Secrets and Lies (Crimson Romance)

Avon, Massachusetts

This edition published by

Crimson Romance

an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.

10151 Carver Road, Suite 200

Blue Ash, Ohio 45242

www.crimsonromance.com

Copyright © 2013 by Shay Lacy

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

ISBN 10: 1-4405-6711-5

ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-6711-7

eISBN 10: 1-4405-6712-3

eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-6712-4

Cover art © istock.com/AleksandarNakic

Life offers us chances to make a difference. You can be the change that you want to see in the world. My thanks to all the people who use their chances and make this world a better place
.

Thanks to Crimson Romance for believing in my work. To Maumee Valley RWA, whose members uplift each other, cheer for achievements, and offer hugs during times of struggle. To the B-I-C group for online accountability and support, and to my fellow Panera Prison inmates who leave the house to write. Special thanks to Ray Wenck, Constance Phillips, and Jenna Rutland, whose friendship has been invaluable. And, as always, my thanks to my husband, who encourages me to do what I love.

Why would somebody steal a sculpture of a fertility god instead of buying Viagra? Private investigator Charlie Ziffkin had followed the thief’s trail from Hollywood to Miami, proving this was no petty thief. His actions suggested he worked for a client—a rich one. Charlie needed to find out who had that kind of money for illegal activities. Who better to help him locate his client’s fertility statue than a hooker? He hoped to get lucky on this street where they stood on every corner. He’d start with prostitutes and work his way up the food chain.

He smiled at the brunette in the barely-there mini as he approached.

The hooker’s eyes glinted in the streetlight as her gaze ran over him from head to toe. “Hey, baby, I can make you feel real good.” Up close, even the night and her heavy makeup couldn’t conceal the wear and tear her lifestyle had caused.

“I’d like to feel good.” Wasn’t that the truth. Since his brother, Billy’s, senseless murder two years ago, he hadn’t felt anything but pain. “But what I need is information.” So he could retrieve his client’s property and get out of this town where he’d been born. Where Billy was buried. Why the hell had the thief come here, of all places?

The hooker’s mascara-heavy lashes had been at half-mast as she’d leaned toward him. Now her eyes opened fully and filled with wariness. She took a step back. “I don’t talk to cops.”

“I’m not a cop. My name is Chaz. I’m out here from Hollywood for a few days looking to get connected, you know what I mean? I have lots of friends back home. I need a way to make them happy. You must know who to talk to when you want to have a large party. I’m sure you know all kinds of things, like who holds the money and power in this town. If I wanted something and I didn’t want people asking a lot of questions, who would I talk to?”

“What do you do in Hollywood?”

“I’m a promoter.”

Her suspicious gaze raked him. “You’re mighty young.”

“Age is meaningless if you can get things done. And I can.”

“Baby, listen, if you’re not interested in the merchandise, I need to make a living.” She glanced around as though looking for another john.

“How much?”

Her sly gaze swung to his face. She ran her tongue slowly over her upper lip. “For you, good looking, thirty bucks.”

Charlie pulled his wallet out of his suit jacket pocket and retrieved the money. He’d better not have to pay everybody for information on this job. His client had offered a hefty fee, but he’d only gotten a retainer upfront. He held the bills out toward her. As she reached for them with long purple fingernails, he said, “I need names.”

“See Carlos at the Bottoms Up bar on Hialeah. He’s there every night. He’ll know who can help you.” She snatched the money and stuffed it into her neon blue bra. A sultry smile lifted the corners of her red lips. “I can get rid of that tension you feel.”

He was losing his acting ability if she could see that. He forced his muscles to relax and gave her a slow smile. “You’ve helped me already. Thanks. If you’re ever in Hollywood . . . ”

She shrugged. “Sure, baby.” She strutted away on sparkling stilettos.

A blonde hooker lounged under the streetlight at the next corner. He fought the urge to jog toward her because he needed answers
now
. He couldn’t linger in Miami. His parents and brother, Michael, whom he hadn’t seen since Billy’s funeral, lived here. He couldn’t face them knowing he lived while Billy’s body lie in a grave just miles from here.
Too close
.

Billy had been brilliant, with a PhD and a new job as a research scientist. He probably would have cured cancer if he’d lived. But a freak robbery turned murder had buried those dreams. The police thought it might have been somebody high on drugs or looking for money for their next fix. His murderer had never been caught.

Charlie, on the other hand, had been a mediocre student who’d only cared about one thing—acting. He’d lit out of Miami for Hollywood thinking he only had to arrive to fulfill his dreams. A dozen years later, success still eluded him. In professional terms, he was a failure.

But he was trying to right the wrong of living. He couldn’t be Billy, couldn’t take over where his brother’s life had ended. But Charlie could succeed instead of fail. He could make life better for others, one case at a time. This was the biggest case he’d worked so far. Retrieving Hollywood producer Jordan Hessler’s stolen relic would guarantee him referrals and success. He just had to find it and escape Miami before his past sucked him back in.

In the next block, a young Latina spoke to a john. She reminded him of his childhood and teenage sweetheart, Juliana Sanchez. She’d been his greatest supporter, participating in every dramatic endeavor he dreamed up. Rarely did a day pass when she wasn’t playing pirates or detectives or space aliens with him and, as they got older, Romeo and Juliet. It had been just acting, until one day it wasn’t acting anymore. Charlie didn’t know when he’d fallen in love with her, somewhere around age fifteen. They’d had two years together where he’d had to hide how he felt from his best friend, afraid his heart would burst at the mere sight of her.

Then Juliana’s mother died, and her father had sent her to live with her aunt until he could sell their house. Sergeant Sanchez had severed all contact between Juliana and Charlie. He should have taken his police revolver and killed Charlie; that would have been kinder. Thirteen years apart and, still, no woman had ever measured up to Juliana. He didn’t think one ever would.

As far as he knew, she still lived here. For years after she’d been ripped from his arms and his life he’d wanted—needed—to run into her. But he couldn’t see her like this. He was the walking dead. She deserved better than him.

Charlie drew on his acting skills. He forced his face to relax into a smile as he approached the blonde. He had to make the hooker feel safe so she’d provide the intel he needed.

• • •

“This bra is killing me,” Juliana Sanchez muttered toward the microphone hidden in her long brown hair. In her opinion, push-up bras could be used as instruments of torture.

“It looks
fine
from here, sugar,” Vice Detective Hector Muñoz drawled into her earpiece. “So fine.”

She smiled toward where her protection watched from a white panel van down the street.

“Better hope her daddy doesn’t catch her wearing that outfit,” his partner, Detective Karl Polaris, retorted. “He’s smart enough to put two and two together, and then he’ll do worse than break us back to beat cops. I can’t believe I let you talk me into this.”

Juliana should be worried, too. If her dad, Police Captain Alejandro Sanchez, found out she was subbing for her friend in vice, he’d break her back to… Gee, what was worse than treating her like a teenager instead of a woman nearly thirty? She was stifling under his overprotectiveness. His behavior had been understandable after her mother was killed and Juliana was injured when a drunk driver had hit their car, but that was over a decade ago. Since then, he’d remarried and had two young sons who enjoyed more freedom than she did. They’d probably even get to be cops when they grew up, unlike her, who did medical transcription for a living. Damn it, she was an adult living on her own. When was he going to think of her as one?

She couldn’t regret this act of defiance; after all, she was helping the police like he’d taught her to do. It wasn’t her fault her dreams of being a police officer had gone up in smoke in that same accident when a head injury had awoken a psychic talent, making her unfit for police work. If only she’d ignored the strange tingling sensation that began at her fingertips and helped her “find” lost items—her father’s keys, her aunt’s missing shoe, her school friend who’d been abducted by an estranged parent—or learn things about an object when she held something connected to it. If she’d kept it to herself, she never would have learned she had the gift of psychometry.

It was too late now to keep her psychic gift secret. She helped the police where she could, normally the burglary department, with her father’s blessing. But sometimes she had to sneak to do it. She lifted her chin and pulled her shoulders back, a mistake wearing this bra. Her nipples nearly popped out. Damn. And this barely-there skirt let the unseasonably cool Miami night air blow right up her crotch. Talk about a cold shower.

She tried to strut like the rest of the streetwalkers on this downtown strip of neon sidewalk. The five-inch silver stiletto heels were killing her, too. No wonder prostitutes were so eager to get flat on their backs.

Muffling a laugh, she gave a come-hither smile to a middle-aged balding man in a lightweight suit as he approached. He looked over her goods and kept on walking.

“Not in the mood, I guess,” she said.

“Keep walking,” Hector instructed. “There’s some more prospects up ahead.”

A dark-haired man was talking to a bleached blonde in a purple sequined mini-dress just a little ahead. The blonde looked eager—her feet probably hurt. The man was a smooth operator; Juliana could tell by the way he leaned toward her and ran a finger down her outer arm.

The blonde looked confused, then outraged, and then she smiled once more, sucked in by whatever the man said to soothe her. Maybe he was kinky but the blonde was willing for a price. Juliana got close enough to hear his smooth baritone and cajoling tone.

“My name is Chaz. I know people in the industry.”

Juliana’s steps faltered and she nearly fell over.
No! That name with that voice and that dark wavy hair—it couldn’t be!

But he turned his head, and his profile was as she remembered, except for the two-day stubble that hid his stubborn chin and slight dimple. He’d been seventeen and skinny when her father had sent her to live with her aunt. Now he was a man. And what a man. He’d filled out through the chest and shoulders. He looked sexy. Her heart pounded so hard at seeing him she could hardly think.