Killer Beach Reads

by Gemma Halliday Publishing

  CHAPTER SIX

  "Okay, so that wasn't a total bust," I said to myself as I idled at a red light on Fifth and Juniper Street. I tapped my fingernails on the steering wheel to the beat of the Paramore song on the radio. My thoughts were on the confrontation at Pete's place. Something he said had triggered a potential new lead in my mind. Before he'd returned the concert tickets, Pete had planned to sell them online. What if the thief was doing the same with the stolen equipment?

  No. I shook my head. That would be stupid. Anyone who was smart enough to get in and out of three crowded Atlanta concert venues undetected with the valuable instruments would know better than to post them on eBay, right? Dusty's guitar would be easy to recognize on a site like that, and it would only take a phone call to my Dad to find out that the police were probably searching online right now, just in case. If the thief was going to sell the stolen gear, he or she would have to be more discreet. Maybe a small-time, local music shop would be more their speed, I thought as I crossed over Piedmont, heading toward downtown. Or even a pawn shop? Ooh, what about Rockin' Rentals?

  Amelia's friend Becky worked at a music shop that specialized in selling and renting new and used music, light, and sound equipment. If the culprit needed to ditch the gear fast, Rockin' Rentals would be a good place to do it. In any case, I had barely more than twenty-four hours to find Dusty's guitar before Castle Rock's contracts with half of the entertainment industry went down in flames faster than one of Taylor Swift's relationships. I was willing to explore any option at this point, and taking a peek in the shop couldn't hurt. At the next traffic light, I turned left and doubled back to Piedmont Road, headed in the direction of Rockin' Rentals.

  The music shop was located next to a McDonald's and a comic book store. The white brick storefront had a guitar and drum set painted across it in graffiti-style, and the words Rockin' Rentals sat in blue block letters on the awning above the entrance. Inside the shop, row after row of guitars, speakers, saxophones, trumpets, and more sprawled the length of the building.

  An old man with a salt and pepper ponytail looked up from his copy of Guitar World as I stepped up to the front counter. Good. Ame's friend, Becky, wasn't working today, which meant my bosses were less likely to find out what had happened, assuming the thief had stopped in.

  "Welcome to Rockin' Rentals," the man drawled. "Anything I can help you find today?"

  "I sure hope so." I flashed him a winning smile. "I'm looking for a guitar—a specific one, actually."

  He quirked a bushy, gray eyebrow. "Oh?"

  I shoved my hands in my pockets, fingers crossed for good luck. "It's a green Fender Stratocaster. Someone may have brought it in to sell sometime this morning."

  A thoughtful frown crinkled the man's features. "I haven't seen nothin' like that," he said, scratching his head. "But my shift began about an hour ago." He pointed a bony finger toward the back of the store. "New arrivals are along that far wall. If it came in this morning, it should already be on display over there."

  I thanked the man and scooted down the nearest aisle, headed for the back of the store. The anticipation made me jittery, and I half-walked, half-skipped toward the new arrivals section. Please be here, please be here, please be here… I halted in front of a long row of display stands, each holding a different instrument. There were guitars of all varieties—electric, acoustic, bass, rhythm…but Dusty's Fender wasn't among them. My face fell, and I felt my heart sink through the store's dingy brown carpet.

  Head hung in disappointment, I trudged slowly back toward the front of the store. What now? I could try looking in the local pawn shops, but I was feeling less confident by the minute. Dusty was never going to see that guitar again. Maybe I should stop back by the front counter and get an employment application, since I can kiss my job at Castle Rock good-bye. There was no way Ame and Kat would keep me around after I'd screwed up everything so badly.

  I shuffled toward the front counter, where a boy in his teens was handing the cashier a wad of crinkly bills. "Thanks," he told the old man as he shoved his receipt in his pocket and picked up a plastic bag from the counter. "I'm gonna go home and restring my new guitar right now." He stepped back and swiveled his head from side to side, as if he was looking for something. "Hey, do you have any cool stickers of band logos or anything?" he asked. "Whoever owned the guitar before me put a lame palm tree sticker on there. I'm gonna peel it off, but I want to put something more badass in its place."

  My eyebrows shot up. Palm tree sticker? Could this twerp have Dusty's Fender? I gaped at the boy as he turned to go. He looked around eighteen or nineteen years old, about a foot taller than me and rail thin. His black hair was styled into small spikes that stuck out at odd angles atop his head. A tattoo peeked out from under the sleeve of his My Chemical Romance T-shirt. The ink was an image of a round skull—the face of Jack Skellington from The Nightmare Before Christmas. He caught me staring, and his brown eyes roved from my chest, down to my legs, and back. The boy grinned, apparently liking what he saw.

  As soon as his back was turned, I reached down into my black halter top and pushed up my strapless bra. I whipped my Manic Maven Pink lip gloss out of my pocket and applied a fresh layer, and then I trotted after him. "Hey," I called as I stepped out into the bright summer sunlight.

  The boy pivoted on his heel and cocked his head to the side. "Yeah?"

  I pushed my chest out and strode toward him, lips drawn in a pout and bedroom eyes on full blast. "I heard you talking about your guitar," I said, my voice oozing girlish charm. "Do you have it with you? I, like, seriously love guys who play guitar." I casually grazed his arm with my hand as I spoke.

  "Sure." The boy gave me a lazy smile. "It's in my car. Wanna see it?"

  "Totally!" I gushed. I followed him across the parking lot to a blue Ford Explorer, my excitement mounting with each step. He pulled open the back door and pulled out the instrument. I quickly flipped my sunglasses down over my eyes so he wouldn't see my shock as I stared at the green Fender Stratocaster with the familiar palm tree sticker.

  Holy freakballs! He really does have Dusty's guitar! The Rock gods were finally smiling down on me. My adrenaline went full throttle, and I had to suck in a deep breath to keep myself from whooping a cry of victory. I played it off by clasping my hands to my chest with genuine delight at seeing the gorgeous guitar. "It's beautiful!" I said breathlessly. "Where did you get it?"

  The boy puffed out his chest, clearly pleased at my reaction to his new instrument. "I got a sweet deal on this bad boy. Found it on Craigslist. The chick had a ton of other awesome gear for sale too—I might go back after payday and see if I can snag the turntable she was selling." His lips pulled wide in a proud smile. "I've always wanted to be a DJ."

  "Cool," I said absently, still staring at Dusty's guitar. My mind was a tangled mess of thoughts. Who is this 'chick' that sold him Dusty's Fender? Charlotte? How can I ask him more about where he got it without making him suspicious? More importantly—how do I get him to give me back the guitar?

  "I'm Tommy," the boy said, reclaiming my attention. "What's your name?"

  "Jackie," I lied, thinking fast. "Jackie McQueen." I didn't want to give him my real name—that'd only complicate things for me once I managed to weasel the guitar away from him.

  "Well, Jackie." Tommy arched a brow and gave me a flirty smile. "Wanna come back to my place and hear me play?"

  "Sure." I licked my lips and pressed the back of my hand to my forehead. "It's so hot out here. Maybe you could grab us a couple of milkshakes at that McDonald's first?" I flicked a glance toward the fast food restaurant next door.

  Tommy nodded. "Yeah, okay. What flavor do you want?"

  My mouth crooked up at one corner. "Strawberry."

  Ten minutes later I was five miles away, Dusty's guitar lying safely next to me in Dad's truck. Poor gullible Tommy. The kid had walked over to McDonald's and left me leaning against his unlocked Ford Explorer. Right about now he was probably standing
there with a melting milkshake in either hand, a bewildered expression on his face as he stared at his empty backseat.

  A pang of guilt went through me. I knew how he must be feeling—after all, I'd gone through a similar ordeal less than twenty-four hours before. It's not really stealing if it was already stolen, right? I reassured myself. Especially since I'm returning it to its proper owner. First, though, I had a plan forming to catch the crook who'd caused me all this grief in the first place.

  * * *

  "And the trap is set," I said as I pressed the Send button.

  "And now for the waiting," Reese replied. We were sitting at the Starbucks on Ponce de Leon, just a couple of blocks from Castle Rock. After grabbing Dusty's guitar from Tommy, I'd texted Reese to meet me here with his iPad. I pulled up the Craigslist ad that Tommy told me about. It didn't specify the makes and models of various instruments, but instead provided vague descriptions of the seller's wares. A turntable and a tenor saxophone were still listed among the equipment she had left to sell. Posing as an interested buyer, I sent a message to the seller, hoping she'd respond and invite me over to make the purchase.

  "Please don't bite my head off for saying this, but it's got to be Charlotte," I said between sips of my caramel Frappacino. "Think about it. She works weeknights at Beat Barn, and she was there on the night that someone stole DJ DirtyBeatz's turntable. She had my keys last night just before Dusty's Fender went missing. It's totally plausible."

  Reese shrugged, and a curl of his dirty blond hair fell across his eyes. I wanted to reach across the table and brush it out of his face. God, he was adorable. "I honestly don't know, Bron," he said. "She seemed nice enough. And she was a huge help last night. I think you were a little too hard on her." He blew out a breath, sending the stray lock of hair flying back into place. "I guess we'll find out if this Craigslist seller responds."

  "Yeah." We fell silent and sipped our drinks, watching the web browser to see if an email response would pop up. "Look, Reese," I said after several minutes. "I wanted to tell you that I'm sorry. I feel like this whole thing is sort of my fault." I bit my lip.

  "What makes you say that?"

  "Well, for starters, if I had done a cannonball off the high dive Friday night when Derek challenged me, Amelia might not have climbed up there and hurt herself. Then you and I wouldn't have been in charge last night, I wouldn't have had to clean a beach bum rocker's puke off the green room floor, and Dusty's guitar wouldn't have been stolen."

  Reese raised his eyebrows, an amused smile playing across his lips. "Do you have any idea how ridiculous you sound?" he asked. "Of course we'd have still made you clean up the puke in the green room." He chuckled. "Ame would've climbed up on that diving board whether you decided to take a jump or not. And maybe Dusty's guitar would've still been swiped if Ame and Kat had been there. After all, the owners of Beat Barn and Soul Hut were both at their venues when the gear was snatched." He held out his hands, palms up and fingers splayed. "There's no way of knowing what could've been. But you did an amazing job helping run the show yesterday. You fired a crappy employee—who, as it turns out, is also a thief. You've got good instincts. Plus you got back all the tickets that he stole." Reese grinned. "I wish I could've seen the look on Pete's face when you told his girlfriend that he had an STD."

  I giggled. "Thanks," I said, reaching across the table and squeezing his hand. He squeezed back, and his fingers slowly laced through mine. My pulse quickened. Reese's green eyes were soft as he met my gaze.

  "Bron—", he started, but he was interrupted by a ding! from the iPad. He grabbed the tablet and slid it over to himself, his eyes moving rapidly back and forth as he read the screen. "Got her!" he said, pounding his mammoth fist excitedly on the table, loudly enough that several people from nearby tables turned a wary eye on us. "Whoops," Reese muttered. He quickly turned off the tablet and slid it back into its carrying case. "We have an address," he said, rising from the table. "Let's go."

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I pulled the truck into a posh-looking apartment complex in Buckhead. "What kind of criminal can afford to live in a gated luxury apartment?" I asked as I drove through the visitor's entrance.

  "A damn good one, I'd imagine," Reese replied. I eased the truck through the complex parking lot at a slow crawl so we could scan the building numbers. "There it is," Reese said, pointing to a dark gray building on our left. "Apartment one-thirty-seven."

  I slid the truck into the closest open parking spot to the apartment door, then I swiveled in my seat to face Reese. "I'm not sure what to do next," I admitted. "I mean, if it is Charlotte, won't she recognize us if she peeks through the window?" I frowned. "I should've brought some kind of disguise."

  "Here." Reese shrugged out of his Black Keys T-shirt and threw it at me. I tried not to stare at his six-pack. Magic Mike, eat your heart out! The cab of the truck suddenly felt a zillion degrees hotter.

  "Thanks," I squeaked. I removed my sunglasses and pulled the shirt over my head, discreetly inhaling the scent of Reese's cologne as I did so. Mmm.

  Reese reached into the back pocket of his jeans and retrieved a wadded up Braves baseball cap. He shook it out and then leaned forward and placed it over my pink hair. He was so close to my face that it took every ounce of will power not to pounce on his lips. I froze when his green eyes dipped down to my mouth. His gaze lingered there for a second before he looked into my eyes again. Shirtless Reese Martin is two inches from my lips right now. Is this real life?? I lowered my eyelids to half-mast and scooted a little closer to him in the seat. Reese pulled away. Ouch.

  "And of course, the finishing touch," he said, as if a world-shattering (for me, at least) romantic moment hadn't nearly passed between us. Reese pulled the sunglasses off of his head and placed them on my face. "There!" He sat back and looked me over. "Perfect."

  "Alright." I tugged nervously at the baseball cap. "Wish me luck."

  "Good luck." Reese climbed out of the truck's cab and walked around to open the driver's side door for me. Even in the midst of an amateur sting operation, he was still a gentleman. I strode down the sidewalk leading up to the apartment, trying my best to look casual. Reese kept his distance, following a few yards behind me. When I reached the front stoop, Reese ducked behind the nearest bush. Taking one last deep breath, I knocked on the door. No turning back now.

  Footsteps thudded toward the door, which opened a few seconds later. A tall man with thick, black hair peered down at me. I didn't recognize him. His dark mane was slicked back with greasy hair gel, and his arms were covered with tribal tattoos. He totally looked like Charlotte's type to me. Could this be her boyfriend? Maybe he'd been the driver of the white van from last night.

  "What do you want?" Tall, Dark, and Greasy asked in a deep voice.

  "Yo, am I in the right place?" I said, dropping my own voice an octave lower. "I responded to a Craigslist ad about a turntable for sale. You have it?"

  "Come in," he said gruffly. He turned and lumbered back into the apartment without waiting for me to follow. I risked a nervous glance back to the bush where Reese was hiding. I'd been expecting to recognize the thief when she came to the door so we could bust her fast and then get the heck out of dodge. Instead, this guy had answered—and now he wanted me to enter the apartment. Away from Reese's protection. I gulped. Sliding my phone out of my pocket, I quickly pressed the three on my speed dial. I heard Reese pick up just as I placed the phone back in my pocket. With one last look toward Reese's hiding place, I stepped into the apartment and closed the door behind me.

  Regardless of the clean luxury exterior, the apartment was a dump. The hardwood floor was terribly scuffed, and the furniture was barely visible under the mounds of old newspapers, pizza boxes, beer cans, and even a few hypodermic needles. I nearly gagged when a roach the size of a small frog scuttled across the floor and took cover under the rickety entertainment center.

  "Babe! The buyer's here!" Greasy called. He turned his dark eyes on me. "Wait here,
" he said. He shuffled into the kitchen, leaving me to find a seat on one of the grubby couches. I heard the sounds of the man knocking something rapidly against the table, as if he were dicing vegetables. The chopping noise abruptly stopped, followed by a series of loud snorts. Crap on a cracker! Is he doing coke in there? A bad feeling brewed inside me, making my stomach hurt.

  "Coming!" A woman's voice yelled from down the hall. My ears perked up. The voice was muffled through the wall, making it hard to recognize. Was it Charlotte? I was about to find out. Sitting up straighter on the couch, I stared intently toward the hallway as a softer pair of footsteps approached. I was barely able to conceal my shock when Jody Conklin shuffled into the room, DJ DirtyBeatz' turntable in her arms.

  She was barely recognizable from the girl I'd seen at work just the night before. Jody's eyes were bloodshot, and her normally shiny blonde hair was a limp, tangled mess about her face. She looked like she hadn't slept for days. How could Jody go from being my bright, attractive coworker one day to a filthy, strung out thief the next? I lightly touched my pocket where my phone was hopefully still connected with Reese. I had to find a way to communicate with him that Jody was the culprit.

  I bit the inside of my cheek as Jody looked me over. Keeping my breath even wasn't easy, but somehow I managed. I was glad I'd left Reese's shades on. Please don't recognize me.

  Jody frowned and cocked her head to the side. "You responded to the ad?"

  I nodded.

  "You got the money?"

  Reaching into my back pocket, I pulled out the wad of twenties that Reese had spotted me. I fanned them in front of me, dropping my voice low again as I spoke. "Five hundred for the turntable, just like the ad said."

  Jody's blue eyes bulged at the sight of the cash. She bit her lip and eagerly rushed toward me, her gaze never leaving the money. Setting the turntable on the couch next to me, she reached for the bills.