Page 2 of Undercover Star
"Matisse Vervein?"
"That sounds about it."
"You're goin' to work with Matisse Vervein? And you have no idea who he is?"
"Should I?"
"Yes, you damn well should." Chris's outrage was almost comical. "He's famous. Why didn't you bring him with you?"
"What?"
Chris pulled him a second pint. "Listen. Matisse writes awesome music. He has a voice that makes your knees go weak and he moves like honey down your arsecrack. People pay money to shake his hand and you're grousin' over the chance to work with him? What're you gonna do, anyhow? Start a dance studio?"
"Don't even fucking joke about that where Tim can hear it. That idea is too appalling to contemplate." The second pint went the way of the first and finally—finally—the edges of Josh's anger and agitation blurred a little. The tight coil of tension in his shoulders and neck unwound a notch and he blew out a deep sigh. "Fuck, I hate this."
"Could you be overreactin' a little?"
Josh was mellow enough now to allow the question some room. "Yeah, you're right." This case had taken his best friend's life. It had dragged him halfway across Europe. And now he needed the help of a rock star to get a handle on it? "It's... I don't see why... and he's so damned young and—"
"Don't judge him yet. He looks younger than he is," Chris soothed. "Listen to his music sometime. Especially the stuff he writes for others. There's a lot more to him than he lets on." He clapped a hand on Josh's shoulder and turned him around. "Now, get out of my snug, find yourself a table, and let me bring you some food. You need grease to soak up all that beer."
There was no arguing with Chris. Josh had learned that a long time ago. He hid in the farthest corner of the bar, and he found a grateful smile when a plate of steak and chips materialised in front of him, along with a third pint.
––––––––
"DID HE BUY IT? MATISSE. Did he buy it?"
"Yes." The screech coming from the other end of the phone was of the ear-splitting variety. Tim Montgomery held the receiver a foot away so the noise wouldn't deafen him. It was a good thing he knew his sister-in-law and had prepared for the assault on his hearing. How Marissa could be one of the most sought-after managers in the entertainment industry while impersonating a card-carrying fangirl for large parts of the day escaped him, but she did it in style and six-inch heels.
"What did he say? Tell me all," she requested, almost breathless with excitement.
Tim obliged. Matisse Vervein had surprised him. He'd never met any of the artists Marissa had represented over the years. Not even Matisse who, given his ticketing power, record sales, and the crowds of fans he could mobilise, moved in serious star territory. Tim had no yardstick to measure star behaviour, but except for his incredulity, Matisse had been quiet, serious, and attentive.
He'd also been rather taken with Josh Ingram. Tim hadn't missed Matisse's widened eyes, or the way he'd dried his clammy palms on his thighs before he'd returned Josh's handshake.
"Josh made an impression." He concluded his recital and smiled at the relieved sigh coming over the line.
"Oh, thank God. What about Josh?"
"He's appalled I've landed him with a partner, of course. I'm not sure it has quite sunk in yet who that partner is. Or what this will mean for his investigation."
"You're still sure it will help him, too?"
If he'd not already had a soft spot for Marissa, the uncertainty in her voice would have endeared her to him in any case. When she donned her armour of six-inch stilettos and power suits, Marissa turned into the queen bitch from hell. Outside of her job, she had the kindest heart of anyone Tim Montgomery had ever met. She'd never gotten over seeing Josh fall apart when he'd learned of his best friend's death.
It wasn't a day Tim would ever forget, either. They'd been gathered in the back garden of his Sutton home: his family and everyone from his department not on holiday or on duty. Barbecue and beer, music and laughter, and then a phone call and Josh, linen pale from one heartbeat to the next, his movements frantic, and his eyes empty.
There'd never been any romantic feelings between Josh and Paul Galbraith. The two had been friends since their school days, were partners at work, and they'd never come across a man they couldn't cheer or a case they couldn't solve.
Until Paul had died while on holiday with his wife, looking at a medieval locket in a Roman market.
Josh might as well have died with his partner, because his infectious smile had disappeared that day. They'd all had to get used to a stern-faced, driven Josh Ingram, who turned all his skill and dedication to tracking down the piece of jewellery stolen from the Vatican, and the thief, both in the hope of eventually finding the collector who'd ordered the theft and had wielded the knife that had killed Paul. He'd come close on two occasions, only for the thief to slip through his fingers. Now it seemed that Josh's persistence had bought them another chance.
Tim Montgomery hoped with all his heart that, this time, he'd be lucky. And if it needed the help of a pop idol, then he'd barter with the devil for it.
