Unwrapped: Clear Security's Holiday (Clear Security Holiday Book 2) Page 2

“You’re not allowed to jam communications in the police station.”

  “Well, I guess had you not tried to eavesdrop or record, you wouldn’t have noticed. The RF signal wouldn’t have affected much more than the room we were in.”

  “I’m going to report you for this,” he warns.

  “Perfect, then you can explain how you knew. And let’s be sure Jose Ramirez, the police commissioner, is part of that conversation.”

  “You’re a real bitch, you know that?”

  “You told me that when I was twelve. You’d think you’d have found a new name for me by now.”

  I push past him and walk outside, taking a few deep breaths. Wang-Fang Leong always unnerves me.

  When I get in the car, I call Mason Sullivan. He’s the managing partner of SHN, which has become the most successful venture capitalist firm in Silicon Valley. Our clients overlap all the time. It’s late, but I should let him know what’s going on.

  “Hey, Fi.” He’s alert and energetic.

  “Hi, Mason. I’m sorry to call so late.”

  “No problem. I thought you might be Caroline telling me she was home. She went out with some friends tonight to work on wedding planning.”

  “Just a few months,” I singsong.

  “I can’t wait to get it behind me. What’s going on?”

  I chuckle. “Well, I just visited one of our common clients in the Marina police station.”

  “Oh shit. Who?”

  “Hunter Anderson.”

  “Crap. Drunk and disorderly?”

  “Unfortunately, not. Murder. He and his girlfriend went out for dinner and had a side of psychedelic mushrooms. He doesn’t know how he got home, but he has a major gash across his face, and his girlfriend jumped from her apartment balcony.”

  “Oh shit.”

  “I can manage the arraignment, but I need to find a criminal defense attorney. I used to refer James Montoya, but his prices have gone up, and he’s spread too thin to be good for anyone. I liked Damien Lewis when I worked with him and Nate Lancaster. Do you think he could take it on? I don’t want to distract from what Nate has going.”

  “I agree about Montoya. Let’s give Damien a call.”

  “I’ll keep you posted. Do you think you can meet me for the arraignment in the morning? Hunter doesn’t have bail money. For this, he’ll probably need at least a million. You own the paper on his company. Would you be willing to allow him that collateral?”

  “I can do that. I’d much rather he owe me than deal with a bail bondsman if he skips. What time tomorrow morning? I don’t have cash. Won’t we need cash?”

  “You have a black American Express card? They’ll probably take that.”

  “I’ll be there. Text me the time and location.”

  “Will do.” I hang up and search through my contacts.

  The car drops me at home, and I settle myself inside before making the next call.

  “Damien Lewis.”

  “Hello, Damien. This if Fiona McPhee.”

  “Hey, Fiona. What’s up?”

  “I’m sure you’re busy, but I have a client in need of some help.” I walk him through what I know and the incoming bail hearing in the morning.

  “That will be with Judge Abel,” Damien says. “He’ll be expensive. He hates post-holiday bail hearings, mostly because it’s drunk and high people who’ve done stupid things.”

  “I would say this qualifies.”

  “Agreed. What about bail money?”

  “Mason will have the money.”

  He sighs. “Hunter is going to owe me. My fiancée was planning a spa day for the two of us.”

  “Bill him for it. It’s the least he can do for making us work on a holiday weekend.”

  Damien laughs.

  “Do you have a specific investigator you like to use? I typically use Jim Adelson over at Clear Security.”

  “I don’t have a regular investigator,” he says. “I’m fine with Clear, if they’ll do that. They’ve been easy to work with in the past.”

  “I’ll give them a call. Have a good night. See you in the morning.”

  We disconnect, and soon I’m on the phone again, this time chasing down Jim Adelson.

  “What’s going on, Fiona?” he says when he answers.

  “I need some help.”

  After I’ve explained everything and answered a dozen questions, he says, “I think Sebastian Pontius is the guy for this. He’s been on assignment tonight, but he’s my right arm. Will that work for you?”

  “Of course. Have him call me.”

  We disconnect, and I’ve just had time to change into a pair of silk sleep pants and a tank top when my phone rings again.

  “Hello?”

  “Fiona McPhee? This is Bash Pontius. I’m outside your brownstone. May I come in?”

  “I’ll meet you at the door.” So much for washing my face and taking the call from my bed.

  I throw on a black silk robe and open the door. Standing in front of me is the drop-dead gorgeous man I flirted with at The Dungeon earlier tonight.

  I clear my throat. “Please, come in.”

  Chapter 2

  Bash

  Fiona just disappeared earlier tonight. I was about to tell her I was also doing some work for The Dungeon. She was so hot in her form-fitting leather outfit. It left little to the imagination, but I still wanted to explore. The soft lighting from the white lights made her beautiful brown eyes sparkle. We’ve flirted for months, but she shuts me down when I take it to a personal level. I wouldn’t mind a fun night, or maybe even a weekend.

  “I had no idea I’d be seeing you again so soon.” I grin as I walk into her townhouse. There aren’t many of these in San Francisco, and she’s right on Jackson Street in the heart of Pacific Heights—maybe a half-block from a friend I ride my Harley with, Cameron Newhouse.

  “I didn’t realize you were also working at The Dungeon,” she says.

  My dick immediately goes hard. No, I wouldn’t mind a taste. I nod. “Were you part of the kerfuffle on the fourth floor?”

  She picks up a glass of amber liquid. “Care for a glass of Irish whiskey?”

  “Sure.” I look around and the townhouse is tastefully decorated. Like mine, it seems more for show than comfort. No family photos, and it doesn’t look like anyone actually lives here. “Are you going to answer my question?”

  “I’m still trying to decide what kerfuffle means.” Her lips quirk as she drinks from her glass.

  I take a sip of the whiskey, and my eyes water and my throat burns. “Damn,” I choke. “Is this lighter fluid?”

  She giggles, and I love the sound. “No, but it is ninety-two percent alcohol, imported from Ireland.”

  “I hear an Irish brogue sometimes.”

  “I was born there, but my parents immigrated when I was in elementary school.”

  “What brought them to the US?” I ask.

  “They were part of the Irish Republican Army and were sent to America to find people to help with the cause.”

  I choke again because I took more than a sip. “Your parents were IRA?”

  “I think once you’re IRA, you’re always IRA.”

  How can a lawyer be part of a known terrorist organization? “Are you IRA?”

  “Probably by birth, but I stay clear so I can keep my law license. However, it does come in handy when our common friends, like Landon Walsh, need a place to get situated before the police arrive—like he did over Labor Day as we were returning from his poker tournament.”

  “I heard about that. Didn’t the guy from the police kick a can of paint into his Lear jet?”

  “Yes. It was quite funny, actually. He certainly didn’t mean to, but boy, was it great to watch. He must have been quite the soccer player in his younger days.”

  “You worked with Marci to get him off.”

  She nods. “Marci did most of the work. I’ve been dealing with Nate and his arrest.” She takes another sip of her drink. “Anyway, I have a pr
oblem. I need a good investigator. Hunter Anderson was arrested tonight.” She takes me through what happened and what he told her.

  “You said his company was due to go public in a month or so?”

  She nods. “Just after the first of the year. So, a competitor might have laced the shrooms with something to get the advantage of going public first.”

  Smart women are such a turn-on. I nod. “That’s exactly what I was thinking.”

  “I need to know how they got home from that dinner,” she continues. “Rideshare? Private car? A friend? They certainly didn’t drive themselves.”

  “Got it.”

  “I want to confirm what they ordered and find out if the person who delivered it to their table still works at Ashbury Central.”

  “Not a problem.”

  “I’d also like a deep dive on Peter—or Wang-Fang—Leong.”

  “Wang-Fang is Peter Leong’s Chinese name?”

  I nod. “We grew up together. I hated him then, and I hate him now—and the dislike is very mutual. He was trying to keep me away from Hunter this evening, and I don’t know why.”

  “You grew up in Chinatown?”

  I smile. “Right on the edge, but we both went to St. Anthony.”

  “He’s Catholic?”

  “No. His parents were Mah-Wing and didn’t want him in the life. I just want to be sure he’s not in the life anyway.”

  “We’ve looked at him before, but we didn’t have his Chinese name. That may change some things.”

  “He changed it to Peter when we went to middle school. But he’s still the smarmy snake he always was.”

  “You’re being unkind to snakes,” I tell her.

  She giggles again, and I need to know more about her. “Are you giving up for the night?”

  She nods. “Hunter has his arraignment tomorrow morning, and I won’t know anything else until then. Damien Lewis will represent him, thank God.”

  “Agreed.” I wipe an imaginary crumb from my lap. “He’s a real find. He moved out here with his girlfriend and her college roommate.”

  She raises an eyebrow.

  She thinks like I do, and I know exactly what she’s wondering. “It’s not a throuple thing. The girls are best friends, and he was in love with the one. The other one is marrying Jackson Graham this spring.”

  “Corrine. I know them both. The stupid things people do for love.”

  I’m a bit shocked. I thought all women dreamed of love. “You don’t believe in love?” Fiona is becoming more and more perfect for me.

  “Hardly. I do just fine without any complications.”

  I think I’m in love—well, deeply in lust. “You’re speaking my language. How about we meet here for dinner tomorrow night and I can update you on what I’ve learned?”

  She doesn’t make eye contact with me. She’s considering it, but isn’t sold.

  “If it’s important, I can ask Jim to join us?” I offer.

  “No, that’s okay. I just don’t eat here very often.”

  I look over and realize her kitchen doesn’t look used. “I’m fine with ordering in.”

  “It’s not that.”

  “Would you prefer we go out?”

  She’s quiet a moment, and I’m guessing she’s thinking about our options. “No, the paparazzi don’t have this yet, and I’d like to keep it that way as long as possible.”

  “Tomorrow night, seven p.m. Here at your place?” I press.

  “That’s fine. I’ll do some computer work on Hunter’s company systems with my team, so you don’t need to have Gage Easton do any hunting at Clear. We can compile our notes.”

  “Okay. See you then.” I turn to get my coat.

  “What do you want to eat?” she asks.

  I look at her. I know she didn’t mean it the way I’m thinking, but the idea of getting between her creamy, white thighs is spectacular. “I eat everything.”

  “You’re not vegan or lactose intolerant?”

  I grin. “Nope. See you at seven.” I wave as I walk out the door. I have a date. Okay, it’s a work date, but I’m still excited. She’s not all about getting married and gonzo on love.

  On the drive home, I call Jim and give him the update on Hunter. He says he’ll get the team working on it tonight.

  “I think Hunter is going to need some protection,” I tell him.

  “Agreed. His life is going to suck for a while.” It’s quiet for a moment. “How did it go over at The Dungeon?” Jim asks.

  “It would have been better if I could watch for personal reasons and not professional ones. Fiona’s team confronted someone they’d been tracking in chat rooms. That takes some serious skill.”

  “That would be Maureen O’Connor’s work. Don’t tell Gage, but she’s the only person, in my opinion, who might be able to get the upper hand on him.”

  “She must be good because they were watching this guy, and he stole a slave—”

  “It’s called a sub,” Jim interjects.

  I knew that. “Whatever. He stole her and took her to a room. If he hadn’t been stopped, he would have cut her to pieces. He put a pretty serious gash in this girl’s arm.”

  “Damn. Good that they stopped that.”

  “We had a few drunken brawls and a couple other things I can update you on in the morning. Why do they have a liquor license? A bullwhip and vodka don’t mix.”

  I hear Jim chuckle through the phone. “You can take that up with Mistress Erin.”

  “God, no. She scares me.” I look around to be sure no one is listening in my empty apartment. “She wears spiked metal stilettos and a brass knuckles ring with spikes. Plus, I think she could take me.”

  Jim snorts. “She scares me, too.”

  “Does Fiona play there for fun?”

  “I don’t think that’s her thing. Why?”

  I have a great relationship with my boss, and he pays me incredibly well, but my personal life is my personal life. “Just wondering.”

  “Be careful, Bash. I’ve never seen her with anyone, and I’ve known her for over a decade.”

  “I’ll consider myself warned.”

  Chapter 3

  Fiona

  The next morning, as I prepare to walk into the courtroom to meet Damien for Hunter’s arraignment, one of the marshals approaches me. “Ms. McPhee, Judge Williams would like to see you in his chambers.”

  I’m conflicted. Judge Williams has done me favors in the past. Nothing unethical, he just pushed when I needed it. I owe him, but Hunter is in a bad place. I need to stay focused right now. “Please let Judge Williams know I’ll be there as soon as my client is arraigned in Judge Abel’s court.”

  The marshal nods and walks away.

  I take a seat in the gallery next to Damien. “Hunter should be up shortly,” he tells me.

  I nod. “What do you think?”

  “There are some big pieces missing from his night,” Damien says.

  “Yes. I agree. As I told you, my team is working with Clear Security. I’ve been asked to step into a meeting after the arraignment here in the courthouse. Would you like me to meet you at your offices this afternoon?”

  “I can’t,” he whispers. “Tomorrow morning? Maybe you can bring Clear with you and we can work through some things.”

  “I’m meeting with Clear later today. I’ll see if they can join tomorrow. Do you have a preferred time?”

  “The earlier the better.”

  “We can meet tonight, if you prefer.”

  “No…” Damien begins to blush. “I promised my fiancée I would hold back from work this afternoon and do some wedding planning.”

  I grin. Everyone is getting married. Hmmm. “No worries. How early tomorrow morning? Five? Six?”

  “Seven at my office.”

  “How do you like your coffee?” I ask. “I’ll pick it up on my way in.”

  “Cream and two sugars.”

  “People vs. Hunter Anderson,” the bailiff announces.

  Hunter
is led in in an orange jumpsuit with his wrists handcuffed to his waist. His feet are also cuffed, so he shuffles.

  Damien is immediately up and behind the barrier.

  A young, tall, dark-skinned woman stands. “Aubrey Simmons for the people.”

  The judge looks up. “And for the defendant?”

  “Damien Lewis, for the defendant, your honor.”

  “Hunter is the CEO of a company on the verge of going public. He was upset that his girlfriend and the co-founder of his company, Jennifer DeMille—”Ms. Simmons begins.

  “Your Honor, this is an arraignment, not an opening statement,” Damien cuts in.

  “Why shouldn’t the accused be released?” Judge Abel looks at Ms. Simmons.

  “Because he killed his girlfriend.” She looks at the judge, confused.

  “Your Honor, there is no proof of that,” Damien says. “Everything the state has is circumstantial. He was asleep when the police arrived. My client and his fiancée were out and enjoyed some hallucinogenic mushrooms in the Haight. We don’t have stomach contents, and he has three-hundred dollars to his name. He’s not a flight risk. He doesn’t even have a passport. The investor in his technology start-up is here and willing to post bail.”

  “Your Honor, the defendant murdered his girlfriend,” Ms. Simmons presses.

  “Your Honor, she jumped from the balcony of their apartment.,” Damien counters. “There is no evidence of a scuffle, and no reported domestic disturbance last night or any night.”

  “Pretrial motions are set for the first week of December.” Judge Abel picks up his gavel. “We won’t be going on Christmas break until we get through the arraignment, and rumor has it, Mr. Lewis, you’re planning a Christmas wedding in Maui.”

  “I am, sir.”

  “Then you know what’s at stake.”

  He nods.

  “One million dollars bond.” The judge strikes his gavel, and Hunter looks back at me.

  “It will take a few hours to process the bond. Mason is going to take care of it,” I assure him.

  Hunter is crying. “Thank you.”

  I turn to Damien. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning. After Mason posts bail, I’ll get Hunter taken care of. I’m not sure where, but somewhere. Thank you.”