The Girl in the Moss (Angie Pallorino Book 3)

by Loreth Anne White

  She entered the building, climbed the wooden stairs to the second floor, and opened the door to the bullpen office. Most of the desks were still empty at this hour, but she found Jock Brixton’s door ajar. Angie knocked on the treated glass.

  “Enter!”

  She pushed open the door. The interior was small and warm. It smelled of coffee and sweet pastry. A Tim Hortons bag rested on Brixton’s desk. He stood silhouetted against the gray window, holding a take-out cup of coffee, watching the rain against his windowpane. The ex-cop was an inch or so shorter than Angie, but he was broad in the shoulders with a hard, protruding belly that stretched his shirts at the seams. Jock Brixton liked his drink. He liked junk food. And he liked cheap women. The irony was not lost on Angie—the adulterer who made his living trapping other adulterers was himself married. Angie kept tally. One never knew when chips might need to be called in.

  On his desk next to the Tim Hortons bag lay a copy of the Times Colonist newspaper. Beside that newspaper was a white envelope with her name on it in bold caps.

  “Sit,” he said without facing her.

  She remained standing. He turned, reached for the envelope, and tossed it closer to her. She made no move to pick it up.

  “What is that?” she said.

  “Letter of termination.”

  Her pulse kicked up a notch. “You can’t fire me because a logging truck lost its load into oncoming traffic, Jock. There was no way we could get through. Half the city was backed up along that highway when it shut down yesterday afternoon. By the time the road reopened, it was 6:45 p.m. and one lane only.”

  He set his coffee down and spun the newspaper around to face her. He jabbed his fat finger on the big black headline.

  Human Remains Found in Clandestine Grave

  Beneath the headline, above the fold, was a photograph of Angie looking bedraggled and haunted in the mist along the Nahamish riverbank. Gingerly, she reached out, drew the paper closer, and read the cutline.

  Ex-MVPD cop Angie Pallorino and MVPD Detective James Maddocks guarded the grave site through the night. Pallorino, who was recently fired from the MVPD in connection with the shooting death of serial killer Spencer Addams, a.k.a. the Baptist, has also made media for being the angel’s cradle child—

  “I told you to keep a low profile,” he said.

  Anger tightened her face. She looked up. “I didn’t even find the damn body. My fiancé is a major crimes detective. He took the initiative to protect the integrity of a scene that a mushroom picker stumbled across. As you would have were you still on the job, Jock. As any detective would. I was just there—”

  “My point,” he said, his face darkening at Angie’s underscoring his own ex-detective status. “You can’t scratch your damn butt without someone taking a photo and printing headlines, Pallorino. It’s what happens to famous—or rather, infamous—people. Not only that, but you’re also dating the city’s top cop, a guy who’s just been put in charge of a high-profile new unit being micromanaged by our new mayor and police board. All eyes are on James Maddocks and his major incident team right now and watching to see how he cooperates with the other jurisdictions. This makes you”—he poked his finger toward her—“a liability to me.”

  “You hired me knowing who I am.”

  “With reservation, and I told you so. I warned you to lay low, to try to keep under the media radar.”

  “I didn’t do anything, for Chrissakes.”

  “You don’t have to. That’s the shitty deal with being infamous. Like Angelina-fucking-Jolie, everything a celeb touches becomes a fucking front-page story. You’re a local notoriety. This is a small city, not a terribly heavily populated island, so I appreciate your struggles in getting around incognito—but this island is also my jurisdiction. It’s Coastal Investigations’ livelihood. My entire staff depends on this livelihood. The CI motto is ‘Discreet, confidential.’” He pointed. “It’s written right on the door. These are the cornerstones of my firm. Good luck to your boyfriend and iMIT, because he and his team are going to be dragged through the media circus behind you wherever you go.”

  Her voice turned low, quiet, cool. “You know about that media circus, don’t you, Jock? Because you’ve been there, too.”

  It was as though she’d dropped an invisible electromagnetic pulse bomb into the small office. Angie could feel the waves of hot energy radiating off him.

  “What, exactly, is that supposed to mean?”

  Mistake. Back up. I need this job. Flatter him. He likes to be flattered.

  “I’m just saying that you overcame a hot run in the media yourself. And look at what you’ve built with CI in spite of it. Please, let me try. Give me one last chance. Just one.”

  His eyes flickered.

  “Look,” she said, coming forward quickly, taking the gap. “I might have missed the client’s wife picking up Lover Boy at the airport, but her affair with him is clearly a long-term thing. And your big-shot client is always traveling out of town. It’s going to happen again. Next time I’ll be there waiting. I’ll get them on camera.”

  “My clients will make you, Angie. It’ll just be a matter of time. Look at you. You’ve got distinct looks. That scar. That hair. That face. You’re all over the front pages and on television. If Norton finds out I put someone like you on his case, if his wife or her high-profile lover make you …” He ran his hand over his balding pate. “Norton is our biggest client right now. He’s huge. If I can keep him happy, he will recommend CI. I just can’t let you fuck this up for everyone else.”

  “I won’t. I’ve worked UC. I’ll wear cover, buy wigs. Change clothes. I can do this, Jock. Please. I’m better than half the guys you have on your crew, and you know it.”

  He inhaled deeply.

  “One.” She held up her index finger. “Just one last chance.”

  He turned to the window and looked down to where her car was parked. A nice new Mini Cooper she was paying off. Creamy white with distinctive stripes down the side.

  “I’ll get another vehicle,” she said quickly. “I’ll use rentals that suit the job in question. On my own dime.”

  She saw his shoulders dip as he released his chestful of air, and she almost began to breathe, anticipating him relenting.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “That was your last chance.”

  Her heart plummeted. “Jeezus, Jock, it was a motor vehicle accident. It—”

  He turned. “It’s the headlines, Pallorino.” He jerked his fat chin toward the newspaper. “That story is just winding up, believe me. It’s got legs, and it’s gonna run for weeks. No way you’re flying under the radar now. No way I’m putting you on another of my top cases.”

  A wave of gut-sickening reality crashed through her. She reached for the back of a chair, still hearing a but buried somewhere deep in his words.

  It didn’t come.

  “How about you let me work the admin shit, the grunt cases? Behind-the-desk stuff.”

  “I’m sorry. I really am. I tried to give you a chance; you know that. But it was my mistake. You’re a fucking shit magnet, Pallorino. Your probation is up. You’re done.”

  Tension fisted in her stomach. She continued to face him, not quite believing her ears even though she’d seen this coming the second she’d spotted Dave Falcon and his camera on the other side of the Nahamish River. Angie wanted to kill that big-ass reporter for this. She wanted to shoot him dead, in the face. Like she’d shot the Baptist.

  “Go on, take your letter of termination and get outta here.”

  “You’ll be sorry, Jock.”

  “Yeah, I am sorry. You’re a good investigator. Hope you find something.” He turned his back on her and stared once more out the window.

  Angie snatched the envelope off his desk and stomped out of Jock Brixton’s office, her heart burning with rage and hurt and frustration.

  She exited the building, rammed her black ball cap onto her head to ward off the rain, and felt her old self beginning to bubble
and fester inside—the bad Angie who wanted to punch someone. Anyone. For just being in her fucking way.

  Use the old schooner as your office, maybe … when you open your new “boutique investigations agency …”

  Yeah, well, that wasn’t going to happen now.

  Jock Brixton had just robbed her of her dream.

  CHAPTER 9

  FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 16

  Angie ducked sideways, barely avoiding the blow from Chai Bui’s gloved fist. Breathing hard, slick with sweat, she took a step backward on the mat as Chai, her Muay Thai coach, came at her again.

  “Hands higher!” Chai commanded. “Protect your face. Keep the marching stance, keep moving, foot to foot. Balls forward. Body square. Face me—” The roundhouse kick came fast, swiping toward Angie from the side. She jerked up her knee to block the strike, but she was too late. Chai’s leg whopped hard into Angie’s side, forcing air to explode from her lungs. At the same time, his hands whipped up, and he grabbed hold of her head. Yanking her body forward, he brought his other knee to her face. He stopped short of connecting and let her go.

  She backed away and wiped her wrist across her brow.

  “Got it?” Chai said.

  “Yeah, yeah, I got it, I got it. It’s putting it all into practice that’s the problem.”

  A grin cut Chai Bui’s face. He was a small, tattooed, and sinewy ex–Muay Thai champ from Malaysia, and he taught the historic art of Thai combat in his gritty little martial arts studio near Chinatown. Angie had spent almost every afternoon or evening since the fishing trip getting beaten up by Chai on the mats or by one of his students as Chai showed her how to spar, parry, block, kick. It was making her lean and strong in body.

  Angie was hoping it would also forge strength of mind, because she was on a dangerous edge since Brixton had axed her. Either it was Bui’s Boxing Gym or she’d be hitting the bar or, worse, the sex club. She’d been feeling the nip of the old dog at her heels and her brain—that desperate desire to block everything out, to resort to her old coping mechanism of both numbing and exciting herself with hot, anonymous sex.

  She could not do that to Maddocks.

  Or herself.

  So she was here. Safe from temptation while she tried to fight and box and kick and elbow her demons into submission.

  And there was another reason. The only damn job interviews she’d managed to score in the past three and a half weeks included one for a security guard at a high-end gated community where she’d basically be sitting in a guard booth at the gates. Another was for a close-protection detail. She’d been offered both positions and was considering taking the bodyguard job because she’d run out of options—no local PI firm was interested in hiring her. The close-protection job would involve being fit and fight-ready. It would also mean extensive foreign travel and being away from home for months at a time.

  The job required protecting a female pop star in her midtwenties, a talented but irascible and foul-mouthed prima donna fast gaining international traction, a young woman who flaunted her sex appeal and had issues staying out of booze, boys, and trouble. Glorified babysitting was what it would be. Angie detested the idea. Even so, part of her deep down wondered if it might be a good idea to take a break from this city, from the media, from seeing MVPD members at every turn and being reminded of her failed career. But taking the job would wobble her relationship with Maddocks. It might mean putting the wedding and house-hunting plans on hold.

  “You’ll be ready for the ring soon,” Chai quipped as his impish grin widened.

  “Yeah, right.” Angie took a deep glug from her water bottle, allowing liquid to spill down her neck and cool her chest. “More like ready to kick at the marauding superfans of a little pop diva.” She wiped her face with her towel and tossed it onto her gym bag, which rested on the floor against the wall.

  “Good to go?” Chai said, starting his Muay Thai march, hands up in front of his face, his head held low, his black eyes fixed on hers.

  She nodded and stepped onto the mat. Raising her hands in loose fists in front of her face, she began to shift from foot to foot, meeting his gaze.

  “You’re still angling your hips, Angie. You still got the boxing stance.”

  “Habit. Protecting my gun, offering smaller body target to my opponent.”

  “Yeah.” He threw a kick. It caught her hard before she could get her knee up to check him.

  “See? That’s why. You stand with one hip leading like that, and you can’t get into position fast enough to check my kicks,” he said, shuffling toward her, backing her up, aggression in his stance. He punched suddenly, swung, elbowed, swung, kicked, and flipped her down onto the mat with a thud. Air whooshed from her as her back slammed the ground.

  “Jeezus.” She scrambled rapidly to her feet, breathing hard, a fresh rush of adrenaline dumping into her blood.

  “Like I said, balls forward. Face me squarely. You want to tempt and bait your opponent with a wide body target. When he moves in, you attack, parry, block. Strike.”

  “Yeah, I got balls to put forward. What’s your problem, Chai, you never taught a woman?” He kicked fast. She sidestepped and threw a kick of her own. High. He ducked. She spun through the movement, landed her foot, brought her other leg up and kicked fast from the other side while raising her opposite hand to protect her ear and the side of her head from the strike she knew Chai would retaliate with. She landed her kick, spun, and hit him with her elbow.

  “Good! Good.” He laughed, stepping back. “Now that’s the way to do it—eight points of contact. Use ’em all. Elbows, knees, hands, feet.” He resumed the classic Muay Thai stance and so did Angie, her gaze locked on his, her body square this time, hips forward. She moved quickly. Attack, kick, jack, parry, step, knee, kick. They continued like that in a hot trance, a dance of combat, sweat gleaming on their limbs. Angie was deep in the zone when she heard her phone ringing in her gym bag.

  It distracted her momentarily, and Chai took the gap, landing a kick to her head.

  The blow dazed her, and she stumbled sideways.

  He laughed again. “That was just a tap, Ange. Keep focus at all times, hear me?” He reached for his own towel and hooked it around the back of his neck, using the ends to wipe his face. “Next time we’ll get you squared up with an opponent in the ring. You’ll wear full protective gear and let rip a bit.”

  She snorted, chest heaving as she made for her bag and scrabbled inside for her phone. She frowned as she checked the caller ID. Unknown number.

  Connecting the call, she put her phone to her ear that wasn’t ringing from a kick.

  “Yeah?” she said, voice coming out in a breathy croak. Hot, she dabbed sweat from her neck with a towel.

  “Angela Pallorino?”

  Angie stilled. The voice was female, strident. Something about the tone quickened her pulse. Her first thought was reporter. She glanced at Chai, who was now prepping to spar with another student, and she turned her back.

  “Who is this?”

  “If that’s Angela Pallorino speaking, I want to hire you. For a case.”

  Surprise, then caution, whispered through Angie. “Who am I speaking to?”

  “Name’s Jilly Monaghan. The case is an old one, a cold one. You know about it. Be at my house at four fifteen tomorrow afternoon. I’ll have returned from my walk by then, and that’s the time I take tea. We can discuss the case and payment over tea. My address is—”

  “Whoa, hey, hold on a minute,” she said quickly, bending down to snag her bag. She moved toward the changerooms where it was quieter. “I’m not taking any new cases. I—”

  “I’ll make it worthwhile. Financially. Very worth your while.”

  Angie stopped in the passageway near a water fountain, her curiosity now ignited. “Ms. Monaghan, I do need to inform you that I’m no longer with Coastal Investigations. And I’m not—”

  “Well, who are you with then? Last I saw on the news is that you were with Coastal.”

 
; “I … I’m between firms. I—”

  “Fine. You work for me direct.”

  “That’s not poss—”

  “Everything is possible, Angela.”

  Irritation began to rustle. “Angie. My name is Angie, and I like to finish my sentences.”

  “Yes, of course, whatever you wish. Angie. Be at my house at four fifteen tomorrow afternoon, and we will discuss. I’m at 3579 Seafront Road off Harling Point. That’s just past Gonzales Bay. Four fifteen. Saturday.” The phone went dead.

  Angie stared at the phone in her hand. What the … ? Jilly Monaghan? Who in the hell was Jilly Monaghan? There was something vaguely familiar about the name. The woman had sounded older, a senior perhaps, yet forceful, confident. Like someone accustomed to getting her way.

  Angie made for the changeroom. She peeled off her damp gear, and while she showered she chewed over Jilly Monaghan’s odd call.

  Admittedly, the woman had snared Angie by the short ones with two words: cold and case.

  The promise of financial reward was simply a bonus.

  Even though Angie could not work a case without a PI license, not legally, and she could not get a full license until a firm hired her and gave her enough supervised hours to qualify for one, she knew she would show up if only to hear Jilly Monaghan out. Curiosity had gotten the better of her.

  Harling Point. It was a pricey subdivision, Angie thought as she grabbed a clean towel and dried off. She opened her locker, running through her mind what she knew of the area. It was a waterfront promontory steeped in the history of Victoria, once home to rumrunners, bathhouses, tearooms, and dance halls. Now it was the residence of choice for old money and multimillionaires with a penchant for sleek designer houses. Intrigued, she dressed, shrugged into her leather jacket, grabbed her bag, and slung it over her shoulder.