I grabbed my phone and keyed in the number for the club where Tad was supposed to be playing. Three rings in, a male voice answered. "Blue Moon Lounge?"
"I'd like to speak with Tad Windhorse. Is he in?" I tapped my toe impatiently on the floor of my lobby, Maya looking on from behind her desk.
"Sorry, no. Not yet."
"But he is scheduled to be there tonight, correct?"
"Yeah. His first set starts at seven. Tickets are eighteen at the door."
"Great. Thanks," I said, hanging up and making a mental note to call back later.
"You think Tad was at the Beverly Hotel to kill Drake?" Maya asked as I hung up.
"I don't know," I said honestly, putting my phone back into my pocket. "But I know he lied to me about not being there."
"Maybe Drake invited him to the band meeting after all?" she suggested.
"Then why not say so?" I asked.
She shrugged. "It does make him look guilty."
I let out a deep sigh. "Guilty of lying to me at least. Then again, almost everyone involved in this case has committed that sin."
Maya grinned. "Including your client."
I glanced up at the clock. "Including my very late client."
Maya followed my gaze. "Want me to call him?"
I nodded. "Probably stuck in traffic," I decided as she looked up his number in our system and punched it into her phone. She put it on speaker, and we listened to it ring. Finally, after four rings, it went to voicemail.
"Hi, this is Maya Alexander from the Bond Agency," Maya said at the beep. "We're just checking in about our appointment that was scheduled for six. Please let us know if you're on your way or need to reschedule." She rattled off the office number and hung up.
"I'll give him a few more minutes," I decided. "You can go ahead and go home, though."
"You sure?" Maya asked, though I could see relief in her eyes. I knew she lived a good forty-five minutes away in rush hour traffic.
I nodded. "Totally sure. I can handle him on my own if he shows."
"Okay, but call me if anything comes up," she said, grabbing her purse.
As soon as she left, I went back to my office and sat at my desk. I answered a few emails. I browsed social media, bookmarking a couple beauty tutorials and recipes I knew I'd never make. I made an Amazon order for more coffee pods and some hairspray. I listened to a voicemail from Derek about how "bitchin'" the jam session tapes were and how he and his girlfriend Elaine were totally "rockin' out" to them. I was glad someone was enjoying them.
Then I checked the clock again. Bash was over an hour late. I was pretty sure I'd officially been stood up.
While I was a little annoyed he hadn't called to cancel, I wasn't totally unhappy about the idea of putting off this meeting. Maybe if Derek could rock out to enough of the tapes, I'd know exactly what I was handing over to Bash before I did the handing. Which wouldn't really tell me either way if my client was a killer or not, but at least it would put the issue of who wrote "Hot Waitress" to bed.
I called Bash's number one more time, leaving a voicemail saying I'd waited an hour, I figured he was a no-show, and I was leaving the office. He could call to reschedule tomorrow.
Then I powered down my computer and grabbed my purse, locking up the office behind me as I made my way to my Roadster.
Once I pulled out of the parking lot, instead of heading toward my apartment, I made a right at the light, in the direction of Hollywood and the Blue Moon Lounge. It was dark by the time I arrived, and I had to park a couple blocks away in a garage that charged by the minute. I threw my jacket on and hiked back toward the lounge, moving through the colorful nightlife of LA. Tourists mixed with well-dressed locals out for a night on the town. Cocktail dresses, suits, jeans, Hawaiian shirts, and one guy in a Big Bird costume. Anything goes in Hollywood. A couple crazies were yelling in front of an old art deco theater about the apocalypse coming, but as far as I was concerned, 2020 had already brought it. They were a bit late with the warning.
I tried to ignore the mingling scents of fried food, car exhaust, and stale urine wafting toward me on the cool night breeze as I approached the Blue Moon. Luckily, being that the Wind Dancers were hardly top tier celebs, there was no line outside the club. Just a bouncer sitting on a tall stool looking bored as he scrolled through his phone. He looked up as I neared.
"ID please," he said, grabbing a wristband from behind him that apparently would identify me as old enough to partake in their two drink minimum.
I fished my ID out of my purse and handed it over. He did a quick scan with his phone, then slapped the yellow bracelet on me and asked for the cover charge.
Once I'd paid, I slipped into the club, which was surprisingly full and brimming with life. The bar was packed, and most of the tables were filled. Apparently the new age scene was larger than I'd thought. On the stage, I could see the lady in white, Sierra, with her harp, but she was singing a solo. No sign of Tad.
I put my phone on vibrate in deference to the music and threaded my way through the after-work crowd, mostly dressed in blazers and jeans as they swayed to Sierra's haunting melody. I found an empty spot at the end of the bar and noticed the same guy I'd seen on my last visit was standing behind it, filling cocktail glasses with a flourish. It took me a couple of tries, but I finally caught his attention.
"What can I get for you?" he asked, setting a cocktail napkin down in front of me.
"Vodka martini," I said, hoping it didn't go to my head too fast on my empty stomach. "Hey, have you seen Tad Windhorse yet tonight?" I asked as he poured.
He shook his head. "No. He hasn't come in yet."
I frowned. "I thought he was supposed to start at seven." I glanced down at my watch. It was well past that.
"He was. Didn't show."
"Did he say why?"
The bartender shrugged as he added an olive to my drink. "As far as I know, he hasn't called in." He nodded toward the stage. "Sierra went on without him, but she said she hasn't heard from him either."
That didn't sound good.
It also didn't sound like the actions of an innocent man. As I gave the bartender a twenty, I silently wondered if Tad had skipped town. Had my previous visit made him that nervous? It was entirely possible, considering he'd been at the crime scene. And lied about it.
Then again, it was possible he was just stuck in traffic, too.
I settled in on the barstool, sipping at my martini, watching the stage. The song was soft and moody, and the harp gave it an ethereal feel. I found myself swaying along with Sierra's chanting, being lulled into an almost hypnotic state. Or maybe the vodka was just hitting me harder than I thought.
After an hour—I'd sipped my drink as slowly as humanly possible—I was starving, and the music was putting me to sleep. And there was still no sign of Tad.
I caught the bartender's attention again.
"Hey. Refill?" he asked, grabbing my empty glass.
"No, thanks. Actually, I was wondering if you could give this to Tad for me when you see him?" I slid the guy my business card. "And please ask him to call me?"
He looked at the card, nodding before he slipped it into his back pocket. "Will do."
I thanked him and slid off my stool, making my way to the door. The cool night air had a sobering effect as I walked the two blocks back to my car. I left Hollywood and hit up a drive-through Del Taco on the way home, silencing my growling stomach with a red burrito and a melty quesadilla. Fully sated with comfort food, I finally pulled into my parking garage at a quarter to nine. I rode the elevator up to my floor, dreaming of a glass of cabernet and an evening of mindlessly mushing in front of reality TV.
As soon as I got inside, I poured the cab then stripped out of my work clothes and into a pair of comfy pajamas with little rubber ducks on them before settling on the sofa. I flipped the TV on, but even as Real Housewives and 90 Day Fiancé played their drama out on my screen, my mind was on Drake, Bash, and the whole Devils' drama in my real life.
I picked up my phone, scrolling through my contacts until I got to Danny's name. Usually when I was stuck on a case, I talked things out with my best friend. While he was a flirt and sometimes a tease, more often than not, he was a voice of reason when pieces just weren't fitting together right.
My finger hovered over the call button. The last thing I wanted to do was interrupt him in the middle of more photo shoots or plans with some other woman. A couple of years ago, I wouldn't have even hesitated. I hated that things had become more complicated between us now.
I was still contemplating his number when a knock sounded at my door.
I was tempted to ignore it. But as the person on the other side knocked again, I realized they were not going to give up that easily.
"Coming," I yelled, reluctantly getting up to open it.
To find Aiden standing on the other side.
"Oh. Hi." My hand immediately went to my hair, wondering what its current state was. I couldn't remember the last time I'd run a brush through it.
Aiden, on the other hand, looked as polished and fresh as always—as if he'd just stepped out of a cologne commercial and not spent a long day at the office chasing bad guys. His sandy hair was smoothed back from his head, chin clean shaven beneath a lopsided grin, brown eyes warm and inviting as they stared down at me with just the slightest hint of mischief in them that made a girl wonder what he was up to.
"Hi. Can I come in?" he asked.
"Uh, yeah. Yes. Of course." I pulled the door back to allow him entry, trying not to trip over my tongue too badly as I got over the shock of seeing him looking positively tasty on my doorstep. I smoothed down my ducky jammies, as if that might infuse them with a little dignity.
"I didn't mean to show up unannounced." He was such a gentleman, his gaze only strayed to my duckies for a second. "I tried calling, but it just went to voicemail."
"I had my ringer off," I explained, realizing I'd forgotten to turn it back on after leaving the Blue Moon. "I was at a music lounge."
He gave me a raised eyebrow coupled with a grin. "Sounds like fun."
"More work than play, really," I said as Aiden sat on my sofa, making himself at home and crossing one ankle over his knee. Something about how comfortable he looked in my apartment made my stomach kind of fluttery.
"Oh really? Anything to do with the Deadly Devils case?" he asked.
I nodded as I grabbed my wineglass and walked to the kitchen to pour Aiden one. "Actually, yes. I was there looking for Tad Windhorse."
Aiden gave me a questioning look. "Should I know that name?"
"Aka Tosh Thomas. The Deadly Devils' original keyboard player." I quickly filled him in on Tad's history with the band and the fact that he'd been in town conveniently when Drake had died. "He said Drake visited him to bury the hatchet," I finished as I sat down on the sofa beside him. "According to Tad, they met at the Blue Moon, made up, and Drake went on his way. Tad claimed he never saw him again and that Tad was at rehearsals the night Drake died."
"But he wasn't?" Aiden asked, taking a sip from his wineglass.
I shook my head. "At least not all night. Maya and I found a video taken by a Devils fan outside the Beverly Hotel the night Drake died. Tad is in it."
"I'm guessing that's why you wanted to talk to him tonight."
I nodded. "Only, he didn't show up for his set."
Aiden shook his head. "There could be lots of reasons he didn't show up."
"True," I agreed. "But he lied about his alibi."
Aiden sighed. "Well, I hate to break it to you, but no one seems to be able to account for their whereabouts when Drake was killed."
"Oh?" I tucked a foot up under me and leaned my head on the back of the sofa. "Do tell."
"Well, let's start with the wife, who claims you are her alibi."
A snort escaped me before I could stop it. "I am not her alibi. I followed her home, and then Danny and I left."
"What?" Aiden's wineglass froze midway to his mouth.
"I said we left."
"You said you and Danny left."
Oh crap. I did, didn't I?
"Yes," I said slowly. "Danny was doing surveillance with me."
"You didn't mention that before." His voice was a monotone, the emotion I'd heard a second ago carefully modulated out of it.
I took a deep breath, trying to cleanse away my guilt. I had no reason to feel guilty. Danny and I had been working together. That was it. And even if we had been flirting a little, it wasn't as if I had any commitment to Aiden. I didn't.
I'd carefully avoided that.
I shoved that last thought down, realizing he was watching me, waiting for a response. "No. I guess I didn't mention it." I tried to keep my voice as unemotional as his, but I'm not sure I was quite as successful.
We were both silent a minute. I could see thoughts swirling behind Aiden's dark eyes, but none were things he chose to voice as he stared me down, almost willing me to apologize or explain.
But if he wasn't going to actually ask, I wasn't going to offer. I matched his stare with one of my own. One that I tried to infuse with a whole lot of strong independent woman but I feared was closer to guilty little secret.
Finally Aiden was the one to break the standoff, turning his gaze to the view outside my window of the sparkling layer of lights downtown.
"Well, if you left the wife alone at home, you're not much of an alibi, are you?"
"No." I let out a mental sigh of relief to be back to more pleasant topics, like murder. "Jenna turned out her lights, and I'd assumed she was going to sleep. But I didn't stick around."
Aiden nodded, swirling his wine in the bottom of his glass. "You went home?"
"Yes." I paused. "Alone, if you're asking."
He looked up at me and had the good graces to look a little sheepish. "I was. And I'm glad."
I cleared my throat awkwardly. "What about the band members' alibis?"
"Well, the bass player, Harry Star, arrived at the bar around ten thirty." Aiden sipped from his wine, seemingly glad to change the subject too. "Bartender said he served him a Jack and Coke. However, the bartender also said Harry left the bar for a while then returned just before the other band members arrived."
"That's interesting timing. Where did he go?"
"Harry said he got a phone call and took it outside. The bar was too noisy."
"Anyone see him?"
Aiden shook his head.
"So it's possible he could have gone up to Drake's room, spiked his drink, and pushed him into the swimming pool," I said.
"It is. But the guitar player was at the hotel during that time too."
"Keith told me he was with a groupie."
"I got the same story." Aiden nodded. "One whose name he claims not to remember. In fact, he can't remember much about her other than she was 'hot.'"
I grinned. "And stacked. I got that much out of him."
"Anyway, the rest of his story checks out. He had a room at the hotel registered to his name, and one of the housekeepers says she saw a woman with him."
"Which doesn't mean he couldn't have left her early, spiked Drake's drink, and killed him before meeting with the rest of the band. He was late to the meeting."
"So was Bash," Aiden pointed out.
I bit my lip. "I was afraid you'd get around to him."
"He said he was at the gym."
"Was he?" I dreaded the answer.
But Aiden thankfully nodded. "Yeah. Several witnesses saw him arrive around nine, though no one can pinpoint exactly when he left."
"The meeting wasn't until eleven," I hesitated to point out.
"I know." Aiden sipped his wine. "The band's manager, Carmichael, said Bash arrived a few minutes after he did. About ten past eleven."
"Which leaves Bash with a pretty big hole in his alibi." I scrunched up my nose. "Crap."
"Sorry." Aiden gave me a sympathetic smile.
I shook my head. "He stood me up today."
"Oh?"
"Yeah. I was supposed to give him an update on the case. His request. But he didn't show."
"You call him?"
"Left a couple of messages." I suddenly wondered if he was avoiding me on purpose. Why, I wasn't sure. But guilt sprang to mind. I thought about telling Aiden I'd found the jam session tapes, but on the off chance my client was not guilty and the tapes had nothing to do with Drake's death, I wasn't sure I should share yet.
"What about the lipstick?" I asked instead. "You said there was lipstick on the second glass in Drake's hotel room. Any idea yet where it came from?"
"Forensics is still working on that." Aiden rolled his head lazily to the side to face me. "But it does indicate a woman, don't you think?"
I shrugged. "I don't know. You see some of the band's early album covers?"
Aiden laughed, setting his empty wineglass on the coffee table. "Touché."
"Anyway, just because Drake had a woman in his room, that doesn't mean she was the only one in his room that night. I mean, it's possible she left, someone else came in, they spiked Drake's drink and killed him. Right?"
"Anything is possible, Bond." The way his eyes went all dark and bedroomy on me with that last phrase made me wonder if we were still talking about the murder case.
"It's late," I said.
He reached a hand out and tucked a strand of hair gently behind my ear. "Is it?"
I nodded, my eyes suddenly rooted to his lips.
"Maybe I should go." He made no move to get up, his eyes intent on mine.
"Maybe." My voice sounded smaller and far away, as my focus homed in on his lips, which seemed to be moving closer to mine.
"Do you want me to?" he asked, his voice husky and low.
I knew what I should have answered. My emotions were a jumble of guilt, lust, independence, and want. And I wasn't even going to go near the subject of the dangling L-word still hovering in the air between us. The truth was, I wasn't sure of anything about Aiden. Every interaction I had with him left me feeling warm and tingling and at the same time afraid he was going to force my hand where our relationship status was concerned. And I wasn't sure what that hand would look like when he did.
So I knew what I should have said.
But it wasn't what I did say.
"Stay," I heard my voice tell him.
A wicked grin snaked across his features, his lips converging on mine. "I thought you'd never ask."
* * *
The sun was blinding as it pushed through the cracks in my curtains the next morning, assaulting my eyes with an unrelenting brightness that had me burrowing into my covers. And I might have stayed there too, if my neighbor's car alarm hadn't started blasting next. I swore, if he didn't get that thing fixed, I was gonna take a tire iron…
I cracked one eye open, checking the time. Just past eight.
I rolled over, the other side of my bed smelling woodsy and warm, like Aiden's aftershave. Unfortunately, it was also empty. I sat up, blinking the sleep out of my eyes as I looked around the room. His clothes were gone too. I picked up my phone and saw a text had come in from him about an hour earlier.
Didn't want to wake you. Had an early call. xoxo
I felt a big, goofy grin spread across my face at the little X's and O's and was totally powerless to stop it. Even as I shoved myself into a hot shower and a pair of leggings, a soft grey sweater dress, and suede ankle boots with spike heels, the grin was still lingering.
I grabbed my purse and headed to the door. Since I was already late for work, I hit a drive-through coffee stand and ordered a large vanilla latte and a cinnamon frosted scone to go with it. The caffeine, the sticky pastry, and possibly even a little tiny bit of the memory of Aiden the night before had my mood so elevated by the time I hit the Bond Agency that I was even humming as I pushed through the doors.
But that was where my good mood ended.
Sam and Maya were both huddled around her computer, matching frowns on their faces. Even before anyone spoke a word, I could feel the dark cloud hanging in the air around them.
Maya looked up as I walked in the door, her eyebrows draw down in concern. "There you are."
"Sorry I'm late." I looked from her to Sam's stoic expression. "Why? What's wrong?"
Sam tore her eyes away from the computer screen to pin me with a dark look. "You better see this."
Dread pooled in my belly, erasing any previous feelings of lightness and glee as I crossed the reception room in two quick strides, coming to stand beside Sam.
The computer screen showed a news clip that had a little Live icon in the righthand corner. The scene was in front of a white, two-story house that was flanked by palm trees, and a caption along the bottom told me it was in West Los Angeles. The same perky redheaded reporter I'd seen before was holding a microphone, and behind her I could see a police car and an ambulance parked in the street.
"…just moments ago," the reporter was saying. "Police have confirmed that the body is that of the Deadly Devils' drummer known simply as Bash. He was found dead in his West LA home this morning. This is the second member of the band to pass away this week. Fans have planned a vigil…"
The reporter droned on, but I tuned her out, my mind reeling as it homed in on one terrible thought.
My client was dead.
Again.