Crash and Burn

by Allison Brennan

  “Oh, please,” Scarlet muttered.

  Wendy stomped her feet. “You just don’t understand! No one ever understands!”

  Scarlet understood all right. Wendy was a loony-tune. One of the crazies, just like the people wandering the streets of L.A. off their meds. When she was a patrol cop, every shift she’d end up taking one of these folks to the mental health facility. Some she’d return every month, as if they could clean up and function for a few weeks before they decided they didn’t need their meds anymore, that they were just fine without the pills.

  It wasn’t lost on her that some drugs made sane people crazy, like the designer pills given to Tessa and Valerie, and some drugs made crazy people sane. Because Wendy sure needed something to wire her brain right, or maybe a straitjacket and shrink and a nice rubber room with white walls.

  Sadly, Scarlet suspected all this could have been prevented had her parents recognized early on that Wendy had mental issues that might have been alleviated with drugs or counseling or both. Because Wendy had money, she could cover up her psychosis by being pretty and educated. But she was still unbalanced.

  “Please,” Wendy begged, changing tactics, “tell me where Jim went. I just want to talk to him.”

  “Okay, I can do that. You give me your gun, and I’ll give you his new address.”

  For a split second Scarlet thought her bluff would work. Wendy’s eyes lit up and she took a step forward. “Really? That would be great.” Then she hesitated. “No, I don’t trust you. You want him, too. Take me to him.”

  Scarlet weighed the situation. If she led Wendy down to the bar, there were still innocent people there who might get hurt. However, there was probably at least one cop still around. Maybe. If she was lucky.

  She couldn’t risk Wendy taking another hostage. She said, “To be honest, I don’t know where Jim is.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “I told him not to tell me.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  A slight movement, hardly more than a moving shadow, came from her deck. Scarlet sensed a shape, nothing more.

  “He won’t pick up my phone calls, but I’ll bet he’ll pick up yours,” Wendy said.

  Scarlet had an idea. “Okay. My cell phone is on the kitchen counter charging.”

  “Get it.”

  Scarlet complied. The counter was right behind her, anyway. If she could get Jim to talk to Wendy, it might distract her enough and Scarlet could disarm her.

  “Now call him,” Wendy said.

  Scarlet dialed Jim’s number. He answered on the third ring. “It’s nearly midnight. What’s going on?”

  “Jim, it’s Scarlet Moreno. Your ex-girlfriend is holding a gun on me.”

  “What?”

  Wendy screamed. “Give that to me!”

  She rushed for Scarlet. Wendy’s focus was on the phone. Scarlet’s focus was on the gun. As soon as Wendy was within reach, Scarlet tossed the phone over Wendy’s head—in the direction of where Alex Bishop was standing, just outside her sliding glass door. Wendy’s gaze turned to follow the phone and she shouted, “Jimmy!”

  Scarlet didn’t know if she even saw Bishop. But Wendy certainly didn’t see Scarlet coming for her gun hand while simultaneously kicking the woman’s legs out from under her. She disarmed her and dropped her in seconds.

  Bishop rushed in, his gun out and aimed at Wendy. “You really know how to have fun, Moreno.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Scarlet sat on her deck. It was dark. There was no moon yet though it was supposed to rise later tonight. It was well after midnight on a Sunday. Tourists were gone or asleep. It had been a long weekend. She needed to sleep. But she couldn’t. She wished Bishop would call her or something—tell her what happened. If Chase really had killed his friends, or if it was Tessa and Valerie like she suspected.

  Movement to her right startled her. She glanced over and saw an intruder climbing up to her rooftop deck. Then she relaxed. It was Bishop.

  “I have a door,” she said.

  “Not after hours.” He pulled himself up.

  “Want a beer?”

  “Sure.” He sat down in the chair next to hers. She went inside, grabbed two bottled beers, went back outside and handed one to Bishop. She sat back down.

  “I don’t think Chase killed anyone,” she said.

  “I know he didn’t.” Bishop took a long drink of his beer. He wasn’t looking at her. “You know how you sometimes get cases and there are no winners?”

  “Yeah. Like car crashes. Everyone loses something.”

  “This was a crash,” he said.

  They sat in silence, drinking and Scarlet let Bishop talk in his own time. And he did.

  “I got preliminary forensics on Tessa’s clothing.”

  “That fast?”

  “I have friends.”

  “You must.”

  He gave her a small smile, but it didn’t last. “It was Parker Cresson’s blood on her. Her prints match the fingerprints on the knife. You were right—she stabbed him. We may never know why.” He paused, then looked out at the dark before continuing.

  “I had a long talk with Chase tonight,” he said. “Skip Oliver lawyered up immediately, but I got him on possession and can probably make an attempted murder charge stick if I get the case to the right D.A. And Heather kept the test strips from Friday night and there are witness statements as well. But it’s what happened after those boys drugged Tessa and Valerie that makes me hate my job.” He drank a third of his beer. “You know most of it. Parker got the girls settled at their apartment, went home. Chase went to his place to wait for Richie. He said he didn’t know what he planned on doing, but they ended up brawling and Chase threatened to tell Richie’s father about drugging the girls. Seems that didn’t go over well—Richie’s father is planning a run for public office, and Richie begged Chase not to say anything. Chase packed a bag and left. He went to a friend’s house, but worried about the girls, so checked on them.

  “I’ve been putting together witness statements and phone records, but Chase has been instrumental in figuring out the truth. When Chase didn’t find the girls at the apartment, he called both of them repeatedly. Valerie returned his call in tears, kept talking about something that happened at the beach. He found Juan Robertson’s body, went to his house and found Tessa walking down the street with a gun. He disarmed her, saw that Richie had been shot and assumed he was dead. He brought Tessa to Parker’s house—it was a really dumb move on his part.”

  “He was scared, maybe panicked, blamed himself and his friend.” Scarlet didn’t condone Chase’s actions, but she understood the horror he must have felt.

  “He admitted he didn’t have a plan, that Tessa was wild. He called 911 from the car—came in right after your call. We have it documented. Didn’t leave his name, but we traced the call to his cell phone.

  “After leaving Tessa with Parker, he went back to look for Valerie. Tessa kept saying she was bleeding on the beach, so he planned to look near the water, but when he saw the police, he realized there was something more going on. He didn’t know they had been raped. He thought Tessa had killed Valerie until he saw her get into the ambulance.”

  “Who raped them?”

  “I don’t have the results of the rape kits, but we have everyone’s DNA. We’ll find out what happened.”

  “Where did the gun come from?”

  “It belonged to Richie Sanders. Tessa must have found it or he threatened her with it or she knew it was there.”

  “Why did Chase take so long to take Tessa to the police?”

  “He thinks she killed Parker shortly after he left. He tried calling his friend once he knew we were all at the house and had Valerie, and couldn’t reach him. Went back, found him dead, then searched for Tessa. He found her in her apartment sitting on the floor. He drove around for a while, hoping she’d come down, not knowing what to do or who to call, then suddenly, she started having convulsion
s. He drove her to the nearest hospital, which happened to be in Long Beach, from where he was at the time.”

  “I feel for the kid, he tried to do the right thing, but he should’ve called the police.”

  “I think he had it in his head that he was protecting Tessa and Valerie, and then everything spiraled out of his control.” Bishop drained his beer. “I talked to your brother again tonight. He said he’s seen the same thing in the Valley—extreme violence or extreme depression that ends with suicide or a suicide attempt.”

  “Basically,” she said, “the victims of the drugs crash, one way or the other.”

  “It’s going to take me some time to sort everything out.”

  “You will,” Scarlet said with confidence. “What’s going to happen with Chase?”

  “That’s up to the D.A. But he’s cooperating. And so far, the physical evidence holds up with his statement. He’s going to have to answer to the charges of taking hostages, accessory after the fact for not reporting the crimes. He might get time, or he might get probation.”

  Scarlet rose, suddenly sad about so many lives ruined over the course of the weekend. She retrieved two more beers and came back out. She handed Bishop his bottle, but stood and looked at the quiet sea. She needed the peace of the night, especially after today.

  Bishop said quickly, “Tell me the real reason why you didn’t take the job Lieutenant Riley offered.”

  “I did.” Mostly.

  “You gave me a half-ass reason.”

  “Loyalty is a damn good reason.” She then added, “I like the freedom of not being a cop.”

  “Freedom can get you into trouble. Besides, even P.I.s have rules.”

  “True.” She didn’t want to talk to Bishop about her reasons. He seemed to have an uncanny way of knowing when she was being evasive, even when she looked him in the eye and told a half-truth. She didn’t like that.

  But she liked him.

  “Bishop?” She turned around and smiled.

  “Yeah?”

  “I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

  He put his beer down. “I was kind of hoping it was the beginning of something more.”

  “Like… friends with benefits?”

  He stood and took her hand, pulling her to his chest. “We can start there.”

  Then he kissed her and she melted against him, planning on giving him everything he wanted, and taking everything she craved in return.

  Scarlet accepted two truths:

  She really liked Alex Bishop.

  He was going to be not only a distraction, but potential trouble. For her. For when she finally had the information she needed to uncover what happened to her and Krista three years ago in Los Angeles.

  But until then, she would enjoy the ride.

  BURN

  By Laura Griffin

  Chapter One

  Of all the no-tell motels in Orange County, Brad Stark had picked the dumpiest one. Why? Krista didn’t know. Stark had plenty of money. Or rather, his wife did, and Stark had plenty of access to it.

  So the crappy motel baffled her. The Palm sat on a wedge-shaped patch of asphalt just off the Santa Ana Freeway under a permanent cloud of road dust and hydrocarbons. Flanked by a used furniture store and sex shop, the place was a touch on the sleazy side—and not in a good way.

  The only thing it had going for it besides hourly rates was the Salvadoran food stand across the street. Krista sat there now, munching a pork tamale and waiting for her mark.

  She’d been tailing her client’s husband for three days, and something told her he was on to her. Just a feeling, but her feelings had saved her ass more than a few times, so she’d learned to listen to them. This morning she’d switched tactics and started tailing the presumed girlfriend.

  As of an hour ago, Krista hadn’t been one-hundred percent sure about the girlfriend, a blond yoga instructor who worked at Stark’s gym. But when the woman swung her adorable yellow Mini into the Palm’s parking lot and pulled in beside a familiar silver Lexus, Krista got her confirmation. Now she just had to get her money shot and write up her report.

  Krista checked her watch and sighed. Domestic cases were her least favorite, which made it all the more ironic that the P.I. firm of Moreno & Hart was known for them. They hadn’t intended on the specialty, but they’d taken a few suspicious-wife jobs when they were first starting out and one thing led to another. Now, domestic work was fifty percent of their business, which was nothing to take for granted. They were good at it, too, but Krista dreamed of the day when she could quit chasing dickheads and do some investigating that more closely resembled police work. Like working for a defense attorney. Or better yet—the D.A.’s office. Those jobs paid well and didn’t usually entail spying on people’s sexcapades.

  Krista inhaled a lungful of car exhaust and slurped her Diet Coke. It was nice to dream, but for now, she had a shot to get before she could go home to kick off her shoes, empty her bladder, and pop open a beer.

  She checked her Nikon again to make sure everything was ready. Photo ops were fleeting, and she didn’t like to miss them, especially for a client like Diane Stark.

  Diane was the typical woman who hired Moreno & Hart. She was smart, accomplished, and deep in denial about her husband’s activities. Clients like Diane needed pictures—and not just of cars and license plates. She needed action shots. Hence, Krista had set herself up in the perfect location, as far away from the motel as she could get and still take a decent picture. Setting up too tight was a good way to get burned.

  The phone rattled on the picnic table beside her and Krista read the text. Are you on him? Obviously, hubs had cooked up some lame excuse as to why he wasn’t home at ten o’clock on a Monday. She pictured Diane in her posh Laguna Beach condo, sipping wine and staring out the window. Krista’s heart went out to the woman, but she ignored the message. She’d learned long ago never to tell a client her husband’s exact whereabouts until after the fact. Hell hath no fury like a woman dropped for Yoga Barbie.

  “Come on,” she muttered, staring across the street at room 125. They couldn’t take all night.

  Or maybe they could. Krista loathed Viagra.

  At last, the door swung back and Stark stepped out. He had his collar unbuttoned and his sport coat draped over his arm. He cast a furtive look around, guilty as hell, before stepping onto the sidewalk and closing the door behind him.

  At thirty-five, Stark still had the juiced-up look of an aspiring actor. Krista hated actors after having been married to one for five minutes during her early twenties. But even though Stark still looked the part, he’d abandoned showbiz years ago to sell Lexuses at a dealership owned by his wife’s family. He was pretty good at it when he wasn’t busy running around.

  Krista watched him now. Where was Blondie? Stark popped the locks on his car and tossed his coat in the back. More sideways glances and then he bent down and retrieved something from the backseat. A gym bag. He rooted around in the duffle for a moment, then tucked something into his pocket.

  Krista eyed the door again. A cold knot formed in her stomach. Where was the woman?

  Stark started back for the door as she emerged. Krista readied her camera. Stark pulled her in for a kiss and squeezed her butt as Krista snapped the shot. Perfect. She lowered the Nikon.

  And then it happened. Eye contact.

  Shit. Krista looked away and lifted her phone to her ear. From the corner of her eye, she studied her camera, hidden behind her black nylon backpack on the table. A lot of women carried backpacks. Nothing suspicious. She just hoped her ball cap concealed her face as she gazed at the freeway and carried on a fake conversation.

  When she finally hazarded a glance at the motel, both the Lexus and the Mini were exiting the lot. They turned onto the feeder and joined the river of taillights flowing toward the freeway.

  Krista breathed a sigh of relief and checked her watch. She took out her phone and tapped in a few case notes that would later become pa
rt of her report. Then she collected her gear and gave her table to a trio of twenty-somethings in artfully ripped clothing. Krista circled the weathered wooden building and crossed the parking lot to her dinged white Impala.

  She pulled open the door. A hand clamped over hers, and Brad Stark’s mottled red face loomed over her.

  “Gimme the camera.”

  “Excuse me?” She jerked her hand away, and he gripped her arm.

  “Hand it over.” His voice was low, almost a snarl. His gray eyes were narrow and angry, and Krista’s heart stuttered.

  “Look, I don’t know who you are, but—hey!”

  He reached around her with both arms and grabbed for her backpack.

  “Hands off, pervert!”

  Krista packed a loaded Ruger but whipping it out would attract attention and maybe even the police. Instead, she ducked out of his grasp and popped up with a jab to his solar plexus. He stumbled back, shocked.

  She shifted into her tae kwon do fighting stance. “Back off, I’m warning you.”

  Instead, he charged her. She did a quick jab to the face, followed by a reverse punch in the ribs that sent him tripping backward.

  “Fucking cunt!”

  Charming. Her very favorite endearment.

  He came at her again, face flushed. She sidestepped him and pivoted into a sidekick that put him on his knees, howling. He grabbed for her and she responded with a powerful down-block before backing away.

  Krista pulled out her phone as he struggled to his feet. “Get near me again, and I’m calling the cops.”

  The muscle in his jaw twitched, and he looked about ready to tear her head off. He eyed the phone in her hand. Krista’s pulse roared in her ears as the seconds ticked by.

  Stark hawked up a ball of phlegm and spit at her feet, then he turned and hobbled away. She watched him round the corner of the building and returned to her car, ignoring the stunned stares from people in the parking lot.

  Krista slid behind the wheel, locked the doors, and let out a breath. The confrontation had left her sweaty and rattled. She wiped her palms on her jeans and waited for her heart rate to return to normal. She’d seen homicidal rage before and it looked a lot like Brad Stark.