Carla Neggers - Cold Dawn

“Didn’t you think Beverly Hills would be flatter?” she asked as she careened around a sharp, downhill curve.

“No. It’s got ‘hills’ in the name.”

“There are hills and there are hills. Where are we going?”

Grit checked the directions Charlie had obsessively provided. “Two lefts and a right.”

They came to a square, three-story stucco apartment building off Wilshire. Beth pulled into a small parking area out back. Grit got out. His left leg was doing better after his flight but still ached. He had instructions from PT on what to do about any kind of discomfort, rash or swelling that flared up.

“You can wait here,” he said to Beth.

“I get bored fast.” She pushed open her door and got out. “Who are we going to see—some SEAL buddy of yours?”

He glanced back at her. He really should have told her to keep her lunch date with Hannah. She didn’t need to be with him. “An actor,” he said. “A friend of a friend.”

She looked skeptical. From what he’d seen of her, she had good instincts about people, undoubtedly including him. Her big sister, Jo, was the same, although Charlie had gotten the better of her with his prank last fall.

Then again, Charlie got the better of most people.

Grit went ahead of Beth to a rear apartment on the corner of the first floor. A little hybrid car was in what appeared to be the apartment’s designated parking space. On the cracked concrete landing, a basket with dried-up red flowers poking out of it hung from a hook.

“Is that a flower that needs a lot of water?” he asked Beth.

“How would I know? I’m a paramedic.”

“That doesn’t mean you don’t know flowers.”

“They’re red,” she said. “They look like they need more water than they’ve been getting.”

He glanced back at her. “You’re not going to be much help, are you?”

She didn’t answer. He stepped onto the landing and reached to press the rusted doorbell, but Beth grabbed his arm.

He knew why. He’d smelled it, too. It wasn’t strong, but he recognized the sickly, tangy-sweet smell of rotting human flesh.

“Call 911,” Beth said. “Someone’s dead in there.”

“You call.” Grit turned to her, serious now. “Okay? Do it now.”

He tried the doorknob. The door was unlocked. He heard Beth’s sharp breath behind him but ignored her and went in.

A woman lay sprawled on her back on the kitchen floor. She was young, about five-four, with wide hips and a flat stomach and long, straight hair as black as Grit’s.

She’d been dead for some time, at least a couple of days.

“Looks like she was electrocuted,” Beth said, tight. “See her hands? Burned.”

Grit pointed at a stainless-steel electric kettle turned over on the tile floor by the counter. Bare wires poked out of the bottom of the pot. “Well, well. Some son of a bitch stripped the wires, set them between the heating element and the pot…. She grabs the pot for a nice cup of tea and she’s toast.”

“Literally.” Beth was grim as she nodded to a sponge mop standing in a bucket of water. “She’d been cleaning the floors, too. Water and electricity don’t mix.”

Not an accident, Grit thought.

Beth called 911, identified herself and calmly, professionally described the emergency, but when Grit started into the adjoining living room, she waved frantically at him. He ignored her. They’d already contaminated the crime scene, and how did they know there wasn’t another victim—someone who might be alive and need their help?

No one was in the living room. Grit ducked down a short hall and checked the one bedroom and bathroom, then returned to the living room and checked the door there, which led to a hall and the building’s front entrance.

There were no other victims and no obvious signs of an intruder.

The apartment wasn’t neat. It was decorated with white shag carpets and bright, cheap artwork, with a state-of-the-art media setup.

The dead woman hadn’t gotten far with her cleaning. Grit considered that she might not be an outside housekeeper. Maybe she was bunking in with Trent and it had just been her turn with the mop.

So where was he?

A corkboard above the dining table was covered with photos of a very good-looking, fair-haired man in his earlier thirties. Grit helped himself to one and tucked it in his back pocket as he dialed Jo Harper on his cell phone.

She didn’t bother with a hello. “How’s California?” she asked him.

“Well, it’s like this, Jo. I’m in a small, stuffy apartment in Beverly Hills. The tenant’s not here but a dead woman is.”

He heard her breathe in through clenched teeth. “Damn, Grit. You weren’t supposed to go out there and find a body.”

He decided to get it over with: “Beth’s with me.”

“My sister? Beth? Why? Is she okay? Where is she?”

“She’s in the kitchen calling 911. She’s a pro. She’s my driver.”

“Grit, what the hell were you thinking?”

“She was bored. I can drive okay with the leg, but I don’t have a car.” He returned to the kitchen. Beth was still speaking with the dispatcher. Grit glanced again at the dead woman. Were her family and friends looking for her? Did they have any idea she was here?

“Grit,” Jo said.

“Your people are going to get involved, aren’t they?”

“Describe the woman.”

“Long, straight black hair. Pretty. Light brown skin. Probably about thirty.”

“I don’t recognize the description.”

“So she wasn’t in Trent Stevens’s life when Marissa Neal came under the care of the Secret Service?”

No response from Agent Harper.

“The woman was mopping the kitchen floor when she was electrocuted,” Grit said. “A lot of aspiring actors do odd jobs to make ends meet while auditioning. House-cleaning, for instance.”

“Not your problem, Grit,” Jo said sharply. “Don’t touch anything. You and Beth are observing crime scene protocols, aren’t you?”

Grit could feel the photo in his pocket. “Sure. As best we can.”

“Did you break in?”

“Door was unlocked.”

“That’s not good enough.”

“There was a plant that needed water and the distinct smell of death. We felt compelled to see if anyone was in distress and needed our assistance.”

“Dead people aren’t in distress. They’re dead.”

“Could have been someone else alive in here.” Grit scratched the side of his mouth. “I’m going to have a lot of explaining to do.”

“I’m about to. Damn it, Grit.” Jo sighed, but she seemed less irritated. “My boss was just starting to like you. How was this woman electrocuted?”

“Someone rigged the electric kettle. Once she grabbed it to make herself a cup of tea, she was done. She probably never knew what happened. She’s here in the kitchen, mop and bucket right beside her.”

“Any guess how long she’s been dead? Ask Beth.”

Grit didn’t need to. “At least two days. Maybe longer. We’re in the right place, Jo. There are photos of the actor everywhere.”

“Everywhere? Grit, what the hell? Did you search the place?”

“As I said, I was concerned there might be someone in distress. Your sister’s a paramedic. If someone was injured on the bathroom floor, she could help.”

“Trying out that line on me before the homicide detectives get there? Grit, a killer could have been hiding in the closet.”

“Even better,” he said.

“My sister isn’t a SEAL.”

“She was never in danger. I’m right here with her. I’d have protected her, but I didn’t have to.”

“Did she see you help yourself to a photo of the tenant?”

“What makes you think I did that?”