curious about hers once I saw Apple's. Anyway, I figured you'd want it if you were looking for Apple."

  She was right. I hadn't a clue what they were legally called. They were always simply Candy and Apple.

  Sam looked over my shoulder as I read the names.

  Candy had been born Ethel Mae Fleming, and Apple was Lucille Patricia Todd. Sam and I exchanged glances.

  "Lucy and Ethel?" I asked out loud. You had to be kidding me.

  "Yep," Maya said and shrugged. "Funny, right?"

  And here I'd thought "Candy" and "Apple" were a little too kitschy.

  "Where do you want me, boss?" Sam asked.

  "With me." I shook off the ironic comedy and turned to Sam. "You and I are going to visit Manchester. His house is the last place Apple was seen."

  * * *

  The ride to Bel Air happened in almost a blur. I was too busy thinking about Apple and how distraught Candy had been to pay much attention to the scenery or anything else other than the bumper of the car in front of me.

  Forty minutes later—thanks to the Monday traffic that was refusing to let up—we arrived at an estate that put many others to shame. A tall wrought iron gate surrounded the property, and beyond it was a long, curved driveway lined with palm trees. Before I could get a glimpse of what lay beyond that though, I had to get through the gate.

  "Nice digs," Sam said, nodding. "I could handle living in a place like this."

  "Sure, if you sold a kidney." I paused. "Or possibly your soul."

  Sam chuckled. "Hey, maybe the guy's a famous philanthropist."

  "With a thing for strippers?"

  I reached out my window and pressed the black button on the intercom. There was static for a moment.

  "May I help you?" asked a feminine voice.

  "We're here to see Mr. Manchester."

  "He doesn't have any appointments scheduled this morning." Her tone was curt and not swimming with friendliness.

  "We don't have an appointment. I'm Jamie Bond, a private investigator. I need to see Mr. Manchester about a woman who was at his party this weekend."

  The voice scoffed over the intercom. "Mr. Manchester is very busy."

  If this faceless voice thought she was going to deter me, she was very wrong. I wasn't leaving here simply because we weren't expected.

  "We just need to ask him a couple of questions about Saturday night," I said.

  "Like I said…" the woman started.

  I really didn't care what she had said, but I figured stating that wasn't going to endear us to her. "Fine. If Mr. Manchester won't see us now, we can wait and catch him on his way out."

  Sam rolled her eyes. No one wanted to sit in a car all morning. Stakeouts were hot, boring, and cramped every part of your body. Not to mention, I had nothing edible in my car. Honestly, I was halfway bluffing.

  But the woman in the speaker didn't need to know that.

  "We'll just follow him around town to his next appointment or meeting," I said. "Show up at his dentist's office. Maybe we'll meet up with him for his next colonoscopy."

  Sam smirked.

  I projected my words louder just in case she missed any. "Wherever he goes, we'll be right behind him simply because we can't get five minutes now."

  "Fine," the woman shouted. "But just five minutes."

  Victory! I'd no doubt she was going to time us too.

  The gate buzzed and then slid open, and I drove up the paved path.

  The trees were spaced evenly, and past them we could make out a lush lawn. The end of the road opened to a water fountain in the center of a circular drive, with a three-car garage and a two-story Italianate home with a balcony in the center of the second floor. A red Ferrari was parked in front of the right closed garage door.

  I could imagine Candy and Apple's excitement as they'd pulled up the other night. This was a far cry from the regular Spotted Pony crowd.

  "This is stunning," Sam said as we stepped from my car. "How much do you think it costs to cool a place this size?"

  "Thousands," I guessed. AC in LA wasn't cheap.

  The massive front door opened, and a petite woman with dark auburn hair worn in a bun and a cream-colored suit stepped outside. She shut the door behind herself, and I realized she had no intention of letting us in the house.

  We'd see about that.

  I held out my hand. "I'm Jamie Bond from the Bond Agency, and this is my associate, Samantha Cross."

  "Stephanie Palmer, Mr. Manchester's personal assistant," she offered. Though she did not shake my hand.

  "We'd like to speak with Mr. Manchester."

  "I don't believe that's necessary. I can answer any of your questions."

  That, I doubted. I had a hard time picturing this severe woman at Manchester's party with dancing girls, horny power-player friends, and flowing champagne. Chances were, she was either oblivious or turned a blind eye to his after-hours activities. Neither of which would help us find Apple.

  "I'm sorry, but we need to speak with him directly. It's about a woman."

  "Yes, you mentioned that." Stephanie stiffened her shoulders back. "But like I said, he is unavailable right now."

  Sam cleared her voice. "Actually you said he didn't have any appointments this morning. That would mean he's not busy and should be available."

  I nearly smirked but managed to keep my face straight.

  Stephanie scoffed, clearly not amused by Sam's observations. "Mr. Manchester is sleeping right now. He left strict instructions not to be disturbed."

  So he was here.

  "You can leave your number, and I'll have him get back to you," Stephanie said. She didn't say "when pigs fly," but it was implied by her clipped tone.

  "Do you know this woman?" Sam asked, holding up her phone with a picture of Apple on it.

  Stephanie gave it a quick glance. "No."

  "She was here on Saturday," I told her. "She's a friend of ours."

  "Well, she's not here now," Stephanie said. "The party's over. Finally," she added.

  "We'd like to look around," I told her.

  She shook her head. "Impossible. Mr. Manchester is recovering from his weekend of
entertaining. He is sound asleep, and I'm not disturbing him."

  She was only doing her job, but I was growing less fond of her by the minute.

  "Listen, we are investigating a serious incident that we believe occurred at Mr. Manchester's party. Our friend was one of his hired dancers," I told her. I was hesitant to give her details yet, as I wasn't sure what, exactly, we were investigating other than Apple being MIA.

  "Incident?" Stephanie blinked rapidly, obviously surprised by my words.

  That was good. It meant that if Wendell was holding Apple hostage somewhere on the grounds, Stephanie didn't know about it. And she looked like the type who didn't let much get past her.

  "What are you talking about?" she asked. "What sort of incident?"

  "We'd rather not say. Client confidentiality," Sam added.

  She shook her head. "I'm sorry, but I don't know how I can help you—"

  "You can let us look around," I cut her off. I smiled my biggest, toothiest grin. "Or, we can get our friends at the ADA's office to issue a warrant, and they can come look around…" Largely another bluff. While I did have one very good friend in particular at the ADA's office, there were no grounds to issue a warrant yet. But I mentally crossed my fingers it would work.

  She looked from me to Sam, no doubt trying to gauge how serious we were. Finally my poker face must have won her over.

  "Fine," she said, practically growling the word. She turned and placed her hand on the doorknob. "There's no reason to get the police involved. You can come in and look around, but do not touch a single thing, and be very quiet. I do not want to disturb Mr. Manchester. Do you understand?"

  "Perfectly." I displayed a brief smile. Partly to show I could play nice too, but mostly because I'd won that round and the grin had a life of its own.

  The foyer was as grand as one would imagine. White marble flooring with an enormous and expensive-looking chandelier, a table below an ornate mirror, and a winding staircase that led to what looked like a generous second floor landing. Two framed paintings hung on the wall above the stairs. Each was of a man in a suit from an earlier period of time, perhaps Manchester ancestors frowning down upon practices of the current generation.

  A drinking glass sat on the table, but other than that and a small potted plant to the side of the door, the area looked pretty sparse. I planned to check out the closet under the stairs, but there were no bodies to the naked eye.

  We stepped to our left, into what I assumed was the living room, but I wasn't quite sure considering the state of it. There was the fireplace, sofa, love seat, and tables, but glasses, plates, and napkins littered every surface. A pair of heavy brass table lamps flanked the sofa, but one was missing a shade and the other lay on its side on the floor. It looked as if someone had opened a can of silly string. Bits of neon blue, green, pink, and yellow had been smushed into the Oriental rug in the center of the room. That wasn't going to be cheap to clean.

  "Must've been some party," Sam mumbled.

  Stephanie made a sound in the back of her throat.

  "Does Mr. Manchester employ a housekeeper?" I asked.

  Stephanie rubbed her forehead right above her brow, as if my words or our presence was giving her a headache.

  "They come late on Mondays," Stephanie said. "Mr. Manchester likes to sleep in after the weekend."

  I pretended I didn't notice her pointed look in my direction.

  We walked through a dining room, with its dark wood wainscoting, a mahogany table with enough chairs for an army, and another heavy chandelier. The thick burgundy and gold trim drapes sat shut. There were no frills. No china cabinet, knickknacks, or plants. Both rooms were well furnished, but neither had a feminine touch. Clearly Wendell didn't have a wife or live-in girlfriend.

  The kitchen had to have been the worst room. In addition to the dirty dishes, there were trays of half-eaten, obviously rotting food on the counters. Shriveled-up stuffed mushrooms, tiny dry meatballs on skewers, twisty cheese straws, and mini brownie bites. The last one was the only item that looked like it had survived sitting out for almost two days, not that I would tempt fate and eat one.

  Across from the kitchen was Wendell's study, which Stephanie said no one was allowed to access.

  I quirked a brow, to let her know that wouldn't stop me.

  She sighed, opened the door a few inches, and quickly turned the overhead light on and then off before I could see every corner. But I saw enough to tell Apple wasn't asleep on a sofa, too hung over to call her best friend. We followed Stephanie into the next room, which housed a black baby grand piano, another fireplace, a sofa, and a smattering of armless upholstered chairs. There was minimal debris in here—just a few wineglasses and some napkins. Clearly no one had partied much in the piano room. Not the Chopin-loving crowd?

  Six more rooms later, I was totally lost, but I was I pretty certain that wherever Apple was, it wasn't there.

  "That's the entirety of the first floor, and as you can see, no one is here," Stephanie said, echoing my thoughts.

  "I was told the party took place near the pool?" I asked.

  Surprisingly she didn't sigh or roll her eyes but led us back toward the trashed living room. She opened a pair of French doors and stepped aside as we entered the backyard.

  If the living room looked like teenagers had taken over while Mom and Dad were away, the back of the house was even worse. A large expanse of lawn was being diligently mowed several yards away by a gardener in a large khaki hat. Palm trees, flowering bushes, and other native California fauna were artfully landscaped around the home's perimeter. And a resort-worthy swimming pool sat in the middle of the impressive grounds—every inch of which was littered in the aftermath of what must have been one heckuva party. There was even a wine bottle and a couple of champagne flutes floating in the water. One thing was for sure—with the upended state of the house in general, there was no way to tell if an altercation had taken place here.

  "Are the parties always this wild?" I asked.

  Stephanie leaned against the doorframe. Her eyes darted away for half a second. I wouldn't have noticed if I hadn't been watching her.

  "I don't attend my employer's parties." It was said with a note of disgust. Clearly she didn't approve of her employer's weekend activities. Though, whether it was the mess, the debauchery, or the kidnapping of innocent girls, I couldn't tell.

  "Why is that?" Sam asked. "You not get an invitation?" She was goading her.

  And it worked. Stephanie barked out a laugh without humor. "Please! Let me guess—this 'friend' of yours probably wears short skirts and skimpy tops and balances herself on five-inch heels."

  They were more like four, but who was counting?

  Sam placed a hand on her hip. "And?"

  Stephanie stood straight, back to the stick up her you-know-what stance. "And I'm not interested in watching grown men stare at scantily clad women half their age degrading themselves. Not my idea of a good time."

  I glanced up, noticing a small black sphere mounted just under the eaves of the roof. "Do you have security cameras all around the property?"

  She nodded. "Yes, and inside too."

  I shot Sam a look. "We need to see that footage."

  "Impossible," Stephanie said, using her favorite word again. "Mr. Manchester has the system shut off during his parties."

  I blinked at her. "You're kidding?"

  "I wish I was." She sighed. "But he feels they would inhibit his guests from enjoying themselves." She shot us a knowing look. "If you know what I mean."

  "I'd like to speak to your boss," I told her.

  Before I even completed my sentence, she was shaking her head. "Absolutely not. Look, I let you inside. I answered your questions."

  "What about upstairs," Sam said.

  "I think I've been more than accommodating," Stephanie told us.

  "Do you think the police will agree?" I threatened. "This is an open investigation." Which might have been a stretch. It had been reported to th
e police, but whether or not anyone was actively investigating—other than us—was up for debate.

  But we'd apparently pushed Stephanie as far as we were going to, as she just shook her head again. "I'm sorry, but this nonsense has gone on long enough. I've indulged your curiosity, but I will not have you disturbing Mr. Manchester. If the police want to nose through his guest rooms, have them come back with a search warrant."

  I sent a surrender look Sam's way. She'd called our bluff. Not much more we could do.

  "Please have Mr. Manchester call me when he wakes up," I asked, handing her my card as we followed her back through the house.

  Stephanie took it, but I figured there was only a 50/50 chance it wouldn't end up in the trash.

  "What do you think?" Sam asked as we drove off the estate.

  I shook my head. "I don't think Apple is still there," I decided. "With the assistant and housekeepers coming in and out of the house, I don't see how someone could hide her there."

  "So, you think someone did hide her?" Sam asked carefully.

  Honestly? I didn't know. I still half expected Apple to call us from a Vegas chapel saying she'd gone on a whirlwind romance with some hot guy she'd met at the party.

  "I think we don't rule anything out yet," I told Sam.

  "So, what next?"

  "Candy gave me Apple's apartment key. Let's check it out."

  * * *

  Apple lived in Hollywood, just south of the trendy part and bordering the bars-on-the-windows part. It was a small one-bedroom apartment on the fifth floor of a building that looked like it had last been updated back when Marilyn Monroe was still Norma Jean. Faded beige stucco clung to the outside, while faded flocked wallpaper lined the lobby. We said a silent prayer in the elevator that stuttered up all five floors, and made our way down a dimly lit hallway to Apple's door.

  This living room was vastly different from the last one we'd stepped into.

  Apple's decor was lime green, white, and aqua blue, and had a very beachy vibe—from the blue sofa with white and green accent pillows to the collection of seashells in a clear glass bowl on the coffee table. She might not have been able to afford the Ritz, but she'd made what she had feel comfortable and inviting. A TV on a stand, a few tables, and a floor lamp were all diagonally situated on the off-white carpet. Apple must've had a thing for Feng Shui because nothing stood perpendicular to the room itself.