Point of Betrayal

by Ann Roberts

  * * *

  Chief Phillips’ anger reminded Jack of the bright red and white coals of a campfire, the heat palpable but lacking the showy licks of fire that weren’t half as dangerous. Ruskin was blathering about the shoddy work of Detectives Salt and Lawrence, not bothering to shoulder any of the responsibility for the botched investigation. They’d worked Escolido for two months and Jack had found the killer in less than two days. As Ruskin ticked off all the excuses he could think of for his lack of supervision, Jack resisted the urge to cut him off. Ruskin clearly wasn’t recognizing the effect of his speech on the chief.

  As he took a breath to start another paragraph, Phillips said, “Enough. Save it for the inquiry.”

  “What?” he asked.

  “I’m opening an inquiry into the handling of this investigation. The family and the public will demand nothing less. I’m demanding nothing less. When my chief of detectives can’t realize there might have been two security guards present…” She cut herself off and exhaled. “You can go. Juanita Baca is expecting you.”

  “Who the hell is she?” Ruskin demanded, dropping all decorum with his superior.

  “She’s down in HR. She handles retirements.”

  Jack’s gaze dropped to the floor as Ruskin stormed out, muttering “fucking bitch” under his breath. When Jack heard the door slam, he looked up and found the chief staring at him. He shuffled his feet, suddenly uncomfortable, a feeling he wasn’t used to. He was always smooth around women and he loved to flirt, but rarely had it ever been anything more. His heart still belonged to Ari’s mother, but Dylan Phillips was a beautiful woman and he likedher behind Sol Gardener’s big desk. She looked great. It fit.

  She didn’t dismiss him. She twirled a pencil between her fingers like a little wooden baton, deep in thought. “What do you want?” she finally asked.

  “Me? Most people would say world peace, but I’m content with a great sunset over the ocean and a cold beer.”

  She cracked a little smile and dropped the pencil. “What kind of beer?”

  His eyes widened. Was she flirting with him? “Pardon?”

  “I need to know what to buy when we celebrate your double promotion.”

  He stammered, “What?”

  “You’re making lieutenant, and I’m appointing you the Chief of Detectives.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  “I’m telling you this is a mistake.”

  Over the phone Molly heard the insistence in Sienna’s voice. “You’re probably right, but I can’t let this go.”

  “I’m not saying that. I’m just against burglary.”

  She winced at Sienna’s choice of words. She gazed up at Trombetta Dwellings and the dark window of Biz’s condo. It wouldn’t be breaking and entering in the purest sense. She’d acquired a key.

  “Go home now and come back to my place tomorrow,” Sienna whispered.

  “Is your husband there?”

  “Yes, he just got home from London and the answering service is calling him already. But he needs me tonight. You can have me tomorrow, as long as you’re not in jail.”

  Sienna disconnected, having made her point. Molly pulled out Biz’s key and security code, shame washing over her. She’d called her brother and offered to check on Ari’s house, saving Brian a trip across town. He had been grateful, told her where Ari kept her spare key and never questioned her motives. She’d used the opportunity to search her office, and she was both dismayed and grateful when she discovered Biz’s key and code. It probably meant they were sleeping together, but it also gave her a chance to find evidence linking Biz to Vince Carnotti or Wanda’s death.

  She parked two blocks away at the city bus terminal amid the vehicles of regular park-and-ride commuters. The lot was open until bus service ended at eleven, so her truck blended in perfectly. She’d already staked out the lofts and decided the parking garage entry was her best bet. Although she’d be subject to heavy scrutiny from the security crew manning the cameras, it was a better option than boldly crossing the main threshold and looking the front desk guard in the eye, possibly having to speak with him.

  Years of police work had taught her about security cameras, blind spots and the limitations of technology. After her encounter with the lesbians at the pool, she’d come downtown and walked the block around Trombetta Dwellings, making note of camera type and placement, as well as barriers, plants and street lighting, all of which could work in her favor. Her conclusion was that the security was adequate but not top-of-the-line. Maybe security consultation could be my next career step, she thought, as she carefully avoided the shifting camera at the entrance and darted into the garage as a car exited.

  She pulled up against a pillar and plotted a path to the elevator. She’d brought a paper bag disguised to look like groceries, and she set it down long enough to adjust her baseball cap and tighten her old Army jacket. No one could trace it, and any security guard watching the monitors couldn’t tell if she was male or female. In fact, because of her height most observers would think she was a man—with brown hair. She’d found a cheap wig, letting dark wisps curl under the bottom of the cap.

  One thing she’d learned from watching surveillance videos is that suspicious people drew attention to themselves with their odd behavior. As she crossed the parking lot to the elevator, she moved quickly as if the bag was heavy and she wanted to rid herself of the task, but she kept her stride casual, as if she did this every day. She made sure she constantly shifted the bag from left to right and kept her head down as the elevator headed up to Biz’s floor and down the hallway to her condo. She made a production of fumbling for the keys, which gave her an excuse to stare at the lock until she was safely inside.

  She quickly located the security keypad in the hallway and disarmed it. She took a deep breath. She thought she might throw up. She was shaking and her heart throbbed in her chest. She resisted the urge to run out and drive straight back to Ari’s house and return the key. She’d come this far, and she needed to find out what she could about Biz.

  She guessed Biz would never keep anything important at her office across town. The security could be easily breached and every abused woman who’d ever asked for her help had met her there. They knew her office and so did some of their shitty ex-boyfriends. If there was any evidence to tie Biz to Vince Carnotti it was here.

  She quickly reconnoitered and was impressed by the loft. It was absolutely beautiful. She’d heard through the lesbian grapevine that Biz had remodeled it before she moved in. Now looking at the granite counters, the modern light fixtures and the Danish furniture in the master bedroom, she guessed she’d dropped nearly a quarter of a million dollars on the place, an impossible figure for a poor PI.

  Judging from the clothes scattered about her room, she guessed Biz had left in a hurry on her way to meet Ari in Laguna Beach. She scowled, picturing the two of them together in the bed. How long had they been sleeping together? She imagined Biz’s mattress was much more comfortable than the old one in her apartment, although Ari had always said the bed wasn’t important, just the person next to her. A lump formed in her throat. Stay focused, she thought.

  She returned to the living room, noticing there was no computer on the small desk built into a wall unit. A few random bills were stuck into a wooden holder, as well as her most recent bank statement. Her eyes widened at the balance listed at the top. Biz had over a hundred thousand dollars in the bank. Her gaze dropped to the transaction history, which listed a few deposits of a couple thousand each and a handful of electronic withdrawals to the utilities and the bank for her mortgage, which was more than all of Molly’s monthly bills combined. Oddly missing were debit transactions. Whereas most Americans used their debit card regularly, Biz did not. She didn’t write checks either, which meant that she dealt primarily in cash. That’s suspicious, Molly thought. She’s concerned with leaving a trail, but that could also be because savvy PIs hired by angry ex-husbands could follow her as well.

  She p
ut everything back and scanned the room. There had to be something, anything that could confirm her gut feeling that would justify the crime she was committing. She went into the second bedroom, which was a glorified storage space. Boxes were stacked three-high with clothes draped over them.

  She went to the closet, which was stuffed with jackets, hoodies and coats. Biz owned a lot of clothes, but most of them were disguises, she realized. Her gaze dropped to the floor and she smiled. A small safe sat in the corner. It was certainly large enough to hold documents, guns and drugs—and judging from the position of the handle it was open. She couldn’t believe her luck! Why would Biz be so careless? She was clearly too focused on getting to Ari, or she was too rattled after committing murder. That made more sense.

  She crouched down and pulled the door open. Inside were three packs of cash wrapped in paper bands that said “ten thousand.” She also had two passports, one legit and the other fake, under the name Sandy Chestwick. In that one she sported a short brown wig and garish makeup. It was quite a shock; Molly had never seen her as anything but a butch. Somehow it reminded her of Lola, Wanda’s alter ego.

  Underneath the passports were a stack of presigned prescriptions for three different drugs. Not surprisingly, she couldn’t read most of the handwriting and was only able to make out one word, oxycodone. All were from an Indian doctor and none of the prescriptions listed a date. That’s probably the point, she thought. She’s popping pills and doesn’t want to bother with refills. There was nothing else, although she imagined this was where she kept her gun. She sighed. What did she think she would find, a Christmas card from Vince Carnotti?

  An idea occurred to her. She flipped open the passport again and stared at the wig. She rummaged through the clothes, and not finding what she was looking for, headed back to Biz’s room and the walk-in closet. All of her trademark concert T-shirts and faded jeans hung at the front. She fingered the clothing until she came to three garment bags. She unzipped the first one and stared at a sparkly evening dress. She rolled her eyes and unzipped the second one, finding a tailored Evan Picone suit she imagined Biz wore anytime she needed to go to court. The dress in the third bag looked familiar. Although it was a simple black cocktail dress, the neckline was unique and unforgettable—a deep square scoop. When worn with a pushup bra, the wearer would garner much attention from anyone at Hideaway, and she remembered her own gaze frequently dropping to Wanda’s chest.

  But she couldn’t be sure. It was a dress and she was the last person in the world to judge fashion even if she was an expert on cleavage. Her gut wasn’t satisfied. She noticed some shelves above the clothes and three wigs, each one perched on a Styrofoam head, one with long, red hair, the brunette one from her passport photo, and a long, flowing blond mane just like Lola’s.

  “That has got to be it,” she muttered.

  Now her gut felt better. She took a few quick photos of the dress and the wig with her phone camera and zipped up the garment bags. She made a sweep through the house, making sure nothing was out of place. Then she pulled out a change of clothes and a folded duffel bag from the grocery bag she’d carried in with her. She exchanged the Army jacket, wig and ball cap for a leather jacket, tight jeans and fedora. Now she looked as if she was ready for a date or clubbing, and she knew security paid less attention to someone exiting a building.

  She stuffed the first outfit into the duffel. As she prepared to punch in the security code and leave, she heard the phone ringing. Apparently Biz still had an old answering machine, for after a moment she heard her voice instruct the caller to leave a message.

  She was standing at the front door when the caller’s voice made her freeze. It was Biz.

  “Find what you were looking for, Molly?”

  Her voice echoed through the house and although she’d asked Molly a question, she knew she wouldn’t hear her answer. She’d obviously installed her own security system, one that was connected to satellite and allowed her to check her cameras, wherever they may be, through her phone. Molly thought about some of the decorative art she had seen in the living room and the childish stuffed bear in the bedroom.

  “Don’t worry. I’m not going to call the police. I wouldn’t want to upset Ari. I wouldn’t want to run the risk that she’d post your bail out of pity. I wouldn’t want her asking a lot of questions. We know those questions, don’t we, Molly? And we know the answers, too.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  “I’m telling you we can go home,” Biz insisted. “Bobby Arco is the killer. If you’d seen what I saw in that house, you’d know what he’s capable of doing. He’s a stalker and a child pornographer, and I hope his sorry ass fries in hell but not before some con makes him his bitch.”

  Jane and Rory were nodding furiously. Only Ari remained unconvinced. She pulled out Nina’s last two journals. “Remember this entry? ‘Valeria caught in secrets thanks to apothecary. Share with no one except H. Maybe Orlando? Must investigate! Can Benedick be trusted? Will it destroy? Cesario, oh, Cesario… It is Aguecheek.’ I think I’ve figured it out.”

  She set the journal down and explained. “Valeria is Nina and the apothecary is her doctor, who told her something that made her realize the truth about Evan and Sam’s parentage. I’m guessing Horatio is Evan and Orlando is Sam. Benedick is Steve, and she doesn’t know if she can trust him because the truth could destroy him. Cesario is Georgie.”

  She looked at Rory and asked, “That character was a woman disguised as a man, right?”

  She nodded. “Right. So Nina could’ve used it to reference a woman as well, particularly if she’s Valeria.”

  “And Scott Kramer is Aguecheek,” Ari continued. “She says ‘Cesario, Cesario,’ like she can’t believe what Georgie has done. And when she finishes with, ‘It is Aguecheek,’ she’s saying he’s the dad.”

  “But how did Nina figure all this out?” Jane asked.

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. There are all kinds of tests during pregnancy, especially for women over thirty.” She looked at Biz. “I agree that Bobby’s scum, but I think both Georgie and Steve have a motive, a strong motive with these pictures.”

  Rory held up the photo of Scott with the twins in the pool. “It’s not so obvious now that they’re older. They’ve had time to fill out.”

  “Yeah,” Jane said. “It’s the forehead and the eyes.”

  She grabbed Nina’s final journal. “And don’t forget the last thing she ever wrote.” She reread the lone entry. “‘The secret will be revealed—DANGER. Poor Benedick! Poor Horatio! And poor Orlando—a pawn?’” She tapped the page. “She used the word ‘danger.’ This is the situation that threatened her the most.”

  “That’s because she didn’t know Bobby Arco was a sick perv who was stalking her,” Biz argued.

  The room grew silent as each of them pondered the possibilities. Biz knew Ari had a point. All of the Garritsons and Scott Kramer had a motive to keep the secret hidden, but she was sure about Bobby Arco. She knew criminals. She knew it was him and she needed to get home—and now. Too much was happening, flying out of control. Molly was somehow involved in Wanda’s case and if she was communicating with Jack and Andre…

  Ari looked at Rory, who’d spent the day talking up teachers at school about Evan. “You said Evan was distraught over the baby and Nina’s choice, and he could’ve slipped out of the school music concert before the lights came up.” She looked at Jane. “And you said Steve’s alibi is flimsy.”

  “It is,” Jane admitted. “There were two hundred people at that charity event, and he wasn’t accountable to anyone for every single minute.”

  Ari looked back at Biz, almost pleading. “I just don’t think it’s so open-and-shut.”

  She took a deep breath. “The police are convinced. I spoke with Detective Justice after they raided the place—”

  “From your ‘anonymous tip,’” Rory said, pantomiming quotation marks. “I’m not sure I approve of your tactics, Biz.”

  “T
ell me that after you’re the victim of domestic abuse,” she snapped. She looked back at Ari, unwilling to get into an ethics discussion. “Honey, what can I do to convince you?” She took Ari’s hand and squeezed it. She couldn’t leave if things weren’t right between them.

  “Come with me to Scott Kramer’s house. Let’s just stake him out for a little while and see if there’s anything interesting.”

  “Do you think he’s a suspect too?” Jane asked.

  Ari threw up her hands. “Why not add him to the slate? Georgie was guilty of statutory rape. If Nina threatened to expose the relationship from thirty years ago, that’s Georgie’s motive, and she also has a flimsy alibi. She can close her store anytime she wants and no one would be the wiser. Steve had a motive to save his career. Would the governor really want someone on the task force whose wife had preyed on an underage boy? Evan wanted Nina for himself and was probably jealous of Sam, and if Scott knew she was about to expose him as the real father, it could certainly be embarrassing for him.”

  Biz sighed. “Okay, let’s go.”

  * * *

  Scott’s house was located farther up the coast near Laguna Niguel. Though it was tucked away in a quiet neighborhood, Ari imagined it was still worth nearly a million, although it would never command the value of the Garritson place. He’d done well for himself, but he wasn’t among the California elite.

  His front yard was a masterpiece, a testament to his talent as a landscaper. Plants and flowers surrounded the entry and a stone pathway curved from the door to the driveway, each paver bordered by beautiful white flowers. A perfectly groomed hedge formed the property line, separating his Cape Cod-style house from the one next door.

  They parked across the street, away from the glow of the streetlights. His garage was closed, but the blinds were open. He was moving in and out of the front room, setting out plates and silverware on the dining room table.