CHAPTER NINETEEN
Mr. Fluffykins watched me curiously as I rushed around my bedroom tossing clothing like a madwoman.
Most of my wardrobe consisted of bright, vibrant colors, so finding something that I could wear to conceal myself in the shadows wasn't easy. I stuck with the pair of full-length black leggings I had on, and I rooted around in the closet until I came across a long sleeved black Henley. I managed to find one pair of black boots that didn't have a heel and paired them with a black beanie my cousin from Seattle had left behind when she'd spent the weekend with me last winter.
I pulled my hair up into a loose bun, shoved it under the cap, and looked at my reflection in the mirror. My stealth outfit was actually pretty cute. Cat burglar chic, even.
"What do you think, Fluff?" I turned to model the outfit for him.
My cat tilted his head to the side, meowed, and then turned his back to me and lay down.
"Everyone's a critic," I mumbled.
I checked the clock on the nightstand. It was almost seven, and I had at least a forty-five-minute drive to the docks—and that was only if traffic was thin. I needed to get a move on if I wanted to get into a good position to watch the meeting go down without being seen. I still wasn't 100 percent sure how I was going to ditch Cal, but I grabbed a black cross-body bag from the closet, dumped my purse on the bed, and then stuffed the items into the new bag.
"Hold down the fort while I'm gone, and wish me luck," I called over my shoulder as I hurried out of the bedroom. Mr. Fluffykins meowed a response as I grabbed my car keys and left the apartment. Once outside I locked my door behind me, pressed my back against it, and took a deep breath. My nerves were dancing a samba, and my stomach felt like I'd eaten a bad burrito. I was possibly about to face a murderer and witness a payoff or something else just as nefarious on the L.A. docks after dark…alone. Was this wise?
I closed my eyes, took another deep breath to calm myself down, then opened them and moved forward to the stairs leading down to the parking area. I was fine. I was just going to watch. Maybe snap a picture or two. No one would even see me. I wasn't going to bust anyone. I was just observing. Totally safe.
I'd just stepped off of the last step onto the sidewalk when a gloved hand reached out and grabbed my shoulder.
Adrenaline shot through me, and I let out a scream as I spun around ready to fight whoever was attacking me.
"Whoa! Calm down there, killer."
"Shane?" I squawked and pressed a hand to my chest. "You scared me half to death." I tried to catch my breath as my heart pounded almost painfully against my ribcage. "What in hell are you doing here—" I reached over and whacked his arm for scaring me. "—lurking in the dark?"
"Like I was going to let you go to this meeting alone after what happened to you last night." He shook his head.
"How did you even know—"
Shane rolled his eyes at me, cutting me off. "Dude, I've got the app on my phone too." He held up the device as proof. "Duh."
Duh. Of course he did.
"I can't let you do this. It could be dangerous," I told him.
"Then you shouldn't go alone."
"Shane, you're just a kid."
He frowned, puffing out his chest. "Okay, so how do you plan to protect yourself? You have a gun?"
I scoffed. "No."
"Taser? Pepper spray?"
"No."
"A crossbow?"
"No! Geez, I'm a reporter not a doomsday prepper." I paused, eyeing the backpack he was carrying. "Please tell me you don't have one in there?"
He shook his head. "No. But there's safety in numbers, which is why I'm going with you."
I opened my mouth to argue with him again, but he ran right over me.
"Look, you can argue all you want, but the fact remains I'm going to be at berth 210 at 8 p.m." He looked down at his phone again. "Which is coming right up, so we better get a move on."
I shut my mouth with a click. As much as I didn't like this arrangement, he was right. If we didn't get on the road, we were liable to miss whatever Sal and Ritchie were meeting for.
"Fine," I said. I looked up at Cal's SUV parked across the street. He was reading a paperback in the driver's seat, strategically parked to keep a close eye on my Bug. "But we're taking your car," I told Shane. "Where are you parked?"
Shane grinned at me as he led the way around the back of the building. "Whatever you say, babe."
While I'd put the Port of L.A. into the GPS in Shane's Mom's minivan and had a vague idea where it was, I'd never actually been there myself before. As we pulled up almost an hour later, I realized the place was huge. It looked like a virtual city filled with jutting docks and waterways, dotted with cruise ships, cargo ships, and large shipping crates. I squinted in the dark, pointing out the signs and looking for berth 210. After winding through the maze of small roads connecting the inlets of slips, we finally found the right one. Even if I hadn't read the number of the berth, the huge containers, stacked near the water, bearing Sunshine Sanitation's cheery logo would have clued me in that we were in the right place. Shane parked as close as we could get, about a block away beneath a burned-out streetlight.
We walked down the street in silence until we reached the berth. Three large ships and a barge were docked along the low cement walls. We turned left and walked along the shadows in the opposite direction from the ships. Large containers were lined along each side of us. Forklifts and other machines were dispersed among the containers. Pale light shined down on the cement beneath our feet from dim lights lining the walk.
"This place is creepy," Shane admitted.
"Agreed." I nodded my head. Not even the sound of the calm water lapping against the docks or the smell of salty sea air soothed me. Despite the humidity and the long-sleeved shirt I wore, goose bumps dotted my skin.
We reached a smaller rust red shipping container situated just past the empty barge. I wasn't sure exactly where to expect the meet-up, but this looked like as good a place as any to keep an eye on the walkway in.
"Back here," I said, leading the way behind the container. Shane followed and knelt down beside me. We had a perfect view of the ships as well as anyone coming or going from the berth.
"What time is it?" I asked.
Shane pulled out this phone, the pale light feeling way too bright in the darkness. "Ten past eight."
"Looks like they're running late."
"Or we've missed them," he added.
I frowned, hoping he was wrong.
We settled in with our backs against the shipping container and waited.
Half an hour later we'd seen nothing but a few gulls land on the water. I looked over at Shane and shook my head. "I can't believe they're a no-show," I said. "Let's get out of here."
The night was a total bust, and I was so frustrated my head was pounding with every beat of my heart. I stood to brush the dust off my legs, when I heard the sound of a big truck pulling up.
"Is that them?" Shane whispered.
I squatted back down quickly and peeked around the container. Two big trucks were backing up toward the barge. Once they were a few feet away from the edge, they stopped, and a large machine pulled up beside them.
Shane leaned against my back and looked over my head to get a better view. A few minutes later Ritchie hurried down the dock toward the trucks.
Bingo! "There's Ritchie," I whispered.
"What are they doing?" Shane asked.
"I'm not sure." I pulled the camera app up on my phone and zoomed in, watching as the back of the truck opened up. "Wait—is that trash?"
Shane was still leaning against my back, so I felt his nod rather than saw it. "Yeah. Looks like it," he answered.
Compact squares of multi colors sat neatly stacked in the back of the large semitruck. "What are they doing with it?" I asked.
"Beats me."
A forklift pulled up beside the truck started moving the compressed squares of garbage onto the barge.
"I don't get it,"
I said and started snapping pictures, careful to make sure I got clear pictures of Ritchie, the trucks, and especially the trash squares. "Sunshine Sanitation is a recycling facility. All the garbage should be at the plant, being processed into new stuff like egg cartons and crappy brown paper, right?"
"So why are they putting it on a ship?"
That was a great question. And why was Ritchie—who was supposed to be on medical leave—apparently supervising the whole thing? I wiggled farther around the corner of the container, trying to get a better angle to get Ritchie in frame. I zoomed in on him, snapping photos of his face under the dim lights as he directed the guy on the forklift.
Then, almost as if he could feel me, he spun around, his eyes meeting mine through the lens.
I immediately dropped the phone from my eyes, finding myself staring across the expanse of docks at Ritchie.
"Uh-oh."
Ritchie yelled to someone, pointing toward our hiding spot.
"Oh crap. We've been spotted," I said, shoving my phone into my boot. "Run!"
I grabbed Shane's arm and tugged him along. We sprinted the other direction from the men, through a maze of shipping containers. I heard a loud pinging noise hit the metal as we ran past.
"They're shooting at us!" Shane shouted as he ran beside me. He stumbled, and I grabbed his hand, practically dragging him along with me.
My lungs were bursting with the exertion, and my heart threatened to beat right out of my chest. I heard footsteps behind us, several pairs, pounding the pavement.
We sprinted to the car. Shane fumbled to hit the key fob but ended up dropping it on the ground. I picked it up, my fingers feeling like they were made of jelly as I unlocked the minivan and shoved Shane into the passenger seat. I quickly turned the ignition and put the car in gear. Shane buckled up while I peeled away from the curb. Tires screeched as I whipped onto a side street, heading across the Cerritos Channel back toward the 110.
I was officially freaking out. We'd been shot at! Whatever we'd seen, Ritchie had been willing to kill us to keep it quiet. My palms were sweaty, and my grip slipped on the steering wheel. Shane's complexion looked positively ghostly beside me, his breath coming hard and fast.
We'd just crossed the East Basin when a car sped up behind us so close that the headlights illuminated the interior of the minivan like daylight.
Shane spun in his seat. "They're after us," he yelled, his voice cracking on the last word.
He steadied himself with a hand on the dashboard as I made a sharp right turn. I looked in the rearview mirror. Thanks to their close proximity and brightness of the lights, I couldn't see a thing.
"Is it Ritchie?" I asked.
"I dunno," Shane responded. His voice was high and sounded as panicked as I felt. "But whoever it is is gaining on us."
My thoughts whirled as I struggled to come up with a plan that wouldn't result in getting us killed. The car behind us floored it. I heard the rev of his engine as he kissed our bumper. We skidded sideways. I held the steering wheel in a white-knuckled grip and struggled to keep the car on the road. Our attacker eased back but kept his headlights close enough to have me squinting at the road ahead.
I pushed the accelerator, taking the next turn so fast I feared we'd be on two wheels, and hit the freeway. I quickly merged on, losing the car behind us in traffic for a moment. I kept one eye on the rearview mirror and the other on the road ahead. For a minute, I thought we were safe.
Then I saw Ritchie's mustang cruising along in traffic two cars behind us on the right.
Shane must have seen it too. "He's following us," he croaked out.
I nodded. "I'll see if I can lose him," I said, pulling to the left, into the Fast Track lane. I figured the ticket was worth it. I zoomed ahead a few cars then abruptly pulled back into the right, hoping to hide between two SUVs.
Neither of us spoke as we drove north, exceeding the speed limit by as much as traffic would allow, holding our collective breath. Shane sat sideways, still watching the back window, his eyes looking big, scared, and distinctively childlike. Five minutes later he let out a sharp breath. "He's back."
I bit my lip, trying desperately not to let out the panicked sob I could feel in my throat. He was stalking us, biding his time in traffic until he could get close enough to get off a shot. I had a bad feeling that the second we veered off the freeway—and onto a street with fewer witnesses—we were toast. We had to get off sometime. And apparently Ritchie knew it.
My mind reeled a mile a minute as we merged onto the 101, still heading toward Hollywood. Though, I didn't really know where our destination was. I couldn't drive home. I couldn't take Shane home. I could drive to a police station, but even if I knew where one was, I had a bad feeling we'd never get there in one piece unless it was directly at the off-ramp.
I leaned harder on the accelerator, whipping in and out of traffic, probably incurring lots of middle fingers from my fellow drivers as I tried to think of something—anything!—to keep us from ending up as another L.A. drive-by statistic.
"Where the heck are the CHP when you need them?" Shane said, his eyes glued to the headlights behind us.
I froze. CHP. That was it. I knew exactly where they were.
I yanked the steering wheel to the right and skidded across two lanes of traffic. Shane slid in his seat, knocking into the door.
"Whoa, watch it!"
"Sorry," I mumbled, looking up at the freeway signs. The overpass with the speed trap was just three exits away. I said a silent prayer to the gods of speeding tickets that the CHP was in his usual spot and not napping on the job. Then I gunned the engine and watched the speedometer climb. 70, 75, 80, 85. I felt the car start to rattle as I pushed it to its limit.
I glanced in the rearview. Ritchie's mustang accelerated easily, coming up behind me hot and fast.
"Here we go…" I whispered, flying past the overpass, Ritchie quickly gaining on me.
I was going too fast to see if the CHP was on duty, but a second after we passed the speed trap, Ritchie right behind us, I heard the sweet sound of sirens filling the air.
Flashing lights shined behind us, but I didn't dare slow down. Neither did Ritchie, pulling almost close enough to touch my bumper again.
Up ahead, I spotted the exit for the Informer.
"He's gaining on us." Shane turned around in his seat again to get a better look.
"Hang on," I said and made a sharp right off the freeway, slamming the brakes as I slowed for the turn. My tires squealed, Ritchie swerved, banking off the guardrail as he adjusted to follow us, and the sirens behind us intensified as the CHP officer tried to catch up.
I swerved left at the cross street, pulling away from the heavier traffic. While it was late, the roads were never empty in L.A. And the last thing I wanted was to injure an innocent bystander in our high-speed chase.
Ritchie swerved behind us, the CHP hot on his tail.
I gunned the engine then made a hard left at the next intersection, barely missing a pickup truck in the next lane. Ritchie clipped it but kept coming.
"This guy is relentless," Shane said. "What's he gonna do, shoot us right in front of the cop?"
I wasn't sure, and I didn't want to find out.
I turned right again and saw flashing lights up ahead of us. The CHP had called for backup. I said a silent thank-you and slowed as I approached the lights and two black-and-white police cars parked in our path.
Ritchie skidded to a stop behind me, and the CHP's car skidded to a halt sideways in the road behind him, effectively blocking us both in.
Shane and I jumped out of the car with our hands in the air at the same time as the officers did, their guns drawn.
What ensued was nothing short of chaos. Ritchie got out of his car and tried to run, but he was tackled by two police officers. It took another three to wrestle handcuffs onto the bodybuilder and shove him into the back of a squad car. Shane and I were a little more cooperative, compliantly letting the officers cuff us
as we tried to explain just why we'd led them on a high-speed chase through L.A. traffic. Someone finally decided they'd sort it all out at the station, and we were driven in separate cars the few blocks to a nearby precinct.
I spent the next few hours giving statements, showing the officers the photos I'd taken, and trying to explain just what we'd been doing at the docks without giving up anything too incriminating—like hacking into databases or minor B&E.
Being that he was a minor, the police called Shane's parents, and I felt a pang of sympathy for the harried looking older couple who arrived and immediately wrapped the kid in a big bear hug. Guilt rushed through me at the danger I'd inadvertently put him in. I vowed never, ever to let him ride shotgun with me again. My days of having a teenaged sidekick were definitely over. And from the way Shane started tearing up as he hugged his mom, I had a feeling he'd had his fill of thrill seeking as well.
A plainclothes officer took me into a small room with a wooden table, a couple of folding chairs, and a huge video camera mounted in the corner to sign my official statements. I did, unable to keep from glancing at the camera, feeling self-conscious that my every move was being recorded as some sort of evidence. After I went over everything for the tenth time that evening, the officer left me alone. I'm not sure how long I waited in the unnerving interrogation room, but by the time the door finally opened again, I was starting to nod off from total exhaustion.
"Allie." I looked up to find Felix's frame in the doorway.
My first thought was humiliation that this was the equivalent of the police calling my parents. My second was that he looked amazing. Someone had obviously gotten him out of bed with the unfortunate call that his employee-slash-maybe-girlfriend had been taken in for questioning, as his hair was mussed, his chin covered in a healthy dose of sexy stubble, and his uncharacteristic T-shirt and jeans rumpled and looking like they'd been hastily picked out of a hamper and thrown on as he'd rushed out the door.
I jumped up from the table and threw myself into his arms, just barely able to hold back the sob of relief at seeing a familiar face.
His arms went around me and held me tightly—the first thing that had felt like safety to me since Shane and I had pulled up to berth 210.
Hollywood Deception Page 19
