Текст книги "Tangled Bond"

Автор книги: Emma Hart

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

“He doing it?” he asks, cutting through my moment. He looks over his shoulder at me.

“He said so.” I shrug and put my cup on the coffee table, sitting on the edge of the sofa. My elbows rest on my knees, and my fingers brush as my hands fall limply in front of me. “I hope so,” I add. “Because, if not, I don’t know how we’re supposed to move forward unless we get the FBI to hunt him down.”

Drake laughs quietly, leaving the window and joining me on the sofa. “That’s a little drastic at this point in the investigation, cupcake.”

“I know.” I sigh when the sofa cushion dips with his added weight. “It doesn’t matter though, does it? The chance of it being as simple as Nick being her killer is completely outrageous.”

“You’ve watched too much TV.”

Now, it’s my turn to laugh softly. I knock my elbow against his. “No, I’ve seen too many investigations where the people figuring it out have gone around and around more times than an expertly twisted spinning top on a tile floor.”

He wraps his arm around my shoulder, pulling me into his side. “We’ll figure this out. You’re the only woman on this team.”

“No pressure, then,” I drawl. “I don’t know. Lena’s investigation consumed me for weeks. I can already feel myself obsessing over Natalie’s murder. Like, I’m seriously pissed off that this little bastard Nick has disappeared off the face of the Earth and that I can’t grill the shit outta the mayor and his daughter until someone has found Nick. But then I want to scour through the club’s membership files myself and retrace her steps from the time when my brother left her house to when she was killed. I want to do it all. Isn’t that crazy?”

“No,” he says simply. “You’re an investigator, as much as it’s a pain in my fuckin’ ass.”

I elbow him again.

“You wanna know everything and you wanna know it now. You’re like a damn toddler with candy.”

“Or a grown woman with cupcakes.”

“I’ll refer you back to my toddler comment.”

I click my tongue against the roof of my mouth and knock his arm from my shoulders. “Prick.”

“Pain in the ass.”

“You already used that.”

“I know.”

“Y’all fightin’ already?” Bek appears in the doorway.

“What are you doing here?” I look at her.

“Needed some files for that Jenner-Miller case. Caught Brody on his way back from McDonalds.” She grins. “He had half the restaurant in his passenger’s seat.”

“I’m really not surprised,” I snort.

“Uh…” Carlton appears behind Bek. “Sorry. I don’t want to interrupt.”

“Oh, you’re not. Bek, this is Carlton, our new tech guy. Carlton, this is Rebekah, my best friend and another investigator.”

They shake hands and murmur pleasantries.

“Did you find it?”

“The number? Yeah. And their address, all of their jobs, and the last used locations of Nick’s credit card.”

Drake gets up and holds his hands out for the papers. Carlton hands them over, and I get the feeling he’s a little intimidated by Drake. There’s no shame in that. I would be, too, if I didn’t have a freaky hate-sex relationship with the man.

Drake’s lips curve to the side, and he drops the papers on my legs. “Arkansas my fuckin’ ass.”

I frown and turn the sheet the right way up. My eyes fall to the credit card records from the last twenty-four hours, including transactions pending. It was last used in the sandwich shop next to the tattoo studio I thought closed four years ago. It’s just outside town, and he apparently works there.

“Can you get the appointment list for there? For today?” I add, noting the opening times.

“I can try.” Carlton disappears again. Two minutes later, he comes back with his computer in tow. “They don’t use anything online. You have to call them.”

“Okay.” Drake looks between me and Bek. “Bek, I need you to go down there and see if they have anything for tomorrow with Nick. If they say yes, book something. If not, ask to see the appointment list for the rest of the week. Get a name of a woman scheduled tomorrow and we’ll do the rest, all right?”

Bek looks at me. “Do I get paid, too?”

“Sure. The extras are coming from the mayor, not me.” I shrug.

“All right,” she agrees. “Lemme grab my files and I’ll head down there.” She disappears up the stairs.

“You want some homework?” I direct to Carlton, standing up.

“Sure. My roommate will only make me watch dumb reality TV.”

“Perfect.” Then I tell him exactly what I want him to do. With the promise of overtime pay, courtesy of Mayor McDougall, of course.

After we’d found the mayor and family not at home, we called it a day, and I went home alone for a hot date with the finding power of social media and a bottle of wine.

Now, I’m regretting the wine, but not my late-night soiree with Facebook and Instagram. Like the credit card reports, Nick has been in town the whole time. His posts on Instagram the last few days have all been of tattoos. Some of them were captioned as throwbacks, but the background looks awfully similar to one of the latest ones he noted as brand new.

Bek’s visit to the studio also gave us our in. Their morning was open after only recently deciding to open on Mondays to make it seven days a week, which is why I’m out of bed by nine and driving out of town to the studio.

I don’t think he did it. But you know. I wanna know if he was stalking her at the very least. And he does have the whole got-away-with-murder thing hanging over him. I didn’t really pay much attention when Drake said it¸ but as it turns out, it was a pretty serious situation. He was eighteen, just graduated, and he and some friends broke into a store. The robbery was armed, but since there was no video proof he held, or shot, the gun, despite the testimonies of his friend—who the gun belonged to—he got away with a couple years in jail and that was that. He moved to Austin right after, then to Holly Woods.

I pull up outside the building and notice Bek’s car already here. She gets out when I kill my engine and mutters something about needing more overtime pay since it’s on the mayor.

I laugh. Yeah, it doesn’t work like that. Only on days off or he’ll dispute my invoice.

The tattoo studio is small and run down. It’s not exactly the well-kept establishment I envisioned when I found out they have to open seven days a week to keep up with demand, but hey. I’ll reserve full judgment until I’ve been inside. I’ll try to anyway, because the rusted sign proclaiming it to be Nick’s Tattoo Studio screwed slightly wonkily into a wall covered with cracked, dirty, white paint doesn’t do much for my confidence.

“Nice place,” Bek tries, the twisting of her lips to her betraying her words.

“Yeah, if you come from the Amazon,” I mutter, pushing the door open.

The radio is on low, and the scent of jasmine hits me. Thankfully, it seems like the outside appearance really isn’t reflective of the interior. Tattoo designs line the walls, and a black leather sofa is in the corner in front of a glass coffee table covered with magazines. Hell, switch the sofa color to red and you have my waiting area. To our right is a waist-high reception counter, and sitting behind it is a guy with dreads that fall long past his shoulders, a septum piercing, and tattoos peeking up from his collar.

“Can I help you?”

“Uh…yes.” Bek walks up to him. “I have an appointment. With Nick?”

“Name?”

“Rebekah.”

“Sure,” Dreads drawls. “Take a seat and—”

“I’m here. Come on in.” Nick appears in the doorway, and. Um. Oh. Shit.

Nick is hot.

And I ain’t talking about his body temperature.

I’m talking brown hair, green eyes, cheekbones-chiseled-into-next-week kinda hot.

“Sure,” Bek replies, her voice cracking. She clears her throat and throws me a holy-shit look over her shoulder.

Holy shit is right. And I am so going to hell.

Nick closes the door behind us and leans against it. His eyes turn calculating as he sweeps his gaze across us, eventually settling it on me.

Uh oh. Busted.

“There’s only one reason a Bond would walk into my studio, and since you’re the only one without cuffs, I’ll save you the awkward explanation about why you’re here.”

“I’m assuming you got my message.”

“Yeah, I got your message.”

“And you didn’t return it because…?”

He laughs derisively. “Because I couldn’t give a shit about my fucked-up ex. That’s why.”

I lick my lips. “Nick… You have heard, haven’t you?”

“That someone bumped her off?” He raises one eyebrow. “Yeah. Not gonna say I’m surprised, darlin’. She messed with the wrong people in the wrong place.”

I’m gonna come back to that one. “What do you know about her stalker?”

“That she was certain it was me, but not enough to leave me the fuck alone. Trust me, I’ve been tryin’ for weeks to get her crazy ass off my damn back.”

“Wait, what?” Bek asks. “She told Noelle she hadn’t spoken to you since she ended your relationship.”

“Since she ended it?” He laughs again. “Little miss fuckin’ perfect strikes again, eh?”

I smile tightly. “Why don’t you tell me what happened?”

“What happened is that Nat was a whore, pure and simple.” He swigs from a bottle of Diet Pepsi. “She couldn’t keep her legs shut. She had her membership at that stupid dom club when we met, but I made her stop going. She did for a while. Then she started again. Something about her sexual needs being more than I could give her. Whatever, yeah? We were happy otherwise, so I told her she could do that shit once a week if I could do what I wanted the same night. It worked. She got her sadist kicks and I got my cock sucked by someone who actually knew what to do with it.”

Delightful.

“’Cept she got dumb. Started lyin’ to me about where she was goin’ and who she was lettin’ tie her up or whatever the fuck it is they do in that place. She started screwin’ people she had no business screwin’ with. Took it past our one-night-a-week agreement. She got addicted to that place and her sick fetishes, so I ended it. Told her to keep her fantasies the fuck away from me.”

“What about the baby?” I question, rubbing my bottom lip with my thumb. “Did y’all make arrangements for that? Buying things, doctor’s appointments, what’d happen after she gave birth, stuff like that?

“Why would I?” He snorts. “She told me the kid was mine, but I ain’t that stupid. I made sure we used condoms when I found out she was letting every Tom, Dick, and fucking Spartacus ride her pussy bareback.”

Straight to the point, this one. He’s so sour that not even Willy Wonka and his army of Oompa Loompas could sweeten him up.

“So, you aren’t the father?” I frown. “Earlier you said she was messing with people she shouldn’t have been. What did you mean?”

Nick runs his tongue over his teeth, his eyes hardening. “People you probably shouldn’t be messin’ with, either.”

“Unless they’re a branch of the mafia or a Mexican cartel, I think I’ll take my chances, thanks.”

His lips tug up. “She was sleepin’ her way to the top. She craved power. She was a manipulator through and through. And that baby was her ticket to the top…to have power over the people already there.”

“Call me stupid,” Bek starts, looking at me.

“Oh I’d call you plentya things, darlin’, but stupid ain’t one of ’em.” Nick grins.

I roll my eyes when a flush creeps up her cheeks.

“You’re not making sense,” she continues, despite her obvious embarrassment. “There isn’t much power in Holly Woods, at least nothing worth having compared to other places. If she wanted power, why not leave?”

“Because she was set for life. Her old man left her that pretty little house so she didn’t have to pay a cent toward it.”

“Nick,” I say, stepping forward. “If you know who the father of that baby was, then I need to know, too. If you’re right and she was manipulating someone, there’s a very real chance they’re her killer or at least connected.”

The smirk on his face is cruel. It’s evil and heartless, and I’d bet my newest pair of Jimmy Choos that she wasn’t the only manipulator in their relationship.

“She was fucking the mayor,” he says quietly, but every word is spit with anger in the most bitter, derogatory way I’ve heard in a long time. “He fathered that little runt inside her. He spent as much time at that sick club as she did, and he always thought he could get away with it. But he won’t. The truth will come out. It always does.”

Someday, I will find a dead body in Holly Woods and their murderer will be standing in front of them, ready to be taken to the police station, guilty plea intact.

Someday, someone will slap me and tell me to stop damn well dreaming. Until that day, however, I will sit here at my desk with every one of Natalie’s contracts from D.O.M. and read until my eyes bleed.

I’m also gonna eat my cupcake, ’cause, well, yeah. We might have taken a detour to Gigi’s in Austin while I called Drake to update him before coming back to the office. As it is, I came back to a stack of contracts with more pages than most standard romance novels waiting for me.

That’s an exaggeration. They’re not that long. They feel like it, though. I really wish they’d read like it though. These contracts, for all of their clauses about nipple clamps and anal beads and floggers, are really kind of boring. They could use a swoony, long-haired man on the front of a scandalous bodice-ripper.

Oh, who am I kidding? They need a ripped-as-hell guy pulling on some chick’s hair. And that’s on the cover.

I’ve read through three of the twenty and haven’t found anything about erotic asphyxiation. It’s not even mentioned in the list of “acceptable practices” D.O.M. lists in the documents. I think my father was right when he said that it wouldn’t be something they’d allow due to the high risks involved with the activity.

Personally, I don’t get it. The page on my laptop in front of me mentions the biggest reason for it—to increase pleasure—and the methods used. And those? Hell, those are…worrying. There’s the “normal” strangulation with something like the tie that killed Natalie, suffocation with a pillow, but then it goes to solvents, hanging, and using a plastic bag over the head.

Takes the phrase “only if there was a paper bag over their head” to a whole new level, if you ask me. Except that thought is kinda inappropriate, so it’s probably a good thing no one has asked me.

I break into the cupcake with my fork and scoop the chocolate sponge into my mouth. I’m pretty sure I’m going to have a sugar overdose by the end of the day, but you know.

My phone buzzes and the screen lights up with a text. I hit the notification blindly and swipe to unlock it. I don’t care if this thing has fingerprint recognition. I don’t have the damn patience to mess around with that every time I need to do something on it. The message is from Drake, and I groan.

Found anything?

I pick my phone up and respond: Discovered the cure for diabetes and undeniable proof of alien life.

The reply comes through almost instantly. I don’t know if you’re hilarious or just pissing me off.

I’m pissing you off hilariously.

Are you reading those contracts? The whips sound real tempting right now…

Aren’t you supposed to be interviewing the mayor?

He doesn’t reply after that.

“Ha!” I fist-pump the air and flick contract number four open. My fork has sunk into my cake once more when my office door sneaks open and a familiar icy-blue eye peeks through the crack. “Oh, piss off,” I mutter, ignoring him.

Drake laughs, coming in. “Surprise?”

“Not a good one.” I lick the cake off the fork’s prongs, and his eyes darken instantly. “Nope.” I point my fork at him. “Nope, nope, nope. What do you want now?”

“For you to come do interviews with me.”

“Isn’t that supposed to be Trent’s job?”

“No. Trent’s job was to reconstruct the hours before her death, and they’ve been staring at security tapes for the last six hours.” He drops himself onto one of my chairs and runs his fingers through his hair. “Dev was the last to leave Natalie’s house at approximately ten a.m., but between then and noon, we don’t know where she was. At noon, she checked into the Oleander with campaign materials. At twelve fifteen, she went into her room, and at twelve thirty, Mrs. McDougall knocked on her door and disappeared inside. After that, there’s a period where the tapes go fuzzy, but it clearly shows a figure on the floor at one fifteen and another at one forty-five.”

“Why would the mayor’s wife be visiting her?”

“Work, we assume. She did drop off campaign materials. For all we know, there was an issue Alyssa McDougall needed to discuss.”

“I suppose.” I pause, scooping more cake onto my fork. When I look back at Drake, I get what he wants. “You want me to interview her.”

“Correction: I want you to come with me.”

“Why? The mayor told me to basically arrest Nick and not investigate. Questioning his wife isn’t the smartest… Wait a minute.” I drop my fork, and it clatters against the desk. “You want me to come with you and tell her that we’re only interviewing her because the mayor would hate to have her name smeared through the mud if anyone saw her entering the hotel room.”

Drake’s eyes light up. “Bingo.”

“I don’t know why I let you talk me into this shit.”

“You’re blinded by my superior wit and charm.”

“The only charm you possess, Detective Nash, is one worthy of being pooped on by seagulls.” I sniff and look up at the house in front of us.

Can we say whoa?

Yes we can, as long as you insert a “fucking” before it.

Because fucking whoa.

The mayor’s house is huge. It needs to be in Hollywood. I didn’t even know these kinds of houses existed in small-town Texas, but apparently, they do. The three stories are in a perfect rectangle, and the sculpted, spherical bush-tree-plant thingies lining the drive are begging me to find a branch out of place.

Go on, you annoyingly symmetrical balls. One leaf. That’s all I want.

I don’t get the leaf.

By the time we pull up in the circle outside the mansion complete with a water fountain, I’m ready to take a match to my own quaint house, say, “Fuck this shit,” and move back in with my parents.

Wait. No. That isn’t something that’s happening on any day of ever.

“Does she know we’re coming?”

Drake glances at me. “Possibly.”

“Well, that’s a no.” I sigh when he kills the engine. “Do you have all of your necessary legal crap?”

“Do I have my badge and a search warrant? Yes.”

“Does it ever bother you how quickly Judge Barnes signs off on his warrants?”

Drake holds his arms out. “No.”

“Shut up.” I jab my finger against the doorbell. The very classic ding-dong echoes through the majestically carved front door and toward us. It’s loud. Real loud. I guess it has to be when you’re knocking on the door of Holly Woods’ answer to the White House.

The door opens slowly and Mrs. Alyssa McDougall appears in the gap between the door and the frame. Her brown hair is swept back into an elegant ballerina bun, her hazel eyes lined with mascara that makes her eyelashes pop outward, and her lips are perfectly painted in red lipstick.

“I wondered how long it’d be until y’all showed your faces,” she says, her bright-red lips curving. “Come in, Detective Nash, Noelle. Can I get y’all a drink?”

“We’re fine. Thank you, ma’am,” Drake replies.

Speak for yourself. “Can I have a glass of water, please?” I ask.

“Absolutely. Let’s take a seat and one will be brought in to you.” She elegantly waves an arm toward a room to her left.

I follow Drake’s lead into it. It’s exquisitely decorated, from the detailed ceiling to the painted canvases on the walls and the Queen Anne–style furniture.

Shit me. I’ve stepped into an antique showroom.

“Please, take a seat.” Alyssa smooths her pencil skirt down and sits on one of the sofas, crossing one leg over the other. “I’m assuming y’all are here on an official capacity having seen me enter Natalie’s room on Saturday, so I’m open to any questions you have.”

Her eyes focus on me.

They linger for a moment too long.

“Why did you go to her room?” I ask. “She isn’t on the public council payroll.”

“She’s my daughter’s best friend who recently went through a nasty breakup, Noelle. Why wouldn’t I see her?”

“Because she owns a house outright and would have, as your daughter’s best friend, spent time with Madison since the breakup.” No way am I telling her that it isn’t what she thinks.

“My daughter and I lead entirely different lives. I see her only when it suits her.”

“Except for the fact that she works for your husband, her father, in his building, five days a week, plus overtime, with benefits.”

“Just because she does doesn’t mean I do, Ms. Bond.”

“I was Noelle three minutes ago. What changed?”

“You interrogated me like I’m a common criminal.”

I lean forward, ignoring her entitled, affected gaze. “Well, Mrs. McDougall, I don’t see that my questioning should bother you. If you have nothing to hide, you have no reason to be offended by my enquiries.”

“No, but I can request you have official representation.”

“In case that escaped your notice, ma’am, I’m sitting next to the chief of homicide and have your husband’s signature on a contract giving me the same powers as the HWPD to investigate Natalie’s murder for the sake of your daughter.” I pause, watching the annoyance leave her eyes as my words sink in. “So you can tell me what I want to know or I can tell your husband that I recommend Detective Nash and Sheriff Bates put his wife on the official list of suspects. Your choice.”

The silence that stretches between us is long and tense.

“Your talent is wasted as a private investigator, Noelle. You should be on the police force and telling your brothers what to do.” Alyssa’s lips move into a smile.

“You might be correct, but I much prefer being my own boss. Besides, I get paid far more.” I bite my thumbnail. “Can I count on you to tell me what you know, or am I beating my forehead against a brick wall?”

Alyssa sighs, leaning back and linking her fingers. Her outfit miraculously remains uncreased. “Natalie worked for the council on a contractual basis. She was paid for miscellaneous jobs, such as paperwork, reception, design, cleaning, campaign work. On Saturday, she was due to deliver one thousand promotional flyers to me before the debate, but only six hundred turned up. I went to her room to enquire as to the whereabouts of the missing four hundred.”

“What did happen to them?”

She shrugs, one arm to the side. “Who knows? She insisted she didn’t.”

“Did you fight?”

“Physically? No, of course not. Verbally? Words were exchanged, yes.”

Fuck, I wanna ask if her if she knew she was sleeping with her husband.

“Was she lying?” I ask, sitting back. “In your personal opinion, of course. Did you feel she was being dishonest about the flyers?”

“Perhaps,” she replies cryptically. “I don’t count myself well versed in bodily signals regarding honesty.”

That explains why she’s been married to the mayor for so long.

“Mrs. McDougall,” Drake cuts in. “If you have any information about what happened on Saturday, we’d really appreciate it. The police department is very sensitive of the impact this could have on Mayor McDougall’s latest campaign. We respect him highly, and I know I speak for us all when I say we’d love to see him stay on for another term as mayor. We’re looking to get this case wrapped up as quickly as possible to minimize the possible damage.”

“Why, Detective,” Alyssa drawls, “that sounds like you read it right off my husband’s latest speech.”

“He must have excellent taste, ma’am.”

I want to throw up.

“Detective Nash, with all due respect,” she continues, “I don’t trust y’all as far as I can throw you. I can barely throw the dog’s tennis ball these days, so I don’t fancy my chances against you. While I understand that Ms. Bond is working with y’all, I’d real appreciate it if you could step outside for a moment so I can finish my conversation with her.”

Well. Shit.

Drake looks at me. I smile sweetly before mouthing a quick, “Go!” at him.

“Very well, ma’am. I hope you’re well.”

Alyssa inclines her head toward him, a perfectly polite smile on her face.

What could she want to discuss with me? And does she expect me not to tell them? Because…ugh. If they question me formally, which is something Trent at least would do, then her cats are let out of the bag and free to mate.

The door shuts behind Drake and Alyssa visibly relaxes. “Fucking cops,” she sighs.

Double, well, shit.

“Is it awkward if I agree with you?”

Alyssa laughs and stands up, moving around the sofa with several clicks of her heels against the polished wooden floor toward the bar in the back corner. She lifts the bottle of gin, pours a measure into glass, then tops it up with tonic water.

“Can I offer you one?”

What the hell. The glass of water never showed up. “Sure.” I join her at the bar as she drops the empty tonic water bottle into the trash can.

Her red, manicured fingernails stand out against the clear liquid in her glass. “Randy was right,” she says quietly, referring to her husband. Her eyes creep up to meet mine. “This case should be solved quickly and quietly, and not because of the bullshit propaganda Detective Nash spewed to me. Just because it’s worth it to many people for this to be closed quickly and quietly.”

“If the person who killed Natalie agreed, her murder would have been staged to be suicide. She would have been made to look responsible for her strangling, not still have been tied to the bed.”

She takes a deep breath, sorrow deep in her eyes. “Believe me,” she whispers, looking into her glass. “Except my daughter, no one other than me wishes this could be solved perfectly. I’d give any of me to see Natty’s killer come to justice, but I don’t know how I can help you, Noelle.”

“By telling me what you know. Exactly what you know.”

She takes a long drink from her glass, draining it, then sets it down. “My husband has long been…adventurous…in our marriage,” she admits, her voice cracking at the word adventurous. “It sounds like insanity, does it not? That I’d still be here after forty years, allowing him to play his games?”

“Yes,” I admit honestly. “I couldn’t imagine being with someone who didn’t look at me and see his entire universe.”

“You’re a romantic, honey. I’m a realist. When Randy first cheated, I saw our daughter, the empire we had and were building. It was too much to throw away on simple misdemeanors.”

“Simple misdemeanors? You don’t classify him spitting on your vows and tearing them apart as deal breakers?”

“At first? Yes. After? No. This isn’t an open relationship by any means, Noelle. I know about every little escapade he has with a woman, but I’ve never once stepped out on him. I know my place in our marriage.”

She knows her place? What the fuck is this? The nineteen fucking fifties?

Why has no one told her to leave his cheating son-of-a-bitch ass inside the washing machine she could take him to the cleaners with?

“And your place is at his side as his equal,” I say quietly but strongly. “Alyssa, you don’t have to take his shit. You don’t have to be the doormat he wipes his dick on when he’s done with whatever he wants outside of the vows he unequivocally promised you.”

She takes a deep breath. Long and audible, she breathes in, finally, drawing her eyes to me from the window. “I know. But it isn’t that easy.”

I take my purse from the sofa I was sitting on and pull my card from the silver holder. I hand her the thick rectangle containing my details. “Here’s my card. If you think of anything, and I mean anything, day or night, pertaining to our investigation, please don’t hesitate to call me.” I meet her eyes, and I hope I can portray the message I want to. I hope I can tell her that she is worth more than the piece of shit she’s married to. “Even if I’m busy, I’ll make sure to return your call. My assistant is on there, too, so if it’s urgent, she’ll be able to contact me immediately.”

Alyssa takes my card between her finger and thumb. “Thank you,” she replies softly. “I sure will.”

I put my untouched glass on the counter, sling my purse over my shoulder, and make my own way out, all too aware that there’s so much crap building up into this investigation that we’ll need a miracle to wade through it all.