Hit and Run (8 page)

“I’m really sorry, Diego.” And she meant it. “I thought it would be safe place.”

“To harbor a fugitive? I’ve been clean for years, Blue. No trouble with the law. No problems. Running my bar, taking a few bets on the side, nothing big. And now my security blanket is gone. I trusted you.”

“I’ll pay you everything I have. I’ll make it right.”

“With what money? You can barely afford rent here! What if it had been this place?”

Diego was angry and pacing. And he was right to be mad at her. She had abused their friendship. She should never have sent Jason to Diego’s place. It had been a rash, spontaneous decision. She hadn’t thought anyone would find him. But that didn’t justify using her friend without talking to him first.

“I’ll move out. Really—Diego—I didn’t know they could find him. If I could do it differently, I would.”

“No, Scarlet, you wouldn’t have.”

The depth of his anger hit her. Diego had called her “Blue” from the minute they met. He thought her name was silly, and because she’d been a cop and he thought she was nosy, he’d always called her Blue. The nickname had stuck. She never told him she liked it, but she did. It was endearing, in a fatherly way. Diego was a good guy. He’d been a bookie and con artist for years, but he was clean now, and he’d never hurt anyone. He’d married late in life and had a daughter he never expected to have and he loved his family. And she’d brought this down on him.

She didn’t have anything more to say. She got up and walked out of the bar.

Isaac followed her all the way to her Jeep, which was parked a block away. “Scarlet, don’t go. Diego is upset, but mostly he’s worried about you. He has insurance. It’s a pain in the ass, but it’s not going to cost him anything.”

“I fucked up, Isaac.”

“Yeah, maybe you did, but for the right reasons. Tell me what else is going on.”

“Nothing. I’m okay.”

“You keep saying that. I don’t think you are.”

“Krista said I can stay with her.”

“Don’t make any rash decisions.”

“Me, rash?” She tried to smile, but it came out a grimace.

She slid into her Jeep and drove off.

She wasn’t going to Krista’s. She still didn’t really know what was going on with Krista and R.J., and she didn’t want to deal with him right now. She’d already called her dad to tell him she was okay, and asked him to call John—she didn’t want to see her brother right now. John had that uncanny ability to know when she was lying. Not because he was a cop, but because he was her little brother and knew her all too well. Not that she was going to lie, but if he asked her if she was going to go behind Richardson’s back, she was going to have to tell him no, and he’d know she had no intention of standing down. It wasn’t in her nature. Not when one of her friends was in danger.

She drove around aimlessly, up and down PCH, then as the sun was setting, she parked in a public lot, bought a six-pack of Sierra Nevada beer at a nearby liquor store, walked to the end of the beach and sat in the sand. She watched the colors turn vibrant over the horizon as she drained the first beer. The sound of the waves crashing twenty feet from her was soothing. This was her favorite place. She’d miss Diego’s bar if she really did move. While her apartment was a pit, she had the deck and the sound of the water. She needed it, she realized. It kept her sane. The violent lull of the Pacific moving in, moving out, constant, steady, predictable. The tide always came in; the tide always went out, leaving a once messy beach pristine.

If only life were so predictable, so easy. If only the waves could wash away her mistakes.

She finished her second beer and put her head on her knees and closed her eyes. She hated feeling sorry for herself, but she was. She had work to do—Jason was counting on her. But she couldn’t get the fire out of her head, or the flash of her gun illuminating Eric Peterson as she shot him three times in the chest.

He would have killed her and Jason. She’d killed him instead. It didn’t make her feel any better.

She opened her third beer and sensed someone watching her. She’d picked up her back-up gun at her apartment earlier, but she hesitated. She’d just killed a man and she was thinking of drawing her gun again?

This was why virtually every police department forced mandatory leave on any officer involved in a shooting. Because you doubted yourself, questioned your decisions,
hesitated
when hesitation could prove fatal, for you or your partner.

She glanced over her shoulder and saw a familiar face.

“How’d you find me?”

Alex Bishop sat next to her in the sand. “I saw your Jeep in the parking lot. You often come here to sulk.”

“I don’t sulk.”

“It’s illegal to drink on the beach.”

“Arrest me.”

Instead, he pulled out one of her bottles and opened it. He drained half of it in one long swallow.

“Now you owe me a beer.”

He didn’t say anything. The sun was a sliver over the horizon; together they watched it sink. The ocean grew dark while the sky was alive with deep orange, red, yellow. As time passed, the colors turned darker, soothing.

She wanted to stay here all night.

Alex said quietly, “Last year, I shot and killed a fifteen-year-old. It was justified. He would have killed my partner. I had no choice. I did everything by the book. But the kid was fifteen. Fifteen,” he repeated, the word bitter as it came out. “I almost quit. I wanted to. The guilt, undeserved, ate me up because I’d killed a kid. It didn’t matter that he was a gang-banger. It didn’t matter that he was wanted for murder, it didn’t matter that he had already fired on my partner and me. All I could think about was that I’d taken his life and who the fuck was I to play a fucking god?”

When Scarlet first met Alex three weeks ago, she’d looked into his background. Partly out of curiosity, partly because he was lead on a case she’d had an interest in. She’d read about the shooting, and the media fall out. Because Alex was right—he was a kid. It didn’t matter whether it was justified or not, cops were human: you wanted to believe that with a chance, the kid could change.

“I couldn’t stay in Sacramento. Not with the shit that rained down on me, my department, my boss. My partner only has two years until he can retire early. He took a desk job. I was on mandatory leave for two weeks. When I came back, I knew I couldn’t stay. But I dealt with the fall-out. I took the hits in the media. And in the end, I knew I was a cop. It’s all I ever wanted to be. My dad and brother are firemen. But me, being a cop was in my blood. So I sent out my resume, applied in every department west of the Rockies. And I’m glad, because this is who I am.

“I still have nightmares about that kid. His name was Jamal Stockton. He had four brothers, two killed in gang warfare, one in prison, and one a wanted fugitive. Father in prison, mother a drug addict. And sometimes I think he knew he was going to die that day, and he wanted to take as many people with him as possible. So angry. So hopeless.”

“This wasn’t the first time for me,” she said. “The first was suicide by cop. I had no choice then, either. But this isn’t any easier.”

“Let’s hope it never gets easy.”

They sat on the beach and finished the beer until it was completely dark, until the ocean breeze made goose bumps rise on her skin.

“Come home with me,” Alex said. He stood up, offered his hand.

She almost said no. She almost told him she was
okay
, that she’d walk back to Diego’s, it was only a mile up the beach. She almost said she wanted to be alone.

Except she didn’t. There was no one else she’d rather be with. She grabbed his hand and he pulled her up.

~ ~ ~

Insomnia plagued Scarlet, and last night was no exception. Even two rounds of great sex didn’t help her sleep. It was nearly dawn when she crashed in Alex’s bed. Voices woke her up. Familiar voices. She opened one eye. Eight-thirty in the morning. She’d had four hours of sleep. Better than most nights, but not enough after what happened yesterday.

She grabbed Alex’s shirt because she didn’t know what had happened to hers. She breathed deeply. She loved his scent, loved being in his bed and wearing his clothes.

This was no good. She was getting attached, and getting attached never turned out well for her. She squeezed back the emotions because they surprised her. She wasn’t emotional. Hot-headed, maybe, but not emotional. What was it about Alex that hit her so hard?

She stepped out of Alex’s bedroom into the living room. He lived in a one-bedroom apartment practically walking distance to the Newport Beach Police Station, off Jamboree. She blinked rapidly when she saw the familiar face with the familiar voice.

“John?” How did her brother know she was here?

Alex handed her a cup of coffee. “I answered your phone. He was at your apartment.”

“You were at my apartment?” She couldn’t be hearing right. Why was her brother at her apartment? She sipped the coffee.

“I expected you to be there.” He shuffled uncomfortably. John Moreno was two years younger than her and what any sane women would call a hot cop. He lived and breathed his job, and Scarlet loved him for it ... even though they hadn't been on the same page when she quit three years ago.

That was water under the bridge ... for now.

“Well, I guess introductions are in order. John, meet Detective Alex Bishop. Alex, meet my brother, Detective John Moreno.” She drank more coffee. It was good. Very good.

“We met five minutes ago,” Alex said.

“I told Dad to tell you I was fine.”

“He did. But you should have returned my calls.”

“Yesterday was a real shitty day.”

Alex said, “John, would you like some coffee?”

“He’s not staying,” Scarlet said.

“Thanks,” John nodded.

She rolled her eyes and sat on the edge of the counter. Alex refreshed his own cup, and brought John one.

“How deep are you in this mess?” John asked her.

"I'm fine."

"That's not what the word is."

"And I don't need you adding to the word. I'm
fine
. I had a heart-to-heart with Kyle Richardson. He knows that Jason was set up. At least, I think he’s inclined to believe his statement. But right now it's just us who know that."

"You have to stand down. This is a dangerous situation."

"I know. I was shot at yesterday and nearly burned alive."

John winced.

"It wasn't the first time," she snapped. Why was she being so bitchy? John was worried, just like her dad. Just like Alex, but he hadn’t pushed her buttons yet. "John, I know what I'm doing." Sort of. "Tell me my faith in Kyle Richardson isn't unfounded."

He sat down on one of the three barstools Alex had. He didn’t have a table yet. He’d told Scarlet the first time she came over that the apartment was temporary. He wanted to buy a small house, but the prices in Newport Beach were astronomical.

"Richardson is solid. By the book. Clean. Some people call him the Reverend because he doesn’t drink and is truly in love with his wife."

She relaxed. She'd thought the same, especially after yesterday. Having it confirmed by John helped. "He found a tracking device on Jason's motorcycle. Do you know anything about that?"

"No."

“Do you know anything about Armor Plus?”

“Enough to know you need to stay away from them.”

“What’s with them? Are they a bunch of vigilantes? Bad guys? One of their people tried to kill Jason and me!”

“I know!” John slammed his coffee mug on the tile counter. Black coffee sloshed over the top. He worked to control his temper. His expression was so much like her own Scarlet realized. This was her brother, and she loved him.

She visibly relaxed. She put her hand over John’s. “John,” she said softly, “you know me. I can’t let this go. If Jason called you, you would be doing the same thing.”

“Why did he call you instead of me?”

“Because I’m not a cop anymore. He didn’t want a cop. Or to risk your job.”

“It has to be more than that.”

“It’s not.”

Alex cleared his throat.

She frowned. “Do you have something to say?”

“No.”

His
no
certainly sounded like a
yes.

It didn’t take John more than a minute to put it together. “It’s because of what happened three years ago, isn’t it? Dammit, Scarlet, I told you to leave that alone!”

“I am.” Sort of. “This is different. But Jason knows I’m not going to buy the LAPD party line. I know firsthand that they’re not going to back up a cop’s word just because he’s a cop. The bad apples with badges have ruined it for all of us. Jason is in trouble, and it’s coming from inside his precinct. If I can’t help him because I’m too scared, then I shouldn’t be here.”

Alex said, “John, what if it had been you who was shot in the back three years ago? Would you have just forgotten about it?”

“What do you know? You’ve been sleeping with my sister for what, a month? If that? You don’t know my family.”

Scarlet didn’t know whether to slap him or blush fifty shades of red. “John Joseph!”

He jerked his head toward her, startled, then looked down.

“We’re not talking about me, we’re talking about Jason. And Gina Perez. I didn’t know her, but she was a cop, Jason loved her, and now she’s dead because she found something bad. She told Jason she couldn’t go to their boss because she didn’t trust him. What do you know about Sergeant Tony Mercer?”

“Mercer?” The name seemed to surprise John. “He’s rising through the ranks. Ex-military, personable, good cop, for the most part.”

“What does that mean? For the most part?”

“Word is that if you’re a cop and you’re having problems, Mercer’s the guy who can help.”

“What kind of problems?”

“You know. Drinking. Discipline issues. There’s always a few. I’m not condoning it. It is what it is. Mercer seems to know everyone who’s worth knowing.”

“What about Gina Perez? Did you know her?”

“Met her a couple of time with Jason, but I didn’t know her well. A spitfire, Dad would call her. Good cop. Got her wrist slapped a while back for evidence tampering.”