Incriminated (23 page)

In the east, the moon cast a teal-colored glow behind the hills. Directly above, the sky turned midnight blue. Through the car windows, Maya glimpsed a few stars. They wouldn't last. In an hour or so the moonlight would be powerful enough to obliterate anything but the light of Venus. She reached absently for her phone, planning to check her night-sky app for the positions of the planets. Then she remembered that it was still in the Venice Beach house.

Candace and Grace would be home by now. They'd probably have tried calling everyone, only to find the calls going to phones that had been left in the house. They'd look at the gaping expanse of maple wood flooring in the living room and realize that the rug had gone, too. From there to the truth of what had actually happened a few hours ago, however, would require a radical leap of imagination. Maya tried to guess what conclusion she'd have drawn, if she'd been the one in their position. They arrive home to
find the house newly empty, all the housemates' cell phones apparently abandoned.

“They're going to think we went to the beach,” Maya concluded aloud. She turned to see Lucy's skeptical glance.

“
That's
what you're worrying about?” Lucy gave a dubious shrug. “Me, I'm more concerned about what our boys down the road are doing with that gun. It's been a long time since we heard from them, don't you think?”

“I guess if they'd used the gun we'd have heard the shots,” she continued.

“Don't be so sure,” Maya replied doubtfully. “We've got at least two hills between us.”

Maya felt herself redden, but she didn't respond. As the ensuing silence enveloped them both, Maya began to reflect on Lucy's words. It had been well over fifteen minutes. They should have agreed to check in with each other at regular intervals.

“Okay,” Maya conceded. “Maybe we should go back.”

“What if they're in the middle of it? Better call first.”

“If they're in the middle of it then surely they won't answer?”

Lucy made a sound of irritation. “How should I know? Make the call!”

Maya picked up the phone in her lap and called the boys' burner phone. When it just kept ringing, she held the phone up to Lucy, askance. “See? Not answering. I say we head over there.”

Lucy started the Chevy Malibu. She said nothing, her
movements languid, almost bored. She seemed closed off from what was happening. Physically and emotionally rejecting her role in the middle of it all. Maya felt pretty certain that if Lucy hadn't been the only licensed driver right now, she'd have walked away.

Who'd have thought that Lucy would be the one to pick the law over surviving a battle with a murderer? That punk persona, it didn't seem to count for much, Maya noted. Not when you came right down to it. Lucy was more like her parents than she cared to admit.

Minutes later, they arrived at the bend higher up the road. Maya saw instantly that a second car had driven up close behind the Oldsmobile. Its headlights had been left on, beaming yellow light off the edge of the road, no more than three yards away.

Hearing Lucy inhale shakily, Maya concentrated on what little she could see beyond the two parked cars. There was no sign of movement. Ahead, obscured by the cars, a scattering of trees framed the edge of the road. She couldn't quite tell where the road ended, however; the light beam blasted a hole into the darkness but either side was merely shadows.

“Leave the engine running,” Maya murmured. Then she unfastened her seat belt and climbed out of the front passenger seat. Lucy made a squeal of displeasure, but did little else to discourage Maya.

She jogged across to the second car, noting that it was another Chevy, a Cruze. Passing the Oldsmobile, Maya
turned her attention to the shadows. It took her eyes a moment to adjust. After a few seconds she made out two figures close to the largest of the trees at the side of the road. One of them was kneeling, apparently staring at the ground.

Paolo and John-Michael. It had to be. Maya felt a jump in her pulse rate as she put everything together. The second car was here. That meant that the plan had worked. The hit man's associate had taken the bait. And now, he was nowhere to be seen.

Paolo must have killed him.

With the portion of her brain that was detached, calmly reviewing the day's history, Maya noted:
John-Michael and Paolo are both killers now.

“Maya.” John-Michael rose to his feet as she approached. He didn't sound surprised to see her, or relieved. Just neutral. His hands hung together in front of him, as though clasped in prayer.

Paolo was more effusive. “Is Lucy here? My car! I need a flashlight—there should be one in the glove compartment.” Then he was gone, rushing past Maya. He returned a couple of minutes later, this time with Lucy. In his right hand was an aluminum tube the length of Maya's forearm. Paolo hurried by, switching on the flashlight as he reached the tree. When its beam aimed down, it became obvious that whatever they were looking for was over the edge of the cliff.

All four housemates stood precariously close to the
precipice, peering over. Maya wasn't sure what they were looking for but she could guess.

The driver of the second car. Did the boys shoot him? Maybe cause him to fall over the edge? Her eyes went immediately to Paolo's hands, wondering how many bullets it had taken. When she didn't see the revolver, Maya began, confused, to look for the weapon in John-Michael's hands. The weapon wasn't there, either. Catching a glimpse of narrow white plastic zip ties between his wrists, she felt her mouth go dry at the thought of what must have happened.

It could only mean one thing.

Lucy had come to the same conclusion. “You didn't shoot him.” The air wasn't particularly cold, but just the same, Lucy clasped her hands across her chest, gripping both shoulders as she shivered. “What happened? Where is he?”

“I knocked him down,” John-Michael said. He sounded utterly drained. “He fired his gun as he was falling, like, a couple of times.”

Paolo confirmed this. “I heard two shots.”

Maya faced John-Michael. “He had a gun and you hit him?”

“With a stick,” John-Michael said, using his cuffed hands to raise up a thick stafflike tree limb that he'd been holding at his side. “So he'd fall down the edge, over there.”

“That was a long drop,” Paolo said to Lucy. “The guy is not moving. I'm guessing that, basically, y'know, it's over.”

Maya peered down again, this time aiming the flashlight to follow Lucy's horrified gaze. Yes, Paolo was right. A body in a two-piece suit lay about fifteen feet below. The head wasn't visible from this angle, but as Paolo had stated, the rest of him wasn't moving. There was no sign of the gun.

“You couldn't have killed him with that,” Lucy said with a nod at the stick. “It's nowhere near heavy enough.”

“No,” John-Michael agreed. “But maybe the fall? Someone should really go down there, check that he's dead. I can't do it, so don't ask. I feel like I just went ten rounds with Rocky Balboa.”

Lucy gasped. Even Maya was astonished by John-Michael's mild, matter-of-fact delivery. He seemed to notice their shock, because he followed up with, “I wasn't trying to kill him,” he said in his gentlest voice. “He was about to torture Paolo. I just lashed out. I'm pretty sure he broke one of my ribs,” he added, wincing as he inhaled. “My whole body hurts like you wouldn't believe.”

“We need to get you some painkillers, dude,” Paolo said. “There was really no other option. He found his friend dead. He wasn't messing around.”

“I went into basic survival mode,” John-Michael agreed. “I didn't know how far he'd fall.”

“But he . . . you were . . . he attacked you?” Lucy asked, stumbling over the words. Maya guessed that Lucy had yet to notice that John-Michael's wrists were bound. She was still only grasping at the edges of the horror of what the
boys must have been through. The more Maya thought about it, the more apprehensive she grew.

“I wasn't going to just stand by and watch him take Paolo apart,” John-Michael growled.

“We need to get out of here right away,” Maya announced, nervous as she backed away from the edge. “For real. It's a miracle no one has stopped in the past fifteen minutes.”

“A couple of cars passed by,” John-Michael commented. “But they didn't stop.”

“Well, now we have Paolo's car back there. That's three cars at the side of a deserted canyon road. It's starting to look like a sideshow.”

“Maya has a point,” Paolo said. He reached for Lucy's hand, a little tentatively, Maya noticed. “Let me drive.”

Lucy reached into her jeans back pocket, handed him the key to the Chevy Malibu. Paolo took it, released his temporary, light grip on her fingers with evident reluctance. “We should all go now,” he said.

Inside the car, Paolo drove while Lucy joined him in the passenger seat. A silence descended on them all, weighty and dense. Maya wanted to speak, to ask about John-Michael's cuffed hands, to say something about the bag full of cash that now sat in the trunk of Paolo's car, about the two dead shooters. About the fact that Dana Alexander, if she'd sent these people to scare off Lucy, wouldn't be deterred by the fact that a couple of her hit men had disappeared.

Maya wondered what Dana Alexander would do when
she found out. The conclusion she arrived at wasn't pleasant.

“Lucy,” she began, and leaned against the front passenger seat until her face was close to Lucy's. “Giving testimony on Monday may not be enough. You have to find that bottle of nail polish, the one with Dana's fingerprints or whatever and you have to take it to them. If that's the only thing that can convict Dana Alexander then . . .”

Maya felt her breath come quickly then, her tongue thick and heavy as the words dried up. All hell would break loose once Alexander was arrested. Alexander would get Maya deported, definitely. They couldn't even be sure that she wouldn't lash out from inside prison. Killers like Mr. Shooter and his friend were never more than a phone call away.

Lucy was almost certainly destined for some kind of protective custody, maybe even witness protection. Maya's thoughts turned to Jack Cato. Had he tried to call her this evening? Would she return to unread messages and missed calls on her cell phone? The sudden memory of him was such a sweet and tender contrast to the violence and terror of the past few hours that it brought instant tears to Maya's eyes.

“Are you crying, Maya?” John-Michael asked, amazed. She felt the touch of his fingers on her cheek. “Hey now. The worst is over.”

Maya leaned into his fingers, screwed her eyes tightly shut, and imagined that she was touching Jack. She felt exhausted. There were still so many details to iron out,
details that would mean the difference between prison and freedom, between safety and danger. Yet, Paolo and John-Michael seemed dazed after the events of the night. They weren't thinking straight.

If only she could believe that John-Michael was right; that the worst was over. More than anything, she longed to relax. But she didn't dare. Deep inside, Maya was beginning to understand that this was very far from over.

“Still nothing?”

Grace answered with a glum shake of her head. Candace spread her fingers on the steering wheel, brow furrowed in confusion.

“Every last one of their cells is going to voice mail,” Grace said.

“Guess this explains why no one bothered to text us what they wanted from the store,” Candace said, yawning.

It did
, Grace thought.

She had sent a group text to the housemates:
Getting supplies for the 4th. Any requests?

But, nothing.

Now this: total radio silence. It couldn't be good.

A sense of misgiving had been building slowly inside her, ever since she and Candace had left the house. The argument earlier that evening had been of epic proportions. When Candace had suggested they escape the pressure
cooker atmosphere, Grace had been only too happy to follow. She'd assumed that everyone else would, too, but the others had hung back. Glancing over her shoulder as she and Candace hurried toward the boardwalk, Grace had eventually spied John-Michael and Maya leaving the house.

The household had fragmented. The way it had happened tugged at Grace's heart. They shouldn't be splitting off into little cliques, but they had. She with her stepsister. Paolo with Lucy—the girl he'd once had a thing for. John-Michael with Maya—as though they were the natural “outsiders.”

Grace had kept her eyes on Paolo throughout much of the explosive drama of Maya's revelation. Normally, she tried to hide her feelings, but in that situation, the focus wasn't on her. While they'd all been distracted, Grace had allowed her eyes to be drawn to Paolo's anxiety and disquiet, to the way he'd scratched the raw skin of his tattoo, to the way he'd grimaced at his own touch. He'd been uncharacteristically introspective.

Ever since Candace's reaction to the news about Grace's father, Grace had felt a burden of guilt. Candace was right. She should have told her about her father sooner. Maybe things would have been different if she had? When Candace had suggested that they go for ice cream together, she'd decided it was time to come clean. Grace had told her all the details of her relationship with her father, from the time when she first realized she'd have to keep his fate a secret.

Secrets had almost torn their Venice Beach household
apart. But now that everything was out in the open, maybe all six friends could start over.

So they'd gone straight from the ice-cream parlor at Santa Monica Pier to Candace's Prius, which had been parked a few streets along, and from there to Trader Joe's.

The house was empty when they got home, but not dark. Dimmed lights had been left on in the living room and in the second-floor bathroom. It was as though everyone had stepped out a few moments ago. Grace tried calling John-Michael again. When she heard his familiar
Death Note
ringtone coming from the red sofa, she felt even more confused.

“Their phones are here,” she called out to Candace, who was in the kitchen, putting away the groceries. After a moment she'd confirmed it: all four cell phones had been left in the living room.

“Where the hell is the rug?” Candace said, walking over from the kitchen, hands on hips as she surveyed the room.

Blankly, Grace stared at the empty wooden floor in front of the red sofa. “Oh yes,” she intoned, feeling stupid. “There's also that.”

Candace stooped, peering down. “Dear God, is that blood?”

Where one corner of the rug would have been close to the base of the red sofa, a few drops of a dark fluid had collected. One of them had smeared, leaving a trail like a bleeding comet, where something had been dragged through one of the larger drops.

“There must have been an accident,” Candace concluded.

“Or a fight.”

“Maybe they took the rug out to clean it?” Candace suggested.

“Without their phones?”

“Why would they need their phones? Maybe they went to the beach.”

Grace looked at her, baffled. “You think they took the rug to the beach?”

“How the heck do I know?” Candace was getting annoyed now. “It's not here, so
clearly
they didn't leave it.”

Grace sat back on the futon and folded her arms across her lap, staring up at her stepsister. “You think they've gone to the beach for—what—a midnight picnic?” She shook her head, bewildered. “You really like to look on the bright side, don't you?”

“What's your solution?” Candace said, resentful. “You think they called Olivia Pope from
Scandal
over to help them dispose of a body, or something crazy like that? And by the way, d'you think maybe we could discuss it while we put the groceries away? I'm not doing it by myself.”

Grace followed Candace to the kitchen, where five large brown paper bags awaited them on the dining table. “What about the blood on the floor?” she said, stacking cobs of sweet corn in the refrigerator.

Candace said, “Maybe they went to the emergency room. And not the beach.”

Grace shrugged. “And they all forgot to take their cell phones? I mean, if they left in such a hurry, at least one person would still have a cell phone in their pocket.”

“You'd think,” Candace admitted.

“Let's see if Paolo's car is still here.”

“It won't be.”

Candace was right. And the absence of Paolo's car wasn't going to do anything but intensify their fears.

“Kind of odd, though, all their cell phones being on the sofa like that.” Candace spoke slowly, and Grace thought she caught a tremor in her voice at the end. “Almost like they took them out of their pockets and left them behind on purpose.” Candace looked up. “Why would they do that?”

Grace packed four pints of Ben & Jerry's ice cream into the freezer and turned back to look at Candace. “I can only think of bad reasons.”

“Try to think of a good reason, will ya?” said Candace, her voice rising to a high-pitched whine. “Look, I know you're freaked out and all about your dad, but you have to trust that it's going to be okay. Lucy's gonna talk to the cops on Monday and then you'll see.”

“I'll see what?”

Candace shrugged and tried to sound bright as she said, “That the wheels of justice will turn in your favor.”

But even Candace's forced optimism couldn't distract Grace from the sensation of dread that had crept inside. “I think . . .” Grace clenched her right hand into a fist. “I think maybe we ought to call the cops.”

“What about John-Michael? He won't like that.”

She nodded slightly, by now barely aware of Candace. Grace's thoughts had gone to him, too. The cops and John-Michael were never a good mix. More than anyone else in the house, Grace understood that.

Anxiety pulled at her now, a heavy sensation dragging her where she'd rather not go. The air inside the house seemed itself to have shifted. There was a
strangeness
to the house, as if all life had been sucked from it. She sensed a pulsating, insistent knock at her consciousness: a warning.

“Something bad has happened,” Candace said, suddenly giving voice to Grace's own fear. Grace could only tremble faintly and nod. “But I don't think we can call the cops,” Candace continued. Her words were slow, considered, each one falling onto prepared ground. “At least, not yet.”

Grace clasped her hands together so that they wouldn't shake. Where could they hide, where would they wait, in fear of what might be coming?