Scarlet glanced over at the Lexus and now she realized why she’d thought something was strange when she first approached. The tire impressions in the gravel were curved, as if Douglas had turned in sharply from the street and parked. But then the rear tires went straight back four feet from the curve. Two different cars might have made the impressions, but with the naked eye, they matched. Four feet—he wouldn’t have been in park, and he would have been rammed hard. A good forensics team could prove it.
But right now, it was a he said, she said situation.
She glanced over her shoulder. What was taking CHP so long to get out of his car? Then she saw a second CHP vehicle approach.
Wendy and Jim were arguing and the venom was escalating. Scarlet put her fingers to her lips and whistled. They shut up.
“Listen, I don’t know or care what your beef is with each other, but you’d both better settle down before the chippers get over here and want answers. Wendy, go stand by your car. Jim, stay here. Do not move. Got it?”
Thankfully, they both did as she said. As a female cop, she’d learned early on that eye contact, attitude, and follow-through were all crucial in maintaining control of potentially volatile situations. Scarlet walked over to where the two CHP officers were getting out of their vehicles. She pulled out her ID, then flipped it to make sure that the officer saw her concealed carry permit. “Scarlet Moreno, private investigator. Happened upon the scene and stopped to help.”
“Moreno,” the first officer said. “I know a John Moreno with LAPD.”
“My brother,” she said, though the twinge of longing came back. She didn’t tell the cop she’d been with LAPD for twelve years. She handed both of them her card. It didn’t hurt to share her business cards with cops—they sometimes shot business over to P.I.s. Not her and Krista, unfortunately, but that was because they all had their favorites, and ninety-nine percent of the time the favorites were retired cops they’d known from the job. But like Krista told her, pass out cards and something would come back to them.
The chippers introduced themselves. Ericson and Woods. Scarlet gave them a brief rundown, ending with, “It’s pure domestic bullshit, but potentially volatile.”
Ericson said, “You’re welcome to stay.”
“Thanks, but I have an appointment,” she lied. “I just stopped to make sure no one was injured.”
“Any other witnesses?”
“Not that I know about—I didn’t see the collision. If I were you, I’d check the skid marks and tires. At first glance, Wendy’s story makes sense, but looking at the physical evidence—I’m inclined to buy the guy’s story, or a version thereof. But being a domestic issue, neither of them is telling the whole truth.”
Woods snorted. “It’s up to the insurance company to weed through the bullshit. We’ll just take the report and make sure no one needs a medic. Thanks for the heads-up.”
Scarlet considered staying just for the humor of the squabble, but instead walked back to her Jeep and drove off as the CHP officers talked to the two drivers. This was domestic drama, the one part of being a cop she didn’t miss.
Chapter Two
Nearly ninety minutes later than she planned, Scarlet dragged her hot and tired body into the bar. Diego’s was already half-full.
Diego took one look at her and said, “Double?”
“Please.” The bar stools were all full with the guys Diego called his “day shift”—mostly retired old guys, widowed or divorced, who drank draft like water while arguing politics or watching baseball. Most of the tourists and young people preferred the trendy bars closer to the pier, and that was fine with Diego and his classic sports bar motif.
Diego called over to Joey, one of his old regulars, “Give the lady a seat.”
Joey started to get up, but Scarlet waved him down. “Thanks, buddy, but I’m fine.”
“I’m heading out anyway,” Joey said. “Diego’s going to put on that god-awful rock music so loud it’ll destroy what little hearing I have left.” Joey raised his hand to Diego. “See you on Monday.”
Scarlet kissed the octogenarian on the cheek. “If only you were forty years younger,” she said.
He winked. “Or you were forty years older.”
She grinned and sat on the vacated stool. Joey walked out with a couple of the other regulars. No doubt they’d walk two blocks to the Crab Shack, get themselves dinner, and go home before the sun went down.
Diego had bar food—pretzels, nuts, chips and other salty fare that helped him sell more drinks—but most of the food places between here and the pier would deliver, and Beach Pizza a block over had the best pesto pie she’d ever eaten. That would definitely lift her spirits.
She ordered a large, which would give her enough for breakfast. Just as she finished her double Scotch, the pizza arrived and she shifted her beverage choice to beer. She took her first bite—hot and dripping. Heaven.
From the corner of her eye, she spotted Isaac Dunn, Diego’s weekend bartender, walk in through the back. “It’s still Friday, isn’t it?” she asked Diego.
Diego took off his apron. “Yep, it is. But my daughter has a volleyball tournament that starts at the ungodly hour of eight a.m. all the way in Riverside, so Isaac is filling in tonight.” Diego’s dark eyes sparkled. “You have a problem with that, Blue?”
She rolled her eyes. Diego had called her Blue when he found out she’d been a cop. Now he reserved it for when he thought she was being nosy.
“It’s your bar.”
Scarlet had a few conflicts with Isaac, but they generally got along. Isaac was an ex-con who’d served four years of an eight-year sentence for attempted murder. He had a temper, and she’d seen it in the bar on occasion. Never without good reason, but he had a hard time cooling down once he was set-off. Scarlet had been the mediator in two situations that could’ve ended with Isaac back in prison.
His attempted murder charge should’ve been dropped considering the extenuating circumstances—he’d beaten to a pulp the teacher who’d molested his daughter. If it had been Scarlet’s kid, she could see herself doing the same thing—only, she’d have used her gun and would have been arrested for murder. Hurting kids should be a capital offense, but vigilante violence wasn’t something the criminal justice system could—or should—tolerate.
At least the pervert got forty years for child porn and six counts of molestation. Too good for the bastard, if anyone asked Scarlet, but he was still in prison, and Isaac had gotten out last year. Unfortunately, Isaac’s life was a mess. His ex-wife and daughter wanted nothing to do with him, and moved to Seattle to live near her family. He’d been in the military—career officer—and had been dishonorably discharged because of the conviction, and lost all his benefits and retirement, even after giving the Army a decade of service.
Isaac didn’t much like anyone, but he ran a good bar and Diego trusted him. And when he relaxed, he and Scarlet got along. The system had screwed her as well—she just didn’t want to kill anyone over it.
She offered Isaac a piece of her pizza. “Later,” he said. Then, belatedly, “Thanks.”
She happily drank beer, watched baseball, and ate pizza from the end of the bar. Her phone vibrated and she glanced down, expecting Krista had changed her mind about the drinks.
She didn’t recognize the number.
“Moreno,” she answered.
“Um, is this Scarlet Moreno?”
“Yes. Who’s this?”
“Jim Douglas. You stopped to help after Wendy hit me this afternoon.”
“I remember.” And she remembered giving him her card. Great, just what she needed, getting dragged into this spat.
She was so glad she’d decided not to get married. After breaking it off with Matt, she vowed to never even consider marriage again. Jim and Wendy reinforced her wise decision.
“I need to hire you.”
“I don’t want the case.”
“You have to listen to me.”
Scarlet grew irritate
d. “I don’t have to do anything.”
He forced his voice to remain calm when he said, “Please. She’s going to kill me.”
“Go to the police.”
“They won’t believe me!” His voice rose again. “Look, Ms. Moreno, give me five minutes, please. Five minutes to prove that I’ll be dead if you don’t help me.”
“Five minutes.” She sighed. “No promises, Mr. Douglas. If I don’t like this case, I’m not taking it.”
“Okay. Where can I meet you?”
“My office, Monday morning.”
“I’ll be dead by Monday!”
He sounded terrified and angry at the same time. “It’s my night off,” she mumbled. You have no life, Scarlet. “Fine.” She gave him the address of the bar.
“I know where that is,” he said. “Fifteen minutes. Thank you.”
She wished she hadn’t answered her phone.
She motioned for Isaac. He pointed to her beer in the silent language of do you want another?
Sadly, she shook her head. “Water,” she said. She grabbed another slice of pizza, then closed the box and said, “Can you put this behind the bar?”
Isaac took it and put a water bottle down in front of her. But his eyes were averted. She opened the bottle and turned on her stool. While sipping, she glanced around and found what had interested Isaac. A group of college kids was not unusual. There were five boys and two girls; again, nothing unusual. As Scarlet watched, one of the young men leaned in close to the brunette and his hands went under the table where Scarlet couldn’t see, but by the expression on the girl’s face, she didn’t like it. She shifted and batted his hand away. He laughed and drank more beer. Scarlet glanced at Isaac. He was getting angry.
The girls didn’t leave, even with the unwanted fondling. It was a recipe for disaster.
Scarlet got up and walked over to where Isaac was pouring a pair of drafts. “You can only help those who help themselves.”
“Shut up,” he said. Then he glanced at her as if he wanted to say something else, but didn’t. He put the drinks on a tray and Heather, the lone cocktail waitress who worked Fridays and weekends, came over to pick it up. Scarlet caught her eye, and she nodded. Good, they had an understanding. Heather would give her the heads-up if things got out of hand.
And it was early—only seven on Friday night. All she wanted was to finish her pizza, have another beer, and watch a movie. Was that too much to ask? She’d certainly earned it after walking in on Cavanaugh that afternoon. She went back to her stool and kept an eye on Isaac, who was keeping his eye on the college group.
Jim Douglas walked in fourteen minutes after his call and looked around for her. She didn’t motion to him, wanting to assess him before he put on an act. He was tall, over six feet, blond, and attractive—if you liked the too-perfect, clean-cut, chiseled-jaw type. Not really Scarlet’s thing—she preferred men who were a bit rough around the edges. Even her ex Matt, who was a top-notch, up-and-coming prosecutor, had a tat under his impeccably tailored suits. Jim oozed stereotypical So-Cal hot men, definitely a fit with Wendy’s model-good looks.
He saw her watching him at the end of the bar and walked over. Diego’s wasn’t a dive bar—not on the tourist-driven peninsula—but it wasn’t a trendy hangout for Orange County’s gorgeous people.
“I thought you might’ve left.”
“Five minutes and ticking,” she said. She grabbed her water bottle and motioned for him to follow her to a table along the wall. She pushed the empty mugs aside. Almost immediately, Heather came over and cleared them, giving the table a quick wipe.
“Can I get you anything?” She spoke to Scarlet, but glanced at Jim.
“No,” Scarlet said. “Just a quick meeting.”
Heather left and Jim sat across from her. Scarlet kept quiet. She could ask questions, but there was something about this situation—from the minute she saw the accident—that rubbed her wrong.
It didn’t take Jim long to talk. “Wendy is crazy.”
“So you said.”
“The cops didn’t believe me. I could tell because they kept asking me the same question over and over. She followed me from work. I pulled over to turn around, to go back because I knew she was following me home. I’ve had to move twice so Wendy wouldn’t find me.”
Scarlet pulled a small notebook and pen from her back pocket. “Jim Douglas, correct?” she said as she wrote.
“Yes.”
“Where do you work?”
“I teach high school math. At IV Prep.”
Ouch. That cost parents upwards of thirty thousand a year, more than many colleges. “And you left work today at what time?”
“A little after four.”
“When did you notice her following you?”
“I was on the bridge and she pulled up next to me. I swear, I thought she was going to run me right off the road. I pulled ahead, didn’t know what to do, and she got stuck at a light. So I decided to turn around and head back to the school. But I couldn’t turn around, too many cars, and then she stopped in front of me and immediately backed into me. No one stopped—someone had to have seen it, but no one stopped until you did. I’d hoped you’d seen her—”
“What did the CHP say?”
“They just took our statements, but they’re not doing anything.”
“File a restraining order—”
“She already filed one against me and I’ve never done anything to her. I’ve been too nice.”
Warning signs blinked in her head. “Go back. Tell me everything.” She was going to regret this.
Jim swallowed. “Can I—get a beer?”
“Are you twenty-one?” she said sarcastically. He obviously was, but he grated on her.
“Yes, of course—” He stopped. “Look, I know what you think.”
“I doubt it.” Scarlet motioned for Heather to bring her and Jim two drafts. When the waitress left, Jim took a healthy swig. Scarlet sipped, assessing him over the rim of her mug. She couldn’t figure out what game he might be playing, but she was still suspicious. Then again, she was suspicious of most everyone.
“I started teaching at IV six years ago,” he said. “I was twenty-three, right out of college. Nothing happened between Wendy and me when she was a student—”
“Stop. I don’t want to know anything else. I’m not taking this case.” What was it with men? Were they all idiots? All guided by their equipment below the belt?
He continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “Wendy’s from a very wealthy family. She went to three different colleges and either got expelled or left. When she was nineteen, we got together—it was stupid, I know. But then, she went back East for college, and I didn’t think about her. Then she moved back home a few years later and we ran into each other again and… well, she was twenty-two. We dated for a few months, and I thought it would work, but she got possessive and she’s high strung and moody. She threw my high school basketball trophy out my apartment window! Cost me six hundred dollars to replace it. Then suddenly I’m served with a restraining order. But she’s the one who’s been following me. But I didn’t want to do anything about it because, well—” He stopped. “But I think she’s going to kill me.”
“Has she threatened you?” Scarlet suspected he was leaving something important out of this conversation.
“Hitting my car isn’t enough? Following me from work? Sitting outside my apartment all night long?”
“I suggest getting a restraining order against Wendy. There’re thousands of mutual restraining orders on the books. Stay away from her—she stays away from you. Eventually she’ll find someone else to obsess over.” Nine times out of ten, Scarlet was right. “She thrives on her ability to make you react—even in a negative way. It’s twisted, but I’d seen it a hundred times when I was a cop.”
“Can’t you make her stop?”
“I’m a private investigator. There’s nothing I can do.”
“Can’t you follow her? Watch her follow me? See
what she does? What if she finds out where I live? I’ve had to move twice, Ms. Moreno. I’m thinking I need to leave southern California for good. Quit my job.” He paused. “I’m scared of her.”
Scarlet almost felt bad for the guy. Almost.
“Look, if she shows up this weekend, call the police. They’ll persuade her to stop. When you get the restraining order, if she violates it, call the police. Go invest in a good security system with a video cam. Put it in tonight if you think she knows where you live. Stay with a friend. But—” She sighed. She was going to regret this. “You won’t be able to get the order until Monday. If you see her again this weekend, call me. I can’t promise anything, and if you call and I come out, you pay my hourly fee.”
Krista was going to shoot her. She was supposed to get all clients to sign a contract. Especially after that time last year when she spent nearly a week helping a friend and didn’t end up getting a dime. But paperwork was the bane of her existence, and she figured she wouldn’t hear from Jim Douglas again.
Jim didn’t look happy with her answer, but he nodded. He wrote on the back of a napkin. “Here are all my numbers. And my address. I’ll do what you said. What do I owe you?”
“For a fifteen minute consult? Nothing. Go. Be careful. Don’t do anything stupid.”
She watched him leave, then brought the empty glasses to the bar. Her seat was taken, so she walked behind the bar and dumped the mugs into the sink. Isaac was mixing drinks and said, “Client?”
“Hopefully not,” she said. “Has a stalker ex-girlfriend. I told him to get a restraining order.”
Isaac snorted. “In my experience, guys rarely get restraining orders.”
“In my experience, guys can be idiots.”
She grabbed another slice of pizza and a bottle of beer and said, “The rest of the pizza is yours, Isaac. Stay frosty.”
Scarlet walked through the swinging door marked authorized personnel only and maneuvered through the narrow hall. There were two small rooms off the hall, Diego’s office and the larger stock room, which also had a door to the alley. The old staircase to her apartment was dark and curved steeply up to a small landing. She unlocked her door, then shut it with her foot.
Crash and Burn Page 2
