I made it to Brentwood in just under fifteen minutes, which was a small miracle in itself and probably would have earned me at least a speeding ticket and possibly a sobriety test had any CHP been hanging out on my route. Luckily, if Jenna's call hadn't sufficiently sobered me, the halfway-true halfway-skirting-the-details story I'd had to give Aiden about a client in distress did. I'd hated withholding info from him. But I knew Jenna was his number one suspect in Drake's murder. Truth be told, she wasn't off my list either. Not that I had a list. Which I didn't. Not my case.
But, I was pretty sure Aiden wouldn't be a fan of me taking off in the night to meet Jenna alone at her deserted Brentwood estate where a robbery had just occurred. Luckily, even though I was pretty sure he could feel me holding something back, he didn't pry. Instead, he'd driven me back to my Roadster, still parked at La Pastoria—reluctantly, I'd like to think—with a promise from me to call him later and another rain check added to our growing list.
I pulled up to Jenna's street to find the house looking largely abandoned. I'd hoped that a patrol car would have beaten me there, but apparently they—unlike myself—were obeying posted speed limits on their way.
Or the wife hadn't called them yet.
I pulled off the main road and onto a winding driveway that cut through the trees to the large colonial style home. Jenna's mint green Jaguar was parked at the head of the driveway. The outdoor lighting nestled in the artful landscaping provided enough illumination that I could see Jenna hunkered down inside the vehicle, her phone in her hands as she furiously texted someone. At the sound of my tires approaching, she looked up, relief unmistakable on her face.
I parked next to her car, and we both got out at the same time, Jenna tucking her phone into the back pocket of her skinny jeans. "Finally you're here," she said, her voice still holding a shaky edge to it.
"I came as soon as I could," I told her, trying to sound reassuring. I looked up at the house, where I could see a couple of lights on in the downstairs rooms. "Have you gone inside?"
She shook her head back and forth. "No. I-I've just been waiting here. Like you said." She bit her lip, glancing up.
"Tell me what happened," I said, coming around my vehicle to stand next to her.
She licked her lips. "Well, I was just coming home from a book signing. Dave was doing a reading in Century City."
Dave. The guy who wrote alien porn. "Go on," I prompted.
"Well, when I went inside the house, I heard something."
"What kind of something?" I asked.
"Like, noises upstairs. Like someone moving around up there. Only no one else was home but me. I mean, no one should have been there. I'm the only one living here now." Her voice broke on the last word, and I wasn't sure if she was finally experiencing grief that her husband was dead or just fear at being abandoned in the wilds of the upper-middle-class neighborhood.
"So, you heard sounds upstairs." I glanced up at the dark second story. "What did you do?"
"Well, I-I ran. I kinda just freaked out, you know? Like, an intruder was in my house!" Her speech was halting, as if her brain couldn't quite keep up with the nervous pace of her mouth.
"Then what?"
"Then I called you." She bit her lower lip, pink lipstick transferring to her white veneers. "I wasn't sure who else to call."
"You said on the phone you thought they were gone," I said, eyes scanning the yard. Everything looked serenely still and quiet.
She nodded. "When I went into the house, I think I scared them. As I was going back to my car, I saw someone running across the yard." She pointed to the side of the house, where an expanse of lawn gave way to tall cyprus trees creating a border between Jenna's home and the neighboring property. "They must have run out the back door."
"Are the police on their way?" I asked.
Jenna squared her jaw, her eyes going to the ground.
"Jenna?" I prompted. "You did call the police like I told you to, didn't you?"
"No, I didn't." She lifted her eyes to meet mine, a defiance replacing her earlier fear. "The police think I'm a killer. You really think I want to invite them into my home?"
"If someone broke into your house, you need to call—"
"I called you, okay?" She let out a shaky breath, as if that one moment of moxie had taken everything out of her. "I-I just don't want to go in there alone."
I assessed her wide, innocent-looking eyes, trying to decide what to make of her. If I had to guess, the fear she was projecting now was real. Of course, just because she was afraid of an intruder now, that didn't mean she hadn't killed her husband before. Or it was just as possible she was innocent and trying to put on a brave face while she'd had to endure both the death of her husband and someone breaking into her home all in the same week.
"Okay," I finally relented. "Let's go take a look inside together." What else could I do? I couldn't force her to call the police, and if there really was a threat of danger, I couldn't very well just abandon her. Not if I wanted to sleep that night.
I paused only long enough to grab my Glock 27 from my glove box before following Jenna to the front door.
Which, as she turned the knob, I noticed she'd left unlocked in her haste to get away from the intruder. She stood back, letting me enter the house first, which I did with a two-fisted grip on my gun. Just because Jenna thought she'd seen the guy leave the house, that didn't mean he couldn't still have a buddy inside.
"Hello?" I called out, listening for any sign of life above us. Only silence greeted me. I took a few tentative steps into a large foyer. The ceiling was two stories high, adorned with a sparkling glass chandelier the size of a small car. Its light shone off a tile floor, done in large black and white stone checkers that led toward a curved grand staircase. My heels echoed with each step as I peeked into the two rooms flanking the entry—a dark formal living room on the left and a small den on the right. Neither showed any signs of life.
"I heard him upstairs," Jenna whispered behind me. She pointed a pink nail toward the stairs.
I glanced up toward the second-story landing, where I could see several closed doors.
I took the first few stairs slowly, feeling Jenna at my back. Adrenaline flowed through me, making me tense and antsy at the same time. I tried to modulate my breathing as I neared the top of the staircase, gun first.
"Wait here," I told Jenna, slowly moving toward the first closed door. I took a deep breath, turned the knob, and pushed it open, ready for anything that might jump out at me.
But all I found was an empty guest bedroom. No intruder. No sign of life.
I sucked in air, slowly exhaling, before I turned back and did a repeat of the process at the next closed door. This one revealed a room full of gym equipment and a treadmill. The next two were bedrooms and a bathroom. All empty. By the time I'd gone through the master bedroom and bath at the end of the hall, I'd done a full tour of the upstairs, and it appeared we were alone in the house.
"Is it safe?" Jenna asked, coming up behind me as I finished checking the master closet. (Which was impressively large and packed full of designer items. I had a serious case of envy brewing.)
"I think so," I told her, holstering my gun and letting the fight-or-flight sensation slowly drain from my limbs. I glanced around the bedroom. A four-poster bed sat in the center, flanked by two dark wood nightstands—one of which was overturned. A couple of chests of drawers stood along the far wall, their drawers open, contents strewn across the floor. A smattering of jewelry was splayed across the top of the vanity.
Jenna walked to the table, picking up a necklace. "He was in my room." Her voice was very small and childlike.
"I'm guessing you didn't leave this mess?"
She shook her head, her wide eyes filling with tears. "He went through my things." Her gaze pinged from one surface to another.
"Can you tell if anything is missing?" I asked.
She blinked back the moisture in her eyes, focusing them on the jewelry in front of her. "I-I don't know." She picked up a couple of pieces, setting them into a wooden jewelry box to her right. "I don't think so. I mean, the bigger pieces are still here." She licked her lips. "Maybe I caught him in the act?"
"Maybe." As far as the upstairs rooms went, the master had appeared to be the only room rifled through. Then again, if I were a thief looking to grab some easily offloaded items, that would be the place I'd start. "You said he went out the back door?"
Jenna nodded. "I think so. I mean, I saw the shadow run from the back of the house."
"Show me the door," I said.
I followed her back down the stairs and through a large kitchen full of marble, stainless steel appliances, and tons of cooking gadgets that I'd bet money Jenna had never touched. Beyond the kitchen sat a breakfast nook and a sunken family room, where a pair of French doors led to a backyard that was illuminated with the same tasteful uplights as the front of the property. A swimming pool and an outdoor kitchen were visible through the doors.
One of which had been left open.
Jenna and I shared a look before she bit down hard on her lower lip.
I moved in closer and saw the wood at the lock had been splintered, the door forced open. If I had to guess, a crowbar or large screwdriver had done the trick. Not terribly sophisticated but highly effective.
"Looks like this is how he got in." I turned to Jenna. "You don't have a security system?"
Jenna's eyes were wide and threatening to spill tears again. "I-I don't know. I mean, Drake always took care of that stuff. Maybe we do. But I don't really know how to work it."
"You should find out," I told her, stating the obvious. "And you should call the police."
"No." Jenna sniffed loudly, getting her emotions under control. "No. I-I don't think anything has been taken. There's no need to get the police involved."
"Are you sure?" I asked, looking around the family room. Nothing appeared to be disturbed. "I'd suggest doing a thorough inventory of your valuables." I glanced down the hallway. "I saw a desk in your den. Maybe we should make sure he didn't get any of your personal information—"
"No!" Jenna shook her head, her voice more forceful this time. "I interrupted them. They took off. I can tell nothing important is missing."
"You're sure?" I asked her. "Don't you think we should at least check to make sure?"
"Look, no one is here," Jenna protested with defiance that would put any two-year-old to shame. "It's safe. I'm tired. It's been a long day, okay? You can go now."
"I'm not sure I feel right leaving you alone," I told her. Though, honestly, in that moment, she looked as capable as anyone of taking care of herself. Her shoulders were squared, arms crossed over her chest, eyes hard. The fight was back in her, and any sign of fear I'd seen earlier was fading fast.
"I'm fine," she said. "Really. Thank you for coming, but I can take it from here."
I glanced at the broken back door. "You should call someone to get that fixed. Soon."
Jenna nodded. "I will." Then she gestured toward the front of the house, indicating my exit.
As much as I didn't want to leave her alone, there wasn't much I could do. It was her house, her call to bring the police in or not. And while a busted back door that anyone could waltz in through and a security system beyond her capabilities to navigate didn't exude safety, if she really had caught a burglar in the act, the chances were slim he'd come back. He was probably feeling lucky to have gotten away at that moment.
"I'll check on you in the morning," I promised her as I complied with her silent request, making my way back through the house to the tiled foyer.
Jenna shook her head. "No need. I told you, I'm fine now." She paused at the front door as I stepped out into the chilly air. "But thanks for your concern."
And with that, she shut the door on me.
I stood there a moment, looking up at the impressive home as the cool night air seeped into my skin.
If I didn't know better, I'd say Jenna James had been trying to get rid of me.
I thought back to what Aiden had told me earlier about lipstick stains on the second wineglass in Drake's hotel room, and I suddenly wondered if this was a random break-in…or if Jenna knew more than she was willing to admit.
* * *
"Morning, boss," Maya said, rising from her desk the next day to hand me a paper coffee cup.
"You are a goddess," I told her, taking the cup from her and sipping deeply. Caramel macchiato with extra whip. Perfect.
After I'd finally gotten home the previous night before from Jenna's, I'd first texted Aiden another apology at having to take off so suddenly, and then I'd taken a long hot shower before falling into bed exhausted. Unfortunately, as tired as my body had been, my mind had still been wide awake, tumbling over possible reasons why someone would break into Drake and Jenna's home. And what, if anything, it had to do with Drake's death. And who had killed the rock star. So far, everyone in Drake's life seemed to have a reason to hate him and no one had been totally straight with me.
Including my own client.
That last fact had me mulling over my moral dilemma into the wee hours of the morning, wondering if I should just walk away from the whole mess and let the authorities sort it out. I'd finally fallen into a fitful sleep somewhere just before dawn, only to be awakened by the sound of my neighbor's car alarm going off again. I swore, if that guy didn't get his alarm fixed, his car was liable to mysteriously disappear.
"What's on the agenda today?" I asked, taking another sip of sweet, sweet life-giving caffeine as Caleigh and Sam came into reception from the back rooms.
"Well," Maya said, grabbing her phone and scrolling through the calendar entries. "You've got Kendall Manchester this afternoon for an update on Gammy."
I glanced at Sam. "Do we have an update on Gammy?"
Sam nodded, a gleeful look in her eyes. "Oh, boy, do we. Or, more accurately, on Alejandro."
"Oh?" I sat on the sofa, crossing one skinny jean clad leg over the other. "Do tell."
"Well, as I was just telling Caleigh," Sam said, gesturing to her, "I spent most of yesterday following Alejandro around, in hopes he'd decide to look in on his mystery blonde."
"And did he?" I asked, sipping my coffee.
"Nope." She paused for dramatic effect. "But he did go see a redhead."
I nearly choked on my drink. "Wait—he's seeing two other women?"
"Apparently," Sam said. "He met up with her at happy hour in a dive bar near Sunset Acres. Bought her a drink, then they left together in her car."
"Where did they go?" Maya asked, clearly invested in the drama.
"Back to the Acres."
"So the redhead lives at the same retirement village too?" Caleigh asked.
Sam shrugged. "Looks like it. I lost them when I had to detour to visitor parking, so I don't know which building. But I saw them pull into the resident lot, so she must live there."
"Risky." Maya clicked her tongue. "I mean, does he really think word won't get back to Ellie?"
Sam shrugged. "Maybe he's counting on his ladies to be discreet."
"Well, if the residents of the Acres gossip anything like my mom and her friends, there's no such thing as discreet enough," Maya said.
"I don't suppose you got a name for the redhead?" I asked.
Sam shook her head. "Unfortunately, no. Alejandro never called her by name."
"Did you recognize her from the potluck?" Caleigh asked.
She shook her head again. "No, I don't remember seeing her there. But I never got a really good look at her face. She had her back to me most of the time at the bar."
"And you're sure this was more than just a friendly drink and a lift to the Acres?" I pressed.
"Oh yeah." Sam nodded. "The reason her back was to me is that most of time her lips were attached to Alejandro's. And I can tell you she was not dressed for a friendly drink. Thigh-high boots, minidress, leather jacket. She basically had sex oozing from her outfit."
"I don't suppose you got photos?" I asked.
Sam grinned at me. "Now, how would I be able to live with myself if I didn't at least get photos?"
Had I mentioned how much I loved my girls?
"I was just about to go print them off," she added.
"At least I can count on one happy client today." That settled, I turned back to Maya. "Anything else?"
"Yes." She scrolled through her calendar again. "A message from Bash. He wants to meet to go over what you've found so far."
So far what I'd found was nothing. No one seemed to remember who had come up with the idea for the song, and no one seemed to have saved anything from that era. Except maybe Drake, but if he had, it was MIA.
Or in the hands of his killer.
"I don't suppose you found anything at the Deadly Devils' studio yesterday?" I asked Caleigh.
She shook her head. "Sorry. Anything from before they went digital is gone. They said anything the band didn't want, they destroyed."
"Should I schedule an appointment for him?" Maya asked, stylus hovering over her phone.
I nodded. "Yeah, but make it at the end of the day. Late end of day." We needed all the time we could get to have something—anything—to present to him. "I don't suppose we have any new business?"
Maya shook her head. "Sorry. But the social media campaign is in full swing, and Connor said we've gotten retweeted by two influencers already."
"What kind of influencers?" I asked, narrowing my eyes.
"One does Easter memes, and the other owns a petting zoo."
I thought I heard Sam snort behind me.
"Fabulous. If a goat cheats on his wife, we'll be their go-to firm."
"It's all about visibility," Maya assured me. "Don't worry. Connor knows what he's doing."
At least Connor wasn't being paid. "Keep me updated," I told Maya as I turned to go into my office. "And in the meantime, see if you can get me some info on Drake's financial situation."
She made a note on her phone. "You think it was shaky?"
"Not sure. His bandmates seemed to think his wife was running through his money too quickly."
"And you think maybe she killed him to get her hands on what was left?"
"I think maybe it has some bearing on his decision to sue the band. You know. Our real case."
Maya rolled her eyes but grinned. "Sure. I'm on it."
As soon as I'd settled at my desk, I pulled out my phone and called Jenna's number, checking in on her as promised. Even though two rings in, it went to voicemail. A sure sign I was being screened. Still, I left her a message telling her to call me if she needed anything and once again urging her to file a police report. A plea I feared would fall on deaf ears.
I hung up and forced myself to focus on my paying client's case.
I jiggled my mouse to bring my computer to life and pulled up all the files Maya had sent me on the Deadly Devils' history. I was pretty sure the bass player and guitarist were dead ends as far as remembering who had originally penned "Hot Waitress." Even if their brains hadn't been laboring under decades of sex, drugs, and rock 'n' roll, it was clearly better for their financial situations if no one ever remembered who wrote the song and they all kept splitting the proceeds. And it wasn't as if Drake could tell me anything now. Which left me with one other band member who might have some recollection of the event: the keyboard player, Tosh Thomas.
Unfortunately, Maya's research on him had turned up precious little. After splitting with the band, he seemed to disappear completely from the music scene, not even putting in an appearance at the Global Music Awards that year when the band had been up for best rock single.
I clicked on a link that pulled up the song in question and listened to what everyone was fighting about. I had to admit, the chorus was catchy and did sound vaguely familiar, as if I'd heard it on TV during a commercial break. The lyrics weren't exactly on par with classic poetry—citing that the "hot waitress" was going to "make my brain insane with pain" if she didn't kiss the singer soon. After which he went on to describe her many physical attributes that made her such a "hot" waitress.
As I listened, I pulled up a promo photo of the group from their first world tour. I could easily recognize both Keith and Harry. Their styles hadn't changed much over the years, even if time had added a few wrinkles, a little grey, and, in Harry's case, a lot of belly. But I could almost swear Keith was wearing the same bell bottoms in the old picture as he had been the day before. Bash was also easy to spot, looking like a younger, slightly less hardened version of the man I'd met recently.
Drake Deadly, on the other hand, was harder to recognize. I had no idea what he had been doing for the last thirty years, but whatever it was had aged him about fifty. In fact, in his youth, he'd actually been a pretty good-looking guy. If you could see past the pound of makeup and lewd tongue wagging he was doing in the photo.
To his right stood a tall, slim guy with spiky black hair that defied gravity. Presumably Tosh Thomas. His face was contorted in a snarl, and he was flexing one bicep with a tattoo of a devil on it in a menacing threat for the camera. It was hard to know if the look was all part of the persona or if the keyboard player really did have a natural violent streak.
He'd been a part of the band back when they'd recorded their hit song. Which meant he had to be getting paid a portion of the royalties for it as well. While that gave him just as much motive to want Drake's lawsuit silenced as the rest of the band, it also might provide a clue to where I could find him.
I picked up my phone, keying in Alvin Carmichael's number. I heard it ring on the other end and tapped my pen cap against the wooden top of my desk. Finally, four rings in, a woman's voice answered.
"Carmichael Management, how may I help you?" came a bored monotone I knew belonged to the bland receptionist.
"May I speak with Alvin Carmichael, please?" I asked.
"And who may I ask is calling?"
"This is Jamie Bond. I was in yesterday," I said, trying to jog her memory.
"One moment," she said in the same monotone voice that left me wondering if she'd remembered me at all.
I listened to some jazzy Muzak for a few moments, did some more pen tapping, and finally the line picked up again.
"Hello, this is Alvin Carmichael."
"Hi, Jamie Bond. We met yesterday," I told him.
There as a pause on his end. Then, "I remember. How may I help you?"
"I wanted to ask you about Tosh Thomas. The keyboard player for the Deadly Devils."
"Tosh?" he asked, confusion clear in his voice. "What about him?"
"I'd like to talk to him."
"I-I can't imagine why?" Carmichael said, his voice going up at the end as if it were a question.
"Do you know how I could get ahold of him?"
"No. I told you, I haven't spoken to him in years."
"But he receives royalty checks from you, correct?" I pressed.
There was another pregnant pause. "Well, yes, of course. I mean, all of the band do. I handle all of the financials. We send them out every quarter." I heard a pill bottle rattling on the other end and pictured him popping an antacid.
"Where do you send them?"
"W-what?" he asked.
"I was just curious where you send Tosh Thomas's royalty checks. You do mail them out, correct?"
"Of course. I just told you we send them to all of the band."
"So where does Tosh receive his?"
"Well, I don't have that information in front of me right now," Carmichael said, and I detected a note of irritation creeping into his voice.
"I can wait while you look it up," I told him pleasantly. "I'm in no rush."
I heard a sigh and some rustling, like a phone being shifted. "Alright. Fine. Just…just give me a minute."
I could hear the phone being set down on a hard surface and the sound of fingers clacking on a computer keyboard. A few minutes in, I was thinking I preferred the Muzak. Finally, Carmichael came back on the line.
"Alright, it looks like all of Tosh's earnings go to his accounting firm. A place in New Jersey."
I felt my shoulders sag. "An accounting firm? In Jersey."
"Yeah. Weissman and Associates. Did you want their address?"
"If it's handy," I said, trying not to let the disappointment show in my voice.
Carmichael rattled it off, and I jotted it down on a piece of paper. "Anything else I can help you with?" Carmichael asked when he was done, sounding not at all like he wanted to help me with anything else.
"No. Thanks," I told him.
"In that case, have a nice day, Ms. Bond." And then he hung up on me.
I set my pen down and googled Weissman and Associates, coming up with a phone number that went with the address Carmichael had given me. I tapped it into my phone, mentally crossing my fingers this paper trail would lead me somewhere other than in circles.
"Weissman and Associates, how may I direct your call?" a perky receptionist answered, her chipper attitude the polar opposite to Carmichael's receptionist.
"Hi, I'm Jamie Bond, from the Bond Agency," I told her. "I'm hoping you can help me with some information."
"I'd be happy to try," she told me, and I honestly believed her.
"Great. I'm looking for contact info for a Tosh Thomas. I believe he's a client of yours."
"Oh." Some of the perk slipped from her voice. "Oh, I'm sorry, but I can't give out any personal information about our clients."
Rats. "Is there any way you can put me in touch with him? Possibly pass along my contact info to him? It's important."
"I suppose I could do that," she said slowly, as if mentally going through her employee handbook to make sure it was permitted. "Let me see if I can find his files and give a message to the CPA attached to his account."
"Thanks," I told her, though I had less and less hope of this panning out, the more people this message had to pass through.
"Thomas, Thomas," she chanted, and I heard clacking in the background. "Huh."
"What is it?" I asked.
"Well, I'm actually not finding a client file under the name Tosh Thomas."
I frowned. "That's odd. His manager said he sent Tosh's checks to you. Royalty checks for a song he recorded with the Deadly Devils."
"Okay, yes! I do know who you're talking about now. It's Mr. Baskin's account." I heard more clicking. "Sorry, the files are under the client's new stage name."
"New stage name?" I perked up myself, almost matching her sunniness. "So Tosh Thomas was just a stage name?"
"Yeah, they all do that. We get a lot of performers here," she explained.
No wonder he had seemed to disappear. If he'd left the name behind and adopted a new persona, "Tosh Thomas" would have ceased to exist.
"What's his real name, then?" I asked.
"Oh. Yeah, I probably shouldn't say. You know, personal information and all."
"Right." I chewed my lower lip. "How about this—can you tell me the stage name he performs under now?"
"Well, I guess I can tell you that much. I mean, that's public, right?"
"Absolutely," I agreed.
"Our files are listed under Tad Windhorse."
"Tad Windhorse," I repeated, writing the name down. "That's a mouthful."
"Yeah, well, what do I know about Hollywood, right?" She laughed.
"Thanks," I told her. "You've been a big help."
"Did you still want to leave your info?" she asked.
I nodded, giving her my name and number, even as my fingers were busy typing his new pen name into a Google search.
By the time I hung up with Perky Receptionist, I had a page of hits for Tad Windhorse—who appeared to be some sort of new age musician based out of upstate New York, performing in a duo with a woman called Sierra Lightfoot.
And, coincidentally, was playing at a venue right here in LA this week.
Or, possibly not so coincidentally. It looked like he'd arrived in town just a couple of days before Drake was killed. Possibly his gig in LA had been just the opportunity he'd been looking for to be in the same city as his old rival, and he'd acted on it.
I picked my phone back up and called the number listed for the club where Tad was playing.
"Blue Moon Lounge?" came a man's voice.
"Hi there, I'm looking for Tad Windhorse. I believe he's performing at your venue?"
"Yeah, he'll be here through the 14th. Tickets are seventeen-fifty apiece through our website, and there's a two drink minimum."
"Uh, that's great, but I was hoping I could speak to him," I said quickly before the guy hung up. "Is he there right now by any chance?"
"He is," the guy said, a note of uncertainty in his voice. "But he's in the middle of a rehearsal right now. I can have him call you back?"
"Uh, no. Thanks. That's fine. I'll call again later."
I thanked the guy and hung up. But now that I'd tracked down the elusive keyboard player, I wasn't going to let him go that easily. Especially when I knew exactly where he was right then. I grabbed my purse and headed out the door toward the Blue Moon Lounge.