Accomplice
Authors: 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.
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 some 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.