“Could have been an illegal,” the other officer said. “They hit somebody then keep driving because they don’t want to get deported. It’s a huge problem out in LA.”
“You never know, maybe we’ll get lucky,” the red-haired cop said. “Car might show up on a street cam somewhere.”
But Cassidy knew the chances were slim.
Beau led her back to the Ferrari and they drove off toward his house.
“So I guess the little black dress with no panties isn’t going to happen,” he said, trying to lighten the moment.
Cassidy managed to smile. “Not tonight. I’m kind of out of the mood.”
Beau cast her a glance. “Not tonightisn’t exactly a no, so I’ll settle for that for now.”
Cassidy laughed, her tension easing. He’d said that about taking her to bed, and look how that had ended.
As they neared the house, Beau used the hands-free to phone Will Egan, head of security, telling him they were on their way home.
Egan’s voice came over the speaker. “They’re all gone, Mr. Reese. Reporters headed out for a bigger story. I guess you haven’t seen the news.”
Beau glanced at Cassidy. “What’s going on?”
“Terror attack in Houston. Some nutcase strapped on a bomb, went into a restaurant and blew himself up. Luckily, as a bomb maker he wasn’t much good. Managed to kill himself and injure half a dozen people who were there for supper, but nobody else got killed.”
“I guess that’s something.”
“You want my team to stay here in case the media comes back?”
“Go on home. I can always call if there’s a problem.”
“All right, that sounds good. Have a nice evening.”
“You, too.” Beau ended the call.
“Saved by a terror attack,” Cassidy said. “There’s something wrong with that.”
“I guess.” Beau fell silent. No more teasing conversation as they neared the house. She had a feeling he was more upset about the accident than he had let on. Now his adrenaline rush was wearing off and a black mood had settled over him.
He’d feel better tomorrow, Cassidy told herself. Both of them would. But as she studied the dark look in his eyes and the grim set of his features, she wasn’t completely sure.
* * *
Franco Giannetti drove the beat-up old Ford into the junkyard and parked it among a row of wrecked cars headed for scrap metal. He turned off the engine, leaned back in the seat, and slammed his hand down hard on the steering wheel. Dammit, he’d botched the job. He couldn’t believe it.
Fuck, it should have been easy. He’d found the Jones woman at Reese’s house—not hard to do when it was all over the news. Late in the afternoon, he’d followed her to her Uptown office on Blackburn Street: Maximum Security, an office full of PIs.
He’d staked the place out, planning to follow her when she left, hadn’t really figured the opportunity to finish her would come so soon. But he had been ready. This wasn’t his first rodeo. Hit-and-run was one of his specialties, which was the reason Cliff Jennings had called him.
Franco pulled a disposable phone out of his pocket. He needed to make the call, bring Jennings up to speed.
He punched in the number, then paused before hitting the send button. What if he didn’t make the call? He’d gotten away clean. The car would soon disappear, never again to be seen. He and Pete Rodriguez, the owner of the scrap yard, had an understanding. As soon as the vehicle was disposed of, Franco would give Pete his usual fat feeand another old car would be readied for when it was needed.
Pete didn’t ask questions and Franco didn’t give answers. But he had managed to turn deadly car accidents into a very lucrative business.
Unfortunately, not this time.
He looked down at the phone, trying to prepare himself for Jennings’s wrath. What if he waited? Jennings hadn’t given him a time limit, just a job that needed to be done fairly soon. It had to look like an accident—that was the only condition.
On the other hand, if Jennings somehow found out . . . Franco ignored the shiver that ran down his spine, and hit the send button, listened to it ringing.
