“Don’t move,” he ordered.
He swerved onto the road and punched the gas, leaving behind a spray of gravel. Still no lights, and her heart skittered as she pictured them careening into a ditch.
Then they did careen into a ditch, and her head smacked against the dashboard.
“Sorry.”
“What—”
“Shortcut.”
They bumped and bounced over the uneven terrain, and she gripped the door for support. Another burst of speed, another bounce. The truck caught air, and they came down with a jaw-rattling thunk, and suddenly, they were speeding over smooth pavement. He switched on the headlights, and the dashboard lit up green.
He looked at her. “You can sit up now.”
She didn’t move.
“It’s okay.”
Slowly, she lifted her head and looked over the dash. They were on a paved road. Two lanes. No lights anywhere except the tunnel created by their headlights.
She glanced over her shoulder, and the lights of the dock were nothing more than a distant glow above the tree line. She couldn’t even see the towering cranes.
Jeremy trained his gaze on the road ahead.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t explain. Kira still felt the heady buzz of adrenaline, and he just stared straight ahead as if nothing had just happened.
He checked the rearview mirror. Suddenly, he hit the brakes and swung onto a dirt road. He skidded to a halt and thrust the truck into park.
He reached across the console and clutched the side of her face.
“You okay?”
She nodded.
“You sure?” His blue eyes bored into her, and she felt the intensity coming off him, right through his fingertips.
“Who was that?” she croaked.
“I don’t know.”
“That was a gunshot, right?”
He nodded, and she studied his face. She’d thought he was fine, but she saw now that he wasn’t fine at all. Even in the dimness, she could see the taut muscles of his neck, the hard set of his mouth, the beads of sweat glistening at his temples.
His fingers in her hair tightened. “I shouldn’t have let you come here.”
“You didn’t let me anything. I—”
He cut her off with a kiss.
CHAPTER
FIFTEEN
KIRA FROZE. Then he burrowed his fingers into her hair, and she moved into him.
Jeremy was kissing her. Kissing her. And it was loaded with all that pent-up intensity she’d felt from the moment she met him. She slid her hands up around his neck and pulled herself closer.
He tasted so, so good, and she couldn’t get enough as he angled her head and delved into her mouth. She ran her fingertips over that stubble that she’d been dying to touch for days and pressed her body against him, as close as she could get with the damn console between them. Her heart lurched as he grabbed her hips and dragged her over it and into his lap. His erection was like a steel rod, and she squirmed against him.
He tipped his head back. “Kira—”
“Shut up.”
She pulled him closer, and she was surrounded by the solid heat of his body. He was so good, everything about him, from his sharp taste to his strong arms. His skin felt hot, and she ran her fingertips down his sweat-dampened neck, as he kissed her with a fierceness she never would have expected.
Except that she had. She’d known. From that first morning, that simmering look in his eyes had warned her about what was buried under all that cool self-control. His palm slid over her T-shirt and closed over her breast, and she arched against him. She wanted both his hands on her. She wanted to straddle his lap and pull her shirt off and feel his mouth on her, too, but all she had right now was the teasing brush of his thumb through the fabric.
A loud hum made her jerk away. She looked up at him, panting. The raw lust in his eyes sent a surge of heat through her.
The noise again.
She spotted her glowing phone beside her mud-smeared camera on the floor of the truck. Recognizing the number on the screen, she scrambled off his lap and grabbed it.
“This is Kira.”
Silence.
“Hello? Shelly?”
“Kira, hi.”
She fell back against the seat and tugged her shirt down. Her skin tingled. She glanced at Jeremy as he ran his hand through his hair and gave her a look she couldn’t read.
“I hope it’s not too late,” Shelly said. “You said anytime, so . . .”
“It’s fine.” Kira checked the clock and went on alert. “What’s wrong, Shelly?”
“I just . . . maybe I’m being paranoid, but I thought I saw something. Twice, actually.”
Kira shook her head, trying to shake off the daze. In the background of the call, she heard music. Was Shelly calling from a bar? A restaurant?
“What did you see twice?” Kira asked her.
“I’m not sure. Not really. But you know that picture you showed me?”
Her blood ran cold. “The police sketch?”
“I thought I saw him at a stoplight downtown. In the car behind me? But then I thought it was nothing, because I made a turn, but the car didn’t turn, and I figured I was just imagining it. Then I thought I saw him again.”
“Where?”
Jeremy put the truck in gear and pulled back onto the highway.
“You know Mulligan’s?” Shelly asked.
“The sports bar.”
“I was there with some friends, and I could have sworn I saw him at the bar as I was leaving.”
“Where are you now?” Glancing at Jeremy, Kira motioned for him to go faster. “Shelly?”
“I’m on my way home.”
“Where do you live?”
“Avalon Lofts on Kirby Drive.”
“Lock your door, all right? Did anyone follow you?”
“No. I looked. In fact, I drove past the police station on my way, thinking I might pull in, but . . . he wasn’t back there. No one was. No one was following me, and I felt dumb. Honestly, I’m not even sure it was him. It just looked like it might be him, and I thought I should tell someone.”
“I’m going to text you a number for the lead detective on the case, and I want you to call her, okay? Tell her I gave you her number, and then tell her what you just told me.”
Silence.
“Shelly?”
“Isn’t that a little much? I’m not even sure it’s the guy from the sketch. And it’s after eleven.”
“Don’t worry about that. Contact this detective. And also, keep your phone on you and call nine-one-one if you see anything suspicious.”
No response.
“Shelly?”
“Okay.”
“I’m serious. Anything at all.”
“I got it.”
Shelly dropped the phone into her lap and replayed Kira’s words in her head.
I want you to call her.
Right. Like she was going to call up some homicide detective this time of night and tell her . . . what? That somewhere between her second and third raspberry mojito, she’d slipped off to the bathroom to check her phone, and she’d maybe seen a guy who might have looked like the guy in that police sketch?
Shelly was half-drunk, and even she knew how stupid that sounded.
She shouldn’t have come out tonight. Especially not with her law-school friends. They were wrapped up in their perfect little overachieving lives and didn’t understand what she was going through.
I want you to call her.
Shelly pulled up to a stoplight and checked her mirrors. No odd looks from other drivers. No creepy cars following her. She hadn’t been lying about the police-station thing. She really had driven by there a minute ago and even made a loop around it, but she’d seen no one suspicious, and no one was following her.
Someone honked behind her. The light was green. She was distracted tonight. What the hell had possessed her to order that third mojito?
Ren’s been wanting to go.
Ren. Her real name was Renee. And every time Drew used her nickname, Shelly felt a sharp pang in her chest.
Shelly coasted through traffic lights, green, green, green, trying not to obsess. For days, all she’d been able to think about was Drew with his wife and his kids, walking through the Magic Kingdom. She pictured them watching fireworks together and eating ice-cream cones and riding Space Mountain.
Well, maybe not Mia. She was only three, definitely not big enough for a roller coaster. But Drew was a doting father. He’d probably take her on Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride instead, and Shelly pictured Mia’s blond curls flying as she shrieked with glee. Or maybe not. Would she even know what Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride was? Had Renee read her children The Wind in the Willows? Probably so. Renee was a good mother, of course, and she had good, beautiful kids who would someday become good, beautiful adults.
Although Shelly had had a good mother, too, one who read stories and took her to church, and look how Shelly had turned out. She was a bitch. A home-wrecker.
She was the kind of woman she’d never imagined in a million years she’d be, the kind who met someone else’s husband in expensive hotel rooms and did things to him that his wife didn’t do anymore, things that made his eyes glaze over as he groaned her name.
The phone in her lap dinged, making her jump. She checked the screen and saw a text from Kira Vance with the detective’s phone number. Charlotte Spears. She bit her lip and once again wished she’d never gone to that damn bar tonight. But she’d wanted a distraction.
I want you to call her.
There had been an urgency in Kira’s voice. An intensity. Much like the look in her eyes when they’d met at the coffee shop. And the other detective with her? Whoa. He took intensity to a whole new level.
“Screw it.”
Shelly tapped the phone number as she neared her apartment. Her nerves danced as she tried to work out what to say. Hello, detective, you don’t know me, but I’ve got a hot tip for you . . .
She turned into the driveway of her building and rolled to a stop at the gate. As it slid open, she checked her mirrors again and thought about the man in the bar. He’d been attractive. Much more attractive than that suspect sketch. They didn’t even really look alike, come to think of it.
But . . . there had been that glance. He’d caught her eye on her way to the bathroom, and he’d looked at her a second too long. Only a second, but it had been enough to turn Shelly’s skin cold. Enough to make her call Kira Vance on her way home.
A woman’s voice sounded in her ear, low and throaty, like Kathleen Turner. You have reached the voice mail . . .
Shelly hung up, relieved. She’d call Detective Spears in the morning. Or maybe she’d wake up and realize the whole thing was stupid, and she wouldn’t call anyone.
Shelly pulled into a parking space and checked her surroundings. The building formed a U shape, with narrow balconies looking out over a pool. She saw lights in several units and the flicker of a few televisions, but the parking lot wasn’t full. Many of her neighbors were probably still out for the evening. Shelly dropped her keys into her purse, then grabbed her tube of pepper spray. It was sticky and covered with lint, and she peeled a gum wrapper off it before clutching it in her hand and getting out of her car.
The air smelled of chlorine and grass clippings. Shelly strode across the lot, gripping her key card in one hand and her pepper spray in the other, and the heels of her sandals clacked against the concrete. She glanced around, checking the sidewalks and the shadows between cars. She passed through a hedge to the landscaped courtyard, where a glowing blue pool was surrounded by a wrought-iron fence. The pool was empty now, except for a pink foam noodle drifting listlessly in the corner.
Shelly scanned the hedges, trying to calm her nerves. She shouldn’t have called Kira. The PI had gotten her all worked up, and now she wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight. Maybe she’d have one last drink just to smooth her nerves and block out the images of Drew and his family on their perfect vacation.
She reached the door and swiped the key card over the panel. The light blinked green, and she felt a surge of relief. Home sweet home.
“Michelle.”
She whirled around, and her heart jumped.
Charlotte needed to get home.
She’d been running nonstop for eighteen hours, and now she wanted to eat, shower, and crash. She hadn’t had a midnight callout in weeks, and she was overdue for being pulled out of bed and losing half a night’s sleep.
She exited the police-station parking lot, but instead of turning right toward the freeway, she hung a left toward Allen Parkway, making her way to Avalon Lofts for what would be the second time today. She and Diaz had stopped by earlier after convincing the Duffy & Hersch receptionist to give them Michelle Chandler’s address. They had wanted to interview the woman, but she hadn’t been home, and they figured she was probably out for the evening, kicking off her weekend, which was where she and Diaz would be tonight if either of them had a life outside of work.
Charlotte’s phone buzzed, and she tapped the button to put it on speaker.
“I thought you went home,” she said.
“I’m on my way.” Diaz’s voice surrounded her in stereo. “You listening to the scanner?”
Charlotte tensed. “No.”
“Unresponsive female at Avalon Lofts.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No. I’m on my way over there now, ETA ten minutes.”
“I’ll meet you.”
Charlotte floored the gas, wishing she were in a police unit instead of her personal vehicle. Pushing her Mustang to its limit, she swerved around traffic and sped through three consecutive yellow lights before reaching the apartment complex. Nearing the gate, she spied a pair of patrol units in the lot, red and blue strobes spinning. An ambulance was there, too, but the lights were off.
“Shit.” She pounded her fist on the steering wheel.
The gate to the complex stood open, and a uniformed officer manned a barricade between the parking lot and the building’s courtyard. It was a large complex. Hundreds of units. An unresponsive female could mean anything. Maybe some woman had choked on a chicken bone or had a few too many beers by the pool.
But Charlotte’s gut told her otherwise.
The uniform by the barricade was tall and had a buzz cut. Charlotte didn’t recognize him. She parked her car and approached the man, flashing her ID.
“What do you have?” she asked.
He nodded toward the building, where several officers stood under a covered patio area with a barbecue pit.
“Caucasian female, twenty to thirty, gunshot wound,” he reported. “Neighbor found her on the sidewalk and called nine-one-one.”
“She’s—”
“Dead.”
Charlotte took a deep breath. “Any ID?”
“Not yet. Scene’s taped off, but the ME isn’t here yet, so no one’s touching anything.”
She glanced at the parking lot behind her. A white Honda Accord was parked in a nearby row, and Charlotte read the plate. It was the car she and Diaz had been looking for earlier when they’d stopped by. Charlotte dug a glove from her pocket and pulled it on as she walked over to check the car out. Doors locked. Clean interior. She touched the hood. Still warm.
“Damn it.”
The uniform watched her curiously as she strode past him and followed the courtyard path to the pair of officers. One she recognized. The other looked barely out of braces.
“Gonzales.” She nodded. “Catch me up.”
“Call came in about eleven thirty-two. GSW, close range.” Gonzales gestured toward the building, and Charlotte looked over. Beyond the yellow tape, she saw a low hedge and a woman’s feet peeking out. White sandals. Red toenail polish.
“Anyone report a gunshot?” she asked.
“To my knowledge, no.”
The knot in Charlotte’s stomach tightened.
“Detective Spears?”
She turned around as Buzz Cut walked over.
“There’s a woman here who wants to talk to you,” he said.
“Where?” God, please don’t let it be her mom or sister.
“Over there.” He nodded at the barricade. “Kira somebody? She said she knows you.”
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
SHE LOOKS bad,” Diaz said in a low voice.
Charlotte followed his gaze to the patrol car, where Kira Vance stood with her arms crossed, staring at her feet, while her security guy scanned the scene with an eagle eye.
Former military, Charlotte would bet on it. She’d meant to run his background, but she’d gotten sidetracked with about ten other aspects of this crazy investigation.
“Think we should take her in?” Diaz asked.
“Let’s keep it informal. We’ll probably get more out of her.”
Kira and her bodyguard had been here for a while now, waiting outside the gate. An officer had already interviewed Kira and relayed the basics, but Charlotte had some follow-up questions. As she walked over, Jeremy Owen’s gaze homed in on her.
“Ms. Vance?”
Kira looked up. Her face was pale, and she had the same blank expression Charlotte remembered from Brock Logan’s patio. Once again, they were standing a stone’s throw away from a bloody crime scene where someone had been shot at close range.
“Get you some water?” Charlotte asked.
“No.”
“I have a few follow-up questions about your interactions with the victim.”
“Okay.” Kira shuddered and wrapped her arms tighter around herself. She wore an oversize flannel shirt that swallowed her, but she still seemed cold. The knees of her jeans were damp, and her shoes were muddy.
“What about her?” Kira asked.
“How exactly did you find her? At this address?”
“She told me where she lived over the phone.”
“This was when she called you from her car?”
“That’s right.” Kira cast a wary look at the crime scene, where the ME’s people were still huddled around the body.
Her Deadly Secrets Page 15