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“What time?”
“At 4 a.m. He received a text from an unknown number who claimed to have evidence that you orchestrated the hit on Chen—that your personal gun was used.”
“If my gun was used, someone took it from my condo. I have a lockbox in my closet with three handguns—a .45 Colt, a .40 Glock, and a .38 revolver. I have my .45 SIG on me. The box is basic, someone with minimal skills could pick the lock, or with minimal tools, break the seal on the box. Four a.m.?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I have a gas receipt time-stamped 3:56 a.m. from a twenty-four-hour gas station in Big Bear. I also bought Tylenol, beer, water and junk food inside the mini-mart. The clerk would remember me because he was admiring my Harley. Not many girls ride Harleys.”
“Send a copy of that receipt, and I’ll get them to drop the BOLO.”
“You didn’t think—”
“Of course not! I don’t want the cops to get itchy fingers thinking you killed a fed.”
“I’m coming back, Matt. Someone is setting me up. Two hours, tops. I don’t have a phone, they didn’t sell any at the mini-mart, and nothing else is open right now.”
Matt looked at his watch. It was seven.
“Hold off on sending the receipt,” he said. Tony was definitely not going to like this. “I don’t want anyone knowing where Violet is. Do you think she’s safe there?”
“Yes. But I don’t want to leave her alone for long. Where are you going to be?”
“First Contact.”
32
The world Rebecca Chavez had painstakingly built and protected for years was being challenged from all sides. But she would overcome. She would fix each problem, one at a time. The situation she found herself in wasn’t her fault; in fact, had everyone just listened to her and stayed the course, this would have been over months ago.
She’d been right. Then and now. But fear was a powerful emotion, and everyone else reacted instead of just doing exactly what she told them to do.
The FBI should have had the Chen case; if not for Bryce’s obsession with Detective Quinn, she could have taken the case and dragged it out until she could make it disappear. But Bryce had tunnel vision when it came to Quinn. Once DDA Dyson insisted on prosecuting, Chavez knew she would have to take care of Chen before he could plea and provide information that might come down on her people.
Then she learned what Dyson was really investigating—the apartment building that Chen owned and the money the city gave him for housing his women—and she realized Dyson was the bigger problem.
All because of Kara Quinn.
By that time, she started fueling Bryce’s hatred of the detective to the point where he would do anything to take Quinn down. He wanted to arrest her, interrogate her, reopen all her cases.
That would have been no good because if Bryce looked too deeply into Chen’s business, he might uncover the connection to Jonathan—and that was unacceptable. Rebecca had buried it deep, but it was there.
Still, she had it under control until information started leaking out. She had no idea how, but suspected that LAPD had an undercover operation. It was exactly something that Kara Quinn would do—pretend to be one place, but actually be infiltrating another. The only way some of the information could have been leaked—like the documents on Sunflower Homes—was if someone knew what they were looking for. And then that ridiculous podcast discussing Angel Homes and Muriel and making the connection that she was Lydia Zarian’s sister.
That didn’t directly impact Rebecca, but anything that damaged Lydia could potentially come back on Rebecca.
Her own contact confirmed the undercover operation, but could find no information as to who the operative was, other than a male detective out of Lieutenant Elena Gomez’s squad. Then he learned there was a whistleblower who worked in city hall.
That was nearly a month ago, but it explained almost everything that had gone wrong.
It was eight in the morning and Brian Granderson had called her into the office. She would be late, but he would accept her excuse. She had an exemplary record and being a few minutes late for a meeting when one of her men had just been killed in cold blood was justifiable.
She and Lydia needed this heart-to-heart before Lydia put into play one of her insane plans.
Lydia was at home in her opulent estate above the 210 not far from the Glendale Freeway interchange. The view was spectacular, but Rebecca had always thought Lydia’s taste was on the tacky side. Ornate statues and columns were bad enough, but she’d painted her house pink. A light pink, but still pink.
Rebecca parked her sensible, older Mercedes in front of the wide staircase that led to the portico. Ivy grew along stone fences—the stone did not match the Mediterranean-style mansion. And gargoyles standing sentry on the top of Greek columns on either side of the door? Just...no.
Rebecca would never say anything to her oldest friend, but clearly money didn’t buy taste.
