by Tessa Vidal
Better to play it off like I didn't have a care in the world.
If Ronnie had a girlfriend who would drive all the way to Bumfuck, West Texas for a hookup, la-dee-dah. I didn't give a flying fuck if she had a thousand girlfriends who'd crawl ten thousand miles across Death Fucking Valley. Nothing, fuck-all nothing, was of smaller importance to me than Ronnie Rales's girlfriends.
“Sleep well?” I asked.
“Fine. You?”
“Great. I slept great.”
As early as I woke up, I hadn't left the cabin again before it was light enough to walk Yukon. When I did, I checked around the front parking lot again. Still no Lexus. As far as I could tell, Bailey Flowers had never returned from wherever she'd gone last night.
Cold, I thought. Call someone to drive all that way, then kick them out an hour later after you got your cookies.
Except the Ronnie I held in my arms two nights ago was anything but cold. My lips still tingled from the memory of that passionate mouth. And so did the hollows of my inner thighs.
Forget Ronnie. And forget the fucking girlfriend.
“I looked over your script,” she said.
“I don't have a problem with that as long as you don't blab about plot elements to any reporters.”
“I signed your director's non-disclosure form about that stuff before I ever left Hollywood.”
“Sure. I was just saying.” Was my voice light enough?
“There are some unrealistic elements but...”
“Yeah, it's a movie.”
“She has a lot of conflict with her male colleagues.”
“Mmm-hmm. You don't think that's realistic?”
“In real life, the conflict is usually more passive-aggressive. Even a little understated. You don't tend to run into situations where all the agent has to do is file a complaint with human resources.”
I laughed. “Movies have to be bigger than real life. The bullying she faces has to be bigger.”
“You almost want her to get away with the millions.”
“Good. You're supposed to. She even has to want it for herself.”
“Except she couldn't live with herself if she sunk to the level of a thief.”
Ronnie didn't seem to have much trouble living with herself. Because she wasn't the thief? Or because she was a sociopath?
We rode in silence for a while.
“What do you need me for, Clary?” she finally asked. “You already have a handle on this character. What am I telling you that you don't already know?”
“If I knew that, I wouldn't need you. It's a process of discovery.”
“Uh huh. I suspect it's a process of your director wanting to have the FBI's imprimatur on his film.”
“Well, that too. Keller is a great believer in authenticity,” I said. “He's practically a second Werner Herzog.” She'd left the opening if I dared to take it. “You probably know he's been negotiating with the Smithsonian to allow us to use the real Ademar Emerald in the heist sequence. Everybody's been talking about it. Variety, The Hollywood Reporter, and all the rest.”
Silence. When I flicked my eyes sideways to steal a glimpse at her face, she was staring straight ahead as if nothing interested her more than the road unfolding in front of us.
“Why are you really here?” I asked. “Is it because of that scene with the emerald? Do you think there's going to be a robbery attempt made on our movie set?”
Do you think I'm going to steal it? Or do you plan to steal it yourself while setting me up for the frame?
At last, she turned to look at me. “I'm here because you went to my boss to replace your original FBI consultant with a woman.”
“Uh huh. Like we don't both know better than that.”
“All right.” She sighed. “There probably isn't any real reason not to tell you. Sure, being your consultant is a little bit of a cover story. My primary objective is to make damn sure that emerald doesn't disappear in a puff of smoke. If somebody tries it, they're going to federal prison. That stone belongs to the American people.”
“Then we're both on the same team.” Traffic was light on this stretch of highway, and my cruise control was holding steady. I risked looking directly into her eyes. “No matter who tries to take it, that person is going down. I don't care who they are. Or how smart they think they are. Nobody's fucking up my movie.”
Or my life. Not again.
Chapter Fifteen
Ronnie
Clary pulled off in Fort Stockton. “My Instagram followers will expect a selfie of me and Yukon with the largest roadrunner in the world.”
“Another one? What about the one you got Instagrammed with in Las Cruces?” I checked on my phone. “That one was bigger.”
“That one was a folk arty thing made of recycled materials. This one's more of a classic statue type of statue.” She couldn't repress a pretty giggle.
The morning was awkward, but not as awkward as you'd expect after the unwanted encounter with Bailey. Clary seemed to be making an effort to be pleasant. Maybe I shouldn't have admitted I was going to be bird-dogging the Ademar, but she was an intelligent woman. Anybody would have to figure the FBI would be watching that emerald. Denying the obvious would only make her wonder if I was setting a trap.
The thing that truly bothered me was how sincere she seemed. How real. Her acting ability was off the charts. If I hadn't known who she was, I would have believed she meant every word out of that lovely lying mouth.
She didn't ask about Bailey. She sure as hell didn't admit to a previous encounter when she was Malory Maine being placed under arrest by my inconvenient ex.
She's a liar.
Well, it wasn't like I was exactly telling the whole truth either.
As it turned out, the Fort Stockton roadrunner wasn't any classic, if by classic you meant bronze. It was eleven feet tall and made of fiberglass, but Clary and Yukon seemed as pleased as if it had been sculpted out of twenty-four-karat gold. The parking lot was across the street from the alleged attraction, which forced the two of them to twitch with visible impatience as they waited for the green light.
She was hard to figure out. She often seemed so... happy. It was something I'd noticed about her from the very beginning, even when she was Malory Maine. Beautiful women could be hard and cynical, especially in Los Angeles, and most especially in the entertainment industry, but she could be surprisingly sweet.
My phone vibrated.
I glanced down. Bailey. If ever a call cried out to be sent directly to voicemail...
It buzzed again. A text this time.
For fuck's sake.
The light changed, but I didn't move. “You two go ahead. I've got to deal with this call.”
“No problem. We'll be right back.”
She joined the throngs crossing the street. Somebody cooed over Yukon's furry scruff and curly tail. Another tourist who didn't recognize Clarissa in her ball cap and wraparound sunglasses. I looked at the phone, but it was hard to read the text in bright sunlight, and I wasn't in the mood for a voice call. Climbing back into the Fleetwood, I read the message.
Bailey: What did you think about that part in the script where the pink diamond is swapped for sapphire?
Me: I thought it was unrealistic.
I also thought it was something Bailey couldn't give a rat's ass about.
Me: Is this really important right now? I think we need to shut down the nonessential communication.
It took me a while to type that out.
The telltale three dots appeared and stayed there a moment. Whatever Bailey was typing took time too.
Bailey: We need to talk about our relationship.
Way to miss the point.
Me: We no longer have a relationship to talk about.
Three more dots told me she still couldn't take the hint. I waited, although I really shouldn't.
Bailey: We have so much to talk about.
Me: I'm not going to keep going round for round on this, Bailey.
>
Although, of course, I did. The old bad habits were so easy to fall into. She texted something, and I texted something, and it got under my skin how robotic she sounded. We went back and forth, and it didn't seem as if she was responding to anything I said.
She was talking at me, not to me.
Not anything new, if I was honest with myself.
The car was getting warm. I only realized how much time had slipped past when I pocketed the phone. Getting out, I didn't recognize any of the other vehicles parked around me. The tourists who'd pulled in when we did had already gone.
Where the hell were Clary and Yukon?
Probably getting mobbed by autograph seekers. I'd better go over there and perform a rescue. The light was against me, and I had to wait. When I shaded my eyes to peer across the street, I didn't see them. How do you miss a dog the size of Yukon?
I began to feel uneasy.
Crossing the street, I walked slowly around the giant fiberglass roadrunner which was, I learned, twenty-two feet from tip to tail. The eleven feet quoted on Wiki must refer to the distance from the top of the statue to the ground.
These fascinating fun facts weren't all that fascinating when Clary and Yukon were still nowhere to be seen.
I stopped a young teen couple who'd just put away their phones. “Excuse me. Did you see a lady with a dog?”
“A dog? Like a chihuahua? Yeah, uh...”
“A big furry dog with one of those tails that curl over.”
They looked at each other and shook their heads. “I'm sorry, ma'am,” said the girl. “We didn't see any big dogs. Just the little chihuahua. He was sooooo cute. He had one of those pink collars with diamonds?”
They're called rhinestones, hon.
“I'm sure he was adorable, but he's definitely not the one I'm looking for.”
I pulled my phone back out of my pocket. This time, the text went to Clary.
Me: I'm standing by Big Bird.
Clary: Oh, sorry. I thought you were busy, so I was taking a little walk with Yukon. Back in a few.
Me: K.
She'd answered right away, and there was nothing wrong exactly with what she said. Still, I didn't like how she wandered off like that.
Don't be ridiculous. She's perfectly safe with Yukon.
Yeah, right.
If anybody harasses her, he'll floof them to death.
Chapter Sixteen
Clary
I kept my cap pulled low on my head and my dark glasses tight against my distinctive green eyes. Although Yukon was perfectly socialized to handle large crowds, the fine folks of Fort Stockton had no reason to know that, so I had him on his harness. It was a warm day with a buzz of energy in the air. Several people had arrived at the roadrunner at the same time. The Instagram era must have given a jolt of life to old-timey tourist attractions like this.
The other roadrunner photo already had over a hundred thousand likes. I'd be interested to see how many this one got.
“Smile, baby,” I said as I held up the phone.
Yukon obliged. Easy for him to do, since it always looked like he was smiling.
The day was so bright I had to hunch over to see what the photo looked like. It was a little too-too, so I applied the Gingham filter. There. Perfect.
Someone grabbed my arm. Yukon growled.
“That growl was a warning shot,” I said. “Please unhand me.”
“‘Please unhand me?’ This isn't a movie, Ms. Stanton. Come on. We need to talk.”
A cold chill ran down my spine. I recognized the voice even before I raised my eyes to her face. Bailey Fucking Flowers of the silver Lexus and steel handcuffs. She flashed me a badge, which I grabbed hold of for a better look before she stowed it again.
Not that I needed a better look, but I had to pretend. She wasn't supposed to know Clarissa Stanton knew exactly who she was.
“LAPD.” I kept my voice pitched low. Clarissa Stanton had no reason to fear a Los Angeles police officer a thousand miles out of her jurisdiction. “You made a wrong turn somewhere, honey.” Yukon stopped growling on my signal, but he stood close, the tension in his stance making it clear he was ready to react.
Flowers glanced down at him with a visible lack of appreciation. “Look. Let's not do this here. There's a diner around the corner.”
“Let's not do this anywhere. You're very far away from Los Angeles, Officer. I don't have to go anywhere with you.”
“You don't have to, but you want to. You need to.”
I should turn and walk away. The longer this interaction went on, the bigger the chance she'd realize I was one and the same person as Malory Maine. But she was Ronnie's long-time girlfriend, and the temptation to hear her out was irresistible. “Why is that, exactly? What do you think you have to tell me that I need to hear?”
“Too much to yap about on a street corner. Come on. What do you have to lose? I bet that diner serves a mean bowl of Texas chili, and I'm buying.”
I looked down at Yukon. “They'd have to allow dogs.”
“They do. I already checked.”
She'd arrested me twelve years and thousands of suspects ago, and I'd had a completely different look down to a different eye color. Not for the first time, I blessed the long-ago stylist who put me in those ridiculous brown circle contacts. Nobody ever expected you to change green eyes to brown.
Flowers doesn't have a clue about who I am. What would it hurt to hear her out? Maybe she'll trip up and tell you more than she means to.
“You put a tracker on my car,” I said.
She shrugged by lifting a single shoulder. Somehow, we were already walking briskly down the street in the direction she'd selected. That good old-fashioned LAPD arrogance. They said what was going to happen, and you were expected to fall in line.
“Don't you need a warrant to track my vehicle?”
She had the gall to smile. “What makes you think I didn't have a warrant?”
“Because, I don't know, you didn't serve a warrant?”
“What makes you think I have to serve a warrant on a car? Cars don't have civil rights. Read the Constitution sometime.”
The diner turned out to be one of those loud clattering places where uniformed police officers get free coffee. Well, except for the canine officer, a German shepherd. Maybe he got a free hamburger instead. The two dogs noticed each other but repressed the urge to sniff each other's butts. A hostess in a white ruffled apron hurried over.
“Can we have that booth in back?” Bailey asked.
“Why, you sure can. Need a menu, hon?” Recognizing a couple of strangers, she laid on the West Texas accent like wildflower honey.
“Just a pot of coffee,” Bailey said.
Thanks for asking, Lieutenant Flowers. What happened to that mean bowl of chili?
We settled in across from each other. Yukon sat under the table warm against my legs. He was calm but alert, and I could feel the tension in his powerful body. He didn't like Bailey Flowers, probably because he sensed how much I didn't like her.
The hostess delivered the coffee herself. I stirred some saccharin into the dishwater-colored fluid but took a pass on the powdered creamer. I left on my dark glasses and ball cap. There was nothing to gain by allowing Flowers to gaze into my naked eyes.
“So tell me what you've got to tell me.”
“I'm a senior officer in Robbery-Homicide Division.” Like the badge hadn't already said as much. “I'm the lead investigator on a series of major robberies in the greater Los Angeles area.”
“And I should be interested in this... why, exactly?”
“Special Agent Veronica Rales is the FBI consultant for your new movie.”
“She is. The female lead is an FBI agent. And the film's set in New Orleans. Hard to see how any of that impacts LAPD.”
Flowers thinned her lips. “We've recently run a new data analysis on cold case gemstone robberies going back for fifteen years.”
The coffee was lukewarm, but the blood in my v
eins turned to ice.
“In some of those cases, a suspect was never identified, much less apprehended.” She stared hard at my face, making me grateful for my dark sunglasses. “There's a pattern of mysterious gemstone disappearances swirling around Veronica Rales.”
For years, I'd been haunted by the way Ronnie made her Glock appear and disappear like a rabbit out of a magician's hat. If anyone could have witched the stone right off my neck, it was her. Of course, it was her. It had always been her. This wasn't new information.
So why did it feel like I'd just been stabbed in the heart?
“What are you getting at, Officer? Are you implying that Ronnie...” I shouldn't call her Ronnie. “Are you implying that Special Agent Rales is the one who's been stealing these gems?”
“I'm asking the questions here.” This woman never seemed to forget she was a cop. “Whose idea was it to borrow the Ademar Emerald?”
“I'm not sure I should be talking about movie stuff with you. That should go through the studio's press office.”
“Then let me talk about movie stuff with you. Is it a fair assumption that your movie's insurer will not be happy if the Ademar Emerald disappears from that set? Is it possible you and Claus Keller might never be insurable to make another movie if it does?”
“You're threatening me.”
“I'm asking you to face reality. You have a vested interest in helping me with my case. So answer the fucking question. It just isn't that hard. Whose idea was it to borrow the Ademar?”
I stirred my spoon around in my coffee. It wasn't any kind of a secret worth arguing about. “It was Claus's idea. That's what he does. He tries to incorporate reality into his movies as much as he can. Lots of guys do CGI, he does reality. That's his unique selling proposition.”
“Claus Keller.”
“Mmm-hmm. You know, you didn't have to come all the way to Fort Stockton, Texas to figure that much out. He's pretty famous.”
“You think there was any chance he was influenced by Veronica Rales?”
“I think there was zero chance he was influenced by Veronica Rales.” This was a waste of time, and I needed to get back on the road. Was that all Flowers had? Some computer program that played connect-the-dots? “Why am I here, Officer?”