Page 49 of The Perfect Accomplice

It was the first acknowledgment by either of them about last night. It seemed to work, as his grin quickly returned.

“No,” he assured her, “I feel great. If you want, I could play a song on my phone right now and we can trip the light fantastic right here among the dining hall dinner crowd.”

"I would, but I don't want my calzone to get cold," she replied without missing a beat.

"Fair enough," he said before returning to the topic he'd clearly originally intended to broach. "I had an idea, but you're so prickly that I'm hesitant to suggest it."

"Well, you're starting off great," she said acidly. "It's always a super move to win someone over to your idea by calling them prickly."

“Anyway,” he replied, not taking the bait, “I was thinking—you helped out your friend, Lizzie, with her harassment issue. Now you’ve done the same for Reggie with this false cheating allegation. I’m starting to wonder if you should try to make this a regular thing.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just that there are a lot of students on this campus who could use your help,” he explained, “you know, folks who don’t want to go through official channels like the school administration or campus police. Maybe they don’t want to deal with the bureaucracy, or go on the record, or just think it will take too long, or not do any good at all. But if they could come to you, share their issues, and get some advice, or even have you look into their situations. I don’t know, it seems like you could do some real good.”

Hannah listened to him quietly, waiting for the moment when an objection would pop up in her head. She expected that once the first flush of Finn’s mix of flattery and flirtation passed through her, some obvious reason to reject the idea would come to her. But nothing did.

The idea of helping other students in need, people who didn’t think they could go the authorities for whatever reason, appealed to her. She had to admit that when her mind was fully occupied with both classes and cases, it tended to mute what she could only describe as her latent bloodlust.

That intense desire to punish wrongdoers, even through violence if necessary, didn’t ever really go away. But when she was focused and busy, the volume turned way down. If helping other students could serve the twin goals of righting wrongs and keeping a lid on the fury inside her, one that often felt like it was on the verge of bubbling over, maybe it was worth considering.

She looked up from her tray at Finn, who was already smiling again, seeming to already know what she was going to say. She wanted to wipe the grin off his face. But he appeared so sincere and hopeful that she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Instead, when she answered, she was almost affable.

“I’ll think about it.”

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

Despite Ryan’s protests, Jessie refused to punch the gas.

They were making the last turn leading to the Hollywood Hills home of Raquel and Stewart Morris, and she had refused to let her husband anywhere near the driver’s seat. As she pulled to a stop across the street from the home, she turned to face him.

“See,” she said. “It took me about sixty seconds more than it would have taken you to get here. But here’s the big difference: we’re alive.”

“Yeah,” Ryan agreed, getting out of the passenger seat, “but Raquel Morris might not be. In a situation like this, every second counts.”

Jessie got out of the car too, making sure the Ziploc baggie with Karl Van Hart’s singular hair was safely secured in the glove compartment for later analysis, and locked the doors.

"We're no good to anyone if we don't make it here in one piece," she reminded him. "So how about you stop backseat driving, dearest, and help me find this guy?"

Her tone successfully indicated that she was tired of the debate, and Ryan wisely let it go.

“Emilio Vega was booked for this job until five,” he said, “but it’s 5:21 now and his truck is still here. That makes me a little nervous.”

Jessie too had noticed the big vehicle parked in the driveway, facing the street, with Hollywood Green Thumb on the side door.

“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” she warned as they walked up the drive. “The job could just be running long.”

“Let’s find out,” Ryan said. He pointed to a gate leading from the driveway to the back of the house. “Should we go that way or try the front door?”

“How about we do both?” Jessie suggested. “I’ll take the front and you can go around back.”

“Okay,” he agreed, “but call me now and put it on speaker so we’re in touch the whole time.”

She did as he asked. Once they were squared away, she walked up to the front door, taking in the place. After seeing so many of these hillside homes, she thought they might all start to run together. But like the others, this one still managed to impress. It had an understated Mediterranean look, though the closer she got, the more she appreciated the detailed craftmanship of the of the stone and tile work.

It seemed befitting for the couple. From the background information that Beth gave them on the drive up, they’d learned that Stewart Morris was a senior vice-president with a corporate bank and that his wife, Raquel, was the in-house counsel for the west coast division of an oil and gas firm. Frankly Jessie was surprised the house wasn’t even bigger.

Once on the front step, she rang the bell. It only took a few seconds for it to open. She was met by a middle-aged Latina in a maid’s uniform. “How may I help you?” she asked warmly.

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