Cold Snap (9 page)

The woman said, “Jonny is right. I’m leaving tonight. I expect my merchandise to catch up with me on schedule.”

“My trucks will be ready tomorrow night.”

An arc of a very familiar light cut across the wall on the building opposite him. Patrick shut down his phone and pocketed his equipment.

He knew that light. It was a police searchlight, from the top of a squad car.

At first he thought he’d been busted, but he didn’t hear any commotion from inside. He ran around to the corner of the warehouse, keeping low, and looked across the street to where Elle was parked.

She was standing next to her car talking to two cops.

Shit.

The spotlight didn’t come across the TK Clothing parking lot, so Patrick ran along the fence and out the gate. He crossed to the other side of the street, then approached opposite of TK. Elle was arguing with the cops.

Never a good thing.

Patrick came up to them. “Hello, Officers, I’m Patrick Kincaid. Is there a problem here?”

They looked at him with suspicion. “Sir, we need to see your identification.”

“This is ridiculous!” Elle said. “This is a public street, there’s no reason to—”

“Gabrielle,” Patrick said, forcing a smile but giving her a stern look. “They are only doing their job.” He turned to the senior officer and handed him his wallet. “I’m a private investigator and have a license to carry a firearm. I have a Glock holstered on my belt. My permit is in my wallet as well.” It was always best to immediately inform law enforcement when he was carrying.

His wallet also had a card that identified him as a former sergeant with the San Diego Police Department. It meant nothing officially, but when he dealt with locals he found they were much nicer if they knew they were talking to a fellow officer, even one no longer on the job.

The senior officer handed the PI license and ID to his younger partner. “Run him.” But when he looked at Patrick, he had relaxed. “Your girlfriend hasn’t been as cooperative.”

“Because you’re harassing me for no reason!” She glared at the cop. “And he’s not my boyfriend.”

“She won’t even tell us her name.”

“Gabrielle Santana,” Patrick said automatically. “She’s an attorney for Feliz, Hochman, and Fellows. We were at the new teen center earlier, and I wanted to see the area, but nature called. I walked over to those trees over there”—he gestured—“then saw you drive up.”

“Patrick!” Elle said. “We haven’t done anything wrong! They shouldn’t be—”

“They’re doing their job,” he said, and caught her eye.
Keep your mouth shut!

She took a deep breath and bit her lip.

The other cop returned. “He checks out.”

The senior cop handed Patrick his wallet. “Just to let you know, the city and county of San Francisco requires you to report in if you’re here carrying concealed. We recognize permits from other counties and states, but only if you report in.”

“I’m sorry. I’m only here for a couple days, and not on an official job. I stopped by to visit Elle on my way to my folks’ house in San Diego.”

“Must be much warmer down there.”

“It was seventy-eight today.”

The senior cop sighed with longing. “I’m retiring to Arizona. Not sure where yet, my wife and I are going down to visit this spring.”

“There’s some nice areas. Scottsdale, of course, but also some of the communities in the hills. I worked a case down there, a threat assessment for one of the colleges that had a foreign dignitary coming in to speak.”

Patrick removed one of his cards and handed it to the cop. “If you need to contact me, here’s my card.”

“Thanks. Sorry to bother you, but there’s been a lot of break-ins down here. We’re trying to lock it down.”

“I understand. No apologies.”

Patrick noticed that one of the cars at TK was leaving. He didn’t want Elle to be seen by Lee. “Thank you,” he said, and got into the passenger seat, as a signal for Elle to start driving.

Elle hesitated, as if she wanted to say something, but she wisely bit her tongue and said, “Thank you, Officers,” through clenched teeth. She then got in her Honda and drove away.

*   *   *

When Christopher Lee saw the cops on the street and a car driving away, he first thought it was a traffic stop.

But with this deal so close to completion, and all the problems he’d faced in the last two days, he couldn’t risk it. He told his bodyguard to pull over and Christopher rolled down his window. “Officers? I’m Christopher Lee, I own TK Clothing.” He gestured.

“Of course, Mr. Lee. I recognize you. I’m Sergeant Dunn.”

“Sergeant, has there been any trouble here?”

“No, sir.”

“I just saw a car drive off.”

“It wasn’t an incident. Locals, who just made a quick stop. We’re being extra cautious because of the recent thefts in the area.”

“I appreciate that.”

“You’re working late.”

“End-of-the-year inventory,” he said with a tired smile.

“We’ll be patrolling the area regularly, sir.”

“Thank you. I appreciate your diligence, and the department’s.” Lee rolled up his window. He called his contact in the San Francisco Police Department. “A Sergeant Dunn ran the plates on a car within the last thirty minutes. I need to know who it belonged to, and anything else about the traffic stop.”

He ordered his bodyguard to drive. He had planned to go to his other warehouse, but now he was worried that someone might follow him.

Instead, he called his partner to go over and check on the girls.

Five minutes later, his contact in the police department called him back.

“The car belongs to Gabrielle Santana.”

He knew it. That woman had gone too far.

“Anything else?”

“Dunn’s unit also ran the identification for Patrick James Kincaid, a licensed private investigator from Washington, D.C. He also holds a California PI license.”

“I need everything you can get on Kincaid.”

“I’ll try.”

“Just do it.” He hung up. “Our friend was wrong. It wasn’t a cop Ms. Santana brought to snoop around, it’s a private investigator.”

“That’s good, boss, right?”

“That’s worse. Who’s paying him? Why’s he here? We need answers. If he’s investigating me, I’ll have the answers beaten out of him before I kill him.”

No one snooped around Christopher’s business. The ones who did paid the highest price.

CHAPTER 7

Kami had fucked up many things in her life, but now, for the first time, she really thought that she might die.

Elle had told her that if she wanted a real life bad enough, and worked hard enough, that she could have it. That Elle would always be there to help her, no matter what. And Elle had done everything she’d promised, and more.

So the big lie Kami told her—that she actually had evidence of Christopher Lee’s association with Lorenzo—made Kami feel especially guilty. Elle had never lied to her. She’d told her life was hard, but Kami was a survivor. Kami wanted to be a survivor. She wanted a life. She wanted to show Elle that the faith she had in her was warranted.

And she wanted to punish Christopher Lee for killing her only other true friend, Doreen Day.

The only reason she’d carried drugs for Lorenzo was to convince him that she wanted into his operation as a full member. She’d been running drugs for him for months, but never told Elle. Elle wouldn’t have approved, and might not have helped her if she got caught. Like she finally had been. She’d been so close! Lorenzo trusted her, and then … well, it was her own fault she’d gotten caught before she had the evidence against Lee that she needed.

She’d known for over a month that Lorenzo was turning street kids over to Lee to sell. Sell, like they were drugs. He picked kids that no one would miss, usually runaways who weren’t from the city, who were new in town, picking mostly white and Asian girls because, as he said, “Men paid more for them, the younger the better.”

She hadn’t let on that she was interested in any of that. She focused on the money Lorenzo paid her. That she was from the city, that she had friends and people knew her, helped. She thought she would be safe.

She waited until Lee’s goons left for some meeting, and went to the warehouse where he did his real business. Elle had been angry that the DEA hadn’t found anything at TK Clothing last year when she tipped them to Lee’s operation. But now Kami knew why—he had another building, not under his name but some business that no one knew he had. She didn’t understand how it all worked, but she’d been following him so long, she knew this was the place.

She knew it because he’d taken girls from the warehouse to his penthouse apartment. Kept them overnight. Returned them the next day, barely able to walk. And Kami never saw them again.

She should have gone to Elle sooner, but she didn’t have proof. She only had her eyes, and who would believe her? She had a record, she was a known thief. Only Elle believed in her.

And then you lied to Elle. Lied to the district attorney. You have nothing to show for all your work.

Now, she would get proof. She had her camera. She knew that the guards had left. Two had gone with Lee, the other two had taken one of the girls to another room. She couldn’t think about what they were doing with her, only that she could stop them when she had the pictures.

The warehouse was near both a port and a side road that went directly to the highway. Private, secluded. The businesses were all industrial, but most were shut down and boarded up.

Kami was dressed all in black, her dark blond hair hidden under a Giants baseball cap she’d taken from Elle’s closest. Elle knew nothing about sports, except baseball, and she’d taken Kami and some of the other girls to the games when she got tickets from her ex-husband or her boss. Kami needed to return the cap, because it was Elle’s favorite.

Because if she could return it, it meant she wasn’t going to die.

Death scared Kami. She’d seen kids die on the streets. Of exposure. Of drugs. Once, a guy bled to death in front of her and she didn’t know what to do. That night, after six months of being on her own, she’d gone back to her dad’s house and begged him to let her stay. He said if she could pay rent, she could stay. She stole enough money each week to pay him, but after two months she found out her dad and his girlfriend were using the money she stole to buy drugs and hire hookers. She was sick and disgusted and didn’t understand why her mother had to die so young and leave her with that bastard.

She never went back.

She managed on the streets just fine until two guys, crashing off drugs, attacked her. Richie stepped in and saved her from being beaten and raped. He wasn’t all bad, but he wasn’t good, either. She and Richie had an okay relationship, she guessed, until she found out some of the truly sick shit he was doing with Christopher Lee. How could he save her but sell other girls?

She swallowed heavily as she slipped in through the main entrance. When the two goons left, they didn’t reset the alarm. They never did, when they were planning on returning. She didn’t know how much time she had, but she didn’t need a lot.

All she needed was a picture.

She didn’t know exactly where the girls Lee took from the streets were being held in the building, but she’d followed Lorenzo when he made the last delivery. A girl he’d snatched right off the bus. Obviously a runaway. Kami had met her at Lorenzo’s apartment, briefly. She knew her name was Ashley, that she was from Colorado. Ashley had told Lorenzo she’d left home because her mother was a bitch, but when Kami talked to her alone, she didn’t think that was true. Kami thought there was much more to the story than a bad mom, but Ashley looked so sad and lost and defiant … she looked the way Kami felt.

Then Kami overheard Lorenzo telling his goon squad that blondes went for twice the regular price.

Kami had mixed feelings about turning on Richie. He’d protected her more times than she could count. He’d given her a place to live, a bed to stay, and he didn’t try to get into her pants. She knew it was because he was gay, though he didn’t advertise it. She really thought that the only bad thing he did was sell drugs, and she didn’t think drugs were all that bad … she didn’t do them, but hell, if rich prep school kids wanted to buy an eight ball, why the hell not make some money off them? It wasn’t like anyone was forcing them to snort their allowance or pop pills.

But Richie had a mean streak, and he didn’t like girls. Really didn’t like them. Kami was the exception, she knew, because she was from his old neighborhood. But Richie didn’t care whether he handed over girls to Lee to be sold to rich men in foreign countries as if they weren’t human.

Deep breath.
You can do this
.

She slipped inside the warehouse and listened.

The two men left behind were making noise in the office. A girl was crying. Kami blocked out the sound. She had to. She walked slowly through the wide-open, dimly lit warehouse. There were truck bays here, but not much else. It used to be a meat-packing plant, but that was long before she was even born.

She didn’t know exactly what time it was, but it was well after midnight. Last night at this time she and Elle had stayed up eating popcorn and drinking Diet Coke while watching Elle’s favorite movies, romantic comedies. Kami had never heard Elle laugh so much, and that made Kami feel even more guilty because she’d already been planning on skipping out.

She listened and could hear quiet sobbing coming from someplace below. She hadn’t known that this building had a basement. She found the stairs. A rusted sign on the wall identifed the space as
COLD STORAGE.

Kami walked quickly and quietly down the stairs.

She wasn’t prepared for what she saw.

On both sides of a long narrow walkway were jail cells. At least, that was her first impression. Locked bars. More than a hundred girls, between the ages of twelve and twenty, filled the space. If they all wanted to lie down, they couldn’t. Many huddled in corners, wrapped together for warmth. There were thin blankets that barely covered thin women wearing thin dresses. Most were Asian, but about a dozen were white, all blondes.