Her Deadly Secrets Read online

  She hadn’t felt this hungover since . . . when? Her brother’s wedding? The World Series? But she wasn’t hungover. She’d banged her head on Logan’s table when she’d dodged a bullet last night.

  A hard lump formed in her throat. She wished it was merely a case of too many tequila shots.

  Kira swung her legs out of bed and glanced at the clock. Ten fifty. She’d come home at two and fallen into bed without even pulling the covers down. The crumpled jeans on her floor brought back a flood of memories, and the noise in her head intensified.

  Kira turned the shower to cold and jumped under the spray. Three minutes later, she was wide awake. Wrapping herself in a towel, she hazarded a glance in the mirror.

  “Crap,” she murmured, leaning close to the glass.

  She looked—and felt—like she’d been in a bar fight. Her hazel eyes were bloodshot and puffy, and she had a cut on her cheekbone where a chunk of porcelain had grazed her. Her hair concealed the ugly goose egg on the side of her head, but it hurt like hell.

  A low sound pulled her attention to the bedroom. Her jeans were buzzing. She grabbed them off the floor and dug a cell phone from the back pocket.

  Ollie’s phone. One of them, anyway—he had at least three. In the chaos of last night, she’d forgotten stuffing it into her pocket. Kira sank onto the bed and stared at the blood-smeared device. She didn’t recognize the number, and she wouldn’t have answered it if she did. God, what if it was his daughter? Had police notified his next of kin?

  Kira pinched the bridge of her nose. She needed to turn the phone over to investigators. She’d do it when she went back to the station later. Despite five long hours of interviews, they wanted her back today.

  She found a clean pair of jeans in her closet. In deference to the humidity, she layered a thin white blouse over a tank top and slipped her feet into sandals. Her phone chimed from the charger in the kitchen, and she rushed to answer it.

  Dread tightened her stomach as she read the caller ID: LOGAN & LOCKE. Was it more bad news?

  She closed her eyes. “Kira Vance.”

  “Kira, it’s Brock Logan.”

  She breathed a sigh and leaned back against the counter. “Hi. How are you?”

  “I’ve been better, actually. How are you?”

  “Fine.” The pounding in her head started up again, calling BS on that.

  “Listen, we need to meet with you. How soon can you get down here?”

  “You mean downtown?”

  “Yes, here at the firm. We’re having a meeting at noon. Can you make it?”

  Kira glanced at the coffeepot and felt a bone-deep yearning. She ignored it as she processed Logan’s request. He wanted her downtown. She’d assumed he’d spent the night at the hospital, where he’d been treated for a gunshot wound to his arm, but evidently he was out and about and organizing meetings.

  “Kira?”

  “Absolutely. I’ll be there.”

  “Good. And bring your case files. Everything you have.”

  He clicked off, and Kira stared at her phone. Her “case files” consisted of a few slim folders she’d left at Logan’s house last night. Plus a spiral notebook jammed with research she’d gleaned online. But whatever. She’d wing it, like she always did. Her more pressing issue was transportation. A detective had given her a ride to the police station, and Kira had caught an Uber home, which meant her car was still parked in River Oaks.

  Cursing, she glanced at her watch. Maybe she could get Gina to drive her. Kira went to the window and parted the mini blinds to check out Gina’s side of the duplex. The windows were dark, and their shared carport was empty. Kira scanned the street and didn’t see Gina’s car there, either. But she did see her landlord’s shiny black pickup.

  “Damn it,” she muttered.

  Bruce Garvis owned four properties on this street and made house calls when rent was late. He’d probably seen the empty carport and assumed Kira wasn’t home.

  Kira grabbed her keys and picked up her messenger bag. She stepped through the back door into the muggy August air and instantly began to sweat. It was going to be one of those days.

  Kira poked her head around the corner of the house. No Bruce. She quickly unlocked the storage closet at the back of the carport and disentangled her bike from a strand of Christmas lights. It was a Specialized Sirrus Comp with an aluminum frame, and her Lazer helmet dangled from the handlebar. The seat was dusty, but the tires looked fine. She went straight for the back fence, wedged open the gate, and cut through the neighbors’ side yard. They’d already left for work, and only their yappy terrier noticed her squeezing past the trash cans.

  Kira hadn’t been on her bike in months, maybe a year. Her head pounded, and her system pleaded for caffeine. But at least she was alive.

  A lump lodged in her throat as she walked down the driveway. You gotta work when the work’s there. It was one of Ollie’s mantras, and she wasn’t sure why it had popped into her head right now.

  Kira reached the street and looked for any sign of a black pickup. She looped her messenger bag over her head so that it crossed her body. Then she pulled on her helmet, fastened the chin strap, and took off.

  CHAPTER

  FOUR

  THE RIDE did her good. Not as much good as a greasy breakfast would have, but better than nothing, and she felt better by the time she reached downtown. She coasted down Allen Parkway. This was the easy part, but it was about to get rough.

  Kira hit the incline near Tranquility Park and pulled herself out of the saddle. She pumped the pedals for two blocks, then hung a right onto Rusk, where she hit bumper-to-bumper traffic. Peering ahead, she spied orange cones and a utility truck, so she hopped the curb and cut over to McKinney, where traffic was slow but moving.

  Sweat stung her eyes, and she squinted, wishing she’d remembered her sunglasses. She watched the gaps between bumpers, judging time and distance. Slicing between cars, she ignored dirty looks from drivers.

  Kira loved her bike. It was fast and durable, and the tires felt grippy. She’d shelled out eleven hundred dollars for it back when she’d been riding three hundred miles a week as a court runner, racing legal documents around town. It was an investment in her first job, and it had more than paid off over the years.

  The light ahead turned yellow, and the cars on either side of her surged to catch it. She pumped furiously, getting a burst of adrenaline as she made it through, just like old times. Glancing up, she saw a forest of steel and concrete, and the soaring glass skyscraper she wanted was just up ahead.

  Kira shifted her weight, swerving around a van belching black fumes. She kept an eye on parked cars, careful not to get doored. She used the empty fire lane for the last half block and then hopped the curb and zipped through a concrete pocket park dotted with trees that grew through cutouts in the pavement. She glided between a pair of modern sculptures—big bronze arcs that had always reminded her of eagles. As she passed the giant fountain, she savored the cool mist on her skin and coasted to a stop by the wall of glass. Kira hopped off, lashed her bike to a rack with a heavy-duty chain, and rushed inside the building.

  The air inside was an arctic blast, and she stood still for a moment as the sweat dried on her skin. Kira’s thighs quivered. Her car had spoiled her, and she’d let herself forget how it felt to ride all day—the sore muscles, the burning eyes, the layer of grime that clung to her skin like plastic wrap. But there was some good, too. The bike made her feel revved and alert. It brought out her competitive edge, which she desperately needed on a day like today.

  Kira took off her helmet and shook out her long hair as she assessed the lobby. The building had fifty-nine stories served by eight elevators. Crowds of people waited in front of each one.

  The lunch rush. She was later than she’d thought.

  Kira attached her helmet to the strap of her bag and made a beeline for the service elevator. She caught it just in time, jumping through the doors to find herself alone with two large men—a mai
ntenance worker and a DHL guy, judging by their uniforms. She didn’t recognize either of them, but her helmet and messenger bag said she was an insider, one of them, sure as hell not a stuffed shirt who worked inside one of the lofty offices with a city view.

  “Floor?” DHL asked her.

  “Thirty-seven.”

  They soared up, and Kira held her stomach, afraid of losing the breakfast she hadn’t eaten. They stopped at thirty for the maintenance guy, and then it was a quick hop to her floor. The doors pinged open.

  “Later.” Kira smiled and stepped off. She followed the corridor around to the real elevators used by people in suits and ties.

  Across from the elevator bank, shiny brass letters spelled out LOGAN & LOCKE. The firm had the entire floor, and a young receptionist with blond corkscrew curls sat at a glass desk in the waiting room.

  Kira stepped over. “Hey, Sydney. I’m here for—”

  Sydney gasped. “Oh, my God. What happened to you?”

  Kira remembered the cut on her face. And that she probably looked a bit disheveled, having just hopped off her bike.

  “Looks worse than it is,” Kira said. She didn’t want to get into the whole story, but realization seemed to come over Sydney’s face, and Kira saw that it was going to be inevitable.

  “Were you there last night? At Mr. Logan’s?” Sydney asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, my God.” She pressed her hand to her chest. “I heard about Ollie. I’m so sorry.”

  Kira’s stomach knotted. “Thanks. Listen, I’m—”

  “One sec.” Sydney adjusted her headset. “Logan and Locke. How may I direct your call?” She paused. “One moment, please.” Then to Kira, “What were you saying?”

  “I’m here for an appointment with Logan.”

  “He’s in a meeting, but have a seat, and I’ll let him know you’re here.”

  Kira bypassed the modern leather chairs and ducked into the restroom to smooth her hair and put on some lipstick. Once she was presentable again, she crossed the waiting room to the Keurig. She spun the coffee carousel and selected a pod. As the machine hissed and slurped, she noticed the man standing by the doorway watching her.

  Tall. Bulky. He looked like a bouncer, only less friendly. He wore a dark suit and tie, and clearly he was some sort of hired muscle, because she noticed the bump of a gun at his hip but didn’t see a badge. Kira dumped sugar into her coffee as the man pulled out his cell phone and answered a call.

  “Mr. Logan will be with you soon,” Sydney told her.

  Kira walked back to the desk. “So who’s the beefcake?”

  Sydney slid a glance at him. “Don’t know.” She leaned closer and lowered her voice. “They showed up an hour ago, right after the police got here. Speaking of.”

  A pair of plainclothes detectives crossed the waiting room to the elevator bank. Kira recognized one of them from last night, but neither seemed to notice her. She was good at escaping attention.

  Sydney’s phone bleated.

  “You can go on back now,” she said. “Last office on the right. You can’t miss it.”

  Kira took a long sip of coffee and dropped her cup in a trash can. “Thanks.”

  She walked to the back, passing several offices with closed doors before she reached a windowed conference room with people seated around a long black table. Logan’s office was just across the hall, and Sydney was right—you couldn’t miss it. It was a corner office, and a desk sat in front of it, probably for an administrative assistant, who wasn’t there. Logan’s door was open, though. He caught her eye and waved her in.

  The attorney was on the phone, and he didn’t get up as she entered. He looked shockingly similar to how he’d looked last night, in a light blue dress shirt with his sleeves rolled up. His left arm was in a sling, which was the only overt evidence of his near-death experience.

  Overt evidence. The grim look on his face told Kira he was dealing with some fallout.

  She glanced around his office, pretending to admire the decor as she collected details about the man, starting with his wall of diplomas and awards.

  Brock Logan was a legend in legal circles. He had an Irish-American father and a Puerto Rican mother, and he’d been raised Catholic, or so she’d heard. She’d also heard he’d inherited his mother’s good looks and his father’s taste for booze.

  Logan’s dad had run an auto-repair place in Beaumont that was rumored to be a chop shop. When he wasn’t knocking his kids around, he managed to make decent money. Logan wasn’t interested in his dad’s business, so he left home at eighteen and worked two jobs to put himself through school.

  Kira didn’t like everything she knew about Logan, but she couldn’t help but be impressed with what he’d done for himself. Despite his well-heeled clients, he’d come from a working-class background, which meant that at trial, he typically had more in common with the people in the jury box than with the client sitting beside him at the defense table. Logan was fluent in Spanish—which became known during jury selection when he pronounced names correctly—and he had an instinct for people. Jurors found him relatable, which didn’t necessarily make them fall in love with his clients, but it helped.

  Kira looked him over now, taking in the black sling and the small white bandage on his hand from an IV. Any other man might look sickly today, but he didn’t. If he still had the sling during the trial—which was bound to be postponed—Kira had no doubt he’d find a way to use it to his advantage.

  He ended his call and stood up, resting his good hand on his hip. “Kira, hi. We didn’t really meet last night. You’re Ollie’s partner?”

  “Associate.”

  Was. She was Ollie’s associate. She felt a sharp pang in her chest.

  “We started working together about three years ago,” she told him. Ollie liked to keep her behind the scenes, so she wouldn’t poach his clients. He gave her the work he didn’t want, especially the online stuff, which he hated doing, even though it was becoming a bigger and bigger part of every job. Kira hadn’t minded the arrangement when she’d been a brand-new PI just starting out, but she’d recently upped her rate and started pressuring Ollie to treat her as an equal.

  “Sit down.” Logan gestured to a chair. “I assume you noticed the detectives on your way in?”

  “I did.” Kira took a seat and nodded at the conference room across the hall, where another linebacker-size guy was now stationed beside the door. “I noticed them, too. Who are they?”

  “Private security.” He leaned back in his chair. “We hired them this morning.”

  Kira looked at the conference room again and counted nine people seated around a table. Everyone wore suits, but the bodyguards were easy to pick out because of their muscular builds and military haircuts.

  “Lot of manpower,” she said.

  “It’s a big job. Our team has four attorneys and a paralegal.”

  Kira didn’t comment. No matter how many people they had staffed to the case, she knew when it came to trial, it would be just Logan and the client at the defense table. He was known as “Lone Logan” because he always liked to play up his client’s underdog status.

  She checked her watch. “You said there was something urgent?”

  He smiled slightly. “In a hurry today?”

  “I’ve got a meeting at the police station, and I still have to retrieve my car from your house.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s not there. They towed it this morning. One of the neighbors must have called.”

  Kira cursed inwardly. Just what she needed today.

  “Listen, Kira.” Logan leaned forward, resting his good arm on the desk. “I spent several hours this morning with the detectives investigating Ollie’s murder.”

  “Any arrests?”

  “No.”

  “Suspects?”

  “Not yet. I assume you talked to them, too?”

  “Five hours last night at the statio
n.”

  He nodded. “I was in surgery then. It was a through-and-through bullet wound. Messy but not too serious, so they discharged me early this morning.”

  “Glad you’re okay,” she said. “Were you able to give a good description?”

  “Not really, since he was wearing a ski mask.”

  Kira must have looked startled, because he frowned. “What, you didn’t notice?”

  “It was a blur,” she said. “I didn’t see much of anything.”

  “The detectives told me the gunman, whoever he was, took the laptops and cell phones, along with some files off the table,” Logan said. “They’re working the theory that he was after information. Particularly information about the Quinn case. They think someone might be trying to throw a wrench into the doctor’s defense by gunning down his legal team and stealing the case files.”

  Kira just stared at him.

  “You follow?”

  “Sure, but if that was the purpose, why aren’t you dead?”

  He looked taken aback. “I don’t know. Luck, I guess? I acted dead on the floor, so maybe he bought it. Or maybe he just wanted the hardware. It’s possible he was after something we have but don’t necessarily know we have yet. In that case, we might have been collateral damage, and the real goal may have been the electronics.”

  Kira watched him, trying to get her head around the idea. Was that really what all this was about? Laptops and cell phones?

  “Which brings me to my next question,” he said. “Why were you at my house last night?”

  “I had info for Ollie.”

  “What info? He told me he’d just come up with something big that was going to help Quinn, but he hadn’t filled me in yet.”

  “I found some new background on your alibi witness, Robert Peck.”

  He looked disappointed. “That’s it?”

  “He’s your star witness. I’d say he’s key to Quinn’s defense.”

  Logan watched her, and he looked like he was trying to decide something.

  “I’ll cut to the chase here, Kira. We’d like to hire you to replace Ollie.”

  She scoffed. “You can’t just replace Ollie. He had twenty-five years on the job.”