Point of Betrayal (9 page)

“Sorry,” she said, stepping back. “I was getting some signals.”

Sage smiled. “Oh, there were signals. It’s just that if you want some action, it’ll have to be off the clock,” she said, flashing a boob before she walked out.

Biz slammed her cup on the granite counter, sloshing coffee over its side. Time was running out, and she needed to end this herself. She couldn’t wait for anyone else to do the dirty work. That was the most difficult part to accept since she couldn’t imagine harming a sister. Her entire business was spent helping abused women. Maybe if she paid Wanda once more she’d really disappear.

“Not likely,” she whispered to the beautiful kitchen.

She immediately grabbed a dishcloth, unable to leave a speck of mess. She’d paid handsomely for the condo, the remodel she’d commissioned before she moved in and the state-of-the-art furnishings she couldn’t live without. She’d earned it, risking her freedom by working for Vince Carnotti. She had thought her slate was as clean as the new bamboo floors, but now she’d have to get her hands dirty again.

There was no way to thoroughly cleanse her soul. She’d harmed others and contributed to their delinquency, fed their addictions and ruined lives by stealing their possessions—in the case of Molly Nelson, she’d destroyed a good cop forever—but she believed that redemption was a decision. She could reclaim goodness with Ari, who would help her recover a part of the soul she’d lost or rather given away to Carnotti. She needed to get to Laguna as soon as possible.

Only Wanda stood in the way.

Her thoughts drifted back to the previous night. Andre Williams had left ninety seconds after he’d entered the gym. She’d timed him. He hadn’t found Wanda, probably because Jordan, the front desk clerk, wouldn’t recognize her as Lola. Not only did the description that the Hideaway patrons and employees had provided to the police fit half of the lesbian gym regulars, but no one at the gym had ever seen Wanda tarted up. Biz doubted they could picture it. Wanda the kick-boxing gym rat was a short, natural spiky-blond butch. It had taken some serious cash to get her to agree to transform into a lipstick lesbian wearing heels, colored contacts, a flowing blond wig, and thick makeup.

Andre had left with nothing, but Jack Adams wouldn’t be satisfied. He would hold whatever clue had led them to the gym tightly in his hand and squeeze it until it produced results for the investigation. Biz would need to be faster than he was.

She studied the surveillance photos of Wanda’s apartment and the nearby streets that she’d taken with her phone. She’d followed her from the gym to a liquor store where Wanda purchased two bottles of vodka before zipping into the parking lot of a large apartment complex just five blocks past the store.

It had been difficult to tail her after she’d entered the maze of identical, nondescript stucco buildings, but she’d kept her distance until Wanda finally climbed up four flights of stairs and ducked into a corner unit. She’d surveyed the area and deduced it was perfect for a stakeout. Wanda’s building was isolated, away from the common areas such as the pool, laundry and parking lot. Across from her balcony at the edge of the property stood a workman’s shed that Biz imagined housed all of the gardening and lawn maintenance equipment.

She’d stayed in the shadows of the shed, watching Wanda through the open blinds of her patio door. She’d thrown off her clothes and headed down a hallway, and when she’d emerged onto the balcony with wet hair and wearing a denim shirt and cargo shorts, Biz guessed she’d showered after her workout.

She watched as Wanda leaned over the balcony, a highball glass in hand, sipping the vodka she’d purchased. When the glass was drained, she set it on the thin railing and glanced toward her neighbor’s patio. Apparently deciding she was alone, she’d pulled a joint and a lighter from her pocket. After a long toke, she glanced at her phone and scrolled through her messages. When she cursed and stormed back into the apartment, Biz wondered if she was upset because she hadn’t received a message from Biz, agreeing to her blackmail terms.

Biz had surveyed the rest of the complex. A few scantily clad women offered long glances when she passed and she cracked a smile, pleased that she still attracted attention. She followed a couple into the pool area and determined the place was a meat market. Despite the darkness and the cool November weather, the couple wasted no time diving into the deep end and groping each other.     

A quick surveillance of the parking area and entrances indicated management wanted enough security features to lure single women into signing a lease, features such as heavy-duty lights, but not enough to discourage an influx of visitors for the ongoing parties. Visitors were potential tenants. Security was lax by Biz’s standards, and she had moved effortlessly throughout the complex. As she’d driven away, she had decided it was the perfect place to go unnoticed and the perfect place for Wanda to die.

The microwave’s beeping interrupted her planning. After gobbling down some instant oatmeal, she took her coffee out to her patio and gazed at South Mountain in the distance, awash in morning color. Wanda could have an accident, but what kind? She wanted to keep it simple. Complicated plans led to mistakes, and she counted her keen judgment as one of her best qualities. She’d never been to jail nor faced questioning by the police except in her role as a private investigator. No one had ever linked her to Vince Carnotti and when she thought about what he’d do if he learned Wanda was blackmailing her, she shivered. They would both wind up buried in the desert.

Yet apartment complexes could be dangerous places. Drunks drowned in the pools all the time, and people constantly tumbled down the cement stairs when they lost their footing. Bathrooms were the most dangerous rooms in the home, the most likely place to slip and break a neck, but that would require her to face Wanda.

She leaned against her balcony, cradling her coffee cup, remembering that Wanda had adopted a similar pose the night before, the highball and joint in hand.

As Biz patted the heavy crossbeam that ensured she remained firmly planted on her patio, it occurred to her that she’d never trusted the poorly constructed balconies of her previous apartments. She’d worried that the bolts holding the railings in place on each side would eventually wear down the crumbling plaster and the metal frame would rip away and send her careening over the edge. It was another one of those apartment hazards. A smile crept across her face and she patted the railing again.

Jack had forgotten how much he hated Monday morning briefings, but sitting through one run by David Ruskin, who’d been promoted to chief of detectives, was dreadful. At least Sol Gardener had kept the jerk on a short leash. His broad swagger today suggested he was reveling in his newfound power.

Ruskin finally introduced Chief Dylan Phillips by reviewing a résumé that was admittedly impressive. She’d spent a respectable few years as a beat cop before being promoted to detective, where she jumped from narcotics to homicide as she climbed the food chain. Jack glanced at her tense expression. Listening to her biography was obviously making her uncomfortable.

Ruskin ran out of gas and everyone applauded politely until Dylan quickly held up her hand. “I won’t take up much of your time since we all need to get back to work. And that’s all I care about, doing a good job. I say it like it is and expect the same. If you’re questioning that right now, I’d expect it. You don’t know me at all. For all you know, I’m full of crap.”

A chuckle surged through the mostly male squad and Jack found himself joining in.

“Captain Ruskin will be my go-to person, and I’d ask that you go through him to get to me.”

Doubtful eyes darted around the room. If she noticed it, she didn’t say anything. Ruskin nodded and puffed out his chest. Jack pictured Molly standing in his place and what it would have meant. Two women running the show. It would’ve been quite the sight.

He guessed Dylan wouldn’t have an easy time of it. Although Phoenix was the sixth largest city in the nation, it was still full of good old boys and traditional attitudes about subjects such as women, guns and gays. He knew Molly had faced constant harassment but never reported it. The job was far more important than the gossip swirling around her.

Ruskin absently patted his potbelly as he spoke, a result of more time behind a desk than in the field. No one had told him Brylcreem went out thirty years before; Jack could see the grease amid his silver-streaked dark hair.

“Adams and Williams, we’re reassigning you,” he announced.

Jack and Andre exchanged glances, and Andre opened his mouth to object until Dylan stepped forward, her arms crossed, daring him to talk.

“We want a fresh pair of eyes on Escolido,” Ruskin said, and Jack saw the corners of his mouth turn up. They were being handed a case that was cold and most likely unsolvable.

“Great,” Andre whispered. “A career killer.”

Jack knew Andre had dreams of becoming a captain. Having his name stamped on a no-go case like Escolido could flush his future away.

Andre held up a finger, “Uh, Chief?”

Ruskin finished the briefing and Dylan approached them. “My office.”

They followed her with Ruskin lagging behind. When the door shut they gathered in a semicircle, which suggested they wouldn’t be there long enough to take a chair. Jack liked that.

“First, Captain Ruskin, in the future please do not announce changes in briefing. I know we’re new at working together, so it’s forgiven this time.”

Ruskin offered a single nod and his ears turned red.

“Williams and Adams, this shouldn’t be a surprise. We’re out of time on the Carnotti investigation.”

Andre raised his hand. “But Chief, we just got another lead. There were
two
women involved and we know where one of them works out.”

Dylan considered this for a second. “So have you followed up?”

“Only with the front clerk. I didn’t get there until closing and she didn’t recognize her, but—”

“That’s the problem, Andre,” Ruskin said.

“But with a little more time…”

“There is no more time,” he repeated.

Jack turned to Dylan. “Chief, why can’t we work both for a few more days? Let Andre work the lead and I’ll take a look at Escolido.”

“There’s no point, Chief,” Ruskin disagreed, and Jack knew he was being an ass just because he could.

“There is if it pans out,” Jack said plainly.

Dylan was deep in thought and Jack decided he liked her. She wanted to do what was right even if she didn’t know Ruskin was an idiot.

“Two days,” she said firmly and strode behind her desk as a way of dismissing them all.

Andre practically ran out of the room, but Ruskin remained rooted to his spot. “Chief, may I have a word?” he asked.

Dylan picked up a folder and put on her reading glasses. “Not if it involves this matter,” she said. “I expect you to assist Adams while Williams is out.”

He clenched his fist and stormed past Jack, who was still gazing at her. She peered over her specs and asked, “Something else you needed?”

He shook his head and gripped the knob on his way out. “Open or shut?”

* * *

In the time it had taken for the conference with Chief Phillips, the previous detectives assigned to it had filled Jack’s office with the two boxes that comprised the Escolido case. He pursed his lips and held his temper. He’d worked a few dozen cases like this one. For Andre’s sake, he hoped they would get lucky.

He grabbed the case file from the first box and propped his legs up. He knew the basic facts from the many watercooler discussions and morning briefings, but if there was any hope of catching the perp, he’d need to review every note Detectives Salt and Lawrence had collected.

Margarita Escolido was a twenty-two-year-old college junior who was last seen walking to her car on July twenty-first after her one a.m. shift ended at the posh Scottsdale resort, Bliss. A waiter had left with her, but they’d gone their separate ways since her vehicle was parked in a different lot. She never made it. The next morning her body was found in a ravine that bordered the resort’s parking area. She’d been raped and strangled, and the vigilant security team at Bliss had already had the car towed before the body was discovered by one of the maintenance workers at the resort. Any traces of evidence surrounding the car had been destroyed. The perp had been smart and worn a condom and forensics had found nothing helpful.

Jack threw his head back and sighed. “Terrific.”

He counted to three and pulled himself out of his chair. He went to the bulletin board and prepared to remove all of the notes and pictures from the Carnotti investigation, but he couldn’t do it. Not yet.

Instead he pulled the vertical blinds shut and taped the five-by-seven photo of Margarita Escolido to the center. She was a beautiful girl, half Latina and half Caucasian. She had a winning smile and kind brown eyes. She was ready for the world. He imagined Ari had held much the same look at twenty-two, but unfortunately, he could only imagine, because he’d kicked her out by then. His gaze drifted to the floor as shame overtook him. When he looked back up at Margarita’s face, it was with determination. He’d find the answers.

A soft knock got his attention. Andre stood in the door, almost fearful to enter.

“What do you need, kid? Don’t worry. I’m not going to pull you into this mess yet. You’ve got your forty-eight hours.”

He slid into a chair and pulled out his notebook. “I just wanted to run some ideas by you.”

“Go on.”

“Okay. So the front desk clerk at Uptown Fitness, who seemed to know everyone by name, couldn’t match Lola’s description.

“She wore a disguise.”

“Exactly,” Andre agreed, “but I was hoping her general physique might trigger a match.”

“It does,” he snorted, “for most of the women who go to a gym.” Andre looked thoroughly dejected at the thought of losing the case. “So what should you do now?”