Crash and Burn (9 page)

Definitely
more upscale than her college days.

Each townhouse had a one-car garage on the bottom floor and no windows to peer in to see if a vehicle was parked inside. She was hot, crabby and tired and didn’t know why she was tracking down these kids. Except that one of the boys from last night was dead, one was critically injured, and the girl who’d left with Valerie was nowhere to be found. She could have been a victim of violence as well, or worse—maybe the drugs had killed her. Scarlet had seen such overdoses before.

She walked up a flight of stairs to a small porch shaded by a mature oak tree. She knocked on the door. No answer. She looked in windows, but the blinds were closed.

She’d already driven over to the place and just wanted to verify that everything was kosher. She slipped on gloves and gently turned the knob. It was unlocked.

To enter or not to enter… She pushed the door open. “Parker Cresson? I’m Scarlet Moreno, a private investigator. Are you—?” She stopped. She didn’t have to step into the townhouse to see—and smell—that Parker couldn’t hear her.

His body was lying facedown in the living room, a knife sticking out of his bloody back. And by the smell, he’d been dead for several hours. She didn’t need to check for a pulse. With the amount of blood soaked into his shirt, he’d definitely bled out from multiple stab wounds.

She didn’t enter. She used two fingers to pull the door closed, then removed her gloves and pulled out her cell phone. She called 911 to report the homicide. But this was Irvine, and it would take hours, if not days, for Irvine PD and NBPD to connect the cases. As much as she didn’t want to, she knew if they wanted to stop the killer before anyone else died, Bishop needed to be involved from the beginning.

She pulled out his card and dialed his cell phone.

“Bishop, it’s Scarlet Moreno. I need you in Irvine.”

“I’m in the middle of a homicide investigation, Moreno. Is this important?”

She bristled at his tone and fought to keep her frustration out of her voice. “Parker Cresson, one of the college students who was with Juan Robertson and Richard Sanders last night, is dead. Knifed in the back.”

“I didn’t release Robertson’s name.”

“I recognized him when I saw his picture earlier today.” She didn’t go into the details of her conversation with Valerie, though she knew that was soon coming.

Bishop didn’t say anything, but she could imagine him fuming. She might, too, if a PI inserted himself in the middle of her investigation when she’d been a detective. She tried to cut him some slack, but it wasn’t easy.

“Give me the address, and don’t move.”

Chapter Eight

Scarlet had already given her statement to both the Irvine PD responding officer and the Irvine PD detective who arrived fifteen minutes later. By the time Bishop got there, it was the dinner hour, and her stomach was grumbling. Loudly. Being hungry always made her grumpy, and standing around doing nothing also made her grumpy. Needless to say, she was
not
happy when Bishop finally arrived.

Then, he kept her waiting while he talked to the Irvine cops.

She sat in her car, which she’d parked under a tree, put her seat back and closed her eyes. Her Jeep didn’t have a top—it had been removable, but the original owner had lost it on the freeway. It was one of the reasons she got a great deal on it. Not a problem, except in extreme heat and rare southern California rain.

She heard someone approach. She knew it was Bishop without opening her eyes and before he even spoke. It was his subtle movement, the way he shifted, and his scent. He didn’t wear much cologne, maybe none at all—it might have been his soap. It was yummy.

“I should arrest you,” he said.

“Please, drop the bad cop routine.”

“It’s not a routine. What the fuck are you doing investigating a criminal case? You’re not a cop.”

“Thanks for the reminder.”

Scarlet adjusted her seat so she sat upright and faced him. She wanted to go all angry Amazon woman on him, except… there was something in his dark blue eyes that had her stopping herself. He was upset and it wasn’t directed toward her. It was the case, the situation—maybe because two young men had been brutally murdered in less than twenty-four hours. Had he been the one to tell Juan Robertson’s parents that their son was dead? Was the Sanders family pacing the hospital emergency room, waiting to find out if their son was going to live or die?

She told him everything, as if he’d cast some sort of truth serum spell over her. It was because she
had
been a cop. She knew what he faced, and she knew what he needed to solve the case.

“And before you tell me I shouldn’t have talked to Valerie, I waited until after you had spoken to her.”

Bishop walked around to the passenger seat and jumped in. He leaned back and closed his eyes. His actions stunned her into silence. She eventually said, “You need a ride?”

“I just need five minutes. I haven’t slept.”

And just like that he went to sleep. She wished she could cat nap. Her old partner used to do that when they were on patrol on the graveyard shift. He’d ask for ten minutes, and then wake up as if he’d slept four hours. She envied the ability.

“I fucked up,” Bishop said after several minutes.

“I doubt that. Riley doesn’t hire bad cops.”

He turned his head and stared at her. “Why didn’t you tell me I took your job?”

“You didn’t.”

“The lieu told me he offered you the slot.”

“I didn’t take it, so it was never mine. And no one is supposed to know that.”

“I won’t say anything.” He paused, assessing her out of the corner of his eye. “Why didn’t you? You’re obviously a cop at heart.”

“It’s complicated.” She wasn’t telling him anything more about herself. The conversation had already treaded into uncomfortable waters. “Why do you think you screwed up?”

“I interviewed Valerie at the hospital early this morning. I should’ve gone back once she was home and followed up. She wasn’t all there this morning, and I didn’t ask the right questions. I focused on the crime scene, not the events at the bar. I got her girlfriend’s name and number, but she isn’t answering her cell phone. I didn’t get this kid’s name, and haven’t been able to find Chase.”

“Then why are you so certain that Isaac is guilty?”

“I’m not. But I have to verify everything that happened last night. He has a history of violence, especially against sexual predators.”

“Chase lives with Richie, but is nowhere to be found? Neither is Tessa? What about this other guy, the kid Valerie didn’t know?” All of them were far better suspects than Isaac, and by Bishop’s expression, he knew it. Scarlet added, “She thinks his name is Skip, but she’d never seen him before last night.”

“We’ve put the word out on all of them.”

Scarlet glanced at Bishop. “Isaac didn’t kill these kids. You know it in your gut.”

“You’re loyal.”

“Not if he’s guilty.”

“But you just said he didn’t kill them.”

“Bishop, if you told me that Isaac had beaten one of them to a pulp in the alley behind the bar, I’d believe you. He has a temper. If you told me Isaac decked one of them, or even
literally
threw them out of the bar and broke their arms, yes, I’d be on your side. But premeditation? Systematically hunting them down, one by one? Shooting them in cold blood? Stabbing that kid Parker in the back? That’s not Isaac. They were killed hours after the confrontation in the bar. And when I went back to my apartment after they left, Isaac had already cooled down. You talked to Heather, right?”

He nodded once.

“And she probably told you the same thing. I get that you have to investigate Isaac. I would if I were in your shoes. I’m just giving you inside information here—Isaac isn’t guilty. Take it or leave it. But you’re not going to be able to prove it beyond a shadow of a doubt. You might not know that Isaac pled guilty to the attempted manslaughter charge and that’s why he got a reduced sentence. If his case went up in front of a jury, I don’t know that he would’ve been convicted. The bastard he beat up raped his nine-year-old daughter. He beat him up, didn’t shoot him. Didn’t hunt him down and lie in wait. Didn’t stab him in the back. He saw him outside of the school and snapped. A true crime of passion.”

Bishop listened, and she gave him credit for that. She said, “Look, I don’t want to step on your toes. But I have a job to do.”

“Which is?”

“Proving Isaac is innocent. It’s not just Isaac’s freedom on the line, it’s Diego’s livelihood. These kids come from wealthy families. You don’t think that one of them won’t sue civilly?”

“They still might.”

True, but she didn’t need to comment. “The only way I can
try
to protect my friends is to figure out what happened last night, after that group of twenty-somethings left the bar.”

“That’s my job.”

“No, your job is to find the killer. My job is to prove Isaac isn’t him.”

“Semantics.”

“I won’t interfere with you, Bishop. I know what I’m doing.”

He got out of the Jeep. “That’s what I’m afraid of,” he mumbled.

“Excuse me?”

He stared at her. “If you find out anything I need to know—and you know exactly what I’m talking about—tell me.” Before she could say anything, Bishop added, “If you found evidence that your friend Isaac was guilty, would you tell me?

“Of course.”

The way he looked at her, she could tell he didn’t completely believe her.

And that bothered her more than anything else.

Chapter Nine

Scarlet found a food truck in an industrial area that was just shutting down for the night and begged the owner to make her a double order of street tacos. She was still happily munching in her Jeep when her cell phone rang.

It was Wendy Anderson. She reluctantly answered the phone.

“Jimmy hasn’t called.”

“You promised if I got your stuff and delivered the letter, you would leave him alone.”

“I know, but—”

“Wendy, there are no butts. You can’t force anyone to love you.”

“I know, but—”

“Stop. You have a good life, Wendy. Enjoy it. Without Jim.”

“Why are you trying so hard to break us up?”

That
came out of left field. “Wendy, Jim doesn’t want to get back together with you. You have a restraining order against him. You need to walk away before someone gets hurt.”

Scarlet didn’t know if Wendy heard anything she said, because the line went dead. Well, shit. This was a messy situation.

She called Mac. He didn’t answer, but almost immediately sent her a text message.

I’m studying at the library. What do you need?

She responded:

Anything on Wendy Anderson, particularly related to boyfriends before Jim Douglas? And why are you studying on a Saturday night?

He gave her a thumbs-up emoticon without answering her question. Smart kid. Scarlet considered her two years at community college getting her AA akin to purgatory. She called Jim, wanting to give him a heads-up. On what, she didn’t know, she just wanted him to be careful.

“Where are you?” she asked.

“Out with friends. Did you read the letter Wendy gave me?”

“No.”

“I did. I’m worried about her. I went to see her parents. I mean, maybe I was wrong and she’s more a danger to herself than to me.”

“What did her parents say?”

He snorted. “I don’t even know if they care. Her mother said she’d always been a drama queen seeking attention, and they see this as little Wendy being melodramatic once again. But—Wendy’s always been up and down and sideways. She gets ideas in her head and believes them, even when they’re not true. Like she convinces herself of something false and nothing anyone says can change her mind. I never cheated on her, yet she got it in her head that
I
thought
she
was cheating, and that because of this, I was seeking retribution by cheating on her.”

“That makes no sense.”

“I know. When I say it, it makes me think I’m the one with a screw loose. Basically, when I called off our engagement, I told her she needed to grow up.”

Psychology wasn’t Scarlet’s bailiwick, but even she could see that maybe Wendy had issues. Scarlet had definitely deal with enough crazies on the L.A. streets. Before she could say anything, Jim said, “I think I should talk to her. It might help.”

“No,” Scarlet said immediately. “She’s living in a fantasy world right now, and you need to stay away.”

“If she kills herself, I’ll never forgive myself.”

“Just—”
Ugh.
She didn’t know what to recommend. “Whatever you do, don’t agree to meet with her alone. Maybe her parents’ house, or someplace neutral.”

“Okay,” he agreed. “Look, I’m with a bunch of teachers from school. Thanks for your help. I’ll figure it out tomorrow.”

She disconnected the call. Help? What help? She didn’t know if she’d made the situation better or worse.

It was after eight when she arrived back at the bar, largely because she had to park five blocks away. She had a resident sticker, but finding parking was always an adventure. The bar was busy, and she couldn’t talk to either Isaac or Heather, so she went upstairs and changed into her shorts and tank top. She felt like a slug and she needed to exercise.

And maybe a run by Richie’s house was in order.

That Bishop hadn’t been able to track down Chase and Tessa was suspicious. Were they witnesses to the murders or involved? In hiding? Why? Out of guilt or fear? Who had drugged who? Had Tessa been drugged as well as Valerie? Who was Skip and how did he fit in?

She stretched and then left. She made a detour to Richie’s place on her way to the beach. It was dark. She jogged in place and watched. No crime scene tape up, but the police would’ve already processed the scene by now. Canvassed the neighbors. She wished she could talk to them all—and she would, if Bishop arrested Isaac. But her gut told her Bishop agreed with her assessment, that Isaac wasn’t the killer.

Where was Chase? The other roommates Valerie mentioned? And Tessa? Her best friend had been raped and hospitalized, but she was nowhere to be found?