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Authors: Allison Brennan, Laura Griffin
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shot.”
“Aw, shit, Isaac.” The cold pizza in her stomach became a hard, painful lump.
“I didn’t go over there. I was going to talk to bartenders at the pier, see if he’s been a problem. But it won’t look good, and how I got the information wasn’t strictly legal.”
Damn straight it didn’t look good. If Moreno found out, he would certainly have probable cause to get a warrant. But he’d have to know to look.
She asked, “You used your phone to get the information?”
“Yeah.”
Bishop would need a warrant for Isaac’s phone records, and he’d need probable cause. He might be able to get it with some of the judges, just based on the confrontation with the kids earlier in the evening. But Scarlet guessed that unless he had at least one piece of physical evidence, or a witness, he wouldn’t be able to get it.
“This is why you need a lawyer,” she mumbled.
“I’m not calling a damn lawyer unless they arrest me. Last time, my lawyer screwed me during my plea agreement.” By his tone, Scarlet wondered if even an arrest would prompt him to call for help.
She frowned and realized she needed to talk to Isaac more. She only knew the basics—she thought serving four years in an eight-year sentence for attempted murder was pretty damn good. But based on what Bishop had dug up in less than twelve hours, there was more to his story than she knew.
“Don’t talk to Bishop,” she repeated.
“What are you going to do?”
“Talk to the other kids.” First, she needed names and addresses. She only had one lead on that, the girl Valerie who’d called 911 from Richie Sanders house. “Someone knows what happened after they left the bar, and my guess is that one of them knows—or suspects—who the killer is.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her old friend Lieutenant Hank Riley walk into the bar. She lowered her voice and said to Isaac, “We’re going to clear your name, no doubts, okay? Is there anything else— anything —that could get you in trouble? Like, did you drive by his house? Walk by?”
“No.” He didn’t break eye contact. “Scarlet, I didn’t kill anyone. But—we need to talk later.” He glanced at Hank as he sat down next to her. “Lieutenant.”
“Dunn.”
“Your usual?”
Hank nodded. Isaac pulled a Sierra Nevada draft from the tap and put it in front of Hank.
Hank Riley was fifty, a twenty-five year veteran of Newport PD. He was born and raised here, married and divorced here, raised his two sons here. And as he often said, he’d die here.
Hank nodded toward her water bottle, his eyebrows raised.
“I’m working today,” she said.
Hank lifted his mug. “Not me.” He took a long drink.
“Rub it in,” she muttered. “What brings you down to the bar on a beautiful Saturday afternoon?”
“You don’t bluff well.”
“Bluff?”
He motioned toward the wide-screen television mounted on the wall behind the bar. “The Dodgers are playing.”
She rolled her eyes. She was an Angels fan. Didn’t earn her a lot of friends in this bar because Diego bled blue.
“You didn’t come down to watch the Dodgers game.”
“Not only,” he admitted. “It’s my day off, but I got an earful about you this morning.”
“I’ll bet,” she said.
“Bishop is a good cop. And so were you. Give him room to do his job.”
“He doesn’t like me. I’m not going to stomp all over his case, but Isaac didn’t shoot anyone last night.”
“I warned Diego about Isaac.”
“Then what are you doing drinking in this bar?”
“Keeping my eye on the situation.” He looked pointedly at her. “I don’t want you to get into trouble, Scarlet.”
Scarlet glanced at Isaac. He kept a stoic expression, but he was watching the situation even as he tried to be discreet. “Isaac wanted to help the girls, not kill the jerks who drugged them. He got them out, that’s all he cared about.” Except for the fact that red shirt was with Valerie when he was shot. Had he
“Aw, shit, Isaac.” The cold pizza in her stomach became a hard, painful lump.
“I didn’t go over there. I was going to talk to bartenders at the pier, see if he’s been a problem. But it won’t look good, and how I got the information wasn’t strictly legal.”
Damn straight it didn’t look good. If Moreno found out, he would certainly have probable cause to get a warrant. But he’d have to know to look.
She asked, “You used your phone to get the information?”
“Yeah.”
Bishop would need a warrant for Isaac’s phone records, and he’d need probable cause. He might be able to get it with some of the judges, just based on the confrontation with the kids earlier in the evening. But Scarlet guessed that unless he had at least one piece of physical evidence, or a witness, he wouldn’t be able to get it.
“This is why you need a lawyer,” she mumbled.
“I’m not calling a damn lawyer unless they arrest me. Last time, my lawyer screwed me during my plea agreement.” By his tone, Scarlet wondered if even an arrest would prompt him to call for help.
She frowned and realized she needed to talk to Isaac more. She only knew the basics—she thought serving four years in an eight-year sentence for attempted murder was pretty damn good. But based on what Bishop had dug up in less than twelve hours, there was more to his story than she knew.
“Don’t talk to Bishop,” she repeated.
“What are you going to do?”
“Talk to the other kids.” First, she needed names and addresses. She only had one lead on that, the girl Valerie who’d called 911 from Richie Sanders house. “Someone knows what happened after they left the bar, and my guess is that one of them knows—or suspects—who the killer is.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her old friend Lieutenant Hank Riley walk into the bar. She lowered her voice and said to Isaac, “We’re going to clear your name, no doubts, okay? Is there anything else— anything —that could get you in trouble? Like, did you drive by his house? Walk by?”
“No.” He didn’t break eye contact. “Scarlet, I didn’t kill anyone. But—we need to talk later.” He glanced at Hank as he sat down next to her. “Lieutenant.”
“Dunn.”
“Your usual?”
Hank nodded. Isaac pulled a Sierra Nevada draft from the tap and put it in front of Hank.
Hank Riley was fifty, a twenty-five year veteran of Newport PD. He was born and raised here, married and divorced here, raised his two sons here. And as he often said, he’d die here.
Hank nodded toward her water bottle, his eyebrows raised.
“I’m working today,” she said.
Hank lifted his mug. “Not me.” He took a long drink.
“Rub it in,” she muttered. “What brings you down to the bar on a beautiful Saturday afternoon?”
“You don’t bluff well.”
“Bluff?”
He motioned toward the wide-screen television mounted on the wall behind the bar. “The Dodgers are playing.”
She rolled her eyes. She was an Angels fan. Didn’t earn her a lot of friends in this bar because Diego bled blue.
“You didn’t come down to watch the Dodgers game.”
“Not only,” he admitted. “It’s my day off, but I got an earful about you this morning.”
“I’ll bet,” she said.
“Bishop is a good cop. And so were you. Give him room to do his job.”
“He doesn’t like me. I’m not going to stomp all over his case, but Isaac didn’t shoot anyone last night.”
“I warned Diego about Isaac.”
“Then what are you doing drinking in this bar?”
“Keeping my eye on the situation.” He looked pointedly at her. “I don’t want you to get into trouble, Scarlet.”
Scarlet glanced at Isaac. He kept a stoic expression, but he was watching the situation even as he tried to be discreet. “Isaac wanted to help the girls, not kill the jerks who drugged them. He got them out, that’s all he cared about.” Except for the fact that red shirt was with Valerie when he was shot. Had he
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