The present
Well, shit, someone just shot my theory full of holes. Jake awoke to the same thought that had been his last before finally dropping into a dead sleep. And since Leonard Waterton had been the embodiment of the theory, it seemed only right that he lay in the morgue full of bullet holes.
And one tiny puncture in the neck that no one would ever notice. Jake would always believe—because he needed it to be true—he had killed the man who raped Angela Reardon.
He yawned. He had forced himself to sleep in until 9:00 a.m. Unfortunately, he was unable to luxuriate in the laziness because his mind was already hard at work. But that didn’t mean his body had to get up. He rolled onto his back, clasped his hands behind his head on the pillow, and stared at the ceiling.
God, he hurt all over. Before going to bed, he’d doctored the graze on his left arm with the first aid kit from the Corvette and allowed himself a Vicodin for the pain and to help him sleep. But the medication had worn off hours ago, and the pain had returned with a vengeance. His head felt like a coconut someone had split open with a machete. The rest of his body felt as if it had been run over by a Mack truck. None of it—except the arm—made any sense. Last night’s events had not taken that much physical effort.
Realization dawned like the ray of sunshine blazing through the crack in the drapes and hitting him full in the face. He rolled onto his side to avoid the brilliance, but he could not as easily escape his epiphany.
Jake Stone was hurting, not from physical exertion, but from emotional excess. Holy shit, where did that come from? His emotions were dead, petrified since his years as a SEAL. Killing didn’t trigger depression or exhilaration. It left him numb.
But the killing wasn’t the log ramming into his gut, stealing his strength, taking his breath away. He was reacting to something else. Jake Stone had changed dramatically over the past three months. Angela Reardon had chipped, chipped, chipped away until she had exposed his granite heart again to the world. Damn it, Angela. Now his heart was suffering from emotional overload. Hate, love, anger, joy, regret, relief—and other feelings he couldn’t even name.
His cell phone saved him.
“Morning, Burke,” he said and yawned. “How deep is the shit?”
“Up to my ass and climbing. God, you left me with a mess, Stone.”
“Hey, man, don’t complain. No one invited you to the party.”
“Yeah, well, I’ll be lucky to get out of this with my badge.”
Jake scooted up to sit against the headboard. He scrubbed a hand across his face and noticed small nicks there that must’ve come from the broken window glass.
“You didn’t kill the councilman, Detective, so what’s the problem?”
“For starters, why the hell was I there?”
“Hey, I asked you the same question. What lie did you tell your buddies?”
“That I’d tracked down Waterton because I’d heard a rumor he was a regular user of J.J.’s escort service, and I suspected he might’ve been involved in the pimp’s murder. I suggested they check out the customer list. That shut them up fast.”
Jake laughed. “You’re not as dumb as you look.”
“Thanks. Of course, all the kinky crap in the bedroom backed up my story.” Burke paused. “You know we’ve got a problem.”
“Yeah.”
“Any ideas?”
“Not many.”
Burke sighed. “I thought you said the goons in the Suburban were Waterton’s bodyguards. I don’t think he hired them to pump him full of lead. Which reminds me. Some of those bullets—”
“Kevlar. Under my shirt.”
“Damn. You were expecting trouble?”
“I always expect trouble.”
“You were lucky.”
“Yeah.”
A long silence followed.
“Where do we stand?” the detective asked.
“You’ve got a dead rapist.”
“Thank God for that. I requested a DNA test. The homicide detective looked at me like I was crazy, but he agreed to it.” Burke swallowed hard. “It’ll be a relief to close Angela’s case. Finally.”
“One down, one to go.”
Burke groaned. “All right. You’re the genius. Any theories on who killed Waterton?”
“No. And we’re running out of people. Bad Angel, Angela, J.J., Waterton.” He hesitated and scowled. “Becky Smelter is the only one left who was around that night.”
“Jesus. You don’t think—”
* * *
Becky’s phone continued to ring as Jake sat in the Corvette at the curb, staring at the front of her home. Finally giving up, he disconnected and exhaled loudly. He stroked his chin, enjoying the absence of the fake goatee.
Last Thursday, less than a week ago, he had met and talked to Becky over donuts and coffee. Had she said anything about her usual Wednesday activities? Not that he could recall. But the talkative woman had been so full of life. Becky probably had places to go and things to do every day of the week. So why was his gut in a knot just because she didn’t answer her phone at 10:30 on a Wednesday morning?
While surveying the neighborhood, he adjusted his sunglasses and pulled the golf hat lower on his forehead. Nice. Normal. Quiet. No sign of the Land Rover that had tailed him there on his first visit. And no sign of the black Suburban that carried around some very deadly people.
He thought about calling one more time, but Becky hadn’t answered any of his five calls since he’d talked to Burke forty minutes earlier so he discarded the idea. After another heavy sigh, he climbed from the car and strolled to the front door. Absently, he patted the small Glock in his pants pocket. Still scanning the area, he jabbed the doorbell.
Only when he turned his attention to the door and smiled at the peephole as he’d done on his previous visit did he notice them. Two small holes. One about an inch and a half above the peephole, the other about fourteen inches below. He stared, not wanting to believe what he saw. Precise placement. Calculated to kill instantly.
“Young man, young man!”
Jake’s head jerked around at the sound of the woman’s voice. His heart skipped lightly. But the elderly woman teetering across the street was not Becky. He instinctively positioned himself to shield the bullet holes from her view. Then he pasted on a pleasant smile.
“Good morning,” he said as the woman stopped and gasped to catch her breath. “I’m Jake, a friend of Becky Smelter’s. She doesn’t seem to be home. Would you happen to know when she’ll be back?”
The old lady eyed him suspiciously and then braced her hands on her broad hips. “Oh yes, I remember Becky mentioning you. She said you knew Angela. Such a nice girl. So sad what happened.”
“Yeah, very sad. Um, about Becky?”
“I’m Rita Jackson, by the way,” she said, shaking her head. “I don’t know where she is. We were supposed to go play the slots at one of the casinos this morning. I’ve been calling her since eight.”
Rita stepped to the side to reach for the doorbell. Jake moved smoothly to block her. He put his hand gently on her shoulder and guided her away.
“I’ve rung the bell so many times I’m afraid it’s going to break.” He screwed up his face as if concentrating. “Has Becky had any visitors lately that might’ve taken her out somewhere?”
“Well, there was a guy here last night.” She squinted at Jake, who was trying hard to hide his anxiety. “That wasn’t you, was it?”
“No. I haven’t seen Becky since Thursday. What did this guy look like?”
“I couldn’t see that great. It wasn’t dark yet, but after eight. I remember because my show was on.” Rita tapped her foot and frowned while she thought. “He was a young guy, like you. About your size, maybe a little shorter and smaller. Clean cut. Dress shirt and slacks. Oh, now I remember. He had short, wavy, red hair.”
“Red hair? Anything else unusual?”
“He might’ve come in the big, black SUV I saw parked down the street. I know that car doesn’t live here. I’m head of our Neighborhood Watch group so I know everybody’s car. I keep a close eye on things. Not a busybody, mind you, just observant.”
“I’m sure your neighbors appreciate your efforts. When did you see the SUV?”
“I first noticed it when I saw the red-haired man at Becky’s door. And it was gone by ten when I turned on my front porch light.”
“Would you recognize the guy if you saw him again?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. He looked kinda familiar, like I’d met him some time ago, but not recently.” Rita’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”
Jake cleared his throat. “There have been some con men working this neighborhood lately, talking seniors into investing in fraudulent financial schemes. Nice people losing their life savings. Real bad.”
“Oh my. I’m glad you told me. But this guy didn’t look like a shyster. You know, no briefcase or business-looking stuff. He was only carrying a little white bag.”
Jake’s ears perked up. “What kind of bag?”
“Paper, like a fast-food bag.”
“Or donuts?”
Rita smiled and nodded. “Yeah. Donuts. Becky loves donuts.”
“Yeah, she does.” He swallowed hard. He put his hand on Rita’s back and pivoted her toward the street. “Well, I guess Becky just got a better offer than the slots, Rita.”
She stopped abruptly, looked at him with deep concern. “You don’t think she fell, and she’s lying in there hurt? That happens to us old folks.”
“No, I don’t. You go on home and don’t worry.”
Jake watched her until she was safely inside her house while he trotted to the Corvette and yanked open the door. He called 911 on the burner phone he kept in the secret compartment and anonymously reported a shooting at Becky’s address. Next he dialed Burke’s cell phone.
“I can’t talk,” the detective whispered. Several loud voices filled the background. “I’m still at the Mayor’s press conference about Waterton’s murder.”
“Sure, no problem. This is just a courtesy call.”
“Courtesy call? Look, Stone, I don’t have time for your games right now.”
“Oh, okay. I just thought I’d extend you the courtesy of letting you explain what you were doing at Becky Smelter’s house last night. Especially since someone left two bullet holes in her front door, and she’s not answering.”
“Christ.” Burke choked on the single syllable.
“You got anything to tell me before I call the LAPD Homicide Division and have Becky’s neighbor describe the red-haired man with the donut bag?”
“You better not be jerking me around.”
“Do I sound like I’m joking?”
“Shit, you can’t be serious.”
“You’ve got thirty seconds. Starting now.”
“I told you, I can’t talk now,” Burke hissed.
“Twenty-five seconds.”
“Fuck you. Hold on.” The detective’s whisper could barely be heard over the background noise.
The muffled sounds of the cop speaking to someone else, of footsteps, of a door clicking shut, of more footsteps, of a door slamming, all reached Jake as he waited impatiently.
“Okay, I found a room without any eyes or ears,” Burke growled. “Shit, Stone, my career is hanging by a thread right now, and sneaking out of a press conference is not winning me any brownie points.”
“Quit whining and explain last night.”
Burke exhaled. “I took Becky some donuts, and we talked about Angela. She’d called me twice since you saw her. She was very upset she might’ve forgotten something that would’ve helped catch Angela’s rapist. I was worried about her. Seeing her pain drove my rage over the edge. I broke a cardinal rule and hinted that you and I had a suspect. She was thrilled. Made me promise to call her as soon as we knew for sure. Talking with Becky convinced me to track down Waterton last night.”
“What time did you leave?”
“About nine. I went home, changed clothes, and tried to persuade myself that I’d be an idiot to go after Waterton alone. But I couldn’t talk myself out of it. So, on a whim and a prayer, I drove to the Southeast LA house. Then all hell broke loose, as you know. I was going to call Becky this morning with the news, but it’s been so crazy, I haven’t had time.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about your visit on the phone this morning?”
“Hell, you didn’t give me a chance. As soon as the idea Becky might be in danger came up, you were gone.” Burke hesitated. “Are you sure?”
Jake stared out the car window at Becky Smelter’s front door. He pictured her smiling face with donut glaze around the mouth.
“Yeah, I’m sure.”
* * *
“What?” Jake barked into his cell phone. He was back in the hotel room, drinking and waiting for Burke to call with the police report about Becky.
“Well, if it isn’t the elusive Mr. Stone.” The contempt in Maleena Reardon’s voice grated on his frayed nerves. “I was beginning to think you were no longer among the living.”
He bristled at her choice of words. “Sorry to disappoint you, Ms. Reardon. I’m busy. What do you want?”
“I’m calling to see if you’ve given up your futile pursuit.”
His jaw clenched. “How do you know it’s been futile?”
“I’m sure you would have called if you’d had any success. Any at all. Are you ready to let my sister rest in peace?”
“I’m sure Angela is quite peaceful. It’s you that’s upset. Why is that, Maleena?”
“I’ve told you, damn it. My wedding. I don’t want it ruined. Your actions are a great distress for me and my parents.”
“I don’t see why. You haven’t been involved in my investigation.”
“My mother becomes physically ill at the possibility some scandalous murder might be emblazoned across the front page of the Post.”
“Are you people for real?” Jake erupted. “Doesn’t anyone in your family care about finding out what really happened to Angela?”
“Go to Hell, Mr. Stone. We know what happened. We knew Angela far better than you did.”
“I’m beginning to seriously doubt that.” He snorted derisively. “But I am getting to know you better, Maleena.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Your former neighbor, Becky Smelter, remembers you quite well. In fact, she told me to say hello the next time we spoke.”
“She’s—” Maleena’s voice faltered. “She’s still around? I figured she’d be in a nursing home by now. She was flirting with Alzheimer’s four years ago.”
“You must have Becky confused with someone else. She’s sharp as a tack. She distinctly remembers your hard drug addiction and your conflicts with Angela when you lived next door.”
Maleena’s rage was palpable. “Back off, Stone. I don’t know what your game is, but I don’t want to play. Why don’t you just go away?”
“Not happening.”
“Would ten grand change your mind?”
* * *
The dimly lit bar was practically empty at 3:00 in the afternoon. In a small booth near the back, Jake drank alone. Not that he minded. He preferred it that way. It wouldn’t last, though. He was expecting someone.
As he stared blindly into his glass, he couldn’t remember ever feeling so totally defeated. Someone had outsmarted him. Someone was getting away with murder—several murders, in fact.
And for what reason had all of these people died? The obvious common denominator was the rape of Angela Reardon. His theory had been correct. Up to a point. But the theory had crumbled with the murder of Leonard Waterton. Now there was no one left in the cast of characters.
Jake drained the last of his drink and caught the eye of the bartender. He shelled a peanut and popped it into his mouth. The cocktail waitress delivered the fresh J.D., retrieved the empty glass, and hovered, smiling coyly and fluttering fake eyelashes. A forbidding scowl from Jake terminated her flirtation instantly. He sipped the whiskey, set the glass down with a sharp thud, and sighed heavily. For the hundredth time.
I’m sorry, Angela.
He had failed her. Despite finding the man who had raped her four years ago, he hadn’t found the person who wanted her dead. Leonard Waterton had denied buying the contract. And for some strange reason—possibly the fact that he’d been gunned down moments later—Jake believed him. Now there were no suspects, only straws.
A man plopped down on the opposite seat in the booth. He silently shelled a peanut and ate it. “You said you needed to see me ASAP.”
“Yeah, thanks for coming, Burke.”
“Sure. I can’t stay long. I gotta get back to the circus.”
“Understood. Becky?” He met Burke’s eyes. They confirmed Jake’s earlier conclusion. “Shit.” He rubbed his forehead. “When?”
“Estimated before midnight.”
“Along with what Rita Jackson told me, that definitely explains where the Suburban disappeared to for a while last night.”
Burke grunted. “I never even thought to look for it. They were supposed to be Waterton’s bodyguards, remember? Damn it. They were probably out there waiting for me to leave.”
The two lapsed into silence.
“Speaking of leaving, I’m getting out of this fucking town,” Jake said.
“Going home?”
“Just for the night.”
“Then where?”
“Virginia. I’m flying out of San Diego early tomorrow morning.”
“The Reardons?”
“Maleena.” The cop’s puzzled expression prompted Jake to continue. “This afternoon she offered me money right after I mentioned Becky had told me about her drug addiction.”
Burke’s jaw dropped. “You’re gonna take it?”
Jake’s eyes flashed. “Of course I’m gonna take it.”
“But…but—”
“Ten grand is a lot of money. Then I’ll find out how much more it’s worth to her, her fiancé, and her stinking rich family for me to keep my mouth shut about her little ole drug problem.”
“Blackmail? Jesus Christ, Stone, why are you telling me this shit?”
“Straws. I’m grasping at straws.”
“Ya lost me.”
“Maleena was into the hard drug scene here in LA. Who knows how deep? Waterton and the hookers were snorting coke last night. There might be a connection. Unless Angela was a random victim—which I can’t believe based on everything that’s happened—Waterton and Bad Angel found out about her somehow. Maybe they and Maleena bought their Big C from the same dealer.”
Burke shook his head. “That’s one damn flimsy straw.”
“You got any sturdier ones?” he snapped. “Besides, the Reardons, especially Maleena, have been just too weird about this whole thing. I guess I have a morbid need to meet the dysfunctional family Angela escaped from. Call me crazy, but Maleena Reardon is a bitch with a dark side. My theory is that the threat of blackmail will loosen her tongue about her drug connections in LA, which could open up some new leads.”
“Sounds more like a wild goose chase than a theory.”
“Yeah, well, it’s all I’ve got.”