“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
The 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.”