Love Kills Read online

  BY DIANNE EMLEY

  The First Cut

  Cut to the Quick

  The Deepest Cut

  For my husband,

  Charles G. Emley, Jr.

  A hand to hold when leaves

  begin to fall…

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I owe a huge debt of gratitude to my editor, Dana Isaacson. Dana, I’ve been privileged to benefit from your keen editorial instincts, dedication, and unique perspective. Working with you on this book in particular was a supreme pleasure. We shared lots of laughs.

  I’m thankful to have the wise and wonderful editor, Linda Marrow, in my corner. Thanks to everyone on the Ballantine team, especially Junessa Viloria, Kim Hovey, Scott Shannon, Elizabeth McGuire, Rachel Kind, and Lisa Barnes. Teresa Agrillo was an excellent copy editor.

  Special words of appreciation for my agent and champion, Robin Rue, and everyone at Writer’s House, especially Beth Miller.

  My gratitude to the law-and-order professionals who help me keep it real. The fine men and women of the Pasadena Police Department were again generous with their time. Special thanks to Commander Lisa Rosales.

  Steve Davidson, retired police captain, again carefully read and commented on the manuscript. Your astute observations have made my books better.

  Margaret York, retired deputy chief of the LAPD and retired chief of the Los Angeles County Police, helped with some tricky police procedure questions.

  Judge Karla Kerlin, Los Angeles Superior Court, again helped me sort out the legal morass into which some of my characters always stumble.

  Ann Escue’s comments on the manuscript were very helpful, as always.

  D. P. Lyle, M.D., a fellow author, answered my medical questions.

  Catherine Hamm, Toxicologist III, San Diego County Medical Examiner, aided with toxicology research.

  Clyde Johnston guided me in keeping the U.S. Marines details straight.

  Lynn Caffrey Gabriel and John La Barbera graciously allowed me to stroll around the grounds of their lovely home, looking for a perfect setting for an untimely death.

  Bill Tata of Imagine Design and Brian Mason do a great job with my website, DianneEmley.com.

  Family and friends, you know who you are. Thanks for your support in ways both big and small.

  And last, but never least, hugs and kisses to my husband, Charlie, my safety net, my love.

  Contents

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Copyright

  ONE

  Vince Madrigal knew all about cause and effect. Many times he’d delivered the spark, then stood back to watch the fireworks with the satisfaction stemming from a job well done. He loved his work. He’d made more enemies than friends, but hate paid better than love. Several big Hollywood names would enjoy seeing him dead. The way Madrigal saw it, if those people hadn’t been doing nasty stuff that they shouldn’t have, they wouldn’t have dirty laundry to go through. In his line of work, secrets were money in the bank. A-list secrets had put his kids through private schools, paid a couple of alimonies, and footed a handsome lifestyle. He’d earned his moniker: “P.I. to the Stars.”

  Both secrets and silence were commodities. This job’s client understood that ugly fact and had taken the bad news well, knowing that fame had its privileges and costs. After negotiations on that unpleasant matter, they’d quickly moved on to the next order of business: the client needing more of the rare items that Madrigal could procure. It had all been very civilized—too civilized, Madrigal thought.

  It was the wee hours of the morning and raining buckets as he drove Colorado Boulevard and entered the Northeast L.A. neighborhood of Eagle Rock.

  What idiot said it never rained in California?

  As the windshield wipers slapped the downpour, he looked at the lonely, shiny streets of the worn-out neighborhood. He was having a dark night of the soul. He was not an introspective person, and the impulse took him unawares, like a baseball bat to the skull. It wasn’t unusual for this client to arrange meetings in out-of-the-way places to elude the paparazzi, but this early-morning rendezvous in East Jesus was making Madrigal uneasy. Rather than listening to his gut, though, he anticipated the “somthin’ somthin’” he’d been promised.

  “I know what you like,” the client had said with a snigger.

  Madrigal gave his stock response, “You know what I always say, ‘Faster horses, older whiskey, and younger women.’” And they’d laughed like old friends who well understood each other.

  He wheeled his Midas gold Ford F-150 pickup through the deserted streets. The truck was the same color as his pristine 1975 Cadillac Eldorado in his garage at home—the car Elvis had given him. One of the few tall tales about him that happened to be true. Madrigal had done security work and a bit more for the King back in the day.

  Spotting a road sign that announced that he was driving historic Route 66 prompted him to begin singing tunelessly to the old song about getting your kicks. He couldn’t remember all the cities in the lyrics, so he improvised, his baritone scoured by decades of cigarettes and booze.

  “Barstow, Nipomo, San Bernardino…”

  He saw the motel’s neon sign: HiWay Haven. Some of the letters were sputtering. Of course, he thought. The dump came into view and then blurred as the wipers batted the rain. Attached above the original neon sign was a 1980s-era backlit plastic one that boasted: “Free Cable TV.”

  “Don’t forget Winona, by way of Pomona.”

  The truck idled in the deserted street as he checked out the place. The single-story motel had twenty rooms flanking a buckled asphalt parking lot. Three cars were parked there: a battered Toyota 4Runner with Mexican plates, a Nissan Maxima with California plates, and a car he recognized: a new yellow Volkswagen Beetle. The windows in all the other rooms and in the office near the driveway were dark, but a light shone dimly through a crack in the closed drapes in the room near where the Beetle was parked.

  “Trendi, my love.” Madrigal smiled. He’d coveted the willowy blonde, even
though he thought the flowery tattoos across her shoulders and bosom were an insult to her beautiful skin. Was she his somthin’ somthin’? This was a treat.

  Thinking about her gave him a rise in his Wranglers.

  Madrigal turned into the driveway and drove past the motel office. Cardboard Easter bunnies and Easter eggs were taped inside its windows, reminding Madrigal that it was Easter morning. He reflected on his childhood in San Antonio, Texas. His mother used to wake him and his siblings before dawn to dress for the sunrise service at Victory Baptist Church.

  He improvised a hymn. “Hearts to heaven and voices tuneless…Alleluia!”

  Madrigal parked beside the Volkswagen in front of room seven. He took out the key his client had mailed. The plastic diamond-shaped fob had “7” stamped on it in gold paint. Seven was his lucky number.

  He struggled into his sport coat with its Western-style suede trim and piping. He looked thinner with it on. He worked to keep himself fit, but a belly, though not as big as the one his dad had sported in his later years, persisted in hanging over his silver belt buckle, a large oval with USMC in raised letters.

  Still humming, he took a comb from his jacket pocket and ran it through his reddish-brown hair and his walrus mustache in the visor mirror. He straightened his aviator-style glasses and put on his black suede Resistol cowboy hat, also his trademarks, as were his Tony Lama ostrich boots. He guarded his image as carefully as a corporate giant protected its brands.

  Into his jacket pocket went the flask of Balvenie scotch he’d brought from home. He grabbed the items he was delivering and ran through the rain, robustly singing made-up lyrics, “All along Route Sixty-six…”

  Number 7’s door was locked. One swift kick would have been sufficient to bust it open, but he used the key.

  “Ahhh…leee…luiiiaaa!”

  Smelling of disinfectant and stale cigarette smoke, the darkened room’s furnishings were cheap pressboard, but everything looked cleaner than he’d expected—except for a stain on the carpet the size and shape of a watermelon. A dim light came from the bathroom, where the door was half-closed. The rest of the lights were off. The room was cold.

  “Well, hello, Trendi.”

  She sat on the edge of the bed, holding a black cape closed over her torso with two pale hands. The cape was draped open over her bare legs up to her thighs. The hood was pulled over her hair. Her white face looked like a bright moon against the black fabric. Her legs were dropped open. He’d investigate further in a minute, but she appeared to be nude. That would explain why her teeth were chattering, but her face was shiny with perspiration.

  She slid her eyes sideways to look at him and said nothing. It was hard to tell for sure in the nearly dark room, but her pupils looked dilated.

  Higher than a kite, Madrigal thought. So much for the cocaine and X he’d brought.

  He set the things his client wanted on a table beneath a window near the door. Madrigal never asked questions. He’d just opened his Rolodex—he still used one—made a few calls, and gotten the stuff: cremated human remains and a box of Cuban cigars. He’d gotten a box of cigars for himself, while he was at it. The remains were sealed inside a gallon-sized Baggie. He’d been told to procure the remains of a lawyer, overcomplicating matters, he’d thought. He’d lie if asked. They were human, anyway.

  While he was locking the door, he heard Trendi say something.

  “Demon.”

  “Excuse me, honey?”

  Her eyes bored into him. She squeezed the cape so tightly that her hands looked translucent.

  She moved her eyes to focus on his hat. “That’s a demon’s hat,” she said. “It is a demon’s hat.” Her speech was clear, but she labored to put the words together.

  “It can be any kind of hat you want, doll.”

  Still standing near the door, he took the flask from his pocket and set it on the table. The room was quiet except for the pounding rain on the thin roof. He sniffed the air. There was the smell of wet wool from her cape but beneath that and the disinfectant was an earthy odor he knew only too well: blood.

  The girl’s teeth were chattering wildly and her hands were shaking as she held the cape closed. Then blood dripped from the hem onto her bare foot and began to ooze between her fingers.

  He pulled open the cape.

  She didn’t resist. He wondered if she’d forgotten he was there. She dropped her hands and fell back onto the bed.

  She was nude, a knife embedded in her belly. Madrigal recognized the WWII-era KA-BAR knife he kept beneath the seat of his truck.

  She mumbled incoherently. Her skin was smeared with blood.

  He reached for the Smith & Wesson Chiefs Special that he always carried in a pancake holster.

  The bathroom door was flung open. “Drop it, Vince.”

  He recognized the voice. Also familiar was the gun pointed his way: Vince usually kept it in his Cadillac’s glove compartment. “Did you do this?” he asked, gesturing at poor Trendi.

  “No, Vince. You did.”

  “So this is how it ends.” A violent death was no big surprise. It was astonishing that it hadn’t happened sooner. Of course, he would have chosen a classier joint, but all in all, it was a fitting send-off.

  TWO

  Thanks, honey, but I’m just going to relax at home. I’ve cracked a bottle of Veuve and I’m going to enjoy some peace and quiet.”

  Catherine “Tink” Engleford strolled around the swimming pool in the backyard of her estate in Pasadena’s San Rafael hills, while talking on her BlackBerry to her girlfriend and waving a glass of champagne.

  “Cheyenne didn’t call you?” Tink pursed her lips. The Juvéderm treatments she’d had around her mouth allowed her fifty-four-year-old skin to crinkle slightly. “I agree. She’s not the best personal assistant.” She laughed.

  “Well, she’s had a hard life and I’m trying to give her a leg up. We can all use help now and then, right? But yes, it’s time for another talk with her when she gets back. She’s in Ventura for the weekend and I’m enjoying the peace and quiet.”

  She changed the subject. The less certain of her friends knew about her life, the better. “Kingsley’s out of town too, on a business trip to Dubai. He’s great. It’s too soon for us to be spending holidays together anyway. Honey, don’t worry about me. I’m fine being alone on Easter. I haven’t been alone until just now. I went to the ten o’clock service at Church of the Angels and then I had brunch at Annandale with golfing friends. I’m looking forward to curling up by the fire with a good book.”

  Tink let out a yelp when her stiletto heel teetered on an uneven piece of flagstone. “Dammit! Spilled champagne on my new St. John.” She brushed her bright pink jacket with her fingers and walked across the patio to the open bottle of Veuve Clicquot in an ice bucket. She refilled her glass.

  “Darling, I only had one tiny mimosa at brunch. Three of my four friends didn’t touch a drop. Everyone was going on about how old they are. They can’t touch a drop in the middle of the day, they can’t wear heels anymore, blah, blah…It’s like they’re in their eighties, not their fifties. When did medical procedures become cocktail party conversation? I couldn’t wait to escape and get home.”

  In truth, Tink couldn’t tolerate the flashes of pity in her friends’ eyes. The caring hand on her arm, the probing gaze deep into her eyes, and the inevitable question: “How are you doing?”

  She’d lost her twenty-three-year-old son Derek and her husband Stan in the space of two years. Her son, the product of her first marriage and her only child, had been killed in a motorcycle accident three years ago. Her husband of five years, the love of her life, whom she’d felt blessed to meet in middle age, had dropped dead of a heart attack at the private Annandale golf course just over a year ago. Tink felt like telling the concerned souls, “How the hell do you think I’m doing?”

  All things considered, she was all right. Every day she got out of bed. Every day she did something to improve her mind, body, and spiri
t. She sought solace in traditional sources: her Anglican faith, good diet, Pilates, and yoga. She’d also dabbled at the fringes, into alternative philosophies and practices. She’d flirted with the occult. The pendulum was swinging back from the fringes. Lately, she’d been doing some spiritual housecleaning. Severing ties that she’d come to learn were more than simply not nurturing, but were downright parasitic.

  She looked at the spot the champagne had left on her jacket. “I can’t believe it’s already Easter. Can you believe it? I haven’t even started on my New Year’s resolutions. How can you not make New Year’s resolutions? Mine are the same as last year’s. Lose weight. Fall in love. Meet my astral shadow.”

  The last one was a joke.

  She paused. “Wait a second, honey.” She pressed the phone against her chest and said to her guest, “What are you doing here?”

  Tink moved the phone back to her ear. “Honey, I’ve got to run. I have an unexpected visitor. I’ll call later. Bye.”

  She grimaced, thinking of the unpleasant business she had to take care of. Still holding her BlackBerry, she walked around to the other side of the pool, passing the chaise longues lined up side by side. “I’m not interested in hearing your explanations. I know what I know.”

  Tink stumbled backward and fell into the pool when a long cushion from one of the chaises hit her. Her champagne glass flew into the water. Disoriented, Tink found her bearings and started swimming for the surface. Her wool knit suit grew heavy and one of her shoes fell off.

  Just as her right hand broke through the water’s surface, she was again submerged. Her assailant was now in the pool, holding the cushion over her, keeping her from raising her arms. In shock, she opened her mouth and swallowed water. She began to panic.

  Stay calm, Tink.

  She’d always been athletic and wasn’t going down without a fight. She wrenched her body and kicked viciously, touching the side of the pool with her feet. She propelled off of it, moving the two of them and the freaking cushion toward the shallow end. Her toes touched bottom. Then her feet did too.

  She clawed at the cushion and felt her acrylic fingernails tearing. Her long blond hair became tangled as she thrashed. Using her hard-earned flexibility and strength, she hooked a leg around her assailant’s, shifting the balance. The side of her face broke the surface of the water. She opened her mouth against the cushion and was able to take in a strangled breath. It wasn’t much, but enough to keep her going. She got her other leg around, encasing her would-be murderer’s other leg in a vise-like grip. They were now both sinking beneath the surface.