Hit and Run (3 page)

She stripped naked and pulled on a T-shirt. Emblazoned across the front in script:
High Flyers Do It Better
with an airline logo underneath. It barely covered her ass, but she had to make this work.

Krista said into her radio, “Scarlet, SWAT and six Long Beach and LAPD patrol cars are here.”

“Stay hidden. I have a plan.”

“What plan?”

“No time. I’m signing off.” She turned off the radio and put it with her gun on the dresser.

She would have lain in the bed to solidify her cover, but she was too jumpy. She heard boots outside the window coming from the front into the back. Standard protocol. SWAT was surrounding the house. Had Jason got away okay?

And why the
hell
was she helping
anyone
escape? If he’d told her the truth, why was SWAT here? Had she just been duped?

Trust your friends.

Jason had been a friend practically her entire life. He’d stood by her three years ago. Even more than her fiancé.

Ex-fiancé.

She didn’t have a lot of friends left on the force, but Jason was one of them. She had to believe him, because if you couldn’t stand by your friends in the face of danger, you didn’t deserve to survive.

Krista had taught her that.

A pounding on the front door. She jumped, instinctively reaching for her gun, but this was SWAT. They’d shoot if she were armed. She reached up and messed up her short, choppy brown hair. Truthfully, she always looked like she’d just rolled out of bed.

More loud knocking. “This is the Long Beach Police Department! Open up or we’re coming in!”

Scarlet flipped on the light in the bedroom. Her heart was thudded in her chest. She felt along for more lights and found one in the hallway.

“I’m coming,” she called, trying to sound intimidated, when she was more angry and confused than anything.

More pounding and she involuntarily jumped. “LBPD!”

“Coming!” she screamed. She unbolted the front door and opened it.

SWAT lined the small staircase. The lead cop said, “We have a warrant.” They entered. One officer took her by the arm and pulled her outside to the driveway where he pushed her to her knees.

“Hands behind your back.”

“Hey, you don’t need—”

He patted her down, then cuffed her. It was standard protocol, but that didn’t make her any more comfortable.

“Name,” he said.

“Scarlet Moreno. No need to be rough, I’m complying, okay? What’s going on?”

“Are you alone in the house?”

“Yes.”

“Do you live here?”

“No. I’m house sitting.” Oh, God, she had just lied to SWAT. Maybe she should have run out back with Jason.

“Who owns this house?”

“Leah. Jones. She’s a friend. A flight attendant. Look, I used to be on the job, tell me what’s happening.”

“What department?”

“LAPD. Van Nuys. Detective, until three years ago.”

“ID?”

“Does it look like I have ID? I was sleeping!”

SWAT had finished clearing the house and started coming out. A detective approached her.

“Kyle Richardson, LAPD. What’s your name?”

“Uncuff me.”

“Answer my questions.”

She tilted her chin up. “Scarlet Moreno. Private investigator. Former detective with LAPD. If you need my creds, contact my brother, Detective John Moreno. Or better yet, my dad—former LAPD Captain Andy Moreno out of the West Bureau.”

He said, “Do you have ID?”

“In the guest room. Next to my gun, in my wallet.”

He nodded to one of the SWAT officers, who went back inside. “What are you doing here?”

She sighed, feigning irritation for having to repeat herself. Okay, she was irritated, but she was also nervous. She definitely did not like being on this side of the blue line.

“Maybe I should ask you the same question. LAPD? You’re kind of far from home.”

“Ms. Moreno, the faster you cooperate, the faster I take off those cuffs.”

She wanted to argue, but instead said, “I’m house sitting for Leah.” She prayed if the cops tracked her down, Jason’s sister would cover for her. That Jason could reach her.

“Do you know Jason Jones?”

“Sure, he’s Leah’s brother. We grew up in the same neighborhood. He’s LAPD, went through the Academy with my brother.” She paused. “What’s wrong? Did something happen to him? Why is  SWAT here?”

No answer. An officer came out and handed the detective her gun, wallet and radio. He checked everything, then said, “Uncuff her.”

“About time,” she mumbled.

“What’s this radio for?”

“I’m a private investigator. My partner and I were following a cheating spouse earlier today, and it’s easier to communicate with a radio.” At least that wasn’t a lie.

She rose, and realized that she was standing in the middle of a dozen cops wearing a T-shirt that barely covered her ass. She was never going to hear the end of this.

“Detective Richardson, can I put some pants on?”

Richardson looked embarrassed. “Yes. Sorry. But we still need to talk.”

“Give me five minutes.”

“Jason Jones is wanted for murder,” Richardson said.

Scarlet had re-dressed into the clothes she’d taken off only twenty minutes before. They were now standing in the driveway. She was leaning against a patrol car. SWAT had cleared the house and were standing down. Half the patrol cars had left. And Scarlet said, “What happened?”

She wanted to say
I don’t believe it,
but cops didn’t say that.

“Domestic situation.” Richardson paused, as if assessing how much he should tell her. He was in his late thirties, maybe forty. Clean-cut, conservative dress, looked like every by-the-book cop she’d ever met. She didn’t know if that was good or bad. “He claimed he went to visit his partner—who’s also his ex-girlfriend—at her house and found her dead in her living room,” Richardson continued. “He claims to have chased an intruder out of the house. He has no description of the intruder.”

“Ex-girlfriend?”

“Gina Perez. A decorated officer who’d just passed her detective exam two days ago. According to people who know both of them, Jones was upset when she wanted to move to detective. She broke it off, and he didn’t like that.”

“And he just shot her? You have forensics?”

“We’re working every angle, but you were a cop. You know how these things are. Ninety percent of the time it’s the jilted lover.”

“And you thought he was here?”

Richardson nodded. “I’m sorry to drag you out of bed. We’ll get out of here soon, but I have to tell you to call me immediately if he contacts you.”

He handed her his card.

“If you thought he was guilty, why’d you let him leave the scene? Didn’t you question him?”

“Yes, at the station. He gave his statement, and on the surface it sounded plausible. But he didn’t tell us they’d been lovers, and he didn’t tell us she broke it off. I sent uniforms to pick him up—as a courtesy—and he wasn’t at home. We found his car abandoned by the side of the road on the frontage road near the Mission. Inside was an unregistered gun—a nine millimeter. Preliminary reports state that Officer Perez was killed with a nine millimeter.

“LAPD is under the gun constantly by the press, by civil rights groups, community activists. I can’t let a cop walk just because he’s a cop. Not all cops are the good guys. I’m sorry if he’s your friend—”

“Don’t apologize for doing your job.” This wasn’t good
at all.
She had to talk to Jason. He had to set the record straight. Why hadn’t he told Richardson that he’d seen a badge on the shooter’s belt? Why hadn’t Jason told him that he’d been involved with Perez? Now wasn’t the time to withhold information, and Jason damn well knew it.

“John Moreno is your brother?” Richardson asked.

“That’s what I said to the guy who cuffed me.”

Richardson was impressed, as he should be. John was two years younger than Scarlet, but he’d already made a name for himself. He was not only a detective, but many saw him rising through the ranks. He had a certain charm, but not politician-slimy charm. He was attractive and brave and decorated. One of the good guys.

“I’m sorry about that, but it’s protocol.”

“All’s forgiven.”

“You’ll call me if Jones contacts you.”

“Of course.” And if she found out Jason had lied to her about anything, she’d hit him over the head and drag his ass down to the jail.

He already had one strike against him for omitting the very important fact that he and his partner had been doing the horizontal dance.

More than friends.

Scarlet had taken the comment to mean something different because partners
were
often more than simple friends. When you counted on someone to watch your back and save your ass every day you put on the uniform, it wasn’t just a friendship. More akin to soldiers in battle, especially in an urban city like L.A.

“Are we done here?” she asked the detective.

“For now.”

Scarlet went inside and locked the door. She used Leah’s phone to contact Krista. She didn’t know if the line was bugged—she doubted they’d get a warrant that fast, but she couldn’t be certain. “Hi, Krista, it’s Scarlet. What’s up?”

Krista paused. “Nothing much. You?”

Good, she was quick on the uptake. “I had a wild night. Thought I’d get extra sleep and got woken up by a SWAT team. Think you can come by and keep me company? What, twenty minutes to get here?”

“About that,” she said.

“See you then. And if you have a six pack of beer, bring it.”

~ ~ ~

By the time Krista arrived, all the cops were gone except for one patrol parked near the end of the street. Krista knocked on the door and Scarlett answered. Krista handed her a six-pack of Sierra Nevada. “I wasn’t sure if you were serious.”

“I’m always serious about beer.” She closed the door behind Krista and walked to the kitchen. She put the beer in the refrigerator, but pulled out two, handing one to Krista.

Krista took it and said, “Spill it.”

“Jason is in deep trouble and I might have made a mistake.” She told Krista everything.

Krista slowly lowered her head to the table. “Scarlet—”

“I believe Jason.”

Krista sighed, leaned back, and sipped her beer. “What’s your plan?”

“I don’t have one yet. Not a complete plan. First, I want to verify what Jason told me. I also need to talk to him, ask him about his relationship with Perez, and find out what the police know about the crime scene.”

“Scarlet, you’re playing a dangerous game here.”

“It’s not a game.”

“No, it’s not. It’s serious. You could lose your license. You could go to
jail.
”

Scarlet frowned. She knew it was serious, but at the same time, more than anyone, she understood that sometimes, when you were a cop, there was no one to turn to if someone wanted to destroy you. She didn’t know who had wanted her dead three years ago. Maybe they hadn’t wanted her dead, they’d just wanted her gone, off the force—and they’d won. She was gone. It’s why she couldn’t let it go. She’d done exactly what her attackers wanted.

“If Jason is guilty, I’ll bring him in. If he’s being set up—I have to help him.”

Krista nodded.

“And I want you to stay out of it.”

“We’re partners,” Krista reminded her.

“But if I lose my license, I don’t want it to come back on you.”

“I’m not turning my back on you. Or your friend.”

“Plausible deniability. And you’re juggling a bunch of things right now.”

Krista bit her lip. Scarlet used Krista’s workload to her advantage. She wasn’t going to risk her partner’s dream of making Moreno & Hart a success.

“You can do one thing for me,” Scarlet said.

“Bring you more beer?”

“Let me borrow your phone for the next couple of days.”

Scarlet had debated staying in Leah’s house all night, but she had too much work to do to keep up the farce. She and Krista left after one that morning, and by the time Scarlet had dropped her partner off at her house and driven down to Newport Beach, it was two a.m.

She couldn’t sleep, so sat outside on her deck with her laptop and Krista’s cell phone. She’d already tried Jason twice and he didn’t answer, so she sent him a text message:

Call me ASAP at this number.

She was going to miss Mac helping with this case, but she had to keep him out of it as well or Krista couldn’t have plausible deniability. Mac was Moreno & Hart’s computer expert. He worked for them part-time, studied at Cal State Fullerton the rest of the time, and lived above Krista’s garage. When he graduated they’d probably lose him like they lost their first assistant—they couldn’t pay enough to keep anyone on board full-time.

She glanced at her phone every couple of minutes. Jason hadn’t called or texted back.

Dammit.

Scarlet looked up as much information as she could find on Jason Jones, Gina Perez, and their supervisor, Sergeant Tony Mercer.

If Jason was to be believed, Gina didn’t trust their supervisor, and she’d called Jason because she wanted to talk—she’d seen something she wasn’t supposed to, something that worried and scared her. Based on what else she told Jason, it must have been related to her supervisor, Mercer, who she thought was a dirty cop.

As a PI, Scarlet had access to some information databases that the general public either didn’t know existed or couldn’t access. She ran basic info on all three people, and while that was running in the background, she did a Google search on Mercer.

Thirty-six years old. Got his AA at Pierce College then enlisted in the Army after 9/11. He’d been honorably discharged with the rank of Private First Class. A typical background for a cop who moved quickly through the ranks—entering the police Academy was a natural transition from the military. In Scarlet’s experience, some of the best cops—and the worst cops—came from the military. Mercer had gone through the Academy, graduating in the top ten percent of his class; he’d started in the Devonshire district as a patrol officer, and after the minimum requisite time, he passed his Sergeant’s exam. He transferred to the Mission district and now supervised a squad. His ten-year cop anniversary was coming up.