Crash and Burn (2 page)

Scarlet cut over to Jamboree, which would take her right into Newport. She almost immediately came upon a two-car accident pulled over by the side of the embankment. A fairly steep drop on the right was protected by well-dented guardrails. A deadly drop, as evidence by several roadside altars along this stretch. This fender-bender was far from fatal: a white Volkswagen Jetta had rear-ended a gold Lexus. It must have just happened because the drivers were still in their cars—a blond female in the Lexus, a blond male in the Jetta.

No one else stopped to help them, but that didn’t surprise Scarlet. This was southern California; the drivers all wore blinders. However, in her experience, more than one would put their calls on hold to dial 911. Let someone else deal with it seemed to be their motto.

Scarlet pulled over, more out of habit than because she wanted to. Both cars suffered substantial exterior damage, but unless something was broken inside, they looked functional.

She removed her gun from the center console and slipped it into the holster on the small of her back. She’d spent five years on patrol with LAPD before she made detective; even in an accident, you never knew what could happen. She had a concealed carry weapons permit and always had her sidearm with her.

She got out and slipped a loose-fitting blazer over her tank top, even though it was ninety-some degrees and she was sweating. As she approached the vehicles, she visibly inspected the markings on the road. Something seemed odd, but the gravel made it impossible to analyze tire impressions. The woman emerged from her car while the male driver remained in the Jetta. He looked scared. Drunk? Four in the afternoon… It was certainly possible. The woman looked angry and ready to knock his block off. If some bastard had hit Scarlet, she would’ve felt the same way.

“Hello, ma’am,” Scarlet said. “Are you okay?” How easy it was to revert back to cop-speak.

“What do you think? He hit me! On purpose!”

Scarlet wished she’d called 911 before she got out of her Jeep. This sounded like they knew each other, which made it a domestic situation. Her least favorite.

“Let me call CHP and they can take a report for insurance,” Scarlet began, but the blonde cut her off.

“Jimmy already did, I’m sure.” The woman was in her twenties and had the perfect hair, face and boobs for a well-maintained So-Cal prima donna. “Bastard.” She took two steps toward Jimmy’s car and Scarlet stepped in front of her. “Ma’am, let’s take a walk.”

“Who the hell are you?”

Scarlet wished she had a badge to go with her gun, but she simply put on her cop face and said, “Scarlet Moreno, private detective.” She handed the woman her business card.

Jimmy opened his door and jumped out. “This woman is insane! She rammed into
me
and no one’s going to believe me. She’s fucking crazy!”

Scarlet pivoted so she could keep an eye on both of them. “Sir, I need you to take one step back and stop shouting.” She gave him one of her cards as well. Krista kept telling her to work on getting more business, get their business cards out there. Maybe Jimmy was a CEO of a company who wanted to hire Moreno & Hart to vet employees. Background checks were boring, but paid well. And better, Scarlet could do half the work on her deck while listening to the ocean waves roll in.

Jimmy complied, but then the blonde stepped forward. “Ma’am, take a step back,” Scarlet said.

The woman stopped moving toward Jimmy, but didn’t backtrack. Scarlet knew that she’d already drawn the line, and if she didn’t make the woman retreat, she’d lose control of the situation.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Wendy Anderson.” She glared. “Why?”

Scarlet said, “Wendy, please step back.” She didn’t break eye contact, she didn’t blink, she didn’t raise her voice.

It was clear to Scarlet that Wendy Anderson didn’t take orders from people. But it was also clear from Wendy’s expression that she was assessing the situation and deciding whether to push. Maybe she only heard
detective
when Scarlet spoke, or maybe she didn’t understand that Scarlet had no authority over her, but she took one (small) step back. Scarlet refrained from smiling over her victory.

“Sir, your name?”

“Jim Douglas.”

“Mr. Douglas, did you already call 911?”

“Yes. I thought I was going to be dead before anyone got here!”

Newport PD’s response time was one of the best in the county. “How long ago did you call?”

“Few minutes.”

Almost as she thought that a few minutes weren’t very long, she saw a California Highway Patrol coming down Jamboree toward them.

“She wants to kill me.”

“Oh, God, you’re so damn melodramatic.
You
hit
me.
”

“Bullshit! You’re lying to a cop now? I’m sorry, Wendy, for everything, but this is childish.”

Scarlet glanced over at the Lexus and now she realized why she’d thought something was strange when she first approached. The tire impressions in the gravel were curved, as if Douglas had turned in sharply from the street and parked. But then the rear tires went straight back four feet from the curve. Two different cars might have made the impressions, but with the naked eye, they matched. Four feet—he wouldn’t have been in park, and he would have been rammed hard. A good forensics team could prove it.

But right now, it was a
he said, she said
situation.

She glanced over her shoulder. What was taking CHP so long to get out of his car? Then she saw a second CHP vehicle approach.

Wendy and Jim were arguing and the venom was escalating. Scarlet put her fingers to her lips and whistled. They shut up.

“Listen, I don’t know or care what your beef is with each other, but you’d both better settle down before the chippers get over here and want answers. Wendy, go stand by your car. Jim, stay here. Do not move. Got it?”

Thankfully, they both did as she said. As a female cop, she’d learned early on that eye contact, attitude, and follow-through were all crucial in maintaining control of potentially volatile situations. Scarlet walked over to where the two CHP officers were getting out of their vehicles. She pulled out her ID, then flipped it to make sure that the officer saw her concealed carry permit. “Scarlet Moreno, private investigator. Happened upon the scene and stopped to help.”

“Moreno,” the first officer said. “I know a John Moreno with LAPD.”

“My brother,” she said, though the twinge of longing came back. She didn’t tell the cop she’d been with LAPD for twelve years. She handed both of them her card. It didn’t hurt to share her business cards with cops—they sometimes shot business over to P.I.s. Not her and Krista, unfortunately, but that was because they all had their favorites, and ninety-nine percent of the time the favorites were retired cops they’d known from the job. But like Krista told her, pass out cards and something would come back to them.

The chippers introduced themselves. Ericson and Woods. Scarlet gave them a brief rundown, ending with, “It’s pure domestic bullshit, but potentially volatile.”

Ericson said, “You’re welcome to stay.”

“Thanks, but I have an appointment,” she lied. “I just stopped to make sure no one was injured.”

“Any other witnesses?”

“Not that I know about—I didn’t see the collision. If I were you, I’d check the skid marks and tires. At first glance, Wendy’s story makes sense, but looking at the physical evidence—I’m inclined to buy the guy’s story, or a version thereof. But being a domestic issue, neither of them is telling the whole truth.”

Woods snorted. “It’s up to the insurance company to weed through the bullshit. We’ll just take the report and make sure no one needs a medic. Thanks for the heads-up.”

Scarlet considered staying just for the humor of the squabble, but instead walked back to her Jeep and drove off as the CHP officers talked to the two drivers. This was domestic drama, the one part of being a cop she didn’t miss.

Chapter Two

Nearly ninety minutes later than she planned, Scarlet dragged her hot and tired body into the bar. Diego’s was already half-full.

Diego took one look at her and said, “Double?”

“Please.” The bar stools were all full with the guys Diego called his “day shift”—mostly retired old guys, widowed or divorced, who drank draft like water while arguing politics or watching baseball. Most of the tourists and young people preferred the trendy bars closer to the pier, and that was fine with Diego and his classic sports bar motif.

Diego called over to Joey, one of his old regulars, “Give the lady a seat.”

Joey started to get up, but Scarlet waved him down. “Thanks, buddy, but I’m fine.”

“I’m heading out anyway,” Joey said. “Diego’s going to put on that god-awful rock music so loud it’ll destroy what little hearing I have left.” Joey raised his hand to Diego. “See you on Monday.”

Scarlet kissed the octogenarian on the cheek. “If only you were forty years younger,” she said.

He winked. “Or you were forty years older.”

She grinned and sat on the vacated stool. Joey walked out with a couple of the other regulars. No doubt they’d walk two blocks to the Crab Shack, get themselves dinner, and go home before the sun went down.

Diego had bar food—pretzels, nuts, chips and other salty fare that helped him sell more drinks—but most of the food places between here and the pier would deliver, and Beach Pizza a block over had the best pesto pie she’d ever eaten. That would definitely lift her spirits.

She ordered a large, which would give her enough for breakfast. Just as she finished her double Scotch, the pizza arrived and she shifted her beverage choice to beer. She took her first bite—hot and dripping. Heaven.

From the corner of her eye, she spotted Isaac Dunn, Diego’s weekend bartender, walk in through the back. “It’s still Friday, isn’t it?” she asked Diego.

Diego took off his apron. “Yep, it is. But my daughter has a volleyball tournament that starts at the ungodly hour of eight a.m. all the way in Riverside, so Isaac is filling in tonight.” Diego’s dark eyes sparkled. “You have a problem with that, Blue?”

She rolled her eyes. Diego had called her Blue when he found out she’d been a cop. Now he reserved it for when he thought she was being nosy.

“It’s your bar.”

Scarlet had a few conflicts with Isaac, but they generally got along. Isaac was an ex-con who’d served four years of an eight-year sentence for attempted murder. He had a temper, and she’d seen it in the bar on occasion. Never without good reason, but he had a hard time cooling down once he was set-off. Scarlet had been the mediator in two situations that could’ve ended with Isaac back in prison.

His attempted murder charge should’ve been dropped considering the extenuating circumstances—he’d beaten to a pulp the teacher who’d molested his daughter. If it had been Scarlet’s kid, she could see herself doing the same thing—only, she’d have used her gun and would have been arrested for murder. Hurting kids should be a capital offense, but vigilante violence wasn’t something the criminal justice system could—or should—tolerate.

At least the pervert got forty years for child porn and six counts of molestation. Too good for the bastard, if anyone asked Scarlet, but he was still in prison, and Isaac had gotten out last year. Unfortunately, Isaac’s life was a mess. His ex-wife and daughter wanted nothing to do with him, and moved to Seattle to live near her family. He’d been in the military—career officer—and had been dishonorably discharged because of the conviction, and lost all his benefits and retirement, even after giving the Army a decade of service.

Isaac didn’t much like anyone, but he ran a good bar and Diego trusted him. And when he relaxed, he and Scarlet got along. The system had screwed her as well—she just didn’t want to kill anyone over it.

She offered Isaac a piece of her pizza. “Later,” he said. Then, belatedly, “Thanks.”

She happily drank beer, watched baseball, and ate pizza from the end of the bar. Her phone vibrated and she glanced down, expecting Krista had changed her mind about the drinks.

She didn’t recognize the number.

“Moreno,” she answered.

“Um, is this Scarlet Moreno?”

“Yes. Who’s this?”

“Jim Douglas. You stopped to help after Wendy hit me this afternoon.”

“I remember.” And she remembered giving him her card. Great, just what she needed, getting dragged into this spat.

She was so glad she’d decided not to get married. After breaking it off with Matt, she vowed to
never
even
consider
marriage again. Jim and Wendy reinforced her wise decision.

“I need to hire you.”

“I don’t want the case.”

“You have to listen to me.”

Scarlet grew irritated. “I don’t have to do anything.”

He forced his voice to remain calm when he said, “Please. She’s going to kill me.”

“Go to the police.”

“They won’t believe me!” His voice rose again. “Look, Ms. Moreno, give me five minutes, please. Five minutes to prove that I’ll be dead if you don’t help me.”

“Five minutes.” She sighed. “No promises, Mr. Douglas. If I don’t like this case, I’m not taking it.”

“Okay. Where can I meet you?”

“My office, Monday morning.”

“I’ll be dead by Monday!”

He sounded terrified and angry at the same time. “It’s my night off,” she mumbled.
You have no life, Scarlet.
“Fine.” She gave him the address of the bar.

“I know where that is,” he said. “Fifteen minutes. Thank you.”

She wished she hadn’t answered her phone.

She motioned for Isaac. He pointed to her beer in the silent language of
do you want another?

Sadly, she shook her head. “Water,” she said. She grabbed another slice of pizza, then closed the box and said, “Can you put this behind the bar?”

Isaac took it and put a water bottle down in front of her. But his eyes were averted. She opened the bottle and turned on her stool. While sipping, she glanced around and found what had interested Isaac. A group of college kids was not unusual. There were five boys and two girls; again, nothing unusual. As Scarlet watched, one of the young men leaned in close to the brunette and his hands went under the table where Scarlet couldn’t see, but by the expression on the girl’s face, she didn’t like it. She shifted and batted his hand away. He laughed and drank more beer. Scarlet glanced at Isaac. He was getting angry.