(Crime Hunter Universe) Hunter Series, Episode 1 : The Biggest Man In Town

Chapter 1

Thursday, March 6, 1986 – 11:00 a.m.

At The La Rouge restaurant, Beverly Hills

The air inside La Rouge carried the expensive perfume of old money and older secrets. Crystal chandeliers dripped soft light over white tablecloths; waiters moved like ghosts in black tie.

At a corner table near the tall windows, Raymond Bellamy sat alone. He was fifty-two, silver at the temples, tanned from golfing at Campo Alto famous golf course, horse-riding at his huge ranch and routine hunting safari in Africa at least twice a year.

Today he wore a charcoal Brioni suit, a pale-blue shirt open at the throat, and a silk tie the color of dried blood. Behind the knot of that tie, taped carefully against his skin, a small transmitter hummed with quiet menace.

Bellamy glanced at the Rolex President on his wrist for the third time in four minutes. Eleven-oh-four.

Latimer was late. Deliberately late. The bastard always had to make an entrance.

The maître d’ led Charlie Latimer through the dining room like he was escorting royalty. Mid-thirties, prematurely gray at the sides, wearing a slightly too-fashionable double-breasted suit in dove gray.

In his right hand he carried a plain black leather briefcase—nothing flashy, nothing that screamed “one million dollars in cash inside.”

Bellamy didn’t stand. He simply lifted his chin.

“Charlie.”

“Raymond.” Latimer’s smile was thin, satisfied. “You’re looking prosperous.”

“Sit.”

Latimer slid into the chair opposite. He set the briefcase on the table between them with deliberate care, as though it were a bomb.

“Let’s get down to business,” he said.

Bellamy raised a finger. A waiter appeared instantly.

“Filet mignon, medium rare. Béarnaise on the side. Another bottle of the ’79 Margaux.” He looked at Latimer. “You’re not staying for lunch.”

“I’m not hungry.” Latimer’s smirk widened. “But you go ahead. Eat. You’ll need your strength.”

He snapped the latches on the briefcase open. Inside, neatly bound sheaves of photocopies, ledgers, bank statements, canceled checks—enough paper to put Raymond Bellamy in a federal penitentiary for the next twenty-five years.

Bellamy reached.

Latimer snapped the case shut an inch from his fingers.

“Did you bring what I asked for?”

Bellamy’s jaw tightened. He placed his own briefcase on the table, popped the locks, and opened it just enough for Latimer to see the tight bundles of hundreds.

“Feel it,” Bellamy said, voice low. “Make sure.”

Latimer slid his hand inside, fingers brushing the crisp paper. His pupils dilated for half a second—the only honest reaction he’d shown all morning. Then he withdrew his hand, nodded once, and swapped the cases in one smooth motion.

Bellamy closed his briefcase. Latimer closed his.

“I don’t ever want to see you again,” Bellamy said.

Latimer stood, adjusting the cuffs of his jacket. “You won’t see me again, Mr. Bellamy. I’ve got everything I want. Everything I need.”

He turned to leave.

Bellamy lifted his champagne flute, spoke just loud enough for the hidden microphone to catch every word.

“So you’re just going to take that bag and walk out the back door of this restaurant?”

Latimer paused, half-turned, grinning like a man who’d just won the lottery and the girl. “You always have all the answers, don’t you, Raymond? Always in control. Tell me—how does it feel having someone else dictate the terms for once?”

Bellamy raised the glass in mock salute. “Goodbye, Charlie.”

Latimer walked away, shoulders loose, stride cocky, the briefcase swinging at his side.

Outside, in the shadowed parking structure across the street, a black Mercury Grand Marquis sat idling. The driver—a big man with a crew cut and a face like broken concrete—heard the transmission crackle through the earpiece.

“…take that bag and leave from the back door…”

He shifted into gear and eased the car around to the rear of La Rouge, positioning himself where the service exit spilled into the alley.

Charlie Latimer stepped out the back door twenty seconds later, still smiling.

....Twenty-three minutes later

Mulholland Drive, just past the city limit. Charlie drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the briefcase beside him. The top was down on his silver 1982 Buick Skylark.

Wind tore at his hair. One million dollars in cash. Tax-free. Untouchable. Enough to disappear to Cabo, open a bar on the beach, fuck twenty-five-year-old tourists until he forgot Raymond Bellamy’s name.

In the rearview mirror, red and blue lights suddenly bloomed.

A black sedan—unmarked except for the removable roof lamp and siren—closed fast.

Charlie’s stomach dropped. He checked the speedometer. Sixty-eight. Not speeding. No reason.

The megaphone crackled. “Pull over to the shoulder. This is the police.”

Charlie’s pulse hammered in his throat. He eased onto the gravel shoulder, killed the engine, and stepped out, hands raised halfway.

The black sedan stopped behind him. One man got out. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dark windbreaker. Aviators. No uniform.

Charlie forced a laugh. “Officer, I wasn’t even—”

The man didn’t speak. He simply reached under the windbreaker and brought out a sawed-off double-barrel shotgun.

The first blast caught Charlie square in the chest. The impact folded him backward over the hood of the Porsche.

Blood sprayed across the silver paint in a bright red arc.

Charlie’s mouth worked, trying to form words that would never come.

The man stepped forward, unhurried. He drew a .45 automatic from a shoulder holster, pressed the muzzle against Charlie’s left temple, and fired once.

The body jerked once, then went still.

The killer bent, picked up the briefcase, checked the contents briefly, then walked back to the sedan.

He slid behind the wheel, reversed, and accelerated down Mulholland, leaving Charlie Latimer’s body cooling on the asphalt and the briefcase’s former owner richer by one million dollars—and one very large problem.

Somewhere in Los Angeles, a telephone would ring soon.

And two detectives would be asked to answer it.

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Chapter 2

Thursday, March 6, 1986 – 12:20 p.m.

Mulholland Drive, 3 miles past the Los Angeles city limit

The black-and-white units had already cordoned off a generous stretch of the two-lane road. Yellow tape fluttered in the dry wind like caution flags at a bullfight.

Uniformed deputies from the L.A. County Sheriff’s Department stood around looking bored while the SID techs in white jumpsuits crawled over the silver Skylark like ants on sugar.

Detective Sergeant Rick Hunter pulled the tan ’84 Crown Vic to the shoulder, killed the engine, and stepped out into the heat. He wore the usual: faded jeans, a dark-blue sport coat that had seen better days, and the ever-present shoulder rig under his left arm.

Beside him, Detective Sergeant Dee Dee McCall slid out of the passenger seat, sunglasses already in place, her dark hair pulled back in a low ponytail. She carried a slim leather notebook and the kind of quiet intensity that made people talk even when they didn’t want to.

A young deputy with a clipboard met them halfway.

“Detectives. SID’s been here thirty minutes. Coroner’s en route.”

Hunter nodded, eyes already scanning the scene: the Skylark’s driver door still open, blood drying in a wide fan across the hood, the body still sprawled where it fell.

“Who called it in?”

“Passing motorist. Thought it was a hit-and-run at first.”

McCall stepped closer to the tech photographing the shell casings.

“Preliminary?”

The tech glanced up. “Two hits. First was a twelve-gauge, double-ought buck, center mass. Blew most of the sternum out the back. Second was a .45 to the temple, contact wound. Execution-style finish.”

Hunter crouched beside the open body bag the coroner’s assistant had unzipped. The victim’s face was slack, eyes half-open, mouth frozen in a surprised O. Blood had soaked the dove-gray suit jacket almost black.

“Doesn’t look like a gangbanger,” Hunter muttered. “Or a wiseguy. Too soft around the edges.”

McCall flipped open the preliminary report the deputy had handed her. “Rented car—Hertz, picked up at LAX this morning. Two suitcases in the trunk, packed like he was going somewhere for a while. One one-way ticket to San Diego, booked under Charles Smith.”

Hunter pulled the victim’s wallet from a plastic evidence bag and flipped it open. California driver’s license stared back at him.

“Charles Latimer,” he read aloud. “Campo Alto address. Forty-three. Single.” He thumbed through the cash. “Nine hundred and twenty bucks still in here. So we can scratch robbery.”

McCall was already sifting through the smaller items bagged on the hood: keys, sunglasses, a slim gold pen, a pack of Marlboros, and a single book of matches.

She held up the matches in their clear plastic pouch. “This could be from the last place he was. Look at the logo.”

Hunter leaned in. Embossed in gold foil on the black cover: La Rouge.

“Fancy French place in Beverly Hills,” he said. “Not exactly a drive-thru.”

McCall’s mouth curved in the smallest of smiles. “He didn’t die hungry. Let’s go ask who he had lunch with.”

12:45 p.m. La Rouge, Beverly Hills

The lunch crowd had thinned to a few lingering power couples and a table of entertainment lawyers arguing over residuals. The maître d’ recognized the badges immediately and led them to a quiet corner near the service door.

The waitress who’d served the table was mid-twenties, blonde, with the kind of practiced smile that came with too many double shifts.

She looked at the Polaroid of Latimer’s face—taken at the scene before the coroner zipped him up—and nodded without hesitation.

“Yeah, that’s him. Came in around eleven. Sat with an older guy, maybe early fifties, silver hair, expensive suit. The older one ordered filet mignon and wine. The younger guy—him—didn’t eat. Just talked. Low voices. Business, I think.”

McCall kept her tone easy. “They pay with a card?”

“Cash. The older guy. Big bills. Hundreds.”

Hunter tilted his head toward the back hallway. “You said the younger one left through the back door?”

“Yeah. Took a briefcase with him. Black leather. Looked heavy.”

“And the older guy?” McCall asked. “Any chance you’d recognize him again if we showed you a picture?”

The waitress shrugged, but her eyes sharpened. “Definitely. He tipped well, but he looked at me like I was furniture. I remember faces like that.”

Hunter exchanged a glance with McCall. She slipped the Polaroid back into her notebook.

“One last thing,” McCall said. “Did the older guy ever touch his tie?

Adjust it, straighten it, anything like that while they were talking?”

The waitress frowned, thinking.

“Yeah… actually. Right before the younger guy left. He messed with his tie knot, like he was making sure it was perfect. Weird thing to notice, but he did it twice.”

Hunter’s jaw tightened just a fraction. “Thanks,” he said. “We’ll be in touch.”

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Chapter 3

Thursday, March 6, 1986 – 14:45

Captain Charles Devane’s Office, Homicide Division, Parker Center

Captain Devane sat behind his wide desk, the preliminary report lying open in front of him. He looked from the pages up to Hunter and McCall, who stood side by side facing him.

He tapped the report lightly with his knuckles.

“So… why exactly do you two need to go undercover for this one?”

McCall answered right away, her voice calm and clear.

“Because Latimer lived in Campo Alto all his life. No criminal record—not even a single traffic citation. Then about ten days ago he suddenly leaves. He registers the rental car and the airline ticket here in Los Angeles under a false name. And today he gets blown away execution style, with his wallet still full of money.”

Devane leaned back in his chair, folding his arms.

“That still doesn’t answer my question. Why undercover?”

McCall met his eyes steadily.

“From what we’ve heard, the law enforcement up there is real inbred. Very uptight. They’re all connected or related. It’s better if we go in without flashing our badges until we have all the evidence we need.”

Devane nodded slowly, then asked, “How much are we talking?”

Hunter stepped in. “About a hundred dollars a day for expenses. And the rental of a new Jaguar.”

Devane’s eyebrows went up. “A Jaguar? Why the hell do you want a Jaguar?”

Hunter explained without missing a beat. “I’ll have the city garage team replace one of the parts with a damaged one. Gives me a solid excuse to stay in town while I wait for the repairs. Jaguar’s perfect for it—local shops will have to order the part from out of town. That buys us days.”

McCall added, “I’ll go up separately on the bus. As soon as Hunter figures out what cover will work best for me in Campo Alto, I’ll move in behind him.”

Devane picked up the phone, dialed an extension, and had a short conversation with the billing department. When he set the receiver down, he gave them a small nod.

“Good news. It’s still early in the fiscal year. We’ve got plenty of budget left for undercover operations.”

He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk, tone turning serious.

“But listen carefully. You’re going into the jurisdiction of the local sheriff’s office without them knowing. That means low profile. No problems. No incidents. You get the necessary evidence to identify a suspect, and you bring it back here. That’s the job. Clear?”

Both detectives nodded.

“Clear, Captain.”

Devane continued, “I can pull a female undercover from Vice if you want the extra help in the field.”

McCall shook her head firmly.

“No need, Captain. I can handle it. This is a homicide case.”

Devane studied them both for a long second, then asked,

“When do you start?”

Hunter answered,

“Soon as we get the rented Jaguar and the mechanics from City Garage finish preparing the car.”

Devane gave a short, decisive nod.

“Good luck.”

He returned his attention to the papers on his desk.

Hunter and McCall turned and walked out. The door closed softly behind them, leaving the office quiet once more.

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Chapter 4

Saturday, March 8, 1986 – Morning

Campo Alto, California

Campo Alto nestled between the rugged beauty of Lake Isabella and the flat expanse toward Bakersfield—a small, wealthy enclave that existed mostly for those who could afford to escape Los Angeles without really leaving California behind.

Gated estates lined the hills, private golf courses rolled out like emerald carpets, hiking trails wound through oak groves, and wellness retreats promised rejuvenation for bodies that rarely needed it. The air smelled of pine, money, and the faint chlorine of infinity pools.

A flatbed tow truck rumbled down the main road into town, a sleek silver Jaguar XJ6 riding piggyback. Behind the wheel of the Jaguar sat Rick Hunter—now Rick Stoner, professional diver—wearing a faded navy polo, khaki shorts, and a pair of mirrored aviators.

In the back seat: a large duffel bag stuffed with diving gear, regulators, fins, and a wetsuit still damp from Lake Isabella.

The tow truck pulled into the parking lot of Jensen’s Auto Repair, a tidy shop with three bays and a small office. The driver hopped down, unhitched the Jaguar, and rolled it into the shade of the open bay.

A mechanic in his late forties—grease-stained coveralls, name tag reading “Marty”—walked over, wiping his hands on a rag.

“Rick Stoner?”

Hunter stepped out, offering a firm handshake.

“That’s me. Thanks for the tow.”

Marty eyed the diving gear visible through the open rear window.

“Nice rig. But… why the scuba stuff? No beach in Campo Alto.”

Hunter gave an easy shrug, the kind that said he’d answered this question before.

“Just finished an underwater mapping job over at Lake Isabella. Supposed to head to Santa Barbara after, but the car started acting up on the highway. Temperature gauge shot through the roof. Figured better safe than stranded.”

Marty popped the hood, peered inside, and whistled low.

“Looks like the water pump. We’ll have to order the part—Jaguar doesn’t keep these in stock. Could be a few days, maybe three or four.”

Hunter nodded, unperturbed. “No problem. I just need a decent place to stay while it’s in the shop. Nothing fancy—I’m not looking to drop resort money.”

Marty jerked a thumb toward the road.

“Royal Arms Motel. Clean, quiet, reasonable rates. About a mile that way, on the edge of town. D-Wing’s the quietest. Tell ’em Marty sent you; they’ll give you the local rate.”

“Appreciate it.”

Hunter grabbed his duffel, slung it over his shoulder, and started walking toward the motel office, leaving the Jaguar in capable hands.

 

Later that morning

Robbery-Homicide Division, Parker Center

Dee Dee McCall sat at her desk, finishing a cup of coffee and sorting through a small stack of Latimer’s phone records when the phone rang. She picked it up on the second ring.

“McCall.”

Hunter’s voice came through, low and relaxed, the background hum of a payphone on a quiet street.

“Hey. Got settled. Found the perfect cover for you.”

McCall leaned back in her chair, already smiling a little.

“I’m listening.”

“Campo Alto Country Club’s house band needs a singer. Their regular girl just went on maternity leave. I talked to the entertainment manager this morning—dropped a few names, said I knew a great voice from L.A. They’re desperate. You in?”

McCall let out a soft laugh.

“They’re going to offer me a long-term contract before the week’s out.”

Hunter chuckled. “That’s the spirit. I’m at the Royal Arms Motel, D-Wing, Room D-8. Try not to get a room in the same wing. We don’t want anyone noticing two new faces too close together.”

“Understood. I’ll keep my distance.”

There was a brief pause, the kind that always carried a little extra weight between them.

“Bus leaves in a couple hours. I’ll see you up there.”

“See you, Rick.”

She hung up, still smiling faintly.

A moment later, Detective Sergeant Trudy Joplin from Narcotics appeared at the side of McCall’s desk, leaning in close, voice a conspiratorial whisper.

“You get the invite?”

McCall glanced around, then matched the whisper.

“Yeah. Janice Hansen from Vice cornered me in the hallway this morning. I was surprised—and relieved—to hear you’re on the list too. I didn’t want to be the only new girl walking into that.”

Trudy’s eyes sparkled with mischief.

“This time the inauguration performer is ‘The Fire Engine-66.’”

McCall’s eyes widened. “You’re kidding me.”

Trudy shook her head, grinning.

“Full male stripper/gigolo revue. They’re pulling out all the stops.”

Both women dissolved into quiet giggles, hands covering their mouths like teenagers.

After a few seconds, McCall caught her breath and sighed.

“Thanks for the good news. I needed that laugh. I’ve got to head out of town on an investigation assignment for a few days, so it’s nice to know there’s a party waiting when I get back.”

Trudy straightened, still smiling.

“Good luck up there. Whatever it is, kick its ass.”

McCall stood, grabbing her small overnight bag from under the desk.

“I will. And if I’m taking the Greyhound…”

Trudy waved a hand.

“Same direction I’m going this morning for my own thing. I’ll drive you to the station. Come on.”

McCall slung the bag over her shoulder.

“Deal.”

They walked out of the bullpen together, the faint echo of their footsteps disappearing down the hall, leaving the division behind as the weekend—and Campo Alto—waited ahead.

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Chapter 5

Saturday, March 8, 1986 – 10:00 a.m.

Campo Alto, California

It didn’t take long for Hunter to find Charlie Latimer’s house. Campo Alto was small enough that you could walk from one end to the other in twenty minutes if you didn’t stop to admire the landscaping.

The address from the driver’s license led him to a quiet street just two blocks off the main promenade—a tidy, single-story Spanish-style bungalow with a red-tile roof, white stucco walls, and a small front garden bursting with roses and bougainvillea.

Hunter stood on the sidewalk in front of the house, hands in the pockets of his khaki shorts, looking like any tourist taking in the architecture.

The police tape was gone already—someone had moved fast to clean up the public trace—but the curtains were drawn tight, and the place had that unmistakable stillness of a home suddenly empty.

A soft voice came from behind him.

“Morning.”

Hunter turned. An elderly woman in a floral housecoat and sensible shoes approached along the sidewalk, carrying a small watering can. Her silver hair was neatly pinned, and her smile was warm, neighborly.

“I’m Hannah Perkins,” she said. “Live right across the street. You thinking of buying the place?”

Hunter gave her an easy, disarming grin.

“No, ma’am. Just a tourist. Got a little turned around on my walk. Admiring the style of the house—nice lines, good bones.”

Ms. Perkins nodded, pleased.

“Well, if you do change your mind, you’d want to talk to Mr. Latimer. He’s right next door.”

Hunter tilted his head, keeping his tone light.

“The neighbor? Not the owner?”

She sighed, her expression softening into something sadder.

“Mr. Latimer is the father. Charlie—the owner—passed away two days ago. Tragic. Killed in cold blood, they say. I read about it in the local paper this morning. Poor boy. I’ve known Charlie since he was knee-high. One of the nicest people you’d ever meet. Didn’t deserve that. I hope whoever did it pays for it.”

Hunter let his face fall into quiet sympathy.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Ms. Perkins gave a small nod, then glanced across the garden.

“If you want to speak to Mr. Latimer, there he is.”

She pointed with the watering can. At the far corner of the shared garden, an old man in a flat cap sat alone on a wrought-iron bench, staring at nothing in particular.

A newspaper lay folded on his lap.

Hunter thanked her and walked over, keeping his steps casual.

“Morning,” he said. “I’m a little lost. Trying to find the promenade again.”

The old man looked up, eyes tired but kind. He managed a faint smile.

“You’re not far. Just follow this street two blocks that way.” He pointed. “But sit a minute if you like. Not many people stop to talk these days.”

Hunter hesitated just long enough to make it seem natural, then sat on the bench.

“Beautiful morning,” he said.

Mr. Latimer nodded slowly. “Used to be more mornings like this with Charlie around.”

They talked easily—weather, the town, the roses. The old man seemed grateful for the company, the loneliness loosening his tongue. Eventually Hunter steered the conversation gently.

“Charlie… your son?”

“My boy. Never married. But he had a fiancée. Nice girl. Good education, good family. Works as assistant librarian right here in town. I told her she should move on with her life. She said she’d try.”

Hunter nodded, voice soft.

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

Mr. Latimer looked down at the folded newspaper.

“Thank you.”

 

Thirty minutes later

Campo Alto Public Library

The library was a modest brick building with tall windows and the quiet hush of old paper and polished wood. Hunter stepped inside, the cool air a relief after the sun. Behind the main counter stood a woman in her late twenties—slim, short blonde hair tucked behind her ears, wire-frame glasses that made her look like the prettiest bookworm in California.

Her name tag read: Amy Laurton.

Hunter approached with a couple of paperbacks from the display rack, casual as could be.

“Morning. These okay to check out?”

She smiled politely, scanning the books.

“Of course. Do you have a library card?”

“Not yet. Just passing through. Thought I’d take a look around town.”

Amy slid a form across the counter.

“Easy enough. Fill this out and you’re set.”

While he wrote, Hunter kept the conversation light.

“Any recommendations for a good dinner spot tonight? Somewhere with decent food and maybe some music?”

She thought for a second.

“The country club has the best in town. Good food, nice atmosphere. The house band plays most weekends—jazz, standards, a little swing. It’s worth it.”

Hunter raised an eyebrow.

“You sound like you’ve been.”

Amy gave a small shrug, a touch shy.

“I go alone sometimes. Just to sit, have a drink, listen to the music. It’s peaceful."

He set the pen down, met her eyes.

“Why don’t we go together tonight? You show me the place.”

Her smile faltered, surprise flickering across her face.

“Are you… asking me out?”

Hunter softened his tone immediately.

“I’m sorry. Bad timing. I didn’t mean to—”

She looked down at the counter for a moment, then back up.

“My fiancé died two days ago. It’s still… fresh.”

Hunter’s expression shifted to genuine regret.

“I’m very sorry. I had no idea. Forget I asked. I didn’t mean to—”

Amy shook her head, cutting him off gently.

“No, it’s okay. You didn’t know.”

A beat passed.

She exhaled slowly.

“It’s not really a date, right? Just… a local showing a tourist where to eat and hear some music?”

Hunter gave a small, careful nod.

“That’s all it is.”

Amy studied him for a second longer, then offered a quiet smile.

“Okay. I’ll meet you there. Eight o’clock?”

“Eight o’clock,” he agreed.

She handed him the library card and the books.

“See you tonight.”

Hunter walked out into the sunlight, the weight of the morning settling a little heavier on his shoulders. He had a name, a face, and now a door opening into Charlie Latimer’s life.

And tonight, he’d step through it.

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Chapter 6

Saturday, March 8, 1986 – Late Morning

The Royal Arms Motel – Room D-8

 

Hunter pushed the door open with his shoulder, arms full of takeout bags and the six-pack. He set everything down on the small table and froze mid-motion.

A soft splash. Water shifting. Someone in the bathroom.

His hand went to the revolver at the small of his back. Heart rate kicked up. He moved silently, kicked the door wide—

And found himself staring down the barrel of McCall’s .38. 

 

She was in the tub, naked, skin flushed from the heat of the water, soap bubbles drifting lazily across the surface. They clung to the upper swell of her breasts, barely concealing the dark tips beneath, sliding slowly down the dip between them. 

Water droplets traced glistening paths over the curve of her collarbone, down the toned valley of her sternum, disappearing into the foam that just kissed the tops of her thighs. 

Her wet hair stuck to her neck and shoulders in dark, heavy strands; a few tendrils curled against the damp skin of her throat. 

Steam rose around her like a veil, making her look almost unreal—dangerously beautiful, vulnerable, and completely aware of the power she held in that moment.

Both guns stayed locked for a heartbeat.

Then they exhaled in unison, barrels dropping.

Hunter’s voice came out rougher than he intended.

“Jesus, Dee Dee…”

 

McCall’s lips curved—half smile, half challenge—as she lowered her revolver to the tub’s edge.

“Nice reflexes.”

They both laughed, short and shaky, the sound swallowed by the small tiled room.

Hunter holstered his weapon, dragging a hand through his hair.

“What the hell are you doing in my bathroom?”

She gestured vaguely with her free hand, water rippling.

“Can’t check in till five. Picked your lock. Don’t worry—clean job. You didn’t even feel it when you came in.”

He stared at her, trying—and failing—to keep his eyes on her face.

“When did you get into town? Did you already—”

“Slow down.” She cut him off, voice low, teasing. “First things first. Hand me the towel.”

He reached for the thin crimson towel hanging on the rack, tossed it to her. She caught it one-handed, then rose from the water in one slow, deliberate motion.

Water cascaded down her body in shimmering sheets. The bubbles slid away reluctantly, revealing the long, athletic lines of her torso, the gentle flare of her hips, the faint tan lines that spoke of stolen weekends at the beach—lines he’d never seen this close, this unguarded. 

She wrapped the towel around herself, tucking it just above the tops of her breasts, but the fabric clung wetly, molding to every curve, leaving very little to the imagination.

They moved into the main room. Hunter cracked two beers, handed her one. She leaned against the small kitchenette counter, towel still damp against her skin, droplets tracing lazy paths down her bare shoulders.

 

“I auditioned with the band,” she said, taking a slow sip. “They loved it. Asked me back tonight for rehearsal. That’s why I couldn’t wait for my room.”

Hunter watched the way her throat moved when she swallowed.

“You look pretty damn pleased with yourself.”

She smirked, eyes glinting.

“Don’t be jealous just because your partner scored the fun cover. Besides… they’re letting me do one or two of my own songs.”

He raised an eyebrow, leaning closer without realizing it.

“You really write songs?”

McCall gave him a mock-offended look.

“Yes, Rick. When I’m not putting my body and soul on the line for the job, I do occasionally have a life.”

He laughed—and promptly tilted the bottle too far, beer spilling down his shirt.

McCall burst out laughing, the sound low and warm.

“Sloppy.”

Hunter grabbed a napkin, dabbing uselessly at the wet spot.

“Give me that towel. I need to clean this up.”

She arched one brow, then—very slowly—let the top edge of the towel slip just enough that the soft upper curve of her areola peeked into view, dusky against her skin. She held it there for a single, electric second… then snapped the fabric back up with a dramatic eye-roll.

“Keep dreaming, Hunter.”

His voice dropped, rough around the edges.

“Oh, come on…”

She stepped closer—close enough that he could smell the soap on her skin, feel the heat radiating off her body through the thin towel.

“You know,” she murmured, “if you keep staring like that, people might start to think you’re not just here for the case.”

He didn’t back up.

“Maybe I’m not.”

The air between them thickened, heavy with everything they never said during late-night stakeouts, close calls, and too many near-misses. His eyes flicked down to her mouth, then back up.

McCall’s breath hitched—just barely.

“We’re on the clock, Rick.”

“Yeah,” he said, voice low. “We are.”

Neither of them moved away.

For a long moment, the only sound was the hum of the motel air conditioner and the faint drip of water from her hair onto the carpet.

Then McCall exhaled, a small, almost reluctant smile tugging at her lips.

“Tonight,” she said softly. “Country club. Rehearsal. You and Amy. We work the angles.”

Hunter nodded once, jaw tight.

“Work the angles.”

She stepped back first, towel clutched a little tighter.

“But after that…” She let the sentence hang, eyes locked on his.

Hunter swallowed.

“After that,” he echoed.

She turned toward the bathroom to finish dressing, leaving him standing there—beer forgotten, shirt still damp, pulse hammering—knowing full well that the real danger in Campo Alto might not be the Sheriff, or Bellamy, or a hired gun.

It might be the woman who’d just walked away from him in nothing but a towel, and the line they were both dangerously close to crossing.

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Chapter 7

Saturday, March 8, 1986 – Evening

Campo Alto Country Club

The walk from the Royal Arms Motel took Hunter just ten pleasant minutes. Campo Alto had been designed as a wellness retreat resort from the start—wide, shaded pedestrian paths wound beneath mature oaks and jacarandas, jogging tracks looped through manicured greenery, and soft landscape lighting made the entire town feel like an extended garden even after dark.

He stepped through the double doors of the country club lounge. The band was already playing smooth 80s-style jazzy instrumentals—saxophone gliding over brushed drums and walking bass. The room hummed with quiet conversation and clinking glasses.

Amy Laurton was already at a small table near the center, waving him over with a shy smile. She wore a simple navy sheath dress that skimmed her slim figure, hair tucked behind one ear.

Hunter crossed the room, noticing McCall first—standing beside the stage in conversation with the MC. She spotted him, gave a faint, knowing smile, then turned back to the discussion.

Debra Bennet was dressed to devastate: an emerald-green sleeveless gown with a deep V-neck that plunged well below the inner swell of her breasts, the silk clinging like a second skin and threatening to slip with every breath. 

The high slit up the left thigh parted with each step, exposing long, toned leg all the way to the hip. Flared open-toe heels accentuated her slim, strong calves and high-arched feet—pedicured toes polished a deep crimson that gleamed under the stage lights.

Amy greeted him with a quick handshake. “You made it.”

“Wouldn’t miss it.” He pulled out her chair. “You look stunning tonight.”

Amy flushed, cheeks turning soft pink. She tried to play it casual, looking down at the menu the waitress handed them. “Thank you. You clean up well yourself.”

She was clearly pleased but kept her tone light, careful not to let the evening feel too much like a date. The mourning was still too fresh.

The MC stepped to the microphone as the band wound down the instrumental.

“Ladies and gentlemen, tonight we’re lucky to have a special guest filling in for our regular singer. Please welcome, direct from Los Angeles… Debra Bennet.”

McCall glided onto the stage, microphone in hand. She scanned the room, smiling warmly.

“How’s everybody doing tonight?” She pointed to a lonely gentleman in the corner. “You doing okay over there, handsome?”

Then to a cute older couple near the side. “You two look like you’ve been coming here longer than the building’s been standing—love it.”

Her eyes landed on Hunter and Amy. “And look at this adorable couple right here. You two are just too cute together.”

Amy gave a shy smile, ducking her head. Hunter shot McCall a quick “oh come on” look, half-cringe, half-amused.

McCall launched into a set of 80s slow romantic numbers—smooth, sultry, perfectly suited to the room. The house band, an all-Black ensemble that had been the country club’s staple for years, had a loyal following. McCall stood out like a jewel against them—beautiful, confident, and impossible to ignore. Every eye in the place was on her.

Hunter and Amy started with easy conversation over appetizers.

“She’s really good,” Amy said, nodding toward the stage. “Better than anyone we’ve had in a while. And the food here is always excellent. That bartender over there—Tom—he was my high-school friend. Still makes the best old-fashioned in town.”

The lounge door opened. Raymond Bellamy entered, tall and silver-haired, navy suit tailored to perfection. A personal bodyguard followed a step behind—big, silent, watchful—then peeled off to stand by the bar, eyes never leaving his boss.

Bellamy took his usual reserved corner booth alone. The MC hurried over with respectful deference.

Hunter leaned toward Amy. “Who’s that?”

“That’s Raymond Bellamy,” she whispered. “The biggest man in town. Most influential, richest. He owns Bellamy Insurance, plus ranches, mines, properties. Buys land like he’s playing Monopoly.”

Hunter nodded slowly. “I see. I already heard about him from the owner of the gas station.”

Amy’s gaze softened. “He comes here every Saturday, pretty much. It reminds me of Charlie. He was the one who first brought me here. Saturday nights were our thing.”

Hunter reached across, touched her hand lightly. “I’m sorry.”

She gave a small nod, then glanced down. Hunter waited a beat before asking gently, “Charlie was an accountant, right? Where did he work?”

Amy’s tone shifted. She leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper. “He used to work for Mr. Raymond Bellamy. At Bellamy Insurance.”

Hunter kept his face neutral. “Must’ve paid well, working for a man like that.”

Amy shook her head. “Not really. Charlie complained all the time—said Bellamy paid him peanuts. After almost ten years, he felt unappreciated. Like his dedication meant nothing.”

She paused. “For me, his salary was actually quite good. It was just… he wanted to be treated fairly.”

Amy suddenly looked uneasy, setting her fork down. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get so serious about my personal life. I hope I haven’t ruined the night for you.”

Hunter met her eyes. “Not at all. I’m willing to listen.”

On stage, McCall was working the crowd like she’d been born for it. She had effortless chemistry with the bass player—who doubled as a singer—and they traded duet verses on a few numbers with perfect timing.

Her vocal range, genre versatility, dance ability, and stage presence surprised even Hunter. She was commanding the room.

Then the band shifted into a hot, pulsing salsa tune. The lights dimmed to a sultry red. McCall stepped forward, locking eyes with the bass player. They began to dance.

It was slow at first—hips swaying in sync, bodies circling each other like predators. Then the rhythm quickened. He spun her out; she snapped back in, pressing her back flush against his chest, head tilting to expose the long line of her throat.

His large hands slid low on her hips, fingers splaying possessively just above the high slit of her dress. She arched into him, rolling her body in a slow, deliberate grind that made the silk ride higher on her thigh, exposing more skin with every pulse of the bass.

The slit parted fully now, revealing the smooth curve of her inner thigh up to the lace edge of her stocking. She spun again, facing him, one leg hooking around his waist in a deep dip that brought her breasts dangerously close to his mouth.

He lifted her effortlessly; she wrapped both legs around his hips for a heartbeat, grinding down once—hard, deliberate—before he set her back on her feet with a spin that sent her dress flaring open, flashing a glimpse of black lace panties beneath.

The crowd was silent for a second, then erupted in appreciative murmurs and scattered applause. Every man in the room shifted in his seat. Every woman’s breath caught.

At Bellamy’s table, the most powerful man in Campo Alto looked utterly transfixed—eyes dark, jaw tight, fingers gripping his glass so hard the stem threatened to snap.

He leaned toward the restaurant manager and whispered something short and commanding.

During the break, the manager approached McCall and led her straight to Bellamy’s booth. They shook hands. McCall sat beside him, crossing her legs so the high slit fell open completely, exposing the full length of her thigh.

They leaned in immediately, warm conversation flowing easily, his hand resting lightly on the back of her chair—proprietary, hungry.

As Hunter and Amy stood to leave, they passed close to the booth. McCall’s eyes flicked up—just a quick side-eye, sharp and private, locking on Hunter for half a second. The look said everything: I know you’re watching. And I know exactly what it’s doing to you.

Then she turned back to Bellamy, laughing softly at something he said, her body angled toward him just enough to keep the tension alive.

Hunter guided Amy toward the door, his hand light on the small of her back, pulse still hammering from the memory of McCall’s hips rolling against another man’s in front of the entire room. Outside, the night air felt cooler.

“Great night,” Amy said quietly.

“Yeah,” Hunter replied, voice a little rougher than usual. “Great night.”

Inside, McCall let Bellamy refill her glass, her smile perfect, her focus razor-sharp—while the heat of that dance still lingered on her skin, and the knowledge that Hunter had seen every second of it burned in the back of her mind.

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Chapter 8

Saturday, March 8, 1986 – Late Night

The Royal Arms Motel – Room D-8

Hunter had just peeled off his blazer and was heading toward the bathroom, shirt half-unbuttoned, when a soft knock came at the door.

He paused, smirked to himself, then opened it a crack.

McCall stood there, still in the emerald-green gown, the deep V-neck and high slit looking even more dramatic in the dim hallway light. Her heels were in one hand, hair slightly tousled from the night.

Hunter leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms.

“Thought you’d be gone all night with Bellamy. Or at least till sunrise.”

McCall rolled her eyes and pushed past him into the room.

“Funny. One of the band guys drove me back. Nice guy. Didn’t try to get me into his car for anything more than a ride.”

Hunter closed the door behind her.

“That was one hell of a show tonight. You looked… convincing. A little too convincing, if you ask me.”

She dropped onto the worn sofa with a dramatic sigh, stretching her long legs out in front of her. The slit fell open, exposing the full length of her thigh. She kicked the heels off completely, flexed her feet, and started rubbing the arches with her thumbs.

“Yeah, well, you looked pretty convincing yourself as Amy’s boyfriend. All attentive, hand on the small of her back… very sweet.”

Hunter snorted, walking to the small bar area and pouring two fingers of bourbon into each glass.

“I thought maybe you came here to make sure I wasn’t spending the night with her.”

McCall took the glass he handed her, raised an eyebrow.

“That’s ridiculous, Rick. I came to hear what intel you dug up from her. Progress report. You’re the one who actually made contact with someone connected to the case.

Hunter sat on the edge of the bed across from her, sipping his drink.

“While I was having dinner and a nice conversation, you were out there grinding on the bass player like it was a private show, then getting cozy with Raymond Bellamy himself. Looked like real close proximity.”

McCall’s eyes narrowed, annoyed.

“Oh come on, Rick. I want actual progress here. You’re the one talking to the ex-fiancée of the victim. I’m just making new friends with people who have zero credible connection to the case.”

Hunter smiled slowly.

“You also gained access to a very important person of interest.”

McCall leaned forward, glass in hand.

“What does that mean?”

Hunter took another sip.

“Raymond Bellamy was Charlie Latimer’s former boss. And Amy told me something tonight that clearly implies Charlie had a tense relationship with him. She said Charlie felt he was being treated unfairly—paid peanuts after almost ten years of dedication. He was bitter about it.”

McCall’s eyes widened slightly.

“So you’re saying there’s a real possibility his boss—Bellamy—is involved in this?”

Hunter nodded.

“That’s exactly what I’m saying. And there’s more. Remember the incident at the gas station? The owner told me Bellamy’s been trying to buy his property for months to turn it into a shopping center. When the guy refused, Sheriff Johnson arranged for goons to harass him—break bottles, scare customers, the works. Bellamy doesn’t take no for an answer. He uses influence and money to get what he wants.”

McCall leaned back, processing.

“That fits. Tonight, Bellamy was… intense. The kind of man who expects everything to bend to him. Power, money, people—he treats them all like assets.”

Hunter studied her for a moment.

“Did you notice anything interesting about him?”

McCall smirked.

“I spent more time looking at him than you did.”

Hunter shrugged.

“I don’t spend much time staring at suspects when I’m on a date.”

She laughed softly.

“He fits the description the waitress at La Rouge gave us. Older man, silver hair, expensive suit. The one who met Charlie the day he was murdered, fiddled with his tie like he was signaling someone.”

Hunter’s expression sharpened.

“Bingo. Now we need the waitress to ID him. We need a picture. Show it to her for a positive recognition.”

McCall reached into her small clutch and pulled out a business card, holding it up.

“At the country club, Bellamy told me he’s having a meeting with business partners two days from now. Asked if I’d be interested in a side gig—perform and entertain him and his guests. Said to talk to the band manager, and if I agree, just call him tomorrow.”

Hunter took the card, glanced at the embossed name: Raymond Bellamy.

“Good. You can bring a pocket camera. Take his picture. Say it’s for personal memories and documentation.”

He handed the card back, then added, “But before you agree, you need to ask him exactly what kind of ‘entertainment’ and ‘performance’ he expects. Be crystal clear.”

McCall’s eyes widened for a second, then she smiled.

“Ah yes, thank you for reminding me. I’m glad you’re still very concerned about me.”

She stood, smoothing the dress down her thighs, heels dangling from her fingers.

“Night night, partner.”

Hunter leaned back on his elbows, watching her.

“You really want to leave? I could give you a foot massage right here. You look like you need one.”

McCall paused at the door, turned, and gave him a slow, teasing smile.

“Thank you… but not tonight.”

She slipped out, the door clicking softly behind her.

Hunter stared at the closed door for a long moment, then exhaled, set his glass down, and headed for the shower—mind still on the night, the case, and the woman who’d just walked away in that dress.

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Chapter 9

Sunday, March 9, 1986 – Morning

Bellamy Ranch

Raymond Bellamy stood on the wide terrace behind his sprawling mansion, hands clasped behind his back, watching his thoroughbreds exercise and graze in the large paddock.

The circular horse-racing track framed the scene like a private arena. The morning sun glinted off the white fences and the dew on the grass. A light breeze carried the scent of hay and leather.

The French doors opened behind him. Sheriff Johnson stepped out, hat in hand, boots clicking on the stone.

“Morning, Raymond. You called me out here on a Sunday. Urgent matters that need immediate handling?”

Bellamy didn’t turn right away. He kept his eyes on the horses.

“I should’ve called you last night, Carl. But I was feeling generous. Let you enjoy your Saturday night with your mistress.”

Johnson laughed, a short, easy sound.

“Anything can be set aside if you need me, Raymond. You know that.”

Bellamy finally turned, expression calm but hard.

“As a veteran businessman, I can smell opportunity from a mile away. I can also smell trouble.”

He paused, letting the words hang.

“Are you still watching anyone close to Charlie Latimer?”

Johnson straightened slightly, caught off guard.

“Of course. We’ve got eyes on—”

Bellamy cut in.

“What’s the name of Charlie’s fiancée? The blond chick who works at the library?”

Johnson nodded quickly.

“Amy Laurton.”

Bellamy’s eyes narrowed.

“Last night she was in the arms of some tall guy I’ve never seen before. At the country club.”

Johnson’s face tightened.

Bellamy continued, voice even.

“It should’ve been you reporting that to me first, Carl. Not the other way around. That shows a lack of priority. And commitment.”

Johnson swallowed.

“Sorry, Raymond. I failed to notice it first. My deputies must’ve gotten too relaxed. It won’t happen again.”

Bellamy raised a hand, stopping him mid-sentence.

“Cut the crap. Listen. I already sent one of my men to follow them from the club. The stranger’s staying at the Royal Arms Motel. Room D-8. Check on him. Make sure he leaves Amy alone—and leaves this town immediately.”

Johnson put his hat back on.

“I’ll handle it right away.”

 

Meanwhile

At The Royal Arms Motel – Room D-8

Hunter sat on the edge of the bed, phone pressed to his ear, voice low.

“Captain. Daily check-in.”

Devane’s voice came through clear on the other end.

“Go ahead.”

Hunter ran through it quickly.

“Charlie Latimer worked for Raymond Bellamy at Bellamy Insurance. According to his fiancée, Amy, Charlie felt he was being treated unfairly—paid peanuts despite ten years of dedication. He was bitter. And the way Bellamy does business… intimidation, dirty plays. The gas station owner told me Bellamy’s been trying to force him to sell his property. When he refused, goons started harassing him—breaking bottles, scaring customers. Owner’s convinced they’re sent by Sheriff Johnson.”

Devane let out a slow breath.

“So Charlie might’ve been killed over a disagreement. Or maybe he got hold of information that could jeopardize Bellamy’s whole operation.”

Hunter nodded to himself.

“Exactly. The meeting at La Rouge could’ve been a blackmail exchange—evidence for money. Charlie thought he was walking away rich. Instead, he walked into a bullet.”

Devane paused.

“We’ve got more. From the Hornsby case last year—the security chief shot execution-style at the Malibu Star hotel gas station. Turns out Hornsby only worked there five days. Before that, he was a deputy sheriff right here in Campo Alto.”

Hunter’s grip tightened on the phone.

“Bingo. Now we may have a strong connection between Latimer’s murder and Sheriff Johnson.”

Devane continued.

“And there’s better news. No direct witnesses to Hornsby’s killing, but a car owner nearby filed a hit-and-run report that night. Said he was at a coffee shop across the street, heard a gunshot from the gas station, then saw a man in a jacket and hood running from the direction of the shooting. The guy jumped into a car parked in front of the coffee shop. When the witness made a U-turn to follow, the car grazed his left door and sped off. He ID’d it as a Chevy Vega, 1975–1977 model. License plate: 4ABC123.”

Hunter leaned forward.

“The report went to the local precinct. Homicide was handled by Metro. They never connected the dots—until now.”

Devane’s tone turned serious.

“Rick, this investigation just got critical. Sensitive. Dangerous. We’re talking the most influential businessman in town and the sheriff himself. You and McCall are in the lion’s den. Stay sharp. No heroics. Get the evidence, get out clean.”

“Understood, Captain.”

Hunter hung up, staring at the phone for a long moment. The pieces were falling into place—Bellamy, Johnson, the hitman, the old murder. But the town was closing ranks, and the noose was tightening.

He stood, grabbed his jacket, and headed out. Time to move. Fast.

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Chapter 10

Sunday, March 9, 1986

Campo Alto

Hunter walked the short distance from the Royal Arms Motel to the old gas station/convenience store at the end of the promenade.

The morning sun was already warming the pavement, but the place still looked out of time—faded pumps, chipped paint, the same stubborn refusal to modernize that had made Earl keep it open despite the pressure.

Earl was behind the counter, restocking cigarettes. He looked up when the bell jingled, recognition flickering across his face.

“You again. The tourist who paid for the broken bottles.”

Hunter leaned on the counter, casual and easy.

“Morning, Earl. Figured I’d stop by, grab a coffee. That stuff you brew still better than the motel sludge?”

Earl chuckled, already  reaching for a Styrofoam cup.

“Always is. Black?”

“Black’s fine. Thanks.”

Hunter accepted the coffee, took a sip, then leaned in a little closer, lowering his voice like he was sharing a secret.

“Ran into your Sheriff Johnson at Jensen’s Auto a little while ago. Guy rolled up like he owned the place. Not exactly the welcome wagon type. Felt like I was trespassing just by standing next to my own car.”

Earl’s hands paused on the counter. He glanced toward the door, then back at Hunter.

“Yeah… Carl can be like that. Tight. Doesn’t like strangers. Especially ones who stick around longer than a weekend.”

Hunter gave a small laugh, keeping it light.

“Made me wonder. If the Sheriff’s that wound up with visitors, I can’t imagine how rough he is on his own deputies. Must be hell working under a boss like that.”

Earl exhaled through his nose, a tired sound. He wiped his hands on a rag, eyes distant for a moment.

“Wasn’t always that way. Back when he was just Lieutenant Johnson, he had a deputy—young guy, William Hornsby. Good kid. Quiet, did his job, didn’t make waves. Then one day Hornsby starts asking questions. Little things at first—property deals that didn’t add up, permits that sailed through too fast. Nothing loud, just… curious.”

Hunter sipped his coffee, staying silent, letting Earl talk.

“Johnson didn’t like questions. Never has. Couple weeks after Hornsby started digging, he quits. No goodbye, no explanation. Hands in his badge and leaves town.

Next thing anybody hears, he’s got a security gig up in Malibu. Five days later, he’s dead. Shot at a gas station. Execution style.”

Earl shook his head. “Never sat right with me. Hornsby wasn’t the type to run. And Johnson? He acted like it never happened. Didn’t even send a card to the family. Just moved on.”

Hunter kept his tone neutral, sympathetic.

“Sounds like Hornsby got on the wrong side of something. Or someone.”

Earl met his eyes for the first time.

“Maybe. Or maybe he saw something he wasn’t supposed to. Around here, that can get you killed.”

A beat of silence hung between them.

Hunter set the coffee down.

“Thanks for the talk, Earl. And the coffee.”

Earl nodded once.

“Just watch yourself, tourist. Some questions are better left unasked.”

Hunter walked out, the bell jingling behind him. The pieces were starting to line up—Hornsby’s questions, his sudden resignation, his death. And Johnson’s name at the center of it all.

Hunter left the store and headed straight to Jensen’s Auto Repair.

His Jaguar was still up on the lift in bay one, hood open, waiting for the water pump that might never arrive on time.

In bay two, a Chevy Vega sat under bright shop lights, half-sanded, primer showing through the black paint. A painter in a mask was working on the hood.

Hunter walked over like he owned the place.

“Marty around?”

The painter lifted his mask. “In the office. You the Jag guy?”

“Yeah. Just checking progress.” Hunter nodded toward the Vega. “Nice project. What’s the story on this one?”

The painter wiped sweat from his brow.

“Sheriff Johnson’s car. Second time we’ve repainted it. First was last year—white to black. Now black to blue. Guy’s picky about his ride.”

Hunter’s pulse kicked up. He kept his face neutral.

“License plate still the same?”

The painter laughed. “Yeah. 4ABC123. He keeps the tags. Just changes the color when he feels like it.”

Hunter filed the info away, then stepped back as Marty came out of the office.

“Mr. Stoner. No luck yet on that pump. Still on order. Maybe tomorrow or Tuesday.”

Before Hunter could answer, a patrol car pulled into the lot. Sheriff Carl Johnson stepped out, uniform crisp, aviators on, walking straight toward them.

Hunter tensed. Marty straightened like a soldier.

Johnson stopped beside the Vega, looked at Hunter, then at the car.

“Checking on your ride, Mr. Stoner?”

Hunter nodded. “Yeah. Wanted to see if the part came in.”

Johnson glanced at the Vega, then back at Hunter.

“Sheriff Carl Johnson. We haven’t officially met.” He extended a hand. Hunter shook it—firm, brief. Johnson didn’t let go right away.

“You seem to be making yourself comfortable here. Dinner with Amy Laurton last night. Nice girl. Long-time resident. She’s grieving a murder victim. I take that personally. So when strangers get close to her, I get protective.”

Hunter kept his voice steady.

“Just dinner. She showed me the country club. That’s all.”

Johnson released his hand, tapped the hood of the Vega.

“Marty, how soon till this Jag’s fixed?”

Marty swallowed. “Soon as the pump arrives, Sheriff. One or two days.”

Johnson nodded. “Good. Soon as it’s ready, you call me. I want to know the minute it’s roadworthy. Mr. Stoner here has overstayed his welcome. I’d like him to leave town as soon as possible.”

He turned back to Hunter.

“Stay away from Amy. Stay out of trouble. And stay out of my town.”

Johnson got back in his cruiser and drove off.

Hunter exhaled slowly. Marty looked uncomfortable.

“Don’t take it personal. He’s… protective.”

Hunter gave a tight smile.

“Yeah. I can see that.”

Later that afternoon

Campo Alto Country Club – Rehearsal Room

Dee Dee McCall (still Debra Bennet to the band) stood in the middle of the small rehearsal room, black leggings clinging to the curve of her hips and thighs like a second skin, cropped sweatshirt riding up just enough to expose a taut strip of midriff when she stretched. Her hair was pulled into a high, messy ponytail, a few dark curls already escaping and sticking to the light sheen of sweat on her neck.

The band had just finished a run-through. The drummer called for a short break, but Otis—tall, broad-shouldered, dark skin gleaming under the overhead lights—set his bass down and walked straight to her.

He handed her a bottle of water. His fingers brushed hers deliberately, lingering, thumb tracing the inside of her wrist for a split second longer than necessary. The touch sent a small, electric current up her arm.

“You’re something else, Debra,” he said, voice low and rough around the edges. “That voice… that body when you move. Makes it hard to keep my hands on the strings instead of on you.”

Dee Dee took the water, drank slowly, eyes flicking up to meet his. She felt the heat—immediate, undeniable. Otis was built like he could pin her against a wall without breaking a sweat, and the way he looked at her made it clear he’d been thinking about exactly that.

She smiled, playful but careful.

“You’re not so bad yourself, Otis. That bass line last night? Made me want to move closer.”

He stepped in, close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating off his chest, smell the clean sweat and cedar of his skin.

“I’ve been thinking… now that you’re permanent with the band, maybe I could drive you around. Help you find a cheaper place than the motel. Or just… show you the real Campo Alto. Off the clock.”

Dee Dee felt the pull—strong, physical, tempting. She wasn’t here for anything serious. Undercover meant no attachments. But Otis was making it very hard to remember that. Tall, handsome, confident, with eyes that promised slow, deliberate pleasure.

She tilted her head, teasing.

“I’m flattered, Otis. And yeah… I’m not against going out sometime. Having some fun. But I’m not looking for heavy. Just… easy. No expectations.”

Otis’s smile was slow, predatory in the best way.

“Easy works for me. No pressure. Just say when.”

She laughed softly. “I’ll say when.”

The drummer called them back, but Otis held up a hand.

“One more thing. We need to run that salsa number again. Gotta make sure we’re still locked in.”

Dee Dee nodded, stepping into position in the center of the room.

The band kicked into the pulsing rhythm—congas slapping, horns stabbing, bass thumping low and insistent. Otis pulled her in hard, bodies colliding on the first beat. His hand settled possessively on the small of her back, fingers splaying wide, pressing her hips flush against his.

She felt the hard ridge of him through his jeans—thick, unapologetic, already half-hard from the tension that had been building since Saturday.

She hooked her leg around his waist on the dip, arching back sharply so her breasts pressed into his chest, nipples tightening against the thin fabric of her cropped top. Otis’s breath hissed out against her throat. He lifted her effortlessly; she wrapped both legs around his hips for a heartbeat, grinding down slow and deliberate—once, twice—feeling every inch of him swell against her core through the thin layers of clothing.

The friction was obscene.

She rolled her hips in a deep circle as he lowered her, sliding down his body inch by inch, her breasts dragging along his chest, her nails raking lightly down his shoulders.

He spun her out; she snapped back in, back to chest, ass grinding against his groin in a slow, filthy figure-eight. His hand slid lower, cupping the curve of her ass for a split second before returning to her hip—barely legal, completely intoxicating.

Their breathing synced with the rhythm—short, ragged. Sweat slicked their skin where they touched. Dee Dee tilted her head back against his shoulder, exposing the long line of her throat. Otis’s lips hovered there, close enough she felt the heat of his mouth, but he didn’t kiss her—just exhaled hot against her pulse point, making her shiver.

The final spin brought them face-to-face again. He dipped her low, one arm locked around her waist, the other hand sliding up her thigh through the imaginary slit of her performance dress. His thumb brushed the sensitive skin high on her inner thigh—dangerously close to where she was already wet and aching.

They held the pose as the music faded—bodies pressed tight, chests heaving, eyes locked. His erection throbbed against her belly. Her nipples were hard points visible through the sweat-dampened crop top. Neither spoke.

The room was silent except for their breathing and the faint hum of the amp.

Otis finally eased her upright, but he didn’t let go right away. His hand stayed on her lower back, thumb stroking once—slow, deliberate—before dropping away.

“Still got it,” he murmured, voice rough.

Dee Dee exhaled shakily, pulse hammering between her legs.

“Yeah. We do.”

She stepped back first, grabbing her water with trembling fingers, mind reeling from the heat still pulsing through her body.

Otis watched her go, eyes dark with want.

She had a phone call to make.

In the hallway, she pulled out Bellamy’s card and dialed, trying to steady her breathing.

It rang twice.

“Bellamy.”

“Mr. Bellamy, it’s Debra Bennet.”

A warm, confident chuckle.

“Debra. I was hoping you’d call. Enjoying your stay?”

“Very much. About your offer—the side gig for your business partners’ meeting. I’m interested… but I need to know exactly what kind of entertainment you’re expecting. I like to be prepared.”

Bellamy’s voice dropped, smooth as silk.

“Nothing complicated. Dinner, drinks, conversation. A few songs—maybe something intimate, personal. You’ll perform in the private dining room at my ranch. Just you, the piano player I keep on staff, and my guests. Wear something elegant. Something that shows off that voice… and everything else.”

Dee Dee kept her tone professional, playful.

“So a lounge set? No surprises?”

“No surprises,” he said. “Just talent. And beauty. Monday night. Eight o’clock. I’ll send a car.”

“I’ll confirm tomorrow.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

She hung up, leaned against the wall for a moment, still flushed and aching from the dance.

Otis’s touch lingered on her skin like a brand.

She had work to do.

But damn if that man didn’t make it hard to remember why.

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Chapter 11

Sunday, March 9, 1986 – Afternoon

Amy Laurton’s House, Campo Alto

Amy Laurton sat curled on her living-room sofa, legs tucked under her, a half-empty glass of lemonade sweating on the coffee table. The TV droned a game show—contestants shouting, buzzers ringing—but her eyes were unfocused, mind drifting somewhere between grief and the quiet Saturday night she’d spent with a stranger who’d made her laugh for the first time in weeks.

A knock at the door startled her. She set the glass down, smoothed her blouse, and opened the door.

Hunter stood on the porch, hands in his pockets, expression serious—no easy smile this time.

“Rick,” she said, brightening at first. “Hi. Come in.”

He stepped inside. Amy closed the door behind him and moved to the kitchen counter.

“Lemonade?” she offered, already pouring a second glass.

“Thanks.”

She handed it to him, then gestured toward the sofa. “Sit. What place in town do you want to see today? I’m free. I can show you the lake trail, or—”

Hunter didn’t sit. He stayed standing, glass in hand, looking at her with an intensity that made her words trail off.

“Something’s wrong,” she said quietly. “What is it?”

Hunter exhaled slowly. “Sit down, Amy. Please.”

She did, perching on the edge of the cushion. He sat beside her—not too close, but close enough that she could see the tension in his jaw.

“I owe you an apology,” he began, voice low. “I haven’t been completely honest with you since we met. My name isn’t Rick Stoner. It’s Rick Hunter. I’m a detective sergeant with LAPD Robbery-Homicide. I’m here investigating Charlie’s murder.”

Amy’s face went pale. The lemonade glass trembled slightly in her hand.

“So… you’re investigating me?”

Hunter shook his head firmly. “No. You’re not a suspect. Not even close. But you’re the person closest to Charlie. I need your help to find who killed him.”

Amy stared at the floor for a long moment, then looked up. “I don’t know how much help I can be. The papers said it was probably gang-related. Mob execution. I thought… maybe he owed someone money or got mixed up in something he didn’t understand.”

Hunter leaned forward slightly. “Look, Amy… I hate to say this, but I think Charlie was involved in extortion. Blackmail. He was killed the same day he got paid off.”

Amy’s eyes flashed with instant denial. “No. Charlie wouldn’t cheat on his taxes, let alone blackmail someone. He was honest. Too honest sometimes.”

Hunter kept his tone gentle but firm. “When we were at the country club, you told me Charlie wanted to take you to Mexico. Start a new life.”

“Yes,” she said quietly. “He said he had an investment. Enough for us to live comfortably. Peaceful. Away from everything.”

Hunter nodded. “That ‘investment’ might’ve been the payoff. Money someone gave him to stay quiet about something dangerous. Something that could ruin a powerful person or their business.”

Amy shook her head, voice rising a little. “That’s too far. Too wild. Charlie wasn’t like that.”

“People don’t get shot execution-style on the side of Mulholland unless they’re a threat to someone powerful,” Hunter said.

“Mistaken identity doesn’t fit. Random robbery doesn’t fit. This was deliberate. Planned.”

Amy opened her mouth to argue, then closed it. Her eyes glistened. “Maybe there’s another explanation…”

A sharp knock at the door cut her off. Amy froze.

“Who is it?” she called.

“Sheriff Johnson.”

Hunter’s eyes flicked to the bedroom door. He stood silently, moved fast, and slipped inside, closing the door behind him without a sound.

Amy took a breath, smoothed her hair, and opened the front door.

Sheriff Carl Johnson stood there, hat in hand, uniform crisp despite the Sunday afternoon heat.

“Sorry to bother you on a weekend, Amy,” he said, voice warm but official. “But there’s something concerning I need to talk about.”

Amy stepped aside to let him in. “Of course. Come in.”

Johnson entered, eyes scanning the room—habit, not suspicion. Yet.

Amy closed the door. “What is it?”

Johnson set his hat on the coffee table. “Someone saw you with a stranger last night at the country club. Tall guy. New in town.”

Amy nodded slowly. “Yes. Rick Stoner. What’s wrong with him?”

Johnson’s expression hardened. “He’s not someone you can trust. I ran his name. Rick Stoner’s from Chicago. Rap sheet ten yards long—assault, fraud, you name it. I’m worried he’s after something from you. Information. Money. Leverage.”

Amy frowned. “I have nothing to give. And he seemed… nice. Are you sure?”

Johnson’s voice dropped, edged with steel. “I’m sure. Your connection to Charlie puts you in danger, Amy. You need to trust the people who’ve always protected this town. Me. Mr. Bellamy. Not some stranger who shows up out of nowhere.”

He stepped closer. “I’m still working Charlie’s case—even though it’s technically outside my jurisdiction. Mr. Bellamy feels the same. He’s posted a reward for any lead on the killer. Real money. But if you’re talking to the wrong people, you could end up in the crosshairs.”

Amy swallowed. “He didn’t ask about Charlie. Not once. We just… talked.”

Johnson’s eyes flicked to the coffee table. Two glasses of lemonade. One half-full. One full. “Who else is here?”

Amy didn’t hesitate. “Suzie. My neighbor. We were watching game shows. She left just before you knocked.”

Johnson studied her for a long beat. “Alright. But listen close, Amy. In this town, I’m the law. If you’re holding anything back, or if you start trusting strangers over the people who’ve kept this place safe for years… that’s a mistake. Collaborating with a criminal puts you on the wrong side of me. And you don’t want that.”

He picked up his hat. “Stay safe. And stay away from Stoner.”

Amy nodded once.

Johnson left. The door closed with a soft click.

 Hunter emerged from the bedroom a moment later. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “For not giving me up.”

Amy turned to face him, arms crossed, expression a mix of fear and resolve. “Honestly? I don’t feel safe right now. Not with the Sheriff acting like that. Your presence seems to threaten him. And I’m starting to wonder why.”

Hunter met her eyes. “I’m LAPD Homicide. I swear it. Here’s my card.” He pulled a business card from his wallet and handed it to her. “Call Parker Center. Robbery-Homicide. Ask for Captain Devane. Tell him you’re speaking to Detective Sergeant Rick Hunter. They’ll verify everything.”

Amy took the card, studied it, then looked up. “I believe you. And I trust you more than I trust Sheriff Johnson or Mr. Bellamy. Most people in this town do, even if they’re too scared to say it.”

Hunter exhaled. “Then help me. The waitress at La Rouge—the one who served Charlie and the older man the day he died—gave us a description that fits Bellamy perfectly. Silver hair, expensive suit, fiddled with his tie like he was signaling someone. We need to confirm it’s him.”

Amy sat back down, processing. “The briefcase Charlie used that night… the one he carried the documents in? It was a gift from me. His birthday last year. Black leather, gold initials. C.L. If he exchanged it for money, Bellamy has it now. It’s probably in his mansion. Somewhere he keeps important things.”

Hunter nodded slowly. “I see. If we can find that briefcase—documents, money, fingerprints—it’s proof Bellamy paid him off. And proof he had him killed to keep him quiet.”

Amy looked at him, fear still in her eyes but determination winning out.

“I’ll help however I can. Just… be careful. They own this town.”

Hunter gave her a small, reassuring nod. “I will. And I’ll keep you safe.”

He stood. “I need to get back. We’ll talk soon.”

Amy walked him to the door. “Rick—Hunter—thank you. For telling me the truth.”

He paused on the threshold. “Thank you for trusting me.”

He stepped out into the afternoon sun, mind racing.

The net was tightening—on Bellamy, on Johnson, on the truth.

And on him.

----------------------------------------

Chapter 12

Sunday, March 9, 1986 – Afternoon & Evening

Campo Alto

Amy Laurton sat cross-legged on her bed, the photo album open on her lap. Sunlight slanted through the half-closed blinds, catching dust motes and the glossy edges of old pictures. Engagement party shots—Charlie grinning in a tuxedo, her in a simple white dress, both of them laughing under string lights. She traced a finger over his face, expression caught between nostalgia, sadness, and something sharper, more bitter.

Hunter’s words echoed in her head: extortion… blackmail… paid off… threat to someone powerful.

She remembered Charlie’s promise, whispered late at night in this very room: “We’ll have a beach house in Mexico. Warm sand, no schedules, just us. I’ve got the investment covered. You won’t have to worry about anything ever again.”

Her jaw tightened. She set the album aside and stood.

At her vanity table, she slid the mirror panel aside, revealing the narrow secret compartment behind it. Inside: a thick manila folder.

She pulled it out, opened it, scanned the papers—all copies, bank statements, ledger pages, copies of wire transfers. Nothing incriminating on the surface, but enough to make her stomach twist.

Deeper in the compartment: a small cassette tape.

She inserted it into the old portable player on her nightstand and pressed play.

Later that evening

At the Campo Alto Country Club

Hunter was climbing the wide entrance staircase when a familiar voice called from behind.

“Rick.”

He turned. Amy stepped out of her car, smiling—brighter than he’d seen her since they met. She wore a light sundress, hair loose, looking more relaxed than she had any right to.

“Wait up,” she said, joining him on the steps.

Hunter paused, surprised. “Amy. I didn’t expect—”

She linked her arm through his lightly, teasing. “What? You thought you’d sneak in and have fun without me? I’m a regular here. You’re the new guy. Can’t let you wander alone.”

Hunter glanced around instinctively.

“I wanted to ask you, but… Sheriff Johnson made it clear he doesn’t like me near you. I don’t want to put you in his crosshairs.”

Amy patted his back—casual, reassuring. “Don’t worry. If he spots us together, I’ll tell him we ran into each other. I come here all the time. You’re just a tourist who’s starting to like the place. It’s not suspicious.”

Hunter hesitated, then nodded reluctantly. “Okay. But if anything feels off, you leave. I mean it. Your safety comes first.”

She squeezed his arm. “Deal.”

 

Inside the Country Club – Lounge

The room was alive with Latin Night energy. McCall—still Debra Bennet—was on stage, sequined midi dress catching every light.

The fabric draped and shimmered, high slit on the right thigh parting with every step, revealing long, toned leg. Silver open-toe heels showed off her high-arched feet, toes polished a deep crimson that gleamed under the spotlights.

The dance floor was open. Couples swayed and spun to the band’s salsa beat. McCall’s voice wove through the rhythm—sultry, commanding, drawing every eye.

Hunter and Amy found a table near the back. Amy seemed lighter tonight—laughing at the music, sipping her drink, touching his arm when she spoke. Friendly, warm, but still careful. No romance. Just connection.

Then the set closed with McCall and Otis’s salsa duet.

Otis pulled her in close—bodies locked, hips rolling in perfect sync. His hand slid low on her waist, fingers splaying across her lower back. She arched into him, leg hooking high around his waist, grinding down once—slow, deliberate. 

The crowd cheered. Hunter’s jaw tightened. Amy noticed, leaned in. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Just… not a fan of the choreography.”

She smiled softly. “She’s good. Really good.”

Hunter didn’t answer.

Johnson entered in plain clothes—jeans, corduroy jacket, denim shirt, cowboy hat pulled low. He scanned the room, spotted Hunter and Amy, and walked straight over.

He leaned down, voice low near Hunter’s ear. “Part’s coming in tomorrow morning before ten. Marty’s working fast—my request. Car’ll be fixed by three. I expect you gone by then, Stoner.”

Hunter met his eyes. “Appreciate the update.”

Johnson straightened, pointed at Amy. “You and I are gonna talk about this later.”

He walked away.

Amy exhaled. “He’s not happy.”

Hunter shook his head. “No. He’s not.”

Backstage – After the Set

Otis pulled McCall into a shadowed corner behind the stage. The music still thumped through the walls. He stepped close—too close—chest brushing hers.

“You’re driving me insane up there,” he said, voice rough. “Every time you move like that… I can’t think straight. Just want to drag you somewhere private and see what else that body can do.”

McCall felt the heat flare low in her belly. She let him get near—close enough his breath grazed her neck, close enough she could feel how hard he was against her hip.

She smiled, teasing, voice low. “Maybe… but I’m not promising anything serious. Just fun. If and when I’m in the mood.”

Otis’s hand slid to her waist, thumb stroking the bare skin under her dress.

“I’m good with fun. Long as it’s with you.”

She let him lean in—lips hovering over hers, breath mingling—then pulled back just before contact, pressing a finger to his mouth.

“Later,” she whispered. “Maybe.”

He groaned softly, but let her go.

 

The Royal Arms Motel – McCall’s Room

Hunter waited outside McCall’s door, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, jacket slung over one shoulder. The hallway light buzzed faintly overhead. He’d been replaying the night in his head: Amy’s quiet determination, Johnson’s veiled threats, McCall on stage—sequins flashing, thigh exposed with every step, Otis’s hands low on her waist.

The door opened. McCall stepped out of the elevator at the end of the hall, still in the sequined midi dress, silver heels dangling from one hand. Her hair was slightly mussed from the performance, skin flushed, lips parted like she’d been running—or like someone had just had their mouth too close to hers.

She saw him. A slow, knowing smile curved her lips.

“Waiting up for me, partner?”

Hunter pushed off the wall.

“Someone has to make sure you don’t get lost backstage.”

She laughed softly, low in her throat, and brushed past him into the room. The door clicked shut behind them.

The space felt smaller tonight. The lamp on the nightstand cast warm, dim light across the bed. The air smelled faintly of her perfume—something spicy and expensive—and the lingering heat of her body after hours under stage lights.

McCall dropped her heels by the chair and crossed to the small bar area, pulling the Kodak Tele-Ektralite 600 from her purse.

“Had Otis drive me to Bakersfield after rehearsal. Camera store. Beginner model. Common. Not suspicious. Thirty-six exposures. Plenty for Bellamy tomorrow.”

She set the camera on the counter. Hunter stepped closer, picked it up, checked the film advance, nodded.

“Good thinking.”

McCall turned, leaned back against the counter, arms braced behind her.

“You’re welcome.”

Silence stretched between them—charged, heavy. Hunter set the camera down. His eyes flicked over her: the sequins catching the light, the high slit fallen open to reveal the full length of her thigh, the faint sheen of sweat still on her collarbone.

He cleared his throat.

“Looked like you and the bass player were putting on a private show tonight.”

McCall’s smile turned wicked.

“Jealous, Rick? Or just worried I’m enjoying the cover too much?”

Hunter stepped closer—close enough she had to tilt her head to meet his eyes.

“I’m worried you’re getting too close to someone who doesn’t know what you’re really doing here.”

She held his gaze, unflinching.

“And what am I really doing here, partner?”

The question hung between them like smoke.

Hunter’s voice dropped. “You’re playing a dangerous game. Otis’s hands were all over you. Bellamy’s eyes were glued to you. And tomorrow night you’re walking into his house. Alone.”

McCall pushed off the counter, closing the last inch of space. Her breasts brushed his chest through the sequined fabric. She smelled like stage lights and desire.

“I’m doing my job. Same as you. And I’m good at it.”

Hunter’s jaw tightened. His hand came up—slow, deliberate—and brushed a damp curl from her temple. His thumb lingered on her cheekbone.

“I know you’re good. That’s what scares me.”

McCall’s breath hitched—just barely.

She reached behind her neck, fingers finding the zipper of the dress. The sequins parted with a soft metallic whisper. The fabric slid down her shoulders, pooling at her elbows, exposing black lace bra and the smooth curve of her breasts. She didn’t break eye contact.

Hunter’s gaze dropped involuntarily—then snapped back to her face. His pulse hammered in his throat.

McCall let the dress fall the rest of the way. It puddled at her feet. She stood in nothing but the black lace bra and matching panties—high-cut, barely there. Her skin glowed in the lamplight, still flushed from the performance and the dance.

She stepped out of the dress, bare feet silent on the carpet.

Hunter didn’t move. Couldn’t.

McCall reached for the towel on the chair, then paused—turned toward him instead.

“You’re staring, partner.”

Hunter swallowed hard.

“Hard not to.”

She closed the distance again—slow, deliberate. Her nipples were hard points against the lace. Her thighs brushed his jeans. She tilted her head, lips inches from his.

“Otis had his hands on me tonight. Felt good. But that's all. Just enough for the job."

Hunter’s hand came up—cupped the side of her neck, thumb pressing against her racing pulse.

“Dee Dee…”

She leaned in—just enough that her lips hovered over his.

“If I have to cross lines tomorrow… if I have to let Bellamy think he’s getting something… I need to know you’re okay with it. That you trust me to come back.”

Hunter’s grip tightened—possessive, protective.

“I trust you. Always. But if he touches you—if he tries anything—”

She cut him off with a soft exhale against his mouth.

“Then I handle it. My way.”

She pulled back just enough to break the almost-kiss, turned, and walked toward the bathroom—hips swaying, lace panties riding high on her ass. She left the door open.

Hunter stood frozen for a beat, then followed her to the threshold.

She reached back, unhooked the bra. Black lace fell away. She let it drop, back still to him, shoulders bare, spine arched slightly.

Hunter’s voice was rough.

“Night, partner.”

McCall glanced over her shoulder—eyes dark, lips curved.

“Night, Rick.”

She hooked her thumbs in the waistband of her panties and slowly slid them down—inch by inch—until they pooled at her ankles. She stepped out of them, naked now, skin flushed and glowing.

She looked back at him one last time.

“And don’t worry. Otis hasn’t seen this. Not yet.”

Hunter shook his head, a low laugh escaping despite the ache in his chest.

He turned to leave, pulling the door closed behind him.

From inside the bathroom, her voice followed—soft, teasing, intimate.

“Sweet dreams, partner.”

The door clicked shut.

Hunter stood in the hallway, heart pounding, body tight with want and worry.

 -----------------------------------------

 

Chapter 13 (Revised – Adjusted Tone & Dynamic)

Monday, March 10, 1986 – Late Afternoon

The Royal Arms Motel – McCall’s Room

McCall stood in front of the full-length mirror on the closet door, turning slowly to check every angle. The crimson dress hugged her body like liquid silk—deep V-neck plunging between her breasts, fabric clinging to her waist and hips before flaring into a high slit that parted with every step, revealing long, toned leg. 

Strappy black heels lifted her calves, making her legs look endless. Her hair was down, full and dark, makeup smoky and bold. She looked like temptation wrapped in danger.

Hunter sat on the edge of the bed, phone pressed to his ear, voice low and steady as he spoke to Captain Devane.

“…yes, Captain. We’ve got the Vega at Jensen’s—repainted twice, same plate as the witness report. Johnson’s car. Ballistics already match the bullets from Hornsby and Latimer. He’s the shooter. We’ve also got strong indication Charlie was blackmailing Bellamy—exchange at La Rouge, payoff, ambush on Mulholland. Amy confirmed Charlie carried the evidence in a black briefcase with ‘C.L.’ initials. Bellamy has it now. If McCall can photograph Bellamy tonight and get eyes on that briefcase, we connect him to the murder. Waitress ID plus physical evidence—it’s enough for warrants.”

Devane’s voice crackled through the receiver, tense. “You two are out there with no backup, no surveillance team, no warrant. I agreed to this because you said it was intel gathering—quiet, low-risk. Not this. Not deep infiltration into a mansion owned by the most powerful man in town.”

Hunter glanced at McCall. She met his eyes in the mirror—calm, focused, one eyebrow raised like “Told you he’d freak.”

“Captain, we didn’t plan for this level. But we’re here. Johnson’s closing in. Bellamy’s meeting business partners tonight. McCall’s inside. This is our shot.”

Devane exhaled heavily. “Put her on.”

Hunter held the phone out. McCall took it, still facing the mirror, adjusting a strap.

“Captain.”

Devane’s tone was grave. “Dee Dee, you know the risks. No backup. No wire. Sneaking around a private estate owned by a man who’s already killed to keep secrets. If they catch you in that office, in that safe—”

“I know,” she said quietly. “I’m not reckless. But I’m also not walking away when we’re this close.”

A pause.

“How far are you willing to go to protect your cover? To protect the op?”

McCall’s reflection stared back at her—red dress, dark eyes, unflinching.“This isn’t my first infiltration, Captain. I’ll go far enough to save the case. And if I have to… I’ll go farther to stay alive.”

Another long silence.

Devane’s voice softened, almost reluctant. “I understand what you’re saying. Be careful. And if you have to cross lines… I’ll cover you with IA. But come back in one piece.”

“I will.” She hung up, set the phone down, and turned to Hunter with a half-smirk. “How do I look?”

Hunter stood slowly, eyes tracing her from heels to neckline and back up. “Dangerous.”

She grinned. “Good. That’s the point.”

McCall walked to the dresser, opened her large performance bag, and slid her small Walther PPK into the concealed side pocket.

“Since I’m going in naked—no wire, no transmitter, no backup—the only alarm is a gunshot. If things go south and I can reach my gun, you’ll hear it. That’s your signal to come in hot.”

Hunter stepped closer. “And if you don’t have time to shoot?”

McCall reached into the bag again, pulled out a small foil packet—condoms—and dropped it inside with casual indifference.

“Then you won’t hear anything. That means either everything’s going fine… or I have to work him. Finesse him. Keep the cover. Stay alive.”

Hunter’s jaw tightened. He didn’t like it—didn’t like the visual, didn’t like the reality—but he knew better than to argue. “Worst-case scenario,” he said, voice rough. “If you don’t walk out by dawn—or morning—that’s my other trigger. I’m coming in.”

McCall zipped the bag, slung it over her shoulder, and faced him fully. “Relax, partner. I’ve been in tighter spots than this. And I always come back.”

Hunter gave a short laugh—half bitter, half relieved. “Yeah. And I always have to patch you up after.”

She stepped closer—close enough he could smell her perfume mixed with the faint heat of her skin. “You worry too much.”

“I worry exactly the right amount.”

McCall rolled her eyes, but the smirk softened. “Look—if I have to let Bellamy think he’s getting something… it’s just the job. Same as you flirting with Amy to get intel. No feelings. No drama. Just results.”

Hunter nodded once—slow, reluctant. “I know. Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

She patted his chest lightly—playful, grounding. “You don’t have to like it. You just have to trust me.”

He met her eyes—steady, serious.

“I do.”

A beat passed. No dramatic stares. No lingering touches. Just the quiet certainty of two people who’d saved each other’s lives too many times to count.

McCall broke the silence first. “Car’s coming soon.”

Hunter stepped back. “Be careful.”

She flashed a quick grin. “Always am.”

She walked to the door, paused, looked back.

“And Rick?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone.”

He snorted. “No promises.”

She opened the door. A black sedan idled in the lot below—driver waiting.McCall stepped out into the hallway. The door clicked shut behind her.

Hunter stood alone in the room, staring at the closed door for a long moment. He exhaled slowly, rubbed the back of his neck, and muttered to himself.

“Damn it, Dee Dee.” Then he grabbed his jacket and headed out.

Tonight was going to be hell. For both of them.

-----------------------------------------

 

Chapter 13

Monday, March 10, 1986

Campo Alto

8.15 A.M. At The garden near Charlie Latimer’s house.

The garden behind Charlie Latimer’s house was quiet except for the soft rustle of leaves in the morning breeze. George Latimer sat on the wrought-iron bench, hands resting on his knees, staring at the roses his son used to tend. Amy Laurton stood beside him, arms folded, voice low and steady.

“I didn’t tell the detective everything,” she said. But I told him enough. He’s LAPD Homicide. Undercover. Investigating Charlie’s murder. He thinks Charlie was blackmailing Raymond Bellamy for money.”

George looked up slowly, eyes tired but sharp. “And what did you say?”

Amy exhaled through her nose. “I said Charlie wouldn’t do that. But I know different.”

George’s shoulders sagged a fraction.

“Charlie told me before he left that night,” she continued. “He said if anything happened to him, I’d know what to do. He left me copies—everything. Documents. Ledgers. And a tape. Bellamy’s voice, clear as day. Admitting to the bribes, the offshore accounts, the threats. Charlie recorded it as insurance.”

George’s face tightened. “Amy…”

“He promised we’d go to Mexico. Live off his ‘investment.’ That money was Bellamy’s payoff. Charlie kept copies in case Bellamy tried to double-cross him. Now I’m going to use them.”

George stood up, voice rough. “No. You send that to the detective. Let the police handle it.  Bellamy’s dangerous. You know what he did to Charlie.”

Amy didn’t flinch. “I’m not Charlie. I have a plan. Everything will be alright.”

George stared at her for a long moment, then sat back down heavily. “You’re playing with fire, girl.”

Amy’s expression softened, but only slightly. “I know. But Charlie’s gone. And I’m not letting Bellamy walk away from this.”

Half an hour later, at Bellamy’s Ranch...

Raymond Bellamy dismounted at the stable, boots hitting the gravel with a solid thud. He handed the reins to the groom without a word and started toward the main house, sweat still on his brow from the ride. The phone rang inside as he reached the terrace doors.

He picked up on the third ring. “Bellamy.”

A woman’s voice—calm, controlled. “It’s Amy Laurton.”

Bellamy’s grip tightened on the receiver. “How did you get this number?

“That’s not important,” Amy said. “What’s important is what I have. And what I want.”

Bellamy stepped inside, closing the door behind him. “If you want a meeting, call my secretary. Schedule it like everyone else.”

“This is about Charlie,” she replied. “And I’m sure you don’t want your secretary knowing about it.”

A long pause. Bellamy’s voice dropped. “Where and when?”

“Thirty minutes. In front of the Promenade Market—the store right in the middle of the main shopping street. Public. Busy. Safe.”

Bellamy’s jaw worked. “I’ll be there.”

 

9.15 A.M. - In front of Promenade Market, Campo Alto Promenade

The main tourist street was alive with mid-morning foot traffic—shoppers, retirees, a few families with ice cream cones. Amy stood near the entrance to Promenade Market, arms crossed, sunglasses on, waiting.

Bellamy arrived alone. No bodyguard, no entourage. Navy blazer, open collar, sunglasses mirroring hers. He stopped beside her, hands in his pockets, voice low. “What is this about, Amy?”

She didn’t look at him right away.

“Twenty years ago a man came to Campo Alto. Started an insurance company. Built it into mining, construction, property. Became the biggest name in town. Self-made success story. Business magazines called you inspiring. A role model.”

Bellamy gave a short laugh. “Flattery doesn’t suit you.

Amy turned to face him. “All built on lies. Intimidation. Bribery. Extortion. Scam.”

 

Bellamy’s smile faded. “You have nothing now that Charlie’s gone.”

 

Amy stepped closer—close enough that only he could hear. “I have copies. All the documents. Ledgers. Wire transfers. And tapes. Hidden recordings. Your voice. Clear admissions. Charlie made sure I had insurance

Bellamy’s expression hardened. “You’re bluffing.”

“I’m not,” she said. “And here’s the deal. Two million dollars. Cash. You have two days to prepare. I’ll contact you with the time and place of the exchange.”

 

Bellamy’s eyes narrowed. “You think you can threaten me?”

 

Amy didn’t blink. “I already sent an envelope to a trusted friend outside town. Sealed instructions. If anything happens to me—anything at all—that envelope goes straight to the district attorney.”

 

Bellamy stared at her for a long moment. His hands clenched in his pockets. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”

“I learned from the best,” Amy said quietly. “Charlie.”

Bellamy exhaled through his nose, humiliated anger flashing across his face. “Two days,” he said.

Amy nodded once. “Two days.”

She turned and walked away, disappearing into the crowd. Bellamy stood alone on the promenade, jaw tight, watching her go. For the first time in years, he felt the ground shift beneath him.

 

11.45 A.M at the Sheriff Office

The small office smelled of coffee, gun oil, and old paper. Raymond Bellamy sat in the guest chair, legs crossed, fingers steepled.

Sheriff Carl Johnson leaned back behind his desk, uniform tie loosened, arms folded.

Bellamy spoke first, voice calm but edged. “I don’t like being extorted. Especially not by a girl like Amy Laurton. But she’s decided to burn me with evidence that could end me. So first we find out who her backup is—the person she gave that envelope to.”

Johnson nodded once. “I already checked. Amy hasn’t left Campo Alto in two years. Mailing something critical like that? Not an option. Mail gets stuck, lost, opened. She’s bluffing about an out-of-town friend. The backup’s here. In town.”

Bellamy’s eyes narrowed. “Who?”

Johnson leaned forward. “Two candidates. First: George Latimer. My men reported this morning—she met with Charlie’s father. They were in the garden. Serious conversation. Looked private.”

Bellamy’s mouth tightened. “And the second?”

Johnson’s expression darkened. “The stranger. Rick Stoner. He’s been close to Amy the last two days. Dinner at the club. Seen together again this morning. If anyone’s holding that envelope for her, it’s one of them."

Bellamy tapped a finger on the armrest. “What’s your play?”

Johnson’s voice was matter-of-fact. “I’ll send goons to George Latimer’s house. Make it look like a breaking and entering. Tear the place apart. If the envelope or copies are there, we take them. If not… we deal with him.”

He paused. “As for Stoner—he’s picking up his Jaguar at Jensen’s today by 3 p.m. I’ll make sure he never becomes her backup. Ambush on the road outside town. Make it look like an accident. If we don’t find anything from Latimer or Stoner, the stuff’s either at her house… or it doesn’t exist. She’s bluffing. Either way—we get rid of her.”

Bellamy gave a slow nod, a grin pulling at his mouth. “Quick thinking, Carl. That’s why I depend on you.”

Johnson shrugged modestly.

Bellamy stood, adjusting his blazer. “Tonight I’m having a small party at the ranch. Business partners from out of town. Send some of your men for security.”

Johnson stood too. “About tonight… one thing you should know. The singer you hired—new girl from the country club—she arrived in town the same day as Rick Stoner. Both checked into the Royal Arms Motel.”

Bellamy paused at the door. “Suspicious?”

Johnson shrugged. “Could be. Only decent motel in town. And that day the house band held walk-in auditions for a new singer. Timing might be coincidence.”

Bellamy considered. “Stoner’s room in a different wing?

Johnson nodded. “Checked. Different section. But last night one of my goons tailing Stoner saw him walking from the singer’s wing.”

Bellamy’s eyes darkened slightly. “Thanks for the heads-up, Carl. I’ll handle it myself. Coincidence or not—I’ll check it personally.”

 

3:06 P.M. - Jensen’s Auto Repair

Hunter signed the final paperwork while Marty wiped his hands on a rag.

“Water pump’s in. She’s purring again, Mr. Stoner.”

Hunter nodded, keys in hand. “Thanks, Marty. Appreciate the rush.”

He slid into the Jaguar, started the engine. The familiar rumble felt good—too good after days of being stranded.

From across the street, a sheriff’s deputy crouched behind a parked pickup, binoculars pressed to his eyes. He spoke low into his radio.

“Sheriff, this is Deputy Hayes. Stoner just walked out of Jensen’s. He’s getting in the Jag. Looks like he’s leaving.”

Johnson’s voice crackled back. “Follow him. Make sure he’s heading out of town. Notify Josh—he’s ready on the road.”

“Copy that.”

Hunter pulled out of the lot and turned onto the main street. In the rearview mirror, a patrol car eased into traffic two cars behind him.

 

Meanwhile, 5 Miles Out of Town

In a dirt road off the main highway, a semi-truck and a pickup sat nose-to-tail on a narrow dirt turnout just off the two-lane highway. The steep drop-off on the right side of the road was hidden by brush and a sharp curve—perfect spot.

The driver of the semi leaned out his window, calling to the three men leaning against the pickup.

“Listen up. Plan’s the same. I’ll ram the Jag from behind—send it rolling down the embankment. You boys pull over like you’re helping. Check if he’s conscious. If he’s alive, knock him out. Finish with head blows. Make it look like a rollover accident with fatal head trauma.”

One of the men cracked his knuckles. “Got it, boss.”

The driver’s radio crackled. “Hayes to Base. Target’s on the move. Heading your way. ETA five minutes.”

The driver grinned. “Showtime.”

 

Back to Campo Alto..

At the Intersection near the Promenade, Hunter noticed the patrol car in his rearview—same one from Jensen’s. He kept his speed steady, eyes scanning for an opening.

At the next intersection, a slow-moving trailer truck lumbered across. Hunter accelerated just enough to slip through the gap before the light changed. The trailer blocked the road behind him.

In the patrol car, Deputy Hayes slammed the wheel. “Lost him. Truck cut me off. He’s gone.”

Johnson’s voice came over the radio—sharp, furious. “Find that black Jaguar. All units. Report as soon as you have eyes on him.”

Johnson was parked a block from George Latimer’s house, watching two of his goons slip around back. He slammed his hand on the dashboard.

“Damn it.”

He keyed the radio. “All units—priority. Black Jaguar, license unknown. Driver: Rick Stoner. Find him. Now.”

Few miles away at Amy Laurton’s House..

Amy pulled into her driveway, stepped out of her car, purse slung over her shoulder.

A sheriff’s deputy approached from the sidewalk—young, uniform neat, expression serious. “Ms. Laurton?”

She stopped. “Yes?”

The deputy removed his hat. “I’m sorry to inform you—George Latimer’s house was broken into this afternoon. George walked in on the burglar. He was attacked. He’s in critical condition at the hospital.”

Amy’s face drained of color. “What? I need to go—”

The deputy stepped in front of her. “Ma’am, Sheriff Johnson ordered me to stay here. Protect you. You’re not to go anywhere tonight. We’re concerned for your safety.”

Amy’s voice rose. “Protect me from what?”

The deputy kept his tone calm. “Rick Stoner was supposed to leave town today. He evaded surveillance. Sheriff thinks this may be connected to Charlie’s murder. Someone might be targeting people close to Charlie—George… and you.”

Amy stared at him. “I’m going to the hospital.

The deputy blocked her path gently but firmly. “Ma’am, Sheriff’s orders. I’m to stay here. For your protection.”

Amy exhaled sharply, then turned and walked inside. The phone rang as she closed the door.

She picked up.

“Amy.” Bellamy’s voice—calm, almost gentle, but laced with menace.

“I was sorry to hear about George. Terrible thing. I’m afraid the same—or worse—could happen to you. I hope Sheriff Johnson’s men are keeping you safe tonight.”

Amy’s grip tightened on the receiver. “I’m still in control. I still expect you to prepare the money.”

Bellamy’s tone remained smooth. “Of course. Two million will be ready in two days. But I hope you’ll come to your senses. Threatening me like this… it’s unnecessary. Dangerous.”

Amy’s voice was cold. “I’ll be in touch.”

She hung up.

Amy stood frozen in the entryway, hand still on the receiver. Her breathing quickened. Shock hit her hard—then real fear.

George was in the hospital, critical. Attacked. Because of her. Because of the envelope. Because of the plan.

She pressed a hand to her mouth, eyes wide. “Oh God… what have I done?”

She thought back to George’s words in the garden that morning: “You’re playing with fire, girl.”

He’d begged her to hand the evidence to the detective. To let the police handle it. She hadn’t listened.

Now George was hurt—maybe dying—and she was next.

Bellamy’s voice echoed in her head: “…the same—or worse—could happen to you.”

She realized, with sickening clarity, that she was Bellamy’s direct target now. No more games. No more bluffing from a distance. He knew she had the copies. He knew she was pushing him.

Amy walked to the phone again, fingers shaking. She dialed the Royal Arms Motel, asking for Rick Stoner’s room. The clerk rang it. No answer.

She tried again. Still nothing.

Amy hung up slowly, sinking onto the nearest chair. She was alone in the house. A deputy watched the front. And somewhere out there, Bellamy was already moving.

She regretted everything. She should have listened to George. Now it might be too late.

 

4.12 P,M. At Earl’s Gas Station  and Convenience Store

Two sheriff’s deputies stepped out of the store, one tucking a notepad into his pocket. They paused at the pumps, scanning the lot one last time before climbing into their patrol car and driving off.

Inside the store,

Earl locked the door behind them, then called toward the back room. “They’re gone, Hunter.”

Hunter emerged from the storage area—hoodie up, cap low—carrying a small duffel.

“Thanks for not saying anything, Earl.”

Earl leaned on the counter, arms crossed. “Fuck them. They’re nothing more than Johnson’s goons now. And the sheriff himself? On Bellamy’s payroll. Been that way for years.”

Hunter nodded, setting the duffel down. “Anything new around town?”

Earl’s face darkened. “Few hours ago I heard George Latimer’s place got ransacked. Robbers, they say. George walked in on them—got beat bad. Critical at the hospital now. Poor George. Just lost his son, and now they do him dirty like this.”

Hunter’s expression tightened. “I’m sorry to hear that. Hope the perpetrators get caught soon.”

Earl snorted. “Yeah. Right. Everything bad in this town gets controlled by Bellamy. I don’t know what your beef is with the sheriff, kid, but I hope you succeed at whatever you’re doing around here.”

Hunter gave a small nod. “Thanks for letting me borrow the pickup. Jag’s safe in your garage?”

Earl tossed him the keys. “Hidden good. Just call me when i have to move.”

Hunter give him thumbs up, then he stepped outside, walked to the payphone near the pumps, and dialed Amy’s number.

She answered on the second ring—voice shaky, half-crying.

“Rick?”

“Amy. Talk to me.”

She took a ragged breath. “I made a terrible mistake. I wasn’t fully honest with you. I knew Charlie was blackmailing Bellamy. I didn’t tell you… but he left me copies of everything. Documents. A tape of Bellamy admitting it all. Insurance, he called it. In case something happened.”

Hunter kept his voice low. “Go on.”

“Charlie said if anything went wrong, I’d know what to do. I told George this morning. He begged me to give it to you—the detective. But I didn’t listen. I thought I could handle it. Now George is in the hospital. Critical. Because of me.”

Hunter’s grip tightened on the receiver. “Where are the copies now?”

“In the library. Old archive section. Shelf 8-3-124.”

“Okay. Say nothing to anyone else. I’ll handle it.” He hung up.

Hunter pulled the hoodie lower, adjusted his trucker hat and glasses for extra cover, and climbed into Earl’s old Ford pickup. The engine rumbled to life. He pulled out of the lot and headed back to The Royal Arms Motel.

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Chapter 14

Monday, March 10, 1986

6.45 P.M, The Royal Arms Motel – McCall’s Room

McCall stood in front of the full-length mirror on the closet door, turning slowly to check every angle. The crimson dress hugged her body like liquid silk—deep V-neck plunging between her breasts, fabric clinging to her waist and hips before flaring into a high slit that parted with every step, revealing long, toned leg.

Strappy black heels lifted her calves, making her legs look endless. Her hair was down, full and dark, makeup smoky and bold. She looked like temptation wrapped in danger.

Hunter sat on the edge of the bed, phone pressed to his ear, voice low and steady as he spoke to Captain Devane.

“…yes, Captain. We’ve got the Vega at Jensen’s—repainted twice, same plate as the witness report. Johnson’s car. Ballistics already match the bullets from Hornsby and Latimer. He’s the shooter. We’ve also got strong indication Charlie was blackmailing Bellamy—exchange at La Rouge, payoff, ambush on Mulholland. Amy confirmed Charlie carried the evidence in a black briefcase with ‘C.L.’ initials. Bellamy has it now. If McCall can photograph Bellamy tonight and get eyes on that briefcase, we connect him to the murder. Waitress ID plus physical evidence—it’s enough for warrants.”

Devane’s voice crackled through the receiver, tense. “You two are out there with no backup, no surveillance team, no warrant. I agreed to this because you said it was intel gathering—quiet, low-risk. Not this. Not deep infiltration into a mansion owned by the most powerful man in town.”

Hunter glanced at McCall. She met his eyes in the mirror—calm, focused, one eyebrow raised like “Told you he’d freak.”

“Captain, we didn’t plan for this level. But we’re here. Johnson’s closing in. Bellamy’s meeting business partners tonight. McCall’s inside. This is our shot.

Devane exhaled heavily. “Put her on.”

Hunter held the phone out. McCall took it, still facing the mirror, adjusting a strap.

“Captain.”

Devane’s tone was grave. “Dee Dee, you know the risks. No backup. No wire. Sneaking around a private estate owned by a man who’s already killed to keep secrets. If they catch you in that office, in that safe.”

“I know,” she said quietly. “I’m not reckless. But I’m also not walking away when we’re this close.”

A pause.

Devane clear his throat before continue, “How far are you willing to go to protect your cover? To protect the op?”

McCall’s reflection stared back at her—red dress, dark eyes, unflinching. “This isn’t my first infiltration, Captain. I’ll go far enough to save the case. And if I have to… I’ll go farther to stay alive.”

Another long silence.

Devane’s voice softened, almost reluctant. “I understand what you’re saying. Be careful. And if you have to cross lines… I’ll cover you with IA. But come back in one piece.”

“I will.”

She hung up, set the phone down, and turned to Hunter with a half-smirk. “How do I look?”

Hunter stood slowly, eyes tracing her from heels to neckline and back up. “Dangerous.”

She grinned. “Good. That’s the point.”

McCall walked to the dresser, opened her large performance bag, and slid her small Walther PPK into the concealed side pocket.

“Since I’m going in “naked”—no wire, no transmitter, no backup—the only alarm is a gunshot. If things go south and I can reach my gun, you’ll hear it. That’s your signal to come in hot.”

Hunter stepped closer. “And if you don’t have time to shoot?”

McCall reached into the bag again, pulled out a small foil packet—condoms—and dropped it inside with casual indifference.

“Then you won’t hear anything. That means either everything’s going fine… or I have to work him. Finesse him. Keep the cover. Stay alive.”

Hunter’s jaw tightened. He didn’t like it—didn’t like the visual, didn’t like the reality—but he knew better than to argue.

“Worst-case scenario,” he said, voice rough. “If you don’t walk out by dawn—or morning—that’s my other trigger. I’m coming in.”

 

McCall zipped the bag, slung it over her shoulder, and faced him fully. “Relax, partner. I’ve been in tighter spots than this. And I always come back.”

Hunter gave a short laugh—half bitter, half relieved.

“Yeah. And I always have to patch you up after.”

She stepped closer—close enough he could smell her perfume mixed with the faint heat of her skin. “You worry too much.”

“I worry exactly the right amount.”

McCall rolled her eyes, but the smirk softened. “Look—if I have to let Bellamy think he’s getting something… it’s just the job. Same as you flirting with Amy to get intel. No feelings. No drama. Just results.”

Hunter nodded once—slow, reluctant. “I know. Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

She patted his chest lightly—playful, grounding. “You don’t have to like it. You just have to trust me.”

He met her eyes—steady, serious. “I do.”

A beat passed. No dramatic stares. No lingering touches. Just the quiet certainty of two people who’d saved each other’s lives too many times to count.

McCall broke the silence first. “Car’s coming soon.”

Hunter stepped back. “Be careful.”

She flashed a quick grin. “Always am.”

She walked to the door, paused, looked back. “And Rick?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t do anything stupid while I’m inside.”

He snorted. “No promises.”

She opened the door. A black sedan idled in the lot below—driver waiting. McCall stepped out into the hallway. The door clicked shut behind her.

Hunter stood alone in the room, staring at the closed door for a long moment. He exhaled slowly, rubbed the back of his neck, and muttered to himself. “Damn it, Dee Dee.”

Then he grabbed his jacket and headed out,

Tonight was going to be hell. For both of them.

 

7:48 P.M. - Lounge Backroom at Bellamy Mansion

McCall sat in front of the vanity mirror in the backroom of the mansion’s private lounge. The room was luxurious—mirrored walls, soft lighting, racks of costumes and makeup. She wore the crimson dress from earlier—deep neckline, high slit, clinging to every curve.

Her hair was full and dark, makeup bold and smoky. She looked every inch the high-class performer Bellamy had hired.

She wasn’t alone. Six other women—escorts—were preparing around her. All stunning, all in revealing dresses, doing final touches: lipstick, perfume, adjusting straps. They chatted lightly, laughed, but there was an edge to it. They knew what tonight really was.

McCall had just finished rehearsing with the in-house pianist—slow jazz standards, sultry enough to set the mood. Now she waited for the party to begin.

She stood, picked up her clutch (small camera tucked inside), and stepped into the lounge area. The space was extravagant: small raised stage, grand piano, long bar, plush sofas and tables, crystal chandeliers. Bellamy’s own bartenders and waitresses moved quietly, setting up bottles and glasses.

The room had been featured in architecture magazines—polished wood, high ceilings, western art on the walls.

McCall moved casually, asking a passing waitress: “Could you take a few pictures? My first time here. I want to remember this place.”

The waitress smiled and took the camera. McCall posed: in front of the bar, on the stage, near a corner with a view of the grand hallway entrance. Each click captured details—the layout, doors, security points

On the opposite wing of the mansion, Bellamy welcomed his guests one by one in the holding room lined with western landscape paintings and cowboy art.

They arrived:

An arrogant son of an IRS officer (middleman for tax bribes), a Texas oil tycoon with his much-younger mistress (former Miss Texas), a corrupt town councilman, two Japanese investors, and a German accountant representing a shady Cayman financial firm.

Six men, plus Bellamy. All wealthy, all powerful, all here for business—and pleasure.

Bellamy led them down the long, grand hallway toward the lounge.

McCall was standing near the doorway to the hallway—still forbidden to the performers.

From her position she could see the group approaching. Her skin crawled. Heart beat faster.

This was it. No turning back.

At the same time, outside Bellamy’s Mansion,

Hunter eased the old Ford pickup off the paved road 100 meters before the mansion entrance. He drove another 50 meters down a dirt track, then killed the engine and stepped out.

Binoculars around his neck, gun holstered under his jacket.

He moved silently through the trees and brush, stopping at a concealed spot just off the main road in front of the estate. The mansion lights glowed through the foliage—security visible at the gate, cars parked along the drive.

He crouched low, binoculars up. Nothing more he could do now but wait. And hope for the best.

----------------------------------------

 

Chapter 15

Monday, March 10, 1986

 8.06 P.M – At the Lounge of Bellamy’s Mansion..

Bellamy and his group entered the lounge, welcomed by the captain of the waiters and waitresses. Soft piano instrumentals filled the air, setting a luxurious, intimate mood.

All the escort ladies started to mingle with the guests immediately—laughs, light touches, flirty glances.

Bellamy’s eyes widened when he saw McCall standing in the corner, crimson dress hugging her curves, hair cascading in dark waves, makeup bold and seductive.

He approached her with purpose, leaned in, kissed her cheek slowly—lips lingering a second too long—then pulled back to look her up and down.

“You look fucking incredible, Debra,” he said, voice low and thick with hunger. “That dress… it’s criminal how it clings to you. Makes me want to rip it off right here.” His hands grabbed her waist aggressively, fingers digging in, sliding down to grip her hips hard. McCall felt the pressure, the possessiveness.

She realized now exactly what kind of people—and what kind of party—she would be dealing with the whole night.

Bellamy then introduced McCall to all his guests.

The arrogant son of the corrupt IRS officer grabbed her waist, pulled her close, kissed her cheek, then sneaked another quick kiss on her lips.

“She’s so hot,” he said, grinning. “Can’t wait to see her performing.”

The Texas oil tycoon hugged her tight, kissed her neck openly, breathing her in. “Bellamy, you have excellent taste. This is hot stuff.”

He introduced his mistress—the ex-Miss Texas—who reluctantly shook McCall’s hand while staring off to the side, expression cold.

The two Japanese investors each kissed her hand politely, complimenting her in fluent English: “A vision of beauty. Mr. Bellamy has exquisite taste.”

The corrupt town councilman kissed her hand, lingering. “I saw you yesterday at the country club. I arrived Sunday. Save a dance for me tonight.”

The German banker from the Cayman Islands kissed her hand politely, accent thick. “Enchanting. Mr. Bellamy’s high taste in beautiful women is well known.”

The party started with dinner while McCall began singing on the small stage.

From the stage, McCall counted: 3 waitresses, 1 captain of the waiters, 1 bartender serving the guests. The pianist played, a soundman stood behind a small mixer beside the stage, and 1 big bodyguard—the one McCall recognized from escorting Bellamy at the country club—stood at the entrance door from the hallway.

The 6 escort ladies hung out at the bar, drinking cocktails, waiting for the guests to finish dining.

Busy scanning the room, McCall’s eyes then met Bellamy’s. He seemed never to take his eyes off her since she started singing. McCall threw him a subtle smile. He blew a kiss back to her.

 

Outside the Mansion...

Hunter was still crouching behind the trees and bushes when two patrol cars arrived in front of the gate.

Two security guards at the gate greeted Sheriff Johnson when he stepped out from his car. Two other deputies from the other car joined him in front of the gate

From his position, Hunter could clearly hear what he said in his typical dominating loud voice. He was instructing his deputies to secure the perimeter of the mansion but stay alert whenever there was a radio call about Rick Stoner—they should quickly help if the location was near.

Sheriff Johnson added that his order was clear: just tail him closely, no need to arrest, unless he’s going to Amy Laurton’s house or making contact with her. After that, Sheriff Johnson drove away in his car.

 

Back Inside the Mansion

The dinner was over. The guests spread along the sofas, tables, and bars, each with their escort ladies.

During her break at the instrumental session, McCall danced with the corrupt councilman. He said that he and McCall were the only ordinary people in this room—the others were businessmen and call girls—so McCall must feel they both had many similarities and chemistry.

He said that while his hand started going down the slit of her dress.

McCall felt disgusted but then Bellamy interrupted their dance, saying the councilman had enough time with her and telling the councilman his lady escort had been waiting for him at the poker table.

He parted with McCall after sneaking a kiss on the lips.

The guests now started playing poker at the large round table, accompanied by their escorts.

Bellamy took McCall to stroll around the hallway. He told McCall that his men said she took pictures before he arrived.

McCall stayed calm, showing her pocket camera, and told him she loved everything about his mansion. She read about it before when it was featured in Architecture magazine, and she wanted to document this time as her portfolio—it was an achievement being hired at a VIP party of a man with Raymond Bellamy’s caliber.

Bellamy thanked her for the praise. He then showed his mansion around but basically he just wanted to take McCall away from the crowd.

He showed his office and finally his bedroom.

There he started getting more intimate, starting to kiss her. McCall let him without kissing him back. When he was about to take her inside his bedroom, McCall stopped and politely said that everything seemed to be going so fast.  She was there for singing, and she reminded Bellamy that he promised her there would be no surprises—singing and entertaining only.

Bellamy looked surprised, like he wasn’t used to rejection. McCall read that and said that she liked the special treatment from him, and it was a dream of every woman to spend the night with a rich and powerful man like Bellamy, but she was an old-school woman. She preferred to take it slowly.

She said that she was on contract with her band for 3 months, so there was plenty of time for them to take it slow, one step at a time (McCall said that while guiding Bellamy away from the bedroom slowly).

Bellamy felt his ego flattered and he smiled and agreed with McCall, and they walked back to the lounge.

 

Its already 10.25 P.M,  when the lights were all dimmed in the lounge where the party was getting hotter.

Some were tipsy because of the drink, some started sniffing cocaine from the table.

Some escort ladies were engaged in a dare game, stripping their tops showing their boobs. Even the ex-Miss Texas was now flashing her big boobs while sitting on the lap of the councilman, where her sugar daddy—the Texas oil tycoon—was having his dick sucked by another escort lady who crouched behind the poker table.

One of the Japanese investors was sitting on the edge of the stage, singing with off-beat voice while fingering a helpless waitress on his lap. Her expression was mixed between discomfort and pleasure at the same time, looking at the F&B captain like he could help her get out from that situation while her body jolted every time the Japanese man’s finger touched the right spot inside her.

Meanwhile the arrogant young man was talking with Bellamy. They both strolled along the hallway with McCall and one lady escort following them.

At a moment they stopped and talked serious business at one corner. McCall told Bellamy she needed to freshen up at the restroom. Bellamy showed her the direction.

That was her window of opportunity to do her mission.  McCall leaned on a pillar and took a few snapshots of Bellamy with her pocket camera, then she continued toward the office room Bellamy had shown her before.

McCall sneaked into the office where she found 3 suitcases with money inside. She took pictures of it all, but she didn’t find Charlie’s briefcase.

Then she moved toward the bedroom. It was a large classic colonial style bedroom with many antique wooden furniture and ornaments.

She found a safety box right beside the bedroom. It was a steel box with carved wooden lining on the surface. It was quite large to fit a briefcase inside.

McCall grimaced to see the challenge of cracking this safe box. The wooden lining made it hard to hear or feel the clicking of the lock inside.

She brought her cracking stethoscope inside her clutch but it would take her 15 to 20 minutes or even 30 minutes to do that. McCall closed her eyes, calculating the time and the risk. She was already here, and even if she delayed for another day—assuming Bellamy would invite her again—it would still be the same challenge. It still needed 15, 20 to 30 minutes.

She knew she wouldn’t have that time before Bellamy would catch her here. She inhaled deep and crouched in front of the safe. The stethoscope was already at her hand and she just started tuning the locking mechanism.

McCall was just 5 minutes into trying to crack the safe box. She already got 1 combination. She predicted this was a 4-digit code, so maybe 15 more minutes—but she heard footsteps from outside.

McCall murmured in frustration, “Oh c’mon, give me more time.”

Then the door opened and Raymond Bellamy stood right behind her.

“What are you doing here, Debra?”

Dee Dee McCall stood frozen with her back towards Bellamy.

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Chapter 16

Monday, March 10, 1986

Inside Bellamy’s Bedroom

McCall stood frozen, back to the door, stethoscope still pressed to the safe. The footsteps stopped. The door clicked shut behind her.

She nudged the stethoscope under the bed with a subtle slide of her heel—silent, out of sight.

Slowly she turned, crimson dress still hugging her curves, expression calm despite the hammering in her chest.

Bellamy stood there, shirt half-unbuttoned, eyes narrowing with surprise and suspicion.

McCall met his gaze, voice soft but steady. “I’ve been thinking about what you said earlier.”

She took a slow step closer. “Why wait for tomorrow? Why not now?”

A small pause, letting the words settle. “I’m ready.”

She held his eyes, then asked quietly: “Are you?

Her hands rose to the straps of her dress. Fingers hooked the fabric and slid the shoulders down—right, then left. The silk slipped off her skin, pooling at her feet.

She stood in black lace lingerie—bra cupping full breasts, panties high-cut on her hips.

Bellamy’s breath hitched. He murmured low—“Jesus Christ, Debra”—and crossed the room fast.

He kissed her—hard, possessive. This time she kissed him back, eyes closing, arms sliding around his neck. Physically yielding, but her mind stayed sharp: one code unlocked. Three left. Fifteen minutes needed. It had to come after this.

Bellamy’s hands moved roughly—unhooking her bra with a snap, yanking her panties down. He stepped back, eyes devouring her naked body.

McCall stood tall—5'6" of slim athletic curves, fair skin glowing in the low light. Full C-cup breasts rounded and firm, pale pink areolas tightening, nipples hardening to small points under his stare.

Defined waist flaring to soft hips, dark curly pubic bush framing her neat innie folds—pale pink, smooth, already glistening faintly. High-arched feet bare, long toes curled slightly against the carpet.

Bellamy grabbed her waist, pushed her down onto the bed—her hips hanging off the edge, legs dangling.

He knelt, peeled off her heels with impatient tugs, then started licking her feet—tongue tracing from toes to heel, following the high arch.

McCall twitched, a soft giggle escaping when it tickled, but soon the sensation shifted—skin crawling, heat building low in her belly despite herself.

Bellamy moved up, spreading her thighs. His mouth found her clit—slow licks, then deeper. Her folds glistened, wetness slicking his lips. From McCall’s view, his face was buried in her dark pubic hair, tongue working her relentlessly. She bit her lip, a low, unwilling moan slipping out as arousal overrode logic.

Bellamy stood. McCall pulled her thighs back with both hands—folds blooming open, pink inside exposed, toes pointing—teasing him silently.

She reached into her clutch, waved a foil condom. “Please,” she said, voice soft, almost pleading.

Bellamy rolled it on with a grunt. He positioned himself, thrust in slowly—breaking through her tightness into warm, slick heat. McCall bit her lip, feeling the stretch.

She closed her eyes, distancing herself. Bellamy took control—deep thrusts, shifting angles, flipping her over. McCall fought the rising pleasure, pressing down every involuntary moan when he hit the right spot.

 

Outside the Mansion

Hunter crouched behind the trees when a security guard came patrolling the fence with a guard dog. The dog caught Hunter’s scent and started barking. The guard followed the leash toward Hunter’s position.

Hunter ran—far side, not back—to avoid leading them to the pickup truck.

A hare darted across the open field. The dog chased it. The guard thought false alarm, moved on. Hunter exhaled in relief, waited until they left, then returned to his spot.

He checked his watch: 12:15 a.m. No gunshot. Either she was smooth… or working her way out.

 

Back Inside Bellamy’s Bedroom

Bellamy’s body jolted a few times as he ejaculated inside McCall. His weight pinned her, legs wrapped around his waist, toes pointing, frozen for seconds as McCall felt the wave of suppressed orgasm making her bite her lips. She fought the moan, hands and legs gripping his stiff body over her.

Bellamy pulled out, peeled off the condom, tossed it aside. “How do you feel?” he asked, voice rough.

McCall answered lazily, “Great. You overwhelmed me… out of breath.”

Bellamy stood, picked up his clothes, redressed. “Rest here a while,” he said. “I need to go back to the party. As host, it’s not polite to leave my guests alone.”

He left.

McCall waited until footsteps faded, then stood, picked up the stethoscope from under the bed, wrapped herself in the blanket, and crouched back at the safe.

Twenty tense minutes—checking the door every few seconds—she cracked it.

Gold bullions, papers, and a briefcase. She checked: “C.L.” initials engraved. She took photos—quick, precise—then closed the safe.

 

Outside, under the moon light,..

The wind blows cold around Bellamy’s ranch and mansion.

Hunter walked back to the pickup truck. It was 1:15 a.m.  Still no sign of McCall.

He sat on the tailgate, staring at the mansion lights. He knew what was happening inside. What McCall was doing right now.

He exhaled slowly, trying to push the images from his mind.

 

Hunter have to wait more than an houre before McCall finally left the mansion at 2:45 a.m.

Bellamy’s driver taking her back to the Royal Arms Motel. Hunter followed behind in the pickup.

Minutes after she returned to her room, a knock came. She opened it.

Hunter stood there. McCall looked flushed, exhausted.

“Is everything okay?” he asked.

“It’s done,” she said. “I got all of it. Pictures of Bellamy. The briefcase.”

She opened her clutch, pulled out the stethoscope, her Walther PPK, and the condom pack—three-foils, now only two left.

Hunter understood without words.

He changed the topic. “Amy called. George was attacked. Ransacked house. Sheriff’s men are guarding her place.”

McCall casually undressed in front of him—dress, bra, panties—threw them in the garbage can, then walked past him into the shower. She didn’t close the door.

As water poured, she said, “Let’s talk about it tomorrow.”

Hunter approached the bathroom door. “Okay. I’ll be in my room.”

He started to close the bathroom door, McCall’s voice stopped him. “Leave the door open.”

Hunter left it open, turned to leave.

McCall called again. “Hunter… please stay here.”

 ----------------------------------------

 

Chapter 17

 

Tuesday, March 11, 1986

 

Royal Arms Motel – McCall’s Room

 

Hunter cradled the receiver, listening to the flat, endless busy tone. He set it down slowly, jaw tight. “No answer. Line’s dead. They’ve cut her off.”

McCall stood near the window, arms crossed, eyes on the parking lot outside. “Johnson’s locking her in. They’re not taking chances.”

Hunter turned, voice low and urgent. “We can’t leave her like that. They’ll hurt her—maybe worse—once they figure out we’ve got the evidence. We get her out, grab the envelope from the library, and we’re gone.”

McCall tilted her head, considering. “Why not just draw on the deputies? Cuff them with their own bracelets and walk out?”

Hunter shook his head. “Too much risk. They resist, someone gets shot. I’m not putting bullets in small-town cops over this.”

McCall gave a small nod. “Back door, then.”

Hunter’s eyes sharpened. “Good call. We’ll need your lockpicks.”

She smirked faintly. “Always do.”

They moved fast—guns holstered, bags zipped, photos and film secured. Checked out at the desk in silence, then slid into Earl’s old pickup truck.

 

Amy’s House, 20 minutes later.

Amy sat alone in her living room, curtains drawn, phone useless in her hand. Isolation pressed in—threatened, stranded, helpless.

She’d pushed too far. George was in the hospital. Bellamy knew. And now she was trapped, deputies watching the front like hawks.

A soft knock came at the back door. “Amy…”

Her pulse jumped. Familiar voice—quiet, male. She moved quickly, unlocked the door, eased it open. Hunter stood there, hoodie up, face shadowed. Beside him: the singer from the country club, Debra Bennet—no, not quite.

Hunter stepped inside, voice low. “Amy, this is Detective Sergeant Dee Dee McCall. LAPD Homicide. My partner.”

Amy blinked, confusion slicing through fear. “But… you’re—”

McCall gave a quick nod. “No time. We have to move. Now.”

Amy started toward the bedroom. “I need to grab—”

A loud knock rattled the front door. “Ms. Laurton! Sheriff’s department. Open up!”

Amy froze. Hunter pulled her back. “Back door. Go.”

They slipped out. McCall led them across the backyard to the neighbor’s empty house—For Sale sign in the front yard. She’d already picked the back lock earlier; the door stood slightly ajar.

They darted inside, closed it quietly.

From Amy’s house: “Hey! Stop! Stop right there!”

The deputy jumped the fence, tripped on a root, cursed. His partner helped him up. They started chasing.

Hunter, McCall, and Amy burst out the front of the empty house, ran across the street.

As the deputies stumbled out onto the street, a black Jaguar roared past—engine screaming, tires kicking up dust.

They shouted, cursed, pointing wildly at the speeding car, thinking it was Hunter and his group escaping.

The deputies yelled, guns drawn, but the car was already gone.

 

8.53 A.M at the Sheriff’s Office,

Sheriff Johnson sat at his desk, morning coffee steaming. The radio crackled. “Sheriff, this is Deputy Hayes. Suspect’s vehicle just fled Amy Laurton’s residence. Black Jaguar. We’re in pursuit.”

Johnson slammed his hand on the table, coffee spilling. “Son of a bitch.”

He grabbed the mic. “All units—black Jaguar, driver Rick Stoner. Intercept. Shut down every road out of town. Now.”

He stood, grabbed his hat, stormed toward his cruiser. “Stop that car.”

 

2 Miles Outside Campo Alto – Toward Lake Isabella

Sheriff Johnson pulled up behind two patrol cars blocking the road. The black Jaguar sat pulled over, engine off. He stepped out, boots crunching gravel, deputies looking awkward. Johnson walked to the driver’s window, leaned in.

Inside: Earl, old gas station owner, hands on the wheel, innocent smile.

“Howdy, Sheriff. What’d I do wrong?”

Johnson stared. “How the hell are you driving Stoner’s car?”

Earl shrugged. “Man offered to swap. My old pickup for his Jaguar. Too good to pass up. Just joyriding, testing the new ride. Ain’t no law against it, is there?”

Johnson’s face reddened. He cursed under his breath, deputies shifting uncomfortably.

 

Meanwhile, three Miles from Campo Alto – Toward Bakersfield

Hunter drove Earl’s old Ford pickup, McCall beside him, Amy in the back seat clutching the envelope.

They’d stopped at the library first—McCall slipped in through a side door, retrieved the envelope from archive section 8-3-124. Photos, ledgers, tape—all there.

Now they headed out of town, radio silent.

Hunter glanced at McCall. “Got it?”

She nodded.

Amy leaned forward. “What about George?”

Hunter’s voice was steady. “He’ll be okay. We’ll get word to the hospital. And to Devane. This ends today.”

The pickup rolled on—Campo Alto shrinking in the rearview.They were gone.

----------------------------------------

 

Chapter 18

Tuesday, March 11, 1986

 

3.32 P.M. at the LAPD Headquarters – Captain Devane’s Office

 

The blinds were half-drawn, casting long shadows across the room. Captain Devane sat behind his desk, sleeves rolled up, coffee gone cold. Hunter and McCall stood on one side, Amy Laurton on the other—still pale, but her back straight, briefcase of evidence resting on her lap.

Devane leaned back, exhaling through his nose. “You two pulled off something damn near impossible. No backup, no warrant, no safety net. The photos, the film, the ledgers, the tape—Bellamy’s cooked. Tax evasion, bribery, money laundering. We’ve got him cold.”

He tapped the file in front of him. “But murder? That’s thinner. The Vega’s registered to one of Bellamy’s shell companies. No direct link to Johnson driving it the night Hornsby died.

No witness saw him at the scene when Charlie was killed. We’ve got the car, the repaints, the plate—but no smoking gun tying him to the trigger.”

McCall crossed her arms, voice calm. “Unless we prove the bullets came from his gun.”

Devane raised an eyebrow. “And how do we do that?”

McCall glanced at Amy, then back to Devane. “We lure them to recreate Charlie’s murder. Use the setup against them. Amy’s already got them on the hook.”

Amy leaned forward, voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. “I used the copies to blackmail Bellamy. Demanded two million. He agreed to the exchange—tomorrow. Goldies Diner, outskirts of Bakersfield. Noon. Briefcase swap.”

Devane studied her for a long beat, then a slow smile spread across his face. “You started this mess,” he said, almost admiringly. “And you’re going to finish it.”

He looked between them. “We set the trap. McCall takes point as decoy. Hunter covers. We catch Johnson in the act. Once he’s down, Bellamy falls too.”

He stood, rolling down his sleeves. “This ends tomorrow.”

 

Back at Bellamy’s Mansion,

Raymond Bellamy leaned against the polished bar, ice clinking in his glass. Sheriff Johnson sat on the stool beside him, uniform jacket open, badge glinting under the low lights.

 

The phone rang.

Bellamy picked it up.

“Amy.” Amy’s voice came through, steady but edged.

“Tomorrow. Goldies Diner, Bakersfield outskirts. Noon. I bring the documents. You bring the money—two million cash. Briefcase swap.”

Bellamy’s mouth curved. “Deal.”

He hung up, turned to Johnson. “She’s coming. Tomorrow, noon, Goldies. She brings the papers. You bring the money back from her dead body.”

Johnson grinned, slow and cold. “Just like Charlie.”

Bellamy raised his glass. “To loose ends.”

They clinked glasses.

 

The next day at Goldies Diner, Bakersfield.

Its 12.45, Raymond Bellamy sat at a corner table, briefcase resting on the empty chair beside him.

He adjusted his tie—subtly pressing the hidden microphone beneath the knot. “Do you copy, Carl?”

Outside in the parking lot, the now-blue Chevy Vega idled low. Sheriff Johnson behind the wheel, nodded once. “Roger that.”

They waited.

Ten minutes later, Amy Laurton walked in—black denim jacket, baggy jeans, briefcase in hand. Her stride was deliberate, eyes burning with vengeance, but her hands trembled slightly. She tried to hide it.

Bellamy stood, smile wide and welcoming. “You’re braver than I thought, Amy. I like that spirit.”

Amy didn’t smile back. “Let’s get to business.”

They sat. Checked briefcases—documents, cash. Both nodded.

Bellamy leaned in, playing with his tie again. “Want to leave out the back door? Less eyes.”

Amy stood without a word, walked to the back exit, briefcase in hand.

Outside, Johnson’s Vega waited.

Amy placed the briefcase in the backseat of a red 1979 Oldsmobile Cutlass, slid behind the wheel, and drove away.

Johnson’s Vega eased out after her, predator stalking prey.

Back inside the diner, Bellamy ordered steak, settling in with a satisfied grin.

 

Just 2 Miles Outside Bakersfield,.

The red Cutlass slowed as a portable siren flashed behind it. Sheriff Johnson’s voice boomed through the megaphone.

“Pull over! This is the police!”

The Cutlass drifted to the shoulder and stopped.

Johnson stepped out, sawed-off shotgun hidden under his overcoat, low cap shading his face. He approached, gun still concealed.

“Step out of the car, ma’am. This is the police.”

Inside the Cutlass, the driver sat still.

Johnson repeated, louder. “Step out! Don’t make me repeat myself—”

The door flew open. The driver stepped out fast, revolver already raised.

“Don’t move. LAPD. You’re under arrest.”

It wasn’t Amy. It was Dee Dee McCall — blonde wig, black denim jacket, eyes hard as steel behind the medical mask she wore to protect her identity.

Johnson froze, hand twitching toward the shotgun. “Hey, lady… you don’t have the guts to pull that trigger.”

McCall’s voice was ice. “Try me.”

Johnson drew the shotgun.

Bang. Bang. Two shots— right on the center mass. Johnson dropped, grimacing in pain, shotgun clattering to the ground.

McCall stood over him, barrel inches from his face. “It’s over, Johnson.”

Hunter stepped out from the backseat—where he’d been hidden the whole time—gun already drawn.

Johnson looked up, blood spreading across his shirt, face twisted in shock and rage, gasping for his last breath.

McCall didn’t blink. “Too bad, he will not face justice.”

 

Back to Goldies Diner

Bellamy sliced into his steak, fork halfway to his mouth—when the front door opened.

Amy Laurton walked back in. Behind her: Captain Devane and two uniformed officers.

Bellamy’s fork froze. “How come…?”

 

Amy’s voice was calm, almost amused. “I never really left. I just

walked out the back.  A female detective took the briefcase and the car—same jacket, same look. You never saw the switch.”

Bellamy’s face drained of color. Devane stepped forward, cuffs in hand.

“Raymond Bellamy, you’re under arrest. Tax evasion, bribery, money laundering, conspiracy to commit murder. You have the right to remain silent…”

Amy watched as the cuffs clicked shut. She leaned in close, voice soft. “This is for Charlie.”

Bellamy stared at her, mouth open, words gone. The officers led him out.

Amy turned to Devane. “It’s done.”

Devane nodded. “Yes, It is done.”

 -----------------------------------------

 

Thursday, March 12, 1986

 8.12 A.M at the LAPD Headquarters – Medical Examiner Clinic

 Dee Dee McCall pushed open the door to the clinic exam room with her shoulder, medical file already tucked under her arm. The familiar antiseptic smell hit her first—sharp, clean, clinical. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead.

Dr. Magdalene Mendez looked up from her chart, glasses perched on the end of her nose. She broke into a warm, knowing smile.

“Dee Dee McCall. It’s been a while.”

McCall gave a tired half-smile and dropped into the exam chair.

“Wish it was under better circumstances, Doc. But yeah… I’ve missed you too.”

Mendez laughed softly, setting the chart aside.

“Flattery will get you nowhere. So—level?”

McCall exhaled, leaning back. “L5. Fully consensual. Two rounds vaginal penetration. First protected, second… not. Ejaculated inside.”

Mendez raised an eyebrow, tone professional but gentle. “Why no protection on round two? And vaginal ejaculation? That’s a big risk.”

McCall shrugged, eyes on the ceiling. “I got sloppy. I was caught in the moment. Realized it after it was done.”

 

Mendez nodded—no judgment, just clinical understanding. “Alright. Lie back, feet in the stirrups. Let’s make sure everything’s okay.”

McCall complied, sliding her skirt up and panties down. Mendez gloved up, performed the exam with practiced efficiency.

“No tearing, no bruising, no obvious trauma. Looks good. You’ll still need the full panel—blood, urine, swab, the works. Standard post-undercover protocol.”

McCall sat up, readjusting her clothes. “Thanks, Doc.”

As McCall reached for the door, Mendez called after her. “Hey, Dee Dee. You coming to the Vice party Friday?”

McCall paused, one hand on the knob, a small smirk tugging at her lips. “Oh, you’re going too?”

Mendez grinned. “Of course I’m in. Someone’s gotta make sure you all don’t drink yourselves under the table.”

McCall laughed—quiet, real. “See you there.”

She stepped into the hallway, clutching the lab requisition form for the full panel test.

The corridor was busy. Female officers—detectives, mostly Vice—lined up outside the same exam room. Some leaned against the wall, arms folded, eyes distant.

Others chatted softly, trying to keep it light. All of them carried the same invisible weight: sacrifice beyond the call of duty. Bodies and souls given up for the job.

McCall walked past them, nodding to a few familiar faces. No words needed.

They all knew.

She headed toward the lab, form in hand, the weight of the last few days still sitting heavy on her shoulders.

But the case was closed. Bellamy was in custody, facing multiple charges.

And she was still standing.