Hit and Run (Moreno & Hart Mysteries)

by Allison Brennan

  “No. I’ve had worse.”

  He touched her shoulder blade. She’d forgotten that the bullet scars from the ambush could be seen when she wore a tank top. “You were shot in the back.”

  “Yes, I was. Make sure it doesn’t happen to Jason.”

  ~ ~ ~

  When she signed all the paperwork refusing the advice of the paramedic to go to the hospital, and when Richardson and the Topanga cops finally let her go, Scarlet drove straight to Krista’s house in Huntington Beach. She didn’t have a phone—hers or Krista’s. Both had burned in the fire. She’d called Krista from Richardson’s phone to let her know that she was okay, but she hadn’t filled her in on the details.

  When she arrived, it was four in the afternoon. She glared at the black Porsche in the driveway. Really. He was here? She wanted to throttle R.J. Flynn just because she was in a shitty mood. But … he might be able to help. It pained her that she thought he could be useful, because asking for his knowledge about Armor Plus might, de facto, give him the impression that she approved of him pursuing a relationship with her best friend. Which she didn’t. Not now, not ever. Unless he crawled across a hot bed of coals, naked, dragging that prick defense attorney Drake Walker behind him.

  The image made her smile.

  She knocked on the door and Krista immediately answered. “God, Scarlet, are you okay?”

  “Peachy,” she said.

  R.J. appeared in the foyer behind Krista. “I’m leaving,” he said. “Thanks for the help, Krista.”

  Scarlet wanted to ask what was going on because this didn’t look like a date. They were working together on something? He asked Krista for advice? But that was going to have to be a conversation for another time. She said, “Actually, can you stay a minute, R.J.?”

  Her comment surprised both of them.

  Scarlet walked in and shut the door behind her. “I need some information about a private security company. If you don’t want to help, I totally understand.”

  R.J. looked at Krista. The silent exchange was clear. It was up to Krista as to whether R.J. helped.

  “Forget it,” Scarlet said. “I don’t want you holding this over our heads. Good-bye.”

  He narrowed his eyes at her, but that was his only reaction.

  Spencer, Krista’s annoying macaw, squawked. “Good-bye good-bye! Good-bye good-bye!”

  “I’m going to get a beer,” Scarlet said. She went to the kitchen, leaving Krista and R.J. to work it out themselves. First, she drained a water bottle completely. The paramedic had given her several, which she’d also drank. She didn’t think she’d ever feel hydrated again. Then she grabbed a beer from the refrigerator and opened it. She also found a box of pita chips on the counter. She grabbed that, too, then went back into the living room. R.J. was still there. They’d moved away from the door, so he was inclined to help.

  Scarlet sat down, and Krista and R.J. sat on opposite chairs. Maybe Krista hadn’t been lying when she said there was nothing going on between them.

  Yet, Scarlet couldn’t help but think.

  Without asking again, Scarlet told them everything that had happened. She left out some of the borderline illegal things she’d done—she didn’t trust R.J. and she wouldn’t give him information that he could use against her or Krista.

  “We searched the guy I shot. Eric Peterson, Armor Plus. Richardson says it’s a private security company full of former cops. Peterson wasn’t a cop, or if he was, it wasn’t LAPD. But there were at least two other guys with him who escaped.”

  Krista stared at her. “They shot at you and nearly burned you alive. Why are you here? Why aren’t you at the hospital?”

  “Because I’m fine. I wasn’t shot, and I have no burns. The worse was some cuts from flying wood and glass, scrapes, smoke inhalation. Richardson is taking this seriously, and considering he didn’t arrest me, he believes me. He knew about Armor Plus, and though he didn’t expressly say it, their involvement made him nervous.”

  “It should,” R.J. said. “They’re dangerous.”

  “What do they do?” Krista asked him.

  “Anything and everything. Hostage rescue. Corporate security. Intimidation. Say you’re the CEO of a major company and your rival is about to introduce a competing product. Maybe a better product. Armor boys will dig up dirt and make sure that product stays buried.”

  It was clear that R.J. had come up against these people, but Scarlet didn’t ask when or why. “Blackmail,” she said.

  “Of a fashion.” He paused, looked from Krista to Scarlet. “They’re rough, even ruthless. There’s been talk about arson for hire, corporate espionage, blackmail—but I’ve never heard of them killing anyone.”

  “They went overboard on this one, and even with the fire destroying much of the evidence, there were plenty of shell casings to support my statement. They didn’t police their brass, which makes me think it’s clean.” She paused, considered. “Who runs Armor Plus?”

  “I don’t know,” R.J. admitted. “I can find out. Are you sure you want to do this?”

  “You mean, am I sure I want to find out who tried to kill me and Jason?”

  R.J. nodded. “I’ll see what I can get.” He rose and Krista walked him to the door. They whispered, but Scarlet didn’t even try to eavesdrop. She was too sore and tired.

  Krista returned. “He’ll call me when he finds out. But I’m worried about you.”

  “I told you, I’m fine. Really.”

  “You say that, but I don’t believe it.”

  Scarlet sighed, drained her beer and put the bottle on the table. Krista was worried, and Scarlet didn’t want her to worry. She really was okay, at least physically. “I killed a man,” she said. “It sucks. I had no choice, but I feel like shit.”

  Krista sat down next to her, put her arm around her shoulder and they just sat there for a few minutes in silence. It was what she needed. The quiet. The friendship. No questions, no admonitions, nothing but unconditional support.

  “I love you, Krista.”

  “If I didn’t know you were straight, I’d be worried.” She was lightening the mood, which Scarlet desperately needed.

  “Tell R.J. that I’m his competition for your affection. See what he does with that.” She smiled. “I gotta go.”

  “You can stay here.”

  “I appreciate it. But I know what I’m facing now. They’re not going to catch me unaware again. But can you ask Mac to pick up a couple of phones for us? Both of ours were destroyed in the fire.”

  “I’m ahead of you.” Krista tossed her a bag that she hadn’t noticed was on the coffee table. Scarlet opened it and found a new phone exactly like her old. “And we have our old numbers back.”

  “You’re fabulous.”

  “I know.” She grinned. “But you gave Alex Bishop my number when you had my phone, and he left a message several hours ago.” She pulled her own phone out and played the message for Scarlet.

  “It’s Alex. I heard about Topanga. You should have called me.”

  That was it. Shit.

  “He’s mad,” Scarlet said.

  “He’s worried. Difference.”

  “Not really.” Sometimes she wished she weren’t so independent, that she thought about how she fit into other people’s lives. “I’ll call him.”

  Scarlet spontaneously hugged Krista, then left. She turned her phone on. Almost immediately, it beeped repeatedly. She had multiple voice mail messages. Driving to her place, she listened to them. Her brother John. Call me, Scarlet. Her father. Scarlet, it’s your dad. Call me as soon as you can. Kyle Richardson. Jones is at St. Joseph’s in Burbank. Be accessible.

  Then a second message from Richardson.

  I know how they found Jason. Call me.

  First, she called Alex. He didn’t answer. She left a message.

  “Hey, Alex, it’s Scarlet. I’m fine, lost my new phone or I would have called you back. Now I have a replacement for my old phone. I’ll talk to you later.”

&
nbsp; She hung up, but didn’t feel any better. Then she called Richardson.

  “It’s Scarlet Moreno.”

  “We impounded Jason’s motorcycle. There was a tracking device in the wheel well. Very small, very sophisticated. You might want to search your vehicle.”

  “Can you trace it?”

  “I don’t know. I turned it over to the techs.”

  “What about his other car? The one that was left by the side of the road?”

  “It’s in impound as well. They didn’t find anything, but they might not have known what to look for. We’re double checking.”

  “Let me know what you find.”

  “You know I can’t do that. You’re lucky I’m giving you this heads up.” He hung up and she immediately pulled over and searched her car inside and out. She didn’t find anything that wasn’t supposed to be there.

  When had they planted the tracker on Jason? Why on the motorcycle? Did they plant it after Perez was killed or before? When Jason was in the police station giving his statement? Why? That showed a lot of foresight and planning—that if he got away when they ran him off the road, they assumed he would go home and bolt. Saw the bike, planted a tracker on it. Why hadn’t they waited in his house? Why hadn’t they found him in Long Beach?

  Or maybe they planted the tracker on his bike in Long Beach, but then again why hadn’t they gone after him then?

  Maybe they had planned to, but Richardson got there first.

  Either way, Armor Plus was working with someone inside LAPD who knew Jason Jones very well.

  Chapter Seven

  Scarlet sat in Diego’s bar, ready to take her punishment. Isaac was the weekend bartender, but Diego had made a special trip in. Because of her.

  “You used my house and didn’t even ask.”

  “I didn’t want you to get in trouble,” she said. She already felt like shit. She hadn’t really thought about what she’d done until after she’d done it, and now she’d caused a major headache for Diego and his family. “I didn’t know anyone could find us.”

  “It’s gone. Completely gone.”

  “I’m really sorry, Diego.” And she meant it. “I thought it would be safe place.”

  “To harbor a fugitive? I’ve been clean for years, Blue. No trouble with the law. No problems. Running my bar, taking a few bets on the side, nothing big. And now my security blanket is gone. I trusted you.”

  “I’ll pay you everything I have. I’ll make it right.”

  “With what money? You can barely afford rent here! What if it had been this place?”

  Diego was angry and pacing. And he was right to be mad at her. She had abused their friendship. She should never have sent Jason to Diego’s place. It had been a rash, spontaneous decision. She hadn’t thought anyone would find him. But that didn’t justify using her friend without talking to him first.

  “I’ll move out. Really—Diego—I didn’t know they could find him. If I could do it differently, I would.”

  “No, Scarlet, you wouldn’t have.”

  The depth of his anger hit her. Diego had called her “Blue” from the minute they met. He thought her name was silly, and because she’d been a cop and he thought she was nosy, he’d always called her Blue. The nickname had stuck. She never told him she liked it, but she did. It was endearing, in a fatherly way. Diego was a good guy. He’d been a bookie and con artist for years, but he was clean now, and he’d never hurt anyone. He’d married late in life and had a daughter he never expected to have and he loved his family. And she’d brought this down on him.

  She didn’t have anything more to say. She got up and walked out of the bar.

  Isaac followed her all the way to her Jeep, which was parked a block away. “Scarlet, don’t go. Diego is upset, but mostly he’s worried about you. He has insurance. It’s a pain in the ass, but it’s not going to cost him anything.”

  “I fucked up, Isaac.”

  “Yeah, maybe you did, but for the right reasons. Tell me what else is going on.”

  “Nothing. I’m okay.”

  “You keep saying that. I don’t think you are.”

  “Krista said I can stay with her.”

  “Don’t make any rash decisions.”

  “Me, rash?” She tried to smile, but it came out a grimace.

  She slid into her Jeep and drove off.

  She wasn’t going to Krista’s. She still didn’t really know what was going on with Krista and R.J., and she didn’t want to deal with him right now. She’d already called her dad to tell him she was okay, and asked him to call John—she didn’t want to see her brother right now. John had that uncanny ability to know when she was lying. Not because he was a cop, but because he was her little brother and knew her all too well. Not that she was going to lie, but if he asked her if she was going to go behind Richardson’s back, she was going to have to tell him no, and he’d know she had no intention of standing down. It wasn’t in her nature. Not when one of her friends was in danger.

  She drove around aimlessly, up and down PCH, then as the sun was setting, she parked in a public lot, bought a six-pack of Sierra Nevada beer at a nearby liquor store, walked to the end of the beach and sat in the sand. She watched the colors turn vibrant over the horizon as she drained the first beer. The sound of the waves crashing twenty feet from her was soothing. This was her favorite place. She’d miss Diego’s bar if she really did move. While her apartment was a pit, she had the deck and the sound of the water. She needed it, she realized. It kept her sane. The violent lull of the Pacific moving in, moving out, constant, steady, predictable. The tide always came in; the tide always went out, leaving a once messy beach pristine.

  If only life were so predictable, so easy. If only the waves could wash away her mistakes.

  She finished her second beer and put her head on her knees and closed her eyes. She hated feeling sorry for herself, but she was. She had work to do—Jason was counting on her. But she couldn’t get the fire out of her head, or the flash of her gun illuminating Eric Peterson as she shot him three times in the chest.

  He would have killed her and Jason. She’d killed him instead. It didn’t make her feel any better.

  She opened her third beer and sensed someone watching her. She’d picked up her back-up gun at her apartment earlier, but she hesitated. She’d just killed a man and she was thinking of drawing her gun again?

  This was why virtually every police department forced mandatory leave on any officer involved in a shooting. Because you doubted yourself, questioned your decisions, hesitated when hesitation could prove fatal, for you or your partner.

  She glanced over her shoulder and saw a familiar face.

  “How’d you find me?”

  Alex Bishop sat next to her in the sand. “I saw your Jeep in the parking lot. You often come here to sulk.”

  “I don’t sulk.”

  “It’s illegal to drink on the beach.”

  “Arrest me.”

  Instead, he pulled out one of her bottles and opened it. He drained half of it in one long swallow.

  “Now you owe me a beer.”

  He didn’t say anything. The sun was a sliver over the horizon; together they watched it sink. The ocean grew dark while the sky was alive with deep orange, red, yellow. As time passed, the colors turned darker, soothing.

  She wanted to stay here all night.

  Alex said quietly, “Last year, I shot and killed a fifteen-year-old. It was justified. He would have killed my partner. I had no choice. I did everything by the book. But the kid was fifteen. Fifteen,” he repeated, the word bitter as it came out. “I almost quit. I wanted to. The guilt, undeserved, ate me up because I’d killed a kid. It didn’t matter that he was a gang-banger. It didn’t matter that he was wanted for murder, it didn’t matter that he had already fired on my partner and me. All I could think about was that I’d taken his life and who the fuck was I to play a fucking god?”

  When Scarlet first met Alex three weeks ago, she’d looked into hi
s background. Partly out of curiosity, partly because he was lead on a case she’d had an interest in. She’d read about the shooting, and the media fall out. Because Alex was right—he was a kid. It didn’t matter whether it was justified or not, cops were human: you wanted to believe that with a chance, the kid could change.

  “I couldn’t stay in Sacramento. Not with the shit that rained down on me, my department, my boss. My partner only has two years until he can retire early. He took a desk job. I was on mandatory leave for two weeks. When I came back, I knew I couldn’t stay. But I dealt with the fall-out. I took the hits in the media. And in the end, I knew I was a cop. It’s all I ever wanted to be. My dad and brother are firemen. But me, being a cop was in my blood. So I sent out my resume, applied in every department west of the Rockies. And I’m glad, because this is who I am.

  “I still have nightmares about that kid. His name was Jamal Stockton. He had four brothers, two killed in gang warfare, one in prison, and one a wanted fugitive. Father in prison, mother a drug addict. And sometimes I think he knew he was going to die that day, and he wanted to take as many people with him as possible. So angry. So hopeless.”

  “This wasn’t the first time for me,” she said. “The first was suicide by cop. I had no choice then, either. But this isn’t any easier.”

  “Let’s hope it never gets easy.”

  They sat on the beach and finished the beer until it was completely dark, until the ocean breeze made goose bumps rise on her skin.

  “Come home with me,” Alex said. He stood up, offered his hand.

  She almost said no. She almost told him she was okay, that she’d walk back to Diego’s, it was only a mile up the beach. She almost said she wanted to be alone.

  Except she didn’t. There was no one else she’d rather be with. She grabbed his hand and he pulled her up.

  ~ ~ ~

  Insomnia plagued Scarlet, and last night was no exception. Even two rounds of great sex didn’t help her sleep. It was nearly dawn when she crashed in Alex’s bed. Voices woke her up. Familiar voices. She opened one eye. Eight-thirty in the morning. She’d had four hours of sleep. Better than most nights, but not enough after what happened yesterday.