KNIGHT'S REPORTS: 3 Book Set (35 page)

Hmm
: Ramón Peña — he'd dated Stella off and on, what seemed like centuries ago, when Jason and I were stationed at Camp Lejeune. It was after I broke up with her, and she'd rebounded to my best friend Jason Ryder. Stella started toying with both suitors for probably six months before she finally chose Jason, and they got married a couple months later. I think the "daddy's money" thing Jason had going for him was a major factor in Stella's decision.

Ramón Peña never impressed me much, but he obviously impressed Stella.

The personal baggage he and I carried had nothing to do with her, but with what happened a couple years later. On a clandestine mission in Somalia, I'd witnessed Peña murder an innocent family. We were after a terrorist planning to blow up the British embassy in Dubai, and he was our asset on the ground. Even though we had accurate intel, he screwed up and led us to the wrong location. We forced our way into the house next door thinking it was the terrorist suspect's home. When we tried to convince Peña he'd taken us into the wrong place, he killed a father, mother and three preteen children because he was never wrong — they
had to be
the targets.

My other team members restrained me from gunning him down, and he got away. I quit the snoop and poop business that day, came back to the US and started a wonderful family less than two years after that. I hadn't seen him since.
 

I come out of my absentminded reminiscence just in time to shoot into the inside lane on a left curve to pass Zoya. We come out of it, and I'm ahead by a car-length. Zoya punches it and tries to pass on a right curve, taking the inside, and I have to move to the center to avoid bumping fenders. Suddenly, a panel truck appears in my lane.

I tap the brakes, turn the wheel to the embankment on the left, and spin out, one quick loop. Then I down shift and punch it again as I come around behind Zoya's Porsche.

I'd maneuvered exactly the way I'd hoped, but I'll have to admit at least some luck was involved.

As I shift into third, the curves stretch out some, and since I'm no longer commanding the lanes in front of her, Zoya's pulling away.

"Why you little shit!" I say with a grin. I'm actually beginning to respect this little gal's driving.
Not bad!

But I catch up when a curve gets tight again. I take a chance and pass as she brakes. Pulling ahead, I downshift and punch the gas.

We come out of the curve to a short straightaway, her on my bumper. I'm in third, getting ready to downshift to second, as we approach a sharp left turn with a scenic lookout on the right.

I take the left lane, and she tries to pass on the right. We're almost neck and neck, but her little Porsche finds loose gravel and drifts sideways.

I watch her lose it in the review mirror and steer the Shelby to the shoulder.

She's sliding to the edge — the guardrail. She's going fast, sliding fifty feet, and could go over if she over compensates. She under steers and the Porsche stays sideways into the guardrail, obviously making contact more than she wanted, but keeping it from going over the side.

I tell Jazzy, "Now there's an expensive dent."

Chapter
8

Old Exes, New Hexes and More Sexes

I turned around
and drove back to Zoya, pulling up in the opposite direction. She was sitting at the wheel, her face empty, panting.

She looked up and smiled. "Vow! Vhat fun! Do again?"

"Don't you have a body to guard?" I asked her.

She was grinning ear to ear. "Like guard yours."

"What about Jason?"

"No bodyguard. Monitor. See?" She held up an iPad-sized tablet.

On the screen was an LA area street map with a blinking light that appeared to be around fifty miles away from where I figured we were sitting.

"Jason, see?" she said.

I nodded, seeing that Jason was either wearing a tracking chip or there was one in his limo. I wondered if he knew about it. "No more
fun
for me. Fifty-five all the way home," I told her and started to pull away.

"No-o-o!" she insisted, bucking like a child throwing a tantrum. "More fun! Do us again!"

Hair wind-blown; large, lovely brown eyes; pouting and humping in her seat: I wondered if she knew what kind of message she was sending.

Yeah, she knows.
I smiled back at her. "Drive careful — bye-bye."

When I pulled away, I was more than surprised when she didn't turn my way and follow me — and I had to admit, I was at least mildly disappointed.

I had one more little bit of business to take care of before Jazzy Brass and I went back to the marina. I hadn't seen Stella Hutchins in the flesh, so to speak, since the night of her and Jason's second wedding. I wondered if she'd try to seduce me this time, as well.

*  *  *

I pulled into Stella's drive, up to her front door walk and parked my Shelby. A muscle-bound, head-shaven man that I recognized as one of Stella's long-time bodyguards was out by the garage washing her Bentley Mulsanne. A
For Sale
sign was leaning against the garage door, and I suspected Bruno would be placing it on a window inside the car and then parading the late model luxury car up and down Rodeo Drive.

When I hopped out of my ride, I noticed Bruno walking toward me. He was wearing one of those sleeveless
wife-beater
muscle shirts and designer blue jeans, no socks and red Nike Jordan's.

"Stay in the car, Jazzy!" I told my furry girl just loud enough for Bruno to hear. "I don't want this big asshole to land on you. It'd take days and a ton of shampoo to wash out the smell."

Bruno and I went way back. He was sniffing around Stella when I was dating her, back when I was stationed in North Carolina in the Marines. As a young couple, we partied quite a bit when I was on liberty, and we seemed to bump into Bruno at about every other club we went to, many times working as a bouncer. We'd had a couple of run-ins, both ended in my favor.

Then, to my amazement as I caught one of those movie star awards shows on television five or six years back, I see Bruno opening the car door for Stella and escorting her onto the red carpet.

I wondered if he'd gotten any smarter.

He stepped up to me with what I remembered was his usual snarl. "Still a damn smart-mouth, Knight? You haven't changed a bit!"

I cringed, "Neither has your breath, Bruno. Still eating shit sandwiches?"

He was grinding his teeth so hard, I figured he'd spit out the powder. "I don't wanna have to get ugly in front of Ms. Stella's."

"Too late, Bruno. You've been ugly for as long as I've known you!"

*  *  *

His eyes widen.

His right shoulder flexes.

I know it's time for action.

I advance. My knee slams into his groin, as his right fist comes around with a haymaker — a terrible, telegraphing punch for a bouncer to throw.

I'm on the inside of his arm, and his punch misses behind my head.

My right comes straight up — one simple and quick jab — and meets his chin.

His eyes roll back like a dying calf in a hailstorm.

Lights out!
–Still has that
glass jaw
.

For good measure, on his way down to the concrete driveway, I give him another quick jab, this time to his nose. It
cracks
as loudly as breaking a pencil.

I step back.

He crumbles into a pile on the driveway.

Five seconds pass without movement.

He's convulsing all over now, coming back to consciousness, oxygen reentering his pebble-sized brain.

He starts to get up. Blood is running from his nose, over his mouth and dripping from his chin. Leaning on one arm, he shakes off the stars, and the blood splatters on the driveway.

He says, "Damn you!"

"Better just lie there," I warn him.

He struggles a bit, but finds his legs. Then he reaches behind his back. I'm sure he's going to pull out a weapon of some kind — unsure what.

"Now, Bruno, you know I'll shove whatever you pull on me straight up your ass sideways." I'm ready for anything from a cannon to a dildo. But I'm hoping for a breath mint — it would be a lot less work.

He pauses, considering what I just told him.

I'm impressed. His intelligence quota seems to have gone up a couple of points over the years — if he's taught to tie his shoes and recite the ABCs someday, he may even break fifty.

"Now, go play with your balls in the street like a good little boy. Mommy and I have business."

He stares at me, wipes his face, feels his broken nose and stares some more. The look in his eyes tells me he's done, for now. Still, I'm sure he'll try to wring my neck if I ever let my guard down.

Chapter 9

Lipstick on My Collar

I rang the
doorbell and was a bit surprised when Stella herself came to the door. She was obviously surprised it was me.

At first, I wondered if she wasn't frightened, her bright red lips quivering nervously. Then she seemed to compose herself, and she made one of those fake smiles you give somebody you really don't wish to see.

"Stella. Long time."

"Well, E Z...oh, yes! It's been...too long." She paused for an awkward moment while holding the door — then the stony shock softened on her face. She rushed to me and gave me a hug.

After a thoughtful moment, she stepped back and looked past me at her big bodyguard.

"Bruno didn't give you a hard time, did he?"

"No more than usual," I said and smiled at her.

She seemed to find a memory from long ago and chuckled.

But, in the next second, she had her arms back around me in a rib-breaker, and I realized she was crying. It started in a few sobs, but grew into rapids on the way to a waterfall. Then came the uncontrollable wailing.

"Come on, Stella," I told her. I stepped in and closed the door, then guided her to a sofa in the sitting room.

Even with a few tiny wrinkles, a tear-streaked face and red eyes, she was still a beauty of the highest order. With a face like that, she didn't need much talent to be an actress. But Hollywood had shoved her aside for younger beauties, and for the past five years, she'd been left with a high-rolling lifestyle and only bit parts, cameos and walk-ons to pay for it.

And now she was desperate to save her daughter's life.

"Stella," I assured her, bringing her chin up so that I could meet her eye-to-eye. "I'm going to get your daughter back safe. I promise...."

"Yeah, I know," she said and looked away. She shook her head. "And you
never
break your promises." She turned back to me. "I'm sorry, E Z. I know you always follow through. That's just one of the many reasons I fell in love with you...what's it been, fifteen years ago?"

"At least."

"But, E Z, we've never faced anything like this before."

She had no idea what Jason or I had done in the Marines, or afterwards as contractors for Judge Hammer. But that didn't matter now.

"Stella, I know you have a lot of other distractions: the divorce, the financial problems, but..."

"What?" she seemed genuinely puzzled. "I'm not in any financial trouble?"

Now, I returned puzzlement. Jason had told me Stella was stressed out, especially about the prenuptial leaving her nothing and putting her in dire financial straits with a foreclosure on the mansion looming and bankruptcy imminent.

 
"I'm sorry," I told her, then lied, "With the divorce, I presumed...."

"Oh, no," she said. "I'm fine." She smiled coyly. "What do you think I did with all that money I made when I was a budding sex symbol? You think I blew it on jewelry and designer gowns? That was Jason's money I spent." She chuckled. "I socked mine away for a rainy day — like this one." She narrowed her eyes. "Did Jason tell you that — that I was broke?"

I didn't answer.

"He did." She got up and turned toward the window. "That bastard. He's always been that way, too.
 Always has to be the best, always has to top me. When I got a big part, he had to get a bigger part. When I was nominated for an award,
he
had to
win
two. When the paparazzi mobbed us, he had to step in front so they couldn't get any good pictures of me — it was always him on the front page of the tabloids, blocking the shot."

A little stunned, I thought most big stars didn't like paparazzi. But, as I remembered from our short relationship, she was always the one needing attention, was high maintenance and super jealous.

She smiled at me.

I gazed back at an aging, out-of-work actress.

I asked, "Have you called the police?"

"No, of course not!" She seemed offended. "The note said they'd kill Sophie if I did."

I asked her about what happened that morning, and the night before. She conveyed the same information Jason had. Nothing out of the ordinary, until finding the note that morning. She said she'd let the maid, chef and house-help off early that evening.

I noticed none of the help had seemed to return — probably because they were laid off.

She took me upstairs to view Sophie's room. As she climbed the long staircase in front of me, I couldn't help but watch.  From both the front and back, she was still a knockout.

Once in her daughter's room, we talked as I searched for anything that might stand out — give me a clue about her abduction.
 

Stella seemed to have no idea who could be behind the kidnapping. She claimed she had no enemies, and she had not heard from the kidnappers since she found the photo on her Bentley.

"Let me see the note," I said.

Stella looked surprised. She didn't answer right away as if searching for an answer. "I don't know where it is. It seems to have disappeared."

"Oh, come on, Stella!"

"Really. I know it sounds crazy, but it's just gone. I left it on my desk last night, and it was gone this morning."

"Do you think one of the help got it — do they have a key to the house or some other way of getting in?"

"No. I've been very careful of that. They all must come to the door to be let in. I'm the only one besides Jason who can get in otherwise."

"What about Bruno — has he been in and out since then?" I asked.

She frowned. "Well, yes. But he's extremely loyal. Besides, he's not smart enough to be involved in something like this."

Stella did a double-take at the hamper next to Sophie's attached bathroom door. She tried to smile pleasantly to hide it.

I pretended I hadn't noticed, as she stood and walked past the laundry hamper to the bedroom window. She slipped the corner of a pink sheet back in place, and then stood at the window as if gazing out thoughtfully.

"I suppose he could have been at a bar someplace, gotten a little drunk and told the wrong person things about us." She turned to me. "Family habits and activities, when we get up and when we go to bed, where Sophie's bedroom is in the house, where the security system control is...I don't know. What do you think?"

"Don't trust the man an inch, myself. But that doesn't mean he isn't as loyal as you say. I'm betting the average Joe would have a hard time loosening those thin, cracked lips of his."

Stella saw that my eyes were on the photos on Sophie's makeup table and stuck to her mirror. We both went to them: a bunch of pictures of Stella, several of Justin Bieber — one autographed by the Bieb, himself — and photos of some other teenage rock idols. This table was the most unruly part of the house that I'd seen, so far. At least Stella let her little girl be a little girl in one way.  But there were no posters on the wall, and I couldn't find one photo of Jason, her father. I was pretty sure that was Stella's idea and not Sophie's.

She's one controlling woman, I thought —
Mommy Dearest.

"No pictures of Jason?"

"I told you, they're not that close."

The only photo of an adult male stuck out. He was standing in front of the mansion with Sophie on one side and another little girl who looked enough like Sophie to be her sister on the other. "That's your agent, isn't it — uh, Scott something?"

"Scott Pula. He
was
my agent until Jason stole him away. Sophie and Scott are very close — in many ways a lot closer than she is to
him
— to Jason." She smiled. "Scott's a sweet man — the other girl in the photo is his daughter, who's about Sophie's age. They've been best friends since birth — like sisters."

"What happened?"

"When Jason got so
big
...well, you know, Jason has many interests, investments and ventures — he needed a business manager more than an agent. Scott took the job and had no time for anyone else, including me. Jason wanted him all to himself — made him his very own one-man dog."

"And you had to find another agent?"

"I've been through seven since — one a year. And none of them did me a damn bit of good. That's when I started missing out on all the good parts, when I got pregnant with Sophie and lost Scott. It seemed Hollywood wasn't interested in a woman who had gained a pound or two during pregnancy. I lost it quickly, but not quickly enough. Without a good, experienced agent like Scott my career did nothing but sink from then on."

Stella tried to smile pleasantly again. She had given me nearly nothing — except her sob story and perhaps a little contradicting information.

Frustrated, I started for the stairs.

"E Z, wait a minute." She placed her hand on her forehead. "Please. I'm...I'm not feeling well, and I need to take my medication. I'm afraid I might pass out. Would you stay for a few more minutes until I've taken my pills and they've had a chance to work?"

I frowned at her. I wondered if it would be another of her ploys like the ones I'd quickly gotten wise to years back when we dated.

"Please, E Z. It will only be ten minutes, at most."

She looked sincere — of course, she was always at least a fair actress.

I returned one of her fake, pleasant smiles. "Sure. Go ahead."

She hugged me, and lingered. She kissed my neck before pulling away.

Great — bright red lipstick on my white Hawaiian shirt collar.

There was that coy smile of hers again. "I'll be right ba-ack," she whispered.

I sat down on Sophie's bed, hoping what I suspected was about to happen, wouldn't. I watched her stroll to the end of the hall. When she disappeared into her bedroom, she left the door halfway open.

As I glanced around the little girl's room, I heard the shower in the master bath.

I got up and checked out the sheet Stella had pushed back into the hamper. It was light pink and had a pattern of tiny horses on it. She always was a neat freak, but was that enough reason to be so clandestine about slipping the corner of a sheet back into a clothes hamper?