investigation stalls, I’ll come back and pay the doctor a return visit.
Without my partner.
We’re pulling out of the parking lot when Zack points to a traffic camera at a stoplight across from Barakov’s office.
“See that?” he asks.
“The traffic cam?”
“When we get back to the office, I’m going to get the tape from the day Isabella went missing so we can review it. The image might not be clear enough to definitively identify Isabella, but it’ll be clear enough to see if a car of her model, make, and color was in the area at the time of the appointment. The one she
His sarcasm is thick enough to spread on toast. I ignore it. I’m too busy reading a text that just came in from Johnson. Apparently the district attorney is already bugging him for an update on the case. He wants me to swing by his office before the end of the day. I hate these command performances. “The DA wants to see me. How about you check the tapes? I’ll call you as soon as I’m finished downtown.”
CHAPTER 6
The last two hours have been a complete waste of time. Not only did District Attorney Derek Walker keep me waiting outside his office for an hour before seeing me, once I was in his office, Walker took no fewer than three phone calls. After the last, he had the gall to hit on me, suggesting we continue our debriefing over a drink. Next time he needs a debrief, I’m sending Zack.
Once back on Highway 8, I call to check in. Hopefully he’s had a more productive afternoon than I did.
Zack answers with a cheery hello.
“Sounds like you had a better afternoon than I did,” I grumble. “What have you got?”
“A couple of baked potatoes, a thick-cut London broil, a twelve-pack of Negro Modelo, and—wait for it— confirmation that a red 2003 PT Cruiser went through the intersection of Tenth and J fifteen minutes before Isabella’s scheduled appointment.” He pauses. “The one the troll said she never kept. Score one for Armstrong!”
His enthusiasm makes me smile.
“How sure are you that it’s Isabella’s?”
“The photo of the driver’s a little fuzzy, but I could make out the license plate clear as day.” He rattles off an address. “Come over. Join me for an early dinner.”
Dinner at his place, just the two of us? The last time we had dinner together, we ended up in bed. Alarm bells go off. Best I hold the line. “I appreciate the offer, but when I told you to find a girlfriend earlier, I didn’t mean me. I don’t date my partners, Zack.”
“My mother will be relieved. She thinks it’s unseemly for a woman to carry a big gun. She wants me to marry Betty Crocker.”
“There is no Betty Crocker. Besides, maybe I have a date.”
A chuckle rolls out. “With that hideous bump on your nose? On a Wednesday night? Unlikely.”
“Screw you.”
I bite my lip. If I could have taken back that last response, I would have. Thankfully, Zack is still prattling on.
“Besides, this isn’t a date. I have something you’ll want to see.”
His voice is low and lilting. It does things to me it shouldn’t, conjuring images of a night I’d be better off forgetting. Zack seems to have done so. He’s been nothing but professional.
“Okay, I’ll bite. What have you got?” I reach for the iced tea in my cup holder and take a sip.
“The security tapes from the lobby of Barakov’s building.”
The cup slips out of my hand, spilling all over the passenger seat. I completely miss the turnoff to the 163.
“Shit!”
“Not the reaction I was expecting.”
“I just spilled my tea. You expect me to believe Barakov just called you up and
There’s a pause. “Not exactly. I remembered seeing cameras inside the lobby. The videos were just sitting there . . . on a secure server.”
“You know how to hack into a server?”
“I can be handy that way.”
My head is spinning. He sounds jubilant, talking as if he’s oblivious of the implications of his actions. He has to know we’ll never be able to use something illegally obtained against Barakov. I watched Zack skirt the edge when we worked together, but he never crossed the line. This most definitely crosses the line. This is major. My jaw tightens.
“You coming or aren’t you?” he asks.
Damn it. “Yes.”
“Are you coming now?” Again, there’s an almost imperceptible lowering of his voice. I tell myself I’m reading something into it, that I should chalk it up to Southern-boy charm.
“I’m ten, maybe fifteen minutes away,” I tell him before signing off and pulling onto 8 West.
The traffic is horrendous, as I get closer to the beach. I have more time than I thought to consider what to say to Zack when I see him. I understand temptation. I also understand that giving in to temptation always comes at a cost. What he did was stupid, plain and simple. We could have gotten that security footage the right way, the legal way.
Just when I think I have what I’m going to say to him all figured out, the address he gave me comes into view.
Every thought in my head flies out the window.
I have to remind myself to breathe.
I pull into the drive behind Zack’s SUV, the one identical to mine. I’d assumed when Zack gave me the address that he lived in an apartment building. Or that perhaps he was renting a condo. Either of which would be pricey enough at the beach. But this is neither. It’s a house. Two stories of oceanfront property.
I grab my phone and search for the address. A recent MLS listing pops up. Escrow just closed. I pull up the details. The house sold for over five million. Dollars. Five million.
Now, there are really only a few ways for an agent just over thirty to get his hands on that kind of money: marriage, inheritance, winning the lottery, or he’s done something very, very wrong. Zack’s cavalier attitude about getting the security tapes from Barakov’s building plays over and over in my head. Maybe Zack is comfortable cutting corners, comfortable living large and taking risks. I haven’t worked with him long enough to know.
But I do know I’m not.
Doing something that could jeopardize a case? That could end up shining an unwanted light on me? Definitely not something I’m comfortable with. Zack may be a liability I can ill afford.
What kind of man is Zack Armstrong really? There is one sure way to find out. This has become a matter of self-preservation.
I climb out of the SUV and pocket my cell on the way to Zack’s door. I don’t bother to knock. I barely even bother to take in my surroundings. The living room, dining area, and kitchen flow into one another. Zack’s behind the counter, knife in hand. He’s wearing a pair of red board shorts, nothing else. No shoes, no shirt. There’s a towel draped around his neck and his hair is damp, as if he just came in from a swim. I remove the gun from my clip and slam it down on the cutting board alongside the sliced cucumber.
Zack jumps. The knife in his hand slips. “Crap. I almost sliced my finger off.” He sets down the knife, yanks the towel from around his neck, and wraps it around his finger. “What’s the matter with you?”
“For the past twenty minutes I’ve been thinking about what you said. The more I think about it, the more pissed off I’m getting. I figure we should not be armed for this conversation.”
