Beyond Revenge

  BEYOND REVENGE

  Mischievous Malamute Mystery Series Book 2

  Harley Christensen

  Copyright © 2015 Harley Christensen

  * * *

  Cover Photos:

  Copyright Doug James — Mill Avenue Bridge, Tempe, Arizona | Dreamstime

  Copyright Buschmen — Cadillac Eldorado | Dreamstime

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  For Naoisha

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Epilogue

  About Harley

  Other Books By Harley

  Connect with Harley

  Chapter One

  Mr. Sandman was mocking me. If the night sweats and nightmares hadn’t been the proof I needed, whacking my head on the nightstand after a particularly restless episode should have clued me in. I rubbed the knot that formed, convinced it was an exercise devilishly crafted to test my patience and likely, my sanity. Grumpy, I mentally added “Minion of Hell” to the sandman’s epitaph as I struggled to untangle myself from the remnants of a tortured slumber.

  Finally free from the destruction that had once resembled a bed, I plopped my feet on the floor. The coolness nipped at my toes as I glanced back at my bedmate, who managed to snore contently after successfully stealing the better part of the blankets. His tongue wiggled rhythmically as he exhaled, a sign he was having good doggie dreams. I really had to stop sharing my bed with a ninety-eight pound Alaskan Malamute.

  Tomorrow, I sighed.

  I padded down the hall, drawn toward the light emanating from the kitchen, which usually meant Leah was still up working on an assignment. After our last adventure, Leah Campbell, my best friend and now roommate, had thrown in the towel at her newspaper gig for a life of freelance writing and researching. She had no trouble drumming up work, but felt the transition necessitated a change in address.

  I peered into the kitchen. My hunch was right, Leah had been up working on an assignment—as verified by the mass of paper strewn across every available surface—but apparently, at some point her brain had given in to other ideas. Leah was now sprawled face down—in all her drooling glory—on top of the kitchen island. I was pretty sure there was a stove under there somewhere. Comfy? I thought to myself. Every few seconds, she muttered something that sounded eerily like “brownies,” though it could have been “bunnies.” Regardless, she was obviously stressed about the project at hand.

  I removed a spiral binder from beneath her head, hoping she’d thank me for it later, despite the enchanting imprint it left on her check. She was lucky I didn’t have my camera handy. Nah, I wouldn’t do that to her, though it was fun to jangle her chain every once in a while.

  “Yoohoo, Sleeping Beauty, your prince has arrived and is about to storm the castle to avenge your honor. Lest he see his betrothed drooling or he might choose to run off with the witty best friend.”

  “Shut it…off…” was the muttered response, followed by a colorful variation of “go away.”

  “Perhaps he’ll be so overcome with appreciation of my stunning features, we’ll end up running off to Vegas to meet Elvis at The Little White Chapel?”

  “Don’t care…sleeping here…”

  “Ok then, an early morning smooch from Nicoh?”

  “That beast so much as breathes in my direction, I’ll withhold snacks, indefinitely,” Leah mumbled as she opened one eye to glare at me. “Seriously? Can’t a girl take a nap around this place without being harassed, or threatened with doggie breath?”

  “Tough assignment?” I asked as I began collecting the handwritten notes that had fallen to the floor.

  “Tough assignment, tough night,” she replied. “Have been doing research all night for the Dynamic Duo.”

  I nodded. Several of her freelance projects had been contracted by Abe and Elijah Stanton, two brothers who ran a private investigations firm in Los Angeles. We had met them through their involvement with my sister’s case a few months earlier. After Leah left the newspaper, they had hired her to research a few of their other cases. Currently, she was embroiled in the details surrounding a seven-year-old missing person’s case.

  “Starting to look like this gal purposely left a bad situation. Hard to make her reappear when she’s worked so hard to escape in the first place.” A hint of sadness filled her voice as she yawned.

  “What will you do?”

  Leah shrugged. “I was hired to do research, which I did. The rest is up to Abe and Elijah.”

  I handed her the notes I had collected and squeezed her arm. “It’s all you can do, Leah. It’s in their hands now. You know they’ll do the right thing.”

  She nodded, absently pulling on the short tufts of blond hair that framed her face. While her eyes were puffy and the binder imprint still graced her cheek, I marveled at how she managed to look so good at this time of day. It was her quick wit and smart mouth that usually got her into trouble, though I had a sneaking suspicion she’d caught the attention of the older Stanton brother, Abe, whether she realized it or not. Leah yawned again while glancing at the clock, and after noting the early hour, frowned as she looked at me squarely.

  “Still having the dreams,” she commented. I nodded, though it hadn’t been a question. Leah bowed her head in a quick acknowledgment.

  “You ready for tonight?” This time I shrugged. Honestly, I wasn’t sure.

  We had been recruited by Charlie Wilson, an old high school friend, to help with the condominium-warming party he was throwing at his penthouse that evening. I was using the term “friend” a bit freely, as neither Leah nor I were in Charlie’s social circle. We were more or less unpaid help, performing menial tasks, though Charlie insisted it was our particular talents he was interested in procuring for the party.

  Charlie was also a frequent client of my photography services, a business I’d aptly named Mischievous Malamute after a few innocent episodes involving Nicoh during some of my earlier assignments. Misbehaved companion aside, Charlie had recruited me for my photographer’s eye—as he’d phrased it—requesting my presence during setup to ensure the party’s look and feel met with his exacting standards.

  He claimed he wanted Leah on hand at the party for her contacts at the paper and within the community, with the hope she could nudge details of the festivities into the appropriate society pages, and into the right ears.

  In reality, Charlie needed our help because he was short-handed after firing his personal assistant. Now persona non grata, Arch Underwood had reportedly been booted from the penthouse after having the audacity to don attire that clashed with his surroundings and apparently, Charlie’s sensibility. From my experience Charlie favored steel, black or white—meaning any splash of color, or anything denim, not only offended him, it got his blood percolating. Therefore, for his crimes against all things monochromatic, Arch was promptly ejected, leaving Charlie without hi
s minion.

  I wasn’t Arch’s replacement—I did have my own business with my own clients, after all—but every time I was around Charlie, people managed to assume I was his new Girl Friday. I was convinced Charlie had something to do with that, the irony being I wasn’t exactly color-coded to his standards, either. Why I was elected to help him with his party was beyond me.

  In case you were wondering, my name is Arianna Jackson. My friends call me AJ, or Ajax if I’m being particularly precocious. I’m a twenty-something freelance photographer who, as I briefly mentioned, lives with my ex-reporter best female friend, Leah. Of course, there’s also my best canine friend, Nicoh, who possesses marginal manners and an extreme attitude—the dog, not the girl. We reside in the desert setting of Phoenix, Arizona in a home that belonged to my parents before their deaths in a plane crash a few years prior. Until recently, we believed the crash had been a tragic accident. That was until I found my twin sister—a sibling I hadn’t previously known existed—violently murdered. My life had changed forever in that moment, replaced by a series of long-buried secrets—the kind of secrets only the dead could reveal. Well, the dead and a couple of murderous wackadoos, as it turned out.

  Long story short, both our adoptive parents had been murdered, along with several other innocent people. All because of a very deadly secret that started with our biological parents, who had been the first to perish trying to protect it. As it turned out, Victoria and I were that secret. When Victoria put the pieces together and tried to warn me, she was rewarded with death. Now I’m the sole protector of the secret—the one who holds the key. Literally.

  I know I should take solace in the fact the murderers were apprehended and incarcerated, but I don’t. I can’t. My very existence poses a threat. So while I try to live my life in spite of this challenge, it manages to creep into my thoughts on occasion and more frequently, into my dreams. Fortunately, my days are filled with enough distractions to prevent me from obsessing over them—the most recent of which happens to be named Charlie.

  I shook my head in the negative to Leah’s question—no one would ever be prepared for one of his shindigs, or for Charlie.

  I would soon come to fully appreciate the irony of that.

  Nicoh emerged, suddenly aware he had been missing the action in the kitchen and a possible snacking opportunity, his piercing whoo-whoos notifying us he was awake and in immediate need of attention. Had it not been for his soft brown eyes, almost megaphone-like ears and endearing smile, it would have been annoying. Somehow, I think the little stinker knew this about himself and used it to its full advantage. Like I said, he’s a stinker. But I love him. And, considering my not-so-much of a relationship with a certain homicide detective by the name of Ramirez, Nicoh was the man in my life. Granted, some people might consider the non-human members of their households—canines, felines, bovines, etc.—to be mere pets, Nicoh was anything but. He was my companion, my confidante and sometimes, even my hero. As a bonus, he never judged me when I ate too many fries, left the house wearing the clothes I’d slept in or failed to brush my teeth. I couldn’t very well complain, could I? He was mostly—if I overlooked the late night cover-stealing and occasional doggie-breath—the perfect pal.

  And while Leah is pretty darn good, Nicoh is a natural born jerk-o-meter. If Nicoh doesn’t like a guy, they tend to scurry away, man-parts covered. Yes, scurry. Perhaps the honker on an Alaskan Malamute should be registered as a lethal weapon. Go on—look it up if you don’t believe me. I’ll wait.

  That being said, Nicoh and his nozzle were presently on the prowl for one thing and one thing alone. Breakfast. It was still early, so Leah and I hadn’t eaten yet. Nicoh wasn’t convinced and placed his massive head on the counter to investigate. After rooting around in Leah’s notes for a few seconds, he sniffed in disgust and proceeded to look for errant crumbs on the kitchen floor.

  “Uh, those were my papers that your dog just boogered on,” Leah groused, her brow furrowed.

  “He did not booger on anything,” I huffed in response, though a smirk played at the corner of my mouth.

  “You’d think with all that training he’s had, he’d have better manners,” she retorted, her own smile forming as she swatted Nicoh’s curly tail. Nicoh rewarded her by swooping in and licking her from the crown of her tousled head to the bottom of her perky face.

  “Ack!” she cried in mock horror, hopping off the counter and running down the hall to her room.

  I laughed at her hasty retreat and smiled at Nicoh, who swished his tailed wildly from side to side in delight before whoo-whooing again, a reminder that he had still not received his requisite nourishment. After all, who was I to make the big beast wait?

  An hour later, Nicoh had been properly fed, I had showered and collected the items needed for my trip to Charlie’s. Before leaving, I paused to knock on Leah’s door, but upon noting the absence of Duran Duran or The Beastie Boys blaring from beneath the threshold, assumed she had decided to sleep in her bed for a change and left her alone. We hopped in my old Mini Cooper and headed to the Tempe Town Lake condominium where Charlie lived and was holding his party.

  It was early and traffic was still light, a refreshing change from the usual bumper-to-bumper of rush hour, so we made good time. With Arch no longer in the picture, I figured he’d be short-handed and appreciate my early arrival. As expected, Stuart Klein, the jovial doorman waved us through. Nicoh and I were frequent visitors, though I suspected Nicoh was his favorite.

  Upon exiting the elevator that deposited us into Charlie’s penthouse, I stopped short. Arch was back at his post, a small desk Charlie had installed in the entryway just outside the elevator. His gaze was steely as we stepped into his territory, lips curled in distaste. Despite his cool appraisal, I found myself stifling a chuckle. As usual, his facial expressions managed to look as though someone had spiked his latte with vinegar.

  He was, however, always fastidiously dressed and today was no exception, though his current ensemble was more toned-down than usual and consisted of a gray silk shirt, matching tie and black slacks. Even his perfectly-gelled hairstyle appeared to have less product applied. Maybe I should have been concerned about his mental state but upon further reflection, the absence of color led me to believe he was merely attempting to work his way back into Charlie’s good graces. At least his attire complimented the surroundings, meaning a global crisis had been temporarily averted.

  Suddenly self-conscious, I looked down at my own clothing—boot-cut jeans, purple Chuck Taylor high-tops and a black Eddie Bauer Henley covered by a worn leather jacket—and wondered if Charlie would oust me for my inability to blend in with his environment. I chewed my lip as I noticed even Nicoh had me beat on that one, with his natural white, black and silver coat. Considering I was sporting my usual style, or lack thereof, perhaps Charlie had viewed Nicoh as my best accessory all along? I shrugged. There was nothing I could do about it now. Instead, I bit the bullet and attempted to make nice with Charlie’s assistant.

  “Hey Arch, it’s great to see you.”

  Arch sniffed after taking in my appearance again and glanced disdainfully in Nicoh’s direction before responding, “AJ, of all days you’d make Charlie wait on you, today is not that day.” He pointed toward the atrium, then turned on his heel and marched off in the direction of the kitchen. Nice to know Arch hadn’t changed much during his sabbatical.

  Officially dismissed, I pulled Nicoh’s mat from my bag and placed it in the area Charlie had designated “for the animal.” Nicoh huffed as he grumpily climbed on and situated himself in the center. Once I was sure he was sufficiently comfortable, I scratched him behind the ears before making my way through the spacious penthouse—a study of glass and steel—with its luxurious open floor plan and modern industrial style. Charlie was strict with his color scheme, using only black and gray with an occasional white accent. The atrium was no different.

  Charlie stood in the center of the seamless glass encapsulation—like a p
riceless treasure on display—though his current expression ruined that vision. A scowl formed as he perused the list on the iPad he clutched. I paused at the entrance, taking him in. He was tall and muscular yet lean, and impeccably dressed in a handsomely-tailored charcoal Armani suit and crisp white dress shirt that remained open at the neck. I was surprised by this last detail—Charlie was rarely without a tie—it was as casual as I had seen him since high school. His Berluti’s tapped impatiently as he read. He was model attractive, a cross between Matt Bomer and Ian Somerhalder—though there had been speculation in the tabloids that the two actors had actually been separated at birth—with dark hair, striking gray-blue eyes, a strong angular jaw and cheekbones most women would die for. He was a sight, indeed.

  Unfortunately, once he opened his mouth, the illusion was destroyed. Even with all his pretty-boy features, Charlie’s personality and demeanor made him a less-than-likable human being. I wished I could say it was due to his privileged upbringing, but I had known his parents since we were children and they were everything he was not—kind, respectful, honest and above all else—generous.

  Even Charlie’s grandfather, a self-made software magnate and source of the family’s substantial wealth and stature, had been a humble and gracious individual. Long after his passing, the senior Wilson had continued to leave his mark on our community through various charitable foundations. None of that had rubbed off on Charlie. Though he was smart and savvy, attending Harvard Business School and graduating with honors, he used all his privileges for his own arrogant, selfish gain.