As for why Adele was willing to kill for a photo, Damon would say that motive wasn't important. The important thing now was to get the hell away from her.
You're pretty damned pleased with yourself, aren't you, Bobby?
Robyn hadn't heard Damon's voice since she'd seen Adele at the first police station. Now she'd finally relaxed enough to imagine what he would have said.
She was pleased with herself. She'd called for a cab, requesting pickup a block over. She'd ordered the taxi to a cluster of hotels where she used to visit Portia for lunch. When it had dropped her off at one, she'd gone inside and taken the walkway to a second hotel. Out the lobby doors, into a new cab and off again.
Now she was walking toward music and the hum of voices. Some sort of street concert, she presumed. Where there's a concert, there are police. If Adele wasn't going to let her get to a police station, she'd find another way to turn herself in.
But, as people always said, there was never a cop around when you needed one. The concert turned out to be a small street festival on a road lined with shops boasting free hearing tests, Alaskan cruises and the lowest pharmacy dispensing fees in town. The music she'd heard? A live polka band. A seniors' fair, with a shocking lack of police presence.
Seemed she'd need to hail another cab. It was a good thing she was turning herself in because, at this rate, she'd run out of cash. L.A. cabs were not cheap.
Her chances of getting one on this street were nil. It was blocked off for the festival. So she set out in search of the nearest busy road or pay phone, and walked two blocks, finding neither. Then, as she glanced down a quiet side street, she laughed. There was an LAPD bike patrol officer stopped in front of a parked car as he drank from a water bottle. Another bike was propped against the mailbox behind him. Twenty feet away a second officer was walking into a restaurant.
Apparently she'd just needed to stop looking for a cop and they'd be everywhere.
She took a deep breath, then strode toward the drinking cop, his helmet swaying on the bike handles. He was in his thirties, light haired, with ears that would favor a longer haircut.
"Officer?"
He capped his bottle.
Robyn waited until she was close enough to speak without shouting, and said, "I'm Robyn Peltier."
His thick lips pursed. He pulled off his sunglasses, but his eyes remained as blank as the dark lenses. Great. Even with an introduction she couldn't get recognized.
"Detective Findlay is looking for me," she said as she stopped in front of him. "He wants to talk to me about Portia Kane's murder."
With that name, recognition hit. He glanced past her, as if looking for his partner, one hand sneaking toward his gun belt.
"Can you take me to Detective Findlay? Or call a car?" A weak smile. "I guess that bike isn't built for two. I know this isn't the best way to turn myself in but… it's a long story."
His hand moved away from the gun, taking his radio instead. He lifted it to his lips, then motioned for her to wait, as if she might wander off. Again he glanced behind her, still hoping for his partner. She thought of suggesting he handcuff her to the signpost, but from his expression, he might take her up on it.
He made the call. On reflex, Robyn glanced away to give him privacy, feigning great interest in the nearest closed store. The officer asked for Detective Findlay, giving the precinct, explaining that he had -
A blow hit Robyn in the shoulder, knocking her off balance. She recovered, twisting to see the officer standing there, mouth open, her shock reflected back in his face. Why had he hit her? His hand rose to his chest and she followed it to see a dark stain spreading across his breast. His eyes met hers, then his knees gave way.
As Robyn reached to catch him, a figure stepped from behind a parked car, gun rising. Adele Morrissey.
Robyn dove as the gun went off. An awkward drop, more of a fall, and she hit the pavement hard, skidding hands out, skin peeling from her palms, pain disappearing under a burst of agony from her shoulder. She saw blood spreading across her sweatshirt. Shot. Oh God, she'd been shot. That's what she'd felt, the bullet passing through the officer and hitting her.
Another explosion of pain, this one in her side. She rolled as Adele slammed her foot into Robyn's ribs again. Robyn tried to jump up. Then she saw the gun, pointed at her head.
"All you had to do was give me your cell phone, Robyn," Adele said, her voice as high and light as a child's. "How tough was -?"
Robyn grabbed Adele's pant leg and yanked. As Adele staggered back, Robyn flew to her feet, her shoulder flaring again, the pain excruciating. Adele regained her footing, gun going up -
Robyn slammed her fist into Adele's arm. Not much of a hit, but the movement startled Adele. She released the gun and it fell, skidding across the pavement.
Robyn started to run for the gun, but Adele was closer. She looked around, hoping to see the other officer. No sign of him. Seeing the alley Adele must have come out from, she raced toward it.
FINN
Finn was a block from Weston's station when he got a call from the dispatcher at yet another precinct. One of their bike patrol officers had been phoning in wanting to speak to him, then the line had disconnected and the officer's partner had returned from a bathroom break to find him dead on the pavement, shot in the back.
An officer killed in the line of duty meant every available tech was there gathering evidence as a dozen officers scoured the neighborhood. Having the shooting happen at sundown in a commercial area only added chaos to the mix, as citizens gathered to gawk.
Finn flashed his badge to a gray-faced rookie with distant eyes, too busy reconsidering his career choice to watch where Finn went, much less direct him to anyone in charge. The person Finn was looking for wasn't anyone the rookie could have led him to anyway.
As he picked his way through, he took in the wider scene. Hell of a place to shoot a cop. A commercial street in a neighborhood of adult-only condos and retirement villages. In the distance… was that polka music?
His gaze skimmed the uniformed officers and came to rest on one, sitting on the curb, ramrod straight, staring at the corpse being zipped into a body bag.
Finn walked over and sat beside him. The officer – stocky, thirtyish, light brown hair – didn't even glance his way.
"I'm sorry," Finn said.
He looked at Finn, head tilted, lips pursed.
"I'm sorry."
"You're talking… to me?"
"Yeah."
"You mean you can see – " He leapt to his feet and took three steps toward the crowd of officers surrounding the body bag. "Gord! Hey, Gord!"
Finn rose and walked over. "He can't hear you."
"So I'm…"
"Yeah."
Silence fell. Would Finn ever figure out the right thing to say under the circumstances? The instructors at his academy had said the worst part of police work was breaking news of a death to loved ones. That's only because they'd never had to do this.
Finn cleared his throat. "I'm John Findlay. You'd phoned – "
The ghost slowly turned.
"But that's not why I'm here," Finn hurried on. "I want to find who shot you, and anything you can tell me about what happened here will help."
The ghost gave an odd snort of a laugh, then rubbed his mouth. "Sure."
"Can we go…?" Finn motioned to a place outside the tape.
The ghost nodded, eyes still dancing with what seemed like genuine amusement.
"You're Officer Kendall?" Finn said as they walked.
"Lee. You can call me Lee." Kendall shook his head. "Man, I hope I remember all this when I wake up."
"Hmm?"
"I'm out on patrol. Gord takes off for a piss. And who walks up while I'm rehydrating? One of the most wanted suspects in L.A. Turning herself in to me. On my bike. I call it in and, bam, I get shot. Who shows up then? The same detective I'd been calling, who just happens to be able to see ghosts."