Homicide in High Heels (31 page)

"Give me that camera, bitch!"

I quickly pulled the other leg up, dropping with a
thud on the other side and took off running.

But unfortunately, since I wasn't hopped up on
muscle juice, Maguire was a whole lot faster. Three strides into
it, he caught me, pouncing from behind.

"Uhn!" I fell forward from the force, scraping my
hands as I hit the pavement.

"My fuckin' wife send you?" he spat out as he
flipped me over. He straddled me, his beefy hands pinning my wrists
to the ground.

I pushed against his weight, but there was no way I
was winning this wrestling match. I wriggled underneath his bulk,
twisting my head to the side to avoid his hot breath on my face. I
pushed up against his hands, causing him to shift his weight
forward as he continued to pin me. I pushed up again. Once more…
then quickly slid both arms straight down to my sides. Predictably,
his body pitched forward, face first. I lifted my forehead with a
jerk and head-butted him in the nose.

"Hell!" he yelled. Blood oozed from his nostrils,
stunning him, his hands immediately flying to his face. I took the
opportunity to kick my right leg upward and over his, flipping him
onto his back. Then sent a swift knife-hand chop to his neck,
hitting his carotid artery.

I stood up and quickly backed away as he gasped for
breath, wheezing like a sick animal.

As I labored to get my own panic-fueled breathing
back under control, Danny jogged around the side of the
building.

Gotta love the man's timing.

"Hey, you okay?" he asked.

"Yeah." I glanced down at my silk blouse. An ugly
red stain was spreading down the front. "But he ruined my
shirt."

Danny looked from me to Maguire, concern quickly
melting into a smile as he shook his head. "Jesus, I can't take you
anywhere, Bond."

* * *

After an afternoon with Maguire I needed a long, hot
shower and a drink. Not necessarily in that order.

Unfortunately, as soon as I got home I realized I
had racked up two more voicemails from Derek.

I dropped onto my sofa with a sigh. I thought about
ignoring them, but sadly, knowing Derek, that wouldn't make him go
away. Instead, I reluctantly keyed my pin number into the voicemail
system.

"Hey, it's me," came the first one, dated last
night. "Just checking in. How'd things go with the judge? Call
me."

I hit delete.

Even though Derek had officially retired to his
houseboat last year after being shot in the shoulder by a married
father of three caught with a Russian hooker in North Hollywood, he
still wanted a report on every mark. I'd like to think it was
because fishing in Marina Del Rey wasn't enough to occupy the mind
of a twenty-seven year veteran of the P.I. business and not because
he thought I needed checking up on.

That's what I'd
like
to think.

"Me again." Derek's voice filled my apartment as the
second message clicked on. "Aren't you back yet? What the hell is
taking so long? This was an in-and-out case, James. Don't tell me
you're still working him? It's nine-fifteen for Christ's sakes. I'd
have had him in twenty minutes. Call me."

I gave my phone the finger.

The next few messages followed in similar fashion,
growing increasingly pissed.

I deleted them all and crossed to the kitchen,
pulling out a white egg timer.

When I was seventeen and doing a shoot for
French
Vogue
in Cannes, I'd been stupid enough to try a line of coke
an over-friendly photographer had offered. I'd ended up in the
emergency room, not because of the coke, but because my high alter
ego had suddenly thought herself invincible and dove off the top
tier of a yacht into the Mediterranean in the middle of the night.
I'd broken two ribs and smashed my face into the rotor, which left
me bruised beyond the help of airbrushing for a month. My agent had
been furious. He'd sent me to therapy to make sure this kind of
"self destructive behavior" never dented his bank account
again.

The therapy, honestly, hadn't been all that bad.
Having someone actually look at me for me and not as a clothes
hanger was a novelty, and it had been nice to talk to someone who
was required to at least pretend to listen to me. Unlike Derek.

The best advice I'd taken away from the therapy was
to set limits when I talked to Derek. Take him in small doses.
Hence, the egg timer.

I wound the timer up for five minutes, took a deep
breath, and dialed his number.

It rang six times, and I was just about to give up
when a woman's voice answered.

"Yell-o?" she called. Followed by a cigarette
stained giggle.

"Is Derek in?"

"Who's askin'?" Her accent was part Valley Girl and
part trailer park, and I could hear a muffled male voice in the
background.

"Jamie."

"Well, Jamie, Derek is otherwise occ-u-pied," she
drew out the word. Then there was more muffled noise, followed by a
swatting sound and a high pitched, "Oh, you naughty boy."

I took another deep breath, inhaling patience. As
much as I wanted to hang up now, I knew it would only mean three
more messages by tomorrow.

"Would you please tell Derek that his
daughter
is on the line?"

The giggling stopped. "He didn't tell me about no
daughter."

"He never does," I murmured more to myself than
Derek's shocked flavor of the month.

I heard the phone being handed off, then Derek's
voice. "James, is that you?"

"Unless you have another daughter."

"Nothing's been proven yet."

"Ha ha. Very funny."

"Hey, cut the old man some slack, huh?"

"You left me six messages?" I prompted, hoping to
get this over with.

"Is that all it takes to get my daughter to call me
back these days? Just six."

"I was feeling generous."

"So, how did the judge thing go?" I could hear him
popping something in his mouth. Probably Cap'n Crunch, knowing
Derek. "Got anything yet? You know, James, you gotta move fast with
these high profile clients. They expect instant gratification, if
you know what I mean."

"Things went fine with the judge. We nailed him last
night."

"Hey, good for you, pal. So, which one of the Bond
Girls did you end up taking with you? That blonde one? God, she's
hot."

I tilted my head to the side, and checked my timer.
Three minutes left.

Shit.

Don't get me wrong, I love my dad. Honest. In fact,
I'd venture to say there wasn't a woman in all of L.A. County that
hadn't at one time or another fallen in love with Derek Bond. Think
L.A.'s answer to Magnum P.I. Laid back, charming, and a real man's
man. Unfortunately I'm a girl's girl, so you can see where we
butted heads.

Plus, there was the fact that, hoping I'd come out a
bouncing baby boy, Derek had named me James. James Bond. Yeah, I
know. How do you forgive a guy for something like that?

"She has a name, Derek. It's Caleigh. And, yes, I
took both her and Sam."

"Which one's Sam? The one with the legs?"

"They all have legs."

"Yeah, but not like hers, honey."

I looked at the timer. Two-thirty. "Don't you have
company to entertain, Derek?"

"You wouldn't be trying to get rid of your dear old
dad, would you?"

"Heaven forbid."

"All right, all right, I'll let you go, James. Just
tell me who you're working tomorrow?"

"Shankmann. Married seven years. Doing the nanny.
We're sitting on the place during his lunch break."

"We?"

"I'm taking Danny."

Derek paused, silence overtaking the other end of
the line. "I don't trust him, James."

"His photos are excellent, and you know it."

"I didn't say his pictures were bad. I said I didn't
trust the man. He's a player."

"Takes one to know one," I mumbled.

"What was that?"

"Nothing. Listen, Derek, I can handle Danny. I'm a
big girl. I'm a trained professional, remember?"

"I'll go with you."

"No!" I jumped up from the sofa, banging my shin on
the coffee table. "Ow! Shit."

"What was that?"

"Nothing," I mumbled rubbing my leg. I could feel an
unattractive lump growing there already. "Look, I'm doing Shankmann
at noon. I'm taking Danny.
You
are staying home with Miss
Tricks there, and if you don't, so help me God, I'll call Dr.
Pederson and remind him you haven't had your annual rectal
yet."

Derek chomped down hard on a Cap'n Crunch nugget.
"Oh that was a low blow, James."

"Hey, a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do."

"Fine. But call me when you nail him. And I mean it
this time!" he shouted, then hung up on me.

Just as the egg timer buzzed.

That's it, I
really
needed a drink.

* * *

After I'd counted to ten, done a couple calming yoga
breaths, and popped the top on a Corona, I flipped the TV on and
walked over to the windows, staring out at the valley below me.

When I'd moved here from New York three years ago,
I'd instantly fallen in love with this apartment, not because of
its size – lord knows the twelfth floor loft was one step up from a
shoe box – but because of the windows. They spanned the entire back
side of the open room, laying all of Hollywood sprawled out in
front of me. On particularly clear days, of which I admit there are
few below the smog level, I could see all the way from my point in
Studio City almost to the ocean.

As I drank in the view I vaguely heard the
newscaster ramble on from the TV about two shootings in Compton and
the fact it was going to be another scorching July day in the
triple digits tomorrow, but I tuned it all out. Instead, I watched
as the last remnants of day disappeared behind the horizon,
painting the sky a pale, dusky blue. One by one, twinkling lights
began dotting the landscape, anonymous beacons replacing the fading
shadows of palm trees and billboards. I closed my eyes, letting the
day melt away.

Until I heard the television spit out a familiar
name.

"... breaking news about Judge Thomas
Waterston."

I turned just in time to see the judge's picture
flash across the screen. In two quick strides I was across the
room, grabbing the remote and upping the volume.

"I repeat, this is breaking news, Tom," the young,
Hispanic newscaster said into her microphone.

"Do the police have any idea how long ago this may
have happened?" a male voice, presumably Tom, responded off
camera.

The reporter shook her head. "No. The police are
being very cautious at this point about what information they
release as this is breaking news."

"What is breaking news?" I demanded of the
screen.

"Do they have any leads so far?"

Again she shook her bobbed head. "They are talking
to witnesses who saw the judge at a charity fundraiser last night,
but beyond that, we really don't have much information at this
point, Tom."

The fundraiser? I felt the Corona burning in my
empty stomach. Mixing with a sensation that felt a lot like
dread.

The screen switched back to the newsroom, training
on a man sitting behind the anchor desk in a dark suit.

"Thank you, Soledad," he said with a practiced look
of concern. "Once again, for those of you just tuning in…"

I leaned forward and turned the volume up again.

"…the body of Judge Thomas Waterston has just been
found at the Beverly Hilton hotel. Police confirm that he died from
a gunshot wound to the head."

I stared openmouthed at the screen. Holy shit.

The wife killed him.

UNBREAKABLE BOND

available now!

Also available:

Unbreakable
Bond

Secret
Bond

Bond
Bombshell
(short story)

Lethal
Bond