Mr. Kiss and Tell (3 page)

“Congratulations!”

Cindy “Mac” Mackenzie met them at the door of Mars Investigations, her elfin face stretched in a smile.

Veronica threw her purse down on an end table. “Free man, coming through. Stand back, everybody!”

Behind her, Keith and Cliff filed in. Weevil brought up the rear, looking dazed.

The Mars Investigations office was dim and cool, a relief from the sweltering heat outside. Dust motes glittered in the bars of light falling through the blinds. The rented space looked and felt industrial, more in terms of its original function—brewing enormous vats of lager—than any conscious design mode. It had twenty-foot ceilings and stained concrete floors. The rooms were so big they were hard to light, and deep shadows pooled in the corners. The one part of the room you might call “sleek and modern” was Mac’s desk, laden with computer equipment. Some clients wondered why a receptionist needed five different monitors. More observant ones realized Mac probably wasn’t just answering phones.

“Cleared of
all
charges?” Mac asked now, looking at Weevil.

“Every last one.” Weevil grinned. He shed his suit coat and unbuttoned his pressed blue button-down, revealing a white tank top underneath.

From the far side of the room, Cliff’s two-fingered newsie whistle silenced the crowd. “Attention, please!” he shouted. “If I could just have everyone’s attention. The bar is officially open. And for this special occasion I brought the
middle
-shelf Scotch. None of that rotgut swill we usually drink.” Cliff held the bottle aloft.

“Today, we are victors, and to the victors goes the Johnnie Walker Red Label.” Keith went to the kitchenette in the corner and started pulling down glasses.

“Cliff seems pretty jazzed,” Mac said to Veronica.

“He should be. Mr. McCormack was great,” Veronica said, raising her voice so Cliff could hear. “By the time he finished proving reasonable doubt I wasn’t even sure Weevil actually existed.”

“Thank you, Veronica,” Cliff said. “Coming from an almost-lawyer, that praise means a lot to me.” He accepted a glass from Keith. “Truth be told, we really lucked out. If that informant hadn’t retracted his story, this could have been a whole different show.”

Keith gave Veronica a knowing look. “Yeah. Lucky, that.”

She pretended not to notice. Okay, so she’d been the one to tell Weevil about that snitch. It wasn’t like she’d
encouraged
him to track the guy down and…do whatever he’d done to invoke his better angels.

She brushed the train of thought aside. It didn’t matter now. The important thing was that Weevil’s name was clear. Cliff was right; if that stoolie had still been willing to talk when they went to trial, the prosecution might have won and Weevil would be doing time for a crime he didn’t commit.

Cliff held up his glass, half full of warm-amber liquid. “What should we drink to? The best defense lawyer taxpayer money can buy?”

“Hey!” Veronica frowned. Cliff, Keith, and Weevil all had cups. Keith hadn’t brought one for her or Mac. “What is this, Sterling Cooper 1963? Where’s mine?”

“What, you drink Scotch now?” Keith raised an eyebrow.

“I drink
victory
Scotch!” Veronica said over her shoulder as she ducked into the kitchen to fetch some glasses.

“For the record,” Mac said, “I also drink Scotch. But I’m not picky. I’ll take the victory Scotch, or the Scotch of defeat. Or the rotgut swill.”

Veronica returned with two glasses. She thrust one at Mac, grabbed the bottle from Cliff, and poured a couple of Big Gulp–sized drinks, ignoring Keith’s amused look.

“As I was saying,” Cliff continued. “To…me. And to everyone else who helped a little bit too.”

They all lifted their glasses, clinking them gently together.

Veronica took a small sip—the Scotch seared her throat, and she swallowed a mangled cough along with the booze. Mac smirked, taking a long pull from her own glass without flinching.

“Lamb didn’t look happy, did he?” Cliff said, his eyes twinkling over the top of his glass.

“I watched the press conference before you got here,” Mac said, sitting on the edge of her desk, legs crossed. “Lamb said he’s doing ‘a fine-tooth investigation in the department’; he’s ‘redoubling his efforts to find the stolen evidence.’
Blah, blah, blah
. The same brain-dead derp our local media normally feast on like starving goldfish. Only this time they didn’t. They were, like,
grilling
the dude. Seriously. I thought he might cry when Martina Vasquez asked him if there was ‘a fundamental problem with leadership in the Sheriff’s Department.’ ”

As drink refills continued, the debriefing maintained a steady if increasingly ragged energy. The group kept up their Lamb-basting exercise a while longer, then moved on to Celeste Kane, the prosecuting attorney, and the population of Neptune at large. Keith and Cliff huddled, reminiscing about cases from their shared past, Cliff listing ever more to starboard as the Scotch supply dwindled. Mac leaned over her computer, futzing with a nineties rap playlist. Veronica watched Weevil for a moment as he stood looking out the window. Outside, people were heading toward their cars from the offices and warehouses up and down the street, clothed in the transitional neighborhood’s mix of paint-spattered coveralls and business casual. She suddenly realized it wasn’t the street life Weevil was watching; it was his own reflection, faint in the glass. She walked over to him and set her empty glass on the windowsill.

“So what’s next for you, now that you’ve got your life back?” Veronica asked, trying to keep her voice cheerful.

Weevil glanced at her, then turned back to the window. “If this is getting my life back, we set the bar way too low.” He studied the liquid in his glass, swirling it. “I mean, don’t get me wrong. I’m thrilled not to be headed off to prison. But I lost my business. I’m only working half-time at the garage—and even if they wanted to offer me more hours I couldn’t take them, because my rotator cuff is perma-fucked. I still got medical bills piling up, and still I gotta pay you guys and Cliff…”

“No, you don’t,” she said quickly. “We didn’t really do anything.”

Weevil shook his head. “Man, I know you guys tracked down all those poor chumps who got busted with planted evidence. You did the work, even if we didn’t get to use it.”

“Forget it.” She waved a hand.

“I always pay my debts, V. You know that.”

Veronica let it drop. She could argue with him, try to get him to let her work pro bono, but what was the point? She knew better. Because in some ways, she and Weevil were the same kind of animal. Prideful, independent, and prickly.

Weevil startled her with a rueful laugh. “Go ahead and say it, Veronica: ‘Shut the fuck up, Navarro, at least your brown ass ain’t headed to Chino next week.’ ”

Veronica smiled. “Consider it said. Seriously, your luck is way overdue for a turnaround. And for now, Jade must be thrilled. Where is she, anyway? I’d have expected her to be ready for a drink too.”

His flinch was almost imperceptible, a downward flicker of his eyelashes. Veronica’s stomach dropped.

“I, uh…I told her I’d meet up with her later.” He sighed. “Truth is, me and Jade…we haven’t been so good these last couple months. She’s…uh…been living with her mom out in Pan Valley.”

“Weevil…” Veronica murmured, thrown for a loop. Weevil’s lips tightened.

“It just makes more sense, you know? Rita can watch Valentina during the day. I’ve been so busy with Cliff, gettin’ ready for the trial and all, and Jade’s had to pick up more hours since I lost the garage.”

“Plus, I bet she’s not so into you being back on the bike,” Veronica said, sensing an apt time to broach this touchy subject.
Or into your boys dragging you out at all hours to do God knows what.

“Yeah, well. There’s a lot about my life—and about me—that she’s not into these days.” He ran his hand over the back of his head. “And I ain’t saying I blame her. She grew up with someone looking out for her. She never had to make a choice between breaking the law or sleeping in a drainage ditch.” He shrugged. “With any luck, neither will Valentina.”

Her eyes narrowed. Before the night of the attack, she’d seen how happy he was—how he loved his wife and doted on his little girl. She’d seen pictures of him cradling Valentina as a baby, of the two of them playing on the beach, of trick-or-treating with her dressed as Little Red Riding Hood and him as the Big Bad Wolf. And now he was trying to tell her it was
okay
if he lost his family, that it was somehow for the best? She’d been left by a parent who couldn’t take the heat. She’d been left, and it had taken over a decade to forgive her mom for what she’d done.

But before she could say anything, a dry male voice came from the doorway.

“Excuse me?”

They all looked up to see a man standing just inside the propped-open door. His suit was charcoal gray, and he held a black leather briefcase in one hand. He glanced around the room with an expression of mild irritation.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he said, loud enough to cut through the Missy Elliott. “This
is
Mars Investigations, isn’t it?”

The room was silent for a few lingering seconds. Mac cut the music, then Keith stood up from the sofa and stepped toward him, his hand outstretched. “Yes, it is. Please excuse the noise. We just wrapped on a case and we’re taking a little time to celebrate. I’m Keith Mars.”

The man took Keith’s hand, giving it a perfunctory pump.

“My name is Joe Hickman. I’m a claims adjustor with the Preuss Insurance Company. We have a rather delicate problem I’d like to discuss. At your earliest convenience.” His eyes swept around the room, taking in the shabby furniture, the tipsy lawyer on the sofa, and the tattooed biker by the window.

Keith gestured toward his open office door. “If you’d like to step into my office we can speak more privately…”

Hickman’s expression didn’t alter. “I’m sorry, Mr. Mars, I think there’s been a misunderstanding. I was hoping to hire Veronica. Petra Landros from the Neptune Grand Hotel referred us to her.”

The room was suddenly intensely quiet, all eyes turning toward Veronica. Mac gave her a helpless shrug. Veronica couldn’t quite bring herself to look at her dad.

The tension was broken by the sound of pouring. Veronica looked to the sofa, where Cliff was refreshing his drink. He noticed everyone looking at him, and arched an eyebrow.

“What? Do you know how rarely I win criminal cases? I’m not done celebrating, even if things
did
just get awkward.”

Veronica sprang into action, as much to escape the tense moment as to impress Hickman with her eagerness. She stepped past Keith and opened her office door.

“Please,” she said. “This way.”

Hickman followed her through to her inner office. Just before she shut the door behind him, she caught a glimpse of Cliff topping off her father’s drink.

Veronica had never imagined a moment like this—a client actually choosing her over her dad. Mars Investigations had always been a united front, even when she was technically just the receptionist. She and Keith had always worked
together
, parceling out cases for efficiency’s sake but backing each other up whenever needed. It never occurred to her that, at some point, the model might breakdown. And she wasn’t sure how she was supposed to feel about it.

For a moment, she faced the closed door, her hand still lingering on the knob. Then, pasting a cool, businesslike smile on her face, she turned around to face her potential client.

“So what exactly can I do for you?” she asked, moving briskly to her desk and taking her seat. She picked up the yellow legal pad from the blotter and clicked her ballpoint pen.

“I’m here to investigate a claim made against one of our clients,” Hickman said. His posture was stiff and straight, his pale hands motionless in his lap, like a pair of gloves. “What do you know about hospitality insurance, Ms. Mars?”

“Hospitality? As in hotel coverage?”

“Exactly. We offer hotels and resorts protection in cases where an accident, or some kind of mismanagement, has left them liable for damages. As you can imagine, that’s a big risk in the hospitality industry. Nearly three million people stay in US hotels every night. There are a lot of moving parts; a lot of opportunities for things to go wrong. And with $150 billion in sales per year, a lot of people—some less than scrupulous—are looking for a piece of the pie.”

“So you cover the hotel when someone’s feeling litigious,” Veronica said.

Hickman gave an almost indignant snort.

“It’s not quite that simple,” he said. “We have to investigate the claim first. Determine if the hotel was at fault, and if so, to what extent. Then decide whether it’s more cost-effective to fight it out in court or just settle.”

Veronica put down her pen. “So what exactly do you need from me?” she asked.

The man shifted slightly in his seat. “A nineteen-year-old woman was found in an empty lot on the edge of town on the morning of March seventh of this year,” he said. “She was…well, she was in terrible shape. She’d been…violated.”

“Raped,” Veronica said mechanically. She didn’t have patience for euphemisms.

“Yes. Raped, and beaten half to death. The police found DNA evidence, but it doesn’t match anyone in their database. Back in March she claimed she didn’t remember anything. She couldn’t provide a description of her attacker, and said she didn’t know how she’d gotten to the lot. All she remembered was arriving at the Neptune Grand the night of the attack.”

Veronica nodded. This was, of course why Petra Landros had recommended her. Petra owned the Grand, and in March the hotelier had hired Veronica on behalf of the Neptune Chamber of Commerce. Two girls had gone missing during Neptune’s lucrative spring break season, and Neptune’s local business owners had wanted Veronica to find them before the tourist dollars dried up.

“Was she a guest?”

Hickman shook her head. “She’s a local. She was just drinking in the bar that night.”

Veronica frowned. “I don’t understand. The Neptune Grand is one of the most monitored locations in town. They’ve got security cameras at every entrance. If she left with her attacker, one of those cams would’ve caught it.”

“Well, that’s the problem,” Hickman said. “The video cameras show her arriving. They show her sitting in the bar for about an hour. They show her disappearing into a stairwell at about eleven forty-five. And then she just vanishes.”

“Vanishes?”

“She never shows up on camera again. She goes into the stairwell at eleven forty-five, and the next morning at seven o’clock she’s found half naked in an empty lot miles away. No sign of what happened in between.”

Veronica tried to bend her mind around this story. It was impossible to sneak out of the Grand. Or it should have been.

“Then a few weeks ago, the victim suddenly—some would say
conveniently
—got her memory back,” Hickman said, an edge of exasperated scorn in his voice. “She gave a description of her attacker that perfectly matches that of Miguel Ramirez, a former laundry-room employee of the Neptune Grand. According to her lawyer, that explains how no one saw her leave. He says her attacker was able to smuggle her out using his knowledge of the hotel’s layout.”

“And your problem with that story is…?”

“The problem is, her alleged attacker was deported last month after getting caught in an ICE bust. No one seems to know where he is now, so there’s no way to get a DNA sample. And now the victim is suing the Grand for three million dollars. Her lawyer claims the hotel showed criminal negligence in hiring undocumented workers.”

“So what am I being hired to do?” Veronica asked slowly.

“Well, either the victim is telling the truth and someone attacked her somewhere on hotel grounds and then snuck her off-site past the cameras,” said Hickman. “Or she’s lying, and she managed to leave undetected and was attacked elsewhere. We need you to find out how she left that hotel, and with whom.”

Outside, night settled over the warehouse district. Sounds rose from the street: shouts, laughter, and car horns, window-buzzing dubstep. In a nearby live music club, mic checks and tune-up chords from electric guitars set off ragged cheers.

Hickman was making little effort to hide his skepticism about the girl’s story. And Veronica understood why. The details—at least the ones he’d seen fit to share—didn’t add up.

But her own memory tugged at the corners of her mind, insistent and furious. She’d been sixteen the day she’d staggered into the Balboa County Courthouse in a torn white dress. Shaking from head to foot, she’d sat across from then-Sheriff Don Lamb and had told her story. How she’d gone to Shelly Pomroy’s party the night before. How she’d woken up in a strange bed without her underwear, aching and humiliated. How she couldn’t remember anything else.

She could still recall with cinematic clarity the conversation in Lamb’s office. The way the sheriff leaned back in his chair, leering across the desk. Her struggle to stay composed as he repeated questions, trying to catch her in contradictions. Lamb’s voice, his tone of cold, unvarnished contempt:
I’ve got not a shred of evidence to work with here but that really doesn’t matter to your family, now does it?

She looked down at the open file folder on her desk, the pictures of the girl’s ravaged and broken body on top. Someone had done this to her. And so far, he’d gotten away with it.

“Okay,” Veronica said steadily, holding out her hand. “I’ll do my best to find out what happened to this girl.”

Hickman’s soft, dry palm was in hers then, and they shook.

“Excellent,” he said.