Crash and Burn (13 page)

“Shit,” he muttered. “I don’t know why I believed her. She wasn’t always so obviously crazy before.”

“You’re certain she didn’t follow you?”

“I know she didn’t. I rented a car while mine is getting fixed. I looped around a couple times before leaving town.”

“Smart.”

“I called in sick for tomorrow. I hate missing classes, especially at the beginning of the year. When can I come back?”

“Give it a day or two. Get the restraining order. It seemed to work for the guy in Boston. She eventually left him alone. I’m emailing you photos I took of Wendy parked outside your apartment, and my statement, which should help. Did you talk to her parents again?”

“They haven’t seen her in over a week. I read them the letter she gave me and now—finally—they’re worried about her. I think they’ll help me.”

“I know this is hard on you, but stick with the plan. I’m hoping the situation will diffuse itself.”

She wasn’t holding her breath, but between her statement, the CHP, and Wendy’s parents, Jim could probably get a rock-solid restraining order, and maybe—finally—Wendy will get some help. It was much harder to force an adult into mental therapy—or commit them—than a minor. And too often, Scarlet had learned, parents ignored early warning signs of future problems.

She told Jim to call her if he heard from Wendy at all, then knocked on Tessa’s door.

Mandy answered. A distinct aroma of marijuana flowed from the door. “Yeah?” she said.

“Mandy, I’m Valerie’s friend from yesterday.”

“I remember.” Her eyes were red and she leaned heavily against the door. “What’s up?”

“Tessa’s in the hospital and Valerie asked me to get a few things. Is that okay?”

“Sure,” Mandy said, letting Scarlet walk in. “What happened to Tess?”

It was a casual question, not much concern, as if asking about the weather.

“I don’t really know,” Scarlet lied. She remembered the misinformation Mandy had spouted only yesterday; she didn’t want to give the girl any more fodder for the gossip mill. “Which room is hers?”

“Tess is really weird about people going into her room,” Mandy said.

“You haven’t been in there this weekend?”

“I haven’t been in there since we moved in together.” Then she shrugged. “But she and Val are tight, go ahead. She’s the door on the left.”

“Thanks.”

The door was closed. Scarlet opened it, unprepared for what she saw.

The room was a mess, as if someone had literally tossed the place. At first, Scarlet thought someone had been looking for something, but it didn’t seem quite that methodical. Nothing in the desk seemed to be touched, but nearly everything had been pulled from the closet. She supposed Tessa was a slob, but the pictures were neatly hung—except for one framed photo that was smashed on the floor. She carefully picked it up—it was a photo of Tessa, Valerie, Chase, and Parker at Disneyland. It looked to have been taken on the same trip that Valerie had pictures of downstairs.

Scarlet then saw the blood smears on the wall, bloody women’s sandals in the corner. It looked like someone had wiped bloody hands on the sheets.

Something clicked. Tessa had come here after she killed Parker. Maybe to change, though Scarlet didn’t see any bloody clothes on the messy floor.

Did Chase find her here? Follow her here? Had she called him? They had Patrick’s cell phone, but a warrant for Chase Flores’s cell phone records would take longer to execute. Did he have Tessa’s phone? Was it in her possessions at the hospital?

She was about to text him and ask when she saw an iPhone with a smashed front on the floor, as if it had been thrown against the wall. She was already walking in dangerous territory here, even though she hadn’t actually touched anything. She considered her options, then said, “What the hell.” She pulled on latex gloves she always carried in her pocket and picked up the phone. She pressed the circle. It was nearly dead, showing five percent battery life. She quickly looked through the call log.

Starting at three-fifty Saturday morning, she’d missed fourteen calls from Chase Flores. There were other calls later—from Valerie, from Bishop, from other people—but those fourteen calls were telling. Had she been so frustrated with the repeat calls that she’d tossed the phone against the wall? Or had Chase come in, found the phone and his calls, seen all the blood, and threw her phone in frustration?

Scarlet put the phone back down where she found it and was about to call Bishop when her phone vibrated in her pocket.

She pulled off her gloves. “Moreno,” she answered.

It was Heather, and she sounded worried. “Scarlet, we need you at the bar.”

She turned the ignition and pulled out into the street. “What happened?”

“One of those kids came back. From the other night. He looks awful.”

“I’ll be right there.” She waved to Mandy, who didn’t seem to care that she was leaving, and ran down the stairs to her Jeep. “Fifteen minutes, max. Call Detective Bishop.”

“Okay. Hurry.”

“Did he threaten you?”

“No, but Isaac—he’s antsy.”

“Put him on.”

By the time Isaac came on the phone, Scarlet was in her Jeep and pulled out of Tessa’s complex. She sped through traffic in what might be deemed reckless if someone didn’t know she’d been a cop and was used to navigating through cars.

“What?” Isaac snapped.

“Bishop is on his way. Don’t do anything to land yourself in jail, Isaac.”

“I’m not.”

“Why am I not instilled with confidence?”

“Dammit, I didn’t want to let him in, but Heather said you told her to? What the fuck is going on, Scarlet?”

“What’s going on is Bishop needs to talk to that kid. We’re thinking he knows something about these murders.”

“We?”

“You know what I mean. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
I hope.
“Keep him there, no matter what.”

“Another one just came in.”

“Another one?”

“Are you deaf? I’m not—”

Suddenly the phone went dead.

“Dammit!” Scarlet tried the bar again, but there was no answer.

She called Bishop.

“Are you on the way to the bar?”

“Should I be?”

“Heather said she’d call you—but now no one’s answering. Skip Oliver and Chase Flores are there.”

“Are you sure?”

Almost. “Yes.”

“Where are you?”

“Five minutes out.”
Ten.

“Wait for me.”

“I can’t. There’s something going on. I’ll go in through my apartment.”

“I thought you said there was no way in or out of your apartment except through the bar.”

“I lied.” She hung up. She didn’t want to get in a discussion with Bishop as she sped through traffic.

She parked two blocks away in the first available slot she could find. She ran to the bar. While most places near the beach had outdoor seating, Diego’s was old-school. No windows, no outdoor tables. She couldn’t see what was going on inside, but there was a sign on the door that said
closed.
Closed at four on a Sunday? Never.

She ran around through the alley and up the narrow space between the bar and the property rental company next door. She scaled the wall of the building using the disguised footholds, then hopped over her ledge and went in through the sliding glass doors she never locked. She sent Bishop a text message.

Closed sign on door. I’m going to unlock the service door in the alley for you. You can thank me later.

She stood at the top of the stairs to listen to the bar. That was the third thing that was off—the phones, the sign on the door, and now no music.

It was relatively slow, but steady, for Diego on Sundays. The regulars only came during the week, and the tourists preferred the pier and trendy bars on the beach. She didn’t hear any voices. She walked down the stairs and rounded the corner. Now she heard voices, but couldn’t distinguish what was being said.

Cautiously, she crossed the hall to the stock room and unbolted the service door. Then she stood inside the doorway and listened.

She heard a frantic voice. “No more excuses!”

“Buddy, I’m not making excuses. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Shut up!” Then, the same frantic person said, “I told you not to move! Just stay seated. I don’t have a problem with anyone here, except Skip and the bartender.”

Was that Chase doing the talking? Why did he have a problem with Isaac?

She risked putting her head out the door. Her view was still mostly blocked by the main wall, but she had partial line of sight into the bar. Several customers sat at the main bar; oddly, every stool was taken. They were all looking down at their drinks. She couldn’t see behind the bar, whether Isaac was there or in the main room, which was also out of her line of vision.

“Let the rest of us go.” It was Heather and she sounded terrified. Why? Did someone have a gun? A knife?

“I can’t. Not until he tells me the truth.”

“I did, man. I told you I left and didn’t see anyone again.” Scarlet didn’t recognize the voice. Skip Oliver?

“I don’t believe you!”

“I’m telling you the fucking truth! Get that gun out of my face. I’m not lying!”

There was a grunt, as if someone had been hit, then the gun went off. Heather screamed, then cut it off abruptly, and several of the customers gasped and mumbled.

“Next time the bullet goes in your head!” Chase screamed. “Shut up, you people!”

Scarlet had to do something. Had Chase seen her well enough at Valerie’s yesterday to recognize her? She couldn’t be sure. She stepped back into the storeroom and grabbed Diego’s Dodgers cap. Nearly killed her to put it on, but sacrifices had to be made. She grabbed an apron, a generic black apron that be from anywhere, and tied it on. She slipped her gun into the front pocket and took her holster off her belt. Now what?

A clipboard hung on the wall. She grabbed it and walked out into the bar with the clipboard and a pen. “Hey, Diego, you weren’t answering your bell. I got the cases of Jack you ordered—”

“How the hell did you get in?” Chase screamed at her. “Who are you?”

“Krista Hart,” she said the first name that came to mind. “I work for a distributor. What’s going on?”

As she spoke, she assessed the room. Heather was behind the bar. Isaac was on his knees next to Skip Oliver. Chase had wisely put his back to the corner, to prevent anyone from sneaking up behind him. There were several tables with half-finished drinks—it seemed all the patrons were sitting at the counter. Another smart move, since Chase was a lone hostage taker with presumably one gun. A nine millimeter. The same caliber that had killed Juan Robertson and shot Richie Sanders.

“Behind the bar,” he ordered. But her appearance had thrown him for a loop. He was losing control.

She didn’t go behind the bar. She put her clipboard down and stepped toward him. She caught Isaac’s eye. He was confused but resolute. She didn’t want this kid to die, not here, not in the bar. She didn’t know what had happened, but she needed to talk him down. “What’s going on? Isaac?”

“Don’t talk to him! He could have stopped it all, but he has no balls.”

Isaac’s jaw clenched and he was red-faced. Angry, not scared. Definitely not scared. Isaac was a rare one who might prefer death to living. She hoped not. She hoped he didn’t do anything stupid.

“Stopped what? What’s your name?”

“Behind the bar I said.”

“You don’t want to hurt anyone,” she said.

Chase fired at her feet. He was a good shot, missed her by inches. Or a bad shot and missed her by inches. “Shut up and get behind the bar.”

This time, she complied. Two bullets in a nine millimeter gone. Had it been fully loaded? She couldn’t tell from the way he held it, it could have been a seven round clip or a nine round clip. Gunners would have a plus-one, chambered. Maximum ten bullets.

That left him with eight. She had to assume he had eight, even though this was likely the gun that had shot the others, meaning he could have six or fewer bullets.

But he was on edge, and every time he pressed the trigger, he was one step closer to being willing to kill. She could see it in his eyes—he was building up the nerve to kill.

To kill again?

Had he killed his friends? He had a gun. It was logical. But there was something in his expression… and she was ninety-nine percent positive he didn’t do it. She would swear on her license that he hadn’t killed anyone in his life. But something had happened. He was on edge and traumatized. He blamed Skip and Isaac. Why Isaac?

Because Isaac didn’t stop Richie and the others from hurting Valerie and Tessa. He’d seen the problem but let them go.

She had let them go. She was just as culpable as Isaac under that reasoning. But Chase had already left with girls. He’d tried to protect them, but had no idea what the drugs had done to them and their reasoning. He thought they’d been safe in their apartment, but they’d left for some unknown reason and he blamed himself. For not staying with them, protecting them from themselves—and his friends.

She slowly approached Heather. As soon as she was behind the bar, Chase returned his attention to Skip and Isaac.

“Deets?” Scarlet whispered.

“He thinks Skip drugged and raped those girls, and wants him to confess.”

“Isaac?”

“I don’t know.”

“Shut up!” Chase screamed at them.

He didn’t look like he was on drugs, but he was on the edge. No sleep? Stress? What had he seen? Or done? Maybe Scarlet was wrong and he had killed his friends, but hadn’t processed it yet. Either way, he was going to crash, and if Scarlet didn’t do something, innocent people would die.

She glanced at the door. It was locked from the inside as she suspected. He wouldn’t want to be surprised by customers or make it easy for the police.

The problem was, he was going to get himself killed. SWAT didn’t play games when innocent lives were at stake. If he didn’t immediately surrender, they would shoot to kill. And he wasn’t holding either Isaac or Skip as true hostages. They were on their knees and Chase was pacing around them.

She stared at Isaac, and when he finally looked at her, she made a motion to keep him talking.