Eloy pulled his Jeep into the garage of his rental in Glendale and punched the code to close the door.
Never in the time he’d lived there was he so glad to be home. At the moment, he didn’t have to answer to anyone.
He pushed from his mind the that he needed to get in contact with Chloe.
Going inside the house, he went to the kitchen to a small counter set up as a bar. He poured himself two fingers of whiskey, then ambled to the living room and lit up a joint.
Rejecting watching TV or porn, he just wanted to sit in the quiet and absorb the events of the last day and a half.
The reality was sinking in that he was a murderer. The cop killing had been instinctual. The camera girls had been pragmatic, and Neema had been imperative.
He wasn’t worried about an investigation into the death of Izzy and Sabrina. They were known dopers and considered throwaways. The autopsy would show fentanyl in their systems. Luckily, in Los Angeles, a grown man wearing latex gloves when buying subs didn’t raise a blip on anyone’s radar. And, even if the sandwiches were noted by detectives, nothing would come of it. The cops wouldn’t want two homicides on their books if there was an easy answer, like an OD.
Same thing for Neema. Her family would be shocked that she’d OD’d, but with her prior history of drugs and prostitution, detectives wouldn’t look too hard for a possible homicide.
There was only one person left who could ruin his life and the empire he’d built for himself. Chloe.
He had to eliminate her to be totally in the clear. But how?
Failing that, for his own survival, the cop’s murder had to be pinned on Chloe. But again…how?