The stench hit her like a sucker punch.
She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head to clear it. Then she scanned the flashlight beam over yogurt cups, coffee grounds, blackened salad remnants. She combed through empty soup cans and gelatinous food chunks in search of anything paper.
Nothing.
The second bag nearly knocked her over. With efficiency born of oxygen deprivation, she rooted through crumpled napkins, soy sauce packets, and slimy take-out cartons from Bangkok Palace. Globs of chicken pad thai dripped onto her shoes as she dug for a receipt, an order slip, anything with a date stamp. Trash pickup was four days ago, but this stuff had to be two weeks old, at least.
Bag three contained more yogurt, along with beer bottles and takeout containers, everything putrid and sticky. Krista’s throat began to burn. Her eyes watered. Something skittered up her arm and she yelped and fell back on her hands. A soft pop of plastic, and cool, wet ooze seeped between her fingers. She jumped to her feet, yelping and flailing and beaming the flashlight around as roaches darted for cover.
A noise had her whirling around. A large shadow stood behind her in the narrow passageway. She reached for the gun under her jacket.
“You know you’re trespassing.”
Her heart lurched. She recognized the voice—low and smug and infuriating. He stepped closer until he was looming over her.
She beamed the light at him. Dark hair dipped low over his forehead. He glanced down at the knife in her hand and raised an eyebrow.
“Find what you’re looking for?”
Her heart lodged in her throat. Slime dripped off her fingers as she stared up at him and all her morning’s worries suddenly materialized in the form of a tall, arrogant, blue-eyed, blue-jeans-wearing reality.
“How was Hawaii?”
The corner of his mouth curved up. “Stimulating.”
Images flooded her brain. Stimulating as in cliff diving? Catching some waves? Getting laid?
Probably all of the above.
His gazed dropped to the noodles clinging to her sleeve. “Nice outfit.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Same thing you are.” He glanced around, a ridiculously broad-shouldered shadow in the darkness. “Trash pickup was four days ago.”
“I know.” She heaved bags into the can, one by one. Fury formed a ball in her chest. She should have known this job was too good to be true. She had known it, and yet she’d spent the entire day racing around, visions of new tires dancing through her head. All those uneasy feelings of being tailed by someone suddenly made sense.
He made no move to help her. She scooped up the last bag of trash and dumped it into the can, then slammed the lid shut.
“When’d you get back?” she asked.
“This afternoon.”
She looked at him. So, even if he had been tailing her, hoping to horn in on her case, there was still a chance he didn’t know about Braxton Creative. She wanted to keep it that way. So far, Berle Braxton was her best hope for finding Lily.
“So, any good leads here?” he asked.
“Plenty.”
He smiled down at her, a flash of white teeth in the dimness. “Want to share?”
“No.”
“Why not? We could team up on this.”
“You mean like I bust ass finding the witness, and you swoop in to collect my fee? Fuck you, R.J.”
He grinned. “Whenever you’re ready, sweetheart.”
She stuffed the flashlight in her pocket and squeezed past the trashcans. There was a gate facing the driveway, and she tried to open it, but it wouldn’t budge.
He reached around her and gave it a jerk.
“After you.”
She ducked under his arm. He followed her onto the driveway, and she whirled around and jabbed a finger at his chest.
“Stay away from me while I’m working.”
“What about while you’re not working?” He reached out and peeled a noodle from the front of her T-shirt. A breeze kicked up, and he cringed at the smell. “You know, you should probably clean up before you do any more investigating tonight. This perfume’s no good for your stealth approach.”
“I mean it. Keep out of my way.”
She turned around and stalked down the drive.
~ ~ ~
Krista took a window seat at In-N-Out Burger. She scanned the restaurant and slurped the super-size Coke that was going to fuel her activities for the next twelve hours.
A fortyish man walked in, and she knew he was her guy. She pegged him for a reporter by his cheap sport coat and shaggy hair. His gaze settled on her as he approached, and Krista felt a spurt of self-consciousness. She’d cleaned herself up a minute ago, but public restroom foam soap and paper towels could only do so much.
“Krista Hart?”
She nodded.
He slid into the booth. “John Wayland.”
They shook hands, and she didn’t waste time getting to the point.
“I’m working for Drake Walker, trying to locate a witness.”
He leaned back in the booth. “So you said in your message. This has to do with the Sheffield murder trial?”
“That’s right. You covering it?”
“We’ve got a stringer on it.” He shrugged. “It might get a few inches in local.” He sounded nonchalant, but underneath he seemed pissy, and she didn’t know whether he’d wanted to cover the trial himself or simply thought it wasn’t getting enough media play.
Of course, that could change once Walker got rolling. He had a reputation for attracting the press to his trials by planting rumors, and then when he had all eyes on him, dropping bombshells in the courtroom.
“What’s the wit’s name?” Wayland asked.
“Lilian Daniels.”
He frowned. “Never heard of her. Think someone got to her?”
“Why would you say that?”
He didn’t answer, but his expression looked grim.
“She’s supposed to take the stand soon,” Krista said, “but from what I gather, she left town.”
“Don’t remember hearing the name,” he said. “Was she a staying at the motel across from the crime scene?”
“She lives locally, so I’m assuming she was there to meet someone. She was in the parking lot at midnight, and there’s nothing else open that time of night.”
“Except maybe the corner drugstore.”
She’d thought about it. According to Krista’s police contacts, Lily had a possession charge on her record. But Krista couldn’t envision her venturing into that neighborhood at midnight to buy drugs unless she was desperate.
“It’s possible,” she admitted. “I don’t really know why she was there, and at this point, I’m much more concerned with finding out where she is now.”
“Wish I could help you, but I never talked to her. Interviewed the motel manager, though.”
The way he said “manager” seemed to have some hidden meaning.
“You been out to the scene yet?” he asked her.
“No.”
“You should probably check it out. You know, Walker looked me up a while back and I told him the same thing. Very next day, he announced he was taking the case.”
“Thanks for the tip,” she said, even though she didn’t really know what she was thanking him for. Maybe for taking the trouble to meet with her, although from the sound of it he was no longer assigned to the story. Still, he wanted something from her or he wouldn’t have come.
“In your reporting,” Krista said, “did you come across any potential motives for Sheffield’s murder? Besides the obvious?”
“You mean besides someone hitting him for his car? In an alley thirty-six miles from his house, where he had no apparent reason to be in the middle of the night?”
“Yeah.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“He have any enemies you know about?”
“Probably had plenty. He was sued for malpractice a few times. I hear the police
looked into that, but nothing came of it.”
“What about life insurance?” she asked.
“Two mil. It went to his wife.”
“That’s a lot of money.”
“Depends on your perspective,” he said. “For a doctor living in Brentwood, it’s not over the top. Anyway, the police checked her out, but never really considered her a suspect. And Saurez turned up, so that was that.”
“And they’re sure Saurez didn’t have an accomplice? Maybe a buddy who boosted the car with him?”
“He was with friends earlier in the night, but when he cut through the alley, apparently he was alone.”
Wayland checked his watch, probably realizing this was turning into a one-way conversation and he was wasting his time. He scooted out of the booth and pulled a business card from his pocket. “You come up with anything interesting, I’d appreciate a call.”
“Interesting how?”
“Witnesses who stay missing. People who disappear. That kind of thing.”
“You don’t think she’ll testify?”
“I don’t think you’ll find her.” He handed her the card. “And I think there’s a lot more to this case than meets the eye.”
~ ~ ~
The Grove Motel was located in a sketchy neighborhood on the outskirts of Anaheim. To the east it abutted a dead strip center with plywood covering the windows. To the west was a series of warehouses, each surrounded by fences topped with razor wire. Just across from the motel parking lot were some brick industrial buildings tagged with gang graffiti. All things considered, not exactly a destination for families visiting Disneyland.
Krista surveyed the area as she pulled into the motel parking lot. It was after midnight. The only two businesses with lights on were the motel and a gas station four blocks east.
Vinh Nguyen seemed to have some customers, though. He had twenty rooms total—ten up, ten down—and judging by lighted windows, he was at fifty percent occupancy.
Krista pulled up to the front office, but she didn’t get out. A fiftyish woman with black hair and glasses manned the front desk, and Krista guessed she was Nguyen’s wife. The woman glanced at Krista’s car briefly before returning her attention to her computer screen.
Krista looked around, getting a feel for the place. A glowing red Coke machine sat beneath the outdoor stairwell, and a shirtless man stood there, feeding coins into a slot. On the upper floor, a man with a six-pack under his arm shoved a key card into a door and stepped inside. At the far end of the building, a thin woman in micro-shorts and magenta wig stood on the sidewalk, smoking a cigarette and talking on a cell phone.
Krista glanced at the desk clerk again. She glanced at the mouth of the alley where Alan Sheffield’s body was discovered. She put her car in gear and pulled around to the parking lot, where she found an empty space.
She got out and shrugged into her jacket. A breeze kicked up, and she realized the leather smelled like garbage. It would have to be professionally cleaned—another expensive errand to add to her ever-growing list.
The street wasn’t too busy, so she didn’t bother walking to the corner but trotted across to the mouth of the alley. The buildings on either side were three-stories tall and blocked most of the light. The alley stretched five blocks, and at the end, Krista saw the distant lights of traffic on what looked to be a busy street.
Stepping between the buildings felt like stepping into a cave. The air was cool and heavy with the smell of rot and pollution. She beamed her flashlight around, noting grime and graffiti on the chipped bricks. A rusty Dumpster sat about twenty yards in. Krista approached it and crouched down. She examined the pock-marked pavement, as if it might have some clues to yield after all this time. She stood up and stepped back toward the mouth of the alley and the relative brightness of the open street. The office of the Grove Motel glowed like a beacon on the other side, but she couldn’t see the desk clerk. Krista took a few more steps, until she was back on the sidewalk. Still, it was impossible to see the front desk from her angle. If she couldn’t see the clerk, how could the clerk see her? She walked back to the building and eased into a shadow. From that angle, she couldn’t even see the motel’s glass door, much less the front desk.
“Hey, bitch.”
Krista whirled around. Her heart jumped into her throat as a stocky, bald man stepped from the shadows. She reached for her gun and someone shoved her from behind, sending her stumbling into the bald guy’s chest. A hand clamped her ponytail and yanked her head back as an arm snaked around her middle. Pain zinged from her scalp and her eyes burned. She was sandwiched between two men, one with a shaved head and menacing black eyes and one she couldn’t see. But she could feel the hard wall of his body and smell his sweat.
“This ain’t your neighborhood, bitch.”
Her heart hammered wildly. Her gun was in the holster at her back, digging into her spine, but her hands were locked behind her as the bald guy eased closer.
“My money’s in my pocket.” Her voice was a squeak. “You can have it.”
The black eyes narrowed. He smelled like beer and B.O. She tried to shift her shoulders and reach for her gun, but other guy’s grip tightened.
Shaved Head eased closer and shoved his hand in her pocket, but he wasn’t reaching for money. He smiled down at her, revealing crooked yellow teeth.
She slammed her knee up into his groin, then pounded her heel on the foot behind her. A curse boomed in her ear. She jerked her arms free, whirled, and tried to land a kick in his kneecap, but she was off-balance and didn’t connect.
“Fucking bitch!”
A fist smashed into her temple. She saw stars for a moment, then recovered and pivoted with a sharp jab to the throat. He staggered back, red-faced and choking.
Meanwhile his friend was doubled over in pain. He looked up, his face twisted with rage. He charged her. She jumped sideways and gave him a kick in the hip that sent him sprawling across the pavement.
A jaw-rattling shove knocked her to the ground. She tasted blood and the first spurt of panic because she was down now with him looming above her. She reached for her gun as a brutal kick connected with her shoulder. She grunted and rolled away, scrambling for her weapon as got to her knees. She grabbed the pistol and jerked it free.
“Back off!” she screamed, pointing at the closest shadow.
His face changed as he saw the gun. He stepped back. Five-five, one-fifty. Baggy jeans, gray hoodie. She cataloged the description as she pointed her weapon at his center body mass.
“Three steps back,” she ordered, sounding calmer now, even though her heart was galloping.
Blood pooled in her mouth. Her chest hurt. But she kept her hands steady, and he stepped back, bumping into his friend, who was limping toward her now with blood streaming from his lip. She eyed their jackets for bulges and prayed they weren’t packing, too, or this could get very ugly very fast.
Shaved Head cursed and took another clumsy step before his buddy caught him.
“Fuck it, she’s got a gun.”
The bald guy froze. A heartbeat later, both of them bolted down the alley.
Krista listened to their shoes on the pavement and watched them dart around the corner. For a moment she didn’t move, just knelt there with her arms outstretched, clutching her pistol in the two-handed grip she’d learned at the police academy. Her lungs burned. Sweat trickled into her eyes. She lowered her arms and stood up. She glanced around, hyper-aware now of every shadow and noise, every potential threat, as she should have been from the very beginning.
Her limbs started to quiver as she retraced her steps to the parking lot. The adrenaline surge was fading and pain flooded in to take its place. Her palms stung. Her knees ached and the side of her head throbbed.
She should have been more alert, less consumed with her task. What good did it do her to pack a pistol if knowing she had it made her let down her guard? If Scarlet were here, she’d lecture her. R.J., too. And they’d both be right.
&nbs
p; Still clutching her gun, Krista crossed the parking lot on wobbly legs. She slid into her car. She dug her keys from her pocket, and the geriatric Impala shuddered and coughed as she started it.
~ ~ ~
Scarlet poured two-fingers of Glenfiddich and slid the glass across the bar.
“I don’t drink scotch.”
“It’ll take the edge off,” she said. “You’re getting a nasty bruise.”
Krista adjusted the icepack at her temple. She glanced around the pub, which was empty except for a waitress wiping down tables. Good thing because Krista’s eau de garbage wasn’t doing much for Diego’s ambiance. Diego ran a popular hangout not far from the beach. Scarlet was his upstairs tenant and occasionally helped out behind the bar.
“So how smart is this girl?” Scarlet leaned forward on her elbows.
“I can’t tell. She’s managed to dodge Walker, but he’s only been looking for a few days.”
“And you think he might have Flynn on it?”
“I know he does.”
Scarlet frowned. “Didn’t Walker do this once before?”
“A year ago,” Krista said. “I spent a week running down some sleazebag drug dealer who was set to testify, only to have R.J. show up and steal him out from under me.”
“Walker’s an ass.”
Krista sighed. “I’m tempted to ditch, but this hasn’t exactly been a great summer money-wise.”
“Plus you’re worried about the girl.” Scarlet gave her a knowing look. “Pretend all you want, Hart, but I know about your noble streak.”
Krista toyed with the glass. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this one.”
“Uh-oh.”
“I don’t know why. I just—” She shrugged. Then she lifted the glass and tipped back a sip. “Jesus Christ!” She choked and wheezed as Scarlet grinned. “What is that?”
“Fifteen-year single-malt. Only the best for my padnah.”
“God.” Krista clutched her throat. “Remind me not to drop in again for business advice.”
“You want advice? Go home and get a shower. And a good night’s sleep.”
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