Foster Justice Read online

  The cabby growled something to himself but subsided and went with the flow of traffic several cars behind the lowrider. Chad sighed, thinking he needed access to a blackboard and his old English teacher, what was her name? Oh yes, Miss Gorne. She’d make him write his favorite word five hundred times, the same one she’d made him write whenever he acted up. Oh, he could spell it just fine. Funny how he’d never learned its meaning....

  Patience.

  As soon as she walked into her apartment, Jasmine saw the flashing light on her answering machine. She listened to her messages. Junk call, sales call . . . she caught her breath as she recognized the voice. Trey . . . Husky, quiet, panicked.

  “Jasmine, no time, they took my phone, can’t reach Mary, someone else has her number, she must have a new one. They’re holding me out near City of Industry, I think. Some kind of deserted warehouse. Cars everywhere. Think it’s a chop shop. Can you call my brother in Amarillo at the DPS offices, don’t remember his work number, he didn’t answer his cell—” The call cut off abruptly.

  Jasmine flew to her cell phone before she remembered she and Chad had never actually spoken on the phone. He seemed to know all about her, but she didn’t even have his number as she’d been too conscientious to record it from Thomas’s files. She tossed the phone on the couch, took a deep breath to steady herself, then, her fingers shaking only slightly, she paged through the digital messages until she found the time stamp. She glanced at her watch—three hours ago. Damn, what if they’d caught him and that was why he’d hung up abruptly? Jasmine looked down at the caller ID but the number Trey was using must have been unlisted because it showed “unavailable.”

  No time to waste.

  Holding her phone close so it would record as she replayed Trey’s message, she tried to remember what little Chad had said about where he was staying. Just “farther east up the 5.” Big help. Time to make another stop at the gallery, and this time she wouldn’t be invading Chad’s privacy because he’d be desperate to hear this tip. She grabbed up her purse, stuffed in her cell phone, locked her door, and flew down the stairs to her car.

  Fifteen minutes later she snuck into Thomas’s office, greatly relieved he wasn’t there, and turned on his system. Using the Dorado password, she brought up his digital contact list. She paged through the screens until she found Foster, Chad. Using her cell phone so she’d have the number, she dialed the unfamiliar area code.

  All it did was ring . . . a few times only, as if he’d turned the phone off in the middle of the rings. His curt message came on, name only. She spoke softly, “Chad, I just got a message from Trey. He’s being held somewhere in the City of Industry he thinks. I know where that is if you’ll meet me. Here’s my number in case it doesn’t appear on your screen.” She recited it and turned off her cell phone. She was about to power off the computer when she noticed another notation below his cell number.

  Thomas was nothing if not efficient. Address in LA: Los Angeles Equestrian Center, Burbank. Good, that was on the way to City of Industry. She turned off the computer and bolted out.

  Chad tapped the cabby’s shoulder. “Pull in behind that truck so he doesn’t see us.” The cabby complied without a word.

  The lowrider had pulled up to a grungy diner downtown, but a brand-spanking-new Mercedes C63 AMG was parked a few spaces down. Not exactly typical wheels for this demographic but exactly what Kinnard would drive. Every instinct he possessed told Chad he needed to hear what these two unlikely allies said. No way Kinnard would even come here unless he didn’t want to be seen.

  Chad’s cell phone rang as he was getting out, and irritably he shut it off and tossed it on the seat, along with his hat so he’d be less conspicuous. He’d gotten another missed call earlier, but when he looked at the contact it said “unavailable,” so he’d not paid it much attention.

  From his window, the cabby watched him trying to blend in, and shrugged as if to say, Doesn’t help. You’re still a sore-tailed cat.

  Chad glared at him. “I’ll be back.”

  “You have the wrong accent for that line.” The cabby smirked.

  Did everyone out here reference the whole world with movie lines? Biting back something more pungently Texan, Chad peered around the big cargo truck that was double-parked, the rear ramp down, still idling. He couldn’t see a damn thing from here; he’d have to move closer. He had to move almost into the doorway to see inside the diner’s grimy plate glass window, but sure enough, he recognized the punk, facing him, and Kinnard’s fancy-suited but perfectly straight back and five-hundred-dollar haircut.

  When the punk glanced up, Chad ducked to the side. What he’d give for some of that fancy audio equipment they sometimes used on stakeouts. No way could he slip in and out of this joint without their seeing him. He debated the wisdom of his next move, but it was the only thing he could think of at the moment. He went back to the car and opened the cabbie’s door. He pulled his last hundred from his wallet and dangled it in front of the scowling face. “Another tip for you plus full fare if you’ll slip into that diner and play little pitcher.”

  The cabby snatched the hundred. “Little pitcher?” He got out.

  “You know, little pitchers have big ears.” When he got a blank look, Chad stood back and waved his hand impatiently toward the diner. “Never mind. Eavesdrop.” Must be another Texas saying Mama had cursed him with.

  Chad pulled the cabby to the side of the door. “See those two huddled together near the back? Can you slip into that booth behind them and see if you can hear what they’re saying?”

  The cabby eyed him up and down. “You a cop?”

  “Not anymore. I’m looking for my brother, that’s it. I promise it’s nothing illegal.”

  The cabby sighed heavily but walked into the diner and seated himself as Chad had requested. He pretended to read a menu but from Chad’s perspective he did indeed have big ears. Chad also suspected this wasn’t the first time this grizzled veteran of the LA freeway wars had listened in on people. However, he’d barely sat down before Kinnard rose abruptly. Not offering his hand to the kid, he turned on his heel and strode arrogantly toward the door.

  Chad barely had time to duck out of sight behind the idling truck. Kinnard stalked toward his vehicle, anger in every abrupt move. Usually he was smooth as owl shit even in the way he moved, but not this time. What had they been arguing about?

  The punk exited on his heels and went to his lowrider, firing it up. He screeched off before the cabby could make it to the door. Chad gestured impatiently, come on! But by the time the cabby had started his engine, the lowrider’s rumble had faded. They drove around the block, searching, but it was gone.

  “You catch anything?” Chad asked

  “Not much. Something about how the gangbanger could clean up his own mess from the old dude. That he’d come out and check the new merchandise himself sometime tonight. Then he got up and left.”

  A chill slithered down Chad’s spine. Mess? Had time already run out for Trey? And he’d lost his best lead . . .

  When he arrived back at his truck after paying the astronomical cab fare with his credit card, Chad was just in time to see a tow truck driver hooking up his dually. Chad bolted out of the cab and ran to the driver.

  Only then did he see Riley sitting astride his bike, idling his engine as he talked to the driver. Chad took his hat off and whacked it on his thigh. While he didn’t technically have to respond to any of these stupid tickets because he’d be heading home soon, this was getting ridiculous. Not to mention expensive. He forced a grin. “Did you call this guy, Riley?”

  Riley smiled back, sunglasses shining along with his white teeth in the late afternoon sunlight. “Yep.”

  “Can you call him off? I’m working a case. I’ll move the truck now.”

  Riley’s grin deepened. “Working a case without authorization, you mean?”

  Chad’s temper snapped. He whacked his hat so hard on his thigh that it stung him. Trying to collect his wits,
Chad looked up the street for inspiration and saw the famous Art Deco–style sign that read: You Are Entering Beverly Hills.

  For the first time, he realized he must have parked just outside the city limits. He’d given up long ago trying to figure out which city he was driving through, but for once he was glad of this confusing megalopolis. Chad put his hat back on and adjusted the brim just so. Calmly, he went to the rear of his truck and unhooked the tow chain. Both Riley and the driver protested, but Chad merely went around to the driver side of his truck and looked over the roof at Riley.

  “Seeing as how you’re such a big shot in Beverly Hills and all, not good for your image to work without jurisdiction.” Chad got in his truck and pulled away from the curb.

  Riley shouted after him, “You can teach me that, too!”

  Chad grinned, so happy to have won this one that he barely, for once, noted the traffic.

  A good hour later, Chad parked his dually in the huge parking lot of the equestrian center, locked it, and walked toward his campground. He’d wash up a bit and then head over to Chester to feed and groom him. Maybe that would help with the ache in his gut that was turning into a knot of fear for Trey. He’d been here over a week, followed every lead he could think of, tailed a suspect, searched Trey’s car, grilled his girlfriend, bugged the likely mastermind, and he was no closer to tracking down his brother. Again, he wondered if he should contact the morgue, but he felt, deep in his gut, that Trey was in trouble but still alive. He’d act on that presumption for another couple days, and if nothing turned up he’d start contacting all the various morgues in LA and give them Trey’s description. In his tent, Chad put on some washing overalls and an older pair of boots and walked toward the stalls. He was so distracted, he’d tossed his cell phone on his sleeping bag without remembering he’d turned it off.

  As he neared the barn, he heard splashing along with a feminine voice that sounded familiar. “Stop that! Who’s bathing who?”

  He rounded the barn and came to the washing stalls. His heart skipped a beat when he saw Jasmine, in the same T-shirt and red boots she’d worn earlier, but now the T-shirt clung to beautiful breasts and taut nipples as she gave Chester a bath. The ends of her long red hair were wet and curly, her boots muddy as Chester butted her again with his head so she’d rub his nose. Based on the marks on her shirt, this had been going on for a while. She complied, one hand rubbing the horse while the other guided the spray hose over his back, suds flowing down into the drain beneath them.

  She was giving his horse a very thorough washing and getting one in return.

  Chad wanted to yell at her.

  He wanted to demand what the hell she thought she was doing.

  He even wanted to whack his horse on the rump and call him a traitor, as Chester usually didn’t like strangers touching him. How dare he be Mary’s little lamb with this woman who tormented him day and night . . . Any minute now he’d literally fall down in adoration at her feet, the ornery critter.

  Like owner, like stallion, came the traitorous thought. Weary in body and soul, Chad wanted nothing more than to kneel before this wicked woman and bury his face in her bosom, pull her across his lap and . . .

  However, Chad’s iron-willed discipline, far more his guiding star than his wants, came to the fore. And his needs? Well, he couldn’t think about those even if she brought them to blazing life in a manner hard to ignore, despite his fears for Trey.

  Holding himself in, he crossed his arms over his chest, leaned against the side of the barn, and appraised her. He kept waiting for her to look up and see him, but she was intent on her task. She pulled the straps of the rubbery grooming comb over her hand and began brushing the water away from Chester’s sleek red hide.

  And Chester, the turncoat, literally groaned at her rhythmic stroking and soft whispering. “Big, tough old stallion, you’re just a big baby. One of us might as well feel good while we wait for Chad. I’d love to ride you. You think he’d let me? How about that, boy?”

  “Sounds good, but me first.” The words were ripped out of Chad, deep and guttural, before he could stop them. He walked around the barn so she’d see him.

  She started so hard she almost lost her footing on the slick grate. He reached out to steady her but she caught herself on Chester.

  “You said something?”

  Thank God she hadn’t heard him. “What in tarnation are you doing with my horse?” Chad growled, glaring between the two of them. Jasmine looked a bit guilty, but Chester was happier and more docile than Chad could ever remember seeing him, which only made him angrier. This was the same mettlesome nag who sometimes nipped at his master when he didn’t like the way things were going? Chester arched his long neck for her to stroke it. He swiveled an eyeball sideways to appraise Chad’s glare, gave a disdainful whuff, and preened under Jasmine’s stroking.

  “I—I was just trying to help while I waited for you. They gave me your campsite number and it matched the number on his stall, plus they confirmed he was yours. He kept pawing at the ground and pushing against his gate, and I could see he was . . . restless.”

  Restless? Was that what this was called? What a sorry term for all the physical and emotional feelings she roused in him by loving on his horse. There was no other word for it, and the practiced ease in her movements said she’d performed this task many times before. How could it be she was so comfortable around horses, high-spirited stallions at that, if she was an LA party girl?

  Not for the first time, he couldn’t compute properly when it came to her, but one thing he was sure of: Chad was sorry he’d put on his overalls as they complicated his current state. Luckily Jasmine was beet red and hurrying to finish her task, so this time she didn’t notice. “Why are you here? How’d you know where I was staying?” He was pretty sure he’d never told her.

  She picked up a grooming towel and smoothed it down Chester’s hindquarters, his back, his legs as she responded, “I needed to talk to you, and you didn’t answer your phone. Didn’t you get my message?”

  Oh crap, Chad forgot he’d shut off his phone outside the diner. “Why were you calling? My phone’s back at the tent.”

  Jasmine hooked a gleaming Chester back to his lead and tied him up, coming over to face Chad. He had to force his gaze to stay fixed on her face, and she seemed to finally realize the state of her shirt because she hastily crossed her arms over her chest. That only pushed her breasts higher. “I got a message from Trey.”

  That got his attention. His gaze zeroed in on her face. “When? What did he say? Where is he? Is he OK?” Part of him heaved a huge sigh of relief—

  Until she said, “He’s in trouble. I left my phone in your tent so I could let you listen first thing as soon as you got back. I didn’t want it to get wet. I knew if you came back you’d come looking for Chester. I recorded Trey’s message for you.” She untied Chester and took him to his stall, putting him back in. He balked, turning his long, beautifully arched neck to look at her soulfully.

  She smiled. “I’ll bring carrots next time.” She patted him on the rump and he reluctantly entered the stall. When she locked it and walked off, he whickered mournfully after her.

  Chad moved from foot to foot, biting back a plea for her to hurry, and he half ran, half walked back to his tent, which was close by. She had to run to keep up.

  Inside his tent, she knelt and pulled her phone out of her purse, which she’d buried under his sleeping bag, bringing up her functions list and hitting Play on her record button. The familiar voice at first gave Chad a huge sense of relief, but by the time the message ended, Chad’s face was grim again.

  “How many warehouses in this City of Industry?” he asked, fearing he knew the answer.

  “Hundreds, probably. It’s one of the most industrial areas in Los Angeles.”

  “Did you get the number?”

  “I checked my caller ID but it read unavailable. It must be unlisted.”

  Chad wanted to scream. Crap, that call he’d mis
sed had been from Trey, but his brother had obviously been too rushed to leave a message so he’d called his girlfriend instead. Dammit, now he really missed the badge. If he hadn’t quit, he could fix this problem with one phone call, just trace the unlisted number with the phone company. He debated asking Corey to do it, but he couldn’t keep putting his partner’s job in jeopardy. Sinclair would crucify him.

  Chad ducked under the tent flap and strode up and down, so antsy he couldn’t be still. Jasmine followed, nibbling her lower lip as she watched him with obvious concern.

  He barely noticed. Okay, on his cell phone he still had some of the databases he’d used as a Ranger. He hadn’t tried to use them since coming out to LA, but he was dead-level certain that the green lowrider and its driver could lead him to Trey, especially if his brother was being held at a chop shop. That pimpmobile screamed custom.

  Ducking inside the tent again to grab his phone, Chad brought up his link to the FBI vehicle registration network. The FBI cross-referenced all state DPS databases for exactly this reason, so cops working multi-state jurisdictions could trace license plates. However, the access required was high level and the user codes limited. He’d only been granted access himself recently because he was working multi-state rustling cases. Chad held his breath, wondering if his PIN still worked or if Sinclair had him locked out.

  The little screen flashed. “Access granted.” Chad pulled the scrap of paper from his pocket and texted in the lowrider’s license plate number he’d photographed and then written down. His fingers were shaking slightly, so it took him a second to get the numbers right. It took a bit, but finally an address flashed on the screen.

  He showed it to Jasmine. “Do you know where this is?”

  “Yes. That’s the address for the Beverly Hills Police Department. Where’d you get that?”

  Chad’s jaw dropped. Ballsy move, and it sounded like something Kinnard would orchestrate. “Unbelievable. Phony plates. They must have stolen them from the police parking lot.” Chad started striding up and down again, pausing only to toss off the constraining overalls.