Dangerous Bond (Jamie Bond Mysteries Book 4) (9 page)

I smiled and let out a relieved breath. That wasn't bad at all. In fact, I didn't mind at all if the Senior Sleuths did my dirty work for me and kept an eye on Elaine.

*   *   *

Lite Wraps was located in Burbank, in an area that wasn't my favorite, even though I was very familiar with it. It sat across the street from The Spotted Pony, a strip club I'd once worked at as an undercover server. I'd been hired to keep an eye on a seemingly wayward husband who'd been seen going to the club. His wife had thought he was cheating, but it turned out he'd just been trying to track down his long-lost daughter, who it turned out was a dancer at the club. Ah, the titillating days as a private investigator.

I tore my eyes away from The Spotted Pony (whose sign looked like it needed a light bulb change on the
d
) and turned to the strip mall that housed Lite Wraps. It was also home to a dry cleaner, a talent agency, and a 24-hour doughnut shop. I had a feeling the doughnut shop probably did better business when The Spotted Pony let out at night than a healthy wraps place.

I pulled open the door and stepped inside Lite Wraps. The place was larger than I'd assumed from the outside, but its condition was just as bleak. Dark laminate floors with matching tables and counters. The walls were a muted shade of light green. It was set up similar to Hoagies, in that a long counter full of veggies took up a large portion of the store, but it held more tables, and the menu hanging on the wall revealed more than just sandwiches. They also had pasta dishes, salads, and a few desserts. The scent was an odd mix of lemon cleanser, yeasty bread, and cheese.

A man younger than I stood behind the counter. He was wearing a pair of brown pants and a green polo shirt that matched the decor. He grabbed a small container of shredded lettuce and tossed it on top of the browning bits already sitting out. Then he gave it all a stir.

I grimaced and stepped forward. I would definitely not be eating here. "I'm looking for Ian Jenkins," I told him.

"I'm Ian Jenkins," the man said. His voice was high pitched and squeaky. That mixed with the cheese odor made me think of Mickey Mouse.

I narrowed my eyes at him. There was no way someone this young owned this place.

Standing directly across from him, I got an up-close look at a diamond-shaped birthmark on his cheek. It was small enough to appear like a regular beauty mark from far away, although there was nothing beautiful about this man. Sweat covered his round face and thick neck, and I couldn't help wondering if any of it had fallen onto the food. He had reddish-brown hair and murky-colored eyes. A wide nose took over his face, and dotted scars suggested he'd once had a severe case of acne.

"Are you the owner?"

"No, that's my father. Who are you?"

"I'm Jamie Bond. I'm investigating the death of Roger Claremont. Can I speak with your dad, please?"

He gave me a once-over, wiped his hands on the once-white but now-grease-stained apron around his waist, and screamed, "Pop!"

I flinched and looked away. My gaze landed on the array of wrap offerings, from mushy-looking tomatoes to shaved steak with the appearance of leather. Slices of ham had a sheen on them, as if they were slimy and had been sitting under the lights way past expiration, and the small blocks of cheese looked congealed. There was a salad, maybe tuna or chicken, that had dried bits closest to the top.

The whole thing made my stomach flip. How could anyone eat this stuff? How were they still in business? No wonder they wanted to sue. They probably needed the money to stay afloat.

"Can I help you?"

I looked up to the voice and watched an older version of the son, minus the pimply scars, step forward. Same hair, same nose, same brown pants and green polo shirt, and same disgusting apron. It was like looking into the future, or the past, depending on whom you stared at.

"Hi, I'm Jamie Bond," I told him. "I'm looking into the death of Roger Claremont." I didn't bother to offer my hand to shake. I couldn't remember the last time I'd had a tetanus shot, and I was fresh out of hand sanitizer.

"How can I help you?" Senior Jenkins asked, but his pursed lips and shifty glance gave away his disdain in either discussing Roger or his death. Or maybe both.

"I understand that Roger used to be an employee of yours."

"Yeah. So?"

"I also understand that you and he didn't part ways amicably."

The son scoffed. "That's an understatement," he mumbled.

Senior Jenkins shot him a glare.

"Where were you the afternoon Roger was killed?" I asked. There was no sense in beating around the bush. Plus, I really wanted to get out of here and jump into a vat of bleach. I took a step back, closer to the front door and farther away from the assortment of food. My left shoe stuck to the floor for a second, and I prayed I had napkins in the car.

"What's it to you? You a cop?" Jenkins asked.

I shook my head. "Private investigator."

"So who you workin' for?" he challenged.

Normally I didn't like to give out client info, but considering Bristol Claremont's arrest was likely to be front-page news, I didn't see the harm.

"Bristol Claremont hired me."

Jenkins's posture softened some. "That woman's a looker, huh? I ask you—what does a hot number like that see in a guy like Roger?"

If I had to guess, dollar signs. "You weren't Roger's biggest fan, I take it."

Jenkins pursed his thin lips and narrowed his eyes. "That two-faced, disloyal, rat fink of a sandwich pimp can rot in Hades for all I care." He paused. "Not to speak ill of the dead or nothin'."

I tried not to smile. I was liking this guy as a suspect more and more. "When was the last time you saw Roger?" I asked.

Jenkins shrugged, his gaze wandering to the poster of a spinach wrap loaded with veggies about a week fresher than anything in this store. "I dunno. Not recently."

"Not, say, two days ago?"

Jenkins's eyes shot back to mine, their murky depths narrowing into slits. "Hey, I said I didn't love the guy. I didn't say I killed him."

"Where were you when he was killed?" I asked, returning to my original question.

"I was here. All day," he answered.

Of course he was. "Customers can attest to that?" I asked.

"I can," the son quickly jumped in. "He was in the office doing the books and inventory. All day."

Well that didn't mean much. The son could've easily been covering for him.

"It doesn't matter though," Jenkins said. "I don't have a motive."

I raised an eyebrow his way. "What about your lawsuit against Roger?"

Something shifted in Jenkins's eyes, as if he was surprised I knew about the suit. Dude, I was a PI with a crack team of hackers. If the information was out there, we would uncover it.

"Look, if you must know," he said, "my lawyer said they were close to settling. In my favor! So I got no reason to want Roger dead."

I bit my lip, tasting peach-flavored gloss. While these two were slimier than the ham, if he was telling the truth, Roger would be worth more to him alive than dead.

"What happens with the lawsuit now?" I asked.

Jenkins shrugged. "What do I look like, a freakin' lawyer? I dunno." He crossed his arms over his chest and gave me a hard look, signaling that he was done answering questions.

"Thanks very much for your time," I told him, quickly making for the door. I'd have Maya check into the lawsuit as soon as I got to my car and disinfected my shoe.

I took in a clean lungful of air as I left the store and walked to my car. I dug in the glove compartment for something I could use for the bottom of my pump and found two individual wet wipe packets. I had no idea where they'd come from, and I didn't care.

After wiping down my shoe, I pulled my key from my purse and pushed it into the ignition, but instead of turning the car on, I gave my mind a minute to digest the conversation with the Jenkinses. It would be difficult to prove his story about the lawyers being close to a settlement, and I had a feeling that he knew that. Neither side's attorneys would breach confidentiality to the police, let alone a PI. On the other hand, it would be equally difficult to prove his shaky alibi. While it didn't look like Jenkins had any motive beyond simple anger, there was definitely something shifty about both him and his son. Almost like they'd had that alibi rehearsed ahead of time. Something in my gut told me those two were hiding something, and I wasn't just talking about the brown lettuce.

My eyes wandered across the street as the door to The Spotted Pony swung open, and an inebriated guy in a rumpled suit stumbled out. I felt the corners of my mouth lift up into a smile as I suddenly got an idea.

At this time of day, The Spotted Pony wasn't booming with business. But it was open, and there were three men seated by the stage, getting their rocks off on the tantalizing dance moves of Pepper Le Pew. Seriously, that was her name, according to one of the men cheering her on. She even had a long white streak down the center of her black wig. And she was currently using scarves in ways I'd never imagined but made a mental note to add to my own private repertoire.

The place was quite big, but most of the tables were roped off and not used until the nighttime crowd arrived. It had been years since a smoking ban had been set in California, yet this place still smelled of it. It was faint but there. The stage was straight center from the doors, and the bar was to the left. It ran most of the length of that wall, and doors beside it led to the dressing rooms, office, and kitchen. Though, I wouldn't say The Spotted Pony wasn't known for its cuisine. It definitely wasn't the reason customers returned. But the line cooks made some righteous fries and buffalo wings ranging from mild to
caliente
. I'd never fully understand the desire to serve finger foods in a place noted for sticking money in women's clothing. But hey, I wasn't the owner and didn't set the rules.

The bartender—blond, beefy, and middle aged—was new, and I hoped he wouldn't give me a hard time. In a place like this, the staff was usually pretty protective about the dancers. They had to be. There were too many idiots who believed a woman flashing skin was eager and always willing for more, and some took it too far. But while the owner would vouch for me, and most of the nighttime staff remembered me from my server days here, to this guy I was just a stranger.

"Hey," I said and flashed my most dazzling smile. "Are Candy and Apple around?"

He gave me an up-and-down, but unlike with the greaseballs across the street, he didn't make me feel like I needed a shower. "Who's asking?"

"I'm Jamie. I used to work here." He didn't need to know I'd been undercover and not an actual server or a stripper.

He smiled and nodded while his eyes still roamed. I guessed he was imagining me in Pepper's place. "They just got here."

"Great. I'll go say hi." I took two steps toward the back doors before he flew around the bar and grabbed my arm, jerking me back.

"You can't just go back there." His grip was unbearably tight, his voice was gruff, and his breath smelled like one too many cigarettes. Not that I knew how many it took to go from pleasantly smoky to offensive. Maybe he was part of the reason the place still smelled like the stuff.

I wrenched myself free, now thoroughly annoyed, and frowned. "Ow. Don't manhandle me."

Shouldn't this jerk know not to touch women? Look at where he worked. I considered having a little chat with the owner, but I really had no business being here. While the owner had been a great help during my very first murder case a while back, it didn't mean he wouldn't mind my chatting up his employees while they were on his clock.

Just the same, this bartender had pissed me off, and I was about to protest and protest loudly, when I heard giggling. I turned to see Candy and Apple walk from the back of the house into the front. They saw me and waved. They seemed as excited to see me as I was to see them.

"See, I know them, and they know me," I said smugly to the bartender and walked to the girls.

"What are you doing here?" Candy asked. She wore denim capris, a white blouse with ruffles down the front, and the cutest red strappy heels. Her long, black hair was pulled back with the thinnest red headband. She looked more college student than exotic dancer, but maybe that was the style she was going for. Guys couldn't resist the naughty-schoolgirl image.

Apple stood in bright-yellow heels and a matching skintight halter dress. Her dark-auburn hair fell in ringlets around her shoulders. She widened her light-green eyes and smiled. "Do you need our help with something?"

The excitement on her face made me laugh. They knew me well, and their eagerness was catchy. They'd helped me with a past case when I'd needed a distraction in the form of double Ds, short skirts, and long legs. The girls were always up for an adventure, and they never asked questions. They were a private investigator's dream come true. Not that I'd ever put them in harm's way, but they had a way with men that came in handy.

"Actually, I was hoping for some information," I said. "Do either of you know Ian Jenkins? From Lite Wraps across the street?"

They each wrinkled their noses in unison and then glanced to one another. "Senior or junior?" Candy asked.

"Both? But mostly senior."

"He's a regular," Apple said. "He seems pretty skeevy, but I haven't had much interaction with him. Thankfully."

"Me neither," Candy said. "But I've heard the others girls talk about him." She nodded toward the stage. "Pepper's roommate, Sunshine, knows him better, I think."

I glanced to Pepper and her many scarves. "So I should talk to Pepper."

"Nah," said Candy. "She's new. She only started yesterday. And Sunshine's been sick, so I don't know when she'll be in again."

"I think she's preggo," Apple whispered.

Well that couldn't be good for business.

"What is it you wanted to know about him?" Candy asked.

I pursed my lips together. Honestly, I wasn't sure. "Anything you can find out."

Candy nodded. "We can ask around and let you know if any of the other girls know them better."

"That would be great. Also ask about Roger Claremont."

Apple cocked her head to the side. "The sandwich guy?"

I nodded. "Did you know him?"

"Just from his commercials," she answered. "And the news. Didn't his wife kill him?"

That's what I was going to find out.

I hit the sidewalk, and the sun blinded me for a moment. I glanced at Lite Wraps, but from the angle of the sunlight on the windows, I couldn't see inside. For all I knew, one or both of the Jenkins men were watching me. I wasn't usually paranoid, but the hair standing at attention on the back of my neck told me there was something off with those two. Was Jenkins a murderer? I wasn't sure yet. But Apple was right. The men were skeevy.

My cell rang. I cupped my hand over the top of the display to read the caller ID. It was Sam.

"Hey, what's up?" I asked.

A car sped past me, and the passenger leaned out his window and flicked his tongue at me. Clearly he thought I worked at The Spotted Pony.

"Um, I need help," Sam said. Her voice was wavering and laced with uncertainty. It put my radar immediately on high alert.

"What's wrong?" I sprinted across the street to my car.

"Julio wasn't home last night when I went to drop off our son."

I frowned. "So you didn't get the child support payment from him?"

"No, but it's more than that. Julio's never missed his day with Julio Junior. I tried calling, but there was no answer on his cell. None again this morning either."

"And I take it he's not back home?"

"No. I checked on my way to the office. I've been calling all the places where I think he may be, but no one has seen or heard from him. This isn't like him, Jamie. I'm really worried."

I slid onto my driver's seat and shoved my key into the ignition. "Where do you want to start?"

She released a breath, and I could hear the relief take over. "His house." She rattled off the address. "I'm going back there now."

"I'll meet you there."

*   *   *

I found an empty spot across from the address Sam had given me. Her car was parked two cars ahead of mine. We walked across the narrow street, to the small one-story house, and met on Julio's front lawn. Or what was left of a lawn. It was more a patch of dirt with several small groups of grass poking through. He obviously wasn't into his landscape. We stared at the front of the house. It wasn't anything special to look at as far as architecture. A small utilitarian box mass-produced for the booming fifties economy of Hollywood. But the windows were clear, and the light-blue siding was clean. He'd probably hosed them down recently.

"So what happened exactly?" I asked Sam as we walked to his front door.

She repeated how she'd come by yesterday, with Julio Jr., and Julio Sr. hadn't been home. "He's never missed a scheduled date with his son, and he hasn't been answering his cell," she repeated. "And I can't express just how much he loves that thing. He just bought the latest iPhone, and it's like his baby. He's never without it. It's his lifeline."

I twisted the knob on the front door, but it was locked. Of course. Why wouldn't it be? "I don't suppose you have a key?"

She shook her head, causing her dark curls to bounce around her head. "And I didn't look around last night because I didn't want to alert little Julio that something may have been wrong."

"Let's do that now." I took a left and walked past his garbage can to the back of the house.

Because of the sparsity of the front, I expected the back to be empty as well, but clearly Julio Sr. enjoyed entertaining outside. There was a round frosted plastic-topped table with a hole in the center, but there was no umbrella. Three dark-green chairs and one white plastic one surrounded the table. A light-blue cooler sat by the white chair. I lifted its lid and saw two unopened cans of Coors swimming in warm water.

On the other side of the house stood a gas grill. It was shut. Sam opened it, and other than needing a good cleaning, it was empty. The remains of whatever Julio last cooked were charred. The yard itself wasn't big. A tall wooden fence separated his property from the ones on the other three sides. Nailed onto that fence was a paper bulls-eye. Four darts were stuck to it. One had landed completely out of bounds, and the other three were dead center. Someone had great aim.

A tire hung from a tree by a rope, as evidence of Julio Sr.'s new devotion to fatherhood.

Sam tried the back door, but it was locked too. It wasn't surprising, but it was definitely annoying. Now we needed to find another way in. A way in which we wouldn't get arrested if a neighbor was watching and figured us to be hot burglars.

I thought of Derek and his arrest for peeking in Elaine's windows. This was different though. (A) I was licensed, and (B) Sam and I were concerned for Julio's safety. We weren't paranoid that he was cheating on us.

Sam pushed on a window, and it went up. She glanced at me, and I nodded my approval. Not that she needed it. She knew how to conduct herself in an investigation, even one that wasn't official. I watched her grab one of the plastic chairs and place it under the window. She stepped on it and sat on the windowsill before ducking her head into the open space and swinging her legs in.

Something crashed. Instead of following her, I replaced the chair to its original position and waited by the back door. I glanced at the surrounding houses. They were all one story as well, so I doubted anyone could see what was going on over here. I hadn't noticed any cars in the adjacent driveways. Hopefully no one was home.

The lock clicked, and Sam opened the back door. She was brushing something off the leg of her black pants. On the floor, right above the counter with the window she'd just climbed through, was a broken plate of heavily buttered toast. It looked cold and old, as if it had been sitting there for days.

I didn't comment about it. Sam was worried enough. I stepped into the kitchen and immediately noticed the pungent scent of bacon grease. Normally I'd think
oooh, bacon!
But this was heavy, as if bacon was all he'd cooked for the past month.

I glanced at the mail scattered across the kitchen table. It was mostly addressed To
Resident
, except for an unopened gas bill in Julio's name.

There was about a mug's worth of coffee sitting in the bottom of Julio's coffeepot. A skillet with rubbery-looking scrambled eggs sat on the stove. A black spatula sat beside it. Along with the toast, it all looked as if he'd left before he'd gotten to eat his breakfast.

My stomach tightened at the thought that Julio's departure hadn't been planned. While this wasn't conclusive evidence, why would someone leave home after he cooked but before he ate? It didn't make sense.

Other than these few items, his kitchen was bare. Off-white walls, cheap tile that had chipped by the refrigerator, and mini blinds in lieu of curtains. I glanced to Sam. Her lips were pressed firmly against each other. I wasn't sure what she was thinking, but it didn't take an Einstein to realize that the lines between her brows meant she was worried too.

We hit the living room next, but there wasn't much out of order other than the TV remote being on the floor by the brown leather couch. It was a bare room, much like the kitchen. An oversized armchair sat diagonally beside the couch. The coffee table and a couple of side tables made of oak filled out the room, along with a standing lamp between the armchair and couch and a smaller lamp that sat on the floor in a corner. That made no sense. Why not stick it on one of the tables? But I knew better than to try to understand how men thought. Julio didn't have much in the way of a decorator's flair. He was the typical bachelor with a giant flat-screen TV.