Hit and Run (Moreno & Hart Mysteries) Page 14

  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 ey
ebrows 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.

  He eyed her steadily as he made his way around the table. He took a few shots, but he seemed distracted now, and Krista lounged against the railing, afraid to look at the spot where his phone had been.

  He positioned himself for a jump shot and darted a glance in her direction before taking it. One of his stripes slid into a corner pocket.

  “Wow,” she said. It would have been a difficult shot sober, much less half-tanked.

  He smiled slyly. “I’ve got the magic touch.”

  Oh, gag. She picked up her drink.

  “Another round?”

  The voice startled her, and Krista whirled around to see the pretty blond waitress.

  “Uh—” Krista glanced down and noted the iPhone had reappeared on the railing. “No, thanks.”

  The woman smiled and sauntered away, and Krista breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Your turn.”

  She turned around, almost giddy as she grabbed the cue. She leaned over and sank a solid. Then another. Then another. Holland looked on, frowning, as she cleaned up the table. She called the last shot and killed it.

  “You’re a little hustler.” He tipped his glass back and then plunked it on the railing.

  She smiled sweetly. “Thanks for the drink.”

  “Hey, you’re not leaving—”

  “I need to find my friend.” She slid her phone in her purse and tucked it under her arm. “Nice meeting you!”

  “But—”

  She turned on her heel and walked out, heart pounding, and another wave of relief hit her as she stepped into the cool air of the lobby. She darted a glance over her shoulder before ducking into the ladies room and calling R.J.

  “That took long enough!” she said.

  “Meet me at the car.”

  She put her phone away and glanced in the mirror. Her eyes looked wild and her chest was flushed. Her stomach churned at the memory of Holland’s hands all over her butt. She shook off the thought as she strode out of the bathroom.

  And smacked right into him.

  “God, you scared me.” She stepped back, bumping the wall.

  “Come upstairs.”

  “I can’t. I—”

  His mouth crushed against hers and she sucked in a breath of sour air. The bulk of him pinned her against the wall and she tried to get her arms up to push him away, but his thick, wet tongue pushed into her mouth, silencing a string of curses. She struggled to get her hands free. He was heavy, though, and panic bubbled up inside her.

  “You’re a little hustler,” he mumbled, slobbering on her cheek as his giant paw squeezed her breast. “I like that.”

  She brought her knee up hard, then smashed her fists against his chest and shoved him back. He gasped and slumped against the wall. She snatched her purse off the floor and darted away, leaving him wheezing and sputtering beside the restrooms as she made a dash for the lobby. She bypassed the revolving door and plowed through the handicapped entrance into the warm night air.

  The sidewalk in front of the hotel was busy. People waited on cars and tipped valets. She sliced through the crowd and reached the curb, where she glanced up and down the street, catching her breath and trying to get her bearings. Then she strode down the sidewalk, heart hammering, adrenaline pumping through her veins as she neared the little black Porsche.

  R.J. leaned against the passenger side watching her.

  “Move it.” She stopped in front of him and he stepped away from the door.

  “What’s got into you?”

  She jerked the door open and slid inside. “Did you get what you needed?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then let’s go.”

  Chapter Two

  R.J. dropped her off with a thanks-I-owe-you-one and a promise that her check was in the mail. Having been on the receiving end of many such checks, she planned to stop by his office and collect the money personally.

  Krista walked into her house and kicked off her strappy black sandals.

  “No place like home! No place like home!”

  She glanced across the living room. “Hey, Spence.”

  Krista grabbed a handful of cashews from the bowl on the coffee table as Spencer flapped over to her. She fed nuts through the wire mesh of his cage. Spencer was geriatric blue-and-gold macaw named after Spencer Tracy. Like the canary-yellow bungalow she lived in, Krista had inherited the bird from her Grandma Dot.

  “Give us a kiss! Give us a kiss!” he squawked.

  Krista put her purse on the drop-leaf table by Spencer’s cage and wandered into her kitchen to peruse the food choices. Her cheeseburger had worn off, and she needed something to get her mind off of Holland. Barely half an hour with the guy and she felt slimed.

  Rob Holland had managed to rattle her, and five years of tae kwon do training had gone out the window. It was pathetic. She’d left him with a sore groin, sure, but what she should have done was put him in the hospital.

  Her phone chimed from inside her purse and she dug it out. Scarlet.

  “Where’d you go?” her business partner asked. “I thought you were doing books tonight.”

  The contents of Krista’s fridge lacked appeal, but she didn’t want venture out again because it was drizzling.

  “I got sidetracked,” she told Scarlet. “And I’ve got some good news.”

  “Let’s hear it. I’ve had a crap day. And Alex is working late, so I’m stuck waiting for him at his apartment until God knows when.”

  Krista settled for the box of Kashi she’d bought during her pre-summer health kick. She poured some into a bowl and sat down at the table with her notebook computer.

  “I got us hired to help with one of Drake Walker’s cases.” Just saying the words made Krista’s stomach cramp.

  “You did?”

  “The Rob Holland trial.”

  A pause. “That’s a big case. You get this through R.J.?”

  “Yep.”

  “Does that worry you?” Scarlet asked, and Krista knew what she was thinking. They’d teamed up with R.J. before, and he didn’t have a good track record of paying on time. Or paying at all.

  The very first time Krista had met R.J., he’d screwed her over. It was a skip trace. She’d spent a week tracking down some low-life drug dealer who was set to testify, only to have R.J. swoop in at the last minute to steal both her man and her fee right out from under her.

  “I’ll make sure we get paid,” Krista said. “So, why wa
s your day crappy?”

  “Forget it. It’s looking better now that we’ve got some money coming in. You hear back from your insurance company yet?”

  “Yeah,” she said, thinking of the rental car in her driveway that was costing sixty bucks a day.

  “And?”

  “And the policy’s void because I missed a payment.” Or four.

  “What about a grace period?”

  “Nope.”

  “Well I’m around all weekend,” Scarlet told her. “Let me know if you need help with anything.”

  Krista got off the phone and jumped onto the Internet. Seconds later she was reading a slew of headlines about the murder of Brittney Holland. Krista clicked on an L.A. Times article and immediately knew why she’d been feeling queasy all night.

  Brittany Holland had been killed with an icepick. The murder happened right in her own home.

  Krista skimmed the article, which focused on the investigation conducted by Newport Beach PD. A woman’s partner or ex-partner is always top on the list in any murder case, and Brittany Holland was no exception. But police zeroed in on Rob Holland even faster than usual because he and his wife had recently separated. Oh, and one other troublesome fact: Holland had a history of domestic violence. In the two short years the couple had been married, police had been called to their home twice.

  During her cop days, Krista had spent a depressing amount of time responding to domestic abuse calls. The calls never failed to simultaneously piss her off and make her sad because for every one time a victim picked up the phone, there were maybe a dozen incidents that went unreported. So how many times had Brittany Holland felt threatened? Two? Twenty? Krista read through the articles and suddenly she could hear Brittany’s voice, which had been on the news in the months following her death.

  Get someone over here! He’s going to kill me!

  Responding to the 911 call, police had rushed over to Brittany’s newly rented townhome to find Holland taking a baseball bat to his wife’s Range Rover while she looked on, sobbing. Brittany had been physically unharmed, though, and what should have been an aggravated assault rap got knocked down to a drunk and disorderly. It was a bullshit outcome, but not surprising. Holland was one of the wealthiest attorneys in Southern California. Who knew how many judges he had in his pocket?