Crash and Burn (21 page)

On low-smog days, Catalina was visible from the mainland, but Krista tended to look without seeing. She had been to the island once—for the five-day honeymoon that had lasted almost as long as her marriage. Her trip had been spent in a sex-induced haze, punctuated by brief moments of disbelief. She remembered skinny-dipping with Adam at the inn where they’d stayed. She remembered eating Mexican food and downing margaritas by the pitcher. She remembered standing on a wooden pier on the final morning, watching the sun come up over the City of Angels and feeling a twinge of panic that she’d made a terrible, irrevocable mistake.

She’d been right, but not completely. Marriage wasn’t quite as irrevocable as she’d thought, and not nearly as terrible as some of the things she’d encountered since.

She gazed out at the harbor now, inhaling the brine-scented air as she watched the yachts bobbing near the shore. To her north was the iconic white circular building, the Casino, which according to her map, wasn’t far from a property owned by B. Braxton.

Krista disembarked and cut through the throng of tourists to the congested dock, where vendors were hawking ponchos, seashells, and Mexican blankets. Her gaze landed on a row of bikes-for-rent, but she didn’t want to hassle with it and opted to hoof it. Cars on the island were restricted, so most people traveled by foot or golf cart.

Berle Braxton had landed some prime roles for her clients, judging by her address. Or maybe she had outside sources of income. In any case, the divorcee owned a white gingerbread-trimmed Victorian perched on a hillside. The steps to the door were nearly vertical, and Krista was halfway up when a green golf cart whipped into the drive.

A curly-haired woman set the emergency brake and hopped out. She wore navy capris and a billowing white peasant top. She shot curious looks in Krista’s direction as she gathered her bags and met Krista halfway up the stairs.

“You’re the detective,” she said in a deep smoker’s voice.

“Krista Hart, of Moreno and Hart Investigations.” She reached to help with the bags, and the woman handed them over.

“You’ve come a long way for nothing,” she said, leading Krista up the steps.

She opened the screen door with a creak and stepped into the house. Krista followed her and halted just inside to let her eyes adjust. The interior was shabby-chic, furnished with overstuffed sofas and rustic tables with chipping paint. It looked as though a few walls had been knocked out to give the house an open floor plan. Berle Braxton walked into the kitchen and dumped her groceries beside a wooden rooster perched on the granite island.

She peeled off her sunglasses and eyed Krista across the room.

“My assistant was supposed to call you.” She sounded winded from the climb.

“She did.”

She reached for a glass-fronted cupboard. “Tea? It’s hibiscus-mint.”

“I’m good, thanks. I can’t really stay. I just needed to talk to you.”

She poured herself some tea, no ice, and gulped it down. She plunked the glass on the counter.

“Never take up smoking,” she said breathlessly. Then she turned and led Krista to a side porch with an even more impressive view of the harbor. She leaned back against the wooden railing and turned to Krista.

“You’re the first person I’ve talked to who keeps up with Lily on a regular basis,” Krista said.

“The word ‘regular’ doesn’t really apply here.”

“You don’t keep up with her?”

She pursed her lips. “Lily’s a flake. Like a lot of my clients, but this is worse because she actually matters. She’s got a solid career ahead of her if she’d start taking it seriously.”

Krista bit back a comment. In her experience, there wasn’t much of anything actors took seriously, except maybe their looks.

“So, you were getting her roles?”

“Promising ones.” She rested her glass on the wooden rail. “Pretty girls are a dime a dozen out here, but Lily has that extra spark—” She did jazz hands. “The minute her commercial aired, I had calls about a national shampoo ad. Then she auditioned for a TV pilot, got a call back.” She shook her head.

“What happened?”

“She didn’t show.”

“When was this?”

“Three weeks ago.” Her mouth tightened. “She didn’t return half a dozen phone calls, then suddenly drops by my office out of the blue—”

“When?”

“I don’t know. Ten days ago?”

Krista’s stomach tightened. An actual
sighting.

“She looked awful. Greasy hair, sallow complexion. Her nails were a mess, bitten down to the quick. I’ve seen girls on benders before, but this was bad.”

“She looked like she was using?”

“She looked like shit, is what she looked like.” She folded her arms over her chest. “Anyway, I had it out with her and cut her loose. I’ve been in this business twenty years, and I’ve got a stack of headshots on my desk a foot high. I don’t need to put up with this crap.”

“Was she with anyone when she stopped by?”

“I don’t think so. She came in alone, if that’s what you mean. I didn’t see how she got there. Anyway, she wasn’t there long. Maybe ten minutes.”

“And what did she want?”

She rolled her eyes. “Same thing they all want. Cash. You think she’s my first client to put her money up her nose?”

“Did you give her any?”

“I thought about it. Of course, I wouldn’t normally, but something felt funny. I don’t know.” She sighed heavily and looked out over the ocean. “Maybe I should have given her a loan, but I have rules. I have to. I can’t get mixed up with everyone’s personal life. It’s not like I’m a bank.”

“What do you mean ‘funny?’” Krista’s pulse was racing. She didn’t like a word of what she was hearing.

“I don’t think the money was for her. She was too… desperate about it, I guess you’d say. I got the feeling she owed someone.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Because she looked different. I don’t know. Strung out, but more so, if that makes any sense?” She paused and gave Kristin a serious look. “To tell you the truth, the girl looked scared to death.”

Chapter Four

Krista pushed her way to the forward deck of the ferry where she hoped to get a better signal. She dialed a number she knew by heart.

“Where the hell you been?”

Krista smiled at Joe’s voice. He’d been her mentor when she first joined LAPD and she missed him more than anyone else on the force.

“Busy,” she told him. “How’s everything going?”

“Shitty, like always. My ulcer’s back and I’m knee-deep in crackheads. What do you need?”

“I’ve got a missing person. I was hoping you could run a check of Jane Does, see if something pops.”

“What’s that noise? Sounds like you’re in a wind tunnel.”

“I’m on the ferry from Catalina,” she said. “Listen, her name’s Lilian Daniels, twenty-two. Five-ten, one-forty, blond, blue.”

“Shit, hold on. I can’t write that fast.”

“I’ll text you. I need to know if she’s turned up dead anywhere. And I need to see if her car’s been recovered. A red Kia Rio, two-thousand-eight, dinged back quarter panel. Can you check for me?”

“Sure, right after I bag up a few rapists and murderers. I’ll get right on it.”

“Thanks, Joe.”

A mother and stroller squeezed by, and Krista scooted farther down the rail, away from the crowd.

“When are you gonna come by?” Joe asked. “Sharon was pissed you missed our Super Bowl party.”

“Sorry, I was tied up.”

“Too busy kicking it in Catalina, huh? Business must be good. Maybe I’ll retire from this shit and go hang out a shingle, buy me a Corvette before I’m too old to drive it.”

“It’s not as glamorous as it sounds.”

Shouting in the background. Joe cursed vividly.

“I gotta go. Text me your MP, I’ll run her through.”

Krista checked the time as she hung up. It was 1:55.

Catalina had eaten up her morning, and now her deadline had come and gone, along with her hopes of cashing a rich paycheck. But she was still on the case. Since the moment she’d taken this job, she’d had a niggling suspicion something was off about it, and her conversation with Berle Braxton confirmed that.

Lily Daniels was hiding. Or someone was hiding her. Krista planned to either find her or find out what happened to her, and she’d do it with or without the payday.

Her phone chimed in her hand. The number came up unavailable, but Krista knew who it was. She squeezed her way past a group of school kids and found a less-congested place to stand near a guy in a Lakers cap.

“Drake Walker here.”

“I was just about to call you.”

“Tell me you’ve got my witness.”

“Not yet,” she said. “But I’ve got a lead on her—”

“You know Judge Espinosa? I’m heading into his courtroom in four minutes. This isn’t a man who likes to be kept waiting.”

“Lilian Daniels doesn’t testify until tomorrow. I want an extension.” She waited a beat. “And I want the same bonus you offered R.J. Flynn.”

She would have thrown out a number, but she felt sure R.J. had lied to her.

“Think you’ve forgotten who the client is here.” His voice echoed as though he were walking down a long corridor, such as the one leading to Espinosa’s courtroom.

“I’ve got a lead on Lily,” she said. “But it’s not worth my time to follow it up if I’m not going to get paid.”

No response. Krista held her breath as she gazed out at the water. A haze hung over the city today and the skyline was little more than a gray outline.

“You have your extension,” he said curtly. “Noon tomorrow, but the money stands.”

A called beeped in and Krista checked the number. Mac.

“And I want a status report by eight a.m., good news or bad,” Walker said. “Don’t make me call you.”

“Agreed,” Krista said, but he’d already hung up. She answered Mac’s call.

“Still working on the records,” he said. “Thought you’d want to know, though, it isn’t her phone.”

She frowned out at the water. “Whose is it?”

“Contract is in the name of a Travis Sloan, lives in Westminster. He set up the service a month ago.”

Krista’s pulse picked up. The ex had bought her a phone. Maybe he wasn’t so “ex” anymore. And maybe they were shacked up together.

“You want the billing address?” Mac asked.

“Absolutely.” Her spirits soared.

“It’s a P.O. box.”

Her spirits sank. A P.O. box was a pain in the butt. Still, it was something.

“Send it over,” she told him. “I’ll see what I can do.”

~ ~ ~

Air wafted in from the Pacific and mixed with the sooty belch of rush hour before drifting toward Westminster, where Travis Sloan had a post office box. Krista had originally tried the apartment listed on Sloan’s DMV record, but he’d moved, according to the leasing office. So she’d resorted to his mail drop, which wasn’t a bad lead.

People tended to rent P.O. boxes close to where they lived. A convenience that often negated the very reason for the box, which was usually privacy. Years of running down skips and runaways and deadbeat dads had taught Krista a universal truth: people were lazy. Even those clever people who went to the trouble to get a post office box to protect their privacy—or as was frequently the case, their porn, their illegal business, or the credit card bill they didn’t want their wives to see. Even those people typically rented boxes within spitting distance of where they lived or worked.

Krista spent two long hours parked in an alley between a busy gas station and a pawnshop. From her vantage point, she had a clear view of the MailBox Stop where Lily’s maybe-boyfriend rented his box. Krista worked her phone, following up leads and guzzling Gatorade, while keeping a sharp eye out for a red Kia Rio or a yellow Jeep Wrangler registered to Travis Sloan. Neither appeared. The minutes ticked by. As the sun sank low over rooftops and scraggly palm trees, Krista was faced with the age-old dilemma of the female P.I.: To pee or not to pee?

That was the question.

Her male counterparts kept tennis ball cans or pickle jars on hand for emergencies. Krista couldn’t rely on such luxuries, and more than once she’d missed an important photo op by darting to a gas station to use the restroom.

She bit her lip and glanced around the intersection. Nearly six o’clock and nothing. She’d exhausted all her phone leads. MailBox Stop was about to close. She was preparing to make a dash for it when a blur of yellow in the rearview mirror caught her attention.

A Jeep Wrangler with the top down. The driver pulled up to a gas pump. Krista studied him in the side mirror as he got out to fuel up.

Travis Sloan. The plates matched as did his physical description.

Sloan had surfer-blond hair and a dark tan. He wore gray cargo shorts that sagged around his hips and a white T-shirt with a red scuba flag on the front. And he had company. Not Lily, unfortunately, but a man who appeared to be late-twenties, mixed race, with dark hair and two full sleeves of tattoos. The friend sauntered inside the gas station and emerged a minute later with a case of beer. He and Sloan hopped in the Jeep and pulled out.

Krista followed, taking care to hang back. They turned left at the first intersection, then pulled into a driveway just three houses in.

Less than a mile from MailBox Stop. How very predictable.

Krista rolled by, taking in details about the Mission-style house. Sloan and his buddy didn’t approach the front, but mounted a staircase leading to an apartment above the house’s detached garage.

Krista circled the block and parked illegally near a utility easement. Four minutes later, she knocked on Sloan’s door.

It swung open, and a pair of dilated black eyes greeted her.

“I’m here to see Travis.”

Two thick eyebrows made a V. “Who are you?”

“Krista Hart.”

He watched her a moment, then shrugged and pulled open the door. She stepped into a darkened room that smelled like pot.

“Yo, who’s at the door?”

“Some chick.”

Travis had his shirt off and a bong in his hand.

“I’m Krista Hart.” She flashed her P.I.’s license like a badge. “I’m looking for Lilian Daniels.”

Travis blinked at her. Krista glanced around, looking for any sign of a female roommate.