Fool Me Twice (2 page)

When the driver looked in his direction, Jesse nodded to him.

The Audi pulled away and proceeded through the intersection.

A Mercedes sedan barreled through the stop sign and broadsided the Audi. The Mercedes was doing at least fifty in a twenty-five-mile-per-hour zone.

The Audi collapsed into itself. The impact punched it off the road and into a ditch, where it bounced precariously a couple of times before sliding to an upright stop.

The alarm systems on both cars began to shriek. Front and side air bags deployed in a vicious rush of compressed air, pinning both drivers to their seats.

The Mercedes was driven by a young female. Jesse had seen her looking down as she ran the stop sign. She must have been texting.

He grabbed his cell phone and called the station.

Molly Crane answered.

“I’ve got a bad one at the corner of Paradise and Country Club. Send the entire sideshow. Ambulance. CSI unit. Hazmat team. Also Suitcase.”

“I’m on it, Jesse.”

“Oh, and call Carter Hansen, will you? Tell him I’ll be late.”

Jesse switched on the flashing light bar on top of his cruiser and inched closer to the accident. He stopped in front of the Audi, got out, and walked over to it.

The driver had been immobilized by the deployed air bags. He was sandwiched tightly between his seat and the bag.

He was middle-aged and overweight, wearing a navy blue sport jacket, a button-down white dress shirt, and a gray-and-pink polka-dot bow tie. A chevron-style mustache concealed his upper lip. He was unconscious.

Jesse called out to him.

“Can you hear me, sir?”

There was no response.

Jesse pulled open the door. He reached inside, disabled the alarm system, and used his Leatherman to deflate the air bags.

The man slumped back in his seat. Blood seeped from his nose.

Jesse checked for a pulse.

At least the guy was alive.

Jesse turned and stepped over to the Mercedes.

The teenage driver had also been pinned by the air bags. She wore a uniform bearing the insignia of one of Paradise’s best private schools. Unlike the other driver, she was awake and alert.

“Are you hurt,” Jesse said.

“I don’t think so,” she said.

Jesse nodded.

“Just get me out of this fucking car,” she said.

Jesse looked at her. Satisfied that she wasn’t injured, he circled the Mercedes, checking for damage. Despite the intensity of the crash, the car was relatively intact. He opened the passenger-side door and spotted the item he was looking for.

He walked back to the cruiser, retrieved an evidence bag, then returned to the Mercedes. Slipping a rubber glove on his right hand, he reached beneath the still-inflated air bag and grabbed the iPhone from the car floor.

“What are you doing,” the girl said. “Why aren’t you getting me out of here?”

Jesse ignored her.

He bagged the phone and put it inside his cruiser.

When he returned to the Mercedes, the girl was attempting to wriggle her way out of it.

“Be easier if I deflate the air bags,” Jesse said.

“Then what are you waiting for,” she said.

Jesse poked the air bags with his Leatherman. He also disabled the alarm system. The quiet was a blessing.

Now freed, the young woman opened her door and started to get out.

Jesse pushed the door closed.

“Stay where you are until the medics arrive.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” she said, struggling to open the door.

“I’m instructing you not to get out of the car until you’re seen by a medic.”

“I’m totally fine. Even a moron can see that.”

Jesse looked at her.

He removed a pair of handcuffs from his service belt. He grabbed the girl’s left wrist and cuffed it to the steering wheel.

He heard sirens in the distance.

“What do you think you’re doing,” she said.

“You do know it’s illegal to text while driving?”

The girl didn’t respond.

“There’s an injured man in the car that you hit.”

“It was an accident.”

“Caused by you.”

“Have you any idea who I am?”

“Have you no concern for the other driver?”

“Yeah, sure. Of course. Courtney Cassidy.”

“What?”

“I’m Courtney Cassidy.”

“Nicely alliterative.”

“What?”

Jesse remained silent.

“My father is Richard Cassidy.”

The sirens grew closer.

“I want my phone,” she said.

“It’s been placed into evidence.”

“What do you mean it’s been placed into evidence?”

“I confiscated it.”

“I want to speak to my father.”

“You can make a phone call when you get to the police station.”

“I’m not going to the police station.”

Jesse looked at her for a few moments. Then he walked away.

“Hey,” she called after him.

He ignored her.

She called again.

“Hey, dickwad,” she said.

Another police cruiser and an ambulance appeared on Paradise Road, sirens blaring, lights flashing. They pulled to a stop near Courtney’s Mercedes.

Suitcase Simpson emerged from the cruiser. He spotted Jesse and walked toward him.

Two EMTs got out of the ambulance. Jesse pointed them to the Audi.

“What happened,” Suitcase said.

“Girl was texting. She ran the stop sign and hit the Audi.”

Suitcase looked over at her.

“Why is she cuffed to the steering wheel?”

“Disobedience.”

“Okay.”

“If the medics clear her, you can arrest her.”

“Charges?”

“Reckless endangerment. Running a stop sign. Texting while driving. Resisting arrest. Arrogance.”

“I don’t think arrogance is a chargeable offense, Jesse,” Suitcase said.

“Okay. Forget arrogance. Make a big deal out of reading her her rights, though. Do it slowly and deliberately.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t like her,” Jesse said.

The medics were now at the Mercedes, evaluating Courtney. One of them stepped away and spoke to Jesse and Suitcase.

“Guy’s floating in and out of it,” he said. “Looks like he suffered some head trauma. We’ll take him to Paradise General.”

“The girl,” Jesse said.

“She seems okay,” the medic said. “If you’re going to have an accident, probably best it be in a Mercedes.”

“You taking her to the hospital, too,” Suitcase said.

“We’re not quite finished examining her, but it doesn’t appear necessary. Is there anyone who can remove the handcuffs, by the way?”

Jesse handed the key to Suitcase.

“Cell phones,” Jesse said with a snort. “Big-time dangerous. There need to be more serious consequences for using them while driving. The current laws are a joke.”

After her handcuffs were removed, Courtney got out of the damaged Mercedes and headed in Jesse’s direction.

She might one day be pretty, Jesse thought, but today wasn’t that day. Her flat-ironed yellow hair hung limply around her plain round face, still plump with the last vestiges of baby fat. Her makeup was heavy and inexpertly applied. Her green plaid uniform was as flattering as a prison jumpsuit. Her pale blue eyes, however, flashed defiance.

“Will one of you call my parents. I want to go home,” she said.

“No, ma’am,” Jesse said.

She moved closer to him.

“I said I want to go home.”

“You’re under arrest,” Jesse said. “You’re going to jail.”

“Arrest?”

“Correct.”

“You can’t arrest me. I’m Courtney Cassidy.”

Jesse looked at her.

Then he turned to Suitcase and said, “Book her, Danno.”

  2  

T
he insistent ringing of the doorbell at her Beverly Hills estate finally caught Marisol Hinton’s attention.

She struggled to stand. Once she was on her feet, she was reminded of the pain all over again.

She peered through the peephole. Standing outside was her agent, Sarah Fine.

Sarah was a severe-looking woman engaged in a losing battle with her weight. A loose-fitting black Armani suit worn over a gray silk blouse barely camouflaged her problem. The five-hundred-dollar José Eber haircut helped only a little.

“I’m not really up for company,” Marisol said, loudly enough for Sarah to hear.

“I’ll keep ringing until you let me in,” Sarah said.

After a while, Marisol sighed, unlocked the door, and stepped aside so that Sarah could enter. Then she closed the door and locked it.

Marisol Hinton was currently one of Hollywood’s flavor-of-the-month starlets. She was an adroit comedienne, still a beauty at age twenty-seven, and sexy enough to hold the screen opposite the rash of young leading men who were themselves vying for stardom.

“Let me look at you,” Sarah said.

Marisol shied away, hiding her face.

“Show me,” Sarah said.

She turned her face to Sarah.

Her left eye was deeply discolored and swollen shut. There was a cut on her left cheek, the result of his ring having raked her face when he hit her.

“My God,” Sarah said. “You have to do something.”

“I changed the locks. I heightened the security watch.”

“That’s not enough. You have to call the police.”

Marisol shrugged.

Her mansion was located in the storied Holmby Hills neighborhood of Beverly Hills. It had once been owned by Groucho Marx, and in its heyday, the gated estate played host to the cream of old Hollywood. It boasted a kidney-shaped swimming pool with a grotto, a Pancho Segura–designed tennis court, a koi pond, which often fell victim to marauding raccoons, and a screening room that Groucho himself had designed, with comfortable seating for twenty.

“You’ve seen the doctor,” Sarah said.

“Not much he could do.”

Sarah reached out and took Marisol in her arms.

“Please let me help you,” she said. “The agency has a very long reach in this town.”

“I’m a big girl. I should have known better.” She sighed.

“I thought he’d be a star,” she said. “I had visions of us as the new power couple.”

Sarah released her and stepped back.

“You’ve gotten an offer,” Sarah said. “Picture called
A Taste of Arsenic
.”

Marisol looked at Sarah.

“Starts filming in four weeks. Eliza Morgan is pregnant and had to withdraw. They want you.”

“Four weeks,” Marisol said.

She touched her face.

“What hasn’t healed we’ll fix with makeup,” Sarah said.

“Can I read it?”

Sarah reached into her bag and handed her the screenplay.

“They need to know today.”

“I’ll read it now.”

“It shoots on the East Coast. A perfect opportunity to get away from him.”

“Where?”

“Small town in Massachusetts.”

“Which one?”

“I doubt you’ve heard of it. A place called Paradise.”

  3  

J
esse pulled his cruiser into the circular driveway of the Paradise Country Club and parked in front.

The red-brick clubhouse was one of the architectural grande dames of Paradise. Constructed in the 1920s, it was colonial in style, ostentatious in appearance, and currently exhibiting multiple signs of disrepair. The average age of the membership was sixty-plus, and rumor had it that enrollment was faltering.

He entered the clubhouse and headed toward the dining room at the back of the building, the floor-to-ceiling windows of which offered excellent views of the first tee of the Robert Trent Jones–designed golf course, as well as the Olympic-size swimming pool, which was currently being drained in anticipation of encroaching winter.

The room was nearly empty as Jesse crossed it and approached Carter Hansen’s table.

Seated with Hansen was selectman Morris Comden, as well as Frances “Frankie” Greenberg, the line producer of the upcoming feature motion picture
A Taste of Arsenic
, which was soon to start filming in Paradise.

“Sorry I’m late,” Jesse said as he sat down.

“We were beginning to give up hope,” Carter Hansen said.

Jesse smiled weakly.

“Ms. Greenberg was just explaining the intricacies of filmmaking,” Hansen said. “It all sounds very exciting.”

Frankie Greenberg was in her mid-thirties, sharply attractive and radiating confidence. She wore a midnight-blue Stella McCartney stretch-cotton bomber jacket, a diamond-print silk blouse, and a pair of slim-cut jeans and open-toed Jimmy Choo sandals. Her jet-black hair was cut boyishly short, in style with the current Hollywood trend. Her dark green eyes sparkled with intelligence.

“Actually,” she said, “it’s not all that exciting.”

“Why not,” Hansen said.

“Why isn’t it exciting?”

“Yes.”

“Line producing a movie is the equivalent of running a midsized company,” Frankie said.

Jesse took a sip of coffee and leaned back in his chair.

“For instance,” Frankie said, “I’m in charge of running the business of the movie here on location. Long hours. Lots of stress. The studio production manager watches me like a hawk. Exciting? Not exactly. It’s exciting for the executive wonks back in Hollywood, though. They get to shmooze up the creative team . . . the writers, the director, the department heads. They also get to do all of the casting.”

“And you,” Comden said.

“I get to hire the grunts.”

“The grunts,” Hansen said.

“Distant locations are frequently chosen because of the tax advantages they offer. Millions of dollars are often rebated back to the production company by cities and states eager to have their business. Like here. The only caveat is that the rebates are dependent on the movie hiring local workers.”

“The grunts,” Hansen said.

“Yes.”

“You mean the more locals you hire, the greater the cash rebates,” Comden said.

“Yes,” Frankie said.

“And you get to hire them,” Hansen said.

“And manage them, too. I also get to devise the shooting schedule and then supervise it. I monitor each day’s progress according to that schedule, and God help us if we fall behind.”