Fatal Luck

by Dorothy Howell

  The neighborhood was quiet. No kids played outside, nobody walked dogs.

  Eric’s place was the third house from the corner. There were no cars parked out front but I didn’t expect to see any. I’d left Eric at the Bonita office a short while ago and Lourdes was at her shop on Sixth Street.

  On the drive over I’d pieced most everything together—except for Eric’s motive for killing Jerry. The scheme the two of them had cooked up was working. They were unlikely to get caught. They were both profiting. They had a good thing going.

  That must have changed.

  Marsha had commented that Jerry had turned his life around in the past few weeks. Francis said Jerry had stopped coming into the bar. He had a new girlfriend who seemed to be a good influence on him. She’d told me Jerry was going to church with her, atoning for his sins.

  Could Jerry have had a change of heart? Was his scheme with Eric one of the things he wanted to atone for—and maybe confess? If so, Eric had everything to lose.

  Still, it was all suspicion. I had no evidence. The only evidence was the Ford Fiesta itself that would have been damaged in the hit and run.

  “Think it’s in there?” Slade asked as we crept past the house.

  “It’s a good possibility,” I said.

  When I’d asked Lourdes about bringing the Thanksgiving food donation to her house, she’d said their garage door was broken and Eric had yet to fix it. But Misty had mentioned that Eric immediately had a scuffed baseboard in the office repaired.

  He must have convinced Lourdes the garage door was broken so she wouldn’t open it, see the front-end damage to the little Ford, and start asking questions.

  “Only one way to find out,” Slade said.

  He slowed as we passed the house, then turned left, did a U-turn and parked at the curb.

  “No windows in the garage door,” he said, and killed the engine. “We’ll have to go into the backyard. Houses this expensive usually have a rear door into the garage.”

  I climbed out of the Blazer, put my cell phone in my pocket, and left my handbag inside. If I’d known I was going on a covert op today I’d have dressed differently, but at least I wasn’t wearing a skirt.

  Slade got out, opened the back door and scrounged through a small tool box. He slid something into his pocket and we headed down the block.

  We looked a bit mismatched but nobody seemed to notice us as we turned the corner onto Dorchester Street. We strolled past two houses and walked up Eric’s driveway. As in most California neighborhoods, the rear yard of the house was enclosed by a fence. This one, because of the upscale neighborhood, was a block wall. A metal gate was positioned near the garage door. As usual, it wasn’t locked.

  Slade didn’t hesitate. He reached over the gate, flipped the latch, and we walked through.

  Eric and Lourdes, or perhaps the previous owner, had spent a fortune back there. A walkway of stamped concrete lined with low palm trees and shrubs wound through the side yard, then opened up to the rear yard. A sparkling pool was surrounded by huge rocks, palms, shrubbery, and planters. There was a massive outdoor kitchen with a stainless steel refrigerator, a huge grill, and a pizza oven. A fire pit was situated near the covered patio with tables and chairs that would accommodate a couple dozen people.

  No wonder Eric had to cheat the system to afford this place.

  Slade wasn’t as taken with the place as I was. He was already at the door that led into the garage, working the lock with whatever he’d brought with him from his tool box. A few seconds later, the knob turned and he opened the door.

  I stepped inside. Slade hit the switch by the door and a feeble light flickered on overhead.

  It was a standard three-car garage with shelves on two walls that were stacked with storage bins. A mop, broom, and some cleaning supplies were beside the door that led into the house. A work bench was along another wall. The place was silent and smelled vaguely of oil and gasoline.

  One car was inside, a small black Ford Fiesta bearing a California license plate that started with the number four.

  “Your lucky day,” Slade said.

  I thought I’d be happy learning the truth. Instead, I felt kind of queasy.

  “Get a picture. I’m on lookout,” Slade said, then stepped outside and closed the door.

  The air seemed cold and stale. I didn’t want to be in here, and immediately I was frantic to leave.

  Maybe I should have called Nick.

  The Ford had been backed into the garage so I circled to the front of the car. The right headlight was shattered and the fender was dented. Bits of Jerry, no doubt, were embedded in the damage.

  I definitely should have called Nick.

  I pulled out my cell phone and took a series of photos from several angles.

  The door that led into the house flew open.

  Lourdes stepped into the garage.

  Chapter 13

  Lourdes stood near the doorway gazing at me in the dim light. She looked as fashionable as ever, dressed in a skirt and boots, wrapped in a thick shawl. Her arms were folded and her hands were tucked in the heavy fabric, as if she were trying to warm herself. Her hair was down. I’d never realized it was so long.

  I didn’t realize she was home, either. Her car wasn’t out front when Slade and I arrived, and I hadn’t heard her pull up.

  I started to panic. What was I going to say to her? How would I explain being in her garage? What if she called the police?

  My mojo wasn’t working so well right now.

  “Hello, Dana,” Lourdes said.

  We stood on opposite sides of the Ford. She inched toward the rear of the car.

  I’d have to tell her why I was there. But how would I break the news to her about what Eric had done? The two of them were super tight. They’d been together since high school. They’d built a solid life together, Lourdes with her ultra-fashionable home décor shop and Eric’s enviable position with Mid-America. Would she even believe me?

  “Eric called,” Lourdes said.

  She gave me an exaggerated smile, and it hit me that she was being awfully calm for someone who’d discovered a near-stranger prowling through her garage.

  “He told me you dropped off the food donation,” she said.

  I wasn’t following her, wasn’t making the connection

  “He called when I left the Bonita branch? And you dropped everything, and rushed home?” I asked.

  She nodded. “I parked down the block and slipped into the house quietly.”

  My already bad mojo took a turn for the worse.

  “Eric thought I’d come here,” I realized.

  “You were supposed to take those appraisal reports to him,” Lourdes said. “But you didn’t. You read them. You figured things out. And here you are, just as Eric feared.”

  Lourdes stopped at the back bumper. She’d hemmed me in between the Ford and the closed garage door, and cut me off from the other two exits.

  I flashed on the morning Jerry had been killed when Eric had stormed into the breakroom demanding information from Nick. Eric had been angry. I thought he’d been annoyed by Janine’s hysterical screams, but maybe I’d been wrong.

  “You shouldn’t have done that, Dana. You should have minded your own business and left everything alone,” Lourdes said. “I will not have Eric threatened.”

  My conversation with Charla popped into my head. She’d told me she’d witnessed a confrontation between Jerry and a woman with long blonde hair in the alley behind Mid-America a few days before he was killed. I’d assumed it was Patricia’s daughter Brooke.

  Now I knew I was wrong—about everything.

  “It was you,” I said, and heard my voice tremble. “You argued with Jerry in the alley.”

  “He’d found religion, or some such nonsense, and wanted to cleanse his conscience. He intended to confess everything. I told him not to. I told him he wasn’t going to drag my Eric’s name through the mud.”

  “You ran him down,” I said.
>
  “I gave him fair warning.”

  “You killed him,” I said.

  “He left me no choice.”

  Lourdes drew herself up, then pulled her arms from the folds of her shawl and pointed a 9mm pistol at me.

  “And neither have you,” she said.

  Lourdes fired the gun. The concrete wall over my shoulder exploded, pelting me with bits of rubble.

  The rear door ripped open and light flooded the garage. A silhouette filled the doorway. Slade.

  Lourdes pivoted and fired. He dived to the floor. She shot at him again. He rolled to his right.

  Lourdes clasped the pistol with both hands, following Slade across the floor.

  There was little room for him to maneuver. She was going to kill him.

  I scrambled onto the hood of the Ford, then the roof, and launched myself into Lourdes. I hit her in the back, a full body blow. We both went down hard.

  Lourdes screamed. I grabbed her hands. The gun went off again. We wrestled across the floor. I rolled on top of her, pinning her down, stretching over her head to control the gun. She dug her fingernails into me. I grabbed a handful of her hair and banged her head against the concrete floor. She kicked and screamed again.

  A huge black boot stepped down on her wrist. I looked up and saw Slade standing over us. He ripped the gun from her hand. I rolled aside. He flipped her around and twisted her arms behind her, then pulled a plastic wire-tie from his pocket and secured her wrists. Lourdes screamed and cursed, and struggled to get free.

  I sat there dazed, then saw blood running from under Slade’s T-shirt sleeve. I leaped up.

  “You’re hurt,” I shouted.

  He shrugged. “No big deal.”

  “She shot you. This is bad—really bad.”

  “A flesh wound and a chick fight?” Slade grinned. “Cool.”

  * * *

  Some of the neighbors came out of their homes to stare, while others hid behind their plantation shutters and watched. All of them wanted to see what was going on.

  Patrol cars blocked off the street in both directions. In front of Eric and Lourdes’ house sat an ambulance, the van the crime scene guys had rolled up in, and a couple of plain white Crown Vics. A tow truck waited to haul away the Ford Fiesta.

  The garage and front doors stood open. Police officers, detectives, supervisors, techs, and a photographer were going about the task of gathering evidence, conducting interviews, and documenting everything. Lourdes had been driven away in handcuffs.

  We’d heard sirens within minutes of Slade subduing Lourdes. I figured a neighbor must have heard the shots and called 9-1-1.

  An EMT had cleaned the gouges on my wrist left by Lourdes’ fingernails and applied a bandage. I had a few aches and pains, and would likely find some bruises, but I was okay—still rattled, but okay.

  Slade’s flesh wound had been treated. He’d refused to go to the hospital and was now hanging out with the tow truck guys.

  Nick was among the detectives working the scene. He hadn’t spoken to me since he arrived.

  I sat on the curb outside the house next door. At some point, I’d have to call Manny and explain why I wasn’t in the office. I would have to go by Patricia’s place and give her Jerry’s cash. I wanted to talk to Charla and Francis, and let them know what had happened.

  I wondered if Eric knew what was going on at his house. Maybe he’d been notified and was at the police station with Lourdes. Perhaps he’d been picked up, too, and was being questioned. Surely, I wasn’t the only one to suspect that he had prior knowledge of Lourdes’ plan to get rid of Jerry. I wondered, too, whether he would have stopped her if he’d known.

  Eric was done at Mid-America, regardless. Once word got out about Jerry’s inflated property values and the fraudulent loan I’d discovered, the audit team would descend and go through every document in the Bonita branch with a fine tooth comb. He’d be fired, if he didn’t quit first.

  Maybe that was the least of his problems right now.

  Even with Eric gone, I couldn’t imagine that Janine would return to the company. Not after what she’d been through. I suspected she’d recognized Lourdes behind the wheel of the Ford Fiesta but had been too afraid of her to make the accusation, understandably so.

  As for Gloria, I didn’t know how she hadn’t figured out what Eric was up to. She’d been with the company for years. She’d heard stories. She knew how branch employees sometimes stole from the company. She knew what to watch for.

  But perhaps that was part of the problem. She’d been around for so long, seen so much, been passed over for promotion so many times that she just didn’t care anymore. Regardless, she might get fired.

  Seemed most everybody’s luck had run out.

  Nick appeared in front of me. No sign of his infamous half-grin.

  I didn’t expect to see it.

  He glared down at me and said, “I need to talk to you.”

  Nick didn’t offer a hand to help me up, just turned and walked away. I followed him down the block and around the corner.

  Nick swung around and shouted. “What the hell is the matter with you?”

  His anger made me take a step back.

  “You could have been killed!” A vein popped out in his forehead. “You should have called me!”

  “I probably should have,” I admitted.

  “Why didn’t you?” he demanded.

  His face turned red and the vein started to throb. I’d never seen Nick this angry before.

  “Tell me why!” he shouted.

  I understood that he was mad, but this hadn’t exactly been my best day and there was only so much I could take—especially from Nick.

  “Because I didn’t want to talk to you,” I told him.

  His anger amped up. “You nearly got yourself killed because you didn’t want to talk to me?”

  My anger amped up, too. “Yes! You were a complete jackass the last time I saw you! You never called, or tried to explain!”

  Nick spit out a vile curse, whipped around, and paced away. He drew two big breaths, then spun back toward me.

  “Are you ever going to trust me?” he asked and walked closer.

  Some of his anger was gone, but not much.

  “Are you?” He leaned down. “Are you ever going to believe that, sometimes, I know what’s best?”

  I didn’t say anything.

  He glared at me for a few seconds, then straightened up and backed away.

  “This is about what happened back in high school, isn’t it. It’s so damn important for you to know what happened that now, all these years later, you can’t trust my judgment.” Nick flung out both arms. “Okay. Fine. It wasn’t me. I didn’t get Katie Jo pregnant. We never had sex. I don’t know who was responsible. She didn’t tell me. Whatever the circumstances, she didn’t want anybody to know about it. She knew I’d be blamed. She said she was sorry. I told her not to worry, to take care of herself. I told her I could handle it.”

  Breath went out of me. I felt the color drain from my face.

  “You could have trusted me. You could have thought I’d done the right thing. You could have thought the best of me, instead of the worst,” Nick said. He backed up a step. “So at last you know. Now what?”

  I had no idea.

  THE END

  Dear Reader,

  Thanks for giving Fatal Luck a try!

  If you enjoyed this book you can see how it all began in Fatal Debt, the first full-length mystery featuring Dana and Nick.

  You’ll probably also like my Haley Randolph mystery series available from Kensington Books in hardcover, paperback, and ebook formats. Haley is an amateur sleuth whose passion for designer handbags leads to murder.

  If you’re a romance reader, I also write historical fiction under the pen name Judith Stacy. You’re invited to check out www.JudithStacy.com.

  More information is available at www.DorothyHowellNovels.com and at my Dorothy Howell Novels fan page on Facebook. You can follo
w me on Twitter @DHowellNovels.

  Happy reading!

  Dorothy

  Turn the page for a sneak peek at Beach Bags and Burglaries, the upcoming Haley Randolph mystery, followed by one of my favorite historical romances, The Widow’s Little Secret.

  Beach Bags and Burglaries

  A Haley Randolph Mystery

  Available from Kensington Books in hardcover and e-book formats in July

  Chapter 1

  “You booked us on Alcatraz,” Bella said.

  I gazed across the ocean at the island shrouded in fog—or maybe it was cloud cover, or haze, or smog. I don’t know. This was the California coast. It could have been anything.

  “I didn’t book us on Alcatraz,” I told her.

  “Is it Skull Island?” Bella asked.

  I looked again at the outline of the stone hotel and the thick vegetation on the hills rising behind it. Yeah, okay, it did kind of look like Skull Island.

  Bella and I were standing in the valet line outside the Rowan Resort welcome center. We’d just caravanned from Los Angeles, our friends Marcie and Sandy following us.

  Two cars had been required for the trip because each of us had brought multiple suitcases, garment bags, totes, and duffels, all of which were absolutely necessary—I mean, jeez, we were staying a whole week.

  We were all dressed in the latest resort wear. I had maxed out an impressive number of credit cards for the occasion.

  I was willing to do more, of course. Vogue magazine had declared the Sea Vixen—a gorgeous polka dot beach tote—the it bag of the season, and I absolutely had to have one. In the last few days I’d scoured every high-end shop in L.A. and hadn’t located one. It was majorly disappointing, but no way was I giving up the search.

  Sandy jumped out of Marcie’s car, while Marcie sat behind the wheel fiddling with her cell phone.

  “Wow, Haley, this is totally awesome,” Sandy said. “I can’t wait to get there!”

  According to the itinerary provided by the travel agent, we would relax in the comfort of the VIP lounge until we were picked up by a limo and driven to a helicopter for the flight to our all-expense-paid vacation at one of the world’s most exclusive locations. The Rowan Resort catered to the every whim of A-list celebrities, royalty, and millionaires, offering privacy and seclusion amid ultra luxurious accommodations.