Gemini Rising (Mischievous Malamute Mystery Series, Book 1) (3 page)

Chapter Eight

My brain was still swimming from Ramirez’s visit when the front door opened and my best friend, Leah Campbell, popped her head in. Despite the concern crinkling at the corners of her eyes and mouth, I smiled at the sight of her. Tired of the Sunshine Barbie nickname her co-workers at the newspaper had bestowed upon her, Leah recently rebelled by lopping off her long shimmering locks in favor of a shorter, spiky cut—which still made her adorable, but gave her more of an edgy, precocious appearance. Think Meg Ryan in
Addicted to Love
.

She offered me one of the iced lattes she was holding, then slipped a doggie treat from her pocket and tossed it into the air. Nicoh inhaled it without chewing, all while giving her one of his famous I-almost-had-to-wait looks. I took a long sip of my beverage before nodding in satisfaction and then proceeded to fill her in on my conversation with Ramirez. She said nothing until I finished, though her usually perky features were grim as she listened intently.

“You ok?” she asked after a long moment, self-consciously attempting to tuck a stray spike behind her ear, only to have it errantly jut in the opposite direction. “It’s a lot to digest for anyone, Ajax. Even you.”

She used the nickname she had given me years earlier. Not that I liked being compared to cleaning products but she had a point—despite my sometimes outwardly abrasive and direct nature, I always managed to get the job done.

I shrugged. I certainly didn’t feel like I was living up to my nickname today. I turned to the kitchen counter, where I had spread out the notes for my next photo assignment—a failed attempt at distracting myself from the day’s events.

“What’s this?” Leah asked, eyeing me carefully. “I thought you were going to take a couple of days off?”

“I was, but wallowing in self-pity doesn’t pay the bills or feed this gluttonous beast.” I scratched Nicoh behind his massive, downy-soft ears and was rewarded with a low whoo-whoo of approval.

“Besides,” I continued, “Charlie basically threatened me if I didn’t get the shots of his new Tempe Town Lake condo done.” I waved to the paperwork in front of me. “Apparently, he has a deadline for another hoity-toity magazine.”

Ahh…Charlie Wilson. My client. Born with a titanium spoon in his mouth. The spoiled grandson of a software magnate. Never worked a day in his life, but notorious for throwing very public, Oscar award-winning—or at the very least, Daytime Emmy award-winning—tantrums. And, to keep up appearances, the tantrums surfaced daily—sometimes even hourly—though thankfully, I hadn’t had the displeasure of being on the receiving end. Yet. I wasn’t inclined to make this the first time, either.

I should have been grateful Charlie had chosen me as his photographer. Of course, he had only done so because he felt we had history, if you could call attending the same high school history.

Our working relationship started at a party we both attended after returning from college—me from UCLA and Charlie from Harvard. While rekindling said history, Charlie generously offered to throw some work my way.

Charlie turned out to be more demanding and difficult than all my other clients combined, but his jobs not only paid the bulk of my bills, they provided me with the word-of-mouth needed to get my business off the ground.

At the time, I was appreciative, as I had recently started my freelance photography business, aptly named Mischievous Malamute after a few photo shoot mishaps featuring my canine companion. Thankfully, it had never been more than a couple misplaced dinner rolls or uprooted props, but it was still embarrassing. In the end, naming the business after my companion seemed appropriate—not only as a warning to future clients but a reminder to myself to keep him in check while on location.

I sighed and returned my attention to Leah, who was still focused intently on me. She knew, just as I did, Charlie’s project provided a temporary distraction. I’d have to deal with Ramirez’s news sooner or later. Knowing me as she did, she decided sooner was better and jumped in head-first.

“What do you want to do, Ajax? And, more importantly, what can I do to help?”

Chapter Nine

After much debate, Leah and I agreed—actually, Leah decided and I agreed—it couldn’t hurt to meet the private investigators to get their take on the situation.

Using the business card Ramirez left, I made an appointment with Stanton Investigations of L.A. The administrative assistant, Anna Goodwin, told me Abe and Elijah Stanton were still in Phoenix awaiting my call and would meet me at Starbucks the next morning. I’d never dealt with PIs before, so Leah offered to be my backup in case things “got rough.” Her words, not mine. I agreed, though I got the distinct impression she was hoping a pair of Thomas Magnums would show up in a red Ferrari.

Leah, Nicoh—my backup-backup—and I arrived at Starbucks the following morning fifteen minutes early. Nicoh and I settled in a corner seat on the covered outdoor patio while Leah grabbed beverages and snacks. I scoped the area but didn’t see any PI-types lurking, so I settled for nervously picking the corners of my notepad. I doubted I would be able to calm down enough to take any notes, but as a reporter, Leah felt it was crucial to carry props. Of course, I’d forced her to leave the tape recorder at home, so she settled for a small notepad like mine.

We also decided against divulging her occupation. I needed to get information out of these guys, not send them running.

Leah came out a short time later, laden with caffeinated beverages and goodies. I grumbled I wasn’t going to be able to eat, to which Leah smartly replied Nicoh would be more than happy to help me. Did I mention she’d already bought him his own maple scone? No wonder he was so incorrigible. And stocky. I was too nervous to chastise her, so I nibbled on the corner of my blueberry scone before Nicoh had the chance to claim it.

Minutes later, two ex-football player types entered the patio. Our PIs had arrived. Abe and Elijah Stanton were clearly brothers, both standing over 6 feet 3 inches, clad in black leather jackets, jeans and wayfarers, with the same angular features and sky-blue eyes. That was where the similarity ended.

Abe wore his tawny hair shorter with gelled spikes on the top—that whole Brad Pitt bedhead look guys claim they don’t spend hours in front of the mirror perfecting—a black t-shirt and black Doc Marten boots.

While Elijah’s hair fell to his shoulders in messy sun-bleached waves, the rest of him was anything but, with his immaculately-pressed button-down shirt that matched his eyes and expensive-looking loafers. Though I put them both in their early-to-mid thirties, it was up in the air as to which brother was the eldest. I looked over at Leah—who’d gone from an annoyingly tidy scone-eater to drooling mouth-breather—and kicked her as I rose from the table to greet them.

Fortunately, Leah collected herself as introductions were made and Nicoh gave them his sniff of approval. Though both stole glances at me when they thought I wasn’t looking—likely due to my resemblance to Victoria—Elijah quickly started things off, indicating their intention to keep the meeting informal by outlining the information they’d gathered at Victoria’s request and answering questions that surfaced as a result.

I was too antsy to tackle the tough stuff up front, so I asked them to give us a bit of background on themselves. I wasn’t sure what I expected, but it wasn’t their unabridged life history.

The Stanton brothers were born and raised in Salinas, California by a Highway Patrol officer and a high school history teacher. Like their father—a former college athlete—both excelled in football and were awarded full athletic scholarships, Abe first to the University of Southern California and Elijah two years later to my alma mater, UCLA. That cleared up my older vs. younger brother question.

Abe graduated with honors with a degree in Criminal Justice and immediately signed up for the Los Angeles Police Academy. After graduating from the academy six months later, he spent his requisite time on Metro patrol assignments, before competing for and being promoted to Police Detective.

Elijah, meanwhile, also graduated with honors with degrees in both Law and Business Administration but unlike his brother, struggled for direction for the first time in his life. Working as a clerk and research assistant in a top L.A. law firm had been interesting—and paid the bills—but didn’t inspire the passion in him he dreamed it would. He wasn’t afraid of hard work, and did enjoy the research, but couldn’t see himself becoming a barrister for the next forty years.

Around the same time, Abe had begun to fester over the never-ending stream of bureaucratic red tape he encountered on a daily basis. No matter how tirelessly he worked, his efforts were routinely quashed for political reasons. After a particularly difficult period, he came to the overwhelming realization that unless he made a change, he would forever face the inability to make the type of difference he envisioned.

The brothers had each reached crossroads. Both wanted to affect change and be in control of how they went about it. Even if they only managed to do in small pieces over time, it was better than being at the mercy of people with ulterior motives, standing by going through the motions or worse yet, doing nothing. After much discussion, they combined the best of their skills—Elijah’s knowledge of criminal justice and law enforcement and Abe’s of law, business and research—and started a private investigation firm.

Starting small, they got leads from their former workplaces—including Elijah’s law firm—and built their business on delivering thorough, consistent results in a professional, honest and timely manner.

The strong work ethic they’d learned from their parents, coupled with their tenacity and drive served them well. Within a short time, they had a steady flow of work—solely due to word of mouth—and their business thrived.

They splurged by opening a small office and hiring Anna, a former co-worker of Elijah’s, to handle all scheduling and billing and more frequently, to assist with research. It was a win-win situation, Anna loved the autonomy the brothers gave her to run the operation and they were free to work out in the field.

Meanwhile, Dad and Mom—now retired—couldn’t have been more proud of their sons. Of course, both expressed concern over their sons being more than 300 miles from home, though Abe and Elijah suspected both were making noise to cover their excitement. They would no longer need to make excuses for the additional trips to L.A.—their dad for his sporting events and mom for the surplus of shopping venues. We all laughed at the subterfuge.

I enjoyed Abe and Elijah’s sharing of their background so much, I’d almost forgotten the purpose of the meeting. I said almost.

“So, how did you come to be here in Phoenix?” I asked.

“Way to be a buzz-kill, Ajax,” Leah growled, loud enough for Abe and Elijah to hear.

Eyebrows lifted at my nickname, but Abe replied, “As Detective Ramirez mentioned, Victoria was our client. Two weeks ago, she left a voicemail indicating she was heading to Phoenix. It was the last time we heard from her. When she didn’t respond to any of our phone calls or texts, we hopped in the car. After we arrived, we stopped at the police precinct down in Central Phoenix, introduced ourselves as PIs and showed them Victoria’s picture.

“Ramirez must have been vigilant in circulating the details of the case—something about a bottle of thirty-year-old single malt—because no sooner had the words left our mouths, the desk sergeant supplied us with Ramirez’s contact information, height, weight, shoe size, favorite flavor of ice cream…” We all chuckled in unison.

Elijah continued, “We were also able to find out Ramirez got his caffeine fix around the same time each morning,” he glanced around, “at this Starbucks. So we took the opportunity to catch up with him.

“Of course, we still hadn’t received confirmation Victoria was dead—the chatty Cathy desk sergeant hadn’t managed to divulge that bit of information—though we already suspected something was up. I mean, if a Homicide detective is trading $1200 bottles of scotch for information, it can’t be good.

“Anyway, Ramirez was suspicious at first, but once we gave him the condensed version of our background”—he paused to smile at me as I realized I had erroneously made the comment about their life history out loud—“and shared our connection to Victoria, he told us of her murder.” Elijah looked away and Abe bowed his head, quietly studying his folded hands.

“I’m so sorry,” I murmured, “she was more than a client—”

“She was a
client
,” Abe snarked, taking me by surprise.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply…” I stammered, as Leah shot me a terse look that told me to shut up.

“No apologies necessary, AJ,” Elijah said, his voice quiet. “What my brother means is Victoria was our client first. Working on a case like this, for as long as we have, you get to know someone, especially when she puts as much in as she gets. It’s hard not to care. So, yes, though we worked side by side as professionals, Victoria was more than our client. She’d become our friend.”

“How did Victoria find you in the first place?” Leah asked, quickly shifting the subject.

“We’d taken on several projects for Platinum International, the real estate firm where she was employed, and though we never worked with her directly, she was familiar with our work,” Elijah replied.

“Yeah, surprised the heck out of us.” Abe smiled at the memory. “She was the first client who actually made an appointment to meet us at our office. We hadn’t physically been there in months—Anna keeps things running smoothly—so we raced there to make sure everything was still in order. Of course, Victoria arrived ahead of us, and she and Anna were chatting away like old friends, in our meticulously-organized and tastefully-decorated office. And there sat Anna, with a coy, knowing smile.”

“She knew what the two of you were up to,” I commented with a light chuckle.

Abe, obviously no longer peeved at me, laughed. “She knew we’d come rushing to fix things, which meant we owed her a big fat raise for doubting her abilities.”

“Lesson learned?” Leah teased.

They both laughed and nodded before Elijah turned the conversation back to their meeting with Ramirez.

“Anyway, Ramirez seemed like a good guy—and though he told us he’d been removed from the case earlier that morning—we thought perhaps he could help.

“Ramirez might have mentioned this, but when Victoria first hired us six months ago, it was to look into your parent’s plane crash.” I nodded, so he continued, “Victoria’s story started before that, with the death of her parents, Joseph and Susan Winestone. You may have heard of them?”

We shook our heads. “No? Well, they made their fortune designing and building some of the most elite golf courses and resorts in the world—from California to Florida and Hawaii in the USA—to Australia, Scotland, Spain, etc.”

“Oh my, yes! I remember them now,” Leah exclaimed. “In fact, when they scouted locations in Arizona five years ago—” I kicked her hard before she inadvertently divulged she was a reporter. “Uh, I saw them being interviewed on the local news.” I smiled at her sweetly, to which she pinched me under the table. I didn’t dare look, but was pretty sure she’d drawn blood.

If Abe or Elijah noticed our little squabble, they didn’t let on. Abe continued where his brother had left off, “Anyway, the Winestones were taking the new Jag out for a spin along the Pacific Coast Highway. At one point during their trip, between Malibu and Santa Monica, the car veered, crashed through the divider and tumbled down embankment, killing them both instantly.”

“According to witnesses, the driver—Susan Winestone—never hit the brakes, nor appeared to be speeding. The crash investigators indicated the condition of that portion of the road had been good at the time of the accident—no potholes, dips, etc.—and the weather had been dry and clear. Technicians later confirmed the vehicle had no apparent defects.

“When Mrs. Winestone’s autopsy results were released, there were no indications of heart attack or stroke, and her blood work showed no signs she’d been impaired by drugs or alcohol.”

Abe took a deep breath and nodded at his brother, who continued, “However, that wasn’t the only thing her blood confirmed. It held another secret, as did Joseph Winestone’s. Her mother’s blood type was O and her father’s type B, but Victoria’s was type AB, meaning they didn’t match. Joseph and Susan Winestone couldn’t have been her birth parents.”

“My blood type is AB, too,” I whispered. Leah gave my hand a quick squeeze but motioned for Elijah to continue.

“Victoria was devastated, not only had she tragically lost her parents, but possibly her identity, as well. They had obviously not meant for her to find out she’d been adopted. Being the way she was, Victoria didn’t fault them for it. She simply believed they’d had their reasons and the best of intentions. Nevertheless, once she knew, she was determined to find out more about her background.

“Having been an only child, she had no other family to confide in, so she turned to her parent’s oldest friend, Sir Edward Harrington. Though he was known as Sir Edward to everyone else, Victoria insisted upon calling him Sir Harry from the time she was a toddler, despite her parent’s opposition.

“Anyway, upon their deaths, Sir Edward received a key from Joseph Winestone to a safety deposit box at a bank near his residence in London. The letter that accompanied the key was written in Mr. Winestone’s handwriting and instructed Sir Edward to review the contents and make his own decision with regard to their handling. He immediately called Victoria and encouraged her to come to London.”