Hit and Run (20 page)

“A yoga mat?”

Another shrug. He was setting a record. Krista pressed him for details he couldn’t seem to recall and then she noticed a man walking down the sidewalk. He wore khaki pants and a white Oxford shirt. He had a stack of fliers in his hand, and Krista realized why her house calls today had netted zip.

She finished with the skateboarder and approached the man.

“Hey, there.”

His face brightened and he pulled out a flier. She took it. AARON’S LANDSCAPING. TRIMMING, PRUNING, MULCH. FREE ESTIMATES!

“Are you Aaron?”

“That’s me.” He smiled. “Do you live around here?”

“Nope.”

His shoulders sagged and he muttered something. Sweat streamed down his face and he looked glumly down the street.

“Rough afternoon?” she asked.

He looked at her.

“This landscape business,” she said. “You been at it a long time?”

“Just a couple weeks.”

“You know you might have better luck in jeans and a T-shirt.”

He frowned at her.

“And maybe park your truck on the street here so you don’t look like a Bible salesman.” She handed back his flier. “Good luck.”

Krista got back in her car and circled the block one last time. She hopped on Pacific Coast Highway and headed for home, thinking about the white Avalanche. She couldn’t picture Holland in a car like that and she couldn’t get it out of her head.

Krista glanced out at the late-day sun shimmering on the water. She loved this town. She loved the boardwalk and the palm trees and the iconic pier that stretched out into the ocean. She loved the sun-drenched beaches with their consistent churn of rideable waves that had earned Huntington Beach the nickname Surf City, USA. She even loved the tourists, although sometimes they tried her patience. They were the town’s lifeblood and their constant, optimistic presence was a reminder that she should count herself lucky to live in one of the most coveted settings in the world.

Krista thought of Brittany, smiling for the camera on her honeymoon, so young and beautiful and tragically hopeful about her future. Who had stolen it? And why? Was the motive as obvious as it seemed or was there something deeper, more sinister going on than a controlling husband who couldn’t let go? It happened all the time. Every day, in fact. It could easily have happened here.

Krista thought of the white Avalanche and of R.J.’s stubborn insistence on Holland’s innocence. She didn’t know if she believed it or even if he did. And she felt a twinge of something in her gut—a gnawing certainty that this case was going to be more than she bargained for, from a professional standpoint and also a personal one.

“Damn you, R.J.”

She hated being predictable. But for better or worse, she knew she was in.

Krista arrived at her office at nine A.M. Monday armed with coffee and determination. As she pulled up to the building, she was surprised to see Mac’s dinged Hyundai parked across the street. She glanced up at the second-floor balcony, where talk radio drifted from an open door.

Moreno & Hart Investigations occupied the upper level of a Spanish-style office building about a mile from the Orange County Courthouse. Krista liked the building’s convenient location, just off the 405. And she loved the jacaranda trees flanking the front door. What she didn’t like was the lack of elevator and the fact that she shared the building with ever-changing downstairs neighbors.

Krista found Mac at his computer, and the second surprise of the morning, he was actually working. When Mac wasn’t attending graduate classes at Fullerton University, he helped Krista and Scarlet run background checks for employers. He also rented the upstairs apartment at Krista’s house, where he provided twenty-four-hour tech support in exchange for affordable rent and the occasional Yoo-hoo.

“You just missed Scarlet,” Mac informed her.

“She was in already?”

“She had something at the courthouse. Said to tell you she’d be back by noon if you need a hand with anything.”

A white banker’s box blocked the door to Krista’s office.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“Special delivery.”

“FedEx?”

He shook his head. “Some guy brought it, said you were expecting it.”

She eyed the box. “Lemme guess—tall, longish dark hair, looks like Colin Farrell?”

“More like Shaun White goes to boot camp.”

Carrot Top again.

The box was sealed with a strip of duct tape. Krista grabbed some scissors and opened it to find a pile of brown accordion files. The rest of the Holland paperwork, presumably—R.J.’s copies. On top of everything was a legal-size envelope with Krista’s name on it in a now-familiar scrawl. Inside it was a check made out to Moreno & Hart.

For five thousand dollars.

Krista’s heart did a little flip. The memo said simply: retainer.

“Damn it, R.J.”

“What’s that?”

She glanced up. “Nothing.”

“What are all those files?” Mac came out from behind the desk.

“Our newest case.”

“You need help? Because I’ve got a class at one but I’m happy to ditch.”

“Maybe.” She tucked the check into her purse. “Keep your phone on. And lock up when you leave.”

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“Shopping.”

~ ~ ~

First stop, the bank. Then Krista left a message for Scarlet and fought the dregs of morning rush-hour over to the Budget Rent A Car on Harbor Boulevard. After turning in her keys, she set off on the ten-block trek to Rico’s Auto Center. Her original morning agenda hadn’t included hiking, and she arrived at the dealership sweaty, blistered, and regretting her choice in footwear.

A salesman pounced on her the second she stepped onto the lot.

“In the market for a car today?” He flashed her an over-whitened smile. In lieu of a suit, he wore a sport coat over a button-down shirt that showed a little too much chest hair.

“Last week you had a white VW on the corner there,” she said. “I think it was on clearance?”

“You just missed it.” His smile broadened. “You’re in luck, though. This morning I took delivery of some new vehicles.”

Krista glanced around, noting the prices painted on the windshields.

“You’re looking for something sporty or—”

“Something cheap.”

The smile faltered. “What’s your price range?”

She gave him a number and the smile vanished completely.

“Come on back here,” he said, leading her around to the side of the building. A row of cars faced a service bay. None of them had prices yet, which hopefully meant there was room to negotiate.

Krista started toward a red Solara, but the salesman shook his head.

“I don’t think so. How about this one?”

It was a teal Ford Focus from the first Bush administration. Krista looked around.

“What about the Jeep there?” she asked.

“Ninety-nine hundred.”

“Not happening.” She glanced around and spotted a white sedan. She did a double-take. A Chevy Impala, just like the one she’d totaled, only this one was older.

He followed her gaze. “Now that, you can probably afford.”

Krista walked over and circled the car. “It’s missing a bumper.”

“True.”

She stopped beside the back quarter panel. It looked like someone had taken a nine iron to it.

“Needs a little body work,” he said. “We just got it on the lot—it hasn’t even been prepped yet. But I can make you a deal if you take it as is.”

“How much?”

“Fifty-five hundred.”

“What’s ‘prepped’ mean?”

“You know, washed, vacuumed. Course, it’s been inspected already. Runs like a kitten.”

Krista glanced at her watch. She looked at the car again, letting go of her dreams of a sunroof and surround-sound.

“I want the pre-prepped discount,” she said.

“Fifty-four hundred.”

“Fifty-two.”

“Fifty-four.”

“Fifty-three and I pay cash.”

“Sold.”

~ ~ ~

Krista felt right at home in the bumperless Impala. With her car problem out of the way, she could think about how she wanted to tackle the case. She pieced together a plan as she wended her way back to the office.

“You’ve got mail,” Mac said in a robot voice as she walked through the door. He handed over a pile of pink message slips.

Krista never knew what to expect with Mac. His willingness to answer phones seemed to change with the weather.

“Mrs. Ruman’s called twice,” he told her. “Leo’s missing again. And we have something from a Walter Goldstein, who says Mrs. Ruman referred him and he’s looking for his Great Dane.”

“How do you lose a Great Dane?”

“No idea.”

Krista stuffed the messages in her pocket and went into her office, where Mac had placed the banker’s box on top of her desk.

“Did R.J. Flynn call?” she asked.

“Nope.”

She removed the lid and shuffled through the folders until she found the ones she needed. The phone rang again as she shoved the files into her messenger bag alongside her laptop.

“Walter Goldstein on line one,” Mac told her.

“Tell him I’m not here.”

“I already told him you were.”

She rolled her eyes and snatched up the phone. “Krista Hart.”

“Is this Krista Hart?”

“That’s right. What can I do for you?”

“My dog went missing. Marjorie told me you could help.”

She had to have a talk with Mrs. Ruman. “I’m sorry, but we really don’t handle pet investigations.”

“She said you found Leo.”

“Actually, Leo found me. He turned up on my porch one night and—”

“Can’t you help me?” He sounded pitiful, and Krista took a deep breath. She grabbed a notepad.

“Where do you live exactly?”

“On Palmetto Drive. Three streets behind you catty-corner.”

“And can you give me a description?”

“His name’s Max. M-A-X. He’s a Great Dane, black, about a hundred-thirty pounds.”

Krista jotted it down. She’d call a few shelters. “And when did he go missing?”

“In 2012. Day after Thanksgiving.”

She didn’t say anything.

“Hello?”

“I’ll do my best.”

She hung up and grabbed a Mars bar from the stash in her desk drawer. Then she took the cotton blazer from the closet in the reception room.

“Big meeting?” Mac asked, watching her shrug into it.

“I’ll be out the rest of the day,” she told him. “Feel free to ignore the phones.”

~ ~ ~

Holland’s alibi was pivotal to the case, so Krista started with that. Holland had told investigators he’d been home alone working on the night of the murder, evidently preparing for an important trial that was set to begin Monday. According to the paperwork, it was a class-action lawsuit against a company Krista had never heard of that made car parts. One of the newspaper profiles on Holland said that the case resulted in a forty-million dollar judgment for the plaintiffs. Not a small chunk of change, and Krista wondered if maybe the crime of passion wasn’t actually about passion at all. Maybe Brittany’s murder was some sort of corporate sabotage—a company set to lose millions in a lawsuit decides to kill the lead attorney’s wife just before trial in order to throw him off his game.

It seemed both far-fetched and twisted, but during her LAPD days, Krista had seen both. Some people would do anything when it came to money.

Krista glanced at the phone in her lap, which she was using as a navigation system since her new car lacked certain amenities. She reached Long Beach and took a few turns until she found the high-rise building where Burke, Bumble & Holland was headquartered.

Krista parked in the garage. She took an elevator up to the twelfth floor, checking her reflection in the mirrored doors on the way. Her hair looked okay, but the T-shirt under her blazer wasn’t making much of a fashion statement. Ditto her sandals, but she’d just have to roll with it.

The doors slid open with a quiet ding. Krista crossed a marble foyer and stepped into the reception area. A four-foot flower arrangement dominated a table to her right. To her left was a seating area centered around a glass coffee table with some sort of arty glass sculpture as its base.

“Good morning. Burke, Bumble, and Holland.”

Krista glanced across the room at the receptionist. She had ebony skin, strong cheekbones, and a melodic voice. Krista approached the desk and waited for her to transfer the caller.

“Good morning,” she said, smiling up at Krista. “How may I help you?”

“I’m here to see Mia Vandall and Liz Brown. They’re expecting me.”

Krista had made the appointment on her way to the car dealership. At first she’d gotten some push-back, but mentioning she worked for Drake Walker had seemed to do the trick.

A few moments later, a twenty-something man in a business suit ushered Krista through a glass door.

“I’m Ms. Vandall’s assistant,” he explained. “She’s on her way up.”

Krista glanced around as she followed him down a corridor. She was struck by how beautiful everyone looked—from the support staffers to the young lawyers sitting in offices. Even the senior attorneys looked good. They were tan and fit and seemed to have just come off the golf course.

The assistant showed Krista into a spacious office. “They’ll be right in,” he said, pointing her to a seat.

After he left, Krista got up to examine the ego wall filled with certificates and diplomas. UCLA undergrad. UC Berkley Law School. Phi Beta Kappa and Order of the Coif.

Krista turned her attention to the floor-to-ceiling windows that had a sweeping view of Long Beach Harbor, where the
Queen Mary
was moored. Yachts and catamarans bobbed on the water. A ferry motored toward the Channel Islands trailed by frothy white wake.

Krista studied the horizon and made out the gray outline of Catalina, where she’d spent her spur-of-the-moment honeymoon following her spur-of-the-moment wedding. The marriage had lasted barely longer than the trip and Krista was divorced by her twenty-third birthday.

“You must be Krista.”

She turned to see a woman standing in the doorway. Another would-be model, but of different mold. She was tall and slender with short, no-fuss blond hair. She wore a loose white blouse, taupe linen pants, and very little makeup.