And now Scarlet was on their radar.
“Gina, what the hell did you get yourself into?” she mumbled to herself. Scarlet didn’t even know the girl, but she felt a kinship—because there was no doubt in Scarlet’s mind that she was supposed to die that day three years ago. She was living on borrowed time, and she'd be damned if she was going to hide in a hole somewhere and let Jason die or go to prison because she was too scared to do anything about it.
She called Kyle Richardson one last time. Voice mail, again. “It’s Scarlet. We really need to talk.” She hung up and hoped she hadn’t made a mistake in trusting him. She had to believe her brother, because if she couldn’t trust her family, who could she trust?
The Vartarians might be a powerful family, but L.A. was still a big city and they weren’t all-powerful, all-knowing. Scarlet knew many of the cops at the jail who were on correction detail—she’d done a stint at the women’s jail. One of the worst assignments of her life, but it had been a punishment of sorts when she was still a beat cop.
She went through the process of arranging a meeting with Rick Sykes. The first cop didn’t know her, but when she got through the check-in process, she found Officer Greg Norton.
“Hey, Moreno? What’s up?”
Norton had been a friend of Scarlet’s old partner Gabe Stone. He was old-school, had known her dad, and was good-natured. Twenty-plus years on the force hadn’t diminished his generally positive attitude about life.
“I’m here to visit an inmate.”
He looked at the paperwork. “Sykes?” He shook his head. “I hate it when cops turn out bad. It’s like priests, you know?”
She didn’t, and by the confused look on her face, Norton decided to expand. “You know, most cops are good guys, like most priests are good guys. So when you get a rotten apple, it’s worse.”
That, Scarlet understood. She expected more from cops because they were in positions of authority. And she supposed priests were, too, though she never went to church.
“I have a favor.” She pulled two Dodgers tickets out of her back pocket. Her dad had been a season ticket holder for decades. She remembered how he would scratch up money every year to pay for the two seats. It was his one real vice. And when she announced that she was an Angels fan one day after he’d grounded her when she was thirteen, he didn’t take her to a baseball game for two years. He took his Dodgers that seriously.
He always gave her the tickets whenever the Dodgers played the Angels, however, and she could count on him to give her tickets whenever she needed an enticement. Like now.
“Dodgers? I can’t.”
“Yes, you can. It’s easy.”
Norton was practically salivating. “Well, you can see Sykes—you don’t have to give me the tickets to see him. He’s not on restriction or anything.”
“I need to know who he calls when I leave.”
Norton fidgeted. “I—well—are you sure that’s a good idea?”
“A friend of mine is in trouble. A cop. I need to know who Sykes calls.”
He grabbed the tickets. “Okay. But that’s it? Really?”
“Yes. That’s it.” She wrote down her cell phone number, then waited.
Norton manned the desk, so another guard went back to get Sykes. Visiting hours in jail were daily and it was much easier to visit an inmate in jail than in prison. People in jail were awaiting trial, so technically were still considered innocent in the eyes of the law and therefore had more rights than convicted felons. Still, the atmosphere was bleak. Inmates meeting with family, with lawyers, thinking they might have a chance to get out. Maybe some of them did.
What always struck Scarlet was the age of the inmates. They were so young. Young blacks, Hispanics, whites … it didn’t matter their race; they were in jail because they were in trouble and not for the first, or second, time. First arrests, unless it was a serious felony, were usually granted bail or reduced to a misdemeanor and time served. It was downright depressing. These people were repeat offenders, and they weren’t getting out anytime soon.
Scarlet waited at a table where she could watch all the other inmates. She avoided putting her back to a room or a door. Not just because twelve years as a cop was hard to forget, but the one time she’d done it—because she hadn’t been able to cover all angles—she’d been shot in the back.
She’d considered going back to college when she quit the force, but she’d never been a good student. She hated sitting in the classroom. She’d barely scraped by getting her AA at a community college before entering the Police Academy. The Academy was six months of classes and training. She’d done okay, acing her physical tests and field training, but getting the bare minimum on her written tests. She didn’t test well. Still, she’d graduated in the top half of her class. It wasn’t that she was particularly strong, but she was determined, and she had always loved to run. She was also a good shot, but she owed that to her dad, who took her to the gun range every week after she turned thirteen. She had sharp instincts, whether because of years listening to her dad when he came home from work, or because she was born to be a detective. Her instincts were snapping now.
Vartarian. Why would Vartarian’s private security company send three guys to kill Jason Jones? They had to be connected to Gina’s murder. What had Gina wanted to show Jason? Why did Mercer or Armor Plus think that he’d seen the evidence? What was so dangerous that it cost her life? Was there a connection between Mercer and Vartarian? If so, what?
But if, as R.J. Flynn said, Vartarian took in cops with problems, they might be building their own corrupt security force.
That was sure taking a leap in logic. Or … maybe not. Sykes and Mercer had gone to the Academy together. Sykes was corrupt and a killer. Gina believed Mercer was corrupt and had something she wanted to talk to Jason about. Jason had said she’d sounded scared, almost paranoid. Yet it was three men from Armor Plus who had gone after Jason and Scarlet. Did that mean they were working for Mercer? Had he hired them to take care of whatever problem he was having, even if it resulted in murder?
Or was the Mercer-Vartarian connection much deeper than that?
Scarlet frowned as she considered the myriad of possibilities. If they had wanted Jason dead, it would have been simple to kill him Saturday night after he left Long Beach. They were tracking his bike. Why didn’t they? Did someone know that she was involved? Kyle Richardson? John trusted Richardson, but that didn’t mean that the detective wasn’t corrupt. Or maybe, it wasn’t Richardson, but someone else on his team who knew that Scarlet was at Leah’s house and because they were tracking Jason’s bike, knew that Jason had been there as well. Had they been expecting Jason to lead them to evidence? Then why try to kill him and burn down the house? Damage control? But the evidence would still be out there, wouldn’t it?
What was so dangerous that someone was willing to kill you and Krista three years ago?
Scarlet didn’t know if she kept thinking about the ambush then because of Gina and Jason, or if there was something familiar that kept bringing it to mind. Reputation notwithstanding, mostly good and decent cops made up the ranks of LAPD. But the few rotten apples … they were very, very rotten. Access to guns and money and drugs and women … The cliché about absolute power and corruption was right on.
Scarlet watched as Rick Sykes was led into the visitors' room by a corrections officer. The officer motioned to where Scarlet sat waiting. Sykes quickly covered his surprise, then sneered as he approached. He wasn’t cuffed; no need in this part of the jail. Guards were posted and could easily subdue him if he got out of hand. This was the general visiting area; several inmates were meeting with friends and family. Inmates who caused trouble lost the privilege.
“Scarlet Moreno,” Sykes said as he sat down across from her. “Didn’t believe it when Freddie told me.” He jerked his finger toward the guard. “How’s your hot little girl friend?”
“I have a story for you,” she said. She kept eye contact because showing fear or
weakness would be the death of her. She had to bluff him, and it was something she’d been good at in interrogations. Especially with bullies like Sykes. “Once upon a time—”
“If this story doesn’t have your blond partner naked in my bed with my hands around her scrawny neck, I’m not interested.”
She resisted the urge to kick him in the balls.
“Once upon a time there was a very bad cop. He skimmed from drug dealers, had sex with whores for free, palmed a few ounces of dope here and there to use and sell. Didn’t really matter what he did, he had the power. He had the badge. He had the gun. He had the world in his fucking hands.”
“Sounds like my kind of guy,” Sykes scowled.
“Now Mr. Bad Cop had some friends. Other bad cops who helped keep each other out of trouble. And when the water got too hot, there was a place for them on the other side of the line. The private sector. More guns. More power. Fewer rules. And no ethics. Because it’s ethics, really, that got them in trouble in the first place.
“All they had to do was take out a cop or two, maybe a civilian here and there. Blackmail was all they needed. Nothing violent, except for the threats. But something happened, and Mr. Bad Cop needed Little Miss Good Cop dead. Because she knew something. Something that would bring him down hard. Because the only reason to kill a cop is because of what they know.”
Sykes was red in the face. The story made sense to him. He leaned forward and said, “There’s more than one reason to kill a traitor.”
Traitor. Was a cop who didn’t turn their back on corruption de facto a traitor? Interesting. She pushed.
“Fortunately the good guys have friends, and the hit went south, and now I know. And I will take them down.”
Sykes laughed. “You know shit, Moreno.”
She leaned forward, kept her eyes on him. “I know Tony Mercer ordered the hit on Gina Perez, and I’m going to prove it. And don’t think for a minute that I don’t know you’re connected to him by the balls, and I’ll take that to—”
He grabbed her by the neck. One big, meaty hand was all he needed to hold her still.
“You’re dead, bitch,” he hissed.
Two guards rushed to their table and pulled Sykes off her. One of them looked at her, concerned. The other was angry—at her, not Sykes. They have people everywhere. This was bigger—badder—than she thought.
“Try it, asshole.” She couldn’t help herself. She was furious and scared and she didn’t like feeling scared by a big, dumb bully.
“Yeah? Well if they can’t get you, they can certainly get to your baby brother.”
She saw red. It was like every bone in her body snapped and she rushed Sykes. Her speed surprised not only herself but the guards. She kicked him. Right in the balls because that would hurt the most. He sagged and the two guards held him up.
“You’re under arrest,” the nasty guard said.
The second guard shook his head and motioned for the jerk to take Sykes back to his cell. Then he turned to Scarlet.
“Get out of here, Moreno. Before I change my mind.”
She didn’t know this cop, but she mouthed her thanks.
Then she bolted.
Chapter Nine
Scarlet found John at his precinct. He was sitting at his desk writing a report when he looked up and spotted her. Surprise crossed his face.
She spontaneously hugged him.
He looked confused and practically blushed. “What?” he asked. Scarlet wasn’t one for public displays of affection, especially in the cop shop.
“Sykes threatened you.”
His brows dipped. “Me?”
“You have got to be doubly careful.”
“What did he say?”
She looked into his eyes, as green as hers. “That if they can’t get to me, they can always get to you.”
“He said that?”
She nodded.
“Sissy,” he said quietly, using the name he’d called her when they were little. “He just wanted to scare you.”
“It was more than that.”
He tilted his head and stared at her. “Are those bruises?” He touched the side of her neck. “What happened?”
She touched her neck. “It’s fine. I pushed him and he snapped. I was fishing, and I caught a big one.”
John grabbed her by the arm and ushered her into a vacant office. He closed the door. “What do you mean by fishing?”
“Hook, line and sinker. It was a hunch and I played it out. Tony Mercer took the hit out on Gina Perez. I don’t know why, but I’m positive it was done on his word. Sykes all but confirmed it when he jumped me.”
John sat heavily on the corner of the desk. “This can not be happening.”
“It’s somehow connected to Armor Plus. Did you know that Diana Vartarian runs Armor?”
“Vartarian?” his voice almost squeaked. “Shit, Scarlet, we’re in over our heads with this. Vartarian?” he repeated.
“I am in over my head. You need to steer clear.”
“Like hell. You’re my sister. The Vartarians are powerful, but they’re not killers.” He didn’t sound very convincing.
“I need something on Mercer. To prove he’s responsible for Gina’s murder.” She took a deep breath. “I have an idea. Can you meet me at Dad’s tonight?”
“Dad—good idea.” John visibly relaxed. Their father was a rock. More, he was smart and shrewd and knew far more about LAPD than he talked about.
“I’m going to get Richardson there, too. I need him on board.”
“I should call Matt. He’s close to Bob Vartarian, maybe—”
“No,” she interrupted. “We don’t want to alert the Vartarians.”
“Bob’s a solid prosecutor,” John said. “He has the highest conviction rate, even higher than Matt.”
“I don’t care—he’s part of the family, we can’t risk it. Please, don’t talk to Matt. We need to keep this circle tight.”
“Are you going to bring in your new boyfriend?”
“What?” She was confused. John sounded like he was being critical of her boyfriends, like they were still in high school.
“You were very chummy this morning.”
“Oh, God, I’m not going to talk about my sex life with my brother.”
“He’s a cop.”
“So?”
John just shook his head and Scarlet ignored his comments. She really didn’t want to discuss her boyfriend with John. She said, “If I bring in Alex, it’s because he has something to offer to the plan. But right now I only need you, Dad, Richardson, Krista and Jason.”
“Jason is in custody.”
“He’s in the hospital. But I’m hoping Richardson will bring him by Dad’s house on his way to lock-up—if they need to lock him up. The problem is he’s not returning my calls.”
“I’ll reach out to him. Just—Sis, you have to be careful here. We still don’t know who tried to kill you three years ago.”
“But I’m closer now than I’ve ever been.” She felt it in her gut. Tony Mercer knew why she’d been targeted. According to John, he knew everything, and he’d been around then. He was a fixer. He would know what was going on in every precinct, not just his. If he was corrupt like Scarlet believed, then he would know not only who shot her, but who put the hit out on her. And why.
Why. That was the million dollar question. She couldn’t think of anything she’d known then that would have gotten her killed. She’d taken out some bad-ass criminals, but no one who had the ability to put out a hit on her and get away with it. Especially not something as elaborate as using her partner’s name to send her to that warehouse.
She simply had to convince Tony Mercer to tell her the truth.
But she wasn’t going to mention that to her brother, not yet.
She looked at her watch. “Seven tonight. Call Dad, give him the heads up for me.”
“Where are you going?”
“It’s better if you don’t know.” She opened the door.
She froze. “I can not believe you said that out loud. Payback is going to be a bitch, little brother.” Her mother must have been on drugs when she named her. As if Scarlet wasn’t bad enough. But Scarlet Rose? Seriously?
“Seven,” she said and slammed the door.
~ ~ ~
Scarlet was sitting outside Tony Mercer’s precinct, worried about her conversation with Krista. It had been brief.
“You’re out of your fucking mind,” Krista had said after she told her what she planned to do.
“Trust me,” Scarlet said. “Seven o’clock, okay?”
“I’ll be there.” Then she cut off the call.
So, the plan wasn’t really well thought out. But it was a plan, of sorts.
Her cell phone rang two minutes after Krista hung up on her. It was an unknown number.
“Moreno.”
“It’s Greg Norton. Sykes just got off the phone. I don’t know who he called, but I have the number.”
“I’m ready.”
He read it off. It was a cell phone; she could tell by the prefix.
“Thanks, Greg.”
“Don’t mention it. Seriously—don’t tell anyone. I could get into trouble.”
“Mum’s the word.” She hung up and called Mac. She almost didn’t need to—as she watched, Tony Mercer left the precinct, and he didn’t look happy. But she went through the motions—documenting what she knew.
Mac answered on the first ring. Krista must have given him the heads-up. “I need you to get the owner of this number,” she said and read him the ten-digit cell phone.
“I’ll text you,” he said and hung up.
Mercer got into his car and Scarlet followed. He didn’t drive far—only a few minutes—to the San Fernando Mission. He parked and Scarlet kept her distance, parking along the edge of the road as if she were here to visit a gravesite.
The Mission was a good place for a clandestine meeting. It was largely open, with trees interspersed here and there through the fields of graves. Mercer would have good visibility if anyone was watching him.
Hit and Run (Moreno & Hart Mysteries) Page 8
