Hit and Run (17 page)

“Forty-five. And wear something good. Like that dress from the other night.”

“This sounds like a domestic.”

“It’s not, I promise.”

~ ~ ~

By “good” he meant sexy, which was why Krista reached right past the slinky black mini-dress hanging in her closet. She’d shimmied into it the other night in a bout of temporary insanity, which luckily had passed when Scarlet showed up needing help on a case. Now Krista threw on a different black dress that had slightly more fabric. It still looked good, though, especially with a push-up bra, which she decided to wear tonight because her cleavage needed all the help it could get.

Krista checked her watch and added a few quick swipes of mascara. She ran a brush through her honey-blond hair and was sliding her feet into sandals when she heard the throaty growl of R.J.’s car pulling up to her house.

She went to the window and peered outside. The shiny black 911 turbo sat in the glow of the streetlamp. R.J. was behind the wheel texting on his phone.

Work,
she reminded herself firmly.
Not a date.
She grabbed one of her smaller purses and tossed a lipstick inside, along with her sleek little Ruger LC9. Then she was out the door.

R.J. was still texting when she slid into the Porsche.

“Wow.” He tucked his phone away and looked her over. “What happened to the other one?”

“It’s at the cleaners.”

He eyed her purse. “You packing?”

“Yup.”

He shoved the car in gear and roared away from the curb, evidently in a hurry. Krista scanned driveways and front porches for a ratty-looking poodle.

R.J. cut over to Sixth and headed toward the beach.

“So, where are we going?” she asked.

“The Billiard Room.”

She narrowed her gaze at him. The Billiard Room was an expensive bar at the Kettridge Hotel. “I told you—”

“It’s
not
a domestic.” He shot her a glare. “You’re obsessed with that.”

Easy for him to say. Female PIs often got pigeonholed into decoy work. Krista had done her share of dirty jobs—trash digs, Dumpster dives, stakeouts at flea-bag motels. But you had to draw the line somewhere, and Krista and Scarlet had always drawn it at decoy work. For one thing, it felt like entrapment. And for another, taking money to get busy with a client’s husband was just a little too icky.

She looked out the window now as the bars and surf shops of Huntington Beach whisked by. The sidewalks were loaded with weekend foot traffic.

“All right, what’s my assignment?” Krista asked.

“The mark’s there now, probably playing pool. Your job is to get him to take his phone out and then distract him for a few minutes so I can get my hands on it.”

“Define ‘a few.’”

“Ten minutes, tops.”

She looked R.J. over. He had on jeans and boots, along with the scarred leather jacket he wore year round because it concealed his gun. A lot of men in Southern California tried for the badass look, but never quite pulled it off. To R.J. it came naturally.

He glanced at her. “What?”

“Nothing.”

The hotel came into view. R.J. whipped into a metered space near the beach. Krista managed to lever herself out of the low-slung car without flashing too many people.

They set off toward the hotel and R.J. quickly tugged her off the sidewalk and onto the sand.

“The bar’s around back,” he said.

“How do you know he’ll be there?”

“I’ve got eyes inside the bar.”

Interesting. Unlike Moreno & Hart, Flynn Investigations was a one-man show. Or so she’d thought.

Krista pulled off her sandals and followed him past a row of volleyball nets. A stiff breeze whisked in off the ocean and a layer of clouds obscured the moon. Cobalt-blue lounge chairs lined the beach in front of the hotel. The matching umbrellas had been collapsed for the night and sat in a big pile, secured by a chain.

Krista trudged along beside R.J., getting sand between her toes. She surveyed her destination. The Kettridge was one of the oldest hotels in Orange County. With its white wooden siding and red roof, it resembled the Hotel Del Coronado down the coast, but on a smaller scale. It had a five-star restaurant, though, as well as a swanky open-air cocktail lounge with a row of pool tables that looked out over the beach. Jazz piano drifted from the bar as Krista halted in the sand.

R.J. took out his phone and read a text. “Okay, he’s there on the far end.” He glanced up, and Krista followed his gaze. “Black golf shirt, gray slacks.”

Krista spotted him. The man was tall and barrel-chested and had the look of an NFL lineman who’d let himself go. As someone leaned across the pool table to take a shot, the man stepped closer to the railing and Krista caught a glimpse of his face.

“That’s Rob Holland.”

R.J. looked at her. “You recognize him?”

“Uh
yeah.
He’s been all over the news for a year. Isn’t he on trial?”

“Not yet,” R.J. said. “Trial’s in three weeks.”

Krista folded her arms over her push-up cleavage. “Drake Walker’s representing him.”

“That’s right.”

Who else would be representing him? Holland’s personal reputation was right there up with Walker’s—which was to say down in the gutter. Holland was a nationally renowned litigator who’d made millions suing breast-implant companies. He was also rumored to be an alcoholic and a philanderer and, more recently, a murderer. All of which made him Drake Walker’s dream client.

“Since when is Walker spying on his own clients?” Krista asked.

“You don’t need to worry about that.”

“Bullshit. I get crosswise with Holland, he’ll sue me six ways to Sunday. I’ll be tied up in lawsuits for a decade.”

R.J. smiled. “Relax.”

“Ha.” She glanced up at the bar, and suddenly the money made sense. This was one of the biggest cases of the year. Walker stood to make a fortune, not just from legal fees but from free publicity. As Walker’s top investigator, R.J. stood to make out, too.

“So, are you ready?” R.J. checked his watch. “Time’s ticking.”

“Not so fast. I’m changing the terms.”

He eased closer, probably trying to look menacing. “We already had a deal, Hart.”

“We have a new one.”

“I’m paying you a grand, and you’ll probably be in and out of there in thirty minutes.”

Her pulse thudded as she gazed up at him. “I want in on the casework.”

“No way.”

“Fine. Find yourself a new decoy.” She started away, and he caught her arm.

“I can’t hire you on the case. That’s up to Walker.”

She nodded at the bar. “You hired carrot top in there.”

He frowned. “How would you know?”

“Because he’s been staring a hole through Holland for the past five minutes. And he hasn’t touched his drink.” She looked at the bar again. “You don’t have to run it by Walker to hire me. You do whatever you want.”

“Fine. Shit. You’re hired.” He didn’t look happy as he glanced at the bar.

“I charge a thousand a day, plus expenses.”

“That’s robbery.”

“That’s a third of what you make and we both know it. Do you want my help or not?”

“
Yes.
Now would you get your little ass up there and distract this guy before he takes off?”

She dropped her sandals onto the sand and slid into them. “And one more condition—no kissing, groping, etcetera.”

“Etcetera?” He smiled down at her.

“I mean it, R.J. This is why I don’t do decoy work.”

“Just lure him away from his phone for a minute and we’ll be done.”

She smoothed her hair and cast a glance at the bar, where one of L.A.’s most notorious slimeballs was laughing it up with his buddies on the eve of his wife’s murder trial.

She looked at R.J. “Text your friend in there and tell him to hit on me when I walk in.”

“Good idea. You ready?”

“Yeah.”

“You look hot.” R.J. gave her boobs a fluff and she swatted his hand. “Go get him.”

~ ~ ~

Krista sashayed up to the bar and took an empty stool near the pool tables. The bartender was deep in conversation, but she caught his eye and gave him a flirty smile. She was a little rusty and it felt more like a grimace, but it did the trick and soon the bartender came over to take her drink order. Then Krista pulled out her phone and pretended to be checking messages as the bartender slid a bowl of nuts in front of her. Soon her drink arrived and she sipped it casually while playing with her cell.

“Haven’t seen you in here before.”

She glanced up to see R.J.’s guy, right on cue. He looked even younger up close—short-cropped red hair, green eyes, ruddy cheeks.

“Not really my scene,” she told him.

“Yeah, me neither.”

He smiled, and she darted a glance at the pool table, where Holland was finishing up a game. As she watched him, the details of his case started to come back to her, and she got a queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach.

“So... buy you a drink?”

The kid’s cheeks flushed slightly and he looked so earnest she was tempted to say yes. She sipped her drink and watched him.

“You know I have to say no, right?”

He smiled wider and a dimple appeared, and Krista suddenly felt fifty instead of twenty-eight.

“You don’t
have
to,” he said, leaning closer.

“Yeah, actually, I do. That’s how this works.”

Where had R.J. found this kid? He took a sip of his beer, and she wondered if he’d gotten carded trying to buy it.

He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “Okay, you caught Holland’s eye. So, if it’s all right with you, I’m gonna take off now.”

“Got it.”

“And FYI, he’s had a lot to drink, so, you know. Be careful.”

“Roger that.”

He stood up and plastered a look of disappointment on his face as he left her side.

Krista turned her attention back to her phone. A few moments later a highball glass appeared at her elbow. Wrapped around it was a meaty hand.

“Buy you a drink?” The question was accompanied by a waft of gin as Rob Holland claimed the stool beside her.

Krista looked him over. “No, thanks.”

“I insist.” He jerked his chin at the bartender. “Lady here needs a refill. What is that, Cape Cod?”

“Cranberry juice.”

His fleshy face broke into a smile. “You look like a woman who could use a real drink.”

She tipped her head to the side. “Now, that sounds like an insult.”

“Not at all.” Another nod at the bartender. “Get this lady a Cape Cod with a twist.”

Krista looked him over as he reached for a handful of nuts. His blue eyes were bloodshot. Maybe because he was racked with grief over the loss of his wife.

“So what brings you out tonight?” he asked and glanced away, obviously dying to hear her answer.

“I’m meeting a girlfriend,” she said. “But she’s running late, so—”

“So how about a round of pool?” He stood and smiled at her as the bartender delivered the cocktail.

“That depends.” She picked up the glass and slid the slender red straw over her bottom lip before taking a sip. “Are you any good?”

The smile widened and his gaze dropped to her pushups. “Why don’t you come find out?”

She watched him a moment, pretending to think about it.

A buzz emanated from his pocket. He dug out a sleek silver iPhone and frowned down at the screen. The call had probably originated from R.J., but before she could think of a ploy Holland tucked the phone away.

“So, we on?” he asked, slurring his words a bit.

“Only if you let me break.”

“You bet.”

Krista slid off the stool, gathering up her purse and her phone. “You mind...?” She nodded at her drink and he obediently picked it up for her. A wooden railing separated the pool tables from the bar area, and she carefully placed her purse there alongside her phone. Holland put their drinks down as she stepped up to the pool table and adjusted the wooden triangle on the felt.

“What happened to your friends?” she asked, heavy on the eye contact.

“Oh, you know.” He shrugged. “They have places to be.”

“You don’t?” She lifted a brow. Heat flared in his eyes, and she felt a prick of unease. She grabbed a cue stick from the rack by the window.

Another buzz from his pocket, and Krista’s heart skittered. He pulled out his phone again and frowned down at it, shaking his head.

She seized the moment and strode up to him. She plucked the phone from his hand and handed him the cue. “Why don’t
you
break?” She eased close and lowered her voice. “I want to see what you’ve got.”

His eyebrows arched and his gaze dropped to her boobs and she thanked God for Wonderbras as she placed his phone beside hers on the railing.

He took the stick. “You got it.”

She stepped back to watch admiringly as he moved his bulk around the table. He leaned over the felt and darted a look at her before sending the balls flying with a powerful thrust. Krista stifled an eye roll.

“Stripes,” he said, hitching up his pants. He reached over and took a swill from his drink.

“Nice break.”

She waited, standing strategically in front of their phones as he sank a few more balls before tapping one of hers. Where was R.J.? Surely he wasn’t just going to waltz in here and—

Holland reached around her and picked up his glass, and Krista held her breath.

“My turn,” she said brightly, taking the cue from him and pulling his attention back to the table. She leaned over the felt and put a little sway in her hips as she lined up an impossible double bank shot. Big surprise, she missed, but as she straightened, she noticed the cocktail waitress whisk past the railing and snag the phone.

“Back to you.” Krista sauntered up to him and got another warm breath of gin as she handed off the cue. The color had risen in his cheeks, which she took as a bad sign. A big hand slid over her hip and she managed not to flinch.

“How ‘bout we go upstairs?” he murmured, gripping her butt.

“You’re staying here?”

“Why not?” Another squeeze.

“Let’s finish our game,” she said, easing out of his grasp.