“That’s where Chelsea lives, isn’t it? That little white furball dog that’s one of Tracy’s customers’?”
“Sure thing. And you haven’t been helping to watch the little mutt. Frieda Shoreman has. So, I’m going to take Chelsea with me, and leave you there as a little surprise. A little
dead
surprise.”
I cringed, anticipating with anguish another dose of that lunatic laughter, but this time I was wrong. Thank heavens. Or maybe laughter would have been better.
“Start driving now, or I’ll shoot,” he said. “Oh, and by the way, your friend Jeff? He should be checking out a little diversion I left at the other end of the property right about now, so he won’t even know you’re gone. Now, drive.”
So what could I do? I turned the key in the Beamer’s ignition and set off toward the designated address.
Damn. What diversion? Was Jeff okay?
I gripped the steering wheel tightly as I drove from the ostentatious area housing Fabrizio Fairfax’s home toward more mundane residential areas on the city side of the Hollywood Hills, heading off the mountain toward Wilshire. Oh, if only Impressario, the iguana, had had an opportunity to chomp down on Allen’s gun hand . . .
I needed to keep Allen chattering, so I said, “So where’s Tracy tonight? Any chance she’ll be able to join us?”
“She’s off doing her damned pet-sitting. For now. When there’s this new pet-napping tonight of one of her favorite dogs, and her good friend Frieda Shoreman’s accused of killing you and stealing the animal, it’ll be the last straw. She’ll get out of the business once and for all. And then she’ll really be mine.”
“I thought she’d get out of it when she was arrested for murder herself,” I said conversationally. “That seemed to be the way things were heading. What would you have done then—confessed to save her?”
“I love Tracy,” Allen said petulantly. “I’d have helped her.”
“But by confessing yourself?”
“I’m not stupid,” he hollered. “If one of us had to go down for that murder, it wouldn’t have been me.”
“I see. Then you don’t really love her?”
“Shut up, bitch!” That damnable gun was now pressing hard into my windpipe. “I know what you’re doing. You’re trying to confuse me, make me unsure how I feel about Tracy. Well, it won’t work.”
I stopped for a red light on Sunset, letting my eyes glance surreptitiously from side to side. Was there a way out of this here and now? A cop car? A big, black, familiar Escalade?
Not that I immediately saw. But surely, by now, Jeff would have figured out that whatever Allen did wasn’t real. Right?
“I’m just making conversation, Allen,” I said with a gargle, since the gun hadn’t moved. “I’m sure you do love Tracy.” Like, obsessively. But I didn’t say that.
“Now, just shut up and drive,” he directed.
We were drawing much too close to our destination—where Allen intended me to die.
That wasn’t
my
intention. And it wasn’t in my best interests not to talk.
Maybe now was the time to play my hand . . . I hoped.
“I’d be glad to be quiet,” I said, “but that would ruin the story, wouldn’t it, Corina?”
“What the hell are you talking about?” shouted Allen.
And from the backseat, wherever my bag had landed, I heard the muted voice of the media person with whom I had a mutually beneficial relationship. “Keep talking,” she said from the speaker feature of my cell phone. I’d pushed the button before, just in case, when I’d made the connection. “I’m getting one hell of a report here. It’s been picked up by all the local feeds and most networks, and—”
“You bitch!” Allen screamed.
Afraid his trigger finger had grown more than itchy as his fury raged, I did the only thing I could.
I floored the Beamer, aimed it toward a great big SUV parked on the side of the road, and ducked down as fast as I could.
Chapter Twenty-nine
SMASH!
The impact flung me forward in my seat, then back again as my air bag inflated.
Damn! I could barely breathe.
Worse, I couldn’t really move. But at least I no longer felt the metal of the gun barrel against my neck. No way could I find the rearview mirror to see where Allen had landed. And I sure couldn’t turn my head to check him out, either.
Maybe smashing my poor Beamer wasn’t a brilliant idea after all. But it beat being shot in the head by a lunatic insurance salesman with an obsession with a fellow pet-sitter.
All seemed silent suddenly. It certainly was still. Was I waiting for the next shoe to drop?
The first shot to fire?
Somehow, I had to slither out of here. Fast. Find help. Or at least find a way to breathe without an inflated air bag stuck against my face.
But before I could manage to move, the rear door on the driver’s side was yanked open. Was Allen escaping? I stiffened, bracing for the bullet I anticipated from his miserable gun to wallop me through the broken window at my side.
Instead, I heard a male voice shout, “Lay the gun down gently and put your hands behind your head.”
“Don’t shoot, officer. I’m hurt,” came the whimper from my backseat. “Help me.”
The door at my side was pulled open simultaneously with my hearing sirens converging from all angles around me. “Are you okay, Ms. Ballantyne?” asked a sharp female voice.
Ms. Ballantyne? Who, in this area where I’d driven to, knew who I was?
I wasn’t even sure, right then, that
I
did.
I used my hands to try to push away the awkward inflated stuff surrounding me. I wasn’t a whole lot successful on my own, although suddenly the stuff wasn’t stuck against my face. At last, I could turn my head. A uniformed cop stood there, a woman with hair pulled starkly off her face and her hand outstretched to manipulate the air bag. Not someone I’d seen standing by outside Fabrizio Fairfax’s gates.
Aha! My conversation with Corina Carey had apparently worked. She’d called the cops and told them what was up and who they were chasing.
“Is the man who was in my backseat in custody?” I rasped as I attempted to assess if the aches all over my body were from being bombarded by the air bag or if I’d actually been shot. On the whole, fortunately, I felt fine, though somewhat sore.
“Yes ma’am,” said the officer.
“Then I’m definitely okay,” I said.
I WONDERED ABOUT the truth of that statement a few minutes later when I’d been extracted from the bashed-in Beamer and surveyed it sadly. It had been in accidents before and been reparable. Could it be fixed this time?
“Damn it, let me through,” demanded a most welcome voice from somewhere beyond the crowd of cop cars that surrounded the site.
Jeff.
I watched as he shook off detaining hands of several angry officers, waving something in the air that I assumed was his P.I. ID. He hurried up to me and grabbed me into his arms.
I expected soothing succor. Calming, adoring kisses.
Instead, he shook me soundly, then held me at arm’s length. His handsome face was contorted with anger. “I was checking out what appeared to be a body in the bushes—
your
body—so I didn’t see you go. It was a setup, thank God—but why the hell did you leave the Fairfax estate with him? Are you out of your mind?”
Before I could respond, one of the cops inserted himself between Jeff and me. “I don’t care who you are, sir. This is a crime scene, and you need to stay back.”
“Thank you, officer,” I said sweetly as Jeff threw an infuriated stare over his shoulder. He nevertheless stomped off toward a nearby coffee shop. I watched as he went inside, probably wishing they served something stronger than banana mocha decaf Frappuccinos.
I sighed. He’d probably been right. I had been out of my mind. And right now, the feel of his hands on me, even in anger, would be much more welcome than my solitude as I sat on the curb in front of a small dry cleaner shop, waiting to be interrogated. At least he was okay.
For a short while, I watched as a crime scene team assessed the site, taking measurements and sticking the usual numbers down on places where potential pieces of evidence had sat.
Allen Smith stood by a black-and-white, handcuffed and looking immeasurably enraged. Ready to throttle someone, if his hands had been free.
I’d done this on a somewhat seedy commercial street south of Sunset. Lots of onlookers other than Jeff gawked and pointed and jabbered, although I couldn’t hear what they were saying since they were kept at bay by yellow crime scene tape.
“So, Kendra, you’re the talk of L.A.,” said another familiar male voice from behind me. Gingerly, I turned my head to see Detective Ned Noralles approaching, his expression even more wry than usual.
At least I knew him, and as a card-carrying member of the LAPD, he was unlikely to be shoved away by an overzealous police officer.
“No homicide here, Ned,” I said as he offered his hand and helped me to my feet. And a good thing, too. My butt was beginning to get sore from sitting on the concrete sidewalk. “What brings you by?”
“Well, the way things were going on the radio, I couldn’t be sure you weren’t about to be shot at any moment.”
That comment made me wince. It had certainly been true, but—“Thanks to Corina Carey, I assume.”
“Yep. She apparently received your cell phone transmission, and her techs got it to broadcast on air in real time. On TV, too, I understand, with a graphic from a global positioning system tracking your route.”
“Oh,” I said, holding my head. She’d been telling the truth. I’d assumed she was lying to help me, that she’d simply made good use of her own eavesdropping on the conversation, taped it, preparing to pop it into a future broadcast. I hadn’t assumed it would be used as it happened.
What if I’d been shot? What would the listening audience think then? Surely, the FCC wouldn’t have been pleased.
Neither would I.
“So, you did it again,” Ned said. “At least this time I wasn’t the main detective on the case, so I’m not the one you humiliated by finding the real killer. This time I’ll be the one to poke fun at the guys you bested. Good job.”
He grinned. So did I. “You mean you’re congratulating me?”
“Sure thing. Like I told you before, maybe we should hire you instead of fighting you.”
“I’m busy enough with my dual career,” I said, “but thanks anyway.”
“Well, in any case, I’ve volunteered to take your official statement,” Ned said.
“Here, or at the station?” I asked.
“Your choice,” he replied.
Which was when I noticed Jeff emerging from the coffee shop. And then, right behind the police lines toward the far side of my battered Beamer, I noticed Tom Venson arguing with a uniformed cop, pointing toward me and probably shouting.
And Corina Carey’s familiar media van maneuvered its way down the street, apparently using the First Amendment as its ticket to bash through the yellow crime scene tape.
My head was pounding. I saw Allen Smith glaring daggers at me from his position beside the police car—but at least he wasn’t spewing bullets.
I let my gaze move from Jeff to Tom to Corina, who was just emerging from her van and beginning to argue with a uniformed officer who attempted to block her path.
“I vote for the station,” I stated emphatically to Ned. “Right now!”
Chapter Thirty
OKAY, SO I’M a coward after all. I can fight my way out of situations where crazed killers aim guns at my head, but facing two men who are both interested in me . . . well, that takes guts I don’t have.
So after Ned swept me off to the North Hollywood Police Station and got my official statement, I hurried to Darryl’s to pick up Lexie and put up with my dear friend’s lecture about danger and stupidity . . . and how glad he was to have me there to hug. Yes, he, too, had followed every instant of that horrible TV broadcast, trying to reassure Lexie I’d be just fine.
I hugged him back, teary and more than touched, and took Lexie home.
Where tenants and friends, Rachel and Russ Preesinger, met me in the driveway with Beggar and also chewed me out, while making it clear they, too, were happy to have me back safe and sound.
“After this whole thing started, Kendra,” Rachel told me, “I watched the TV while doing an Internet search on that creepy Allen Smith.”
Jeff had looked him up before along with everyone else on my list including PSCSC members. So had Althea. They hadn’t found anything untoward about the guy. But there were oodles of Allen Smiths to check, and he might have slipped through.
As a result, my suspicions against Allen had been more gut feel than grounded in any reality. Or so I’d thought.
“I scanned thousands of references to Allen Smiths,” Rachel said, “and finally came up with one who’d made the news when he was arrested in Chicago a few years ago for violating a restraining order.”