Dare You by Jennifer Brown
If they made that cane disappear, would there be any evidence against Rigo?
They slunk out through a side door, and I felt my dress begin to roll and boil, the black morphing into fiery golds and oranges, rippling, rippling, until I couldn’t take it anymore.
“Come on,” I said, pulling Detective Martinez’s sleeve. “Let’s go after them.”
But he was already halfway out of the room before I finished my sentence.
We hustled down the stairs, my gown billowing behind me. My hair, which I’d pinned up for the occasion, had begun to pull loose from its bobby pins, and big hunks of it bounced against my bare shoulders. The bodice of my dress inched lower and lower with every step, and I clutched the painting by my side so hard my fingers cramped. But I didn’t care. I couldn’t care.
We raced through the foyer, followed by the surprised faces of waiters who were taking advantage of the lull to catch up on gossip, and plowed through the front door.
“Is everything all—” I heard at my back, but I didn’t bother to turn around to see who’d said it.
I was only steps behind Detective Martinez when we hit the walkway, and had completely caught up with him by the time we got to the little parking area in the grass.
An SUV was pulling out of the parking lot when we got there, its headlights blinding us both. It turned on the blacktop and roared through the tunnel of jacarandas until darkness and distance gobbled up its taillights.
“Son of a bitch!” I shouted, my free hand on my hip while I tried to slow my breath. “We missed them.”
Detective Martinez’s breath was coming as hard and fast as mine. “We’ll just have to come up with another plan,” he said.
“Right,” I said, tugging up the front of my dress. “Just another plan. No problem. Any brilliant ideas on what this plan looks like? Because I’m out.”
“We keep looking,” he said, leading the way across the lot while digging his keys out of his pocket. So much for that whole elbow-escort chivalry thing.
“We’ve been everywhere,” I said.
“Then we go back to everywhere.” He took a few more steps, his keys jingling in his palm. “Nikki, sometimes finding the answers means you have to keep asking the same questions over and over again. Clues don’t just fall into your lap.”
Yes, they do, I thought. At least they do for me. They fall into my lap with a tsunami splash of color. But of course he didn’t know that.
“Speaking of clues,” he said, checking his watch. I had caught up to him at the car. “It’s still early. Why don’t you come by and we’ll watch some of those surveillance videos?”
“Fine,” I said, crestfallen that he could just shift his focus from the cane that quickly and easily. It was our one possible piece of physical evidence, and it would surely be gone forever now. The Basiles had let it get lost once; they weren’t likely to do it again. “But I want to change. And take this home.” I raised the boat picture.
“What’s with the painting, anyway?” he asked, irritated. “You planning to tell me why you had to have it?”
“No.”
He raised his palms. “Of course not. You just suddenly felt a need to redecorate?”
“No.”
“So what then?”
“It’s a clue,” I said, and for the briefest second I considered letting him in on my synesthesia and how I’d been using it to follow Peyton’s trail. But my synesthesia was so personal, and so difficult to explain without sounding like a crazy person. I was so guarded about it, I didn’t know how to let that guard down. I didn’t know how to let him in. And I was afraid to try. “I can’t tell you how I know. I just do.”
“A hunch,” he said, his tone biting.
I nodded. “I know you hate it when I say that.”
“No, I hate it when you say only that.” I shrugged, the words not coming. He sighed, resigned, and took the painting from me. “We had something similar hanging in our bathroom when I was a kid,” he said. “A boat out in a storm. I didn’t like it. It scared me a litt— Watch out!”
Before I could even react, Detective Martinez grabbed me around the waist and pulled me aside so fast our legs tangled together and we both fell against his bumper. The painting clattered on the ground and slid under the car. Out of nowhere, headlights appeared, coming from the lot where the SUV had been parked. Detective Martinez and I rolled between cars as a white van veered toward us, nearly running us over. It barely missed us, its rear tires so close I could have reached out and touched one. It screeched out onto the driveway and took off, leaving a trail of gold fireworks.
“You okay?” Martinez asked after it had roared away. We were both breathing heavily, checking our elbows and knees, brushing off our clothes.
I nodded.
“Who the hell was that?” He gazed in the direction the van had gone.
Luna. She’s finally come out to play. “I don’t know,” I said.
“Did you catch the writing on the side?”
I closed my eyes, reached back until the colors flashed out at me. It was so quick, and I’d only seen it as it whizzed by. “I think it was some sort of distribution company?” I said, shaking my head. I didn’t have a color association for those words, but the blur of individual colors that streaked past seemed to light up my mind with distribution. “But I can’t be sure. The top word was short.” I concentrated. Not a word. An acronym, maybe? Or a name. A three-letter name. Scarlet, avocado, maroon. “Dom?” I asked.
Detective Martinez opened the door to let me in, but he was still staring down the driveway. “Dom Distribution,” he said. “Why does that sound familiar?”
I didn’t know, but it tickled my memory too.
19
DETECTIVE MARTINEZ’S APARTMENT was one of those kind you have to be buzzed into. But instead of buzzing me in, he came down the stairs and opened the door for me himself. He’d swapped his tux for a pair of jeans and a plain white tee, his feet bare, his hair wet-looking, as if he’d just gotten out of the shower.
“Come on,” he said, grabbing my wrist and pulling me inside. He made sure the door shut behind me, and even gave a quick scan outside, as if he expected someone to be there.
“I wasn’t followed by the ghost of Peyton,” I joked. But the joke felt too raw. I pressed my lips together and then tried again. “You’re the only person who follows me, Detective.” Also not funny. I needed to stop talking.
“Just being safe,” he mumbled, and then led me up a couple of flights of stairs and into a quiet, carpeted hallway. It felt much more like a hotel than an apartment building—sterile and contained. I wondered if Detective Martinez liked things so . . . bland. Something about him definitely did not fit with bland.
We stopped at a plain gray door and he pulled out a key, then stood back as the door swung open onto a surprisingly beautiful apartment. All hardwood and white walls. A stereo was playing soft music in the background. I kicked off my shoes, dropped my car keys inside one of them, and sniffed the air.
“I made some pasta,” he said, almost embarrassedly, as he shut the door and passed me. “Just in case we get hungry. It’s going to be a long night, I’m guessing. Have you eaten?”
I hadn’t, but at the moment I was too distracted by a peacefulness that settled over me, silky and pink as strawberry mousse, like lying on the velvet inside of a jewelry box. “I’m good,” I said.
He scratched the back of his neck, his tee riding up and revealing his tanned, taut belly, a thin line of hair disappearing into his waistband. I felt myself blush—swollen grapes, bruises, faceted amethysts—and looked away.
“So the TV’s over here.” He gestured toward a black leather couch and headed that way. “I got the videos downloaded onto DVDs so we can watch them on the big screen. Maybe pick up on something easier that way.” He settled on the couch and grabbed the remote.
“So how legal is it for you to have these DVDs? And for you to be showing them to me?” He cleared his throat uncomfo
“Are you done?” he asked.
I joined him on the couch, plopping down like I owned the place. “Probably not, but it’ll do for now. I’m ready, Detective Martinez. Let’s do some recon.”
He grinned. “Totally the wrong word, but okay.”
“Whatever. I’m not a cop.”
“Thank God for small favors,” he murmured. “The thought of you running around with a gun . . .”
I propped my feet on the coffee table. “Very funny. I bet you’d be surprised how good I could be with a badge.”
He smiled wide. His teeth were so white. Did he have them bleached, or did they come that way naturally? They seemed impossibly white for natural teeth. Maybe they were fake. Maybe you’re thinking just a little too much about how perfect his teeth are, Nik. “You’re right, I would be very surprised. Like, alternate reality surprised. And for your information, it’s not exactly illegal for me to have these DVDs.”
“Not exactly illegal is not the same thing as legal.”
“Well, if you want me to give them back while we wait for red tape . . .”
I yanked the remote out of his hand. “Let’s just do this. I don’t have all night.”
Actually, not true. Dad was up in Chico, working on some still shots for a movie promotion. He wouldn’t be back for a few days, like always. Usually I would hate it that he was gone. Would feel like I was living with someone who only pretended to be a dad. Would wish that he’d find someone to settle down with in Chico. But right now, I didn’t know what to think about Dad.
It was jarring to find out that the only person in this world that you definitely thought you could count on had been hiding things from you.
I pressed play and the TV blinked to life. Detective Martinez and I settled in, silent, both of our brows furrowed as we watched the comings and goings of Hollywood Dreams. Which was really super boring.
After about an hour of nothing, silence, a few fast-forwards, pauses, and rewinds here and there, Martinez finally paused the video. He rubbed his eyes with one hand. I fought the urge to do the same.
He stood, stretched, and yawned loudly. “I need food or I’m going to fall asleep.”
“It’s amazing how much nothing can happen on one street, right?” I asked, turning so that I was kneeling, looking over the back of the couch while he puttered in the kitchen, which was separated from the living room by a breakfast bar.
“Generally speaking, I like streets with nothing happening on them,” he said. He got two plates—trendy, black—out of the cabinet and lifted the lid on a pot on the stove. Steam billowed out.
“Well,” I said, plopping back down on the couch. “I don’t. Not this street, anyway. How far have we gotten?”
He came around the bar and into the living room, a plate of pasta in each hand. It smelled amazing. My stomach growled. “Not far enough,” he answered. He sat next to me and dug into his food. “About three weeks,” he said around a mouthful.
“And how much footage do you have here?”
“Three months.” Another mouthful.
I groaned. “In that case, I hope you made enough for seconds.”
NEXT THING I knew I was being shaken. Luna had gotten to me—had poisoned me and was shaking me so hard my teeth rattled. I tried to fight, but I couldn’t. My arms and legs were heavy, slow. They didn’t work right. My vision was starting to fade. My breathing was labored. This was it. She’d finally won.
“Nikki,” I heard. Not Luna’s voice; a man’s. “Nikki, wake up.”
I opened my eyes. It wasn’t Luna shaking me; it was Detective Martinez, and I was curled up next to him on a black leather couch. I sat up, blinking, as reality slowly came back to me. The last thing I remembered was texting Jones five times, getting frustrated that he wasn’t responding, stretching back on the couch, and saying I was going to take a catnap and to wake me if anything got interesting.
The clock on the DVD player read 1:55.
Shit.
“I fell asleep,” I said, my voice thick. I checked my phone. Still nothing from Jones.
He chuckled. “No kidding. You’ve been out for a while.”
I looked down and saw that I was covered with a soft, colorful crocheted blanket. It looked handmade. I gazed at the TV, which was paused on a still shot of the front of Hollywood Dreams. “You’ve been working all this time?”
“I’m used to long nights. Plus, I don’t get a lot of sleep these days.”
“Why not?” I yawned and pulled myself to sitting.
“You’re not my only case,” he said. “Never mind. Not important.”
“Uh-huh,” I said. I was no detective, but I was willing to bet his lack of sleep had something to do with those bullet holes on the front of his car.
He ignored me. Which, of course, only made me want to know the story all the more. But I knew when Martinez could and couldn’t be pushed, and this was a don’t push moment if I ever saw one. “Just . . . you need to look at this.” He aimed the remote at the TV and pressed play. At first, nothing happened. More of the same empty doorway on the same empty sidewalk.
I yawned again. “Seriously, if it’s someone’s job to sit and watch this security feed live, it’s the worst job ever.”
“Just wait for it,” he said.
Soon, someone appeared in the shot. A woman wearing a poured-on pair of pants and thigh-high boots, her hair wisped around her head like fresh cotton candy. Vanessa Hollis. She expertly pulled a key out of her purse and whisked inside the building—so quickly it was like she’d never been there.
“So?” I said. I rubbed my eyes. They felt dry, and all I really wanted to do was go home so I could sleep for real. “It’s not news that Vanessa Hollis owned the place.”
“Watch,” Detective Martinez said. He hit fast-forward, and the screen of nothingness jerked and blipped in front of us until something whizzed past.
“Wait.” I pointed to the screen. “What was that?”
He backed up a bit and then let the recording play again. This time a man—short, balding, wearing a black leather jacket and a pair of crisp jeans—came to the door and walked in. There was something strange, though, about his walk.
“Go back,” I said.
“Hang on, there’s more,” Detective Martinez said. He sped the recording forward until the door opened once again. Out popped Vanessa Hollis, and, right behind her, the same man. She turned to lock the door, he turned with her, and . . .
“Stop!” I cried. “A cane. He’s got a cane.”
Suddenly I was full of silver and gold like piles of jingling, restless coins. Detective Martinez stopped the recording and we both leaned forward, craning our necks to take in the screen.
“That’s Arrigo Basile,” Martinez said, confirming what I already knew.
I leaned back against the couch, resting my hand on my forehead. I smelled sweaty and a little bit garlicky from the pasta, and probably couldn’t have looked all that great, either, but at the moment I just didn’t care. “So all this does is give us evidence that the Hollises had ties with Rigo Basile. Which you already knew, long before Peyton was attacked. It doesn’t really prove anything.”
He stood, his shirt sticking to his back, showing a thin swatch of brown skin, so warm-looking I wanted to press my cheek against it. I looked away, swallowing the colors before they could even register in my sleepy mind. Right now was not the time.
“But it does more than that,” he said. “He’s got a cane. The cane, presumably.” He reached for the coffee table, which had the poster, its edges still curled, spread out on it. He held it up, pointing at the photo. “The cane that was somehow mixed in with the Hollises’ things, given to the Tesla estate, and bought at auction by the Basiles.”
“Or a similar cane. Coincidental,” I said. “For all a jury knows. There are probably a thousand ca
He frowned. “But this gives enough reasonable doubt to get you off the hook. Right? I’ll have Blake take it to her boss.”
I peeled the blanket off my legs and stood, too. “And they’ll say I stole it from Rigo to frame him. Or that Dru gave it to me. Or that I just found it and figured it would be a convenient tool to kill Peyton. Or God knows what else.”
He raked his hands through his hair, looking from me to the TV and back again. “We finally have something. And you’re arguing. If I didn’t know better, I would think you don’t want to clear your name.”
“No, I’m just being realistic. This isn’t enough. I’ve been through this before, Detective. I saw how they escaped justice with Peyton.” And I saw how my mom’s murderer escaped justice, too, I thought. “What would make me think that I’m going to be any different? Peyton had far more power than I have.”
“I don’t know. The truth, maybe? The power of the truth?”
We locked eyes. The room began to burn yellow around the periphery of my mind, but in that yellow I also felt gray. “The truth,” I scoffed. “Does anyone in my life even know anything about the truth?”
I started toward the kitchen. I desperately needed a glass of water. My mouth felt fuzzy from sleep. Detective Martinez followed me.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. Forget it.” I searched cabinets until I found a glass and went to the sink.
“No,” he said. “If we’re working together on this, Nikki, we need to communicate. You can’t shut down on me now.”
I set the glass on the counter with a loud thop. “Okay, fine, let’s communicate then. Why are there bullet holes in your car? Why were you looking around downstairs like you’re expecting someone to jump out at you? Communication is a two-way street, Detective. So spill.”
“We’re not talking about that,” he said. “It has nothing to do with this case.”
“Of course not. When it comes to the truth, I’m the only one expected to live by any sort of standard. Everyone else gets to hide whatever the hell they feel like hiding, and it’s all okay. We’re not talking about the holes in your car, we’re not talking about whatever else it is that’s bugging you, my dad’s not talking about shit, where does it fucking end?”