The present
“Detective Smithson, this is Maleena Reardon.”
The Coronado PD detective leaned back in his chair and rubbed a rough hand across his face. This was not the way he wanted to start a Friday.
“Good morning, Ms. Reardon. What can I do for you?”
“Has there been any progress toward recovering my sister’s body?” she asked.
“Unfortunately not. And I’m afraid the odds of recovery are minimal after this amount of time. I’m sorry.”
“Me, too, but I understand. You don’t think the disappearance of Angela’s body is indicative of another problem, do you?”
Smithson scowled. “Such as?”
“Murder.”
The detective straightened and rested one forearm on the desk. “No, I don’t, but what makes you ask?”
“Not ‘what.’ Who. I understand Mr. Stone is working with you on investigating my sister’s death.”
“I wouldn’t put it that way.”
“Then how would you put it, Detective?”
He bristled. Maleena’s ingratiating tone was beginning to chafe.
“Stone was a good friend of your sister’s. He has his own theory about her death.”
“And his damn theory has emotionally devastated me and my parents at an important time in our lives. We’re overwhelmed with preparations for my wedding. I’m marrying Senator Jim Blackwell in a few months, and we don’t need this distraction or the bad publicity.”
“Congratulations and best wishes, Ms. Reardon. What do you mean by ‘bad publicity’?”
“Just like the media frenzy over my sister’s rape ruined my father’s ambassadorship appointment, her death is going to ruin my wedding. As if a shocking suicide weren’t bad enough, a murder investigation is intolerable. My wedding is a very public event, Detective. If you were familiar with Washington society, you’d understand. It’s cutthroat. Gossip in this goddamn town can kill a marriage before it begins. Angela’s death is a black cloud hanging over my joyous occasion.”
“I see,” he said, disrespect changing to dislike. “I didn’t realize this was making news back East.”
“We’d like to keep it that way. I…we have an image to maintain. Mr. Stone yammering about a murder in the Reardon family would spoil everything. I understand he’s a personal friend of yours.”
“More like an acquaintance.”
“I don’t care if you’re screwing each other, Detective. I want him stopped.”
Smithson’s eyes narrowed. He paused and stroked his chin. “Stone’s theory has some valid points, but not enough for me to open an official investigation. I don’t really see any harm in his pursuing it. I’m sure your family wants to know the truth about Angela’s death.”
“We know the truth. My sister was emotionally dysfunctional as evidenced by her estrangement from us. She never recovered from the damn incident in LA. I’m sure her explicit memories of the attack finally pushed her over the edge. Case closed.”
Frowning, Smithson pondered her response. “You think that’s the only connection between the rape and her death?”
“What do you mean?” Maleena snapped.
“Part of Stone’s theory is that the rape and murder are connected. In fact, he’s investigating the possibility in LA right now.”
“What?” she exclaimed. “What the hell is he doing?”
“Talking to people.”
“Who?”
“LAPD Detective Tim Olsen, the lead detective on the rape case.”
“That’s all?”
“I’m not sure, Ms. Reardon, but you’re welcome to ask Stone yourself.”
“I don’t want to talk to him again. I find him…despicable. Apparently, he was screwing Angela, so I have to wonder why—if you place any credibility in his theory—you don’t consider Mr. Stone a suspect.”
“That’s a very good question.”
“Then do something about him, damn it. Either arrest him or stop him. Today, for Christ’s sake. I’m warning you. I…we want him stopped.”
“‘Warning’?”
“My fiancé and my parents have a lot of influential connections. We can make your life miserable, Detective Smithson.”
“You already have, Ms. Reardon. Good-bye.”
* * *
Claustrophobia gnawed at the edges of Jake’s mind. His limbs were cramped. He needed to take a leak. It was only 9:00 Friday morning, and the rental car was already getting hot. God, he hated stakeouts.
At least the Land Rover guys seemed to have lost interest. An encouraging sign. But Jake never underestimated his enemies. They could have simply changed vehicles to avoid detection as he had. A sobering thought.
For the past two hours, he’d watched the parking garage exit from J.J.’s condo building in West Hollywood. His rented, white Buick sedan blended in well with the line of cars parked at the curb. On the other hand, J.J.’s bright yellow Hummer would be obvious pulling out of the garage, and Burke had provided the license plate number for confirmation.
Jake drained a third large Styrofoam cup of black coffee and immediately wished he hadn’t because his bladder objected painfully. Soon he’d be forced to leave the car and find a place to relieve himself. This wasn’t the kind of neighborhood where he could simply piss in an alley. He shook his head at the irony of getting arrested for exposing himself while staking out a pimp.
So far this morning, he’d allowed his mind to wonder, hypothesize, and theorize. A successful investigation often needed creativity. Instead of earth-shattering insights, though, incriminations had clouded his mind. His guilt sprang from the nightmare that had awakened him twice during the night.
Now he peered at the large envelope lying on the seat. To ward off boredom, he’d brought Burke’s file to study. He planned to read every single word again. And again and again. Until that one minute detail hit him in the face and said, “This is it, stupid. This is the clue that explains it all.”
As he reached for the envelope, his cell rang. Recognizing the number, he answered, joking, “Morning, Smithson. Got an arrest warrant for me yet?”
“Look, Stone, I figure you killed plenty of people when you were a Navy SEAL. And you’re definitely a scary motherfucker. But I can’t see you killing a classy lady like Angela Reardon.”
“Thanks, buddy. I appreciate your seal of approval on my character.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“So, if you’re not coming after me, what’s up?”
“Got a call from Maleena Reardon.”
“Ah shit. Sorry to hear that.”
“You should be. You were the subject.”
“Me?”
“Yeah, she’s a lot more worried about you stirring up a hornet’s nest over this murder thing than she is about recovering her sister’s body.”
“I’m not surprised. Nice family, the Reardons. What did she want?”
“You stopped.”
“And you said?”
“Fuck off. But I’m not sure she’s going away. The witch warned me that she could make my life miserable. I’m sure she wouldn’t hesitate to put a hex on you, too.”
Jake chuckled. “Thanks for the warning, but she’s not going to stop me.”
“Didn’t think so. Hey, there was one thing Maleena said that hit me kind of funny.”
“What?”
“She said something about her sister’s ‘explicit memories’ of the rape. I thought Angela never recovered from the amnesia.”
“She didn’t.”
“Well, Maleena was very pointed about those memories causing her sister’s suicide.”
“Interesting. From what I’ve learned, there wasn’t a lot of contact between the family and Angela after the rape. Maybe they just assumed she eventually regained her memory. Or Maleena could’ve been referring to memories created by the cops’ and doctors’ descriptions of things.”
“Yeah, makes sense. How’s it going, by the way?”
“Slow.”
“Hang in there.”
After disconnecting, Jake laid the phone on his lap, leaned against the headrest, and closed his eyes. Maleena Reardon. He didn’t need that thorn in his side. Was there a chance she had information useful to his investigation? He doubted she would cooperate if asked. But she had lived with Angela in LA—she might know something important and not even realize it. Could Maleena be aware of some crucial fact about her sister’s personal life that no one else knew? Had Maleena’s drug use created the wedge between the sisters or only widened it? Had she ever come back to LA after the rape?
He thought of a hundred questions he’d like to ask Maleena Reardon, but he wasn’t sure even one had any real relevance.
He was still contemplating when his cell rang again. The screen displayed an LA phone number he didn’t recognize so he answered without identifying himself. “Hello.”
“Stone?”
“Who’s this?”
“Burke. Where are you?”
“Waiting for J.J. to invite me in for breakfast.”
The detective laughed. “Good luck with that. Have you seen him?”
“No, but I figure his Hummer will be hard to miss.”
“And he’s a flashy little perv, too. You’ll have no trouble recognizing him from the photos I sent you.”
“Good. What’s up?”
“I just got off the phone with Maleena Reardon. Olsen owes me one for siccing that bitch on me.”
“Shit.” Jake shook his head. “She called Detective Smithson this morning also. Bet she had some choice things to say about me.”
“Damn straight. The woman has a potty mouth, and she was flushing you something fierce.”
“Does she want you to arrest me?”
“That or shoot you. I don’t think she’d care which.”
He chuckled. “Thanks for the warning.”
“Yeah, well, take her seriously. I get the impression she’d do just about anything to keep from having her wedding screwed up.”
“How much do you know about her?”
Burke hesitated. “Very little. Why?”
“I don’t remember much on her in your file.”
“That’s because there’s hardly anything there. She wasn’t involved in the rape investigation.”
“Becky told me a few things. If you’d give me your version, that’d be great.”
“Uh, there’s not a lot to tell. What do you want to know?”
“Everything. Start with that morning.”
“Okay.” Burke cleared his throat. “After we got Mary Smelter and Angela to the hospital, Becky told us about the sister living in LA. She tried to contact Maleena but couldn’t, so she gave us Maleena’s cell phone number. We had no better luck so we called the parents at a Virginia number Becky found for us. She finally caught up with Maleena at the Dulles airport. But by then, Angela’s boyfriend, who was in Seattle, was planning to fly back as soon as possible. Besides, I remember Becky saying she didn’t think Angela would really want her sister around anyway.”
“When did Maleena leave LA?”
“Early that morning. Out of LAX, around seven, I think. A few days later, I tried to call her just in case she might know something relevant to that night. A real long shot since Becky said she didn’t think the sisters had spoken in a year. No one ever answered, and then the cell phone service stopped completely. The parents told me Maleena had checked herself into a discreet rehabilitation clinic for a two-month detox program the day after she arrived. The Reardons wouldn’t disclose the location. That was it.”
“You never met or talked to her?”
“Nope. Because Becky had told me the girls had a shitty relationship, I decided Maleena probably didn’t know anything useful. I couldn’t get to her without a bunch of red tape so I stopped trying and followed up on more promising leads.”
“Did Maleena know about the amnesia?”
“I guess.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, we told the parents, so I guess they told her. Although…” Burke’s voice trailed off.
“Although what?”
Frustration filled his exasperated sigh. “The assholes didn’t believe it.”
“Come again.”
“Mommy and Daddy Reardon didn’t believe the amnesia diagnosis. They thought Angela was hiding something, protecting someone.”
* * *
At 5:00 p.m., after ten hours of waiting, Jake’s patience was finally rewarded. The Hummer passed through the security gate as it exited the parking garage. Before the bright yellow monster turned left, the Buick was in gear. Three cars back, Jake’s gaze was riveted to the Hummer’s rear end. At the first traffic light, he pulled up even. No one was riding in the front passenger seat. The darkly tinted back windows hid any sign of occupants in the rear seats.
The Hummer laid rubber on takeoff. His Buick eased in behind and tailed it for five blocks. Before the next light, Jake pulled around to the driver’s side. Idling at the line, he leaned across to open the glove box. While prone, he sneaked a peek at the driver.
Definitely J.J.
Smiling, Jake straightened. Adrenaline pumped into his veins.
The Buick backed off, let the Hummer pull ahead, and switched to the same lane. Slowing even more, Jake allowed two cars to crowd in between. Like a ghost, the white car hovered around the yellow vehicle as it wound through the freeways and streets of Los Angeles to the Bonaventure Hotel.
After J.J. parked at the curb, Jake passed and slid into a space half a block away. He patted the Glock in the shoulder holster under his sport coat and jumped from the car.
Although meticulously groomed and dressed in a well-tailored royal blue suit, J.J. walked with the stereotypical swagger of a punk from the hood. When the pimp sauntered through the hotel entrance, Jake broke into a trot but slowed to ease through the doors.
From behind his sunglasses, he scanned the huge lobby and spied the short, fat black man advancing on a pretty, young white woman wearing an elegant evening gown and sitting in an upholstered chair near the fountains. Spotting J.J., the woman stood and spun away as if trying to escape, but he clamped a hand on her shoulder and stopped her.
Pulling out his cell, Jake pantomimed a conversation while he strolled into the adjacent seating area. He watched as J.J. gripped the woman so hard her shoulder drooped with the pain. Her eyes were wide and tear-filled. J.J.’s face and body were rigid while he spoke to her forcefully but quietly. With his fingers still pressing into her flesh, the woman fumbled with her purse and withdrew a white envelope. The pimp snatched it from her hand, held it for a moment as though he might slap her face with it, and finally stuffed it into his suit coat pocket. He leaned forward and kissed her cheek before releasing her shoulder. When he walked away, the woman slumped down into the chair and wiped a tear from her cheek.
Poised to follow, Jake discreetly observed J.J. take up a position near the elevators. He put away his phone, glanced at his watch, and moved to a spot near the exit from which he could monitor the pimp and the woman. The calm demeanor he projected to the hotel patrons belied the controlled aggression burning inside him.
Fifteen minutes later, a tuxedo-clad gentleman hesitantly approached the woman. He spoke to her, and she nodded. The man glanced around and then offered his arm. Without talking, the couple strolled across the lobby and joined several other formally attired couples waiting for the elevators. J.J. stood barely ten feet from them. His beady eyes were fixed on the woman, but she never looked in his direction. Once the elevator doors closed behind the pair, J.J. headed for the exit.
Jake was halfway to the Buick when the pimp came out the hotel doors. He watched in the rearview mirror as the black man climbed laboriously into the massive vehicle. When the Hummer’s turn signal blinked, the Buick pulled away from the curb and crept ahead until the yellow SUV joined the flow of traffic. A few moments later, J.J. passed, and Jake slid the white sedan in behind him. The two vehicles caravanned onto the freeway and sped up.
The ride ended at the Crystal Chandelier in Beverly Hills. J.J. relinquished the Hummer to the parking valet and swaggered through the shimmering doors. Jake cursed and circled the block twice before finding a parking space suitable for a quick get-away.
Inside the dimly lit restaurant, he reluctantly removed his sunglasses to see into the shadowy recesses of the bar and dining room. J.J. had disappeared. Jake’s gaze touched again on every patron. His hands clenched into fists at his sides. No J.J. Shit.
The restroom sign caught his eye, and he hurried into the small hallway. The men’s room was at the end just before the hall turned to the left. An exit sign was barely visible on the opposite wall just past the corner. As Jake’s hand smacked the wooden restroom door, his ears caught the low growl of a man’s voice.
“You think you’re fuckin’ smarter than me? Huh, bitch? Huh?”
“No, J.J. It’s not what you think,” a woman’s strained voice said.
“Looks to me like you’re turnin’ tricks on the side.”
Skin slapped skin with a sharp crack. The woman gasped loudly but didn’t scream.
Jake let the restroom door slam shut before he glanced back down the hall. No one was in sight. With his back pressed against the hallway wall, the predator stalked his prey.
“I’m not,” the woman exclaimed. “Mike’s my boyfriend. He’s not a john.”
“You’re lyin’. No guy wants a ho for a girlfriend.”
“Mike doesn’t know what I do. I only told him my real name: Sara. He doesn’t even know my trade name.”
“Sara,” J.J. said venomously, “what I know is Mike’s gettin’ free pussy from my ho, Cayenne. That’s bad for b’ness, bitch.”
“I never let Mike interfere with work, J.J.”
Jake inched toward the corner.
The woman groaned in pain. “Stop, you’re hurting me.”
“This ain’t nothin’. If you don’t get rid of this fuckin’ Mike, I’m gonna hurt you and him a lot worse.”
A stifled scream filled the small space.
Jake spun around the corner.
J.J.’s bulk smashed a petite white woman against the dark wood paneling. Over the man’s shoulder, her terrified eyes connected with Jake’s.
“Sara? What the hell? You two-timing slut. Who the fuck are you?” Jake said, wrenching J.J. around by the shoulder and slamming him against the wall.
Clearly shocked, Sara froze.
J.J.’s head bounced off the paneling, and his eyes blinked wildly. “Get your…fuckin’ hands…off me,” he gasped.
Jake’s hand gripped the man’s windpipe, and his thigh wedged powerfully into J.J.’s groin. “If you want to breathe again, don’t move, asshole.” The pimp obeyed. With a sideways glance, Jake sneered at the woman. “So, Sara, this is how you treat my best friend behind his back. Letting some black dude feel you up in a bar. When Mike hears about this, you’re done. Hear me? Done.”
Dumbfounded, she covered her face and sobbed.
Pressing his face within an inch of the pimp’s, Jake snarled, “You can have the bitch. She’s not good enough for Mike. Get the hell out of here. I’m not finished with her.” He released the man’s throat and shoved him toward the corner. J.J.’s hand slipped into his pants pocket as Jake yanked the Glock from inside his jacket. “You touch that knife and you’re a dead man.”
J.J.’s hand flew out of the pocket, and he held both arms over his head as he ran down the hallway toward the bar. Jake waited several moments before sliding the gun back into hiding. Turning to Sara, he asked quietly, “Are you all right?”
Pale and trembling, she stared at him. “Yeah. Who are you?”
“Doesn’t matter. Mike doesn’t know me either.”
“I don’t understand.” Her lips quivered.
“I made all that up to make it sound like Mike would be out of the picture. But J.J. may figure out I was lying. If I were you and Mike, I’d get as far away as possible.”
“You know J.J.?”
“Know of him, sweetheart. And his little pep talk to you fits exactly with what I’ve heard. Make the break while you have the chance.”
Her gaze dropped to the floor. “I’m screwed whatever I do, but thanks anyway, mister.”
He sighed with resignation. “You’re welcome. Good luck, Sara.”
He peered around the corner at the empty hallway. With his hand resting on the Glock inside his jacket, he trotted back to the bar. No sign of J.J.
He hustled to the front of the restaurant and spotted the pimp waiting outside at the valet station. After ducking out the door behind a large group of customers, he darted to the Buick.
Stuck at the traffic light, he watched the Hummer pull away. He squeezed around a Mercedes and whipped an illegal turn, earning a middle finger from the driver he’d cut off.
Craning his neck, he spotted the target a few blocks ahead as J.J. turned at a major intersection. He launched the Buick onto a parallel street, stomped on the accelerator, and caught up with the Hummer at a cross street several blocks later. Horns blaring, drivers braked hard to avoid colliding with the white sedan diving into the heavy traffic on the main street.
Following at a safe distance, Jake barreled onto the freeway. When the Hummer swerved into the exit lane, he laughed and loosened his grip on the steering wheel. Stress dissolved with the recognition of their destination: the girlfriend’s apartment.
The Hummer parked in the passenger-loading zone at the front of the upscale apartment complex, and the pimp climbed out. With much less swagger than he’d displayed earlier, J.J. sauntered to the swank entrance and disappeared inside.
When his watch finally read 10:00 p.m., Jake surmised his prey might not reappear until morning. Besides, he was exhausted. With a sigh of relief, he headed to the freeway. He berated himself for intervening in the dispute between Sara and her boss. Sure, it had been the right thing to do, but it wasn’t part of his plans for tracking J.J.’s activities. It could come back to haunt him when the time and place were right to confront the bastard about Angela. He resolved to take the necessary precautions so J.J. wouldn’t recognize him.
Forty-five minutes later, Jake lumbered into his hotel room. He stashed the Glock beneath his pillow. Before laying his wallet on the nightstand, he extracted Angela’s picture. He stared for several moments at the beautiful woman in the red dress, sighed, and then carefully placed it beside the alarm clock.
With a large glass of J.D., he stretched out naked on the bed. Burke’s envelope with the rape investigation photos lay beside him. Slowly, he picked up the envelope and slid out the pictures.
His breath caught at the sight of Angela’s eyes staring up at him. He knew that wild, panicked expression. He studied the photos with morbid fascination. The evidence of her physical injuries jarred his conscience. Burke hadn’t exaggerated the extent of the vicious rape and brutal beating she had survived.
He ran a hand over his forehead and down his face. Helplessness. Guilt. Regret. He didn’t feel like a tough guy as the brutality of what Angela had endured sank in. No wonder she had been emotionally scarred.
He shoved the pictures back into the envelope. Leaning against the pillows, he scrunched his eyes tightly shut and clenched his teeth, but the sting behind his eyelids didn’t stop. He tried repeatedly to swallow the lump in his throat but to no avail. His throat constricted until breathing hurt. His face contorted with pain. His fists pressed into his temples.
His lips parted. An anguished groan burst from deep inside him. A tear squeezed out from beneath his eyelashes.
Then Jake Stone—ex-Navy SEAL, former CIA assassin, cunning security expert, and hard-ass PI—hung his head and cried.