Dead Spots (Scarlett Bernard #1)(72)
Jesse Cruz was feeling extremely stupid.
He’d stormed out of the coffee shop like a kid throwing a tantrum, and realized within about ten minutes that he was being ridiculously shortsighted. The revelation that Scarlett was willing to help disappear murdered kids had really thrown him, partly because he really had seen the kind of devastation that unsolved murders wreaked on a family, and, if he was being honest with himself, partly because he was just disappointed that his crush would do something like that. That moment in the coffee shop had made him realize, for the first time, just how attracted he was to the damaged girl with the green eyes. And so he’d lost his temper.
Even though it was a much better time to be making sure both of them lived through the night. Back at his desk, Jesse had pulled out his cell to call Scarlett but realized the battery was dead. And, of course, he hadn’t actually written down her number, just programmed it into his phone. Sighing, he had trooped downstairs to the parking garage to get the phone charger out of his car, only to realize that he’d left it at his parents’ house over the previous weekend. He rolled his eyes. Vampires and werewolves were running amok in the city, and he couldn’t remember a cell phone charger.
Jesse had headed back into the building to look up Scarlett’s number in the department’s computer system, but was detained in the hallway by Miranda, who wanted an update on the files he’d gone through. Thanks to Glory, he’d gotten away with the midday disappearance, but Jesse was still trying to convince Miranda that he could do the job. By the time he had gotten back to his desk, looked up the number, and phoned Scarlett, she wasn’t answering. The call went straight to voice mail, which meant she’d turned the phone off. Could she be mad at him?
If so, it was a damn juvenile time for the silent treatment, he thought, then felt hypocritical. Jesse decided to give her half an hour, then try again. He spent the time trying to reach Freedner again, but the human servant’s cell phone also went straight to voice mail. Frustrated, Jesse entered Freedner’s name into the department’s system again, on the off chance that he’d been given a traffic ticket or picked up by the police in the last day. He was shocked when Freedner’s name actually got a hit.
Jesse skimmed the report, made that morning by a uniform in the Downtown division. Thomas Freedner, 30, had been found in a cheap downtown hotel that morning, dead by a self-inflicted gunshot wound. There had been a note, and the ME had confirmed the death as a suicide. The uniform had noted that the room was full of empty whiskey bottles and several vials of Valium. The department had already closed the case.
Jesse leaned back in his seat, stunned. Could Freedner have been the La Brea Park killer? He could have holed up in the hotel after the murders, working up the courage to shoot himself, and then finally followed through. But then why kill Ronnie the werewolf? Even if Freedner thought Ronnie had witnessed something, if he was planning to commit suicide anyway, why would it have mattered? It just didn’t fit.
Jesse picked up the phone to try Scarlett, hoping she’d have some insight. When the call went to voice mail again, he started to seriously worry. He left a brief message and then sat at his desk, not even pretending to look busy. Where would she have gone? He thought of the file he’d left with her when he’d stomped out of the shop—it was no big deal, everything had been copies, but had she decided to try to investigate further on her own? Where would she even go? It had to be something Old World, he finally decided. And that meant it was out of his jurisdiction, so to speak.
Jesse tried to find a number for Molly, but she apparently didn’t exist. He fretted over trying to call Dashiell, but figured that Scarlett would kill him if it turned out she was just somewhere with a dead phone and he’d pissed Dashiell off for nothing. He found a name and address on his computer for a Jack Bernard in Esperanza, California, but when he called, the phone line had been disconnected. If Scarlett really didn’t keep in touch with her brother, Jack was not a great option anyway. Finally, Jesse pulled out the good old-fashioned Yellow Pages and called the werewolf bar.
“Hair of the Dog, this is Eli,” a voice shouted over loud punk rock.
“Hey, this is Jesse Cruz. We met the other night at Scarlett Bernard’s house?” When I unlocked silver handcuffs for you in front of the girl I think we both might like, he thought. “Have you seen her tonight?”
“What? No. Hang on, let me get back to the office.” The phone clicked in Jesse’s ear, and he sat through a couple of minutes of a Muzak version of “The Rainbow Connection.” When Eli picked up the phone again, the bar cacophony had vanished. “Has something happened?” Eli asked, straight to business. Jesse realized the guy reminded him of Scarlett.
“No. Well, maybe. I’m not sure. Did she...um...tell you about her deadline with Dashiell?”
“What deadline?” Eli said, the beginning of alarm in his voice.
Praying he wasn’t digging himself or Scarlett into more trouble, Jesse explained about the second null and Dashiell’s demand that she either bring him the killer or turn herself in to die by 5:00 a.m. And that now Scarlett was out of contact, and he was afraid she’d gone off on her own to investigate. When he was finished, there was a long, heavy silence on the line.
“She told me Dashiell suspected her, but not that he was planning to kill her,” Eli said, his voice just barely above a growl. “Probably because she knew I’d go to Pasadena and rip his goddamned head off.”