The present
Jake parked the Corvette at the curb in front of the duplex at nine sharp Thursday morning. An uncomfortable tightness squeezed his chest as he studied the front of the unit where Angela had lived. White stucco walls, red tile roof, brilliant purple bougainvillea climbing trellises to the roofline. Nice. Normal. He wondered if the current residents had any idea of the atrocity committed within those walls.
He shook the thought from his mind and pulled a credit card-sized recorder from his shirt pocket. He turned it on and then slid it back into its hiding place. His gun and holster were already locked in the secret compartment. Sighing heavily, he grabbed a folder and a bag of donuts from the passenger seat and exited the car. Behind his sunglasses, his eyes darted around the neighborhood, inspecting the surroundings and cataloguing images as he sauntered along the sidewalk.
He rang the doorbell and waited, smiling at the peephole where he suspected Becky Smelter’s eye was glued.
After a few minutes, he rang the bell again and called, “Miss Smelter, it’s Jake Stone. I brought donuts.” He raised the bag so she could see it.
The door opened only as far as the security chain allowed, and a wrinkled face peered through the crack.
“I want to see your identification,” the elderly woman demanded. Jake moved to set the donut bag on the ground. “Don’t do that. I’ll take those,” she snapped.
He squeezed the bag through the opening. As he reached into his pants pocket for his wallet, the door closed.
“Shit,” he muttered and took a deep breath.
He flipped open his wallet to show his PI and driver’s licenses and then knocked. As seconds ticked by, he frowned at the thought that old Miss Becky Smelter might have outsmarted him.
The rattle of the chain being unlatched eased his tension, and by the time the door opened, Jake wore his most charming smile.
“Good morning, Miss Smelter. Here’s my identification.” He thrust his arm through the opening so she would have to cut it off to close the door again.
She squinted at the pictures on the licenses and then at his face three times before she stepped aside for him to enter.
“Come in, Mr. Stone. I don’t have all day.” She ambled away, leaving him to close the door.
He followed her into the dining room where the donut bag sat on the table. She motioned for him to sit, and he did.
“How do you take your coffee?” she asked, already walking toward the kitchen doorway.
“Black, thank you. May I help?”
“No. Stay put. I don’t let strangers wander around my house.”
She reappeared shortly with a tray, which she lowered unsteadily onto the table. After handing Jake a plate and a cup of coffee, she lifted her items from the tray and set it aside. With childlike eagerness, she selected a donut from the bag before passing it to him. He took one just to be sociable.
“Delicious,” he said. “I can’t remember the last time I ate a donut.”
She gauged his sincerity with sugar glaze stuck to her lips. “No wonder you have an unpleasant edge to you, young man. Donuts should be eaten regularly to sweeten your disposition.”
He stifled a laugh when he realized she was serious. “I’ll remember that. Thank you. Do you mind if we talk while we eat?”
“Of course not. I don’t want you here any longer than necessary. I have a busy schedule on Thursday. Lunch at the Senior Center at noon. Bingo at church at two. What time is it?”
Jake glanced at his watch. “Nine twenty. I’ll make this as quick as possible. And I do appreciate you agreeing to talk to me.” She nodded with her mouth full so he continued. “I’m sorry to have to tell you the sad news, but I should let you know up front that…that Angela…passed away about a week ago.”
Becky Smelter’s face blanched, and she blinked rapidly as if she couldn’t comprehend what her ears had heard. Her chest rose and fell with each deliberate breath. Then her eyes filled and overflowed. She stared at him, seemingly unaware of the tears sliding down her cheeks.
He watched her closely with alarm. Was she about to suffer a heart attack? “Are you all right?”
“No, of course not. How?” she whispered.
“The police are calling it suicide, but I disagree. I think Angela was murdered, and it’s why I’m here. I’m trying to figure out if her death is connected to the rape. Will you help me, Miss Smelter? For Angela’s sake.”
She nodded slowly.
“I understand this is a terrible shock, and it’s going to be hard for you to talk about what happened four years ago. If I could wait, I would. But I’m afraid the trail will only get colder. Are you up for this?”
Hand trembling, she raised her coffee to her lips and drank deeply. Her gaze traveled toward Angela’s former home, and she stared at the adjoining wall for several moments. Her thoughts seemed far away.
Jake waited patiently. Would the old lady be strong enough to do this?
Finally, her attention came back to him. She took another long drink of coffee and set the cup down. After dabbing her eyes and mouth with a napkin, she squeezed it into a tight ball.
“Well, what are you waiting for, Mr. Stone?” She smiled bravely. “If we’re going to catch the bastard, we should get busy. What can I do?”
Jake’s brows arched, and he grinned. “Great.” He opened the folder and removed several sheets of paper. “I have copies of all your interrogations. I know it happened a long time ago, but I’d rather you talk from memory without using these to refresh first. Sometimes, perceptions change over time. Sometimes, a fact will surface from your subconscious, and you don’t even know it. And I don’t want you to be influenced by these.” He tapped the pages. “Okay?”
“Mr.—”
“Please call me Jake.”
“Of course. You’re the professional, Jake. I’ll follow your lead.”
“Thanks. Now walk me through that night, from beginning to end. If you forget a detail as you go along, just throw it in when it comes to you. Understand?”
“Certainly.” She sighed deeply and focused on the hands folded in her lap. “It was a Saturday night, so Mary and I had gone to bed about ten. We slept in separate bedrooms, but we were both awakened about midnight by noise coming from Angela’s place.” She paused, narrowing her eyes as if taking herself into the past. “Mary came into my room to see if I was awake. We talked for a while, trying not to listen. You understand, we weren’t snoops.”
“Understood.”
She nodded and continued. “We heard a man’s voice, but it didn’t sound like David, Angela’s boyfriend. The voice was older, deeper. We heard Angela, too. But they weren’t talking loud enough for us to understand what they were saying. Didn’t even try, mind you. There was some laughing and other loud noises. We thought they might be drunk, which was highly unusual for Angela. Mary and I were getting peeved when it went on for hours. Angela was always so considerate. And David, too. We knew he spent the night occasionally—so improper, you young people—but they never made noise like that night. We were both still awake when Angela’s front door slammed at three in the morning. We watched her leave with a man whom we’d never seen before. He was tall, white, blond, nicely dressed. Angela looked like she was going to a costume party dressed as a…a prostitute. My God, it was such a shock. The man had his arm around her waist, and she was kind of clinging to him. They staggered a little walking down the street to a big black car and drove away. Mary and I were puzzled but relieved to be able to go to sleep. So we did.” Her watery eyes looked up at him. “That’s it.”
“Very good. Now I’m going to ask you some questions before we move on to the next morning. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Did you hear Angela and the man arrive before midnight?”
“No. We thought Angela was home alone earlier because we could hear her television just a little. But the television had been turned off before we went to bed at ten.”
“Did you hear any more noise after Angela and the man left?”
“No.”
“Did you hear her come home later?”
“No.”
“Did she look like she was hurt when you saw her leaving at three?”
“No, absolutely not.”
Jake stroked his chin. “So Angela was fine when she left at three with the mystery man. Which means the rape happened later. And we don’t know if she returned with the same guy, another guy, or alone.” He shuffled the papers and then looked up. “I’m sure you know Angela denied having a man at the house or going out with one that night.”
“Oh, yes, I know. Poor thing. Her memory was so messed up. But there’s no question Mary and I saw her leaving with a man.”
“You’re absolutely sure it was Angela? You did say she looked like a hooker.”
“Hooker?”
He grinned. “Prostitute.”
“Ah. Yes. Her outfit was appalling. Even stranger was that the clothes disappeared.” She leaned closer. “I think the pervert gave them to her to wear just for their date and then took them when he left.” She nodded sharply. “Shouldn’t you be writing this down?”
Smiling, he tapped his head. “Good memory, but I’ll take some notes.” He scribbled “pervert provided clothes” in the margin of the paper and then glanced at another page. “The police said there was no sign of forced entry, so I doubt the rapist was waiting for her inside when she got home. Perhaps he assaulted her while she was opening the front door.”
“At first, I thought her boyfriend might’ve gone crazy if he found out she was cheating on him. David did have a key. But when I learned how badly Angela was injured, I knew he couldn’t have done it. They were in love.”
“Really?”
“Oh, yes.” Becky smiled and sighed.
“How serious were they?” Odd fingers of jealousy plucked Jake’s heartstrings.
“Very. We thought David was going to propose soon, and Angela most assuredly would’ve said yes.” Her smile faded, and she dabbed her eyes. “But after the… Well, things were never the same.”
He cleared his throat. “Let’s see. The police report says David had flown out Saturday morning to Seattle to visit his parents but came back immediately on Sunday after Angela called him.”
“Angela didn’t call him. I did.”
“Oh?”
“Angela wasn’t right in the mind that day. She didn’t want to call anyone, not David, not her parents, not her sister. Mary and I thought she needed someone to stay with her at the hospital so we called Maleena first.”
“Maleena?”
“Her sister,” she explained.
“Yes, I know, but wouldn’t it take longer for her to come from Virginia than David from Seattle?”
The old woman grinned. “I like you, Jake. You can call me Becky.”
He returned the smile. “Thank you, Becky. I like you, too. About Maleena?”
“Oh, Maleena lived in LA then.”
He frowned. “She did? I didn’t see that in the file.”
“Well, it got very confusing.”
“Enlighten me.”
“Maleena had moved out to California after Angela finished interior decorating school. Against her better judgment, Angela let her sister move in with her. It was a disaster. The sisters were nothing alike. Maleena was always partying, causing trouble. Angela confided to Mary and me that she thought Maleena had fallen in with a bad crowd and was using drugs. The really hard kind, like cocaine or heroin. I’ve read about the awful stuff, you know.” Her gaze drifting to the window, Becky took a bite of donut and a sip of coffee and seemed to forget she was in the middle of an explanation.
Jake faked a cough to recapture her attention.
“What? Oh, yes,” she continued. “Anyway. After tolerating Maleena for as long as she could, Angela finally kicked her out about a year before the…the rape, I think. We didn’t know where Maleena was living, but I did have her cell phone number. I called several times that morning, but Maleena didn’t answer so I left messages.” Becky sighed. “Finally, I called David’s cell phone, and he flew back on the next flight from Seattle.”
“Did you ever talk to Maleena?”
“Yes, when she landed.”
“Landed? I don’t understand. Did she admit she’d been high?”
“High?” Becky’s nose wrinkled. “Heavens no. She’d never tell me that, even if she was high when she landed in Dulles.”
Confused, Jake wondered if they were speaking the same language. He shook his head to clear it. “Dallas…Texas?”
“No. Dulles. What’s wrong with your ears, young man?”
“Dulles? The airport in Virginia?”
“Yes. She’d flown home that morning. Back to Mommy and Daddy,” she said snidely. “She was a no-account if I ever met one. Mary and I disliked her from the day we met her. Angela tried her best to straighten her sister out, but Maleena never appreciated it. There was no love lost between those two.”
“I agree.”
“You know about Maleena?” Becky asked with surprise.
“I called the Reardons to discuss my theory. Maleena chewed out my ass—sorry—yelled at me on the phone.”
Becky laughed but quickly turned grim. “What do you think of the family?”
He snorted. “Sophisticated jerks. I couldn’t stand the parents either.”
“I’m glad to hear that. I mean, we thought Angela was the only good one of the bunch. So sad for her to have such an awful family. They were no help to her at all during her crisis. Actually, we decided she was better off without them here upsetting her.”
“They didn’t fly out to be with her?”
“The parents came two days later and stayed for three days. Maleena never came back to LA as far as we knew. She showed no concern whatsoever about what had happened to her own sister.” Becky dabbed at her eyes. “We could never understand how the two girls could be so different, especially being…being—”
“I know.”
“You do?
“Well, I can imagine how hard it was to understand their relationship with as close as you and Mary were.”
“That’s true, too. This sounds awful, but I’ve never met anyone more evil than Maleena Reardon.”
He studied the intense expression on Becky’s face. “Angela never even told me she had a sister.”
“Ha. I’m not surprised. Angela would never admit it, but I think they hated each other. At least, they did after Maleena lived with her. And the parents. What a waste. They were so wrapped up in their high-society world, they hardly seemed to remember they had a wonderful daughter living out here.”
Her voice cracked, and Jake changed the subject for fear of losing her. “How did David handle the situation?”
Becky covered her eyes for several moments, and he wondered if she would be able to continue.
When she answered, she spoke very softly. “David was a prince. And it wasn’t easy. Angela pushed everyone away. Even Mary and me. David stayed with her at the hospital for the first few days. When she was discharged, he tried to move into her place temporarily, but she threw him out. He was heartbroken. Every day, he came to see her. We could hear her yelling ‘Don’t touch me.’ It got worse and worse until David quit coming. Angela would never talk about what happened between them, but Mary and I thought she probably couldn’t stand to even be touched by…by a man, any man. Poor David. None of it was his fault, but Angela did what she had to in order to survive.”
Becky sniffled, her grief palpable.
He waited respectfully. “I’m sorry to put you through this.” He stood with his cup and reached for hers. “May I get you another cup of coffee, Becky?”
“Thanks. Just sugar, please.”
When he returned with the coffee, she sat with her elbows on the table and her head cradled in her hands. He set the cups down and knelt beside her.
“If this is too hard on you, I’ll understand. But you have to tell me.”
She cocked her head to study him. He stilled as her bleary hazel eyes searched the depths of his gray ones.
“You loved Angela, didn’t you?” she said.
Jake started at the impact of her question. He straightened and moved to his chair. He avoided her gaze while he contemplated an answer. When he finally spoke, his voice cracked. “I think I loved Angela, but I’m probably the worst person in the world to judge whether I did or not.”
Becky’s mouth opened but shut without speaking. She seemed to ponder his answer. “How many of us can ever say if we’re truly in love? But this I know: You cared deeply for her. And I bet she felt the same for you.”
He swallowed hard. “I think…she did.”
Becky leaned back in the chair. “I’m tired, Jake. Old and tired. I’m sure you have more questions, but I need some time now to grieve for Angela. Call me tomorrow.”
He left Becky Smelter with her head resting on the table, eyes closed. He clicked the lock on the doorknob and quietly pulled the front door shut behind him. Glancing at Angela’s former residence, his mind flooded with Burke’s description of that horrible morning. His stomach lurched, and he swore under his breath. When he got back to the hotel, he’d go through the rape case with a fine-tooth comb and look at the crime scene pictures he hadn’t been able to handle last night. And then what?
Jake unlocked the door of the Corvette with an impatient flick of his key fob. He slid behind the wheel and scanned all three car mirrors. His foot was already on the accelerator when he did a double take at the reflection in the driver’s side mirror. Casually, he slipped the transmission out of gear and fiddled with the sun visor while his gaze remained glued to the outside mirror. Another angled glance confirmed the crumpled front bumper of the black Land Rover parked three vehicles behind him. Jake adjusted his sunglasses in front of the vanity mirror before picking up the folder and pretending to peruse its contents. Surreptitiously, his gaze darted between the vanity, side, and rearview mirrors.
Patience.
Then he saw it: movement inside the Land Rover. He tossed the folder aside. Bending as though accessing the glove compartment, Jake unlocked the hidden space containing his Glock. He stashed the gun between his thighs. After several slow breaths, his eyes narrowed in a last glimpse of the Land Rover and a final check for approaching traffic.
He jammed the transmission into gear, stomped on the gas, and spun the car around in a tight U-turn. In seconds, he was abreast of the Land Rover. He flipped his middle finger at the tinted driver’s window and sped off.
He barreled down surface streets until he flew onto the freeway entrance. Since he recognized the Land Rover from the Doubletree Hotel parking lot, the unidentified occupant or occupants knew where he was staying. Jake wanted only to reach the lobby first so he could observe the vehicle’s arrival. With any luck, he’d have the opportunity to get a good look at who was following him.
Squealing into a parking space near the hotel entrance, he killed the engine as his head swiveled for a full view of the parking lot. If the Land Rover had an accomplice waiting for him here, getting inside could be dicey. He leaned back, yanked his shirttail free of his jeans, and stuffed the Glock into his front waistband.
Spotting a group of about fifty Asian tourists loitering ten yards from the Corvette, he plotted his next move. He grabbed the file, jumped from the car, and set the alarm system with the fob as he hustled toward the entrance. Hunching down, he was soon lost to view in the midst of the crowd. He spun around and scrutinized the area.
No sign of the Land Rover. No goons racing toward the hotel. No vehicles careening into the parking lot. He stayed immersed in the group until the strangers became uncomfortable with his presence and began drifting away.
Without turning his back to the parking lot, he moved inside the lobby. Staking out a position with an unobstructed view, he waited. Five minutes passed before the Land Rover drove into sight. It crept along the street. Jake regretted that the Corvette was so conspicuous, but his first objective had been to get his butt safely inside. The black SUV disappeared around the corner but reappeared a few minutes later. It stalked by a second time and then sped away.
A quick scan of the parking lot revealed no sign of any unusual or suspicious activity. After waiting ten more minutes, Jake turned his attention to the lobby. Still nothing seemed out of the ordinary, so he strolled to the elevator.
The DO NOT DISTURB sign hung from the door handle of his room just as he’d left it. He wished he knew if it had been respected—by everyone. What was wrong with him? He always marked a hotel room door when he went out. Forgetting little things like that could get a man killed. He glanced cautiously up and down the long hallway and then put his ear to the door. Nothing.
Holding the Glock steady in one hand, he opened the door and squeezed inside as quietly as possible. Skillfully, he flowed through the two rooms, checking everywhere: under the bed, behind the doors and drapes, inside the closet, and in the bathroom. Then he performed a more thorough inspection, examining the furniture, his duffel bag, the computer, the clothes in the dresser and closet, and his toiletry bag. He searched the phones for bugs. Climbing up on a chair, he removed the vent cover to inspect the space behind it. No sign of a video camera. After a second meticulous sweep of the room, he breathed easier and concluded no one—not even the maid—had been in his room.
His gun resting within easy reach on the table, he poured a large drink of Jack Daniel’s and dropped onto the small couch. From now on, he’d have to be more careful. His computer and files might have to travel with him, which was risky in its own way.
He frowned and swallowed a gulp of his drink, focusing on the heat it ignited. He didn’t need this additional hassle.
And who the hell was following him?
He didn’t like the answer that flashed immediately in his mind.
When the hotel phone on the end table next to him rang, Jake jumped. He stared at it but made no move to answer it. He hadn’t told anyone where he was staying. No one—correction, no one except whoever was in the Land Rover—knew he was there.
After several rings, it stopped. He relaxed and took another drink. It was probably simply an employee calling to confirm his extended reservation or to ask if he wanted maid service yet today. He decided to call the front desk to deal with both issues and avoid any more calls, but as he reached for the phone, it rang again.
His first impulse was to ignore it, but after three rings he wavered and answered.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” the obnoxious mechanical voice growled.
Jake tensed instantly. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Call off the Land Rover before I put some ventilation holes in it.”
“You’re playing with fire, Stone.”
Hearing the Contractor say his real name paralyzed Jake for several heartbeats. “Get your goons off my ass,” he said after he recovered.
“I told you not to force my hand. And talking to the police is yanking my hand hard. What I don’t get is why LAPD. The confirmation I received said the hit went down in Coronado. So I repeat: What the hell are you doing?”
Jake’s mind raced. He forced a laugh. “Damn, you’re a paranoid bastard. My chat with the LAPD had nothing to do with the Reardon deal. I’m looking for a deadbeat dad.”
“What’s his name?”
“John Smith.”
“Nice generic name.”
“Yeah. That’s why he’s been so damn hard to find.”
“Who’d you visit at the duplex? And don’t lie to me. You know I can find out myself in a less pleasant way,” the Contractor warned.
“I shared donuts with a little old lady. She’s a connection in a long-lost relative case I’m working for a friend in Virginia. She was too senile to be much help, unfortunately.”
“Think your little ole lady would confirm your story to my Land Rover boys?”
Jake’s hand clenched into a fist at his side. His bluff better be damn good—for Becky’s sake. “I’m sure she’d be delighted to.”
“Remember, Stone, I know where she lives.”
“I know. Warn your boys she’ll talk their ears off. And bring donuts. It’s her weakness.” His eyes narrowed as he waited for the next volley.
“I can feel your smug-ass grin from here. You think you’re so damn smart.”
“Hey, what can I say? I’ve got a PI and security business to run.”
“Okay, smart ass. I’ll tell you what I’m gonna do.”
“I’m all ears.”
“I’m getting out of the middle of this. I don’t trust you, and I don’t trust the buyer. I’m going to let the buyer know the hitman is on the warpath, but I won’t give up your name. That way you’re on an even playing field. And for all I care, you can take each other to Hell.”
“What if the buyer wants a contract on me? You gonna turn him down?”
“Good question. I’ll have to think about it.”
“Well, just so you know, I’ve already planted the seed with the Coronado PD that Angela’s suicide was actually murder. To ensure the seed doesn’t die with me, I’ve left all of the information about the contract, you, and my theories on the buyer in a very safe place so that, if something happens to me, the police and the Agency will have the leads they need to track you down.”
“Track me down?” the Contractor said with mocking disbelief.
“Yeah. You’re so full of shit you forgot I still have a lot of friends at Langley, and I’m a damn good PI. You’re not as safe as you’ve always thought, Bernard.”
“Fuck you, Stone. You’ve just signed your own death warrant.”
* * *
“Hello, Becky. It’s Detective Sean Burke. How are you?”
“Oh, Sean, I feel miserable, but it’s good to hear from you.”
He frowned at how old and frail she sounded on the phone. “I just wanted to let you know a man named Jake Stone may be contacting you to discuss Angela’s case.”
“He just left.”
“Really?”
“Is there a problem, Sean?”
“No, but he sure didn’t waste any time. I just met with him yesterday afternoon.” Burke cleared his throat. “What’d you think of him?”
“I like him. Jake brought me donuts.”
Burke chuckled. “Smooth, isn’t he?”
“You don’t like him?”
“I didn’t say that. Other than the donuts, why do you like him?”
“He loved Angela, and he’s trying to make things right. You know about Angela passing away, don’t you, Sean?”
“Yeah, it sucks. I mean, it’s awful. Poor lady. So, you think he’s telling the truth about his relationship with Angela?”
Becky hesitated. “Are you jealous, Sean?”
“Wh-what?” he sputtered.
“Mary and I knew you had a crush on Angela and were so disappointed when she moved to San Diego.”
“I didn’t have a… Never mind. My point is: Did you sense anything unusual about Jake Stone?”
“Not really. The donuts were yummy. He spoke highly of you. Why don’t you trust him?”
“He’s… Wait a minute. I’m not saying I don’t—”
“What are you saying then?”
“I don’t think this guy is what we see on the surface. There’s something lurking underneath. I don’t want to call it sinister, but it’s dark…edgy.”
“Sean Burke, quit beating around the bush. Get to the point.”
He rubbed his hand across his face. She had him. “All right, but hear me out before you lay into me. Statistically, a woman is most likely to be killed by a man she knows. Especially one close to her. Awful? Yes. But it sure helps focus an investigation. I spoke to a Coronado PD detective this morning about Jake Stone. Apparently, Stone and Angela had been dating for about three months. But I gathered from the conversation that this was highly unusual for Stone. He has a reputation as a real player.”
“Player?” Becky asked.
“Uh, let’s see. You’d call him a…a womanizer, I guess.”
“You’re saying Jake has lots of meaningless sex with promiscuous women.”
Burke snorted. “Yeah. You get the idea. So, anyway, you and I both know Angela had problems with sex and any physical male contact after the rape. Stone admits to being with her that night. What if Angela didn’t put out? I mean, what if she refused to have sex with him? What if he got royally pissed, lost control, and killed her? No premeditation, just a simple crime of passion. But then he covered it up as a suicide. If Angela’s death were my case, Jake Stone would be my prime suspect.”
A long silence followed Burke’s rant.
“Wouldn’t Jake be taking a huge risk by trying to prove she didn’t commit suicide?” the old woman asked.
“Absolutely.”
“So why in the world would he do that?”
“Damned if I know, but I sure as hell plan to find out.”
* * *
As soon as Jake recovered from the unnerving conversation with the Contractor, he dialed Becky Smelter’s number. He didn’t know what he was going to say, but he needed to know she was all right. She’d been cautious with him at her door, but she’d be no match for a couple of goons wanting to make a point. How could he warn her without scaring her?
After ten rings, Jake disconnected and redialed. Another ten rings, and still nothing. No answering machine either, which didn’t surprise him. His palms were sweaty as he paced the room and dialed a third time. He glanced at his watch: 11:45 a.m.
“Crap,” he muttered.
What had she said about her plans? Lunch at the Senior Center and then something else at two. He slammed the cell phone on the table. It might be better if she was away from her house for a while. Unless she came home to find it occupied by the Land Rover guys. He debated driving to her house, but if she were there, she would have answered his calls.
Unless she couldn’t. He didn’t want to think about that possibility.
He pressed his palms against his temples and groaned. Had he convinced the Contractor that his activities today had been unrelated to finding the buyer? He scrunched his eyes tightly closed and replayed the conversation. Maybe by the end of it, the Contractor hadn’t cared what the hitman was up to. The Contractor just wanted out of the middle. He cringed. Or to make more money on a new contract with Jake Stone as the target. Bingo.
Aha. Bingo. Becky was playing bingo at two. How long did old people play bingo on a Thursday afternoon? He had no clue. He resolved to call her again at three and to not give up until he talked to her.
Until then, he’d listen to the recording of his visit and transfer it to his computer. Then he’d review Burke’s papers again. His interrogation of Becky had been cut short. If he had some new questions for her, they might mask the real reason for his call.
After ordering lunch, he got to work. He was so engrossed he almost missed the room service knock. With the Glock tucked in the back waistband of his pants, he peered through the peephole at the uniformed delivery boy. He quickly handed the guy a tip and took the tray instead of letting him inside.
Jake ate without tasting and pushed away the plate still half full of food. Reading about the rape killed his appetite.
He leaned low over the list of DNA tests, studying each entry. Burke had been right. The rapist had left semen everywhere, and none of it ever got a DNA match. Angela’s DNA had been matched from several samples, which wasn’t surprising. Jake frowned at one of the entries.
The sample had been taken from a red lace thong. Red lace thong? Why did that ring a bell?
The date of the test triggered his memory. That sample had been submitted two months after the rape. Jake thumbed through the papers until he found one dated the day of the submission.
According to the report, Angela had called Burke to inform him she had discovered a red lace thong underneath her nightstand. She swore it wasn’t her underwear. Burke had bagged the evidence at her house and submitted it immediately. The DNA test showed the thong contained Angela’s vaginal fluid and the rapist’s semen. According to Burke, the results had devastated Angela. Burke hadn’t speculated on the source of the thong, apparently dismissing the ownership issue as simply a result of the victim’s amnesia. However, the detective had noted with concern Angela’s diminishing mental stability. The young cop’s escalating affection for the victim bordered on unprofessional, as his descriptions grew more sympathetically subjective rather than analytically objective.
Jake rocked onto the rear legs of the chair and chewed on the end of a pen. Burke had definitely become emotionally involved with Angela. Becky even mentioned it on the phone yesterday. Had Burke tried to force his affections on Angela only to have her reject him even in her vulnerable state? That would piss a guy off.
He scowled, trying to remember exactly what Burke himself had said about the relationship. His eyes narrowed when he remembered. Protect…take care of… I scared her away.
The front legs of the chair dropped back to the floor with a loud thud. His fingers flipped through the pages until he found the report on the last face-to-face meeting between Burke and Angela. Reading between the lines, he could easily imagine the detective pleading with her not to move away. God, the cop was pathetic.
Shuffling through more paper, he grabbed the notes from Burke’s phone calls to Angela in Coronado. He scanned the contents and then leaned back, frowning. From the lack of meaningful information, the phone conversations must have been short and sweet, or maybe not so sweet. Angela was trying to move on with her life, leaving the rape behind her. Which meant leaving Burke behind also.
When Angela had confided in Jake about the rape, she’d briefly mentioned Sean Burke, but only in his capacity as a detective on her case. Jake reasoned he would’ve detected in her words or body language the existence of a personal relationship. Undoubtedly, in her considerate way, she’d been nice and attentive to the man, but there was no indication she had returned his affections.
Had Burke unsuccessfully pursued Angela for the last four years? Frustrated. Resentful. Vengeful. Had he snapped?
Unrequited love. A well-known motive for murder.
Well, shit, that puts a whole new spin on things.
Yesterday, Burke had seemed like his best ally; now Jake wasn’t so sure. He’d come to LA looking for connections, but he hadn’t expected the detective on the case to become one of the suspects.
He mentally slapped himself. His investigation into the possible connection between the rape and the hit contract was barely two days old. Way too early to be jumping to any conclusions. His first impressions of people were usually correct, and his original take on Burke had been that he was a straight shooter committed to getting justice for Angela. The theory that the young cop took out a contract on her because she broke his heart was a stretch, and frankly, he didn’t want to believe it.
Was he so desperate that he was grasping at straws? He answered with a strong shake of his head. At this point in the game, though, it was wise to keep all options on the table, regardless of how weak or improbable.
He shoved the chair back and sauntered over for a J.D. refill. Closing his eyes, he tilted his head and savored two long swallows.
He stepped to the window. LA smog lay like a dingy blanket across the landscape. Millions of people lived and worked under the dirty sky. Was Angela’s rapist one of them? Was the person who wanted Angela dead one of them? Was it one person or two different people? Damn.
Jake glanced at his watch: 3:15 p.m. He set the drink down and pulled his phone from his pocket. Her phone rang four times before she answered.
“Hi Becky. It’s Jake.”
“Who?”
“Jake. Jake Stone.”
“What do you want?”
The icicles in her voice sent a chill through him. He hesitated, puzzled.
“I’m just calling to check on you.”
“Why?”
“Uh, gee, I don’t know. Maybe because I knew you were upset when I left, and I wanted to be sure you were okay.” She didn’t respond. “Becky, are you all right?” Jake’s nerves, already taut, tightened a notch.
“No.”
“Are you upset about our talk or…did something happen after I left?”
“After.”
His throat constricted. “What happened?”
“I can’t say.”
“Becky, tell me what’s wrong. Did someone scare you?”
“Yes,” she said after a lengthy pause.
“Damn it, talk to me, Becky!” Jake exploded. “Do I need to come back over there?”
“Don’t you dare, young man. And don’t call me Becky anymore. How could you pull the wool over my eyes about Angela? Was it fun playing with an old woman’s emotions? Shame. Shame on you.”
Jake pulled the phone away from his ear, frowned, and shook his head vigorously. “What the hell—”
“Watch your language, Mr. Stone.”
A long, slow breath whistled through his lips. “Give me a break, Miss Smelter. Tell…please tell me what’s got you so upset.” Through the silence, he heard her labored breathing. Again, he shuddered at the possibility of a heart attack. “Miss Smelter?”
“Sean…Sean said—” Her voice cracked. “You killed Angela.”
* * *
Casually tucking the receiver between his ear and shoulder so he could continue typing on the keyboard, the detective answered. “Sean Burke.”
“You son of a bitch.”
He straightened in his chair. “Who is this?”
“I should rip your goddamn head off.”
“Stone?”
“Yes, you asshole. How dare you turn Becky Smelter against me. I have more questions for her, but now she’s afraid to talk to me. Where the hell do you get off telling her I killed Angela? I thought you wanted to help me catch Angela’s murderer, not string me up by my nuts. I should come over there and kick your—”
“Careful, Stone,” Burke said sternly, running a hand across his forehead. He wanted to kick his own ass for sounding off to the old lady. “I didn’t tell Becky that.”
“Bullshit!”
“I didn’t,” Burke insisted. “What I said was, statistically speaking, you’d be a prime suspect based on your personal relationship with Angela.”
“Yeah, the personal relationship you wanted with her but never got. Getting denied is tough on the old ego, isn’t it cop-boy? Wanted to fuck the pretty lady, but she said no. Rejection is a bitch, but it’s a great motive for murder.”
“Fuck you, Stone. I admitted how involved I got with trying to solve the rape. I thought someone owed it to Angela after what she’d been through. Her vulnerability triggered the whole macho-protectiveness thing we guys do.”
“Becky thought your interest in Angela went way beyond that. After reading your reports, I agree with her.”
Burke’s first reaction to the accusation was hostile silence. “Becky Smelter has a big mouth,” he finally offered, trying to tamp down his anger.
“Yeah, she does. So, what’s it going to be, Burke? Allies or enemies? Trust or distrust?”
His fist tightened on the receiver. His eyes narrowed and stared, unseeing, at the computer monitor. “How about a temporary truce to our mutual distrust?”
Jake hesitated. “Okay. Does that mean you’ll still help me?”
“Yeah. What do you need?”
“Couple of things, for now. Was there ever any resolution to the mystery about the clothes the Smelters saw Angela wearing?”
“No. Angela always denied owning the clothing, and it was never found.”
“What about the red thong?”
“Oh, yeah. I’d almost forgotten about that. She didn’t find it for quite a while. Again, she said it wasn’t hers, but her DNA was on it.”
“Becky suggested the perp supplied the clothes. What do you think of her theory?” Jake asked.
“It’s possible. He’d need to know her sizes, which also suggests familiarity.”
“Right. But why take the clothes? Could there have been something incriminating about them?”
“With nothing more to go on than the Smelters’ description of the outfit, we didn’t try any kind of trace. We had an artist work with them on sketches of Angela and the mystery man. A copy of the sketch is in the envelope.”
“Yeah, I saw it. It didn’t trigger any response from Angela?”
“Nothing. It was dark, and the angle was from the side and back so we didn’t have any luck with matching the guy to a mug shot either,” Burke said.
“And the thong?”
“Standard Victoria’s Secret item. No identifying marks.”
“Shit. You ever hear of a rapist dressing up the victim and then taking the clothes home with him?”
“Hell no. It’s damn frustrating we can’t gain anything from it. I’ve got a meeting in ten minutes. What else do you need?”
“Do you have current pictures and addresses for J.J. and his girlfriend? And any info on the vehicles they drive?”
“I don’t, but I can check with Vice. Probably not the same girlfriend now.”
“Whoever he’s screwing these days is fine. I just want to track him for a while.”
“Track him, huh?”
“Maybe have a chat.”
“Yeah, well, he’s short, but lethal. Watch your back,” Burke warned.
“Thanks for the tip. Can you e-mail me the pictures and addresses?”
“I’ll do what I can.”
Jake gave him an e-mail address to use.
“I’ve got to go if I’m going to call my buddy in Vice before I split. Anything else?” he asked impatiently.
“Yeah, call Becky and tell her you were wrong about me.”
“Sure. Later.”
Burke dropped the receiver onto the phone cradle, swearing under his breath. He leaned back in his chair and scowled at the information on the computer screen—the scarce data he’d found on Jake Stone. A muscle in his jaw twitched. Stone was good at covering his own tracks. How good was he at uncovering other people’s?
He scrubbed his hand across his hair. Becky Smelter’s mouth was becoming a liability. How was he going to shut her up?
* * *
The black Corvette prowled along the asphalt like a hungry panther. No sign of the Land Rover. Jake breathed easier. The exclusive West Hollywood address of J.J.’s condo was in the next block.
Beneath his calm exterior, Jake’s anger simmered. A pimp living like a king was just wrong. And if the pimp had carved his initials in Angela’s sweet ass, that wrong was about to be righted. Permanently.
The luxurious condominium complex covered an entire block. Jake circled it twice, mentally noting the guard at the main entrance, the perimeter cameras, and the eight-foot wrought iron fence. In addition to the main entry, each side of the block had a locked entrance. In his experience, normal security procedures would also include additional video cameras monitoring the interior courtyards and elevators. The parking garage was underground with access through a keycard-only electronic gate. The complex should have sported a sign reading Visitors Unwelcome.
He swung the car into a parking spot at the curb as a formally dressed, elderly couple alighted from a limousine and approached the west side entrance. He jumped out and trotted up the walk as the man opened the door. After the woman entered, Jake caught the edge of the door as the man stepped across the threshold. The older man turned, startled.
Jake smiled, nodded politely. “Good evening. Opera or philharmonic?” he asked, following them inside and closing the door.
The woman stepped around the old man to stand directly in front of the young stranger. “La Bohème. It was wonderful,” she cooed.
“Ah, very nice, although my favorite has always been Verdi’s Othello.”
“Oh, yes, but it’s so dark.”
Jake’s eyes raked over her before gazing seductively into the older woman’s face. “Yes, but filled with so much testosterone that masculine passion seems to fill the theater.”
She blushed, swallowed nervously, and batted her eyelashes. A chime sounded, and her companion grasped her elbow to turn her toward the elevator.
“Evelyn, the elevator’s here. Good evening,” he said with a curt nod to Jake.
After the elevator doors closed, Jake said a silent prayer of thanks for the many boring embassy functions he’d been forced to attend as a CIA operative, for opera was definitely not his thing. Then he hustled through the glass doors at the opposite end of the foyer and into a lush garden courtyard. He strolled nonchalantly to the desired building. A young couple returning from the Jacuzzi unwittingly provided him admission into the building.
The elevator took him to the eighth floor. The hallway was deserted, and Jake quickly located J.J.’s place. He sauntered by, glancing sideways at the lock. He turned the corner at the end of the hall, waited a minute, and then retraced his steps. Another critical glance told him all he needed to know about how to break into the condo.
A few minutes later, Jake drove to the address of the current girlfriend’s apartment located approximately five miles farther west toward Beverly Hills. J.J.’s bright yellow Hummer shone like a neon sign where it was parked at the curb near the entrance to the posh complex. The second recon stop lasted only fifteen minutes. With his years of experience, it didn’t take long to glean the necessary information.
As he returned to the Doubletree, Jake’s steely eyes glinted back at him in the rearview mirror. The predator loved stalking his prey.