Into the Fury (BOSS, Inc. #1)(35)

Val recognized David Klein, the wealthy jewelry merchant who supplied the extravagant necklaces for the show, sitting next to Jason Stern, the president of the company. Undoubtedly Klein, who lived in San Francisco, had arrived in La Belle’s private jet.

Val seated herself in one of the pews and Megan slid in beside her. At the front of the chapel, a cherrywood casket inlaid with mother of pearl rested on the dais, covered by a thick blanket of dark red roses. Behind a thin curtain off to one side, Delilah’s family sat grieving.

From the corner of her eye, Val spotted Ethan standing near the wall at the end of the row, long legs splayed, hands crossed in front of him, in full bodyguard mode. His dark eyes moved restlessly over the crowd, scanning the room for any sort of threat. She felt better just knowing he was there.

The thought stirred a trickle of uneasiness inside her. She was beginning to depend on Ethan, and that was dangerous. She’d learned a long time ago, the only person she could truly depend on was herself. Even Mom and Pops wouldn’t always be there for her. They were already in their late sixties, and Pops was frail.

She sat up a little straighter in the hard wooden pew. She’d always stood on her own two feet. No matter what happened, that wasn’t going to change.

Still, until Delilah’s killer was found, her life could be in danger. She wasn’t stupid enough to deny she needed a man with Ethan’s skills to ensure her safety.

She tried not to remember the lonely young girl who had depended on her boyfriend, Bobby. The sixteen-year-old who had foolishly believed Bobby Rodriquez would keep her safe.

Bobby had tried, but instead he’d wound up dead. She’d been left to face the cops, her terrible guilt, and her awful grief. There’d been no one to turn to, no one who gave a damn what happened to her. If it hadn’t been for Thomas and Ellie Hartman, she might have ended up as dead as Bobby. Or worse.

The organ music began to play, jolting her back to the present. It wouldn’t be for long, she told herself, but for now she’d allow herself the luxury of depending on Ethan Brodie.

If she wanted to stay alive, she really had no other choice.



With the funeral under way and Val surrounded by the protection of a church full of people and a couple of dozen uniformed police, Ethan made his way outside. He’d seen Lieutenant Hoover head out the door for a smoke and figured it might be a chance for an update.

Hoover bent his head into the breeze and cupped a hand around a match to light a cigarette, then tossed the dead match into a trash bin a few feet away. He took a long drag, then let the smoke drift away in the breeze.

“You know those things’ll kill you,” Ethan said.

Hoover looked down at the cigarette between his fingers. “My wife makes sure I know that every damn day. Now I gotta hear it from you?”

Ethan fought not to smile. “Hey, we’ve all got to go sometime. I say pick your own poison.”

Hoover just grunted.

“You come up with anything?” Ethan asked.

“Yeah. The vic had insurance on the jewelry. ’Bout a half million dollars’ worth of diamonds.”

“Plenty of motive for murder.”

“Yeah, except for the note.”

“True enough. Maybe the whole thing was a setup to steal the jewelry.”

Hoover squinted up at him through the smoke. “You think so?”

“No. I don’t think it was about the jewelry. Guy who sent the notes . . . it’s personal for him.”

“Be my guess, too.”

“Any chance he’s done it before?”

Hoover flicked an ash off his cigarette. “A serial? Nothing came up in the search. He may be planning to kill again, but if he’s a serial, I’m betting Delilah was his first.”

“Damn professional job if it was.”

“Those guys are smart. They make plans months in advance. Years. I’m thinking Delilah was La Belle’s number-one girl. He hit her to make his point.”

“Who’s number two?”

“Isabel Rafaeli. We’ve got her covered nice and tight.”

Ethan nodded, wondering where Val fell on the top-ten lineup, made a mental note to ask her. “What about the messages? Anything on the paper or the ink?”

“Regular copy paper. So far we haven’t found anything that would identify the printer.”

“Since Delilah’s being buried today, you’ve obviously done the autopsy. Find anything interesting?”

“We put a rush on it, being it’s such a high-profile case, but nothing turned up. No drugs, no excess alcohol. She was healthy and extremely fit.”

“That’s how the models keep their jobs.”

Hoover blew out a stream of smoke. “What about you? You got anything?”

“I’ve looked at a couple of different angles, tossed them around. Some of the women have kids. From the sound of those notes, I doubt our killer would approve of a mother modeling scanty underwear for a living.”

“Good thought. I’ll make sure that angle’s covered. Anything else?”

“Still thinking about the boyfriends. Most murders are done by someone close. Delilah had men friends. That’s where she got the diamonds. You talk to any of them?”

Hoover let the smoke curl out from between his lips. “Guy named Reese Dawes. He’s in the shipping business here in Seattle. Lots of money; bought her a lot of expensive gifts, mostly clothes. He’s been out of the picture for a while.”