The world Rebecca Chavez had painstakingly built and protected for years was being challenged from all sides. But she would overcome. She would fix each problem, one at a time. The situation she found herself in wasn’t her fault; in fact, had everyone just listened to her and stayed the course, this would have been over months ago.
She’d been right. Then and now. But fear was a powerful emotion, and everyone else reacted instead of just doing exactly what she told them to do.
The FBI should have had the Chen case; if not for Bryce’s obsession with Detective Quinn, she could have taken the case and dragged it out until she could make it disappear. But Bryce had tunnel vision when it came to Quinn. Once DDA Dyson insisted on prosecuting, Chavez knew she would have to take care of Chen before he could plea and provide information that might come down on her people.
Then she learned what Dyson was really investigating—the apartment building that Chen owned and the money the city gave him for housing his women—and she realized Dyson was the bigger problem.
All because of Kara Quinn.
By that time, she started fueling Bryce’s hatred of the detective to the point where he would do anything to take Quinn down. He wanted to arrest her, interrogate her, reopen all her cases.
That would have been no good because if Bryce looked too deeply into Chen’s business, he might uncover the connection to Jonathan—and that was unacceptable. Rebecca had buried it deep, but it was there.
Still, she had it under control until information started leaking out. She had no idea how, but suspected that LAPD had an undercover operation. It was exactly something that Kara Quinn would do—pretend to be one place, but actually be infiltrating another. The only way some of the information could have been leaked—like the documents on Sunflower Homes—was if someone knew what they were looking for. And then that ridiculous podcast discussing Angel Homes and Muriel and making the connection that she was Lydia Zarian’s sister.
That didn’t directly impact Rebecca, but anything that damaged Lydia could potentially come back on Rebecca.
Her own contact confirmed the undercover operation, but could find no information as to who the operative was, other than a male detective out of Lieutenant Elena Gomez’s squad. Then he learned there was a whistleblower who worked in city hall.
That was nearly a month ago, but it explained almost everything that had gone wrong.
It was eight in the morning and Brian Granderson had called her into the office. She would be late, but he would accept her excuse. She had an exemplary record and being a few minutes late for a meeting when one of her men had just been killed in cold blood was justifiable.
She and Lydia needed this heart-to-heart before Lydia put into play one of her insane plans.
Lydia was at home in her opulent estate above the 210 not far from the Glendale Freeway interchange. The view was spectacular, but Rebecca had always thought Lydia’s taste was on the tacky side. Ornate statues and columns were bad enough, but she’d painted her house pink. A light pink, but still pink.
Rebecca parked her sensible, older Mercedes in front of the wide staircase that led to the portico. Ivy grew along stone fences—the stone did not match the Mediterranean-style mansion. And gargoyles standing sentry on the top of Greek columns on either side of the door? Just...no.
Rebecca would never say anything to her oldest friend, but clearly money didn’t buy taste.
She rang the bell, irritated. Lydia knew she was here—Rebecca had to be buzzed in at the gate—and she should have been waiting with the door open.
Lydia opened the door. “Becca,” she said, giving her a kiss on the cheek. Rebecca would never let on that she despised the nickname. The only person who called her Becky (not Becca) was her husband, when they were in the privacy of their own home. In public she was Rebecca; her friends and colleagues all called her Rebecca. Except Lydia.
“Please tell me you have coffee,” Rebecca said.
“Of course.” Lydia led Rebecca to the nook off the kitchen, which had a full coffee bar, and poured a cup for each of them, put cream and sweetener on the table. Rebecca added a dollop of cream and honey into her cup and stirred with a small spoon. Sipped. Watched her closest and longest friend.
Lydia Zarian was an attractive fifty-four because she paid to be an attractive fifty-four. Her hair was professionally done weekly, her makeup flawless, her designer clothing stylish. The nose job and lip job and face-lift were top dollar—if Rebecca hadn’t known the woman for forty years, she wouldn’t be able to tell.
LA County Supervisor was a powerful position in a powerful city within a powerful state. In fact, the county board was the largest government entity within a state, serving nearly ten million people. Each board member represented the equivalent of 2.5 congressional districts, making them more important than the House of Representatives—at least here, in Los Angeles.
Lydia had served eight years in Congress, but quickly realized she would have more power as one of five than one of over four hundred. When the longtime supervisor of her district retired, she ran in a very crowded field. She owed her election to Rebecca and a few others—people who were happy to support Lydia because of what she could do for them. People who were happy continuing to support her, provided certain truths remained buried.
“Lydia,” Rebecca said, putting her cup down, “we have several problems and need to get everyone on the same page quickly.”
“I spoke with Theodore this morning,” Lydia said in a dismissive tone, “and he assures me that the little computer girl didn’t find anything important.”
“He’s lying to us.”
“That’s a bit harsh, don’t you think?”
“Someone is sniffing around Jonathan and Sunflower and Angel Homes. That puts both of us in the hot seat.”
“My campaign has polled this issue. No one cares about it. The complexity alone of any potential conflict of interest is nearly impossible to explain in a thirty-second sound bite, and there is nothing illegal in the grant process. Nothing. Dorothy has personally reviewed the legal paperwork, and the nonprofits all abide by state and federal law. You and I do not directly benefit, and therefore, we are above reproach.” Lydia smiled, leaned back and sipped her coffee as if her analysis put an end to the conversation.
Lydia looked at every issue through polling. It drove Rebecca up a wall. She’d always been that way. In high school, it was the perception more than the truth that Lydia cared about. That was how popularity contests were run, and Lydia was the most popular person wherever she went.
But Rebecca knew the law; she would most certainly be brought up in front of the Office of Professional Responsibility. And while she might be able to feign ignorance about what her son was doing, or what her sister was doing, say that she was completely hands-off on all of their businesses, she couldn’t walk away from murder. She may not have pulled the trigger—or in this case, plunged in the knife—but she would still go to prison.
The thought terrified her.
“Theodore overstepped this week,” Lydia said without sounding at all concerned, “but something had to be done about David. He was going to talk.”
“It’s not David I’m concerned about. I had a plan for him from the beginning...”
“Which your agent screwed up.”
Rebecca was not going to play this game with Lydia, but she couldn’t help but remind her that it could have been much, much worse. “Ben was supposed to monitor David, but your brother dropped the ball. I was the one who found out about the raid.”
“Only hours before it happened,” Lydia snapped. Then she sighed. “Why are we sniping at each other, Becca? We have been friends and partners far too long to bicker over this minor setback.”
Minor setback? Rebecca wanted to grab Lydia by the shoulders and shake sense into her. There was nothing minor about murder. “You’re right,” Rebecca said, trying to be conciliatory. “But I need to know what our exposure is. What did that girl take from Theodore’s office?”
“I don’t know for a fact that she has anything but theories, but she may have been able to re-create deleted data.”
“We paid a lot of money to have that information wiped. And a low-level IT drone was able to find it? How?”
Lydia dismissed her concern with an arrogant flip of her bejeweled wrist. “Even if she has it, there’s nothing illegal. A computer glitch. We’ll ride it out. I’m working on a statement to shield everyone.”
Lydia was technically correct that the grant process wasn’t illegal, but funneling money to friends and family through the grant process was unethical and could be seen as a conflict of interest. While there were a lot of people involved in different aspects of their enterprise who all had a reason to want to keep the process quiet, if word got out that Craig Dyson’s murder was connected to them, someone would talk.
Lydia couldn’t have all the potential threats killed off. She might control the media spin, and she might have high polling numbers, but her support would disappear if she was suspected of a capital crime.
And she was completely ignoring David Chen’s involvement. The city had paid him millions of dollars for use of his building—the building where he housed his employees.
Employees? They weren’t paid. You’re believing your own lies, Rebecca.
She really didn’t want to be in this position, but here she was.
“You’re forgetting I’m an FBI agent,” she said. “I don’t have idiot voters with short attention spans to manipulate. I will be held accountable by my office.”
She had three years until retirement. Three years, and then she would begin to collect the profits she had to defer for the last decade because she didn’t want to report them. The money was just sitting there, waiting for her—she and Paul could finally enjoy their lives rather than working so hard for everything they had. She had done everything in her power to set up her children to have comfortable lives. It wasn’t Jonathan’s fault that this got screwed up. He shouldn’t have to pay for it.
“You’ve done nothing,” Lydia said, sounding exasperated. “You have plausible deniability. Jonathan has done nothing wrong, and even if some intrepid reporter exposes him, his pedigree and good works will save him. In fact, I’m working on a statement he can give. It will start with his call for a full investigation and audit of the grant program. That he is shocked that anyone would cheat the system that is set up to help so many of the unfortunate. My office will coordinate it. We’ll find pockets of waste and clean it up. Anything that our detractors find later will appear like nit-picking and sour grapes. It’s a win-win.”
“You’re forgetting one important fact. Murder does not get brushed under the rug so easy.”
“We have no connection to anything so unsavory.”
Did she really believe that?
“Theodore has made several very bad decisions,” Rebecca said. “And your daughter is in the middle of it.”
Now, Lydia bristled. Of course she did; no one could say a negative word about her perfect, beautiful daughter.
“Nothing can be traced to him,” Lydia said haughtily. “He’s too smart.”
Rebecca was done. Sometimes, talking to Lydia was impossible. “Someone needs to find and deal with Ms. Halliday, and that means dealing with Detective Quinn, who apparently has her under wraps. I’m working on discrediting Quinn, but if Halliday told her anything, the detective will be a pit bull in ferreting out and exposing our business. She doesn’t let go.” Rebecca stood.
Lydia walked her to the door. “I’ll remind you, Becca, that I did put out a hit on Detective Quinn after the media exposure didn’t take care of her in March, and the person you recommended failed. So I will do this my way.”
Rebecca didn’t have a response. She walked away and wished she had never met Lydia Zarian.
In the car she made a call she was dreading. It was a bell that couldn’t be unrung.
“Dorothy,” she said firmly, “your son has made a huge miscalculation, and I think you know exactly what I’m talking about. The repercussions are starting to steamroll, and Lydia is in complete denial. She has a plan and she hasn’t shared it with me—when Lydia starts thinking, that’s when we always get trouble.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Dorothy said and ended the call.