L A Woman Read online

  LA Woman

  A Ronny Baca Mystery

  By

  Billy Kring

  Copyright 2014 by Billy Kring

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN-13: 978-1500657154

  ISBN-10: 1500657158

  Cover Image by:

  Elizabeth Mackey Graphic Design, www.elizabethmackey.com

  Books by Billy Kring

  HUNTER KINCAID NOVELS

  Quick

  Outlaw Road

  RONNY BACA NOVELS

  Baca

  LA Woman

  Co-written with George Wier

  1889: Journey to the Moon

  And as B.G. Kring

  ROMANTIC SUSPENSE NOVEL

  Where Evil Cannot Enter

  As in all things I do, this is for Elizabeth.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  “It’s not just children who need heroes.”

  -Tamora Pierce-

  CHAPTER 1

  “I can’t believe they gave you the lead in a commercial just because you opened somebody’s car door,” I said.

  Hondo pulled down his Ray-Bans to look at me. “It was a little hard to open.”

  We sat under an awning on the sand at Will Rogers State Beach, the same place they filmed four million episodes of Baywatch. A film crew was finishing preparations and all the other actors milled around rehearsing their parts. Hondo was dressed like an Army Ranger – Hollywood style.

  He wore a torn camouflage tee shirt that only half covered his torso, leaving a good look at his pecs and six-pack. A bandolier filled with cartridges angled across his chest and he wore a pair of cut-off camo pants. His face and arms were touched up with green and black camo paint in a way that emphasized his build and features.

  He saw me studying the paint. “What?”

  “I guess you could hide out at a model’s party at the Viper Room or someplace. Kind of squeeze in there between Heidi Klum and Zoolander.”

  He shook his head in slow motion. “You’re unbelievable.”

  The director came over then, a blond, intense twenty-four year old named Emma Storm. Emma worked as an AD and sometimes-reporter at one of the local network affiliates, but she was also sharp enough and good enough to land the director’s job on this commercial. She motioned to someone behind her. A couple of the hands brought over a flat screen television monitor and placed it on a table near Hondo.

  Emma said, “Since we’re going to intersperse your action with actual news footage of your heroics, I wanted you to watch it again, just to keep the symbiotic perspective of our film in focus.”

  I said, “Symbiotic? Hondo’s had his rabies shots, he won’t infect anybody.” Nobody laughed. I said, “It was a little joke, like, ha-ha?”

  Emma ignored me and brushed Hondo’s hair with a delicate touch. “Watch the footage, Darling. We’ll be ready for the first take when you finish.” She snapped her fingers and one of the hands turned on the television and left.

  I said to Hondo, “You need to find some people with a sense of humor to hang out with, make you laugh.”

  “Oh, hanging out with you is enough.”

  The picture came on and I watched what my friend had done four days ago. I’d returned to Los Angeles last night and this was the first time I would see the footage.

  A news helicopter returning from a traffic story caught the entire thing. The cameraman was filming a blue Firebird weaving through heavy traffic where the PCH, the Pacific Coast Highway, cut into the side of a hill and left only a guardrail to keep vehicles from dropping straight down a sixty-foot cliff to rocks and ocean below.

  A large, black Dodge Ram pickup suddenly sped up through the cars and turned into the Firebird’s front fender, ramming it off the road.

  The Firebird spun in a tire-smoking skid and banged into the guardrail so hard it flew nose-up into the air, wobbling like a hooked marlin. The car came down on its side, and rolled three times before going airborne again and hitting upright on the guardrail. It slid down the guardrail sideways like a skateboarder on a handrail for another hundred feet, scattering showers of sparks and glistening ropes of liquid from ruptured lines before finally coming to a screeching, metal-grinding stop with the car’s front end hanging over the precipice, rocking up and down like a seesaw.

  Other vehicles slid and banged into each other during the accident as the drivers swerved to miss the Firebird, until the chain reaction created a massive conglomeration of wrecked vehicles jammed together in a metallic jigsaw puzzle that clogged the highway for fifty yards in either direction around the Firebird. Later reports said ninety-four cars and trucks were involved.

  The helicopter dropped lower to film and pan, and that was when they saw Hondo fishing at the edge of the surf below the cliff. He was shirtless and wore cut-off jeans and an old pair of New Balance running shoes. The camera zeroed in on him as he lay down his rod and reel to look up at the teetering car high above.

  Smoke curled from the bottom of the Firebird and a woman’s hand came out of the narrow gap between the crushed top and driver’s door handle.

  She waved for help, but no one else could see her because of the other wrecks. The Firebird’s front half dipped lower and lower over the cliff with each rocking motion.

  Hondo ran to the cliff and free-climbed toward the Firebird. He went up very fast, like someone was pulling him with an invisible wire.

  The camera zoomed on him and the shiny dimpled craters and slender wormlike lines of a half-dozen old scars from knives and bullets showed on his tanned back. One was the size of an oblong dime and as pink as bubble gum. I knew the story behind it. A Russian criminal named Simon Mortay had run Hondo through with a sword cane. That’s when Mortay found out Hondo Wells was hard to kill.

  When Hondo was ten feet from the car, a small plume of yellow flames and black smoke appeared at the back. He reached the Pontiac and got underneath the car where the front leaned over the guardrail. Flames were within a foot of Hondo as he put his back against the frame and braced his feet on a large outcrop of rock. He pushed up and the Firebird slid off the guardrail and back onto the road.

  Hondo rose and hopped over the guardrail. The camera zoomed closer and showed the unconscious woman driver slumped in the narrow gap between the crushed roof and the bottom edge of the driver’s side window.

  Flames flickered reddish-yellow in the back seat behind her and thick black smoke streamed out of the broken windows. The few other people starting forward to help ran back when they saw the fire.

  Hondo tried the door handle once, but it was bent and crumpled, as good as welded shut from the force of the wreck. He ran to a nearby delivery truck that was jackknifed and wedged among a dozen other vehicles and he slid open the side panels, revealing cases of Budweiser.

  He took a case and ran back to the burning car. He shook the case, then dropped it and used his knife to punch holes pop-pop-pop fast into the cans and use the spewing froth to put out the flames nearest the woman.

 
When he tossed the last can away, Hondo put his foot against the side of the car and grabbed the door. He pulled, and the muscles in his back and shoulders swelled and quivered with the effort, but he got a corner loose, and pulled and bent it open and down like someone using a can opener, until he had an opening large enough to reach inside to the woman.

  “See,” I said, “Just opening a darn car door.” The corners of Hondo’s mouth went up a quarter inch.

  **

  The woman was wedged inside. Hondo bent the steering wheel toward the passenger’s side until it touched the dash, then he cut through the seat belt with one quick slice of his knife. He picked her up and moved away from the burning car. Hondo made five steps before the gas tank blew and sent orange and yellow flames through the Firebird’s interior.

  Oily smoke billowed out and enveloped Hondo and the woman, hiding them from view for five or six seconds before the wash from the helicopter’s rotors blew the smoke away in two curling patterns.

  Hondo emerged between them still carrying the woman. Her arms hung loosely around his neck and her head rested on his chest like a sleeping child. A long, Laura Croft-style braided ponytail dangled behind her head. Steven Spielberg couldn’t have set up a more dramatic shot.

  Hondo knelt and lay the woman down, but before he could let go she pulled his head to her and kissed him on the lips. She held the kiss for several seconds, then pulled away and fainted. Hondo stood again, his torso and legs streaked with grease and smoke. The camera held on him as the scene faded to black.

  I said, “Okay, since I’m already well established in the movie industry-”

  Hondo said, “On your last job you worked one day as a PA on a Gillette commercial.”

  “Like I said, since I only work with the best in the business, I was wondering how much we’re getting paid for this little bit of cinematic fluff.”

  “You think a Budweiser commercial is small time?”

  I shrugged my shoulders. “It’s so, I don’t know, commercial.”

  Hondo leaned over and whispered an amount in my ear.

  I said, “Great googly-moogly, I feel a Hawaiian vacation coming on.”

  “Not until we find her.”

  I said, “It was that darn old kiss, wasn’t it.”

  He wouldn’t look at me, “She’s running. She probably needs help.”

  I nodded, “I imagine. That truck hitting her car wasn’t an accident. Otherwise, you’d think a person you rescued from a fiery death might at least stay around to thank you.”

  “You’d think,” Hondo said.

  “How did she disappear from the scene? There were cameras and cops and a big crowd of people all crowded around. Only thing I can imagine is Criss Angel was there and Mindfreaked her to Cancun.”

  “My guess is she crawled between some cars and then got up and moved into the crowd. Police said the Firebird had been taken from a car lot so recently that a stolen report hadn’t gone out yet.”

  “Any prints?”

  “No, fire pretty much took care of any forensics.”

  “How about the pickup that hit her?”

  “Drove away and the news crew never got a clean shot at the license plate.”

  “You get an uncut copy of the news film?”

  “Not yet. They’re mailing it to the office. The camera crew said they filmed another few seconds beyond what we just saw, but that was it.”

  “Might be enough, though.”

  “We’ll see.”

  Emma came over as if on cue and said, “Are you ready, Darling?”

  Hondo handed me his Ray-Bans and raised his eyebrows twice, “Darling,” he said and grinned. Hondo followed Emma to his mark and they did the scenes, then did them again, and again, and again.

  CHAPTER 2

  They wrapped at sundown and Hondo cleaned up. We got into Shamu, my big four-wheel drive Ford pickup with the paint job that makes it resemble a killer whale and I headed toward our office in Venice.

  I said, “You’re buying dinner, I presume.”

  “I bought last time.”

  “Yeah, but you just told me how much you made today.”

  “If I remember right, you asked how much we were going to make.”

  “Well sure, we’re a team,” I held up my hand with the index and middle fingers crossed, “Tight like this, but since you did all the work I thought you’d want the satisfaction of picking where we eat. I don’t want you to feel inferior simply because I usually make all the important decisions. I want to empower you.”

  “You listened in on that managers’ symposium in San Francisco, didn’t you? I thought you were running security for them.”

  “Well, I wanted to pick up some management tips for our business.”

  Hondo said, “There’s only two of us.”

  “True, but I’ve never had a chance to use the word empower in a sentence before.”

  “I’m glad you got it out of your system. Don’t ever use it again.”

  “I’m purged, cleansed, pure as the driven-“

  “How does The Mongolian sound for eats?”

  “That’s the one. I’m so hungry I’m going to order the Genghis Khan Platter. It has half a horse for the appetizer.” The restaurant was just ahead and I eased into the exit lane then turned into the parking lot. As we got out, delicious smells from the kitchen rolled over us. “Your olfactories pick that up?” I said, “Horse feet are a delicacy over there. The secret is they cook the hooves for two years to make them tender. Smells pretty good, doesn’t it?”

  “Do they remove the horseshoes?”

  “They pry it off and leave it in the bottom of the bowl. Iron’s good for you.”

  “I think I’ll stick to my Flintstones chewables.”

  We went inside and picked out our items, then took them to the cook who worked with amazing skill on the enormous circular iron cooking top as he seared the ingredients and added our sauces and spices, then returned the now cooked items to new plates. The server led us to a corner and sat us behind a couple of guys who were talking and using their hands for lots of emphasis.

  I made Hondo move so I could sit closest to them and eavesdrop. He shook his head, but he’s used to it. I ate and listened.

  “I tell you, Bob-O, this is our big chance. It’s not like the cattle calls at open auditions. Just select ones were notified. This is big, and we’re in.”

  Bob-O said, “I’m stoked about this, Davester. This is hu-mongo, Mega hu-mongo. A Michael Bay movie with supporting roles that are perfect for us, just perfect!”

  Davester said, “It’s a cold read, though. I wish we had the sides; I do better if I can study my sides.”

  Bob-O said, “Let’s get there early tomorrow, say eight o’clock. That’s an hour before our schedule time. Maybe they’ll give the sides out and we can go over them. You sure we have the address?”

  I heard paper being unfolded and then Davester, God bless him, said, “Got it right here: the Le Montrose, 900 Hammond St., just a couple of blocks south of Sunset. We go to the meeting room.” I heard the paper fold and then Davester leaned forward to whisper, which made me have to lean my head back so far I could see the ceiling.

  But it was enough. Davester said, “And our password is…” He paused for dramatic effect, “TBA. It’s secret code for The Bay Auditions. You don’t say that, you don’t get in.”

  They high-fived each other and Davester said, “And man, that’s cool.”

  Bob-O said, “Yeah, Mike-O always does the cool stuff.”

  Mike-O.

  I waited for more but there was a sudden silence. I leaned my head further back but neither of the actors was talking. I took a quick look at Hondo. He smiled like he was enjoying something.

  Bob-O deepened his voice to make it more threatening, “Mister, this is a private conversation.”

  I twisted around to face them. I smiled and stuck out my hand. I said, “Hi fellows, I’m Rafe McCawley, Professor Rafe McCawley, and this,” I pointed to
Hondo, “is Professor Evelyn Johnson.” I pronounced Evelyn as Ev-lin, but Hondo’s eyebrows rose up a little anyhow. “We’re geologists, work for the LA Basin Geologist and Earthquake Prevention Organization,” I pointed up at the ceiling, “See that nano-quake frequency indication up there, Professor?”

  Hondo wasn’t playing along. He just looked at me. I turned back to my audience, “That, men, is from the aftershock that went through this area last week.”

  Dave-O said, “We had an aftershock? When was the quake?”

  “Smart fellow. Are you a geologist too?”

  “No, I’m an actor.”

  “Well, I’ll continue then. These nano-quake indicators are throughout the area, as you can imagine, but to read them, well, our new research has shown us that ceilings, yes ceilings, may be the breakthrough we’ve been searching for in earthquake prediction.” I patted Bob-O’s arm and said, “You fellows will be happy to know that you-we are sitting on the right side of the restaurant in case of a major quake, which could occur any second by the way.”

  “What do you mean we’re sitting on the right side?”

  I pointed at the ceiling and said, “This is my crystal ball and it tells me,” I nodded at the other side, “That half of the restaurant is toast. In the next major quake, it will drop into the ocean. But our side, the good side, will suddenly have the best ocean view in Southern California and you can watch all those other patrons surf to Tahiti.”

  I leaned closer and said in my most serious tone, “Whatever you do, when you come to The Mongolian, never, ever sit on that side. I’m saving your lives here.”

  Bob-O said, “Wow.”

  “Yeah, wow back at ya,” I said.

  “Thank you Professor McCawley,” Bob-O said.

  Dave-O said, “Yeah, thanks a lot. And thank you too, Professor Johnson.”

  They left, but not before shaking our hands like we were wealthy benefactors. When they were gone Hondo said, “You pulled those names from a Michael Bay movie.”