License to Lie

by Terry Ambrose

  In two seconds, Skip and Stella would be dead. Then, me. And Dad. I took an off-balance leap from the chair toward Clinton. He swatted me away like a fly, but this time, I was prepared for him. I landed on my side and rolled to my right. Too late, I realized that I’d rolled into the chair where my dad sat. His chair fell sideways and Dad went with it. Without thinking, I pushed myself up and jumped to my feet. Two gunshots echoed throughout the apartment. I gave Clinton a kick to his back and he spun toward me. My next kick caught him in the jaw. He stumbled backward. Then, instead of shooting me, he turned back to the front door, instinctively knowing the intruder was the greater danger.

  I grabbed for the gun in his hands as he aimed at Skip, but his elbow caught me in the jaw. Clinton’s gun went off and Skip went down. He rolled and started to bring his gun up, but Clinton kicked it away and then hit Skip with his pistol hard enough to slam Skip’s head into the floor. I kneed Clinton in the side and jarred the gun from his grasp. He stumbled away. I readied myself for his attack.

  Instead of attacking, Clinton scanned the room. He seemed to be mentally assessing the situation. Gunshots fired, Stella dead, Skip down. If he dealt with me, the cops would be here before he could escape. He said, “Next time, kid.” He turned and ran out the front door.

  Behind me I heard my dad groan. To my left, Skip struggled to his feet. Before me, Stella lay bleeding. In the distance, I heard sirens. I stood in place, torn, not knowing what to do next. Those few seconds were the longest of my life. Clinton’s words echoed in my mind. Next time? He intended to find me—at a time and place of his choice.

  I rushed across the room, grabbed the key Clinton had set next to the computer, and tried it on the handcuffs. I unlocked both cuffs, then grabbed Skip’s gun, determined that if Clinton and I were to meet again, it would be on my terms. I’d catch him now. Those were my terms.

  I knelt next to her and put my cheek against Stella’s mouth. I felt nothing. Blood splattered the walls, soaked her chest, and pooled on the floor. I’d never seen so much blood. As much as I wanted to chase down Clinton, my feet seemed cemented in place by the chaos surrounding me. Skip was still dazed, my dad moaned, and Stella—poor Stella.

  My resolve rose. I couldn’t do anything for Stella or the other two. Bile rose in my throat as I lunged out the door. To my right, I heard a car engine race. I ran toward the sound. Sirens in the distance grew louder. They could only be a couple of blocks away. I swallowed my fear and made it to the parking lot in time to see a motorcycle revving up to my left. On it was a man wearing a black turtleneck. Even without the mask, I recognized Clinton. The bike turned onto the street. I crouched and took aim. It was now or never. My hands shook. I fired. One. Two. Three shots.

  Just as the third shot went off, two police cars screeched into the lot. The cops angled their cars into the lot, then took up positions behind the cars with their guns aimed at me.

  “Put down your weapon!” The command came over the car’s loudspeaker.

  My heart seized as I realized what the cops thought was going on. Slowly, I set the gun on the asphalt and raised my hands.

  “Walk toward us. Keep your hands where we can see them.”

  “You’ve got it all wrong. That man kidnapped me. He’s the criminal, not me!”

  One of the officers shifted his position. “We’ll sort that out later. Right now, we need you to step over here.”

  Across the street, I saw small faces peering out of windows. An overwhelming urge to vomit washed over me as a mother appeared and pulled her children away. I whispered, “Oh my God.” I could have killed a couple of kids.

  My knees nearly buckled as I stepped toward the cops. Officer Stenheim was the first to approach. For the second time in less than an hour, I was in handcuffs.

  I swallowed hard. “There’s a dead woman in one of the apartments. And two men who are injured.”

  Little lines around the officer’s eyes deepened. “Which apartment?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Behind me, I heard Skip’s voice. “Apartment 4. Officer, she was going after the man who kidnapped her.”

  Another officer stepped between Stenheim, me, and Skip. A third took up a position to Skip’s right. Skip’s face had a nasty gash where he’d been pistol-whipped.

  Stenheim began reading me my rights and moved me toward the car with firm, steady pressure.

  I heard Skip explaining. “Skip Cosgrove. I’m a criminologist. I’ve done work for Carlsbad PD before.”

  One of the officers piped up. “I’ve heard the name. ID please.”

  Stenheim guided me into the car. I glanced up at him and pleaded. “My father’s in that apartment. He may be hurt, please help him.”

  Stenheim’s tone was stern. “Ma’am, you should have thought of that before you came out here and started shooting a gun.”

  I heard another siren. Across the street, I saw an officer knocking on the door of the house I’d shot up. Another police car and an EMT truck pulled into the lot. The place began to swarm with activity. They were like bees around a hive, checking my gun, patting down Skip, rushing to the apartment.

  The car door closed and I watched as someone photographed, bagged and tagged my gun. The swarm continued to buzz. Two EMT’s rushed a stretcher into the apartment complex, returning a few minutes later with a woman’s body that they loaded into their truck. The sheet covering the body was already red. It was Stella. I must have been wrong and she was still alive. I said a silent prayer in hopes that Stella would pull through.

  The truck pulled away, sirens blaring. Seconds later, another truck took its place. Two more EMTs rushed into the apartment complex. Another car pulled into the lot. The occupants got out, flashed badges to an officer who protected the perimeter, and went into the complex.

  I still didn’t know if my dad was okay. Stenheim and his partner approached the car. They got in and sat in grim silence.

  As Stenheim started the car, I said, “How’s my dad? He was the man who was tied in the chair.”

  Stenheim glanced at me in his rearview mirror. “He’s fine. It looks like the woman you shot is still alive.”

  “Thank God.”

  “Don’t get your hopes up. The EMTs don’t think she’ll make it to trauma.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Skip

  It was nearly 4 p.m. when Skip got Roxy released from jail. He’d had to call in Wally and the only thing that pissed him off about that was now he owed Wally a favor. Who knew what he’d have to do or when he’d have to repay that one. They were halfway to the Tanner residence when the question that had been gnawing at him bubbled to the surface. He decided he couldn’t ignore it any longer.

  “Where’d you get the money?”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Skip saw Roxy staring out the passenger’s window. The memory of her face when she’d walked out of jail had been etched into his psyche. Lips drawn, complexion pale, eyes fearful, Roxy Tanner’s world had been destroyed. In that moment, he resolved that he’d give anything—even five million dollars if he had it—to fix this.

  He waited for an answer. When he got none, he asked the question again.

  “What’s it matter?” she said without looking at him.

  Skip kept his eyes on the road. “I called a source this morning to check out your business. I was concerned about how you—”

  “You what? You checked me out? Son of a bitch. You were hired to help, you—you—”

  “Cool your jets, Hot Rox.”

  She glared at him. “Don’t you call me that. Don’t you ever call me that!”

  “Sorry.” He decided to gamble to get at the truth. “Alright, Miss Tanner, my source tells me your business is a scam. It looks like the money you’ve been collecting for this ocean-wave technology project of yours has been sitting in the bank waiting for you to use for some sort of disappearance. Are we close?”

  She laughed and stared out the side window again. “Your source is so wrong.”r />
  “Why’s that?”

  “Because I don’t have that five million anymore. It’s gone. Vanished. It’s off in some bank account halfway around the frigging world. No, your source has old intel. I’m broke.”

  Skip exited at Tamarack and pulled the car over. He twisted sideways so he could watch her face. “So you did use the money from the business to free your dad?”

  She looked him in the eye, bit her lower lip and said, “Yes. But you know what? I’d do it again in a second.” Her eyes and face grew red, her cheeks quivered, but she didn’t break. God, she was tough.

  Skip said, “I don’t blame you. I’d probably have done exactly the same thing. If I had anyone left who mattered that much.”

  She swallowed hard. “What about Stella?”

  “She never made it to the hospital.”

  “They—they think I killed her, don’t they?”

  He nodded. “That’s the current line of thinking. Fortunately for you, they’ve only got enough for the weapons charge right now. The cops aren’t buying the whole victim-turned-conqueror bit. A nosey neighbor saw you coming in with the kidnappers.”

  “That’s great! Then she can testify. Prove that I was the victim.”

  “She says you were on drugs. That you were weaving all over. It took two people to help you into the apartment. There’s no third man or the car you said was used to kidnap you. I never saw them grab you so I can’t testify about that. The only kidnapper is Stella and the cops think you shot her.”

  “But you saw what happened.”

  He shook his head. “They’re not sure about me either. I was behind Stella when she was hit. They think maybe we formed our own little vigilante party and went charging in there with guns to kill the bad guys. Which is kind of what happened. I should have called for backup. I know—knew—better.”

  “I’m screwed, aren’t I?”

  He reached across the car and wiped a tear from her cheek with his thumb. He grimaced. “You could be tried for fraud, embezzling money from your company, discharging a firearm in public, manslaughter, and, oh yeah, killing a fish tank.”

  She let out a nervous laugh. “What?”

  “The cops say you put three tight ones into an eighty-gallon aquarium the neighbors had across the street. Shots went straight through the window and took out the tank. Thankfully, nobody was hurt—unless you count the fish. The kids were hysterical. They couldn’t believe someone would kill their fish. Of course, the parents want you put away since you could have easily gotten one of them or their kids.

  Roxy groaned. She slumped back in her seat and laid her head against the headrest. “I’ve made such a mess of everything. You were right. We should have called the cops when the first ransom note came in. Now I’ve dragged you into this.”

  “Yeah, I am kind of in the middle.”

  “Will this hurt your business?”

  He turned away.

  She demanded, “Will it?”

  “They consider me an accomplice. My mistake was not calling them as soon as I found out where you were. So, yeah, this will hurt me.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  He didn’t dare tell her the truth. If he did, he was sure she’d use that to manipulate him somehow. “I’m not sure.”

  She reached across the car and put her hand on his arm. “Thank you for trying to save me.”

  Her touch sent a hot charge through his system. Though he found the rush addictive, he willed himself to pull away. Seeing her in this much pain tormented him—she shouldn’t have to go through this. That raised another question. What would he do to make that happen?

  He forced a weak smile. “Let’s go see your parents. They’re worried about you.”

  She wiped at her cheek and turned away. “Okay.”

  Skip started to put the Porsche into gear, but stopped. He turned sideways to face Roxy again. “Look, there’s one more thing.”

  She let out an exasperated sigh as she turned to face him. New tears tracked down her cheeks. “Now what?”

  “I want to help you find the bastard who’s behind this.”

  “I thought you’d want to wash your hands of me.” She started counting on her fingers. “I’m a liar, a thief, a—”

  “A fish killer.”

  She smiled. “That, too.”

  “I know you’re going after him.”

  “You think so, huh?”

  “You need that money back and there’s a guy out there who probably wants to kill you. Your secretary was in on the deal, so you were betrayed by an insider. You’ve got big problems and might not be seeing the outside of a jail cell until you’re somewhere in the neighborhood of, oh, say, sixty-five.”

  “Thanks a lot. What’s it to you?”

  “Do you want help or not?”

  “I can’t pay you.”

  “I told you, my business is on hold until the police are satisfied. I kind of need to clear my name with the cops—paying clients are going to have to wait a bit.”

  Her lower lip trembled as the words spilled out. “Fine! You want to help? Tell me who the blackmailers were. We have no idea. Hell, we don’t even have a single clue.”

  Skip said, “Well, not exactly.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a green cell phone. “While you were busy chasing bad guys and shooting up aquariums, I had a couple of minutes to think about this. Roxy, meet Stella’s cell phone.”

  Roxy stared, wide-eyed, at the phone, then Skip. “You lifted her cell?” Her jaw fell.

  He chuckled, amused at how everyone thought he was so straight—even he had skeletons in his closet. “It was an impulse thing. I haven’t had a chance to check it yet, but I’m sure her address book will help us out.”

  “What about the cops? You don’t think they’ll have a problem with you stealing evidence? And you don’t think they might just notice a call on Stella’s phone after she’s dead?”

  “We don’t need the phone, just the information. We can download whatever we need and not leave a trail. You can just drop it in her desk drawer tomorrow morning. If they show up looking for it, it’ll be right there.”

  Roxy watched him closely. He thought he saw a twinkle in her eye. Maybe it was hope. Maybe she was seeing him in a new light.

  “Besides,” he said, “I’ve only broken half the rules. So far.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Roxy

  When Skip showed me Stella’s phone, I recognized it immediately. Hers and mine were identical with the exception of color. The fact that he had taken evidence from a crime scene confused the hell out of me. This straight-laced guy, this guy who’d wanted to be a cop his entire life, this guy who barely knew me had broken the law to help me. That thought warmed my heart for about two minutes—then the anger came. It was a seismic wave directed at myself for what I’d done—and what I’d become.

  Strangely enough, seeing my dad handcuffed in that chair and Skip coming through the door to fight off the guy in the Clinton mask seemed to have freed me from the old demons. That didn’t mean I didn’t still hate the man who’d ruined my life. But the fact was that as I sat in jail contemplating how I’d ended up there, my thoughts shifted away from the fear I’d felt for the past twenty years to something that scared me even more. I found myself wanting to track him down. To make him pay for what he’d done to me. And maybe even for all the other little girls who’s lives he’d ruined.

  I’d faced death a second time and fought it off. The hot streak running through me was there because I’d let other people control me. No more. No, from now on, Roxy Tanner would do what she wanted to do. And that, in some weird way, scared me to death because I might be turning into a female version of the man behind the Clinton mask.

  The idea of going through Stella’s cell phone to harvest her contacts, however, gave me some sort of perverse thrill, a sense of being empowered to legitimately snoop on another person. Now that we were actually getting to the task, trepidation filled my veins.


  “How are we going to tell who’s who? Stella had a lot of calls. It looks like she’s got hundreds of names in her address book.”

  Skip sat next to me at Mom and Dad’s kitchen table. “We’re looking for patterns. You said it was like she knew the guy you decked in that apartment, right?”

  I recalled that moment right after my kick to his groin, how it had sent him to the floor, how Stella had rushed to him, how she’d tended to him. “Could be. I mean, she was all over him when she thought I’d hurt him. It was like she was really concerned about a friend.”

  “Or a boyfriend.” Skip pointed at a number. “She called it three times the day before your dad was kidnapped. But there were no calls that evening.”

  Dad limped into the room. “That’s about the time I met him. He was a nice enough guy. I was so drunk by then. I don’t remember his name, though.” Dad pulled out a chair and started to sit. He winced as he lowered himself to a seated position.

  I hated seeing him in pain. “You should be resting. You’ve had a grueling couple of days.”

  “We need to talk.” He watched my face. “I know, Roxy. I know what you did.”

  Skip came to my rescue. “Richard, I’m going to do my best to help Roxy make this right. If we don’t find that money soon, nothing’s going to matter. You can bet the calculators will be running full speed at Carlsbad PD tonight and by tomorrow morning somebody’s going to be asking how your daughter came up with five million bucks. We have to get a jump on this, otherwise—we all know what otherwise might be.”

  Dad used the table for balance as he stood. “I’ll leave you two to your work.” He looked me in the eye. “When this is done, we’re having a long talk.”

  Geez, how did he still make me feel like a little girl? I started to say, “I’m not a child,” but gave up and went with, “I understand.” With Dad out of the room, I turned to Skip and whispered, “I understand how he figured this out, but Stella? She wasn’t that bright. She had, like, no business sense at all. I thought her biggest interest was in getting married—or laid.”