2 Sisters Detective Agency(73)

“What’s ‘vanity’?” Baby asked. She stood in the kitchen of the Manhattan Beach house, the cupboards all around her emptied of pots and pans, plates and glasses, all of it now mixed with the party debris on the floor and countertops, a sea of mess. Ashton was in the hall nearby, going through a cabinet of silverware and dumping the drawers’ contents on the floor.

“It’s, like, your self-esteem, I guess? If you’re vain, you think you’re cool.”

“‘Under vanity,’” Baby said, looking at her phone.

“What?”

“I got this text from Rhonda that just says, ‘Under vanity.’ It’s probably autocorrect. Unless she’s trying to tell me that I’m too full of myself? But it’s not really the time for—”

Ashton’s eyes widened. “The bathrooms. Come on!”

The teens ran to the stairs. Halfway up, they heard the front door burst open. Baby shoved Ashton down, and the two huddled, listening. Slowly, they crept back down a couple of steps and peered around the banister at what they could see of the foyer.

A single boot appeared. Blue ostrich skin with a skull-shaped cap on the toe. Martin Vegas dropped the twisted and bent handle of the front door on the tiles at his feet.

“Go.” Baby pushed at Ashton to head upstairs. “Go, go, go.”





Chapter 102



The parking lot of the hospital was in chaos. Summerly’s sedan nosed its way in between the vehicles of medical staff and hospital visitors trying to flee the scene. A woman running with an IV pole rolling along beside her was almost knocked down by a man in an orderly’s uniform who had jumped the curb with his green four-wheel drive. I could see other patients and civilians standing at windows inside the hospital, watching the activity in the parking lot, their hands pressed against the glass.

Summerly’s phone had continued to ring as he drove, but he left it wailing alone on the seat beside him. The radio crackled with updates, which he now and then responded to.

“Unit Five at the scene. We’re getting reports on the identities of the shooters,” a voice on the radio said. “Two suspects. One male, fifties. Female, late teens. The guy has been identified as Jacob Kanular. He’s a local. Family man. Has a kid in critical care. Over.”

“This is Summerly. Who’s the girl? Over.”

“A witness recognized her as one Vera Petrov.”

“Oh, my God,” I said. “He found her.”

“You say something?” Summerly put his radio down and looked at me.

“I know the girl,” I said. “Vera. Well, I mean, I don’t know her. But I’m pretty sure I know why that guy, Kanular, is after her.”

“You know why they’re shooting at people?” Summerly asked.

“They’re not after random people,” I said. “Kanular is after Vera.”

“That doesn’t make any sense. Witnesses are saying they’re both shooters,” Summerly said. “People inside the hospital have told officers on the scene that the girl killed two nurses.”

I shook my head. Terror and dread washed over me.

“I don’t get it.” Summerly slammed on the brakes and put the car into park. A woman ran past us with a tiny baby in her arms. “How do you know the shooters, Rhonda? What’s your link to all this?”

“Never mind,” I said. “I don’t have time to explain. Uncuff me, and let’s get inside.”

“You’re not going anywhere.” Summerly pulled his gun from a shoulder holster. A couple of officers running through the lot used the car as a shield for a second, bracing themselves to make a run for the hospital’s automatic doors. I saw their hot breath on the glass only inches from my face.

“Dave, you’ve got to let me out,” I said. “At least uncuff me!”

“You’re not a cop, Rhonda. Stay in the car.”

Summerly got out and ran toward the hospital. I growled with frustration, turned and kicked the window of the car out. I knew there was a spare handcuff key in the glove box of every squad car in Colorado, just in case there was a traffic accident and an officer was ever hauled away with their key before a suspect could be freed from the back seat. I hoped LAPD detectives had the same rules. I struggled forward and kicked as hard as I could at the inside of the door.





Chapter 103



Jacob ran at Vera. He batted the scalpel away, took a deep cut across the palm of his hand in doing it, but the pain didn’t register. He was in killer mode. His body was shutting down all unnecessary senses, focused only on survival, on neutralizing the threat.

Vera couldn’t beat him physically, but she was doing a good job outsmarting him. The second he had knocked the scalpel from her hand, her wrist seized in his big fingers, Vera’s other hand was coming at his face with some kind of steel hook, another instrument she had snatched from the floor as he’d dragged her along. He slammed her into the steel cupboards, felt the thunk of the hook as she embedded it deep in his shoulder. She scrambled out of his bloody hands like a wet cat, impossibly strong and nimble, slipping out into the hall again.

He followed her, drawing his gun from the waistband of his jeans where he had tucked it as he entered the operating theater. The desire to use his hands on Vera had been too strong to ignore.