Lost and Found

by Allison Brennan

  Very traumatized. Very heartfelt.

  Or maybe not.

  Krista didn’t really know Riley Campbell from anyone, and it might all be an act. SoCal was chock full of wannabe actors, and some of them ended up at places like Angelino’s.

  Krista picked up the pistol and checked the magazine, then tucked it into the back of her jeans.

  Another car outside. She looked out the window and spotted a light-colored Volkswagen rolling to a stop along the curb. Krista hurried downstairs to let her in.

  The street was empty. Ditto the sidewalk. She glanced down the block as a crisp winter breeze wafted into the lobby. She stepped outside and looked at the VW. It was new, not vintage, and had probably come with one of those Gerber daisies attached to the dash. The driver’s seat was empty. Krista checked up and down the sidewalk, but didn’t see anyone.

  The back of her neck prickled. She looked around, then started walking toward the car. She studied the shadows along the street, listening for cars or footsteps, but the only noise was the faint din of traffic two blocks over. Krista eased the Ruger from her jeans as she approached the Beetle.

  Her heart thudded.

  Her dread grew.

  She darted a look up and down the block, but it was quiet. Too quiet. Her steps quickened. She neared the car and realized she was holding her weapon in the two-handed grip they’d drilled into her at the police academy. Krista’s heart pounded as she peered through the window.

  Riley Campbell lay sprawled across the seat.

  Krista yanked the door open. She reached for her pulse and her fingers came away wet with blood. She’d been shot in the neck.

  “Riley! Riley!” She looked around frantically. No help. No anything.

  A soft gurgling noise made Krista’s gut clench. She was breathing. Krista glanced around the car. The backseat was stuffed with boxes and laundry baskets. She snatched up a T-shirt and pressed it against the wound.

  “Damn it, damn it, damn it.” She still had her gun in her hand. She hated to put it down, but she had to. The T-shirt was soaked already, and Riley’s warm blood seeped through her fingers. Krista set her pistol on the floorboard, then snatched up the cell phone Riley had dropped. It took three tries with her trembling fingers before Krista managed to call 911. Finally, the dispatcher picked up and Krista hurriedly relayed the address.

  Riley’s eyelids fluttered. Krista leaned over her.

  “Riley, hang on! Help’s coming. Did you see who did this?”

  A soft rasping sound.

  Krista’s chest squeezed. The T-shirt was saturated now. She grabbed another one from the backseat. Blood was everywhere, all over Riley’s clothes, her arms, the gear shift. In the fluorescent glow of the streetlight, it looked black, too, like paint or ink or anything but this girl’s actual lifeblood pouring out of her faster than Krista could stop the flow.

  Riley’s eyes drifted shut.

  Krista muttered a prayer and pressed more and more layers of clothing against the wound. A car turned down the street. Krista stuck her free hand out and tried to wave it down, but it kept going, not even slowing.

  “Goddamn it!” She hunched back over Riley and pressed fabric against the wound. She’d dyed her hair blond, Krista realized, but the ends were dark and matted with blood. Little chunks of flesh clung to the strands, and Krista’s stomach clenched as she kept pressure on the wound and tried not to lose her shit, but holy God, where the hell was the ambulance?

  Krista grabbed up the phone again and jabbed the emergency call button. As the dispatcher picked up, Krista heard the faint sound of a siren. It started soft and slowly grew louder. The wail got bigger and bigger until it was everywhere and Krista felt like her ears would burst.

  “Hold on, Riley. Damn it, hold on!”

  She flung the phone away and pressed both hands against the wound to stanch the river of blood.

  Chapter Eight

  Krista leaned against the wall of the hospital waiting room, alternating her attention between the endless stream of people coming through the doors and the endless stream of blather on the TV.

  Krista shifted on her feet. She gazed down at her blood-streaked jeans and wished for a change of clothes. One of the cops at the scene had taken pity on her and given her his rain poncho, but it was hot as hell and she felt like she was suffocating.

  She glanced at the clock for the hundredth time. And then the doors. She caught the gaze of the uniform stationed there, and again, he gave the head shake.

  Still nothing.

  Krista’s phone chimed in her pocket and she dug it out. R.J. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath before answering.

  “Hey, I’ll call you when I’m done and give you an update,” he said. “Those words sound familiar at all?”

  “I’m at the hospital.”

  Silence.

  “Riley’s here, too.”

  “Whoa, back up,” he said. “What happened?”

  Krista stepped away from the waiting room and into a vending machine alcove. She gave him a detailed rundown, and he didn’t interrupt. Not once. Not even when she got to the part about putting down her weapon down before the police arrived.

  When she finished talking, she felt dizzy again and slightly nauseous.

  “When will she be out of surgery?” he asked.

  “No idea. Could be hours.” Or never.

  “When will you know?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  A man approached the vending machine and flipped open his wallet. Fiftyish. Doughy around the middle. Krista pegged him for a detective even before she spotted the badge clipped to his belt.

  “You want me to come up there and wait with you?”

  “No.” She turned around. “I’m probably leaving soon.”

  “You okay to drive?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “I’m fine, okay? I’ll call you later.”

  “Krista—”

  She hung up. And instantly felt guilty. He’d sounded worried. Worried. And she couldn’t handle that right now, not with Riley’s blood all over her jeans and some detective eavesdropping.

  She turned around and he was watching her with a slight smile.

  “Overprotective boyfriend?”

  She stuffed her phone into her pocket. “No.”

  He jabbed the button for a Coke. A can thunked down. He retrieved it from the machine and popped the top as he looked her over.

  “I’m Detective Seth Brozik, L.A.P.D.”

  She sighed. “I’m Krista Hart.”

  “I know.”

  She lifted an eyebrow and cast a glance at the uniformed officer by the door, who must have filled him in. How else would he know who she was?

  “I understand you used to be on the job,” the detective said.

  “Used to. That was three years ago.”

  “And now?”

  “I’m in the private sector.”

  He watched her over the rim of the can as he took a sip. Another glance at the doors.

  “And what’s your relationship to Rachel Sanders?” he asked.

  Rachel Sanders. The name listed on Riley’s phony driver’s license, which police had recovered from the purse in her car. Krista had been standing right there talking to one of the first responders.

  “She a client?” Brozik asked.

  “No.”

  “What is she?”

  Krista looked at the doors again and cleared her throat. “She’s a friend.”

  The detective eased closer. “Do you know who tried to kill her tonight?”

  She tipped her head to the side. “What division did you say you were with?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Why is L.A.P.D. here? You’re out of your jurisdiction.”

  He gave her the half-smile again. “Call it curiosity.”

  She folded her arms and waited for more. She wasn’t giving him another word until she got some straight answers.

  �
��You know, I worked with Scarlet Moreno way back when,” he said. “Worked with her brother, too. Good people.”

  Krista relaxed a fraction.

  “I understand she’s your partner?”

  She nodded, even though he obviously didn’t need her confirmation. He knew plenty of info all on his own, and it hadn’t come from the uniform standing by the door.

  “You may have heard her brother, John, is on a special case now,” Brozik said. “Interesting timing, don’t you think?”

  Krista’s gaze narrowed. “Interesting how?”

  “I don’t know.” He tipped back the can and took a long sip, then dropped it in a trash can. “I’m just thinking about tripwires.”

  Krista stared at him for a long moment, trying to read his gaze. He had dark brown eyes. Intelligent eyes. And he was trying to tell her something, but she didn’t understand. Was he telling her John Moreno was investigating his sister’s case? And that he was, too?

  “Detective?”

  They turned around, and the uniform was standing a respectful distance away. Brozik walked over and they exchanged a few words Krista couldn’t hear. A moment later, the uniform walked off and Brozik stepped back.

  “She’s out of surgery,” he said.

  Krista felt a rush of relief.

  “Doc says it could be morning before the anesthetic wares off.” He paused. “That’s if she makes it through.”

  #

  Krista turned onto her street and felt a stab of guilt. She was headed home and Riley Campbell was in a hospital right now, fighting for her life.

  Krista eyed her darkened windows as she neared her house. She didn’t want to go home yet, so she kept driving. And thinking. And driving. She ended up back on Palo Verde, and pulled over right in front of her office.

  The barricades were gone now, along with the strobe lights, the patrol cars, and the crime scene techs. Santa Ana’s little police department had pulled out all the stops tonight, but Krista wasn’t holding out much hope. The department was overworked and underfunded, and they had no idea what they were up against. The young detective Krista had talked to—Munoz—had looked hopelessly overwhelmed within five minutes of ducking under the yellow scene tape.

  Krista turned off her car and got out. A brisk wind gusted up, and she pulled the borrowed poncho tight around her. Her pistol was a stone in her pocket, weighing down the flimsy plastic.

  She tromped down the street, glancing around at all the trees and buildings, the businesses that were closed up for the night. Police had canvassed the area earlier, but hadn’t found any witnesses. They only had Krista’s statement to go on, and it wasn’t much because she hadn’t even heard a gunshot. The shooter must have used a suppressor.

  She stopped at the spot where Riley’s car had been and crouched down. Blood had seeped into the asphalt, coloring the grit red. Something white fluttered, and Krista walked over for a look. A bandage wrapper left behind by the paramedics.

  She glanced down the street, wishing she’d paid closer attention to the pickup she’d seen from her office window. Had that been the shooter? The timing fit, but Krista had no way of knowing. She hadn’t gotten a license plate or even much of a description. She’d been looking for a yellow Beetle, and hadn’t given the black pickup truck a second thought.

  She got back into her car and drove to the corner. A block over was the gas station where Krista stopped for coffee and junk food and the occasional tank of gas, although the place near her house had better prices. She knew the manager, Long Phan, who ran the store for his older brother and always worked nights. Krista pulled in and parked beside the store, watching through the window as Long carded a teenager trying to buy beer. After a brief back-and-forth, the kid swapped the beer for a soft drink, and Long rang him up.

  Krista glanced around, noting the businesses nearby, really seeing them for the first time. There was a dry cleaners, a furniture store, a pawn shop. It wasn’t the best neighborhood, which was why Moreno & Hart could afford the rent.

  Krista waited until Long’s customer left and went inside. She filled a sixteen-ounce cup with red slush and went to the register.

  “Trouble down the street tonight,” Krista said.

  “I saw.”

  “Any cops been here asking about your security cameras?” Krista slid her money across the counter, and he watched her with a blank expression.

  But Krista could guess what he was thinking. Long knew who she was and what she did for a living, and he didn’t want to get involved. More importantly, he didn’t want any more work tonight. He closed up shop in half an hour, and then he had shelves to stock and floors to mop.

  On the other hand, Long owed her. Sometimes when she came by, he handed her a scribbled license number of someone who had ripped off gas or yahooed beer, and Krista looked up the tags for him free of charge.

  “No cops tonight,” he said now.

  Krista shook her head. “That’s a shame. They might have missed something. Mind if I have a look?”

  He watched her, his gaze steady. Krista waited, hoping her junk food addiction might tip the scales in her favor.

  She mustered a smile. “Please?”

  He glanced at the door, but his parking lot was empty except for Krista’s car.

  “This way.”

  She followed him through the candy aisle and into a narrow corridor that smelled like urinal cakes. He passed a pair of restrooms Krista had never used and opened a door to a cramped storage closet that seemed to double as an office. In the corner was a metal desk.

  “Computer here.” He motioned for her to sit down in the chair as he tapped the mouse and the screen came to life. He clicked on an icon. A surveillance program opened up. He slid Krista a look before logging in with a password.

  “You know how to use?” he asked.

  “Absolutely.”

  “Okay, fifteen minute. Then I close.”

  “Got it.”

  The instant he disappeared, she called Mac.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “It’s almost midnight.” He sounded annoyed. “I was about to go to sleep.”

  “You’re playing Minecraft.”

  He sighed. “What do you need, Krista?”

  “Any chance you can get down to Long’s store right now? I need to check his surveillance cams and I’m not familiar with the program.”

  “Can’t it wait till tomorrow?”

  “No.”

  “Shit, Krista.”

  He’d definitely been playing Minecraft.

  “I’ll pay you time and a half, but I need you here ASAP,” she said. “Come to the back door, right off the alley. Knock quietly, and I’ll let you in.”

  “Fine.”

  He hung up, and she pecked around, trying unsuccessfully to pull up the day’s surveillance footage. It wasn’t exactly a user-friendly program.

  A few minutes later, she heard the knock. She jumped up to open the door, hoping to get Mac going on the computer before Long could object.

  “Holy crap, what happened to you?” Mac eyed her bloody jeans as he stepped into the hallway.

  “I’ll tell you while you work.”

  She let him have the chair and leaned over his shoulder as he got to work. He was in his typical baggy jeans and Fullerton sweatshirt.

  “Can you figure out how to work this program and pull up today’s footage?”

  He shot her a baleful look.

  “And can you do it fast? I need it, like, five minutes ago. Long’s leaving soon and I have to run through everything from earlier tonight between nine-thirty and ten o’clock.”

  Mac clicked around. “This is some piece-of-shit freeware he downloaded off the Internet.” He glanced at her. “What happened between nine-thirty and ten? Someone yahoo some beer again?”

  “There was a drive-by shooting on our street.”

  Mac froze. “No shit?”

  “No shit. Or maybe it was a walk-by. But they might have passed by
here, so I need to see the film.”

  “What about our film?”

  “Our security camera’s focused on the door, not the street. It wouldn’t have it.”

  Mac’s hands moved swiftly over the keyboard, and Krista watched him work, impressed as always. In no time, he had two screens open that showing footage of Long’s parking lot.

  “Here are his outdoor cams, facing west and south,” Mac said. “That’s all he has, but it should give you the whole intersection.”

  “I’m looking for a black pickup truck, probably headed west from our street.”

  Long stuck his head in and frowned. Luckily, Mac was a frequent customer, too.

  “Hey, Long,” Mac said.

  Long glared at Krista, but didn’t say anything as he grabbed the mop leaning against the wall and walked off.

  Krista returned her attention to the screen. After running through film for another fifteen minutes, she’d still seen no black pickups. Mac expanded their time window. Still nothing.

  “You sure it’s a black pickup?”

  “No,” Krista said. “That was just a guess. It could have been anything. It could have been someone on foot, too, and maybe they fled the other direction.”

  “Why aren’t the cops on this?”

  “They’re buried.”

  “Well, I don’t know what to tell you,” he said. “I don’t see—”

  “Wait! Pause it.” She pointed at the screen. “What’s that?”

  He backed up the footage and replayed it.

  In the corner of the screen was a low, dark-colored sedan with oversized tires. It pulled into the lot in front of the dry cleaners. Someone in dark clothing got out of the car and walked west toward Palo Verde. He was tall and thin and wore a hoodie, and the way he moved set off all of Krista’s alarm bells.

  “That’s him,” she said.

  He quickly disappeared from view. The time stamp on the screen said 21:09.

  “Total pimp-mobile,” Mac observed.