Triggered by Love Read online

  “Now you’re thinking,” Jason picked up the thread. “That someone got him into the photographers’ pit.”

  “Or he got a pass and camped there where he’d be less noticed,” Blade added. “Trouble is, this someone could have been anyone, likely one of the gang bosses.”

  “I just don’t see a gang hit at a fashion show,” Jason disagreed with his partner. “Gang violence is usually retaliatory against rival gangs—not firefighters or fashion models.”

  “Maybe Brando pissed someone off,” Blade repeated Chief Grimes’ favorite theory. “Let someone’s pad burn down, or someone’s mother died in a fire. We’ve gone over this too many times, and I think you’re obsessed. We have a missing person and a fresh murder to solve. Cases piling up, and Chief’s breathing down my neck to get you to focus.”

  “I am focused.” Jason glared at his younger partner, hardly able to hold back from pushing Blade’s self-righteousness from his face. He was fully aware of Blade’s brown-nosing and willingness to take credit while throwing shade on his more experienced partner.

  “If you weren’t my partner, I wouldn’t even be warning you. Chief wants you to leave Avery Cockburn alone.”

  “What if I’m dating her?”

  Blade’s thin lips twisted in a barely disguised smirk. “I’d tap that too.”

  “Don’t you dare.” Jason shoved his partner in the chest. “She’s mine. Got it? I’m going to find the person behind this. On. My. Spare. Time.”

  “You’ll have a lot of that if you get fired,” Blade warned.

  Jason flipped his partner the bird. “You with me or against me?”

  “Hey, you know I’ve got your back.” The young and flamboyant man spread his hands palms up, feigning cooperation. “It’s just that our caseload is so high.”

  “Which is why we have to work together. You do the online and database search and I stick to footwork.”

  “Which give you access to that pretty almost-widow.”

  “I saved her life, but I didn’t save her heart.”

  “More like it’s your heart hurting. It’s your post-traumatic stress talking.” There went the psychobabble again.

  “Then you’re going to help me find the person behind this.”

  “Only on my spare time, Burnett. I’m not putting my ass on the line for a cold case.”

  “It’ll make you a hero if you break the case.” Jason kept his voice steady as he baited the hook. “Mark my words. This goes a lot higher than a busboy at a dive bar. I’ll give you all the credit for the bust. I was at the show to chase down those male model murders. My gut tells me Congressman Bill Overton was involved, but I can’t prove it.”

  “And you won’t, not if the Chief takes your badge. Better get the help you need.” Blade pointed his index finger like it was a gun. “Pow. Get a therapist first.”

  Avery needed Ivanna’s help for Manhattan Fashion Week, and she couldn’t afford to antagonize the talented artist who outfitted her models and made sure they showed up and got in line in the right order.

  No one in the fashion world could be truly trusted, but for now, she needed the young woman. It was understandable that Ivanna was disappointed. She’d been crestfallen after Avery rejected some of her designs as being too cosplay to be cool. She did have an artistic eye, and she was a valuable member of the team, especially with her talent for accessorizing the models.

  Besides, like Alida said, Ivanna could never get her fashion line off the ground without major sponsors and heavy publicity—something Avery got from her family’s name, as well as the support of her fashion institute professor.

  The young artist was hardworking and creative, although she was on the mousy side, being dominated by her mother and two older sisters who believed being an artist meant laziness, as opposed to engineering and business degrees.

  Avery was lucky her mother had artistic leanings. Maybe it was time to take Ivanna under her wing and work on developing the beast mode line and extending animal features into accessories. Gloves with claws. Visors with horns. Eyeglasses with flared fins.

  For now, she’d have to settle on Matt’s hawk look and prepare drawings for some of her other ideas. Maybe she could introduce a few elements, sprinkle them here and there to spice up her designs.

  Satisfied with her direction, Avery spent the entire day with the show team choreographing the entrances and exits of each model, the exact beat of music they were to walk to, and even the rhythm of light pulses flashing onto the catwalk. Every step the model took, each pose they struck, and every turn or wave of a hand or arm had to be accounted for.

  She loved her work and the creativity involved, and being busy with the details kept her mind from wandering to the dismal state of her personal life—relegated to “fake dating” another client of her publicist.

  She’d signed the contract, knowing Alida was right. She had been wallowing in her mourning for Brando, and it was affecting her business judgment. She’d basically squandered her debut year of being the new, hot designer, and now, her Club Cockburn line was yesterday’s news.

  In the current world of viral video moments and a constant state of shock and outrage, her publicist had to work harder than ever to manufacture attention-worthy news or gossip. She had to keep feeding her FacePlant stories, MeTube videos, and InstaDirt streams to keep her fans engaged and juice the algorithms to show her posts to their networks.

  People wanted more than pretty pictures. They wanted scandalous pictures and news. Perhaps being with Matt would up her bad girl quotient and let her reap the rewards of notoriety which seemed to be worth more than the hard work and nose to the grindstone values of the past century.

  In any case, she’d gotten Matt’s measurements and was altering a suit of clothes for him to wear at the show. She’d surprise him with the feathers, knowing he’d signed an agreement to wear whatever she deemed necessary. She’d have to place an order and make sure she had the glue and design ready for her makeup artist to apply.

  She wasn’t happy about having the star quarterback, who was known as one of the bad boys in the league, but he seemed harmless, and a few dates with him would raise the profile of her Cocky Heroes brand as an edgy style for the young and aggressive future movers and shakers.

  After a long day, Avery dashed to her apartment where she was lucky to snag a unit near her twin brother, Damon Cockburn, the CEO of Slipstream Entertainment, an interactive gaming and online meeting place.

  Of her five siblings, Damon was her best friend and yes, she and he had that twin intuition thing going. He couldn’t hide anything from her, and similarly, he was attuned to her emotions, most times before she was aware herself.

  Which was why she’d avoided him the past few days. They didn’t live on the same floor, so it wasn’t hard, but they shared keycards with each other, and he was always welcome to raid her refrigerator.

  She, on the other hand, rarely went to his man cave.

  She swiped the keycard to her door and noticed a basket of wildflowers sitting on the coffee table. The light was on in the kitchen, and Damon was standing in front of the refrigerator with the door open. He had a puzzled look on his face as if he was deciding which casserole to raid.

  “Are you stooping to bribing me for food?” Avery laughed, picking up the basket. No surprise, the card was blank—so Damon-like. He was a nerd, but a handsome one.

  Like most of the men in her family, Damon had that dark, brooding look most women found attractive. He wore his dark-brown hair swept back, longer on the top with cropped sides, and he hated to shave.

  Since he spent long hours at work sitting in front of a computer, he kept in shape by lifting weights and training in the full service gym downstairs. He was probably in between a shower and going back to work the rest of the night coding, brainstorming, and running his business.

  “Found them,” Damon said. “Who’s on the note?”

  “Not filled out. You sure it isn’t that woman who’s always worki
ng out at the same time as you?” She thrust the basket at him. “Here, be a man and take it.”

  “Was left in front of your door,” Damon said, pushing the basket back at her. “I’d rather have food. Food. Food.”

  Acting like a raving caveman, he grabbed a pan of lasagna and set it on the counter.

  “Hey, leave that alone,” Avery said. “It’s Joan’s favorite dish, and I’m bringing it to her tonight. You should eat salad.”

  “I need meat. Grrr. Meat. Red meat.” Damon flexed his muscles, still imitating a caveman, although one who was wearing a workout tank and pants. Sweat glistened on his bare arms, covered with the tattoos he got on a dare when his company got its initial round of venture capital funding.

  “Heat up some of the ham.” She averted her gaze from his physique. No one matched Brando when it came to beef and strength. But then, no one had the hazardous job he had and the requirement of being able to climb ladders carrying a two-hundred-fifty-pound man.

  “I’m sure Brando’s mom won’t eat all that much lasagna.” Damon eyed the cheese and sauce laden dish.

  “Make you a deal,” she conceded. “You pop that in the oven and you can have a serving. But someone has to make sure you eat your veggies.”

  She sloughed out of her work jacket and poured herself a glass of wine.

  “That kind of day, huh?” He set the oven’s temperature and crossed his arms, waiting for her to comment. “At least you got flowers. Secret admirer?”

  She knew she was physically attractive and getting anonymous bouquets, boxes of chocolate, and random gifts came with the territory. She didn’t put much stock in them, especially if the guy couldn’t bother signing his name.

  “If you’re still seeing Svetlana, sign the card and gift them to her.” She went for deflection over confrontation. He was a typical commitmentphobe, like all of her brothers, and it likely had to do with the competition their father set up between the siblings.

  Svetlana was one of the models she used for her shows who Damon dated as occasional arm candy.

  “High-maintenance and doesn’t eat meat,” he said with a noncommittal shrug.

  “Yeah, well, she barely eats anything if she wants to keep her figure sharp,” Avery said. “One of the fringe benefits of being a designer is being able to eat real food.”

  Except Alida had been nagging her about packing on the pounds—only ten since her modeling days and well within range for her five-foot-eleven frame.

  “How’s it going with the upcoming show?” Damon seemed to be in an inquisitive mood. “Is Joan going to attend?”

  “My, you’re a thousand questions today.” Avery swirled the wine in the glass, watching the wine tears, or legs, streak down the side of the glass. “Joan’s going to be my guest.”

  “You doing okay? The first anniversary’s always the hardest.” Damon hovered closer. “I know you haven’t been sleeping well.”

  His body heat radiated, and the concern written on his face was palpable. That was how Brando was too, sensitive and aware of the slightest emotional distress.

  “Guess I need more concealer,” she said, begging herself not to burst into tears. “I’m going to have to be fine, won’t I? Part of the show’s a tribute to Brando, and I can’t be falling apart in front of his mother.”

  “You going to do the ramp walk?” He put the casserole into the oven once it reached the correct temperature. “I can escort you if you need an arm.”

  “No, I won’t need an arm or a leg.” She sipped the dry wine and set the glass aside. “Brando will be looking down at me, and I’m walking alone—just like I do every day since he passed. Walking alone.”

  He grimaced at the stark truth of her existence. “You still have family. All of us. Don’t you ever forget it. We are all here for you, every hour of every day.”

  Her family was the epitome of close-knit, at least on the surface—from her Army general father to her artsy mother on down. Growing up, she’d never felt the lack of companionship, and as hard as the siblings competed with each other, they stuck together against any outside threats, real or perceived.

  “I know.” She squeezed Damon’s bicep right over the Thor’s hammer tattoo. “But this time, I have to stand alone and show the world and whoever’s out there that I’m not afraid. I’m not going to let them win. I’m not going to ever quit, and I’m definitely not going to hide behind my twin brother or any other man.”

  “You can do this.” He flashed her an okay sign. “But we’ve all got your back.”

  “And it’s good to know,” she said, grateful. She hooked her okay sign with his, the loop formed by her index finger and thumb intertwined—their secret twin handshake. “I’m going to take a shower and then head over to Joan’s place for the evening.”

  “Sure, do what you need,” he said. “Don’t close yourself off to dating again. You’ve got your whole life in front of you, and as much as you and Joan have Brando in common, you’re way too young to hang out with her for the rest of your life.”

  Avery nodded curtly. “Why don’t you worry about your dating life and let me forget about mine?”

  “Does that mean you’re going back into circulation again?” He eyed her with interest on behalf of his co-founder, Cory Adams, who happened to be Alida’s brother.

  “Tell Cory to forget it,” she said. “Alida can fill him in.”

  Whirling around, she headed for the bathroom and turned on the shower.

  Chapter Seven

  The woman’s black eye was barely visible underneath her heavily caked makeup, and she blinked gamely to appear in control. Harder to hide was the split lip she’d covered with a glossy coat of lipstick.

  “I assure you everything’s fine,” she said, smoothing a wayward strand of hair back from her forehead. “Tell Mrs. Bonet to mind her own business.”

  “She was concerned enough to call the police.” Jason looked over the woman’s impeccably clad Chanel suit shoulder into her apartment. “May I come in?”

  “I don’t see a need,” the woman, who the directory listed as Tatiana Renzi, said.

  “Then I can stand here and ask my questions, not a problem.” He took out his notepad. “I’ll get to the point. Who hit you in the face?”

  “No one.”

  “Let me guess. You walked into a door. Or you were reaching for a plate in the cupboard and it fell on your lip. Is that what you want me to write?”

  “You can write whatever you want, but since I didn’t commit a crime, you can’t hold me.” She moved to close the door in his face.

  “No, you didn’t commit a crime, but I’m concerned for you, and your neighbor reported a domestic disturbance.”

  “She should mind her own business. Nothing happened.”

  “I know Mrs. Joan Bonet,” Jason said. “She’s an extremely calm and competent person. She heard raised voices and violence. She’s seen the man who did this passing her in the hallway. It doesn’t make her feel safe to have someone who’d hit a woman in the face roaming the building.”

  “He won’t bother her.” Tatiana pursed her puffy lip. “Please, let it go.”

  “Who is he? Someone famous? Important?” Jason’s radar was triggered. “Mrs. Bonet says he wears wraparound sunglasses indoors.”

  “He might be a married man, so you’ll understand why I need to be discreet. I won’t testify or file a report, so you might as well be on your way. I’m sure you have other calls to respond to.” She forced a smile that must have pained her split lip. “Thanks for dropping by.”

  Jason fished a business card from his pocket and scribbled his cell phone number on the back. “Call me. I mean it. If you need anything. If you’re afraid of anyone.”

  “Is this some kind of detective pickup line?” She took the card with the tip of her manicured fingernails as if it were hazardous waste.

  “No. I want to assure Mrs. Bonet her call was justified.” He knew Mrs. Joan Bonet was Brando’s widowed mother, having visited her ap
artment many times while investigating the shooting. The building was old and did not come with a concierge. Residents buzzed visitors in through an intercom system and sometimes held doors open as a courtesy.

  “You should tell her to butt out.” Tatiana retreated behind her door and started to shut it.

  “If he comes back and bothers you again, I’ll be here.”

  The door clicked behind him, and he turned around, coming face-to-face with Avery Cockburn stepping off the elevator.

  Her eyes widened as she took note of the apartment number marked over the doorway. She was carrying a handled plastic food container, and her purse was slung over her shoulder. As always, she was stylishly dressed and looking lovely in a sweet girl-next-door way which meant minimal makeup and conservative clothes.

  “Jason, I mean, Detective.” She turned past him toward Mrs. Bonet’s apartment.

  He made a move for the stack of food containers. “Let me get that for you.”

  “Why?” She arched an eyebrow. “I didn’t bring enough for you.”

  “I’d never think of crashing your hot date,” he said as she kept walking. “How’ve you been?”

  “Busy, and you?”

  “Busy, but I still have time for a friend.”

  She hooked a glance at Tatiana’s doorway. “Hey, don’t let me cramp your style. Anything new?”

  Before he could respond, she shook her head as if shaking off a pesky fly. “We agreed to put it in a box. Guess nothing’s popped out?”

  “Nothing yet.”

  She arrived at Mrs. Bonet’s door, but her hands were full. “Can you knock for me?”

  “Oh, no, allow me.” He grabbed the food containers. “I can’t let her think I let you carry them the entire way.”

  “Which I did. You know her, don’t you?” She raised her hand to knock but left it suspended in midair. “But of course you do. You must have come here for …”