“Okay.”
“I’m serious. Anything at all.”
“I got it.”
Shelly dropped the phone into her lap and replayed Kira’s words in her head.
I want you to call her.
Right. Like she was going to call up some homicide detective this time of night and tell her . . . what? That somewhere between her second and third raspberry mojito, she’d slipped off to the bathroom to check her phone, and she’d maybe seen a guy who might have looked like the guy in that police sketch?
Shelly was half-drunk, and even she knew how stupid that sounded.
She shouldn’t have come out tonight. Especially not with her law-school friends. They were wrapped up in their perfect little overachieving lives and didn’t understand what she was going through.
I want you to call her.
Shelly pulled up to a stoplight and checked her mirrors. No odd looks from other drivers. No creepy cars following her. She hadn’t been lying about the police-station thing. She really had driven by there a minute ago and even made a loop around it, but she’d seen no one suspicious, and no one was following her.
Someone honked behind her. The light was green. She was distracted tonight. What the hell had possessed her to order that third mojito?
Ren’s been wanting to go.
Ren. Her real name was Renee. And every time Drew used her nickname, Shelly felt a sharp pang in her chest.
Shelly coasted through traffic lights, green, green, green, trying not to obsess. For days, all she’d been able to think about was Drew with his wife and his kids, walking through the Magic Kingdom. She pictured them watching fireworks together and eating ice-cream cones and riding Space Mountain.
Well, maybe not Mia. She was only three, definitely not big enough for a roller coaster. But Drew was a doting father. He’d probably take her on Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride instead, and Shelly pictured Mia’s blond curls flying as she shrieked with glee. Or maybe not. Would she even know what Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride was? Had Renee read her children The Wind in the Willows? Probably so. Renee was a good mother, of course, and she had good, beautiful kids who would someday become good, beautiful adults.
Although Shelly had had a good mother, too, one who read stories and took her to church, and look how Shelly had turned out. She was a bitch. A home-wrecker.
She was the kind of woman she’d never imagined in a million years she’d be, the kind who met someone else’s husband in expensive hotel rooms and did things to him that his wife didn’t do anymore, things that made his eyes glaze over as he groaned her name.
The phone in her lap dinged, making her jump. She checked the screen and saw a text from Kira Vance with the detective’s phone number. Charlotte Spears. She bit her lip and once again wished she’d never gone to that damn bar tonight. But she’d wanted a distraction.
I want you to call her.
There had been an urgency in Kira’s voice. An intensity. Much like the look in her eyes when they’d met at the coffee shop. And the other detective with her? Whoa. He took intensity to a whole new level.
“Screw it.”
Shelly tapped the phone number as she neared her apartment. Her nerves danced as she tried to work out what to say. Hello, detective, you don’t know me, but I’ve got a hot tip for you . . .
She turned into the driveway of her building and rolled to a stop at the gate. As it slid open, she checked her mirrors again and thought about the man in the bar. He’d been attractive. Much more attractive than that suspect sketch. They didn’t even really look alike, come to think of it.
But . . . there had been that glance. He’d caught her eye on her way to the bathroom, and he’d looked at her a second too long. Only a second, but it had been enough to turn Shelly’s skin cold. Enough to make her call Kira Vance on her way home.
A woman’s voice sounded in her ear, low and throaty, like Kathleen Turner. You have reached the voice mail . . .
Shelly hung up, relieved. She’d call Detective Spears in the morning. Or maybe she’d wake up and realize the whole thing was stupid, and she wouldn’t call anyone.
Shelly pulled into a parking space and checked her surroundings. The building formed a U shape, with narrow balconies looking out over a pool. She saw lights in several units and the flicker of a few televisions, but the parking lot wasn’t full. Many of her neighbors were probably still out for the evening. Shelly dropped her keys into her purse, then grabbed her tube of pepper spray. It was sticky and covered with lint, and she peeled a gum wrapper off it before clutching it in her hand and getting out of her car.
The air smelled of chlorine and grass clippings. Shelly strode across the lot, gripping her key card in one hand and her pepper spray in the other, and the heels of her sandals clacked against the concrete. She glanced around, checking the sidewalks and the shadows between cars. She passed through a hedge to the landscaped courtyard, where a glowing blue pool was surrounded by a wrought-iron fence. The pool was empty now, except for a pink foam noodle drifting listlessly in the corner.
Shelly scanned the hedges, trying to calm her nerves. She shouldn’t have called Kira. The PI had gotten her all worked up, and now she wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight. Maybe she’d have one last drink just to smooth her nerves and block out the images of Drew and his family on their perfect vacation.
She reached the door and swiped the key card over the panel. The light blinked green, and she felt a surge of relief. Home sweet home.
“Michelle.”
She whirled around, and her heart jumped.
Charlotte needed to get home.
She’d been running nonstop for eighteen hours, and now she wanted to eat, shower, and crash. She hadn’t had a midnight callout in weeks, and she was overdue for being pulled out of bed and losing half a night’s sleep.
She exited the police-station parking lot, but instead of turning right toward the freeway, she hung a left toward Allen Parkway, making her way to Avalon Lofts for what would be the second time today. She and Diaz had stopped by earlier after convincing the Duffy & Hersch receptionist to give them Michelle Chandler’s address. They had wanted to interview the woman, but she hadn’t been home, and they figured she was probably out for the evening, kicking off her weekend, which was where she and Diaz would be tonight if either of them had a life outside of work.
Charlotte’s phone buzzed, and she tapped the button to put it on speaker.
“I thought you went home,” she said.
“I’m on my way.” Diaz’s voice surrounded her in stereo. “You listening to the scanner?”
Charlotte tensed. “No.”
“Unresponsive female at Avalon Lofts.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No. I’m on my way over there now, ETA ten minutes.”
“I’ll meet you.”
Charlotte floored the gas, wishing she were in a police unit instead of her personal vehicle. Pushing her Mustang to its limit, she swerved around traffic and sped through three consecutive yellow lights before reaching the apartment complex. Nearing the gate, she spied a pair of patrol units in the lot, red and blue strobes spinning. An ambulance was there, too, but the lights were off.
“Shit.” She pounded her fist on the steering wheel.
The gate to the complex stood open, and a uniformed officer manned a barricade between the parking lot and the building’s courtyard. It was a large complex. Hundreds of units. An unresponsive female could mean anything. Maybe some woman had choked on a chicken bone or had a few too many beers by the pool.