Hex on the Ex by Rochelle Staab Page B

Kyle’s narrative in my head, unable to shake off the bitterness I sensed in his tone. If Jarret got convicted of murder, Kyle would be left with full ownership of the gym. What if Kyle had stayed up all night drinking and stirring his resentment? Maybe he didn’t like being used and decided to punish both Laycee and Jarret. Kyle knew Jarret’s garage door combination. What if he saw Laycee asleep and murdered her to frame Jarret? Possible. What about the symbol? A diversion?
    My phone rang as I passed the Starbucks at Vantage and Ventura. Mom.
    “Did you hear from Jarret?” she said.
    “Nope,” I said, stopping for a red light at Laurel Canyon. “But I talked to his trainer.”
    “What did he say? Is Jarret all right?”
    “He’s fine. He’s staying at the Sportsmen’s Lodge and not answering his cell. Leave him alone, Mom. He’ll contact someone when he wants to.”
    “Liz, he needs our support.”
    The light turned green. I passed through the intersection, biting down hard to keep from yelling. Then I took a deep breath and said, “You know what, Mom?
I
could use your support. Please don’t draw me into Jarret’s drama. If he’s innocent, he has a team of lawyers and agents to help him.”
    “What do you mean by if? Of course he’s innocent.”
    “Then don’t worry about him. The truth will come out.”
    “You’re upset.”
    “I’m hot. I’m tired of talking about this, and I want to get home. Let’s talk tomorrow, okay?”
    “I love you, dear.”
    “Love you too, Mom.”
    When I turned the corner onto my street, the phone rang again.
    “Jarret’s not registered at the Sportsmen’s Lodge,” Mom said, testing every strand of my nerves.
    My rational side intervened. An outburst would be a poor prologue to my meeting with Carla. “He’s registered as Bruce Sutter,” I said, pulling into my driveway.
    “Who is—?”
    “Hall of Fame Cubs pitcher. Jarret’s childhood hero.”
    “Isn’t that charming.”

Chapter Nine
    I put on makeup and fed Erzulie, and then drove the four blocks to the Aroma Café. A rare parking space opened on Tujunga, giving me a short jaunt to the customers waiting in line outside. I didn’t see Carla Pratt, so I cruised through the tables inside and on both patios. I spotted her at the rear of the courtyard, sipping an iced drink and reading her BlackBerry at a table tucked in the corner.
    When I got to the table she removed her gold-rimmed glasses and smiled at me. Her sandy brown bangs were dark with sweat, her hair cropped even tighter around her ears and neck than the last time I saw her. In her mid-forties, she carried the guarded, pale-faced demeanor of a career city detective. Her gray two-button suit must have felt like a heating pad on her sturdy frame, but removing the jacket would mean exposing the gun I knew she carried on her belt.
    “Dr. Cooper.” She indicated the empty chair across the small table. “Did you order?”
    “You can still call me Liz. I didn’t order. I wanted to find you before I got in line. I’ll be right back.” When I returned to the table with an iced tea, Carla dabbed beads of sweat off her forehead. “Would you rather sit inside where it’s cooler?” I suggested.
    “Not unless you want to. I’m used to the heat.” She pulled a small notebook from her jacket pocket. “It’s private here, easier for us to talk. Nice place.”
    We eased in with small talk, and then she told me about her transfer from Northeast to the West Valley station. An opportunity, she explained as she handed me her new business card, for advancement to Detective II.
    “Have you seen Dave recently?” she said.
    “We were together last night at the Dodger game.”
    “Ah.” Her brows shot up. “And are you still close to your friend the professor?”
    “Nick? Yes. He told me he saw you today.”
    “He did.” She opened her notebook. “As I mentioned on the phone, your name came up this morning in the homicide investigation I’m