Клео Коул - Murder Most Frothy

“No comment.”

“I’d also guess from your tattoo that you were in the Navy.”

He glanced at the design on his arm, an eagle clutching a fouled anchor. “I was a SEAL, sweetheart, special operations. The night before I was mustered out, my SEAL team took me on a bender that started in San Diego and ended up in Tijuana, where I got this tattoo. I vaguely recall the event.”

“I see.”

“And I take it that you’re a coffee-making private detective? Working for David Mintzer.” He sat back in his chair, cup in hand, waiting for my reply.

“Now why do you think I’m a detective?”

“Because my partner in this business, Kenny Darnell, warned me that we’d occasionally get pictures that the rich and famous would not want to be made public.”

“So private detectives bother you regularly, do they?”

Rand shrugged. “Not yet, but this is only my second summer doing this.”

“Really?”

“In the Navy my specialty was reconnaissance photography. Now I’m pretty much making a year’s salary in a few months, snapping exclusive photos of celebrities on or near private beaches and seaside homes for the tabloids, for newspapers, and gossip magazines. The rest of the year I spend in the Caribbean, diving, surfing, and generally having a life.”

“And this is your retirement scheme?”

“Not mine,” Jim replied. “My partner, Kenny Darnell, came up with the scheme. We were in the Navy together.”

“He’s a SEAL, too?”

Rand shook his shaggy head. “Kenny washed out during training, retired from the Navy soon after that. He’s a great paparazzi, though. Started selling to the tabloids as soon as he got out of the service. But he wanted to expand, and to do that Kenny needed a partner to help with the capital, the equipment, the boat and house rentals. In case you haven’t noticed, this part of Long Island is a tad expensive.

“I noticed. Where is your partner now?”

“Kenny went back to Queens. His mother’s just had an operation, so he’s taking two weeks off to help her out around the house.”

We finished our espressos while Jim Rand told me more about his business.

“I’d like to see some samples of your work,” I said.

“Like what?” he asked suspiciously.

“How about all the photos you took at David Mintzer’s house on the Fourth of July?”

Jim wanted to say no, I could tell. But I also knew we’d made a connection. It seemed like he was beginning to trust me. Was he? Or was he just playing me?

“You’re sure you’re not a private investigator?” he asked skeptically. “You’re too cute to be a shamus, but you never know.”

I reaffirmed my prior claim and he rose, went back into the bedroom, and returned with the photos—more than in the original stack I’d found. I began going through them, not sure what I was looking for. More evidence maybe.

Halfway through the pile, Rand reached across the table, touched my arm. “Okay,” he said. “I answered your questions. Now why are you here, Clare? Really.”

I finally told him about Treat Mazzelli’s murder, watched his face, his eyes as I gave him the highlights. The news still hadn’t made the papers, though every Bonacker probably already knew the details. I told him about how I suspected David was the target, and how I was investigating the shooting.

Jim Rand didn’t give much of a reaction to my tale. His sober face remained impassive. He simply listened and stared. “Wait,” he said when I’d finally finished. “So you’re claiming you’re not a professional investigator, right?”

“Right.”

“And you’re not a cop?”

“Of course not.”

“Then why are you involving yourself?”

“Treat worked for me. I was his manager. And David is my boss and my friend. I’m worried about his safety. I feel obligated to get involved.”

Jim snorted again and shook his head. “You sound as gung-ho as my drill instructor. Or, as one of my former commanders used to say, ‘you have an overwrought sense of justice.’ Frankly, I find that…” He looked up just then, met my eyes, “…irresistible. You’re not married are you?”

I looked away, then down at the photos and changed the subject, willing away a rather annoying primal reaction to the man’s advances. He was ruggedly attractive, obviously intelligent, and my close proximity to his palpable maleness in this cozy little house was straining my nerves. But, given my discoveries in his bathroom, I had my doubts about Jim Rand. Major ones. My primary suspicion being the possibility of a hunting rifle stashed somewhere on these premises.

“You really didn’t know about the murder on David’s estate?” I asked, looking up again to gauge any sense of subterfuge, guilt, or nervous tension.

“God, no,” Jim replied, apparently at ease. “Honestly, if I had known about the shooting, I would have stuck around to take photos of the police removing the body. I’m sorry about that kid. Nothing personal. But it would have been a helluva photo to sell, and the scoop with it. Unfortunately, I was gone long before the fireworks even started.”

“Can I take these?” I asked.

Jim hesitated. “Are you really a barista?”

“Manager, yes. Are you really a scuba-diving paparazzi?”

Jim regarded me again with those intense brown eyes. “Why don’t you come out with me tonight and see for yourself.”

“Out? Where?”

“On the job. On the water. I miss having a partner out there. Kenny’s been a real prick this season anyway, bitching night and day. It’ll be fun, you and me. I’ll show you what I do. After you see with your own eyes that I’m telling you the truth, you can cross me off your suspect list, and I’ll give you any photo you like.”

“Or you’ll push me overboard,” I countered.

“Guess it’s the chance you’ll have to take. But, you know, Clare, the edge is an exhilarating place to be.” He smiled, his eyes bright. “And I think you know that or you wouldn’t have risked coming in here.”

I shoved the pictures across the table, stood up. “You’re just like my ex-husband. And I’m late for work.”

Jim scooped up the photos and followed me to the front door.

“Monroe’s Marina in Hampton Bays. Midnight tonight,” he pressed. “Come out with me.”

“I have to work,” I insisted. “Good-bye, Mr. Rand.”

I walked briskly across the street to my Honda and slid behind the wheel. When I looked up from starting the engine, he was leaning on my car roof with one arm. My heart almost stopped, seeing him suddenly there. He’d followed me without casting a noticeable shadow. He’d stalked me without making a sound.

“Keep the hard copies, Clare,” he said, passing the photos through the open car window. “I have the digital files.”

I didn’t thank him. I didn’t say another word. I took the photos and pulled away without a backward glance. But half a block away, I couldn’t resist a quick peek in my rearview mirror.

He stood in the middle of the road, legs braced, muscular arms folded, watching me go. Seeing him like that, I couldn’t help comparing him to another man who’d watched me drive away less than twenty-four hours before—Bom Felloes.

Despite his polish, his fortune, and his absolute gentlemanly behavior, Bom had left me cold. Consequently, it had been easy to keep him on my suspect list. But Mr. Rand, however, was another matter entirely.

Regardless of my determination to remain aloof, I couldn’t deny, at least to myself, that Jim Rand, with his scruffy masculinity and wry sense of humor, was most definitely my type. And that’s why he was terribly dangerous for me to be around.

Rand was the most likely killer I’d come across yet, and I had an obligation to inform Detective O’Rourke about what I’d found. Which is why, with a final, regretful glance in my car’s mirror, I once again cursed my inability to reengineer my taste in men.