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  Table of Contents

  Synopsis

  Acknowledgments

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Epilogue

  About the Author

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  Synopsis

  Cassidy “Cazz” Warner, a smart, sporty, reticent newcomer to the senior class at Claiborne High, unwittingly attracts the attention of its most popular girl: Sarah Perkins, a bright, athletic, charismatic beauty. Just as the two begin to understand how extraordinary their friendship is, another cross-country move wrests Cazz away.

  Ten years later, Cazz unexpectedly runs into Sarah during a fraud investigation at Sarah’s charitable foundation. The women are inexorably drawn to each other, but Cazz’s investigation into the foundation's finances limits her ability to be entirely honest with Sarah.

  Already wary of Cazz for not keeping in touch after Claiborne, Sarah demands the truth. Will Cazz own up to her feelings for Sarah? Or is she too late? And will Cazz’s investigation bring a killer to justice, or will she sacrifice herself to protect Sarah from a man desperate to conceal his crimes?

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  Like Jazz

  © 2013 By Heather Blackmore. All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-62639-035-5

  This Electronic Book is published by

  Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  P.O. Box 249

  Valley Falls, New York 12185

  First Edition: December 2013

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Credits

  Editor: Shelley Thrasher

  Production Design: Susan Ramundo

  Cover Design By Sheri ([email protected])

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to Len Barot and everyone at Bold Strokes Books for including me in your clan of staff, associates, and writers. It’s thrilling and humbling to be counted among you.

  I’m indebted to my brilliant editor, Shelley Thrasher, whose suggestions greatly enhanced this novel. Shelley, thank you for your superb guidance and patience. If you didn’t need a vacation before, I’m sure by now you need two.

  Shelly Lampe and Kathy Chetkovich: I’m grateful for your constructive critiques of early drafts of this work and your encouragement along the way.

  I’m pleased to publish this novel in the year the U.S. Supreme Court handed down two landmark rulings for LGBT civil rights. Although there’s a long way to go toward equal rights in the U.S. and abroad, I’m elated by these historic victories and thankful to those who’ve fought and continue to fight for equality.

  To the readers of this genre: without your enthusiasm, reviews, feedback, and interest, there would be fewer authors and sub-categories. Thank you for your passion and support of the writers in this arena.

  Dedication

  For my wife, Shelly Lampe

  Sometimes I can’t believe you said “yes” all

  those years ago, but I’m so glad you did.

  Prologue

  “Detective Warner. Please come in and close the door.” Commander James Ashby motioned to the chair opposite him in front of his desk. A mountain of a man, he didn’t stand as I entered his office, but having met with him a few times previously, I guessed he was at least six-three, 270 pounds, with a sixty-inch barrel of a chest. I sat.

  Though it was highly unusual for such a senior officer to dole out cases, I was ready for whatever assignment Ashby was about to throw at me. Twenty-eight, single, and career-focused, I was at the top of my game. No distractions.

  I was an expert at uncovering fraud and embezzlement, having developed techniques for detecting financial irregularities during my stint as an SEC examiner. As such, I’d returned to L.A. to participate in a two-year pilot civilian-investigation program of the LAPD, which partnered civilian investigators experienced in white-collar crime with the resources of the nation’s third-largest local law-enforcement agency. If it was successful, the department would establish a new unit within the Commercial Crimes Division’s fraud section, with me as the frontrunner to lead it. The pilot had already proved effective after only a year, so my promotion was practically assured.

  Ashby’s bearded face didn’t change from the stony expression he’d assumed when I entered. “Status?” he asked in his deep bass voice, referring to my current case.

  The owners of a locally headquartered company believed an employee was embezzling, and they didn’t want to tip off the perpetrator by calling for an audit. Undercover as a financial analyst, I quickly discovered that the CFO had authorized hundreds of cashier’s checks and numerous wire transfers from the company’s bank accounts, covering over seven million dollars in personal purchases on her American Express card and making for some serious retail therapy.

  Once I uncovered the wire-fraud element, we had to involve the FBI, but by then my investigation was nearly complete. “Special Agent Gutierrez and his team are nearly up to speed and we’ve already drafted his criminal complaint. I’ll be able to roll off by the end of the week,” I said, pleased by the ease with which Gutierrez and I had communicated and divvied to win this case.

  Ashby nodded, the long sleeves of his blue oxford seeming poised to rip apart, his expression as tight as the material covering his massive biceps. “Good. You’ll report to me on a special assignment, investigating the possible embezzlement of funds at a charitable foundation. You’ll start Monday, posing as an accountant.”

  Thankfully, my excitement at the prospect of working directly for the commander stifled the yawn the occupation evoked. Covert work wasn’t nearly as glamorous as the movies portrayed it.

  “By the end of today,” Ashby continued, “you’ll receive your résumé by e-mail and will memorize your background and references, which will be unassailable. You’ll be provided with the address and name of the person you’ll be reporting to. This is my cell number and e-mail address, if you run into any problems.” He handed me a business card that looked like a postage stamp in his mammoth fingers. “I’ve selected you for this assignment because I need someone with your computer skills and finance background. Any questions, Detective?”

  The assignment sounded like all the other assignments I’d been given since starting here. Why was the commander involved?

  “Yes?” His voice boomed with obvious impatience at my silence.

  “Sorry, sir. I was wondering what’s special about the assignment and why I’ll be reporting to
you.”

  “Because you’re reporting to me, the assignment is special,” he said irritably. Personable guy.

  “Yes, sir. Right, sir.” It had been a year, but I still wasn’t very adept at the ins and outs of the politics involved up and down the chain of command and all the yes-sirring it required. He continued to survey me as I waited for him to elucidate. He did.

  “A personal friend of mine brought this case to my attention, and there may be PR implications to the foundation if this investigation bears fruit. You will exercise the utmost discretion.” Again, this was nothing unusual. The job required confidentiality.

  Evidently noticing I was still dissatisfied with his explanation, Ashby finally threw me a bone. He seemed to choose his words carefully. “In addition, due to certain…circumstances, my friend is no longer…involved in the matter, and I owe it to him personally to leave no stone unturned. I need my best investigator on this assignment. Is there anything else, Detective?” It was obvious Ashby wasn’t used to giving compliments any more than he was accustomed to providing explanations. He wanted to wrap things up.

  “No, Commander.” I was extraordinarily pleased to have gained his trust and felt honored he thought so highly of my skills.

  “Good day, Detective.” Ashby picked up a pen and bent his head down to study some papers on his desk. I rose from my chair and departed without bothering to hide my satisfied grin.

  I let the words “best investigator” swirl through me, the shot of confidence warming me like a fine scotch. If anyone was stealing from the foundation, I’d expose them and put them behind bars. I’d make Ashby proud. The promotion I’d been working toward would be mine.

  I would move on from the bittersweet memories of an L.A. long past.

  Without a doubt, no one could prevent me from giving this assignment my undivided attention.

  Chapter One

  Ten Years Earlier

  Finally: sixth period. It was the last class of my first day at my latest school—the second week for the rest of the students—and I couldn’t wait for it to be over. Due to my father’s frequent military-related relocations, Claiborne High was my fifth high school already, and I was just starting my senior year.

  My father was a colonel in the US Army, the rank below brigadier general. Combining a keen intellect with a strong sense of responsibility to the youth our country sent into conflict, he worked within the US Army Training and Doctrine Command to revolutionize joint-services training. As TRADOC’s deputy chief of the Interservice Training Office, my father believed that not only did combining military training and education make sound fiscal sense, interservice training saved lives by making sure troops, regardless of their service branch, all spoke the same language and had the same skills so they could work together.

  As part of such a transformative team, my father sought to be as agile, creative, and adaptive as the soldiers, airmen, and others he helped train. Meaning that unlike most trainers, my father didn’t get assigned to new bases—he volunteered to go wherever and whenever he was needed. His insistence on being as flexible as what he required from his servicemen meant many moves for my mother and me since my parents hated to be separated. The combination of my father reaching the pinnacle of his career, the ever-evolving nature of the threats to our nation, and the proliferation of peacekeeping missions meant that the frequency of our moves increased.

  I was able to stay at the same Arizona high school my entire freshman year, including the following summer. As a sophomore in Georgia, I made it through three quarters before we moved. I completed my last quarter of that year and the first quarter of my junior year in Alabama, and spent the remainder of my junior year and following summer in New York. This latest transfer brought us to L.A., where my father continued his work on a joint training collaboration between the army and air force. My new high school was on a semester schedule.

  Mr. Wilcox waited until the bell sounded to address the class, providing a brief history of the life of Charles Dickens. As a chorus of groans met his inquiry regarding how many of us had finished the assigned reading, the classroom door opened. A tall, tanned, long-legged girl with high cheekbones, perfectly straight white teeth, pin-cushion lips, and long, wavy auburn hair entered, stopping inside the doorway and smiling brilliantly toward Wilcox. The moment I saw this girl, my stomach did a little cartwheel, leading me to wonder whether I was getting sick.

  Interrupted mid-sentence, Wilcox turned to the late arrival. “How nice of you to finally join us, Miss Perkins. I hope the upcoming student assembly will delight us all enough to justify your tardiness resulting from the planning meetings. Perhaps you can further delight your classmates by telling them the main theme of this weekend’s reading?”

  It kind of weirded me out how Wilcox called his students by their last names. Did the pseudo formalities make him feel superior, or was it his way of getting us used to the idea that we were fast becoming adults?

  As if prepared for that exact question, Miss Perkins’s smile brightened. She surveyed the classroom before delivering her response. Her smile evaporated as her eyes, having pleasurably roamed the rows of seated students, finally settled on me. Her expression changed from confident showmanship to open curiosity.

  “I’d be happy to, Mr. Wilcox, but I wouldn’t want our new classmate to feel left out, as she may have missed the assignment. Did I miss introductions?”

  Mr. Wilcox followed her gaze to me. “Not at all, Miss Perkins, not at all. I was getting to that. Class, please give a warm welcome to Miss Cassidy Warner, our latest transplant from the East Coast. Miss Warner, welcome to Claiborne High.”

  My fellow students turned toward the back corner where I sat, and after what seemed to be a prolonged stretch of silence interrupted only by the sound of creaking furniture, Miss Perkins clapped her hands together and raised her voice. “Welcome, Cassidy!” Within moments, the rest of the class was clapping and wooting, giving me their best welcome. I smiled weakly, mortified.

  The quieter and larger the classroom, the happier and more inconspicuous I am. This loud, pep-assembly type greeting was the worst welcome imaginable, the best being my unnoticed presence until, say, week six, when some significant assignment or project would undoubtedly be due, requiring my participation. Like a week-old helium balloon, I sagged into the hard wooden chair beneath the small desk, raised my eyes to the clock above the door, and prayed for the final bell of the day to toll prematurely. My eyes drifted lower and landed squarely on Miss Perkins. She was the Bermuda Triangle, drawing me to her with mysterious force.

  Mr. Wilcox attempted to extend my misery by shifting his attention from Miss Perkins to me. “Thank you for your help in welcoming Miss Warner. Miss Warner, I believe we were able to provide you with an advance copy of the syllabus, were we not?”

  I nodded, swallowing with difficulty and wresting my eyes away from the girl.

  “Excellent. Were you able to complete any of the reading required for today?”

  I nodded again and looked back to Miss Perkins. My mouth turned into the Sahara, devoid of all moisture. Maybe I should visit the school nurse.

  “Splendid. Splendid. Would you care to give us your view of the main theme of Great Expectations, then?”

  “Excuse me?” I asked. “Me?”

  “Yes, you, Miss Warner. Thoughts?”

  “Uh…I…sure, I guess.” I sat up, feeling the color drain from my cheeks as my new classmates stared at me in expectation, some with goofy grins plastered to their faces. My eyes stopped once again at Miss Perkins, still standing inside the doorway, her head cocked slightly to her left, her arms crossed in front of her waist, her lips curled up slightly at the corners of her mouth, awaiting my response. The Sahara hit high noon.

  Did my parched state have something to do with this Miss Perkins? She was clearly popular, given the class’s response to her welcoming of me. Moreover, she was impossibly stunning. I’d never laid eyes on such a pretty girl. The simplicity of her outfi
t (fashionably worn but not tattered jeans; sleeveless, button-down blue blouse to highlight her light-blue eyes; sunglasses resting atop her head that held her hair back; off-white sandals that exposed her painted toenails) accented the classic beauty of her face. The intensely focused but slightly cocky look she bestowed upon me was not something I’d seen among my many high-school mates. But more than that, she seemed to outclass us all with her confident carriage. She was in a league of her own. And she knew it.

  I stammered ahead and offered an opinion concerning the importance of conscience and character woven throughout Great Expectations, finally finding my verbal footing once I focused my attention away from the Perkins girl.

  Mr. Wilcox responded with a nod. “Thank you, Miss Warner, for paying attention to the reading assignment. I can see you’ll be a solid addition to our classroom. Mr. Zimmer, let’s continue with you. Do you agree with Miss Warner, or do you feel there are other themes as important to Dickens as the ones she identified?”

  When the bell finally rang to notify us we could leave for the day, I stayed seated and closed my eyes. I slowly breathed in and out for a few minutes as I listened to my classmates file out the door toward their post-school lives, their excited chatter and laughter slowly fading down the hallway. Usually at ease in the classroom, I continued to consider my health. Was something going on with me physically? Lost in the rhythm of my breathing, I heard a voice above me.