Crash and Burn (16 page)

How the hell had he gotten the drop on her? It was bad. Embarrassing, even. And it would have to be reported to the client.

The car choked and sputtered as she started it up and steered out of the parking lot. She thought about the look in Stark’s eyes. She should consider herself lucky. He outweighed her by sixty pounds and he’d been highly motivated, and still she’d walked away unharmed.

With the exception of her bruised ego.

~ ~ ~

Moreno & Hart occupied one-fourth of a Spanish-style building six blocks from the county courthouse. She and Scarlet had picked the location in hopes of crossing paths with a steady stream of attorneys, which would naturally lead to some business. Three years later, the cases hadn’t magically materialized, but they’d grown used to the neighborhood. What it lacked in glamour, it made up for in location. They were just a stone’s throw away from the 405 and only a short commute from Krista’s house in Huntington Beach and Scarlet’s apartment in Newport.

The morning was balmy, and Krista drove to work with the windows down, enjoying the smog-banishing breeze off the Pacific. She checked her mirrors all the way in, out of habit and also out of concern over the look she’d seen on Brad Stark’s face last night. She doubted he’d had the presence of mind to copy down her plate, but it wouldn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out who she was, especially if his wife had left any info sitting around. When she was satisfied she wasn’t being tailed, she pulled up to the office and swung into the tiny lot beside the building. A white Lexus convertible occupied a meter less than a block away, and Krista wasn’t surprised to see Diane Stark standing beside one of the jacaranda trees flanking the door.

“Good morning,” Diane said as Krista approached the stucco building.

“Morning.” She pulled open the carved wooden door and motioned for her client to go in first.

“I take it you bumped into Brad last night?” Diane’s tone was chipper, but Krista could tell from her makeup that she’d been up all night, possibly crying.

“He mentioned it?”

“He was limping when he left for work.”

Diane followed her through the Saltillo tile lobby and up a flight of stairs to another pair of wooden doors. Krista didn’t bother with a key because she’d spotted Mac’s dinged Hyundai outside.

She ushered Diane into the office, where her part-time computer guru sat before his screen, deep into a game of Settlers of Catan. Mac was in grad school at Fullerton and showed up about once a week to wade through their computer work and earn a little extra cash.

“Coffee?” Krista asked Diane, glancing at their shiny new machine.

“No.”

She was relieved. Scarlet had brought the thing in, but Krista could never get it to work.

She led Diane into her cluttered office and moved a stack of files off a chair so she could sit down, but Diane walked over to the window and stood stiffly with her arms crossed. She wore a red St. John suit and matching Louboutin pumps. She’d probably chosen a power color because she felt fragile today.

Diane turned to her. “So what happened?”

She was a straight-to-the-point client, and Krista liked her for it.

“He noticed me outside the motel. Tried to take my camera.”

She flinched at the word
motel
. Women like Diane Stark didn’t frequent motels. The St. Regis was more her scene.

Diane shifted on her feet. “You have pictures?”

Krista sat down and booted up her computer. She’d emailed herself the report just this morning, anticipating this meeting, although she hadn’t expected to be having it at 9:03. She sent the report to the printer and looked at her client.

“Her name’s Alexa Arnold.”

Diane’s breath whooshed out. “God, she sounds like a stripper.”

Krista pulled the report off the printer, and it smelled like toner. The photos were embedded in the text on page two. Diane immediately flipped to them and looked like she’d bitten into a lemon.

“She’s a yoga instructor at your husband’s health club.”

Krista straightened some papers on her desk, giving Diane time to digest things. Her face paled as she flipped through the pages and the inescapable truth hit her.

Krista’s phone bleated, the sound echoing through the outer office where an extension sat on the reception desk. She ignored the call out of respect for the moment.

How many times had she watched that last flicker of hope fade from someone’s eyes? People were so good at kidding themselves, at spinning reality into something better than it was. When Diane had first come to her, she’d had a “funny feeling” something was off about her marriage. But it was way more than that. It always was. People picked up on things, both women and men. They noticed the trips to the gym, the lost pounds, the sudden fondness for cologne, the odd stretches of time when someone didn’t answer the phone. So often the signs were everywhere, but women in particular were adept at explaining them away. Krista had had clients who were being treated for STDs and still couldn’t believe their spouses were running around.

That’s what pictures were for. They cured denial. They provided Krista’s clients with irrefutable proof, which in turn gave them some emotional high ground. It was the one redeeming aspect to domestic work—Krista gave people a leg to stand on when they got in front of a judge to talk about spousal and child support.

“A yoga instructor.” Diane pursed her lips and flipped the pages. “That explains a lot.” She met Krista’s gaze and her eyes glistened. “I take it I can count on your discretion?”

“Of course.”

Which meant she didn’t know what she planned to do yet, and she didn’t want her dirty laundry aired in public. Krista didn’t, either. One of her most valuable P.I. skills was knowing how to find secrets and how to keep them.

“This is good work.” Diane’s voice was all business now as she folded the report and tucked it into her purse. She reached out and gave Krista a firm handshake. “I’ll be looking for your invoice.”

“Let me know if there’s anything else you need.”

Krista ushered Diane out. The phone started bleating again, and she cast a glance at Mac, still riveted to his game. As soon as the door whisked shut, she lunged for the desk.

“Thing’s been ringing all morning,” Mac grumbled.

“Moreno and Hart,” Krista said, glaring at him.

“Krista Hart, please.” It was a woman’s voice, and Krista tried to place it.

“Speaking.”

“Please hold for Drake Walker.”

Krista clutched the phone, speechless. She couldn’t have moved if she’d wanted to.

“Ms. Hart?” Walker’s gruff baritone came over the line. “Glad I caught you.”

The voice was strong and laced with authority. It could be used to blast someone’s credibility on the witness stand or to sweet-talk jurors—whichever the situation called for. Right now, it sounded charming, and Krista was instantly suspicious.

“How can I help you?” she asked.

“I need a locate.”

She didn’t respond. Drake “Get-a-Walk” Walker, by far the slimiest and most successful criminal defense attorney in Orange County, wanted to hire her.

She cleared her throat. “A witness, I assume?”

“Lily Daniels. Twenty-two. She’s supposed to take the stand tomorrow afternoon.”

“She move? Skip town?”

Low laughter. “That’s your job. You want the case or not?”

“That depends.” She tried to keep her voice cool. “How much does it pay?”

“A thousand a day, expenses included.”

Krista’s heart lurched. She leaned back against the desk. Mac paused his game of Catan and squinted up at her through his wire-rimmed glasses.

“Fifteen hundred,” she said and felt a shot of panic that she’d overplayed her hand.

More laughter. “Business is good, huh? You girls are getting pricey. Tell you what, a grand a day, plus a five-K bonus if you find her by noon tomorrow. After that, she’s not much good to me.”

“Done.”
Holy crap.
Six thousand dollars for probably half a day’s work.

“Missy’s faxing over the wit sheet now.”

“Fine. I’ll send over my contract.”

“Let’s not waste time with all that,” he said amicably. “We’ll call it a gentleman’s agreement.”

She managed not to snort. “You call it what you like. I’m sending my contract.”

~ ~ ~

Before Krista took anyone’s money, she made a point of finding out who was hiring her and why.

She knew the who part this time, but the why raised some concerns.

Krista found an empty parking space near the courthouse, which just added another stroke of good fortune to her seemingly “lucky” day.

She wasn’t the only P.I. around. Her colleagues hovered about the courthouse like pigeons waiting for crumbs. The best ones got jobs through referrals, but Orange County Superior Court filed more than half a million cases a year and even the scraps were worth having.

Krista’s disconcerting run of luck continued when she climbed out of her car and immediately saw the man she was looking for striding down the sidewalk.

Andrew DeSilva was a younger, trimmer version of his boss, as well as a junior partner at the man’s firm. Like Walker, DeSilva wore overpriced suites, French cuffs, and made a living defending the scum of the planet. Even if Lily Daniels wasn’t his case, Krista could count on DeSilva to be in-the-know.

“Andrew.”

He kept going, moving like a guided missile toward a shiny black Beemer. The first lesson for any attorney at Walker & Associates: time is money.

“Andy.”

He turned and stopped, his eyes narrowing as he spotted her. Krista wore her typical work outfit of faded jeans, sandals, and a Billabong tank top. With her honey-colored hair pulled back and some Wayfarers on, she blended in with the beach crowd wherever she went.

DeSilva watched her approach, raising a dark brow in a look of mild interest.

“Missy told me I’d find you here.” She hooked her sunglasses into her cleavage. It wasn’t much, but she worked with what she had.

“You run out of leads already?”

“Just getting started. I need a question answered first, though.”

He waited.

“Why’d Walker hire me?”

He smiled. “What do you mean? Your skills are legendary.”

“Bullshit.”

He sighed and glanced over her shoulder. He was one of those men who was always looking around in case someone more important happened to come along. The sidewalk was devoid of VIPs, evidently, and his brown eyes veered back to her.

“Walker sent Missy out three nights running to check in with this witness. Looks like Lily Daniels left town.”

Drake Walker’s paralegal should be sainted. Missy had an advanced degree, but Walker treated her like an intern, sending her out for coffee and dry cleaning, having her take his car to the shop and God knew what else. The fact that he’d sent her to a witness’s house three nights in a row struck Krista as odd.

“So, is this your case?”

“It’s his.” DeSilva glanced at his watch. “I just heard about it at the office.”

“Any idea why this witness is so important?”

“Who says she’s important?”

“It’s a first-degree murder rap. A kid’s on trial for his life.”

DeSilva shrugged. “She’s not make-or-break. She’s on our list, that’s all. She’s supposed to take the stand.”

Krista watched him. Her bullshit meter was going crazy, and he still hadn’t answered her main question.

“So, why’d he call Moreno and Hart? Since we’ve been in business he’s hired us a grand total of once.”

DeSilva’s gaze darted over her shoulder. He looked at her again and heaved a sigh.

“R.J.’s on the Big Island.”

Krista’s blood heated at the name. Her cheeks warmed. R.J. Flynn was obnoxious, reckless, and utterly without scruples. There was nothing he wouldn’t do to pin down a story, trace a skip, or locate a witness. Flynn charged three times Krista’s rate, and he collected it, too, using methods that gave every P.I. in So-Cal a bad name.

DeSilva smiled slightly, and Krista knew he’d read her reaction. If there was even a chance that Walker had double-booked this job, Krista wanted nothing to do with it. She’d been burned before.

“When’s he coming back?” She tried to make her voice neutral.

“Hell if I know. Too late for Lily, I’m guessing, since we called you.” He checked his watch again. “Listen, I’ve got a meeting in ten.”

He pulled open his door and tossed his briefcase onto the passenger seat.

“Thanks for the info,” Krista said grudgingly.

DeSilva smiled. “Happy hunting.”

Chapter Two

Krista turned onto Sycamore Street and rolled to a stop beside a low adobe bungalow. She glanced at the clock. Twenty-six hours to go. She was done looking a gift horse in the mouth. It was time to get to work and start earning the paycheck that was going to lift her out of credit card debt and fund a badly needed set of tires for her car.

Krista surveyed the house. No lights on. No movement behind the windows. No red Kia Rio registered to a Lilian Marie Daniels parked in the drive.

A dense hedge of oleanders covered the entire lower half of the home, with a narrow gap for the front steps. Krista walked to the door, noting the pizza coupon tucked into the bronze handle. She knocked. Waited. Peered through a gap in the mini-blinds to see a darkened living room.

She knocked again. “Lily?” she called, mainly for the benefit of the frizzy-haired woman eyeing her from the neighboring lawn.

Another glance through the window, but all she could see was an empty sofa and the edge of a coffee table. Near the door, she glimpsed a pile of mail that someone had shoved through the slot, at least a few days’ worth. Krista tugged the flyer from the door handle and a folded note fluttered to the ground. She picked it up.

Answer your phone! I’ve been trying to reach you. —Berle

A flash of orange caught her eye as a cat darted through the hedge and around the corner of the house.

Krista slipped the papers through the mail slot, then returned to the sidewalk and strolled over to the neighbor, who was watering her flowerbeds. People who looked after their yards tended to be good witnesses.