Hit and Run (Moreno & Hart Mysteries) Page 13

  “You’re just mad that someone figured out your game here.”

  “It’s not a game, and you’ve figured out nothing, Moreno. Put. It. Down!”

  Scarlet screamed and pointed to the ground at Franklin’s feet. “Rattlesnake!”

  It was the only thing she could come up with right then. But it worked. Franklin glanced down, and Alex, from his crouched position, tackled him to the ground and grabbed the wrist that held his gun. A shot went off, but the gun was aimed toward the building. She ran over to where Alex held down his arm. Franklin was stockier than Alex with more fat and muscle; Alex wouldn’t be able to subdue him for long. Scarlet pounded Franklin’s hand with the side her fist until his grip loosened and she pried the gun away.

  Alex hit Franklin in the jaw, then Scarlet kicked him in the balls. The former cop cried out and curled into the fetal position.

  Alex took out handcuffs from his pocket and cuffed him.

  “He’s running,” John said.

  Scarlet looked back toward Mercer. He was getting back into his car. She had Franklin’s gun in her hand. “Shoot his tires,” she said.

  The three of them aimed at Mercer’s tires and fired multiple times. Mercer turned the car around, but they’d hit the tires and the car rolled slowly forward.

  John ran toward the car.

  “He’s armed, John!” Scarlet called after him.

  Alex followed to cover him.

  John aimed his gun at the driver’s door. Alex was behind the car, his gun also aimed at the driver’s door. Scarlet followed, taking the passenger side.

  “It’s over, Mercer,” John said. “Get out slowly. With your hands up. I will shoot you, you bastard, just give me the reason.”

  The door opened and Scarlet tensed.

  Mercer came out with his hands up.

  “You’re making a mistake,” Mercer said.

  “Put your hands on the car roof.”

  Mercer complied.

  Alex holstered his weapon and searched Mercer. He removed his gun, then handcuffed him.

  Mercer looked over the car at Scarlet. “You fucking bitch.”

  “So I’ve been told,” she said.

  Alex tightened the cuffs and Mercer scowled.

  Two cars came up the road and headed for them. At first Scarlet thought it was Laurens returning, but she then saw lights in the front grill of the lead car. Feds.

  The lead car stopped and Richardson jumped out, gun drawn. Several FBI SWAT team members followed from the rear car. Richardson said, “You okay, Moreno?”

  “Yes,” John and Scarlet answered simultaneously. Then Scarlet said, “Next time you use me as a guinea pig, let me know.”

  “There won’t be a next time,” John said.

  “You’re making a mistake,” Mercer said. “You’ll never find out the truth, Scarlet.”

  Her stomach flipped. “What are you talking about?”

  He smiled at her over the top of the car. “You know.”

  Richardson approached Mercer. “Tony Mercer, you’re under arrest.”

  A woman in a pencil thin skirt and blazer walked briskly over. She flashed her badge. “SSA Faye Clark. Thank you, detectives. Good work. Sergeant Mercer, I’m taking you into federal custody. We have a lot to talk about.”

  “If you think I’m going to talk, you’re wrong.”

  “That’s your right, which my agent will officially inform you of.”

  Mercer stared at Scarlet, then left with the feds without resisting arrest.

  The SWAT team went into the building to officially clear it. “What happened?” John asked Richardson.

  “We arrested Laurens at Gina Perez’s house. And our undercover agent to keep up the show.”

  “Did you find her phone?” Scarlet asked.

  “No. We think Mercer took it out of evidence. But we don’t need it. She didn’t take the photos with her phone. She uncovered the photos somewhere unknown, and uploaded them to a cloud account through her computer. But Mercer didn’t know that, he thought they were on her phone because she implied she’d taken them—a CI took them and shared them with her.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “She also uploaded a statement to the cloud. It stated that four weeks ago, a CI—a prostitute—had given her a flash drive with six photos of Laurens having sex with an underage hooker. The CI turned on him because he’d beaten the girl up. Perez went to her supervisor, Tony Mercer, with one of the photos and implied that she had taken it. He assured her he would have Vice look into it. She believed him. A week later she was reassigned a new partner, but she didn’t think much of it. The day she was killed, she’d seen Mercer with Laurens. She remembered him from the pictures. That’s when she uploaded the photos to the cloud and the statement, and said that she didn’t know who to trust, but would be calling her former partner Jason Jones to figure out who they could approach.”

  Richardson said to Scarlet, “Our man was wired. If you were in immediate danger, we would have gotten you out of it.”

  “You still should have told me.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  But she was glad they learned the truth and it was over.

  For now.

  Because Tony Mercer knew what happened to her three years ago. He knew who was behind it. And Scarlet was going to find out the truth.

  Richardson said, “Laurens will believe that you were wearing the wire. Our inside guy is going to be released on bail. Laurens confessed on tape. The Feds had a warrant for the wire, so we should be good. And I will officially close the Gina Perez case and the Vartarians will think that they simply lost a couple men and keep moving on. Our investigation isn’t jeopardized. But this had to stay here.”

  “It will,” Scarlet assured him. “Can I leave?”

  “You should go to a hospital,” Richardson said.

  Alex put an arm around her waist. “No, she just needs a little TLC.”

  She smiled at him, as sore and exhausted as she was.

  He knew her so well.

  ~ ~ ~

  Three hours later, Scarlet let Alex pamper her. Hot tub at his apartment with a beer, followed by a long back-rub that turned into a full-body massage. And food. Lots of food.

  “I’m going to wake you up every two hours,” Alex said. “You may have a concussion. I shouldn’t have let you drink that beer.”

  “It was only two.” She kissed him. “I’m glad it’s over.” For now.

  “Why do you have that tone?” His thumbs pressed into her calves. God, that felt good.

  “What tone?”

  “That thinking tone.” His hands stopped.

  “I don’t. Keep working those fingers.”

  “Like this?” His fingers dipped between her legs and she groaned.

  “That’s good.”

  “Just good?”

  “It’s getting better.”

  He kissed the side of her neck. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Scarlet—I take you as you are.”

  Her heart skipped a beat. “Do you know what you’re saying?”

  “Yes. I do.”

  Alex rolled her over so he was facing her. He stared at her until he caught her gaze, then leaned down and kissed her on her lips. Lightly. Warmly. “I know it’s not going to be easy, but when you walked out this morning, I knew I couldn’t just let you leave for good. I like you in my life. I don’t want to change you. I just want you to be careful. Doubly careful, because you have someone—other than your partner, other than your brother—who cares what happens to you.”

  “Alex—I—that means a lot to me.” More than she could say. No other man she’d dated—even Matt, who she had once planned to marry—had let her be herself. They’d all tried to change her.

  And maybe because Alex wasn’t going to push her to be someone she wasn’t, maybe she would be willing to bend just a little bit.

  “Except for one little thing,” he said.

  “O
h?”

  “I’d love to see you in that little black dress again.” He smiled wickedly.

  She wrapped her arms around his neck. “Maybe someday you will.”

  # # #

  RUN

  By Laura Griffin

  Chapter One

  Krista was cozied up with a cheeseburger, contemplating another heart-pounding Friday night at her office when the phone rang. And rang. And rang again.

  “Can you grab that?” She tore her gaze away from her screen and looked into the reception room, where her part-time assistant sat in front of a computer.

  Another ring and Mac glanced up from his game of Settlers of Catan.

  “I’m not here,” Krista said.

  Big eye roll. But the In-N-Out burger she’d bought for him paid off because he reached for the phone.

  “Moreno and Hart Investigations.”

  Krista returned her attention to QuickBooks, which was almost as depressing as the fact that she was spending yet another Friday night burning up the spreadsheets.

  “Mrs. Ruman on line one,” Mac said.

  “I told you I’m not here.”

  “She knows you’re here. Your car’s not in your driveway.”

  “What does she need?”

  “I didn’t ask.”

  Ever since Mrs. Ruman discovered she lived across the street from a real live private investigator, she’d been sending Krista a steady stream of cases.

  Krista picked up the phone. “Hello, Mrs. Ruman.”

  “Thank God I caught you.” She blew her nose, and Krista could picture her standing by her front window in her hot pink tracksuit. “I need a locate.”

  She’d been picking up the lingo, too.

  Moreno & Hart took a fair number of missing persons cases, most involving runaway spouses or deadbeat dads, plus the occasional Alzheimer’s patient who’d wandered away from home. Typically, the cases could be cleared within forty-eight hours, but Mrs. Ruman’s cases weren’t typical. They took three times as long and paid zilch.

  “Krista? You there? Leo’s been gone four hours now and I’m just beside myself.”

  Krista’s cell phone chimed from the depths of her purse. “Hang on a second, okay?” She put Mrs. Ruman on hold and dug out her phone. She read the caller ID and her heart did an annoying little dance.

  “Hi.”

  “You have plans tonight?” R.J. asked her.

  “Why?”

  “I need your boobs.”

  She hung up and got back to Mrs. Ruman. “Did you try the park?” she asked her. “Or what about the deli over on Beechnut? That’s where he went last time.”

  “I’ve been everywhere,” she said in a wobbly voice. “He’s not any of those places.”

  “What about the playground in front of the school?”

  “He’s not there. And he didn’t even have his pill tonight.”

  Krista’s cell rang again, and her head started to throb. “Hang on a sec.” She pressed hold again and picked up her cell.

  “What?”

  “Whatever your plans are, you need to cancel them.”

  “Not happening.”

  “Seriously, I need you.”

  Krista paused. Most women would die to hear those words coming from the lips of R.J. Flynn. The man was tall, dark, and ridiculously handsome, but only if you liked rich bad-boy types, which Krista didn’t.

  Usually.

  “I’m busy tonight.” She thought of the boobs comment. “And anyway, I don’t do decoy work.”

  “This isn’t a domestic. It’s a big case.”

  “Why are you sharing it with me?”

  “It needs a woman’s touch.”

  “Sounds like decoy work.”

  “It’s not a domestic, but it is lucrative and I could use your help.”

  Lucrative. Krista stared at her computer and contemplated the dismal state of her financial affairs. Even with a recent payday, Moreno & Hart was still limping into the third quarter. Their last case helping LAPD uncover a corrupt cop gave them points for future case, but hadn’t added a dime to their coffers. And then there was the slight problem of Krista’s car, which had been totaled recently, and the insurance company was giving her grief about replacing it… But R.J. was a problem, too. He was arrogant and unscrupulous, not to mention a competitor in the world of SoCal PIs. About the last thing Krista wanted to do was spend her Friday night helping him out of whatever jam he’d gotten himself into.

  “I’ll pay you a thousand dollars.”

  That got her attention.

  “For one night’s work,” he added.

  She stared at the blinking light on her phone. Who was she kidding? If she didn’t say yes to R.J., she was going to spend the night combing her neighborhood for a temperamental poodle.

  “What if I say no?” she asked.

  “I’ll call Scarlet. Bet she’d be happy to score a thousand bucks for maybe an hour’s work.”

  She felt a warm rush of irritation.

  “I’ll be at your house in thirty,” he said because he knew he had her.

  “An hour. I’m still at the office.”

  “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.”