“I’m a private investigator working on behalf of attorney Marc Hamilton. This woman’s name is Laura McDonald and she’s been served a subpoena to appear in court for stealing thirty thousand dollars from Mr. Hamilton’s law firm. You can call him at 303-555-7299 to confirm this.”
Several people started punching numbers into their cell phones. My, how crimes had changed since Marlowe’s days. Marc would be surprised at the influx of calls, but he’d also be keenly interested in first-person accounts of Laura’s violent behavior, which could only have a positive effect in his case against her.
Cammie toyed with calling 9-1-1 herself and pressing third-degree-assault charges—another one would be such a lovely addition to Miss McDonald’s rap sheet—but that would mean being stuck in San Clemente while cops interviewed her, and Cammie wanted to get to Vegas as soon as possible.
She snapped a few quick shots of the crowd and of Laura, whose blood had drained from her face, the resulting tan-over-pallor making her look a bit sickly.
The man in the white Stetson, pens clipped in the pocket of his utility-type cowboy shirt, stood next to Laura, his hand clamped like a vise on her shoulder. It was clear he intended for her to stay put whether she liked it or not, and from the bitter, beaten look on her face, she got the message.
Cammie stared at her. She should start the long drive back to Vegas, but there was a niggling question that only one person could answer.
“Why Marc?” she asked.
Laura laughed—a dark, disturbing sound—before fixing unflinching eyes on Cammie. “I happened to be in Denver, and I read about his dad skimming a fortune off his clients’ money. I thought, why not pull the same trick with Junior? When the theft was discovered, everybody would blame him. Like father, like son.”
“You targeted him?”
“That’s right. I expected a huge payoff, but sometimes you take what you can get. When I figured I couldn’t get more than a lousy thirty thou, I moved on.”
For a moment or two, all Cammie could do was look stupidly at her, her brain assimilating how a woman who had once seemed so silly, so Shopping Mall Queen, was capable of such diabolical actions.
But then, hadn’t she once said that a Mall Queen was a lot more complex than people realized?
“You nearly destroyed a wonderful man’s life,” Cammie said quietly.
A look dawned on Laura’s face. “God, how pathetic. You still carry a torch for him.”
Cammie turned and started walking away.
“I could always tell you had a thing for him,” Laura called out. “Even told him once and we had a good laugh about it.”
Cammie focused on the swaying palm trees, the crush of the distant surf, the look in Marc’s eyes when he said he’d be waiting for her.
“Because he never cared for you that way, honey,” Laura yelled. “Never did, never will!”
The twist she gave to the word honey made it sound uglier than a dirty name.
After Cammie got into the Kia, she called Marc and got his voice mail. He was probably talking with one of the witnesses from the restaurant. He would be one busy guy fielding all the phone calls as he drove to Vegas.
“Hi, it’s Cammie,” she said. “Laura’s been served. Yes, I gave your phone number to a group of strangers, most, if not all, of whom saw Laura McDonald go berserk after I served her. I’m heading back now, should be there by—” she checked the time “—2:00 p.m. Call me.”
As she drove out of the lot, she passed Laura, who flipped her the bird.
“You’re number one in my book, too, honey,” Cammie murmured.
* * *
LAURA’S TAUNTS BUBBLED UP in Cammie’s mind on the drive. Every time she pushed them down, reminding herself that Laura’s ramblings were nothing more than the vengeful barbs of a criminal who’d been caught and would pay for her crimes.
After miles of road and several hours of thought, Cammie finally reached the conclusion that a corner of her heart hadn’t caught up with current-day events. That the Cammie who had nursed an unrequited crush for years was still hanging around, a kind of ghost of Cammie Past, who was stuck there because she was afraid to embrace the future.
Really, if she ever got tired of being a P.I., she could be a shrink.
As she pulled out of a gas station in Barstow, California, Marc finally returned her call.
“Next time,” he said, “why don’t you just spray paint my private cell number on the side of a building?”
Next time. She liked that. “Because I don’t do illegal things like deface private property.”
He chuckled. “That’s my girl.”
My girl. She liked that even better. “But not indulging in gray activities is not just about you, you know. Little things like misdemeanor charges could put a serious crimp in getting my license back. Felony charges, forget it.”
“Seriously,” he said, “good job serving what’s-her-name. How’d you find her at that burger place?”
“When I got to her house, my smartphone was missing. At the same time, she was backing her snazzy red Viper down the driveway—tried to follow her, lost her. Ended up at The Surfing Rooster, where a stoner short-order cook loaned me his smartphone. Checked my phone’s geolocation through an iCloud connection, and learned it was at Biggee’s Burgers.”
“Good job, Mrs. Peel.”
“Thank you, Mr. Steed.”
“Witnesses have told me stories about her trying to start a cat fight.”
“Yeah, Swagtastic knuckle rapped me from behind, and although I considered giving her a head butt, I refrained.”
He half choked a laugh. “Head butt, really?”
“It was a passing thought,” she mumbled, not wanting to explain what else had gone through her mind at that moment.
“Did she hurt you?” His tone had turned serious.
“No, Marc, I’m okay.”
“Now we understand how she got that third-degree assault.”
“Exactly what I thought.” Maybe she should go ahead and tell him that Laura wasn’t pregnant, but no, that would be an awkward conversation to have while they were driving in separate cars. Plus Cammie didn’t want him to be alone when he heard the news. Either Laura lost the baby, or it had never existed. Regardless, Marc would grieve the loss.
“You’re so quiet,” he said.
“It’s been a long day.”
“Going to get even longer. I’m heading straight to Delilah’s place to pick up Emily so I can chaperone her at her first political rally.”
“Right. Eco-Glitter.”
“Shame Amber can’t join her. Seems she and Em have become bosom cell-phone pals, talking at all hours about environmental issues and social responsibility.” He chuckled. “I should be getting into Vegas in an hour, tops. How about you?”
“I’m an hour behind you.”
“Got to hand it to Em.” The pride was evident in his tone. “She’s walking the talk.”
“Maybe she can use this experience to write a report at school or start some kind of student eco organization.”
“I’ll have to ask her about it when she’s back...with her mom.”
A pain sliced through Cammie as she realized how soon the three of them would be scattered hundreds of miles from each other.
“I’ll miss her,” she said.
“Me, too.”
“I’ll miss you, too.”
“We’ll have to talk about that.”
She got his message as surely as if he’d waved a sign. What had transpired between them these past twenty-four hours was a building block to the next stage of their relationship.
“Yes,” she agreed, “we’ll have to talk about that.”
Before they said their goodbyes, they made plans to get together later
that night. Dinner, then spend the night together at her uncle’s place.
After that, she found a radio station that played classic rock. She sang along with “Take It Easy,” an old Eagles tune, feeling good and happy and, caution be damned, wallowing in being in love. Screw that “I’m not sure I love you anymore” speech she’d given on the beach.
The ghost of Cammie Past wasn’t going to be hanging around much longer.
* * *
AN HOUR OUTSIDE VEGAS, Cammie’s cell phone rang. Delilah’s name displayed on the caller ID.
“Hey, Delilah,” Cammie answered.
“Hello, dear,” Delilah said, her voice barely audible.
“Let me turn down the radio. I can hardly hear you. Okay, what’s up?”
“I’m keeping my voice low, dear, because I don’t want Emily to overhear. Right now she’s playing with Trazy in the back room.”
“Is there a problem?”
“Yes.” Cammie thought she heard a sniffling sound. “I feel bad tattling, but this is serious. I tried calling Marc several times, but he doesn’t answer, and I don’t feel comfortable leaving this message on his voice mail.”
Cammie stared through the bug-splattered windshield at the stretch of Interstate 15 in front of her, trying to grasp what the older woman was talking about.
“Delilah, for God’s sake, what is it? Did you find drugs? Is she drinking? Unprotected sex, what?”
“Worse!” Delilah, who cooed and kissed and blissfully knitted her way through life, cracked. “She’s going to jail! My Lord almighty, our little Emily will be tossed like a piece of fresh meat into a holding cell with prostitutes, drug dealers and other political activists!” She released a weighty sob. “She’s just learned how to use a cable needle, and now she’ll be with junkies who stick real needles up their...”
While Delilah proceeded to describe in graphic detail something she’d seen in a prison documentary, Cammie put her phone on speaker and set it on her thigh.
Two words in particular had stood out.
“Political activists?” Cammie repeated, interrupting Delilah’s description of a prison gang fight between the Aryan Brotherhood and La Nuestra.
“What, dear?”
“You said there’d be political activists in the jail—” A light went on. “This has something to do with the Eco-Glitter rally.”
“Yes! That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. I overheard Emily talking on her cell phone with somebody named Dylan or Daven—”
“Daearen.”
“Yes! That’s it. At first they were talking about some kind of glitter show, which sounded lovely, and then I heard things about diminishing natural resources and sabotaging the political machine and—” she blew her nose loudly “—and then Cammie said she’d be proud to be arrested in order to bring attention to the rape of planet earth.”
“Which she’s planning on doing at today’s rally.”
“Yes!”
“Do you know where, exactly, this is occurring?”
“She mentioned a Green Planet gathering. Sounded as though they sold gecko glitter jewelry there.”
“Eco glitter.”
“What— Oh! I’m looking out the window and her father just picked her up. They’re driving away! I’d hoped to talk to him before they left and now—”
“I’ll be in Vegas in less than an hour,” Cammie said, jamming her foot on the gas. “Emily wanted to see some band first, so she won’t be arrested right away.” Ah, the priorities of youth. “I’ll head straight to the rally and find this Green Planet group.”
“I’ll go, too.”
“No.”
“But...I want to help.”
Thoughts of cleavage and eco-radicalism were swirling with Aryan Brotherhood and La Nuestra gang warfare. “You can help by staying close to your phone. In cases like this,” she said, fumbling for a good reason for Delilah to stay put, “it’s critical that there’s a go-to person available by phone at all times.”
After a beat, Delilah said, “Yes, I’m happy to be that person. And one more thing.”
Cammie waited. “Yes?”
“Did you know the world is ending in 2016?”
* * *
THIRTY-SEVEN MINUTES LATER, Cammie parked her car near the Lloyd George U.S. Courthouse in downtown Las Vegas, in front of which the Eco-Glitter rally was taking place. In the parking lot, a lone protestor—an uptight-looking woman with fire-engine-red hair and perfect makeup—carried a bright pink sign that read Everything’s Fine, Keep Shopping.
The notorious Vegas winds had decided to lie low for a change, offering no respite from the afternoon sun. Cammie guessed temps were in the low eighties. Had to be broiling inside the dark police uniforms that were everywhere on foot, bike, even horseback. Cruisers were parked at both ends of Clark and Bridger Avenues on Las Vegas Boulevard, which had been blocked off for the event. Reporters and videographers were camped out at different areas at the rally, vultures waiting for their feedings.
Moving through the crowd, she caught scents of pineapple and apples from a Grow Local open-air booth. A guy in a G-string wandered through the crowd, playing “With a Little Help from My Friends” on a flute. A series of stalls labeled The Organic Free Trade People’s Market advertised such items as lavender deodorant, recycled-textile jewelry and eco-friendly lingerie.
It was as if a corner of Woodstock had merged with Sin City.
It wasn’t difficult to find the Green Planet activists. At least thirty of them, looking righteously solemn and wearing bright green armbands decorated with glittery emblems of the planet earth, had congregated in the middle of the courthouse steps.
A distant incantation drew Cammie’s attention.
“Spare the earth. Spare the earth.”
Five or six people, wearing Planet Earth armbands, marched solemnly in front of a small tractor rolling down a cleared area of Las Vegas Boulevard. Several waved American flags. A thirtysomething man with bushy black hair, apparently the leader, was yelling slogans into a bullhorn.
A line of cops in riot gear approached from the opposite end of Las Vegas Boulevard.
The media pushed through the crowds, vying with spectators for primo spots to witness the upcoming showdown.
“Cammie!”
Marc jogged toward her, his face lined with worry. Reaching her, he grabbed her shoulders and yelled over the growing buzz of the crowd.
“Em...I’ve lost her!”
Cammie scanned the courthouse steps, looking in vain for a flash of strawberry-blond hair.
“We were watching the band,” he continued, “and next I knew, she was gone.” Frantic, he scoured the crowd. “A mess is brewing and I want her out of here.”
She glanced at the rolling tractor. The bushy-haired leader, walking alongside it, held up something. People started clapping, others yelling, fists raised high.
“What are they doing?” she said absently.
The leader bellowed into the bullhorn, “Death to the Machine! Death to the Machine!”
“Marc,” Cammie said, tugging on his sleeve, “he’s holding a Molotov cocktail!”
“Take off the gas cap!” the leader yelled into the bullhorn.
The tractor slowed as several Planet Green types began fiddling with the cap.
Marc looked anxiously through the crowd. “Damn fools, they’re going to set fire to the tractor! Where’s Emily?”
The line of riot-geared cops marched forward, one of them barking orders through a louder, badder bullhorn.
“Cease! Move away! Disperse! Now!”
Two cops in blue jackets with Police in bright yellow letters on their backs burst from the crowd and tackled the leader, forcing him to the ground. A third officer cuffed the leader’s hands behind his back
as he continued screaming orders, indicating his bullhorn that lay in the street.
A blonde in jeans and a Make Love, Not Trash T-shirt, wearing a Green Planet armband, darted into the street and picked up the bullhorn. It was Emily. The bullhorn looked huge in her hand. Cammie silently prayed that she would have the good sense to drop it and step away.
No such luck.
She saw Emily lift the bullhorn to her mouth. It was like watching a train wreck in slo-mo. Smart, pretty, well-meaning Emily was about to take a giant step in the wrong direction.
“Brute force can’t subdue the earth,” she said through the microphone.
People roared and raised their fists.
“Emily!” Marc pushed and shoved his way through the crowd.
“We stand with Mother Earth,” Emily yelled. “Witness this brutality! Raise the voices of the people!”
“Emily!” Marc shouted, pushing past a reporter.
Cammie, jogging behind him, saw one of the cops in a blue jacket running toward Emily like a bull elephant about to trample Bambi.
She raised a defiant fist. “Deny the ruling-class pigs their brutal moment in the sun—”
The cop snatched her bullhorn, yelling, “You’re interfering with a felony investigation and you will be arrested—”
“Stop!” Marc yelled. “She has a right to free speech.”
A burly guy holding a video camera blocked Cammie.
“She doesn’t have a right to help people blow up tractors, buddy,” the cop yelled at Marc, pointing a finger for emphasis. “If you don’t move away immediately, I’ll charge you with obstruction of jus—”
Which was the last thing Marc needed. Not now, when his career, his father’s freedom, was at stake.
Cammie jabbed her elbow into the fat guy. With a curse, he jumped aside, and Cammie ran as fast as she could across the asphalt, watching Marc argue with the officer, who was waving over reinforcements, directing them to Emily, who stood nearby, looking terrified and frightened.
Cammie knew what she had to do, and she had to act fast.
The Next Right Thing (Harlequin Superromance) Page 20
