Beneath the Bleak New Moon

by Debra Purdy Kong

  After she fed him a piece of carrot, she looked up Denver’s home and cell numbers in her address book. They had worked on a couple of class projects together, and he’d been generous about making himself available. She tried his cell phone.

  When he answered, Casey said, “Are you at work?”

  “On a break. MacKenna and I are grabbing some food. What can I do for you?”

  “I just got a call from Danielle Carpenter, the reporter I told you about.”

  “What did she want?”

  “Danielle thinks a racer known as Eagle is connected to the Regency Fitness Center in Richmond. She wants me to help her with some parking lot surveillance on Saturday.”

  “Talk her out of it. Danielle Carpenter has no business there.”

  “I tried, but she’s determined.”

  “Carpenter’s a head case,” MacKenna said, loudly enough for Casey to hear.

  “She’s an angry kid on a vendetta,” Denver said.

  Casey frowned. “You guys know her?”

  “We’ve met,” Denver replied. “I didn’t tell you before because it wasn’t relevant. I didn’t think you two would be in contact again.”

  “What do you mean by ‘vendetta’?”

  “I take it she didn’t tell you about her brother?”

  “No.”

  “Ben Carpenter was killed while street racing three years ago, and his passenger was seriously injured.”

  “That explains a lot.”

  “MacKenna was first on the scene after the crash. Here, he’ll tell you.”

  A short pause and then MacKenna said, “Carpenter wasn’t wearing a seatbelt. The kid went right through the windshield, landed on his head, and snapped his neck.”

  Casey closed her eyes. “Oh.”

  “His buddy went through the window too. Sustained major head injuries,” MacKenna added. “Claims he doesn’t remember anything about that night, but I have my doubts.”

  “Lots of people lose their memory after severe crashes.”

  “I think this kid’s evasiveness is more than memory loss. Their car was sideswiped, probably by the guy they were racing, which would explain why Carpenter lost control. I’m still trying to find out who they were racing that night.”

  “Was Ben Carpenter part of Roadkill?”

  The line was silent for a moment. “How do you know about them?”

  “Danielle told me.”

  “Roadkill didn’t exist then, but Carpenter had a rep for recklessness. It looks like baby sister has the same trait.”

  “Put Denver back on.” When he did so, Casey said, “I could try talking Danielle out of this stakeout again, but I don’t think it will work.”

  Denver muttered something she couldn’t quite decipher. “This isn’t the best idea I’ve ever had, but maybe you should go along and make sure Danielle doesn’t do something stupid. She needs to understand that if she digs too deep, she could get hurt. There are people who want to keep racing going and they won’t tolerate meddling.”

  “Can’t she be stopped legally?”

  “Sitting in a car watching people isn’t illegal, depending on where she’s parked and how she conducts herself. That young woman doesn’t have a whole lot of respect for us, so I doubt she’ll listen to me.”

  He was right. Casey knew all too well about quests for justice. The traumatic death of a family member wasn’t easy to make peace with, and certainly not when major questions were left unanswered.

  “While you’re there,” Denver said, “try and find out who her source is. We need to talk to that individual.”

  Another reason for encouraging her to go. “Okay, but I think Danielle is as good at withholding information as she is at acquiring it.”

  “You’ve handled strong-willed people and tough situations before, and that girl needs some levelheaded guidance. Let me know what happens, and take care.”

  Casey put the phone down and propped her feet on the footstool. She’d take care all right, she was good at that. But how would she convince a headstrong woman on a vendetta to do the same?

  SEVEN

  CASEY RUBBED HER GLOVED HANDS together and shivered, a chill seeping through her old, rust-ravaged Tercel. She’d been staking out the Regency Fitness Center’s parking lot for nearly an hour and had had enough. Gas was too expensive to keep the heater on, and she had to open the window a bit to keep the windshield from fogging up. Surveillance never had been her favorite thing; in November it really sucked.

  Squinting through the rainy windshield, she watched a couple of people leave the building. She’d backed into the corner of the center’s L-shaped parking lot so she could see the entrance and every stall. So far nothing exciting had happened. She doubted anything would. Given the number of middle-aged patrons driving SUVs in and out, the place seemed more likely to attract Eagle’s mom than Eagle. None of the engines were powerful either, and she hadn’t seen a black Lexus. Denver had told her they still weren’t able to identify the vehicle that hit Beatrice Dunning, which was disappointing. It had been dark and the racers moving fast, but surely someone must have seen something.

  A tall, husky guy in a bomber jacket and black track pants emerged and hurried along the front of the building only to disappear around the corner. Thirty minutes ago, she’d seen a young woman, also in black track pants, head the same way and return fifteen minutes later. Since there was no parking on that side of the building, employees probably took smoke breaks there.

  Desperate to warm up and stretch, Casey stepped out of the car. Danielle wasn’t due back for a few minutes, so why not do something useful? Casey flipped up her jacket hood and sauntered past the double oak doors, glancing through a vertical window beside each door. There was no sign of Danielle in the lobby. She continued on until the sound of a large car engine caught her attention.

  A shiny, gray Dodge Neon turned into the lot and cruised past each stall as if looking for someone. The Dodge turned the corner and disappeared from view. Seconds later, the vehicle reappeared. It was dark outside, and the bright headlights prevented Casey from seeing the driver or the plates. A moment later, the vehicle left the premises. Whatever, or whomever, the driver had been looking for apparently wasn’t here.

  Casey turned the corner and found the employee leaning against the wall, beneath the roof’s overhang, taking a drag on a cigarette. When he saw her, he stood a little straighter. Floodlights gave her a clear look at his wary expression. He couldn’t be more than twenty, perhaps even still in high school.

  “Hi,” she said.

  The kid nodded. “How you doin’?”

  “Not bad.” She noticed a dozen cigarette butts crushed into the gravel footpath. Soggy grass bordered the path. “Nice spot for a break. You could use a table with an umbrella, though.”

  “And a mini-bar.” He smiled, adjusting his glasses.

  “Definitely.” She grinned as she glanced at his name tag, which said HARVEY. “I have a friend who’s looking for a job. Do you know if this place is taking applications?”

  “I dunno. Try the front desk.”

  “Thanks.” Evergreens concealed most of the wooden fence separating this property from a car dealership. “Is the Regency a good place to work?”

  “Pretty much. Decent benefits, nice staff.” Another grin.

  “Cool. The center was recommended by a friend of a friend who I think works here. His name is Eagle.”

  No more grins. Just a flicker of alarm, then a quick check of his watch. “Don’t know the name.” Harvey took another drag on his cigarette, then blew a long stream of smoke from his mouth.

  He sure as hell did know it. “Maybe I got the wrong place. Nice talking to you.”

  As Casey continued down the side of the building, she could almost feel his gaze on her back. Did Harvey lie about knowing Eagle because of the racing thing, or was Eagle simply bad news? Turning the corner, she followed a footpath along the back wall.

  Several yards ahead, a small waterfal
l spilled into a pond surrounded by three small maple trees and a pattern of stones. Beyond the pond, tall, thick bushes bordered the fence. In daylight this would be a tranquil view for patrons. Picture windows exposed a dozen people on treadmills and stationary bikes. A couple of women glared at Casey, but most patrons ignored her. There was still no sign of Danielle. Casey turned the corner.

  The fourth side of the building brought Casey back to the parking lot and the flashy purple Camry Danielle had noticed earlier in the day. She’d told Casey to watch for the driver, but he hadn’t appeared. She checked her watch. Danielle was late. Enough waiting. Casey hauled the gym bag out of her car and headed for the entrance.

  Inside, the lobby looked more like a legal office than a fitness center. The smell of cedar was appealing, as was Diana Krall singing “The Look of Love” through hidden speakers. The navy carpet felt soft under her feet. Halogen lights illuminated a long counter manned by two young Asian women.

  Casey started to approach them when Danielle emerged from a room on the left side of the counter. A sign propped by the door invited guests to frequent the juice bar. Danielle’s short curls were still damp.

  “You’re late,” Casey murmured.

  “Sorry. Checking leads, but nobody knows Eagle, or so they say. I looked for a kid with a gold earring, but the only ones wearing gold around here are the soccer moms. Any luck at your end?”

  “I talked to one of the staff outside: a kid named Harvey, who shut down when I mentioned Eagle’s name.”

  “Good. That means we’re close.” Danielle plunked a twenty dollar bill in Casey’s hand. “Enjoy your workout, and keep the rest for your gas and time.”

  Guilt swept over Casey. Danielle couldn’t afford this. “I’d rather pay my own way.”

  “No. I told you this was on me and I keep my word.”

  “Thanks.” Casey handed her the car keys.

  Danielle strolled toward the young receptionists. “Hi there. My friend wants to work out. And could I get some information on memberships? This place is awesome.”

  While one clerk took Casey’s money, her colleague opened a glossy brochure and began a lackluster sales pitch. When the girl was done, Danielle said, “I’ll take this home and think it over.” She started to leave, then stopped. “By the way, do you know Eagle? He’s a friend of a friend of mine, and I heard he works here.”

  The receptionist began straightening brochures. “No one named Eagle works here.”

  Her colleague looked down and appeared to be studying the scheduling book.

  “Guess I heard wrong.” Danielle turned to Casey. “I’ll show you where the change rooms are.” As she led Casey away, she whispered, “They know him.”

  “Agreed. By the way, I saw a Dodge Neon with some major horsepower enter the lot, cruise down the side, then turn and leave.”

  Danielle’s eyes lit up. “Was it gray?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “One of Roadkill’s A-team members drives a metallic gray Neon.” She gripped Casey’s arm. “This place is the key.” She scanned the lot as if anticipating the vehicle’s return.

  “If he comes back, try to stay out of sight,” Casey said. “Whatever you do, don’t follow him.”

  Danielle laughed. “As if I could keep up in your old rust bucket.”

  AS CASEY FINISHED dressing, someone announced that the fitness center would be closing in ten minutes. She stepped out of the change room to find the receptionists counting cash and flipping through receipts. They were joined by a woman whose oval face and tiny nose matched theirs. The woman’s neck was draped with three gold chains of different lengths. Gold earrings, bracelets, and a wristwatch complemented her black blouse.

  She spoke Cantonese to the girls, then noticed Casey and smiled. “Would you like a membership brochure?”

  “My friend picked one up, thanks.” Casey stepped outside.

  “Your heater’s crappy,” Danielle said, as Casey slid behind the wheel. “Don’t you have a window defogger?”

  “There isn’t usually enough hot air in here to need one.”

  Danielle stuck out her tongue and rummaged through her enormous bag. “I forgot to give you a cinnamon bun with your name on it, and I mean that literally. My mom made it.”

  She handed Casey a plastic-wrapped bun. Casey grinned at her mashed and smeary name. She’d always had a weakness for sweet and yeasty baked goods. “This is great. Thank her for me.”

  “It’ll keep you busy while we wait to see who drives off in the Camry with the stovepipes.”

  “Stovepipes?”

  “The two tailpipes. I want to see the driver’s face.”

  “You wrote down the license plate. Can’t you just give it to the police?” Biting into the doughy bun, Casey savored the taste of plump raisins, cinnamon, and brown sugar.

  “Sure, right after my source tells me who it belongs to.”

  Casey chewed slowly. “What if he doesn’t want to tell you?”

  “Then I’ll use leverage.”

  “Such as?”

  “I think he’s betting on races. When I asked him to help me find out who struck Beatrice Dunning, he said he’d lose money if people got suspicious.”

  “What does he do for a living?”

  “Washes dishes at his parents’ restaurant for minimum wage.”

  “Which restaurant?”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  It did to Denver. Casey listened to the rain tap the roof and windshield. “Could your source be the one who posts schedules of upcoming races?”

  “Nah, coming up with codes isn’t his thing.” Danielle watched the entrance. “Three more people are leaving. Turn on your windshield wipers.”

  One of them was a patron heading for a Jeep Cherokee, which left two cars in the lot. Casey spotted Harvey, now wearing a backward baseball cap. Since they’d be leaving shortly, she reluctantly wrapped the rest of her cinnamon bun.

  “Look! The guy with the ball cap’s getting into the Camry,” Danielle said. “I saw him inside from a distance but didn’t get a chance to talk to him.”

  “That’s Harvey.” Casey listened to the Camry’s engine rev up. “Wow.”

  “With an engine like that, he’s definitely into racing. Maybe he’s called Eagle in the racing world.”

  The other vehicle was a Honda Civic driven by a young woman.

  “That’s the juice bar girl,” Danielle said, watching her. “No guts in her engine.”

  The Camry followed the Civic out of the lot. As Harvey cruised past them, he glanced their way. He’d just cleared the lot when a silver Jaguar drove in and eased up to the entrance. Tinted windows shielded the driver’s identity.

  “Expensive wheels,” Danielle remarked. “Bet it’s the owner.”

  The Regency’s entrance opened and the two receptionists stepped out, followed by the woman with the gold chains. While the woman locked the building, the girls climbed into the backseat. The woman stared at Casey and Danielle as she headed for the passenger’s side.

  “We should go.” Casey eased the car forward.

  “Once I find out where Harvey lives, we can start some serious surveillance. If all goes well, he’ll lead us straight to Roadkill members.”

  We? Was she serious? “Why don’t you save yourself a lot of time and trouble and give the plate number and your source’s name to the police.”

  “You still don’t get it,” Danielle replied. “If the cops really cared about street racing, they would have caught most of the racers by now. Someone has to clean the streets, Casey.”

  “Danielle, you’re taking this too personally.”

  “It should be personal to everyone. People are dying because racers break laws and greedy assholes encourage them to do it. Why the hell aren’t more people outraged?”

  Casey understood her vehemence. Grief did that to people, but this girl was heading down a dangerous path. “I heard about your brother.”

  The fury in Danielle seemed to def
late. “Who told you?”

  “A VPD officer named Denver Davies. He’s a friend of mine and a decent man.”

  Danielle nodded. “I know him.”

  “He told me.” Casey paused. “Denver’s concerned that you’re getting in over your head. Apparently some of these gamblers are nasty guys who wouldn’t hesitate to shut you down any way possible.”

  Danielle looked away from her. “You think I don’t know that? My source is connected. He’s watching out for me.”

  “Twenty-four-seven?” When Danielle didn’t respond, Casey said, “I’m worried that your need for justice is causing you to take unnecessary risks.”

  “I know what I’m—”

  “Listen to me,” Casey interrupted. “I took big risks once to find answers about my father’s death, and my actions nearly killed someone I love.”

  “But you felt there was no other way, right?” Danielle replied. “After Ben died, races kept going and now more people are dead. The rush is addictive, Casey. The best high racers can get, and they won’t stop on their own. Someone has to shut them down.”

  “Acting without thinking won’t help the problem.”

  “I am thinking,” Danielle shot back, “and learning more every damn day. Now that I’ve got a lead on one racer, I’ll find others. I also have a source who lets a little more slip out each time I push him. I’m close to nailing these guys, I know it.”

  Casey sighed. That was the whole bloody problem.

  EIGHT

  JUDGING FROM THE SCOWLS ON the twins’ faces as they boarded the bus, Casey knew this ride wouldn’t be fun.

  “She’s here,” pink-haired Lara said to her sister as they took the seat in front of Casey.

  Greg glared at the twins. His gaze drifted to Casey, who gave him a warning look. He turned around. The twins opened bags of food and began scarfing down fries. Why hadn’t they chosen a seat farther away from her? There were plenty of empty seats on this quiet Monday night.

  Paige practically unhinged her jaw to get her mouth around a mayo-dripping burger. Lord, this pair would need quadruple bypasses before their fiftieth birthday. While they ate, the twins engaged in a silent conversation through glances and head nods until Lara turned around and said, “Did you hear about the street race tomorrow tonight?” Her tone was a little too smug.