Lost and Found Page 7

  Brian gave a low whistle as they approached. “Wow.”

  “Yeah,” Krista agreed. “Not what you’d call an avid gardener.”

  No cars in the driveway. And not a light in the place visible from the street. Krista strode up the sidewalk as Brian hung back.

  “You’re going to ring the bell?”

  “Sure.” She glanced at him over her shoulder. “Why not?”

  The bell didn’t seem to be working, so Krista gave the heavy wooden door a sharp rap. Nothing. She started back down the steps, ducking under swags of wisteria, and stepped up to a side window. She peeked through the dusty pane, but tightly drawn mini-blinds blocked her view of the interior.

  Krista tromped across the lawn toward the driveway. Brian followed her to the garage, glancing up and down the block with a worried look on his face.

  “Relax,” she said. “There’s nobody home.”

  “But what about a security system?”

  Krista hadn’t seen a sign for one, or any sensors. And a security system seemed a little high-maintenance for this particular homeowner.

  She stood on her tiptoes, but she wasn’t tall enough to see in the windows of the garage door. Brian stepped over and cupped his hand to the glass.

  “Don’t leave a mark in the dust,” she told him.

  He glanced at her, then peered inside.

  “Well?”

  “No cars,” he reported. “Just an old boat and some lawn equipment.”

  “What, you mean like a speed boat?”

  “A skiff. Like for fishing.” He scooted a few panes over and looked in. “There’s a work bench here, too, but no tools or anything.”

  A pair of headlights moved down the street, and they both stepped into the shadow of the oak limb overhanging the driveway. Krista glanced around. She spotted a gate beside the garage and tried it.

  “Unlocked,” she said as a dog started barking in a neighboring yard.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Having a look around.”

  She squeezed past a trash can and lifted the lid to peek inside. Empty. Then she picked her way through a narrow passageway beside the garage and went around to the back yard. Or what passed for a yard. There wasn’t any grass, merely a patch of dirt beside an old brick patio. No patio light, not light at the backdoor. Every window in the back of the house was dark.

  Brian’s footsteps crunched behind her as she approached the back door. “Be careful,” he said.

  Krista was always careful. She’d prowled around more homes than she could count, even broken into a few.

  She peered through the back door into a utility room. No shoes. No laundry. Not even a laundry basket left abandoned on the floor. She moved to the windows off the patio and looked inside. There was some basic furniture, but nothing on the walls or the coffee table. No magazines or knickknacks or decorative touches. Everything about the place said “SINGLE GUY” in big capital letters.

  Krista walked over to a small high window and looked into the bathroom, but didn’t see so much as an eyeliner pencil or a stick of deodorant.

  “I’m thinking he’s single,” Brian said from the patio where he was looking through the living room window.

  Oliver Miller definitely lived here alone. When he was here, which looked to be seldom. Was it possible he’d moved? Or maybe this was some sort of dummy address used for… what exactly? Krista tromped back to the garage with Brian close behind.

  A low growl stopped her dead in her tracks. A Rottweiler stood beside the garage, watching them with a predatory look.

  Brian bumped into her. “Holy shit!” he yelped when he saw the dog. It was probably the one they’d heard barking.

  “You left the gate open?” she asked through clenched teeth.

  Her heart hammered inside her chest as the hulking black dog stepped closer. The chain of his collar rattled as he moved and a line of drool swung from his mouth.

  “Shit,” Brian said. “I didn’t think—”

  “Don’t move,” she ordered. She glanced around for an escape route. The main gate had a complicated-looking lock. They’d have to leave the way they came, around the side of the garage.

  But first they had to get past the dog, who was watching them closely. The low growl in his chest grew louder and more menacing.

  “Any ideas here?” Brian asked quietly. “I’m not a dog person. What about you?”

  “I’ve got a parrot.”

  “I think… we should keep our movements calm and steady.” He took a slow, deliberate step toward the garage. Krista followed. “Don’t do anything loud or sudden—”

  The dog lunged at Brian. Krista sprinted for the garage with Brian right behind her. The dog barked and growled. Adrenaline shot through Krista’s veins as she heard the paws scratching over the patio behind her.

  “Hurry!” Brian yelled.

  She raced through the narrow passageway, tripping over a stepping stone. Brian crashed into her. She reached for the trash can lid and spun around just as the dog leaped at both of them.

  “Go, go, go!” she yelped, using the lid as a shield.

  Brian tripped through the gate as Krista dodged teeth and claws, fending the dog off with the metal lid. Brian grabbed her T-shirt and hauled her back through the opening. She landed on her butt on the ground as he slammed shut the gate.

  Krista glanced up at him, panting. On the other side of the fence, the barking reached a fever pitch as the dog hurled himself at the barrier.

  “Holy shit.” Brian looked her and then turned to look at the gate.

  Krista scrambled to her feet and dusted her hands on her knees. Her palms were scraped.

  “He get you?” Brian asked.

  “No. You?”

  “No.” He eyed the gate again. “Think we should let him out?”

  “Are you crazy?”

  “He had a collar, so he definitely belongs to someone. Let’s get the hell out of here before his owner comes looking.”

  Krista dropped the trash can lid beside the fence and glanced at the gate, where the Rottweiler was now digging frantically. She surveyed the gap.

  “Ten minutes and he’s out of there,” Brian said. “Come on, let’s go.”

  Krista followed him down the driveway, looking up and down the street. There were a few cars and several pedestrians, but no one seemed to have noticed the trespassers who’d nearly been mauled to death. Her heart was still racing wildly.

  Krista spied a mailbox at the corner of the lot. “One more thing,” she said, heading for it. She glanced up and down the block again before reaching in and pulling out a stack of mail.

  “Krista, come on,” Brian said, clearly not enjoying their little fact-finding mission. He had a lot to learn from R.J.

  She flipped through the stack. Junk. Junk. Something addressed to Current Resident. More junk. There were a few promotions disguised important mail, all addressed to Oliver M. Miller and printed with the words “Open Immediately” in block letters. Krista thumbed through the stack, but didn’t see anything useful, such as a utility bill. She paused on the last envelope, which was from a real estate agency. She stared down at the label.

  Oliver Mitchell Miller.

  Krista’s blood turned cold.

  Chapter Seven

  She knew that name. Mitch Miller was a sergeant with L.A.P.D. Or at least, he had been before he’d left the force several years ago under a cloud of suspicion. Something about mishandled evidence…. Krista didn’t remember all the details.

  Could Oliver Mitchell Miller and Mitch Miller be the same guy?

  “What now?”

  She jumped and turned around, and Brian was leaning over her shoulder.

  “Nothing.” She stuffed the mail back into the box.

  “Can we go, please? Our friend Cujo’s about to bust out.”

  She hurried down the sidewalk toward their cars. Brian matched his pace to hers. She was practically jogging, she realized. Nervous energy.

 
; Krista’s mind was racing, and so was her heart, and it wasn’t only her near-death encounter with a blood-thirsty canine. She was focused on the letter.

  It was a coincidence. Had to be. Miller was one of the most common names around. There had to be thousands guys named Miller in Los Angeles alone, and plenty of Mitchells, too.

  Probably.

  She looked back over her shoulder as they neared the baseball field.

  “What’s next?” Brian checked his watch.

  “I say we call it a night. I’ll head home, maybe surf some stuff on my computer.”

  “I’ll give R.J. a call, tell him this was a miss.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Krista?” He stopped beside her car.

  “Yeah?”

  “There’s something wrong, isn’t there? Something about the mailbox.”

  “No. I’m just, you know, disappointed we didn’t find anything.”

  He gave her a long look, and she could tell he didn’t believe her.

  “Sorry for leaving the gate open,” he said.

  “No worries.” She opened her door. “Tell R.J. I’ll call him later.”

  She slid behind the wheel and drove most of the way home without even thinking about road.

  She was too busy thinking about Oliver Mitchell Miller. Her hands itched to get out her phone and run a search of the guy, but she forced herself to wait. She had all night to run this lead down and she wanted to do it from her home computer, where she had all her best tools.

  If it even was a lead. Miller. It was a very common surname. Extremely. Sixth in the country to be exact. Krista was an expert on names because she was constantly mining databases and looking for people. Smith was the most common, followed by Johnson, Williams, Brown, and Jones.

  Miller was number six, so most likely the name was a coincidence.

  Her phone chimed and she grabbed it.

  “Hey, thanks for taking my cousin on a ride-along,” R.J. said. “Sounds like he nearly got his ass chewed.”

  “Yeah, well, you know me. Never a dull moment.”

  “I hear our new lead was a bust,” R.J. said more seriously.

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Well, I’ve got something new for you. You have a pen handy?”

  “I’m driving.”

  “Fine, I’ll text you. I just got off the phone with my contact at Angelino’s. The bartender I told you about.”

  “Courtney?”

  “That’s right. She said Riley was close friends with another dancer over there. I’ve got her address here. Courtney said this woman mentioned Riley recently, so she thinks the two of them are back in touch.”

  “You think maybe she’s staying with her?”

  “Maybe. It’s at least worth a look, but I’d like you to wait for me. I brought Walker’s guy in, so I’m almost done here.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “Krista.”

  “What?”

  “I detect sarcasm.”

  “I’m not waiting on any more leads, R.J. This girl’s on the move. She might be at her friend’s place now, but who knows where she’ll be by morning. She could easily take off.”

  “So, you won’t wait?”

  “What’s the point? I’m the one who needs to talk to her, not you. Don’t worry, if this lead nets anything, I’ll still pay you.”

  “That’s not what I’m worried about.”

  “Send the address over.”

  No response.

  “Come on, R.J., time’s ticking.”

  He sighed. “I liked this better when we were working together.”

  “We still are. I’ll check this out, then I’ll call you when I’m done and give you an update.”

  Her phone beeped with an incoming text.

  “Don’t blow me off, Krista.”

  “Never.”

  #

  Krista pulled up to the curb and surveyed the area. The neighborhood reminded her of Oliver Miller’s, only without the benefit of any recently flipped houses. She watched a drug deal go down on the corner as she climbed from the car and zipped up her hoodie. She walked briskly down the sidewalk as though she knew exactly where she was going, even though she didn’t. The address R.J. had given her had a unit number, but none of the homes looked subdivided. Half a block later, she reached the place. Another one-story ranch house, and it was pitch dark. The home had an attached garage with an addition on top.

  “Bingo,” Krista muttered, starting up the driveway to the garage apartment.

  No dogs this time, but the neighbor was out on his porch, watching Krista with a suspicious look. She gave him a wave and trudged up the rickety wooden stairs leading to the apartment unit.

  It was dark. Quiet. Unfortunately, there weren’t any windows to peek in, so Krista couldn’t gather any clues about the interior before knocking.

  She waited and waited. And knocked again.

  It was dead quiet. Dead. If anyone was home, they had no intention of coming to the door.

  You’re putting Missy in danger.

  Krista remembered Riley’s words. But even more importantly, she remembered her voice. She’d been scared. For herself and for her friend. Whoever had threatened Riley had done a damn good job.

  And yet… Riley had wanted to talk. She’d been on the verge; Krista could sense it. Whatever she’d seen on that fateful night, she wanted to tell it. Maybe she wanted to get the story off her chest. Maybe she wanted to stop running.

  Living on the run was harder than people realized. It was mentally exhausting, and lonely, and most people weren’t cut out for it. Krista had had plenty of clients over the years who had fled bad situations and tried to start a new life somewhere, but things hadn’t worked out because they’d never truly left their previous life behind.

  Krista believed Riley fell into this category. She wanted to come clean about what she knew and find a way to get her old life back. If Krista could just get Riley alone, she could convince her to talk. Krista had a knack for getting people to talk to her. Maybe because of her blond hair or her small stature, but people didn’t find her threatening and they tended to open up.

  Krista knocked again. Still nothing. She pulled out a scrap of paper and jotted her phone number on it. If Riley was here, she’d get the message. She rolled the paper into a tube and tucked it into the doorframe, then trudged down the stairs. She waved at the neighbor again as she returned to her car.

  She slid behind the wheel and headed for Huntington Beach, mapping out her strategy as she went. Turning onto her street, she spotted Mac’s car in the driveway. Perfect. If she needed help with the computer search for Oliver Mitchell Miller, she could ask him.

  Her phone chimed. She didn’t recognize the number but she picked up anyway.

  “Hello?”

  “What are you, stalking me now?”

  Riley. Her voice sounded shaky and outraged, both at once.

  “We need to talk, Riley. How about I buy you a cup of coffee?”

  “I told you to leave me alone. You have no idea what you’re doing.”

  “I’m starting to.”

  “What’s that mean?” Wary now. Definitely scared.

  “I know about Mitch Miller.”

  No response.

  Krista held her breath. She’d just thrown the dice, but she didn’t know what she’d rolled. Krista swung into her driveway, heart pounding as she parked her car.

  “Riley?”

  “Please.” It was a whisper now. “You have to drop this.”

  Krista squeezed her eyes shut. She’d been right. Shit, shit, shit. She’d been right. Riley knew something important.

  “This isn’t going away, Riley. We need to talk. I want to help you.”

  “Why?”

  She glanced around, wishing she could see her. She felt like Riley was watching her right at this very moment, but of course that was ridiculous. How could Riley kn
ow where she lived?

  “Because I care,” Krista said. “You can’t keep running forever, and you shouldn’t have to.”

  She paused to let that sink in.

  “I can help you, Riley, but we need to talk.”

  Seconds ticked by. Nothing. Krista checked the phone to see if she’d hung up.

  A faint sigh. “I’ll meet you at your office. Fifteen minutes.”

  Krista’s heart skipped a beat. “Sure, that works. I’m located on Palo Verde—”

  “I know where you are. Come alone. Be there in fifteen minutes or I’m gone.”

  #

  Krista sped the whole way and made it in ten. She zipped up to the curb in front a large adobe mansion that had long ago been converted to offices.

  She got out and looked up and down the quiet street lined with date palms. Tall streetlamps cast pools of light over a couple of parked cars, but no little yellow Beetle.

  Krista’s building was surrounded by jacaranda trees that bloomed purple in June. She hurried up the sidewalk, eager to turn on a few lights and give the place a welcoming glow. She entered her after-hours code on the keypad, then stepped into the Saltillo tile lobby.

  No bikes stashed under the stairs. No packages waiting for pick-up beside office doors. Krista and Scarlet shared the building with a constantly revolving roster of free-lancers and insurance agents who typically cleared by five o’clock.

  Krista opened up her second-floor suite and switched on some lights. From the giant Styrofoam cup sitting on the desk, she could see Mac had been in earlier. She glanced at the espresso machine in the corner, which she’d never managed to operate successfully. So much for her little coffee klatch. But Krista doubted Riley would be thinking about refreshments.

  Krista went into her office and dumped her purse on the desk. She heard a car on the street and stepped to the window to peek through the blinds. A pickup truck. It went to the end of the block and turned left toward the freeway.

  Krista turned her attention to her office, clearing a stack of files off a chair and glancing around to make sure she didn’t have anything confidential sitting around. She did—a photo of a client’s husband in slobbery embrace with his paralegal. Krista stashed it in a file drawer and then unlocked the drawer beneath it and gazed down at the Ruger LC9 she kept there. She thought of Riley’s voice earlier and the little wobble in it. You’re putting Missy in danger.