Vic Fallon had little use for the rich and famous when he was a police detective and his attitude hasn’t changed since he was forced to turn in his badge. When pop singer Kimberly Daniels returns to her hometown of Cleveland, Ohio to promote her latest album, Vic reluctantly agrees to be her bodyguard as a favor for a friend. He isn’t told that she has a death threat hanging over her head, with no shortage of suspects. The set-up takes a bizarre twist when her stalker shows up and Vic uncovers a family secret Kimberly would like to keep hidden. Things get more complex when they develop a strong attraction for each other, in spite of their different lifestyles. Can Vic ensure Kimberly’s safety until she returns to LA? Will Kimberly decide to ditch her glitzy celebrity life and stay with the rugged ex-cop she’s fallen for?
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The Bundle
Copyright © 2011 Tim Smith
ISBN: 978-1-55487-827-7
Cover art by Angela Waters
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.
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Smashwords Edition
The Bundle
A Vic Fallon Mystery
By
Tim Smith
Dedication
For my mother, Jeanne
Chapter One
Vic Fallon had a knack for getting into situations beyond his control, and it pissed him off every time it happened. It usually followed a pattern. He’d get hired to do a seemingly simple job that turned into a Rubik’s Cube because he wasn’t told all the facts up front— then the person would conveniently be broke once the job was done. Vic didn’t understand how he kept getting drawn to these kinds of cases, like a moth to the flame. Each time his wings got scorched he swore he’d never get suckered again, but inevitably it happened.
He sat in the waiting area on the visitor’s side of the security checkpoint at Cleveland-Hopkins International Airport, idly leafing through the latest copy of a Hollywood gossip magazine. His blue eyes occasionally checked the screens mounted above, looking at the estimated arrival time of the flight he waited for. It hadn’t changed in the last ten minutes. Vic exhaled a controlled breath and tugged at the tie that felt like a noose tightening around his neck. Ever since I left the police force I’ve hated wearing neckties. Didn’t really like it then, but a detective is supposed to at least look professional. It feels like this thing is cutting off the blood supply to my brain.
He tossed the magazine onto the empty seat next to him and retrieved the cup of coffee at his feet. After taking a sip he glanced at the cover of the magazine, noting the paparazzi shot of the attractive brunette with auburn hair in her late twenties forcefully holding her open palm in front of her angry face in an effort to stop the photographer from taking her picture. Vic wasn’t real keen on the gossip mags and only bought the latest issue for one reason: so he’d recognize the woman on the cover when she came strolling through the airport.
Vic glanced at his watch for the twentieth time and tried to hide his growing impatience. He didn’t usually work this kind of job since taking a disability-induced separation from the Sandusky, Ohio Police Department at the age of thirty-two, but when someone calls and asks you to do them a favor it’s impolite to say no—especially when the person doing the asking is letting you stay in their lakeside condo free of charge in exchange for an occasional favor. Vic slowly shook his head and began to regret the day he’d gotten involved with Evan O’Shea. They’d roomed together in college; now he was an attorney to the stars in Beverly Hills. Vic recalled the phone conversation that had brought him to this place on this particular day.
“Vic, I’ve got a job for you. A client of mine’s coming to town and I need someone good to provide security while she’s back in the ol’ hometown.”
“Geez, Evan, you could hire any two-bit rent-a-cop to handle a gig like that.”
“Come on, pal, this is a precious bundle I’m sending your way. Can’t trust just anyone.”
“I don’t know. I’m pretty busy.”
“Doing what?”
“Fishing. It’s still walleye season, remember?”
“Let’s see, the rent on that condo of mine you’re squatting in is…how much?”
Vic sighed in defeat. “Okay, point taken. Who’s this precious bundle?”
Evan paused a moment for effect. “Kimberly Daniels.”
“That spoiled brat from the tabloids? When did you start representing her?”
“Right after she got her first gold record. She’ll be in Cleveland day after tomorrow. Her people have a few personal appearances lined up to promote her latest album.”
Vic exhaled again, realizing he was hooked. “E-mail me the flight info and where she’ll be staying.”
“That’s the man talkin’. She’ll be traveling under her real name, Callie Buchovic. Just keep her out of trouble and away from overzealous fans, okay?”
“This one’s gonna cost you, buddy.”
Evan chuckled. It had always reminded Vic of the sound a rattler makes before it sinks its teeth into your leg. “I’ll double your usual rate and transfer an advance into your bank account. Just keep a list of expenses.”
Vic swallowed the last of his coffee, stood up and stretched his lean six-foot frame. He took a moment to stretch his left leg, the one he still carried a bullet fragment in from when he was a cop, the one that still gave him occasional discomfort, especially on damp days like today. He tossed the cup into the nearest trash receptacle and checked his pocket again for the receipt. He looked out the doors at the late afternoon sky, darkening as rain clouds moved in.
A typical fall afternoon where I could be fishing off Sandusky Bay or hoisting a cold one at Freighters, but what am I doing? Babysitting some damn Tinseltown diva. Bullshit.
He had checked into the reserved rooms at The Ritz-Carlton at Terminal City in downtown Cleveland earlier that afternoon, performed the required inspection of the Presidential Suite which was adjoined to the Junior Executive Suite, and left his Jeep in the underground parking garage. After taking the hotel shuttle to the airport he ensured that the limousine was waiting, just like Evan O’Shea had arranged. Vic fought his irritation and reconciled himself to a boring several days, following after the former hometown girl who’d hit it big as an award-winning pop singer with a huge following. If all those tabloid stories and entertainment shows were right, it would probably be three days of bowing and scraping to her royal highness. I always hated kissing ass, even when it was part of the job.
Vic didn’t keep up with the entertainment world, but he had followed the former Callie Buchovic’s career at arm’s length. She was a talented local singer who got a few breaks, won a contest on a national reality TV show and parlayed it into a lucrative recording career, attracting a legion of fans. He was aware of the usual hype that went with the job—pseudo-engagements, rumors of affairs, hints at rehab stints and stories about a good-will trip to third world countries to visit orphans. He also didn’t doubt that Kimberly Daniels, as she now called herself, probably had a menagerie at her home for stray cats and dogs, no doubt arranged by her publicist.
His attention was diverted by the noise of people moving through the airport in his direction. He took his place and held the large white card with the name Buchovic printed in block letters in front of him. Ten minutes later he was approached by a short, trim man in his twenties with spiked blonde hair, dressed in the latest pastel fashion statement from Tommy Bahama. A beige messenger bag was slung over his shoulder. The way the guy felt him up with his eyes made Vic feel like he was being picked up. The man stood within a foot and did another quick head to toe scan.
“Who are you?” he demanded in a low voice.
“Vic Fallon.”
“Who sent you here and for what purpose?”
“Mister O’Shea, to meet a party named Buchovic, like it says on the card. And you would be…?”
“Pasta Ravetti.”
“Pasta Ravetti?” Vic repeated in surprise. “Sounds like something I’d order for dinner.”
Pasta gave him an icy stare. “Are you making fun of my name?”
“No, I’m just having trouble believing it. Where’s the one I’m supposed to protect?”
Pasta glanced down and made a small gesture over his shoulder. Vic looked at the woman he indicated, but couldn’t really tell if it was Kimberly Daniels. Her hair wasn’t in the style she normally wore but was pulled into a ponytail, and was covered by a plaid beret. She wore amber-tinted glasses and no ostentatious jewelry. She kept her face down, avoiding eye contact with anyone nearby. Vic was about to introduce himself but thought better of it.
“You have the car?” Pasta asked.
“Of course.”
“Then we must attend to the baggage.” He turned toward the luggage carousel area, snapping his fingers twice. “Come along.”
Vic followed him and the woman through the crowd. No wonder they call California the land of fruit and nuts.
They stood at the carousel as the bags made the rounds. When one of theirs came by Pasta sharply pointed his finger at it. Vic groaned slightly as he retrieved two, then three, then four, then five suitcases. He was about to ask Pasta to help fetch and carry but he was already scurrying Kimberly to the door. Vic looked around, caught the attention of the nearest skycap and motioned for him to bring his wheeled cart over.
The bags were loaded into the trunk of a gray Cadillac limo at the curb. Vic paid off the skycap, remembering how much so he could add it to his expenses. Thunder rumbled in the distance over the lake as a light rain began to fall. The back door of the lounge section was left open but Vic slammed it shut and climbed into the front passenger seat, closing the door behind him.
The driver, a black man of sixty-something with salt and pepper hair and a stocky build, gave him a surprised look. “Man, ain’t you in the wrong place?”
“I’m not part of the entourage,” Vic replied then gestured forward. “Go on.”
The driver eased into the heavy traffic leaving the terminal and picked up the Shoreway that would take them downtown. Vic looked at the passing scenery then pulled down the sun visor. In the vanity mirror he saw Pasta talking to Kimberly behind the tinted glass that separated the lounge section from the real world. He was consulting his Blackberry and gesturing at her, while she looked out the window.
Beside him the limo driver chuckled. “Don’t get many people ridin’ the shotgun seat. Seems they forget about the one who’s drivin’.”
Vic grinned. “Yeah, I suppose they do. You been doing this long?”
“Off and on about forty-five years. Used to work at the foundry ‘till I got hurt on the job, then started drivin’ full time. You got a name?”
“You can call me Vic.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mister Vic. I’m Cyrus Washington.”
Vic settled into the comfortable leather seat. “The pleasure’s mine.”
Cyrus expertly maneuvered the car in and out of the rush hour traffic while the windshield wipers steadily swooshed away the light rain. Vic calculated the time and distance. He figured they’d arrive at the hotel within thirty minutes.
“Used to drive a lot of famous people,” Cyrus continued. “Singers, actors, people like that. Even drove Mister Dean Martin a few times.”
“Is that right?”
“Yeah, that’s right. He’d come into town to perform at the ol’ Keg and Quarter. You remember that place?”
Vic smiled wistfully at the remembrance of something from his youth. “Yeah, I went there a few times, usually to hear Buddy Rich or Count Basie when they were in town.”