Hit and Run (26 page)

“Buried,” R.J. said. “Because ‘sitting’ would be too obvious, especially for a plant.”

“You think it was planted?”

“Hell yeah, it was planted! Who tosses a murder weapon in their fucking flower bed? The DA’s behind this. I know it. Two-fucking-weeks before trial, too.”

If R.J. was this upset, she could only imagine Walker.

“So, Holland got this news and disappeared?” she asked.

“I don’t know what the hell he did, but I’m trying to find out. Newport detectives showed up at his door today and he was gone. Nowhere. Not a trace of him.”

“He have his phone with him?”

Silence on the other end.

“R.J.?”

“I’m working on it.”

“Well, where are you?”

“Pulling into John Wayne Airport, where Holland keeps his plane. Listen, I need to go. I’ll call you later.”

He hung up, and Krista felt dizzy, once again smacked by a curve ball.

Holland was gone.

They’d found an icepick in his yard.

Which was about the world’s worst place to dispose of a murder weapon.

And now Holland had made a run for it, making his upcoming trial not just sensational, but a bona-fide circus. Krista’s brain whirled with possibilities as she fought traffic through the City of Angels. By the time she neared Huntington Beach, the water was gold and shimmery and surfers were stripping off wetsuits. She called Scarlet and they decided to meet at the bar beneath her apartment for an emergency drink.

~ ~ ~

“Damn, I bet Walker went ballistic,” Scarlet said after Krista told her everything. “He probably would have been able to make a compelling case for police corruption, or at the very least, incompetence. I assume they searched the property at the time of his arrest?”

“Yep.”

“But now since he skipped, he looks guilty.”

“Yep.” Krista tipped back her drink. It was a Mexican martini, Isaac’s new specialty. The bartender had taken pity on her when he’d seen her face. “And, you know what? Maybe he is. Now that I know about this murder in Cupertino, I’m beginning to think he did it. I just can’t believe the police didn’t check into it.”

“Maybe they did, but there was nothing there,” Scarlet suggested.

“Or maybe there’s plenty there, but Newport PD didn’t find it because they zeroed in on a suspect so fast they didn’t even bother to keep looking.”

“You know, Brittany was killed before Alex came to town,” Scarlet said. “But I can ask him to take a look at the files for us.”

“It might cause problems for him with the original investigators,” Krista said. She liked Detective Alex Bishop. He was good for Scarlet. And she didn’t want him to get into trouble trying to help them out on this.

“I can at least ask him,” Scarlet said. “He can always say no. Anyway, maybe they got it right and Holland’s just as guilty as he looks.”

Krista stared glumly down at her drink. She’d talked herself into working for a pig. The firm needed the money. But all this time she’d been telling herself there was a strong chance he’d been falsely accused. Now, she wasn’t so sure.

Although R.J. was right. Of all the places to dump a murder weapon... Krista squeezed her eyes shut and rubbed her forehead. “I wish I’d never taken this case.” She looked at Scarlet. “Why’d I ever complain about staking out motel rooms?”

“Hey, buck up.” Scarlet patted her hand. “This new lead could be a break for you. You may have found Walker a fall guy, as in the husband or this Travino person.”

“Travino’s still in prison. I checked with CDCR.”

“Well, what about the husband? How tight’s his alibi?”

“I’m checking.” Krista took a last sip of her martini. “I’ve got a call in to the lead detective in Cupertino.” She slid from her bar stool. “I need to get home, write all this up.”

“You okay to drive?”

“I’m good.”

“Well, watch your back.”

Krista left the bar feeling restless and cranky. A breeze blew in off the beach, whipping her hair around her face. She glanced around the darkened street as she walked to her car, on alert for suspicious shadows or vehicles.

She pulled onto the highway and rolled the windows down, hoping maybe the ocean air would help her think.

She’d been hashing it out for hours now, and she’d come to one conclusion: Brittany Holland’s murder was linked to Sandra McElroy’s. The circumstances were too similar and the women had too much in common for it to be a coincidence.

Both victims had been married to workaholic lawyers.

Both had husbands who went to Berkeley and started up a firm together.

Both were in troubled marriages and their husbands were having affairs.

Both were killed in their own homes by someone wielding a hammer.

Grisly images swam through Krista’s brain. She shuddered. The raw brutality of it... the killer had to have been in a rage. She thought about the emotion behind it, the violence. Who could do that, not just once, but twice?

The crimes had to be connected. But who, or what, was the connection?

She pictured Eric Newman in his office, surrounded by boxes and photos and cigarette butts, talking about the good old days before greed and lust took its toll on everyone.

It was a messed-up marriage, but they were working on it. Up until she died I thought they might actually put it back together.

She thought about Holland. He’d been wanting to work things out with his wife, too.

Krista’s chest tightened. Her pulse started to race as an idea formed. She reached for her messenger bag, hesitated, then reached for it again. She rummaged through until she found the sticky note from earlier. Then she pulled into a gas station and dialed the number.

Newman answered on the first ring.

“Yeah?”

“It’s Krista Hart.”

A burst of coughing. “Yeah?” he rasped.

“I had a follow-up question. You mentioned Jake and Sandra were having marital problems, that he was having an affair at the time of her death.”

“Yeah?”

“Was it someone in the office?” Krista waited, heart pounding. She held her breath.

“Yeah, it was one of our lady lawyers.”

“Who?” She gripped the phone and waited for the words to come.
Mia Vallard.

“Beth Denton.”

Krista didn’t speak.

“Hello?”

“Beth Denton. Not Mia Vallard?”

“Nah, Mia was with us at Berkeley, but she wasn’t in the firm. This was a junior associate.”

“Okay, thanks. And... do you remember her husband’s name?”

“Who?”

“Beth Denton’s. The woman Jake was seeing.”

“I don’t know.” More coughing, and Krista nearly bit a hole through her lip, waiting. “I think I only met him once or something. Mike? Or Mark? God, it’s been years.”

She ended the call and stared down at her phone. Now her heart was racing for a totally different reason. She jumped on the Internet and did a search. After three tries, she found it in the
Mercury News
under wedding announcements:
Elizabeth J. Brown and Mark P. Denton celebrated their marriage Saturday...

Krista tossed the phone aside and shoved her car in gear. She pulled into traffic and stomped on the gas. She pictured Mia Vallard, with her designer suits and her Starbucks. And Liz Brown with her windblown hair and her easy-breezy clothes and her mineral water. Krista remembered the water bottle on her desk that morning. It had had a white lotus on the label.

She’d seen one just like that when she’d interviewed Josh at the yoga studio.

The first interview at Burke, Bumble & Holland came back to her.

She was stunning. Probably the prettiest girl we ever had working here.

And Liz with her casual shrug. I never laid eyes on her, but I hear she was beautiful.

Krista gripped the steering wheel. “You dirty little liar.”

Well not
little.
The woman was five-ten, at least. Maybe five-eleven.

Liz claimed she’d never met Brittany, and yet they went to the same yoga place. Had she stolen Brittany’s keys?

Krista floored the pedal. She reached R.J.’s house in minutes and felt a wave of relief to see the Porsche parked in the drive. She screeched to a halt and rushed up the sidewalk.

She rang the bell. No answer. She pounded on the door. She yanked her phone from her pocket and dialed him.

“Come on, come on,” she muttered, hurrying down the steps and going around. There was a light on in the back of the house, probably the kitchen. She let herself through the wrought iron gate as R.J.’s voicemail picked up.

“Answer the door! I need to talk to you.” Krista skirted around the side of the house. “Are you home? I figured it out. It’s Liz Brown. She worked with Rob Holland
and
Jake McElroy, and she and Brittany went to the same yoga place. She was having an affair with both of them and maybe she wanted their wives out of the picture—”

A beep cut her off and she gripped the phone, cursing. She raced across the darkened patio, sidestepping a barbeque pit and a garden hose. A lamp glowed in the living room and she dashed to the sliding glass door and knocked.

“R.J.?” She cupped her hand against the glass and peered inside.

Snick.

Krista froze at the noise. She glanced at the glass and saw the shadow looming behind her.

Krista whirled around.

“You nosy bitch.”

The words were pure venom. Liz Brown stepped from the shadows. Her hair was beyond windblown—it looked like she’d stuck her finger in an electrical socket. Her eyes were narrowed and squinty and her white linen pants were streaked with mud. Krista took a step back. The woman looked deranged. If this were a TV show, she’d be armed with the missing hammer and Krista would have a decent shot of taking her out with a well-placed tae kwon do kick.

But she was armed with a gun.

It was a snub-nosed revolver held loosely at her side. Not a lot of stopping power, and definitely no match for the Ruger in Krista’s car. But at this distance even an untrained civilian with shaky aim could get off a lethal shot.

“Liz, what’s going on? What’s wrong?” She tried to keep her voice normal—the clueless detective.

“Don’t play dumb, you little
bitch.
” She practically spat the words as she lifted the gun.

Krista looked down the barrel and her throat went dry.

“Liz, what happened?” Another step back. “You seem very upset. Let’s talk about it.”

Liz stepped forward, thrusting the gun out. “You just
had
to go and ruin it, didn’t you? You couldn’t let him take the fall. You couldn’t let him go down in
flames
like he
deserves!
”

“Liz, listen—”

“Shut up! Shut
up!
You’re just like all of them! Just another whoring
bitch
who lets him get away with anything he wants! Treating people like
garbage!
Throwing people away when he’s done with them! I won’t stand for it!”

Krista clutched her phone, wishing it were a weapon. She darted her gaze around and spotted a meat fork on the barbecue pit, but it was ten feet away, at least.

Liz stepped closer. “He’s going to pay this time.” Her voice got quiet. “You both are.”

Krista hurled the phone at her head and ducked to the right.

Pop!

The shot was deafening, right by Krista’s ear. She went low and whirled around with a leg sweep, knocking Liz off her feet.

Pop! Pop!

Krista leaped onto her, seizing the gun with both hands. She bent Liz’s wrist back, struggling to aim it at the sky as she tried to pry it away. Liz bucked beneath her and Krista dug a knee in her chest.

Nails raked across Krista’s face. Her cheek was on fire. Krista focused on the gun. Liz was bigger, stronger, but she was thrashing and screaming now as Krista peeled her fingers away from the gun.

She bucked again, throwing Krista off balance, then scrambled out from under her. Krista was on her, snatching the gun away. As Krista’s fingers closed around the grip her training kicked in.

“You’re under arrest!”

Krista flipped her onto her stomach and yanked her arms back. Liz shrieked and struggled as Krista jammed a knee into her spine.

Lights flooded up the driveway. Brakes screeched. Then yelling and slamming doors. Krista squinted at the glare and recognized R.J. silhouetted in the headlights. Brian came around the front of the Jeep.

“Get some cuffs!” Krista dodged an elbow. “She tried to shoot me!”

Liz kicked and screamed, sounding like a rabid howler monkey. Krista handed the gun to R.J. because he was in a better position to aim it. Then she reached for his belt, unbuckled it, and yanked it from his jeans.

“Go inside and dig up some handcuffs,” R.J. told Brian. “And call 911 while you’re at it.”

Krista bound the woman’s hands as tightly as she could, then buckled the belt. She got to her feet and looked around. Shaking with fury and bone-deep fear, Krista dragged the woman against the side of the house. Then she took the gun from R.J. and pointed it at her.

“Don’t. Move.”

Krista’s chest heaved. She sounded remarkably calm given that she’d just been shot at by a lunatic.

R.J. stood in the glare of the headlights. “That’s Liz Brown.” He looked at Krista.

“She killed Brittany Holland. And Sandra McElroy.”

Liz glowered up at her, hatred burning in her eyes. And then she broke into sobs—big, wet, shaking convulsions that rocked her whole body. She fell sideways and curled into a fetal position.

R.J.’s brows arched. “She’s a little—”

“Disturbed,” Krista said.

Sirens whined in the distance, drawing closer and closer as Krista stared down at the woman who’d tried to kill her. The fear pounding inside her chest was quickly turning to outrage.

“I’m hoping you’ve got some kind of evidence up your sleeve,” R.J. said.

“Besides the fact that she tried to blow my head off about three times?”

He looked at her as the sirens grew louder. Red and blue strobes lit up the street.

“Well?” he asked.

“I’ve got it covered.”