Accomplice (3 page)

Brandon Kingsbury stood silhouetted against the
tall glass windows that overlooked downtown Los Angeles. Jess's breath caught
for half a moment. Sometimes he looked so much like her late husband that it
hurt. Then he turned and the cruel gleam in his eye wiped away all resemblance
to the man she had loved.

“Jessica, darling. How have you been?” The man
held out his arms as though expecting to hug her.

She leaned her back against the wall next to the
door and crossed her arms over her chest. His eyes travelled the length of her
and as always she fought a wave of revulsion at his unmistakable lust. It was
one thing for a man to appreciate a photo of a naked woman. It was something
completely different to leer at another man's wife. His father's wife. And now
the target of his own malicious lawsuit.

“Don't look at me like that, darling. We are
family, after all. You have had an exciting week, I hear.”

After six years of nothing but crude remarks and
poorly executed attempts to corner her alone, not to mention one memorable knee
to his groin, did he really expect her to fall into his embrace?

“Fine. Gentlemen.
Ladies
.” The word was a
sneer on Brandon's lips. “I have a proposition for you.”

Jess nearly rolled her eyes at the word. “I
thought you wanted information about the theft.”

He shrugged. “Just hear me out.”

Brandon and his lawyer, Smythe, the
much-celebrated counsel of celebrity drug addicts and professional sports
paternity suits, sat. Leon held out a chair for her and she took it.

Smythe handed a stack of papers across the table
to Leon. “My client, as always, wishes to settle the disagreement amicably. He
is willing to acknowledge that the marriage between one Jessica Hughes and the
late Charles Kingsbury was indeed, legal and binding, and thus you do have some
small legitimate claim to his estate.”

Jessica pursed her lips and tried to calm the
sudden clench of her heart. The core of Brandon's lawsuit involved contesting
her marriage. If he was conceding that now, he must have something far worse up
his sleeve.

“The agreement in these papers details what my
client feels is a fair and equitable settlement given the brevity of your
marriage.”

She wanted to grab the papers and cram into
Brandon's Cheshire-cat grin. She breathed in slowly, counting to three, and
then out. Inner calm. Equilibrium. Let Leon do the talking.

Her lawyer studied each page, making small “mmm”
sounds every now and then. Smythe relaxed backwards in his chair. Brandon
shifted in his, making the wheels creek.

Jessica just breathed.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Leon
pushed himself back up from the table and put the documents into his briefcase.
“I believe we are done here gentlemen.”

Smythe jumped to his feet and held out a hand.
“Then it’s a deal.”

“No.” Leon motioned for Jessica to follow him. She
tried to give him a quizzical look, but his eyes were as unreadable as ever.
“You clearly went to considerable effort, but I recommend that my client not
sign these forms.”

Brandon shoved himself backwards and stood up
blustering. “She didn't even read it. Jessica, don't listen to this clown--”

“Any lawyer who advised his client to sign this
should be disbarred. She could sooner promise you flying monkeys and dancing
mermaids as agree to the ridiculous terms in these papers. Now if you will
excuse me, I have other work to attend to.”

Jessica hurried after him, down the hall, and into
another small conference room where he shut the door behind them. “What just
happened back there? What is in that agreement?”

He almost smiled at her and pulled the stack out
and handed it to her. “Whatever you do, don't so much as doodle on these pages.
His terms were, as he suggested, quite reasonable. He offered you the Hollywood
home, several million in investments and cash. In short, to honor most of
Charles' will.”

She shook her head in disbelief. “Wow. What is the
catch?”

“In exchange, he wanted the Hearst diamonds. Not
the set that was just stolen, but the originals.”

Jess opened her mouth and then shut it again.
Leon, of course, understood the significance of that request. Charles had kept
him on retainer for over thirty years, and he came from the old school of
lawyers who would keep their client's secret life closer than any priest. A
priest, after all, was still beholden to God.

“Don't worry, Jess. The judge cannot possibly
order them handed over, either. Charles left them out of his will on purpose.”

She sank down into a faded mauve chair and focused
on breathing. Even that seemed hard right now. The robbery this week. The FBI
search. And now this. “They don't believe me, do they? They think I still have
that necklace?”

“It would seem so, yes. I suggest you keep those
guards of yours close by until they can be convinced otherwise.”

“Are you ready?”

Jess's hands shook as she smoothed the same lock
of hair for the fifth time. “Do I have a choice?”

“Not really. Your cue is coming.” Lindsay pulled a
robe off the hook on the back of the door.

Jess took a deep shuddering breath and turned
around on the small dressing room stool. She slipped her feet into a pair of
purple jeweled high-heeled slippers and gave the matching satin corset top a
tug. Her knees felt wobbly and her palms were icy and damp. She still hated
going out on stage. “Do I look OK?”

“If you're going for the wild-west-brothel meets
the Easter bunny look, yes.”

Jess cracked a half smile. “It’s a lingerie show.
I think that is exactly the look they were going for.” She shook her hips,
making the fur-trimmed chiffon skirt rustle.

“And don't even think of asking me if your butt
looks fat. You don't pay me enough for that.” Lindsay cracked a wry smile. “You
sold out the show, you know that?

Jessica had accepted the invitation to walk the
runway to raise money for breast cancer research last month. That was before
the news about Brandon's lawsuit hit the tabloids. Before the robbery. Before
she had scores of paparazzi blocking her sidewalks, cramming microphones in her
face and cameras up her skirt every time she left the house. The organizers of
the charity fashion show were thrilled with all the free publicity. Jessica's
agent was beyond ecstatic.

“I'm happy for them.” The words sounded flat. She
was happy that the event would be a success and that the charity would make a
lot of money. She just wished that she didn't feel like puking. She tied the
sash around her waist and drew the collar in close around her neck.

In the hallway, Tony waited to walk with them the
rest of the way. Lindsay had been introduced as Jessica's personal assistant
and had grudgingly agreed to fetch a few water bottles and pretend to consult
with Jess's agent on potential future appearances. She was the grouchiest
assistant that Jess had ever worked with.

Loud music thumped from the stage as they
approached the wings. Volunteers in pink t-shirts scurried about with iPads,
cans of hairspray, and bits of lace and fabric. Jess caught a few sideways
glances, but between Tony's girth and Lindsay's frown, no one approached them.

Her knees nearly buckled as they reached the
curtain.
You've done this before
, she told herself.

Before she could psych herself out any further,
she stripped off the robe and tossed it at a waiting attendant. She lifted her
chin, sucked in her abs, and set her facial expression.

Time to work.

***

Noah rested with his back against the exit door to
the right of the stage, arms crossed over his black t-shirt that read SECURITY
in hot pink letters across his chest, and scanned the faces in the crowd. One
of his buddies ran the private security firm that was working the fashion show,
so it had not taken long to pull a few strings and get himself into a prime
location.

Cole had no luck all week finding the jeweler who
had crafted the fake Hearst necklace. The shop had been closed for several
years and the employees listed in the IRS files had all turned out to be either
fictitious or long lost. Not that it proved anything. Buying a piece of jewelry
from a scam artist was hardly a crime.

Thompson's last report on the LAPD side of the
investigation was looking equally grim. There were dozens of sets of employee
fingerprints to sift through, and hundreds of images lifted from walls and
doorknobs, windows, and furniture. It would take weeks at best before they
might find leads. If the thief was stupid enough to go without gloves.

Noah's boss had been putting the pressure on him
to make some progress in the money laundering side. The investigation had
started almost four years ago under another agent. At that time, they were
looking into allegations of extortion against that Charles Kingsbury. At least
two—likely more—prominent businessmen were conducting extramarital affairs with
adult film stars. Very young adult film stars. Kingsbury cashed in on the
gossip. Allegedly.

It was a ridiculous case of the pot blackmailing
the kettle given that Charles Kingsbury was, at the time, newly married to a
former Playboy Playmate less than half his age.

By the time the files got dumped on Noah's desk,
the case had morphed into an attempt to unravel the complicated money
laundering scheme that had purportedly hidden all of the blackmail proceeds. At
the same time, Jessica hit the media spotlight for carrying on her own
extramarital affair with a Senator. And Kingsbury was diagnosed with colon
cancer.

Noah had thought that the case would be
round-filed once the old man passed away, but his boss had other ideas. His
exact words were, “We have spent over three-thousand man-hours on this case. I
want to see someone's ass in jail or your ass will be on the streets.”

Instead, Noah's ass had spent months in an office
chair reading financial reports and flipping through newspaper clippings
detailing every sordid minute of Jessica Kingsbury's life, down to her bra size
(34 D), her preferred coffee drink (a skim decaf caramel macchiato with whip),
and the fact that she didn't seem to exist before arriving, penniless and
alone, in LA at age 19. Like too many other girls, she landed her back but was
good enough—or lucky enough—for her career to lead her to lingerie catalogs,
then Playboy, then to Charles Kingsbury, and now to the Kodak Theater to parade
around in her underwear for half the world to see.

It was a step up from her previous “modeling”
career.

The music changed and the audience seemed to hold
its breath as she stepped onto the stage. Beautiful. Confident. Her hair glowed
with an ethereal light. Her breasts were bound tightly by her corset, their
full rounds thrusting upwards as if attempting to escape. And she was all but
naked from the waist down.

He tried to keep his eyes on the crowd. Damnit, he
was there to work, not to gawk.

She reached the front of the runway and struck a
jaunty pose.

Only a tiny scrap of fabric covered her sex in the
front, and when she pivoted, he could see tight ass cheeks unhindered by her
thong, and made even more alluring by the little see-through skirt that covered
them.

They needed to give this case to someone else. To
a woman, or a eunuch with the libido of an avocado. He licked his parched lips.
Tried to keep his thoughts from drifting back to shapely thighs. To that dimple
that called attention to her lips when she smiled. It was harder than it should
have been.

As was he.

It didn't help that the first three quarters of
his research material came from her modeling portfolio—if you could call a
collection of adult toy catalogs, nudie magazines, and the cover shots for a
few porn flicks a portfolio. There were media clippings and an electronic copy
of a poor quality sex video taken by some boyfriend from before she got famous.
He had declined to watch that.

The last quarter of the file showed a much more
subdued version of her. A beautiful young woman, happily on the arm of her
much-older husband, looking more like a California socialite than a porn star.

He didn't blame Kingsbury. She made a gorgeous
trophy.

Like many of the super-rich, the pair seemed to
give a lot of their money away and attended a lot of formal dinner parties for
their trouble. For the last couple of months before her husband died, Jessica
was photographed beside his motorized wheelchair, holding his hand and leaning
down to whisper in his ear. She was the picture of a devoted wife.

Those were the pictures that Noah liked best. She
looked so real. The press liked to emphasize the circles under her eyes, or the
unflattering sweats she frequently wore accompanying her husband to his
chemotherapy sessions. Noah couldn’t really explain why those photos spoke to
him more than the sexy ones. She looked like hell. She looked sad and weary. In
all of the earlier photos, she had kept her emotions under tight control,
showing only what she wanted the camera to show. But in the last months before
her husband died, she wore her heart on her sleeve for the entire world to see.

He breathed a sigh of relief as her curvy little
butt disappeared behind the curtain and the audience stood to cheer. As the
house lights went up, his radio squawked an alarm.

“--backstage NOW. Kingsbury Greenroom.”

Jessica.

His heart raced as he pictured some overly excited
fan surprising her in her dressing room, or the media bursting through the
velvet ropes to run her down.

He wasn't sure whether the call was intended for
him or someone else, but he went running anyway.

He found the stairs leading to the dressing rooms
with ease. It was cutting through the crowds of people gathered outside that
was the problem. Men and women in various stages of dress—from lingerie to
business suits—milled about in a dense thicket of half-dressed and sweaty
flesh. As he shouldered through them, he caught only snippets of their
conversations.

“--poor thing.”

“--ging there. Gross.”

“Don't they check ID's here--”

“--what she deserved. Did you know she--”

Noah finally reached the front and found half a
dozen other guards wearing the same black-and-pink t-shirts standing shoulder
to shoulder blocking the view down the hall.

The one in front said, “Hey, you’re supposed to
stay out front by the stage. The cops will be here soon. We don't need
gawkers.”

Noah didn't know the guy talking and had only met
a couple of the others today, but he still bristled at the dismissive tone.
“What’s going on?”

“Look, man. Don't worry. Go back and watch the
doors, OK?”

Noah reached into his back pocket and pulled out
his badge. “I am a federal agent.”

The guard stared at it for a moment, and then at
Noah. “Whoa. Sorry. You doing some kind of undercover stuff here tonight?”

Noah shook his head. “Just let me by.”

He yanked out his cell and dialed. The phone
answered right away. “Cole, this is Noah. Send someone over to the theater,
pronto.”

“Uniformed or plainclothes?”

“Either. Both. Don't step on any LAPD toes,
though. They should be responding as well.”

“Whatever you say. What happened?”

“I will let you know when I find out.” He clicked
off and rounded the corner at the end of the hall. Jessica's goon stood like a
wall across the corridor. Bobby? Mario? Something Italian. He looked Noah up
and down.

“Pink is your color, Grayson.”

Noah cracked a half smile. “You remember me?”

The guy tapped his temple with a thick finger.
“Photographic memory. How was the view from the west side of the stage?”

So much for looking inconspicuous.
Noah
shrugged. “Not a bad way to see a sold-out show. I bet a big guy like you could
pick up all kinds of off-hours work.”

The man did not look amused. “This ain't a federal
case, agent. You can go back to your spy games now.”

Noah blew out a breath and motioned toward the
dressing room door hidden behind the human meatshield. “Mind if I take a look?”

“She told me to wait for the cops, not the feds.
So yeah, I mind.” The man stared him down, which was no mean feat given Noah's
five-eleven height. Hell, he'd even played college football, briefly, but this
guy was big enough to use Noah as the ball.

He was beginning to hope the cops showed up soon.

“It's all right, Tony. Let him through.”

Jessica.

Her hair was mussed and she was wrapped in an
oversized terry cloth robe that presumably covered her runway costume--or lack
thereof. She looked like she’d just climbed out of bed. His bed. He could
picture it: making her coffee and scrambled eggs while she relaxed in his
bathrobe, reading the paper at his breakfast table. Not that a woman like
Jessica Kingsbury would ever set foot in his tiny, grungy house. Not that a
woman like Jessica Kingsbury would ever go for a normal, non-rich, non-famous
guy like him.

Not that he had any business even thinking about
Jessica Kingsbury as anything other than the target of his investigation.

 She inclined her head. “You might as well come
have a look. After all, you've seen the rest of my private life. Why stop
there?”

She had honeyed her words, but there was a shaky
undertone to it. Her face was pale beneath the exaggerated stage makeup and her
pupils dilated despite the harsh fluorescent hallway lighting.

Her eyes raked over him boldly almost hungrily,
hesitating briefly on the word on his chest while a smirk played around the
corners of her full-lipped mouth. “New uniform?”

He felt his temples grow warm under her scrutiny.

“I hope you aren't a sucker for animal rights.”
She opened the dressing room door.