Текст книги "Twisted Bond"

Автор книги: Emma Hart

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

I sip my coffee and flick through the papers one more time. It’s an act solely designed to pass the time until the very late Drake Nash actually shows up. Apparently, the good detective isn’t too fond of six a.m. and also does not answer his phone before six thirty in the morning if the caller is Noelle Bond.

That said, he assured me at six forty-five that he would be at my house by seven thirty. It’s now seven twenty-five and I’m reading the notes Dean managed to dig up on Lena’s relationships in college. Except the husband. Because, you know.

In the age where the social media websites are everyone’s personal dictionaries, such a huge life thing doesn’t seem to be documented.

Which tells me that Lena had something to hide.

My phone rings from its hands-free perch on the dashboard. I frown, expecting to see Drake’s name come up, but the number is unfamiliar.

“Noelle Bond,” I answer, staring at the screen.

“Ms. Bond? This is Mrs. Young… Lena’s mother. I’m sorry to call so early.”

I sit up straight. “No problem, ma’am. Is there somethin’ wrong?”

“Oh, no, no. I just wanted to let you know that the police are releasing”—her voice falters—“Lena this morning. Finally. We’re having a funeral—in two days. At the old chapel just off Oak Avenue. I know you were friends…”

Wow. HWPD kept her for a while. I wondered why I’d heard nothing of a funeral.

“Of course, Mrs. Young. I’ll check my schedule and rearrange a few things if necessary so I can be there.”

She sniffs. “Thank you, dear. If you don’t mind me asking, how is your…search…going?”

“Not at all. Unfortunately, right now, I seem to be asking ten questions for every one I answer, but that’s just how these things go.” I open my mouth to offer an apology for that, but it occurs to me that, as her mother… “Ma’am, could I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“I’m headed over to Houston today to talk to some school friends of Lena’s. There’s only one I haven’t been able to find because I can’t seem to find any information on him.”

“I don’t know much about her college years. She was very determined to be independent, as young people are these days.”

“You wouldn’t have any information on her husband, would you?”

“Ryan? Whyever would you need to go to Houston to talk to him?”

“No, ma’am. Lena was married in college. There doesn’t seem to be any record of divorce. She never legally married Ryan.”

Silence.

After a moment, I say, “Ma’am?”

“I-I’m sorry, Noelle. I-I didn’t know. Oh my.” Her voice crack is thick and genuine. “Ryan isn’t her husband?”

“It appears that way, yes.”

“The s-store?”

“Goes to the man I can’t seem to find, I assume. If they never divorced, he’s her next of kin.”

“Are you searchin’ for him today?”

“Yes. I’m gonna do everythin’ I can to find him,” I promise her, glancing up when Drake opens the car door. I glare as he slides in almost sheepishly.

“If you find him, could you pass on my details? I’d like to meet him.”

“Of course. I’ll call you soon.” I hang up and look at the detective hiding behind dark aviator sunglasses, his tan body hugged by a bright-orange polo shirt and dark, tight Levi’s. “Well, good mornin’, Detective,” I drawl. “So kind of you to accompany me today.”

“Late night,” he grunts. “Tried trackin’ down the husband.”

“Any luck?”

“None.” He sighs and takes the coffee cup I hand him. Mercifully, it’s still hot. “It almost feels like the information has been hidden deliberately, ya know?”

“But by who, and why?”

“If I knew, I’d know the husband’s name.” Sarcasm drips from his words. “Thanks for the coffee.”

“You’re welcome. Now, cheer up. I’m not spending two and a half hours in a car with a teenage girl on her period.”

Drake shifts uncomfortably. “Your car is real small, you know that?”

I pause, my hand on the keys in the ignition. I look at him, just able to see his eyes cutting to me through his glasses. Sigh. “Do you want to drive your truck instead?”

“I would prefer to.”

“Fuck me,” I mutter, grabbing my purse from by his feet and shoving all of my things except my coffee and my keys into it. “Well?”

“Well, what? Fuck you? Or driving my truck?” He looks at me over the top of his sunglasses, his eyebrows raised.

“Driving your truck,” I manage through a clamped jaw. “Ya know, this is gonna be real hard if you keep pissin’ me off all day.”

He smirks, unlocking his truck. “I’m countin’ on it.”

It’s way too early for sexual innuendos. Not early in the day, because who doesn’t like morning sex? Just early in the day with Drake Nash. The man from whom judgment lapses are banned.

I set my purse down by my feet and put my sunglasses on. With one hand clasping my coffee cup like the golden life force it is early on a Sunday morning, I belt up and then grab my cell phone, immediately scrolling through my contacts.

“Boyfriend?”

“Nonna wishes,” I snap. “No. I arranged some meetings with old friends of Lena’s last night, but since someone decided to sleep in and be ninety minutes late, I have one to reschedule.”

Drake chuckles as I dial Regina’s number. It goes to voicemail, and I leave a message, asking if she can meet me an hour later still at the cupcake place on Travis Street. When I hang up, I catch Drake’s eyes flitting toward me behind his glasses.

“What?”

“What’s in the folder?”

I sip my coffee. “The bra sizes and ages of virginity losses of all of Lena’s college friends.”

“Marshall?”

I shake my head. “Dean. Marsh is still working on collecting files. And probably playing World of Warcraft.” I shrug. “I’ve lightened the caseload until this is over, and Dean has more than a few computer skills of his own. It wasn’t too hard for him to find out who her classmates were and track her closest ones down.”

“How did he find out who her closest friends are?”

“Do you do any detecting in your job or do you just tell everyone what to do?” I raise an eyebrow. “Social media. It’s basically a public diary for everyone who has time to waste.”

“I take it you don’t use it much,” he assumes, ignoring my jab.

“You’d be correct,” I answer. “Except Tinder. And I’m still debating the effectiveness of that.”

His lips curve up, but he says nothing more. Although I haven’t been particularly active on the so-called dating app, I’ve still seen the messages I’ve been sent by my so-called matches.

And let me tell you, from some of these matches I’ve been sent, I can only deduce that Tinder is either permanently drunk, high, or both.

I run through the schedule I plotted out in my mind. First up if she catches my message: Regina, Lena’s closest friend and roommate of three years. I figured that, if anyone knows anything about the husband– or even anyone who will—she’s my girl.

And given she’s my only schedule because there’s an ex-boyfriend who expressed the same shock as Mrs. Young at Lena’s having gotten married her senior year, I’m really hoping she knows something.

“Cupcakes? Really, Noelle?”

“Look, if I have to suffer for two and a half hours in a car with you before I’ve even started investigating, I’m gonna need me a sugar fix.” I shrug. “Otherwise, I’m just gonna be a total bitch to people who can help move this case forward.”

He slides his sunglasses through his unruly hair so they balance on top of his head and shoots me a disdainful look. “Noelle…”

“What?”

“You’re lyin’.”

“Not about the sugar fix.” I sniff and turn away.

Busted. Totally. Typical.

“Why’re we interviewin’ her at a cupcake café?”

“Because Gigi’s is closed today?” I sigh, staring out the window at downtown Houston as we turn off onto one of the ring roads. “I just have a bad feeling about this whole case. I just know that, one way or another, the husband is connected.”

“You think he killed them?”

Them. I hate that. “I don’t know. It’s just a hunch.”

“I can’t arrest people on hunches.”

“I know that. But that doesn’t mean I can’t bug some people on my hunch.”

“Bugging people gets you into trouble in murder investigations, Noelle, and I already told you it ain’t safe for you.”

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, well, I’m not exactly unarmed.”

“Didn’t I text you and tell you to leave the gun at home?”

“Oh, that text was you?” I gasp as we pull into the parking lot outside the mercifully quiet café. “I accidentally deleted that before I could read it. Whoopsie.” I send him a sweet smile as I hop out of the truck.

I decided to forgo the heels today for cowboy boots. So there’s a two-inch heel, but that hardly counts. I can also run in them… And you never know.

Drake mumbles something under his breath and opens the door to the café. A lone woman with long, blonde hair tied in a ponytail at the top of her head is sitting in the corner, and I recognize her instantly as Regina.

“Regina?”

She looks up with violet eyes. “Noelle Bond?”

“That’s me.” I smile and offer her my hand.

We shake, and Drake steps forward.

“Detective Drake Nash,” he says.

“Are you with Houston PD?”

“No, ma’am. Holly Woods, the town Lena lived. I’m off duty.”

“Some people think I have a knack for getting into trouble and need supervision,” I say. Kinda. I do occasionally. “My brothers are also cops at home and no one could get away, so I’m stuck with Detective Nash for my chaperone.”

“It could be worse.” Regina smiles, giving him a once-over.

If I cared, that would bug me.

“Okay, Mr. Off-Duty.” I turn to Drake. “I need a low-fat vanilla latte and a chocolate torte cupcake. Please.”

“Anything else, diva?”

I purse my lips. “Regina? Can we get you a coffee?”

“A cappuccino would be great. Thank you.” She shoots a flirtatious smile toward Drake.

I stop my eye-roll. Just.

“I was real shocked to hear about Lena,” she says softly when Drake goes to the counter. We both sit. “And you don’t know who did it?”

“No. Her childhood best friend was also killed and found not long after she was.”

Regina’s hand goes to her mouth. “Oh no. Are they related?”

“We think so.” My lips flatten into a grim line. “Regina, I need to ask you something. Did you know that Lena was married in her senior year?”

The paling of her face tells me she does.

I raise my eyebrows.

“Yes,” she says softly. “I don’t know anyone who didn’t know.”

“Didn’t know what?” Drake asks, rejoining us. He sets three coffees on the table and passes me my cupcake.

I thank him with a smile.

“That Lena was married,” Regina answers, her eyes moving to him. “Literally everyone in our class knew. She barely made it through the rest of the year to graduation.”

“Why? She was old enough to get married.” When Regina doesn’t acknowledge me, I cough. Not discreetly.

Her lips twist to the side in something that resembles a disgusted kind of smile. “Yes, but she married her professor.”

“Well,” Drake says after she’s gone. “That was unexpected.”

“The twists always are,” I murmur, absently licking some frosting off my plastic fork.

“Her professor.” He shakes his head. “Who’da thought?”

“Not me.” I put some more cake in my mouth and lick the fork again.

“Can you stop licking that fork?”

“No. I eat when I’m stressed.”

“You’re makin’ me fuckin’ stressed, Noelle.”

I meet his eyes. They’re blazing with heat, focused on my mouth intently. And, I, er, stop licking the fork.

“Can you concentrate?” I ask. “This is a huge piece of the puzzle that is Lena’s and Daniel’s deaths.”

“Then stop lickin’ the fork.”

I slam the fork down and bite into the cupcake and the huge pile of frosting on its top. “Better?” I demand, my mouth full.

Drake’s lips twitch. “As long as you don’t lick your lips now.”

“This is highly inappropriate, considerin’ we’re colleagues now.”

“I’m off duty.”

“I am not.” I pin him with my gaze and slowly, deliberately, lick my lips.

His gaze follows the path of my tongue as it moves sleekly and swiftly across my mouth, and it takes every inch of my willpower not to laugh at him.

“We should talk to the husband,” he growls, slowly dragging his eyes from my mouth up to meet my own darker eyes. “Now.”

“Do you know where he lives?”

“Can you find out?”

“Yes.”

He says nothing for a moment. Then, “Will you find out?”

“I didn’t hear a please.”

“You fuckin’ with me, Noelle?”

“You should know by now that I’m always fuckin’ with you, Drake.” I grin like the Cheshire cat and whip my cell phone out, dialing Bekah’s number. Honestly, with the way this case is going, the only person I trust is my best friend.

“Yo, ho,” she answers. “Whaddyah want?”

“An address.” I rattle off the findings of our meeting and wait as she looks up the directory online.

“One Professor Warren Gentry, thirty-four sixty Piping Rock Lane, Houston, seven-seven-zero-two-three,” she answers. “You headed there now?”

“Yep,” I reply. “It’s Sunday. We should catch him.”

“Okay. Be safe.”

“Always am.”

Drake snorts as I hang up, because as he’s said a million times, I’m not safe. Apparently. Apart from two dead bodies having been dumped on my property, I see no evidence to support his claim. Which makes me think he still knows something I don’t.

We drive until we reach the River Oaks area. My eyes widen as we drive through the residential streets. The houses here are fucking huge. Like, mini mansions. They must be worth anything from one to two million bucks.

How the hell does a college professor in art make this much money?

“How the fuck does a college professor make this much money?” Drake asks, verbalizing my thoughts.

“If I knew, I’d be switching professions like three years ago,” I hum, staring at the beautiful houses.

They vary from two to three stories, but almost all are several windows wide with winding driveways, each varying in length. Their front yards are immaculate and well-tended without as much as a grass blade out of place. Lord forbid a bird poop over their yards—they’d probably pull out platinum-plated rifles and shoot the poor little shit.

Why didn’t I pack those fucking heels?

Surrounded by houses and people who obviously drip diamonds and wealth, I feel like a hillbilly in my goddamned cowboy boots. So what if my jeans fit perfectly and my white, three-quarter-length shirt hugs my boobs?

I realize now I dressed for information and not sophistication.

Let’s hope Professor Gentry is somewhat of a darn letch, or we’re screwed.

Drake slows as we approach the house. The large, red-brick façade is preceded by its long, double driveway that ends at a double garage. He looks at me as if to ask whether or not he should pull up on the driveway occupying only one car, and I shrug my shoulders. How the hell do I know proper procedure?

I’m generally climbing the trees of houses like this—and before I started doing that, I was in a marked cop car and could park wherever the fuck I wanted.

Shrugging once, the detective eases into the driveway and pulls up behind a deep-blue Chevrolet truck. After a glance at me, Drake jumps out of the car and comes around, opening my door.

“Remember, I’m off duty. I can’t ask him a thing or Houston PD will be onto my ass.”

“I know jurisdiction,” I hiss through a clamped jaw. Why can no one in my life remember that I was a cop only two years ago?

“Just reminding you,” he says in a low voice, stepping back and allowing me to exit the truck.

He follows me to the front door. It looks heavy, and the paned glass windows inset into the wood mean we can’t look through without any distortion. Clever yet classy. I like it.

Drake reaches around me and pushes the doorbell. The classic “ding dong” rings out through the house, and a few moments later, a man appearing to be in his early forties opens the door.

“Can I help you?”

“Mr. Gentry?” I inquire.

“And you are?”

“Noelle Bond,” I reply, pulling my private investigator ID out. “Ex–Dallas PD and private investigator at Bond P.I. in Holly Woods. Can I come in for a chat?”

“And the gentleman accompanying you?”

I just know that, if I were to turn, Drake’s lips would be curving.

“Detective Drake Nash. Homicide, Holly Woods PD. Off duty, of course.”

I bet he even pops his collar.

“And the matter is concerning…” Professor Gentry trails off.

“Lena Gentry,” I reply, keeping my eyes firm on his.

Never look away from a man asking questions—especially if you know he has answers to yours.

The man before me visibly balks at the sound of her name. His eyes flit between us, terror rampant in them. Slowly, he brings his fingers to this throat, and stammers, “It’s…it’s been a long time, Ms. Bond. Forgive my rudeness.”

“Not at all, Mr. Gentry.”

“Doctor,” he corrects me, the word almost a whisper. “I received my PhD not long after she left me.”

“I’m sorry. Dr. Gentry. We really do have some questions for you.”

“Of course. Come in.” He steps to the side and sweeps his arm in a welcoming motion, but I notice the rigid way he holds himself. Like he’s not really comfortable at all. “Is she in some kind of trouble?”

I look at Drake as I realize that this man has no idea his wife is dead.

“We should take a seat,” Drake suggests in an odd, bossy way.

Dr. Gentry nods and leads us to a bright room filled with plants and two wicker sofas with cushions tied on. He takes one, leaving me and Drake to fill the other.

“Dr. Gentry, I’m afraid your wife was found murdered approximately twelve days ago.”

I freeze as the words wash over the man opposite me. First, his eyes widen. Then his mouth drops. His hands go to his throat as if he can barely breathe through the news before they drop to his lap as the hopelessness of this situation falls over him. Tears fill his soft, hazel eyes, although I suspect they are more regretful than sad.

Eventually, Dr. Gentry sits forward, his hands trembling as he clasps them. “How?”

Drake gives him a basic rundown of the case, omitting all information about Daniel, I notice. I try not to give him a suspicious glance because Dr. Gentry strikes me as the kind of person who would notice that right away.

He asks all the right questions, and Drake answers them all while I quietly look around. There are pictures of a little girl, from birth to around age six. My eyes linger on one specific frame—the little girl, the double of Lena, sitting on her lap. A heavy weight sits in my lower stomach as the pieces fall together in my mind.

No.

“When was the last time you saw Lena?” I draw my attention to the somewhat distraught man in front of me.

“Just before she died,” he replies quietly, his eyes falling to the very same photo I was just looking at. “She was here for Melly’s birthday.”

“Who’s Melly?” Drake asks.

“Their daughter,” I answer, focused on Dr. Gentry.

He confirms it with a single slight nod.

“You have custody?”

“Full,” he replies. “Lena suffered severe postpartum depression. In and out of hospital. She couldn’t trust herself around Melly, so she agreed to let me raise her and have visitation rights. She came every week, like clockwork.”

“That must have been hard for you.”

“Yes, it was. It is. But I coped because I knew Lena couldn’t look after her. My parents have been big helps. She’s there right now.”

I nod slowly. “My sister-in-law suffered after her first. It was tough, but she manages it now.”

“Lena couldn’t. No matter what she tried, she was physically incapable of coping. She moved out not long after our agreement and went home.”

“Did your relationship break down?”

“Of course.” He holds his hands out. “How could we have a relationship if we only saw each other three hours a week?”

“Why didn’t you divorce?”

“I-I wanted to.” He sighs heavily. “But I just…couldn’t. I loved her. I always hoped she’d be able to beat the illness and come home to us. It’s all I wanted.” Again, his eyes drift to the photo.

“The last times you saw her,” Drake inputs, “did she seem different? Agitated? Scared of anyone?”

“No, sir.” Dr. Gentry shakes his head. “She was just…Lena.” Tears fill his eyes.

I nudge Drake’s arm. “Thank you for speakin’ with us, Dr. Gentry. I’m sorry we had to meet under such bad circumstances.” Lena’s mom’s words come back to me. “Here.” I delve into my purse and scribble her details on the back of a receipt that was languishing somewhere beneath a half-drunk water bottle, Chucks, and a candy bar wrapper. “This is Lena’s mom’s phone number. She wanted me to pass it on to you.”

“She told me her parents had died,” he whispers, taking the sheet.

“Well, I assure you, sir, they’re very much alive.” Drake shakes his hand. “I’m told her funeral is tomorrow morning. I’m sure Mrs. Young can give you more information.”

“Thank you. For stoppin’ by. I’ll… Please keep me involved in this investigation.”

“Of course.” We exchange cards, and I tuck his into my purse. Out in the truck after saying goodbye to him, I look at Drake. “He’s involved in this. Not directly. But he’s…somewhere.”

He looks at me funny as he pulls back. “That makes no sense, Noelle.”

“I know. But my gut… I don’t know. Ignore me. I need to think about what I do next.”

“Which is?”

I chew on my thumbnail and grimace. “Tell my client that the woman whose death he has me investigating isn’t really his wife.”