CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

“What do you think? More cheese? Less cheese? Different cheese?”

Keith held up a measuring cup of shredded mozzarella and looked inquiringly at Veronica across the kitchen island. She was slicing tomatoes but paused mid chop to look up with one raised brow.

“When is the answer ever less cheese?”

“Fair point.” He dumped the entire cup into the mixing bowl and started to stir.

It was Wednesday night, the first “Daddy-Daughter Dinner” since Logan’s departure a week earlier. Keith hadn’t seen Veronica much in the past week. Ostensibly, she’d been out of the office, busy with a few minor cases, but Keith knew she was struggling to keep her feelings about Logan hidden and controlled.

She’d always thought she was good at that. He never had the heart to tell her he could see right through it.

At least there was plenty to keep her busy. She’d started on a few new cases, picking up the slack so he could focus on Eli’s upcoming trial. Now Keith’s part in the preparations was more or less over. He’d found all the witnesses he could and convinced several to testify, looking into their cases to select the most credible for the witness stand. In the meantime, he’d put security measures in place, installing cameras and panic buttons at both Eli’s and Lisa’s places, showing them what to inspect on their cars before getting in, in case of sabotage. Lisa had been unfazed by the entire process but Eli was openly unnerved.

“For real? You think someone might try to take me out?”

Keith had held out his scarred arms at his sides as if to say, “Exhibit A.” “Do you really think a meth head hit Sacks’s car in January?”

The trial was three weeks away now, and Keith’s nerves were on edge. He realized he was waiting for some shoe to drop—but how? Lamb probably wouldn’t have the stones to do anything overtly violent given all the publicity, but he wasn’t about to roll over and give up. The thought made him uneasy.

Keith refocused his attention on the lasagna. With artful delicacy he sprinkled the last bit of mozzarella over the lasagna pan and looked at his work. An odd little flicker moved in his chest. “Your grandma made the best lasagna. I’ve never been able to get the sauce quite right.”

Veronica put down the knife and rested her chin against her fist. “You know, you’ve been weirdly nostalgic lately. Is this just the ravages of time at work, or is something wrong?”

“Hey, a grown man can miss his mommy without shame.”

“Yeah, he can, but it’s not just Grandma. You’ve been talking about high school and racing your ’78 GTO in the streets of Omaha. I’m just waiting for the day you pull a Werther’s Original out of your pocket and try to give it to Pony.”

Keith put on a Grandpa Simpson voice and bent over. “That reminds me of the time I went to Hampton, which is what they called Hampstead in those days, so I tied an onion to my belt, which was the style at the time….”

She threw a towel at him. “All right, wise guy, deflect away. Just remember, I was a psych major. I can see right through your emotional repression.”

Then that makes two of us, doesn’t it? The thought made him smile. Mars and Mars, always trying to believe they’re the best spy in the room, when they know each other’s tells by heart.

“Okay, Dr. Mars. Maybe I have been waxing a little nostalgic.” He shrugged. “I guess it’s partly seeing Marcia again. Most of the people I knew back then have moved on. Both my parents are dead. Not a lot of people to talk with about ye olden days.”

“So were you guys friends?” She took a carrot from the veggie platter and crunched it between her teeth. “I mean, it’s kind of funny. You both ended up cops, and you lived, what, three houses from each other?”

He hesitated. Friends. He’d been expecting a question like that for a while, but he still didn’t know how to answer it. To buy a little time, he scooped up Pony, who’d gotten so big he had to bend his knees to lift her.

“No,” he finally said. “Not friends. But I liked her. She wasn’t exactly a laugh riot, but she had a very dry wit. She was a little bit prickly and didn’t take any crap.”

“A woman after my own heart,” Veronica said.

Somehow, the idea made his jaw tighten. It wasn’t a bad comparison, really; Marcia had been smart, driven, and ambitious. All the things he’d loved in his daughter. All the things he’d tried to raise her to be. But he shook his head.

“She could also be uncompromising and a little judgmental. But that was thirty-five years ago. We were both kids. I don’t really know what she’s like now, other than that she’s got a glorious military record and talks a great game on the stump.”

“You think she’ll do a good job?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. She’s been in CID for a long time and that’s a tough gig, so I’m sure she can handle herself. And she can’t possibly do any worse than Lamb.”

“True dat.”

He was bent over the oven, about to slide the lasagna in, when both of their phones chimed at once. Veronica grabbed hers first.

“It’s Cliff,” she said. He shut the oven door and straightened up to see her frown. “He says, ‘Channel Four, stat.’ ”

The vague paranoia that’d been lingering inside him for weeks suddenly spiked into full-blown anxiety. He lunged for the remote and turned on the little kitchen set. Visions of car crashes or “accidental” falls darted through his head, Lisa or Eli lying in pools of blood.

But when the picture appeared on Channel Four, his heart seemed to calcify in his chest.

Weevil stood at a podium in front of the courthouse, wearing the slacks and jacket Keith had bought him. Camera flashes lit his face in erratic bursts. He leaned forward to speak into the microphone in a serious tone.

“You know, I’m just a regular guy, and all these fancy lawyers had me all turned around. This lawsuit-crazy society we’re living in makes us think we can solve all our problems by suing somebody instead of just sitting down and talking it out, you know?”

Keith groaned out loud and plunked down into a chair. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Veronica doing likewise on one of the island stools. He stared at the screen, scarcely able to believe what he was seeing and hearing.

“I mean, the truth of the matter is that mistakes were made in my case. But after talking at great length with Sheriff Lamb, I just don’t believe that’s evidence of some kind of institutional problem,” Weevil said. “I’m satisfied that the sheriff is gonna make this right so that no one has to go through this again.”

“You fucking weasel,” Veronica hissed.

“Mr. Navarro, how much are you settling for?” a reporter shouted.

He leaned in. “I’m afraid I can’t discuss the terms.”

That was when Keith remembered the remote in his hand, and turned off the TV.

“That fucking weasel!” Veronica repeated. “After everything we’ve done for him. After everything we’ve been through to get him out of this mess…”

“Language,” Keith said. His voice sounded faraway to him, muted and strange. He turned to look at her.

“But, Dad, he…we…” she sputtered. “You almost died trying to get to the bottom of what happened to Weevil. You’ve spent months building this case. You of all people should be furious.”

“And I am. Believe me, I am,” he said, speaking with controlled intensity. “But there’s nothing we can do about it right now, Veronica. So we might as well sit down and have a nice dinner, the way we planned. We’re not going to strike any blows against Lamb by starving ourselves.”

“Against Lamb? Oh, no. When I get my hands on Weevil…”

He took a deep breath. “Honey, let’s just drop it. We’ve barely seen each other in weeks. There’s half a season of True Detective on the DVR for us to get through, and in forty minutes we’ve got six thousand calories of molten cheese and Italian sausage coming out of the oven.” He put an arm around her shoulder. “It’s Daddy-Daughter Dinner night. I don’t want these people to take that away from us too.”

Keith tried to sound gentle, but he couldn’t quite keep the bitterness out of his voice. Because he’d been waiting, braced for a dirty fight, but he’d never expected this. Never expected Eli Navarro to bail. A dull, sick feeling was spreading through him. Veronica looked up at her father, her eyes still fierce, but when she saw his face she softened, clearly worried.

“Okay. Come on, let’s go sit down.”

She led him toward the door to the living room. Then she paused, Pony bumping into her shins.

“You know, I’ve always thought your sauce was about perfect,” she said. She squeezed him around the waist, and then held open the door for him to pass.

CHAPTER FORTY

Pan Valley was, like Neptune, a small town in unincorporated Balboa County. The similarities ended there. Fifteen miles inland, Pan Valley had no beachfront property, no tourist industry, no movie star residents, and no booming tech company to put it on the map. It was a blue-collar enclave, a dusty stretch of modest houses and postage-stamp yards.

Jade Navarro’s mother, Rita, was a retired schoolteacher who lived in a neat yellow rambler near Pan High. An avid gardener, she filled her yard with lilac bushes and clusters of black-eyed Susans. Finches and swallows splashed and primped in a stone birdbath, and a pair of plastic rabbits wearing sun hats looked out from the shade of a honeysuckle bush.

Veronica pulled up in front of the house on Thursday morning, the day after the settlement was announced. She knew immediately that Weevil was there; his motorcycle was parked in the driveway. For a moment she sat in the car and watched.

What’s the plan here, Veronica? You can’t just charge into his mother-in-law’s house and tear him a new one, however much you’d like to. Besides, it’s not like you can change his mind. The papers have already been signed.

But she wanted answers. He owed her that much, at least, after everything they’d been through together. She got out of her car and shut the door.

Weevil appeared on the front porch. His shoulders had a sheepish curve, his hands buried in the pockets of his jeans. He met her at the foot of the steps.

“Whatever you got to say to me, I don’t want Valentina to hear it. So can we please do this out here?”

Veronica’s lips twisted downward. “What, you don’t want your daughter to find out you’re a sellout? You’re not ashamed, are you, Weevil?” He looked down, but she continued, relentless. “I mean, it’s not like you’d want her to believe in justice in a town like Neptune. Better that she finds out how things really work early on. Everything’s for sale, right? Everything’s got a price.”

“You wanna get off your high horse for a minute?” Weevil’s eyes sparked angrily. “I get it, okay? Sorry I can’t live up to your high moral standard. But I didn’t have much choice.”

“You always have a choice,” she spat. “You fight until you see you’re beaten, and then you keep on fighting.”

“I hate to tell you, but I ain’t in on your crusade, okay? What I wanted all along was to get my life back. To get my family back. You know what it’s like to have people counting on you and to let them down?” He stared her hard in the face. “Well, maybe you don’t. So let me tell you. You feel helpless. Lower than dirt. I can’t stand that, okay? I can’t stand knowing someone else is paying for my daughter’s clothes because I can’t. I’d rather get shot again than feel that way.”

“The money you would have won at trial…”

“There wasn’t gonna be any money from that trial.” Weevil ran his hand over his head. “Be real, V—Lamb and his cronies are buddy-buddy with every judge in this town. I didn’t stand a chance.”

“We had your back, Weevil! Me and my dad. Cliff. Lisa. And we had Lamb on his heels. He was scared, for good reason. Those judges you talk about—it’s not Lamb they’re obedient to, it’s power. And he was losing it with every embarrassing news story, every witness we turned up, every voter who suddenly felt like they had a real shot at booting him out of office.”

His eyes flickered back to the ground. “I know. And I’m sorry. I really am. Especially for letting your dad down. He’s been better to me than I deserve, and I gotta live with that. But that trial could’ve stretched on for months—months that would have taken me out of work.” He looked up again, a pleading expression in his eyes. “Now I can buy Jade a house. I can pay off my debts, maybe seed a new garage or something. Get my life back on track.”

Veronica didn’t answer. Anger still stiffened her spine, and her blood felt hot and heavy in her body. There didn’t seem anything more to say.

Suddenly, Valentina appeared on the porch behind Weevil. She wore a purple sweat suit with puppies printed across the front.

“Ponies is starting, Daddy! C’mon, you’re gonna miss the song!” she said imperiously. Then she saw Veronica and went suddenly shy, popping her index finger in her mouth and huddling behind her father’s legs. Veronica tried to smile at her. Valentina just stared.

“I’ll be right there, baby. Go back inside and sing it for me real loud.” Weevil didn’t break eye contact with Veronica as he said it. Valentina hesitated, then ran back to the door.

“We done? I got to see a toddler about a talking unicorn,” he said.

She gave him another long, disgusted look. “Oh, we’re done. Have a great morning, Weevil. I’ll see you around.”

He seemed about to say something else. Then he gave a little shrug, and turned his back on her. A moment later he was gone.

She got in her car and slammed the door, seething. Excuses. Everyone always had so many excuses. And yet she’d been the one who’d told him he had to go back to Jade, had to take care of his kid.

What would you have done, Veronica? Would you have taken the money, for your family, for the people you loved? Or would you have kept on fighting, even when losing seemed more and more likely? Even if it meant hurting people who relied on you?

She didn’t want to think about it. There was no answer that didn’t make her feel like an asshole.

Veronica suddenly felt her phone vibrating in her pocket and pulled it out. She didn’t recognize the number.

“Hello?” She leaned back against the driver’s seat, the key dangling in the ignition.

The voice on the other end was high, babyish, and shot up at the end in a superfluous questioning tone. She thought for a moment it belonged to an actual child.

“Um…hi. My name’s Rachel. Rachel Fahy. I’m trying to get in touch with Veronica Mars?”

“This is Veronica.”

“Oh. Oh, um, hi. You sent me an e-mail. About the guy who raped me?”

Not a child. A victim. Veronica’s fingers went slack for a split second, and she fumbled the phone. Grabbing it, she clutched it hard in her hand.

“Are you Tonya? Tonya Vahn?”

“Um, yes. That was my working name. One of them, anyway.”

Tonya Vahn. The girl from Los Angeles, the fifth low-rated escort from Bellamy’s reviews. The one who “looked nothing like her picture.”

“You said this guy raped you?” Veronica said, keeping her voice low. “Can you tell me what happened?”

The girl’s voice caught on the other end of the line.

“Sorry. It’s still really hard to talk about this.”

“That’s okay. Take your time.”

“I’ve been in therapy for the better part of a year, trying to sort this all out. My therapist said I should call you. She said it might help.”

Veronica didn’t say anything. She just waited.

“It was in October of last year…”

The story Rachel Fahy told her was by now familiar. She’d gotten the call late in the evening. She’d agreed to a last-minute, unscreened date for an extra two hundred more than her usual fee. He’d asked her, as usual, to be “demure.” He wanted her to serve him, to keep her eyes down, and speak in a whisper. She worked incall, from a small studio apartment in Hollywood that she used for clients, and he arrived precisely on time. Rachel described a “middle-aged man, white, thin on top, very tall, and kind of heavy.” According to her, he didn’t seem happy to see her. “The first thing he said was that I was ‘fatter’ than I looked in the pictures,” she said. Here, for the first time, a note of anger entered her voice. “I’d gained a few pounds I guess, but it wasn’t a big deal.”

It would have been a big deal to a guy looking for any excuse to hurt someone, Veronica thought. It would have been a big deal to a guy who, by that time, had a ritual he had to see through.

At first, Rachel had tried to placate him. She’d tried to stay in character, contritely apologizing for her appearance, begging him to forgive her. But when he didn’t stop the verbal abuse, she had the temerity to suggest he find a different girl.

Veronica tried to conjure up an image of Rachel. Like Grace’s, her website had been taken down; but the cached site Mac found had shown a young woman with a ballerina’s build—long legs, prominent clavicle, all willowy, delicate lines. She imagined that body slightly rounder, fuller. She imagined that body taking a step backward, moving back toward the door, fed up with this man and his surly, domineering attitude.

That was when his meaty hand shot out and grabbed her by the throat.

From there it was the same story as Bethany Rose’s and Grace Manning’s. He choked her, raped her, and beat her. Then he left her there, alone and bleeding on the floor of her apartment.

“I couldn’t walk for three days. I just pulled myself into the bed and curled up in a ball and stayed there until I felt like I could move again.”

“You didn’t call anyone? The cops, the hospital?”

“No.”

Veronica felt a pang of disappointment. Of course she hadn’t reported it. If she had, Bellamy’s DNA would’ve been in the system and pinged as a match for the swab Veronica took.

“But you remember his face clearly? You could ID him?”

“Yeah. I could. The picture you sent, that was him. I’ll never forget.”

Veronica closed her eyes. The car was starting to get warm, the sun cutting straight through the windshield. Did this change anything? Another working girl, this one with no DNA evidence, no documented physical evidence at all, wouldn’t win a case. But it might be enough to get a search warrant.

“Would you be willing to testify that this guy assaulted you, Rachel?”

There was a short pause before the girl spoke again. “I don’t know. I, uh, didn’t report it because I didn’t want everyone to know what I was doing. I don’t want to embarrass my family. They don’t know. They still don’t know. But that guy—what he did to me…”

The girl’s voice dissolved into tears. Veronica’s throat tightened in sympathy. She bit hard on the inside of her cheek, trying to keep steady. Something in her gut told her it was best to stay silent, that this girl was working through what she needed to on her own time.

Minutes passed. Rachel Fahy took several deep, gulping breaths. She was still crying, but she finally was able to speak through it.

“He ruined my life. I can barely leave my apartment, I’m scared of everything and everyone. I had to drop out of school. I was taking these pills for a while, and they helped, until they didn’t, and then they made everything worse. I’m used up. I’m twenty-three and I’m all used up.” She gasped as if in pain. “Yeah, okay. I’ll testify. I’ll do whatever you need me to do.”

Veronica straightened her spine almost unconsciously, squaring off her shoulders. She talked a few more minutes with Rachel, arranging the details. Then she hung up the phone and sat for a moment, collecting herself before picking up the phone one more time and calling Leo.

He didn’t even say hello. “Let me guess—you need a favor.”

“Is that any way to talk to an old friend who’s about to set you up for the collar of your life?”

“Hm, I feel like I’ve heard that promise before. I think I’m still chafed from that last once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

Veronica moved the phone to her other ear. “I just heard from another one of Bellamy’s victims. She’s going to make a statement with LAPD tomorrow morning. You think that might be enough to get a warrant?”

“Yeah, it should be. This one actually remembers the attack?”

“Vividly. She’s willing to ID Bellamy.”

“I’ll put in a call, see if LAPD can expedite the paperwork. I’ll give you a call tomorrow.”

“You’re the best, Leo.”

She hung up the phone again. Then, finally, she started the car, and pulled away from the curb.

It’s probably too much to hope that Bellamy kept mementos of his attacks, but maybe there’s something on his computer, in his phone. Maybe there’s something that’ll help us connect the dots.

But that would take some luck. And so far at least, luck hadn’t been on their side.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

“So we’ve got this kid running all over the boat asking everyone he meets for ‘relative bearing grease.’ And of course everyone knows what that means—I mean, it’s one of the oldest gags in the book—so they’re all just stringing him along, telling him stuff like, ‘Oh, yeah, I think they have some over in Maintenance.’ ‘Oh, sorry, we’re out, so you’ll have to go down to Supplies.’ ”

It was Friday, a week since Veronica had gotten the call from Rachel Fahy, and she sat at her kitchen counter, Skyping with Logan. It was early evening, and she had the windows propped open so she could hear the low thrum of the ocean a quarter mile away. Pony—now as tall as Veronica’s knee—was sitting at her feet, looking alert and excited at the sound of Logan’s voice. Table lamps gently lit the room and Neko Case streamed at low volume from the iPod dock.

It was just after six a.m. in the Persian Gulf, and Logan had already been awake for a few hours. He was wearing workout gear; after he logged off he was going to the gym to do a few miles on the treadmill before his shift started. Veronica took in his face greedily. It had been hard to find times when both of them could talk in the weeks since he’d left. She felt awkward, almost shy, for the first few minutes of every call, almost like their patter had to warm up for a few minutes before they found the right rhythms.

“Anyway, he spends half his shift looking for the stuff, and he comes back up to the flight deck all excited, and he says to Shepard, ‘This boat needs some organization. You ever think about alphabetizing the different kinds of grease, so it’s easier to find?’ I’d just taken a swig of water. Sprayed it right out my nose.”

Veronica smiled. “Ah, classic. What will you young comic prodigies think of next? Have you tried calling the kitchen and asking if their refrigerator’s running?”

“First of all, it’s called the galley, and second of all, you don’t want to mess with the cooks. They’re already crazy.” He gave a lopsided grin. “Anyway, we’ve all been through it. It’s a rite of passage.”

“I’m glad it’s not just frat boys and Hell’s Angels that get all the fun of hazing,” she said.

Even missing Logan as much as she did, she couldn’t keep her mind from wandering. She was expecting a call from Leo. He’d promised to give her an update. The San Diego cops had gotten a warrant to search Bellamy’s place on Tuesday, but it took time to process a crime scene, especially if there was a computer involved. She tried to stay focused. There’s time to worry about the case later. You don’t know when you’ll talk to Logan again.

“How’s Po?” Logan craned his neck, making as if he were straining to see her. “I thought she’d be wearing a saddle by now.”

Veronica picked up the laptop and angled it down so that he could see the puppy. He cooed her name, and she turned in excited circles.

“Sit,” he said.

Pony sat.

“Damn! I still haven’t been able to convince her that I wield the same authority you do,” Veronica complained. “Pony, sit.”

Pony barked, wiggled her butt, and ran around the living room. Veronica gave Logan an exasperated look.

“You see? Without you, it’s chaos around here.”

“It’s the delicious, fetishistic thrill of military discipline,” he said. “Isn’t it, Pony…isn’t it, my sweet little kinkster?”

The little dog frolicked toward his voice, whining softly. He smiled.

“Hey, listen, I gotta go in a second here,” he said. “My time’s almost up. You sure everything’s okay?”

“Me? Yeah, I’m fine. Why?”

“I don’t know. You seem a little out of it.”

She felt her cheeks get warm. “Sorry. I’ve just got a lot on my mind, I guess. Maybe I need some of that severe military discipline too.” She tried to make it sound light and flirty, but the words fell flat.

He gave her a worried look, but before he could say anything else, the screen went dark. They’d lost their connection.

She sat numbly in front of the computer for another few moments. Sometimes this happened, and he was able to get right back on and call her again just to say good-bye. Sometimes he wasn’t. It was always jarring, frustrating, even scary. It was just one more thing she had to live with if they were going to make it.

She stood up and stretched. Then she looked down at Pony, who seemed to be waiting for more commands.

“Sit,” she said. Pony wagged, her butt nowhere near the earth. Veronica sighed and knelt to pet her.

“I miss him too,” she said.

She sighed again and glanced at her phone. Still blank. Impulsively, she pulled up Leo’s contact info and hit Call.

“Hey. Sorry, I know you’ve probably been waiting to hear from me,” Leo said when he picked up.

“With bated breath,” she said. It was strange how much easier it was to talk to Leo than Logan right now. Is it, though? We’re working this case together. That’s all it is. Still, her voice got a little jauntier as she realized it. “What you got for me, D’Amato?”

“Sorry, Veronica, but we’re coming up empty. There wasn’t any evidence in that house—that we could find anyway.”

The news stung. She drew in her breath a little. “There had to be something.”

“I don’t think so. That house was clean. Bellamy didn’t even have any garden-variety pervert stuff around—no porn, no weird toys, no squicky pictures. And I just got the report back from the computer guy. He hasn’t been able to turn up anything incriminating on Bellamy’s hard drive.”

She closed her eyes. The search warrant had been her last big shot. If they didn’t have any physical evidence it was literally Bellamy’s word—the word of a well-known, well-liked college basketball coach—against those of a handful of prostitutes who’d either lied to or avoided the cops entirely.

He’s going to get away with it. Unless…

“Veronica? What are you thinking?” Leo asked. He sounded slightly worried.

“I’ve got to go. I’ve got some work to do,” she said vaguely. “Call you tomorrow, Leo. I might very well need your help.”

“With what? Veronica, what’s—”

“See you, buddy. I owe you one.” She hung up before he could say anything else.

Veronica sat for a moment, staring out into mid-distance. Then she pulled up the Pacific Southwest basketball schedule and skimmed over the upcoming games: Seattle, Eugene, Las Vegas…And there it was.

The scrap of paper was still tucked into her wallet, slightly crumpled but still legible. She grabbed one of her burner phones out of her bag—she always kept one or two handy, just in case—and dialed.

It only rang once before the baritone voice answered. “Yeah?”

“Sweet Pea. This is Veronica. The woman who was asking about Madelyn.”

“I remember,” he said matter-of-factly.

“I’ve got some information for you.”

“Yeah?”

Her fingers tightened around the phone. She took a deep breath.

“Yeah. It looks like the man you asked me about is going to be in Vegas again in a few weeks. And I know exactly where he’ll be.”

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

The Stardust Restaurant was a high-ceilinged, glittering cavern a floor above the Mercury Resort’s casino. The walls were covered in purple velvet, and the Deco-style chandeliers were hung with multicolored crystals, sending tiny pinpricks of purple, red, blue, and green light dancing all over the room. The tables were crowded with late diners. It was after ten, but the Strip was just warming up.

Veronica sipped her Merlot and glanced around the room. Across the table from her sat a man with heavy, horn-rimmed glasses and a full black beard, cutting continental-style into his filet mignon. He looked almost professorial in a tweed jacket. It was all she could do to keep from laughing.

“What?” Leo asked. “What’s so funny?”

“Just, you know, the whole effect.” She stroked her own chin. “You grew that in a few weeks?”

“Hey, the D’Amatos are a hairy people.”

She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror behind Leo’s head. She was every bit as disguised as Leo was: Her hair was tucked under a wavy brunette wig, and she’d caked on pink blush and dark lipstick that aged her by at least five years. It wouldn’t fool anyone looking very closely, but no casual observer would be able to identify them either. Maybe it was overkill but she hadn’t wanted to run the risk of anyone in the hotel recognizing them.

It was the end of October—two weeks after the fruitless search of Bellamy’s apartment, and two months since Veronica had last been at the Mercury. Veronica and Leo had been on the road since ten a.m.; he’d picked her up at her apartment in his vintage Mustang, and they’d cut across the desert with the top down. This time he wasn’t along as Leo D’Amato, SDPD Detective; he was along as Leo D’Amato, heavily bearded private citizen.

“So, are we doing dessert, or…” She raised an eyebrow meaningfully. He grinned.

“You minx,” he said. “Let’s go upstairs.”

As they passed through the casino they had to weave carefully between middle-aged women with fanny packs and sweaty, red-faced men. A few statuesque women in sequins drifted through the crowd like sea creatures, and Veronica wondered fleetingly if they were escorts.

They took the elevator up the tower to their room and locked the door securely behind them. She kicked off her shoes and took the wig off her head. It’d been hot underneath; her scalp was sweaty, her hair mussed. She sat on the edge of the bed, putting her laptop on her knees and opening it.

“Well, Coach D, as college hoops excitement builds here at SportsCrime Central, let’s check in with Kestrels’ coach Mitch Bellamy, who seems to have his own unique pregame ritual,” she said, channeling Greg Gumbel.

The grainy image from a video camera suddenly filled her screen. It showed a room just like theirs, down to the purple bedspread and the strange geometric paintings on the walls. Lying on his back, propped up against a half-dozen pillows, lay Mitch Bellamy.

“Looks like he’s still alone,” she said.

Leo shrugged off his jacket and sat down next to her. “What time did he check in?”

She checked the text Mac had sent her that evening. “Nine thirty-five. After dinner with the team, I’m guessing.”

The Pacific Southwest Kestrels were in Vegas for a preseason Invitational. That afternoon, they’d been slaughtered by the Oregon Ducks. Veronica and Leo had watched it on the hotel TV, resting from the long drive. Zabka had stormed the sidelines, purple in the face. But every time the camera showed Bellamy he looked calmly focused. It made Veronica bristle. She still remembered his mad fury when he’d found her in his office.

So it’s just women you let loose on. Just women you think you can brutalize, she’d thought.

The team wasn’t staying at the Mercury. They were set up at Caesars, along with all the other teams playing in the tournament. Bellamy had a room over there too, but a little over a week ago, Mac had discovered that he’d secured a second room at the Mercury—the same hotel where he’d met with Madelyn Chase almost a year ago—on his personal credit card.

That could mean only one thing—he was planning to “order in,” and didn’t want to risk the university finding out.

She watched Bellamy flip through channels on his TV. Every so often he glanced at the clock, his fingers tapping impatiently. He sighed heavily. When a knock finally came at his door, he jumped up from the bed.

“About fucking time.”

Veronica felt Leo tense next to her as Bellamy lumbered across the hotel room. The camera was angled to catch most of the room—it’d been tucked behind a strategically draped curtain valence near the ceiling—but the small hallway leading to the door was cut off from view. For a moment all they had was audio.

The door opened. Bellamy’s voice came, low and surly. “You’re late.”

A female voice answered. “Sorry, baby. I got here as quick as I could.”

A short pause, and then Bellamy’s voice again: “You’re Morgan?”

“I can be.” Her voice was teasing, somehow simultaneously insolent and sensual.

“What does that—”

“Can we discuss this in your room? I don’t like to linger too long in doorways, you know?”

Veronica was willing to bet Bellamy hated being interrupted almost as much as he hated tardiness in his prostitutes. But after a moment, the door shut, and both of them moved back into view.

The girl was tall and amply curvy with full, voluptuous features. She wore a form-fitting cocktail dress and high silvery heels, and her thick, dark hair was pinned up behind her head. She stood with her legs slightly parted, leaning on one hip.

She glanced around the room approvingly. “This is nice. Real nice room.” Then she turned to face Bellamy. “I’m sorry, baby, Morgan’s not coming tonight. She got in a car accident on the way. She’s okay, don’t worry, but her car is totaled. She called me begging to come and see if there was any way you’d take me, instead. I’m Kenzie.”

Veronica saw Bellamy’s hands twitch, ever so slightly. She gave a grimly satisfied smile. Bellamy had gotten predictable through all his attacks. He didn’t react well to having his fantasy interfered with; didn’t like girls going off script. “Morgan,” the girl he’d asked for, had been much more his usual type—delicate, slender, fine-boned. Getting someone else, specifically an Amazon with a centerfold body and a brassy attitude, was as off script as it got.

The girl seemed to sense his indecision. She put a hand on his forearm. “I won’t disappoint you.” Her voice was softer, suggestive.

He moved his arm away from her touch. “Fine.” He looked her up and down. “Go get cleaned up. Wipe off that lipstick, it’s fucking tacky. Then come on out and let me see you again, and I’ll decide if I’m going to keep you.”

She smiled coyly. “I’m pretty sure once you see what I’ve got you’re not going to want to trade me in.” She went into the bathroom, and Bellamy moved agitatedly around the room for a few minutes, plumping pillows, straightening things on the dresser top.

A moment later, the bathroom door clicked open. The girl stepped out. She’d changed into a short, tight chemise. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, her lipstick wiped away. Across the arc of one breast was the narrow line of a tattoo. It was hard to make it out in the video camera, but Veronica knew what it said: GODDESS.

“Like it?” the girl asked, pirouetting slowly in front of him.

“Don’t look at me!” Bellamy snapped. He stabbed his index finger at her chest. “God, why do so many of you bitches ruin yourselves with all this tattoo crap? It just makes you look like a cheap whore.”

“Whore? Sure. Cheap? No.” She gave a cool smile, not flinching as his finger prodded her flesh. “And talking mean costs you extra, so you should be a little nicer unless you want this to get expensive in a hurry.”

Veronica thought for just a moment that the video feed had frozen. Bellamy stood stock-still, as if trying to process what he’d just heard. “Kenzie” put her hands on her hips, Wonder Woman style.

Veronica had a split second to admire the woman’s solid brass ovaries before Bellamy’s hands shot out and grabbed at her throat.

The brunette deftly dodged out of his reach, her reflexes faster than Veronica would have guessed. She caught a glimpse of Bellamy’s shocked face as he came up empty. Then his face contorted in pain as the woman drove her knee forcefully between his legs. He crumpled to his knees, clutching his crotch, and she kicked him again, this time in the face.

He was still curled up on the floor when she stepped over his body and went to unlatch the door. Her heels were soft in the carpet. The door opened and an enormous, hulking mass of a man entered the room. The shoulders of his sports coat strained to contain him. Like many big men in the security field, Sweet Pea moved gracefully, almost silently.

“Hello, Mr. Kiss and Tell,” he said. His voice was a soft croon. He had a brisk, professional expression on his face as he looked the other man over. Veronica realized that he was sizing him up.

“Who the fuck are you?” Bellamy groaned. He struggled to push himself up. His face was flushed, a ribbon of blood trickling from one nostril.

Sweet Pea shrugged out of his jacket and handed it to the girl. He rolled his sleeves up. Veronica wondered in passing what he’d told the real Morgan, the girl Bellamy had ordered; the plan had been for Sweet Pea to intercept her in the lobby, pay her for her time, and send her away.

“Friend of Madelyn Chase. I bet you remember her. You met her just down the hall from this room, what, ’bout a year ago?” Bellamy’s look turned to one of dawning horror. Sweet Pea nodded, as if his suspicions had just been confirmed. “Got some questions for you about her.”

He glanced up at the girl who’d let him in. “You want to wait in the lobby, sweetheart?”

Isabella looked directly at Bellamy, the smile spreading wider across her face. She sat in a chair, crossing her legs and resting her hands on her knee.

“Oh, don’t mind me,” she said. “I like to watch.”

Date: 2015-12-18; view: 570