Crash and Burn

by Allison Brennan

  “That’s okay, Valerie. Really.”

  “The nurse said—she said I had sex. That I might have been raped because I have so many bruises on my legs and arms. But I don’t remember! And then they did all these things to me, at the hospital, and it was so humiliating. Why can’t I forget that, too?”

  “Where does Tessa live? Do you know her last name?”

  “Drake. She lives right upstairs. In three-forty, with her roommate, Mandy.”

  “Valerie, think for me. Is there anything you remember from the time you left the bar until you saw Richie’s body? More than six hours passed.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut. Scarlet didn’t know if she was stopping tears or concentrating. “I think we went to the beach. I don’t remember it, but I found sand in my purse.” She looked down into her lap. “What if I killed him? I don’t remember it, but I could have.” She stared at her hands as if they belonged to a stranger.

  “You didn’t kill him,” Scarlet said, though how could she be certain she hadn’t fired the gun? “Richie isn’t dead. He’s in surgery.”

  If she was a suspect, Bishop wouldn’t be looking so hard at Isaac.

  “Did you see a gun?”

  “No. One of the cops told the detective who came by the hospital that they couldn’t find a gun. Maybe I got rid of it.”

  “Did the police give you a GSR test?”

  Valerie stared at her blankly.

  “They probably put a pad on your hands that gunpowder is attracted to, in order to test in the lab.” There were field tests, but Scarlet was pretty certain Valerie had been taken to the hospital before the crime scene team had arrived.

  “They did so many things to me—I really don’t think I shot him, but how can I know?”

  “You woke up to the sound of a gun going off. You said you heard someone yelling. Did you recognize the voices?”

  She shook her head and now the tears started. Scarlet didn’t handle tears as well she did calm victims. “That’s okay,” she said quickly.

  “When I woke up—” She hesitated, then said, “I was naked. It wasn’t my bed. It was Chase’s. I can’t believe Chase would do that to me.”

  No talk about the dead guy on the beach. “What was Chase wearing last night?”

  “Wearing?” She shrugged, growing agitated. “A T-shirt.”

  “What does he look like?”

  “Brown hair. Cute.” She gestured toward a corkboard on the wall. “He’s in half those pictures. Like the one with me at Disneyland. I can’t believe he would hurt me like that. He’s always been so nice.”

  Scarlet got up and looked at the picture. She didn’t think Chase was the dead guy on the beach, but she wasn’t one hundred percent positive. She saw a picture of Valerie, Chase, Tessa and another dark-haired boy who was at the bar. “Can I take this?”

  “Sure.”

  “Who’s this guy with Tessa and Chase?”

  “Juan Robertson. He goes to Irvine with the rest of us.”

  Juan looked far more like the John Doe on the beach than Chase.

  “What’s Chase’s last name?”

  “Flores. We started college together. Became friends.”

  Scarlet was losing her again. She asked, “And Parker? Who’s he?”

  “Parker Cresson. He’s a friend of Richie and Chase.”

  “And the fifth guy, you said you didn’t know him.”

  “I don’t—I think they called him Skip, but that was probably a nickname. I barely remember him at all.”

  “Thank you.” Scarlet was going to leave, but then she walked to Valerie and sat back down on the table. “Valerie, just because you don’t remember what happened doesn’t mean that you’re going to be able to forget. Not knowing creates its own set of problems. Take the advice of the nurses and talk to someone, either someone from the hospital, or at your campus. There are rape counselors there.”

  “But what if I didn’t say no?”

  “You were drugged, Valerie. They took away your voice. They took away your free will. The drugging itself is a crime. Having sex with you after drugging you is a crime, no matter what you said or did. Do you understand?”

  Her eyes dampened, but she nodded.

  “Is your family in the area?”

  “My mom lives in Laguna Niguel.”

  “Maybe you should stay with her for a while. Just to clear your head. Can you do that? Would she be okay?”

  Valerie nodded. “I just don’t want to tell her.”

  “I can call her for you if you want.”

  “No. I need to—it’s just, she always told me to be careful. She always told me not to take drinks from people. But they were my friends, you know?”

  “I understand, Valerie. And so will your mom. Call her. You’ll feel better if you have someone with you for a few days.”

  Once Valerie agreed to call her family, Scarlet went upstairs to apartment 320, almost directly above Valerie’s. A girl answered, not Tessa.

  “Mandy?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m looking for Tessa. Is she here?”

  Mandy shook her head. “Hasn’t been here all night. Probably at her boyfriend’s place.”

  “Her boyfriend is?”

  “Who are you?”

  Scarlet didn’t want to explain who she was. “A friend of Valerie’s.”

  “I heard what happened.”

  “You did?”

  “Who hasn’t? Richie was shot and nearly killed and Valerie might have done it, but she has amnesia. That’s convenient, isn’t it? And the police arrested her, but then let her go.”

  It took all of Scarlet’s willpower not to shake sense into the girl. Instead, she said, “Not exactly. I really need to talk to Tessa.”

  “Parker lives in a townhouse over on Stanford, on the other side of campus.” She gave her an address and number. “His parents are loaded.”

  Scarlet got into her Jeep again, and drove less than five minutes to Parker’s townhouse. It was in the center of another sprawling complex, this one a lot more upscale than the building Valerie lived in. Winding paths led to apartment boxes, as she thought of them—four apartments per box, two upstairs, two downstairs. Each had a patio or deck, surrounded by trees. Rather idyllic, considering they were mostly occupied by college students and people who worked at the university.

  The townhouses all framed a man-made lake, each two stories with a private yard. Two units shared a common wall, and pathways separated each two-unit building. Definitely more expensive than the shit-hole apartment Scarlet lived in while going to the police academy.

  Parker’s townhouse was on the far eastern end of the structure, but there was a road that circled the property and she parked by the row of mailboxes next to a jogging path. There were a lot of people out, even in the heat, and though she couldn’t see a swimming pool, the sounds of the splashing told her there was a community pool nearby.

  Definitely more upscale than her college days.

  Each townhouse had a one-car garage on the bottom floor and no windows to peer in to see if a vehicle was parked inside. She was hot, crabby and tired and didn’t know why she was tracking down these kids. Except that one of the boys from last night was dead, one was critically injured, and the girl who’d left with Valerie was nowhere to be found. She could have been a victim of violence as well, or worse—maybe the drugs had killed her. Scarlet had seen such overdoses before.

  She walked up a flight of stairs to a small porch shaded by a mature oak tree. She knocked on the door. No answer. She looked in windows, but the blinds were closed.

  She’d already driven over to the place and just wanted to verify that everything was kosher. She slipped on gloves and gently turned the knob. It was unlocked.

  To enter or not to enter… She pushed the door open. “Parker Cresson? I’m Scarlet Moreno, a private investigator. Are you—?” She stopped. She didn’t have to step into the townhouse to see—and smell—that Parker couldn’t hear her.


  His body was lying facedown in the living room, a knife sticking out of his bloody back. And by the smell, he’d been dead for several hours. She didn’t need to check for a pulse. With the amount of blood soaked into his shirt, he’d definitely bled out from multiple stab wounds.

  She didn’t enter. She used two fingers to pull the door closed, then removed her gloves and pulled out her cell phone. She called 911 to report the homicide. But this was Irvine, and it would take hours, if not days, for Irvine PD and NBPD to connect the cases. As much as she didn’t want to, she knew if they wanted to stop the killer before anyone else died, Bishop needed to be involved from the beginning.

  She pulled out his card and dialed his cell phone.

  “Bishop, it’s Scarlet Moreno. I need you in Irvine.”

  “I’m in the middle of a homicide investigation, Moreno. Is this important?”

  She bristled at his tone and fought to keep her frustration out of her voice. “Parker Cresson, one of the college students who was with Juan Robertson and Richard Sanders last night, is dead. Knifed in the back.”

  “I didn’t release Robertson’s name.”

  “I recognized him when I saw his picture earlier today.” She didn’t go into the details of her conversation with Valerie, though she knew that was soon coming.

  Bishop didn’t say anything, but she could imagine him fuming. She might, too, if a PI inserted himself in the middle of her investigation when she’d been a detective. She tried to cut him some slack, but it wasn’t easy.

  “Give me the address, and don’t move.”

  Chapter Eight

  Scarlet had already given her statement to both the Irvine PD responding officer and the Irvine PD detective who arrived fifteen minutes later. By the time Bishop got there, it was the dinner hour, and her stomach was grumbling. Loudly. Being hungry always made her grumpy, and standing around doing nothing also made her grumpy. Needless to say, she was not happy when Bishop finally arrived.

  Then, he kept her waiting while he talked to the Irvine cops.

  She sat in her car, which she’d parked under a tree, put her seat back and closed her eyes. Her Jeep didn’t have a top—it had been removable, but the original owner had lost it on the freeway. It was one of the reasons she got a great deal on it. Not a problem, except in extreme heat and rare southern California rain.

  She heard someone approach. She knew it was Bishop without opening her eyes and before he even spoke. It was his subtle movement, the way he shifted, and his scent. He didn’t wear much cologne, maybe none at all—it might have been his soap. It was yummy.

  “I should arrest you,” he said.

  “Please, drop the bad cop routine.”

  “It’s not a routine. What the fuck are you doing investigating a criminal case? You’re not a cop.”

  “Thanks for the reminder.”

  Scarlet adjusted her seat so she sat upright and faced him. She wanted to go all angry Amazon woman on him, except… there was something in his dark blue eyes that had her stopping herself. He was upset and it wasn’t directed toward her. It was the case, the situation—maybe because two young men had been brutally murdered in less than twenty-four hours. Had he been the one to tell Juan Robertson’s parents that their son was dead? Was the Sanders family pacing the hospital emergency room, waiting to find out if their son was going to live or die?

  She told him everything, as if he’d cast some sort of truth serum spell over her. It was because she had been a cop. She knew what he faced, and she knew what he needed to solve the case.

  “And before you tell me I shouldn’t have talked to Valerie, I waited until after you had spoken to her.”

  Bishop walked around to the passenger seat and jumped in. He leaned back and closed his eyes. His actions stunned her into silence. She eventually said, “You need a ride?”

  “I just need five minutes. I haven’t slept.”

  And just like that he went to sleep. She wished she could cat nap. Her old partner used to do that when they were on patrol on the graveyard shift. He’d ask for ten minutes, and then wake up as if he’d slept four hours. She envied the ability.

  “I fucked up,” Bishop said after several minutes.

  “I doubt that. Riley doesn’t hire bad cops.”

  He turned his head and stared at her. “Why didn’t you tell me I took your job?”

  “You didn’t.”

  “The lieu told me he offered you the slot.”

  “I didn’t take it, so it was never mine. And no one is supposed to know that.”

  “I won’t say anything.” He paused, assessing her out of the corner of his eye. “Why didn’t you? You’re obviously a cop at heart.”

  “It’s complicated.” She wasn’t telling him anything more about herself. The conversation had already treaded into uncomfortable waters. “Why do you think you screwed up?”

  “I interviewed Valerie at the hospital early this morning. I should’ve gone back once she was home and followed up. She wasn’t all there this morning, and I didn’t ask the right questions. I focused on the crime scene, not the events at the bar. I got her girlfriend’s name and number, but she isn’t answering her cell phone. I didn’t get this kid’s name, and haven’t been able to find Chase.”

  “Then why are you so certain that Isaac is guilty?”

  “I’m not. But I have to verify everything that happened last night. He has a history of violence, especially against sexual predators.”

  “Chase lives with Richie, but is nowhere to be found? Neither is Tessa? What about this other guy, the kid Valerie didn’t know?” All of them were far better suspects than Isaac, and by Bishop’s expression, he knew it. Scarlet added, “She thinks his name is Skip, but she’d never seen him before last night.”

  “We’ve put the word out on all of them.”

  Scarlet glanced at Bishop. “Isaac didn’t kill these kids. You know it in your gut.”

  “You’re loyal.”

  “Not if he’s guilty.”

  “But you just said he didn’t kill them.”

  “Bishop, if you told me that Isaac had beaten one of them to a pulp in the alley behind the bar, I’d believe you. He has a temper. If you told me Isaac decked one of them, or even literally threw them out of the bar and broke their arms, yes, I’d be on your side. But premeditation? Systematically hunting them down, one by one? Shooting them in cold blood? Stabbing that kid Parker in the back? That’s not Isaac. They were killed hours after the confrontation in the bar. And when I went back to my apartment after they left, Isaac had already cooled down. You talked to Heather, right?”

  He nodded once.

  “And she probably told you the same thing. I get that you have to investigate Isaac. I would if I were in your shoes. I’m just giving you inside information here—Isaac isn’t guilty. Take it or leave it. But you’re not going to be able to prove it beyond a shadow of a doubt. You might not know that Isaac pled guilty to the attempted manslaughter charge and that’s why he got a reduced sentence. If his case went up in front of a jury, I don’t know that he would’ve been convicted. The bastard he beat up raped his nine-year-old daughter. He beat him up, didn’t shoot him. Didn’t hunt him down and lie in wait. Didn’t stab him in the back. He saw him outside of the school and snapped. A true crime of passion.”

  Bishop listened, and she gave him credit for that. She said, “Look, I don’t want to step on your toes. But I have a job to do.”

  “Which is?”

  “Proving Isaac is innocent. It’s not just Isaac’s freedom on the line, it’s Diego’s livelihood. These kids come from wealthy families. You don’t think that one of them won’t sue civilly?”

  “They still might.”

  True, but she didn’t need to comment. “The only way I can try to protect my friends is to figure out what happened last night, after that group of twenty-somethings left the bar.”

  “That’s my job.”

  “No, your job is to find the killer. My job is to p
rove Isaac isn’t him.”

  “Semantics.”

  “I won’t interfere with you, Bishop. I know what I’m doing.”

  He got out of the Jeep. “That’s what I’m afraid of,” he mumbled.

  “Excuse me?”

  He stared at her. “If you find out anything I need to know—and you know exactly what I’m talking about—tell me.” Before she could say anything, Bishop added, “If you found evidence that your friend Isaac was guilty, would you tell me?

  “Of course.”

  The way he looked at her, she could tell he didn’t completely believe her.

  And that bothered her more than anything else.

  Chapter Nine

  Scarlet found a food truck in an industrial area that was just shutting down for the night and begged the owner to make her a double order of street tacos. She was still happily munching in her Jeep when her cell phone rang.

  It was Wendy Anderson. She reluctantly answered the phone.

  “Jimmy hasn’t called.”

  “You promised if I got your stuff and delivered the letter, you would leave him alone.”

  “I know, but—”

  “Wendy, there are no butts. You can’t force anyone to love you.”

  “I know, but—”

  “Stop. You have a good life, Wendy. Enjoy it. Without Jim.”

  “Why are you trying so hard to break us up?”

  That came out of left field. “Wendy, Jim doesn’t want to get back together with you. You have a restraining order against him. You need to walk away before someone gets hurt.”

  Scarlet didn’t know if Wendy heard anything she said, because the line went dead. Well, shit. This was a messy situation.

  She called Mac. He didn’t answer, but almost immediately sent her a text message.

  I’m studying at the library. What do you need?

  She responded: