Foster Justice Page 10

  “You know, there’s an easier way,” Jasmine offered. “I know someone who works at the police department. Maybe he can help us trace the call. Y’all can do that, right, even when it’s unlisted? My provider is AT&T and I know they have a deal with the Feds.”

  Even with all the stink in the media about privacy, he was impressed she knew that. Most people didn’t. She was pretty smart for a stripper. “Who is it?”

  “Riley O’Connor. He sometimes works on the side in security at the gallery—” She broke off at the look on his face. “You know him?”

  “Kinda. He a pucker-assed whey-faced motorcycle cop?”

  “I wouldn’t put it that way, but yes.”

  Chad thrust the scrap of paper into her hand. “It’s a green lowrider with a flame decal wrapping the hood, fancy chrome rims. You call him. I’m going to City of Industry. And be careful, because the driver’s also been following you.”

  “But Chad, there are hundreds of warehouses there. I thought you wanted my help navigating the city. I won’t even charge you at the going rate of fifty dollars an hour.”

  In other circumstances he might have smiled at the gibe, but not now, with his best lead since he got here. “Maybe I’ll get lucky. Besides, this could be dangerous.”

  “I’m coming with you.” She stuffed the paper in her jeans pocket. “I can call him on the way.”

  He blocked her path, eyeing her up and down. “You’d be real popular in a gangbanger area dressed like that.”

  The T-shirt still clung to her nipples and her hair was a riot of damp curls. She looked exactly like a woman ready for bed. But not for sleep. But then she mostly looked like that. He turned sharply away and broke into a jog toward his truck, ignoring her plea to wait.

  For once, he could put her out of his mind easily enough. He drove off, tires popping gravel, and punched the Play button again on his phone. The message was a bit degraded, having been copied twice, but Trey’s panicked voice was clear enough. That scared him, for he’d only heard that tone once before. Shortly after their parents died, Trey had fallen into a rattlesnake den.

  He’d called until he was hoarse, but Chad hadn’t heard him until he went looking for his little brother because supper was ready. He’d never realized that limestone outcropping on the edge of the bluff hid a small cave until Trey’s trembling voice reached him faintly on the wind.

  Chad called back, “Trey! Where are you? Call to me again.”

  “On the bluff. Hurry, Chad, there’s snakes everywhere and two of them bit me. Bring a rope . . .”

  Chad stopped cold and ran back to the house at top speed for the antivenin kit. He pulled Chester out of the pasture and jumped on him bareback, just taking time to halter him and grab a rope.

  A few minutes later, when he finally found his brother, Trey was unconscious. Chad barely fit into the narrow opening as he climbed down the rope he’d anchored to a tree. He was glad he was wearing his chaps because the minute his boots touched down, he felt rattlers striking at him, and there was so much rattling going on his blood ran cold.

  He stomped at the head of one curled next to Trey and felt it go limp. He kicked others away. He felt one bite him, but the sharp fangs didn’t quite pierce his heavy rawhide chaps. He grabbed the snake’s tail and pulled it away so hard the fangs tore out of the snake’s mouth. He threw it against the limestone wall. It spewed blood as its head burst open.

  Maybe the other snakes were spooked by the scent of one of their own dying, or maybe they were just tired, but they crawled away to the back of the cave. Chad grabbed up his brother, put the slight weight over his shoulder, and pulled them both out of the god-awful maw of venom and darkness. He immediately laid Trey flat and administered the antivenin, then propped Trey before him on Chester and kicked the stallion into a gallop. He calculated thirty minutes to the hospital once he reached the truck.

  “Hold on, little brother,” he whispered over and over, but Trey never woke up until the next day.

  The doctors told him later that if he hadn’t administered the antivenin when he did, Trey would have died. Chad had the shallow cave filled in with concrete, snakes and all. And for a while, he and Trey had gotten along much better. Chad took an interest in Trey’s art, and Trey actually asked a few questions about Chad’s cases as Chad took his first job with the Rangers.

  The recollection ended as abruptly as his trip up the 5 when traffic snarled. Chad wanted to scream, wondering why every time Trey’s life was truly in danger, he was missing in action.

  But he took the opportunity to pull the Peacemaker from the seat compartment to confirm yet again it was loaded.

  CHAPTER 9

  Waiting for Riley to answer, Jasmine tapped her foot impatiently. She was still at the equestrian center, and it was growing dark. She was worried, now not just about Trey but about Chad, too. He might be fearless, he might even be a Texas Ranger accustomed to violence, but no one really understood how cold and treacherous LA could be until they’d lived here. It was not unusual at all for people to walk right past others in distress. He’d stick out like a sore thumb in a bad part of LA in that big truck with Texas plates, and whether he’d admit it or not, he needed help.

  Jasmine herself had rescued a disabled African-American woman stuck in a wheelchair on Sunset Boulevard in the middle of four lanes of zipping traffic. The woman had the old-fashioned push-type wheelchair, and she’d only managed to cross half the street when the light changed, leaving her stranded on a yellow line. Cars whooshed past her on both sides with just a foot to spare. Jasmine had had to park and run out into the intersection, waving her arms to stop the drivers, to wheel the woman to safety.

  No, driving by himself in a bad part of LA wasn’t smart even for a former Texas Ranger. . . .

  Finally Riley came on the line. She cut into his greeting. “Sorry, Riley, but I need your help.” She explained what was going on.

  There was a rattling noise in the background, but dead silence from Riley. Finally he protested, “Jasmine, I can’t do this. I’m a traffic cop, and if I start poking my nose into gangbangers and grand theft auto without authorization, I could lose my job.”

  “But, Riley, he’s gone out there on his own. Isn’t it our responsibility to help him, especially since we have proof Trey is being held against his will? And he did call me. Isn’t it my duty as a citizen to report this? If Trey was snatched, it probably happened in Beverly Hills.” She started to mention the gallery, but bit back the urge. She didn’t know for sure yet if Thomas was involved, so it was best to let the facts speak for themselves.

  Still, Jasmine knew enough about the law and lawmen to understand how protective they felt about their turf. And few jurisdictions were more discriminating than Beverly Hills.

  Dead silence again. Then a heavy sigh. “Bring in the message and I’ll play it for my boss, see what he says.”

  Jasmine bolted to her car.

  When Chad reached the outskirts of City of Industry some time later, it was dark. He looked around at the greasy, pocked asphalt streets, the huddle of long, low buildings surrounded by huge lots studded with big rigs, and the railroad track bifurcating the road like an accusatory finger. If Chad had his way, the entire city would be leveled and rebuilt from the ground up, but even he knew the importance of modes of transportation when it came to warehouses and commerce.

  The railroad . . . Chad turned the message volume up on his cell phone to its max. He’d heard the slightest noise in the background earlier but hadn’t paid it much heed given his concern over Trey. Now he tuned out his brother’s voice to listen to the slight rattling sound.

  A train rattling over tracks. So wherever Trey was being held, he had to be close to these tracks.

  Letting his gut instinct take over, Chad paralleled the tracks as best he could, keeping a grim eye peeled for a green lowrider. The phone on the seat beside him kept vibrating, but he eyed the ID and left it where it lay. He knew the 310 number. Jasmine had no business out
here with him; he might have to do something illegal.

  Come out shooting . . . like the Rangers of old. And he was just in the mood for a riot.

  At about the same time, Jasmine squirmed on the seat next to Riley. He and his captain had both listened to Trey’s frantic message and agreed he was likely being held against his will. The captain had given Riley one-time authority to go after Chad and see what evidence was readily available. Then the LA police, who had instigated an investigation because of Trey’s deserted car, would have to take over. But if Trey had been snatched from Beverly Hills, that did give them some authority to at least investigate, if not lead, the inquiry. The captain told Jasmine in no uncertain terms to go home, that she had no business riding along on a potentially dangerous assignment.

  To which she responded that she was the only one who knew what the gangbanger looked like and that Trey had called her, which made her a witness already. And since the gangbanger who drove the lowrider had brazenly stolen an unmarked car’s plates from the Beverly Hills Police Department, and since she and Chad had given them the plate number, they were already involved in the case. The captain had glared, but Jasmine had been paying attention in her criminal law class.

  So now, as Riley drove an unmarked car down congested freeways, Jasmine dialed Chad’s number for the third time, but he never picked up. “Drat the man. Doesn’t he know how to use a cell phone?”

  “From my short acquaintance with him, I’d guess he’s got his nose so close to the ground, his ears have pavement burns,” Riley observed dryly. “I have a suspicion he won’t welcome my help.”

  Chad had worked his way all the way through the City of Industry, mostly following the tracks, without seeing anything resembling a green lowrider. But, hell, it could be parked inside one of these massive warehouses.

  And it might already be too late for Trey while he literally blundered in the dark. When his phone vibrated again, he slammed on his brakes, snatched up the phone, and growled, “Quit calling me. Can’t you see I’m busy?”

  “Hey, it’s not my idea to be here, but if you look behind you, you’ll see a beige unmarked car on your ass.”

  The male voice sounded slightly familiar. Was that O’Connor? On Jasmine’s phone?

  Chad looked in his rearview mirror. He couldn’t see a lot until the bright headlights shut off; then, under the street lights, he could make out Riley O’Connor, for once without the helmet, sitting in the driver’s seat, and next to him, Jasmine. She waved tentatively, as if knowing he wasn’t happy to see them.

  Chad bit off a groan and stuffed the pistol back in its compartment. Just what he needed. A by-the-book asshole who’d slow him down and a party-girl stripper airhead who’d be cocaine to these gangbangers. Well, maybe she wasn’t an airhead . . . but the rest was right.

  Chad parked and strode aggressively to their window. “How the hell did you two find me?”

  “How many double-axled trucks with Texas plates are there in this city in the warehouse district?” Riley rejoined. “Cruising at about ten miles an hour. I can always put out an APB on you if you want me to.” At Chad’s scowl, Riley softened a bit. “Why here?”

  Chad played the message again at its loudest volume. “Hear the train?”

  Riley did. He jerked his head toward the backseat. “Get in. I’ll see what I can do to help.”

  “You can use your federal connections to get me the address of that unlisted number.”

  “It’s not as easy as people think. I can’t just call up AT&T. Getting access to an unlisted number will require a warrant, and what’s the probable cause?”

  “How about fucking kidnapping?” Chad growled.

  “We don’t know that yet. All we have is Trey’s call—”

  “And a missing person’s report, which I filed a few days ago; his deserted car, his only means of transportation; a new knife gash in the seat; over a week without other contact with any of his usual relationships; no response to repeated phone messages. What do you need, a map?”

  “And the most important piece of evidence?” Jasmine interjected. “I know for a fact Thomas has sold several of Trey’s paintings in the last week, but Trey hasn’t been in to pick up his cut. And since he just moved here, I know he needs the money.”

  Riley sighed heavily and shut off his engine. “All right, when you put it like that . . .” He picked up his own cell phone and dialed rapidly. “Get me the duty officer in communications.” He took the piece of paper Chad handed him. “I need a trace on an unlisted number. No, I don’t have a warrant but there’s no time. A crime could be in progress. It’s a landline, we think, so it should pull up an address.” Riley listened and then bit off, “I don’t care if you have to dig up Mother Teresa and get blessed, get authorization!”

  Chad looked at Riley, impressed for the first time with more than Riley’s hygiene.

  Inside a deserted-looking warehouse several miles away, on the border between City of Industry and South El Monte but close to the railroad tracks, Trey glared at the man he’d literally entrusted with his life and assets.

  “My brother will never stop until he finds me. He keeps on a-comin’, in Texas parlance, but then you know all about that, don’t you, being Texan yourself?” Trey glared at Thomas Kinnard, but knew his bruised and bloody face made him less than threatening. Trey wished now he’d never let Chad’s paranoia rub off on him. Having second thoughts about the contract and the fact that Kinnard insisted he not sign his own paintings, he’d told himself it was okay to look for Mary’s new number since Kinnard was obviously keeping them apart. Instead, he’d found something totally unexpected. Something that finally explained Kinnard’s fixation on the Fosters and their land. The old clippings detailed Kinnard’s prior identity as an aggressive young wildcatter, cut down in his prime for his shyster land deals by Texas Ranger Gerald Foster. Kinnard had gone to prison. Obviously it had taken him years, and a change of venue to a state more forgiving of prior misdeeds, to overcome his past.

  Trey had taken the articles with him and hidden them inside his car seat, then pulled a block away from the gallery to call Chad. Before he could complete the call, the world went black.

  To make matters worse, a few hours earlier Kinnard’s car-thief hoods had caught him on the phone and beat the living daylights out of him. The one they called Montoya, whom he’d seen at the gallery skulking around the alley a time or two, used a tire iron but, thankfully, stayed away from Trey’s head. Trey assumed he was still alive only because they were waiting to see what the big boss wanted to do with him. His ribs hurt like the devil when he moved and he suspected one or two must be cracked.

  The big boss had arrived a few minutes ago. Kinnard’s gleaming Mercedes and Montoya’s green lowrider somehow looked quite at home next to one another in the chop shop populated with cars of every type and age in various stages of construction or de-construction. Everything from Ferraris to plain old Ford F-150s. Trey had known the minute he made it out of that storage room where he’d been held for over a week that he was in the chop shop of a highly successful auto theft ring. He’d been confused as to why anyone would bang him over the head in his own car, toss him in a trunk, and then take him to some oily-smelling warehouse, but when he got a clear look at Montoya a few days later and recognized him, everything fell into place. Now Trey assumed Kinnard had searched his secret drawer, found the clippings gone, and sent his partner in crime after Trey.

  Watching Kinnard pace up and down in agitation, Trey heard again that lecture from Chad he’d always hated: “Boy, don’t you know you can’t dip your wick at both ends and still run a ranch?” Shut up, Chad. Mary had been his next thought. Please, God, don’t let Mary be involved.

  Now, as he looked around with more calm than he felt, Trey shoved away thoughts of his girlfriend and brother. The last puzzle piece about Thomas Kinnard fell into place as he recognized a Ferrari that he knew the owner had reported stolen from the art gallery.

  “I always won
dered why you opened an art gallery,” Trey said. “You never have seemed to know that much about art. But it’s the access to the cars you wanted—”

  Kinnard spun on him, a flush on his high cheekbones, but this time there was nothing charming about his smile. “And the people. You’d be surprised how many of them jumped at a risky investment like a Texas oil deal. Your art was the perfect icebreaker. Homegrown Texas talent who grew up on a ranch sitting on a pool of black gold. They ate it up.”

  Trey’s heart sank. No way would Kinnard be so forthcoming unless he knew his bragging would never leave this warehouse. Still, while Trey believed Kinnard would do anything, cheat anyone for money, murder was a bit extreme even for him—which was probably the only reason he was still alive.

  Trey glanced at Montoya, who was supervising his chop shop crew as they crated up the more valuable parts. Trey squinted down the huge bay and thought he saw cars being loaded onto transports. They were moving their operation. He felt a brief surge of satisfaction that his phone call had spooked them.

  But then he caught Montoya’s eyes. Trey backed away a step, but he was slow and could barely move because he was so sore. Montoya had always creeped him out, for he seemed so expressionless and hard for a guy in his early twenties. Montoya’s black eyes were not just cold and expressionless. They were a void, like deep space where even a scream made no sound . . .

  Trey tried to guess how long it had been since he’d left that message for Jasmine, but the warehouse had no windows so he had no idea of the time of day. Still, it had to be hours by now. Keep Kinnard talking. “I sent my contract to the best oil and gas attorney in Amarillo,” Trey lied. “I barely read the damn thing, but then you know that, because I was out of my head about Mary. Just like I know you’ve screwed me somehow out of my oil royalties, because that’s your true calling. Not art, not even stealing high-dollar cars. Shyster land deals, just like years ago when my dad nailed you.”