Foster Justice (16 page)

The tiredness that had made Chad yawn was gone. He sat straight against the truck seat, looking outside at the darkness. He'd been sitting here for hours listening and now it was late. How the hell was he to raise 2k that quickly? No way to get the funds that fast this time of day, from his retirement fund. He fingered the Peacemaker. If he could find a pawn shop open at—he looked at his watch—ten, he should get at least that for the very valuable, old but pristine gun. But then he'd have no weapon.

Chad sighed heavily, pulled out his cell phone and pressed the button for one of three people in the world he kept on speed dial. He'd be pissed to be bothered at midnight Texas time, but if ever there was an emergency, this was it. Chad hated to ask for help from anyone, especially the man he respected most, but he had no choice. He needed a cooperative witness and would not get it without the money.

Sinclair's voice came on after five rings, rough with sleep. “What is it?”

“Captain, I'm sorry to bother you so late, but I'm in a jam. I have a solid lead that Trey's still alive. I think.”

Sinclair's voice became lucid immediately. “What can I do to help?”

Chad explained the situation.

“What zip code you at?”

Chad gave Sinclair the zip.

“OK, I'm going to wire you the money. When I know which outlet, I'll text you the business address and tracking number for the funds. Where are you, anyway?”

Chad hesitated, but he owed his boss, for he still considered him as such, the truth. “Beverly Hills area. Staying for now with the redhead Trey dated for a while. She even came out to Amarillo while I was on assignment, but I don't think any of y'all met her.”

“She's helping you look for him?”

“Sorta.”

“Isn't she a stripper? I remember Trey talking about her.”

“Yes.”

Squirming in his seat at the dead silence, Chad was relieved when Sinclair evenly changed the subject.

“Just one more question, Foster: You let the Beverly Hills Police Department know about this reward and where you're going?”

Chad was silent, which was as close as he could come to the truth.

“Dammit, Foster, this could be dangerous, not just for you but for Trey. How do you know it's not a trap? Don't make me call this Riley O'Connor character. It's best if you do it.”

Scowling, Chad said, “Okay.” He bit back a
How the hell do you know they're involved?
but Sinclair must have heard it in his voice.

“Riley's called me from time to time to give me an update. You might have quit, but even a former Ranger is still representing this department in spirit if not in name. I'll get you the money. At least return the courtesy by obeying the most important police rule.”

“Okay! I'll call them for backup, but they're by-the-book lead asses, and odds are they won't even make it in time.”

“You have a piece?”

“Granddaddy's Peacemaker.” The gun was so old it had never been registered, passing as it did from father to son, but Chad kept it clean and oiled and had fired it occasionally.

Sinclair's tone got rough again, because he knew how Chad treasured the weapon. “Try not to use it, okay? I don't need to remind you how sensitive California law enforcement is to unregistered out-of-state weapons, no matter how old they are.”

“Yes, sir.” Chad cleared his throat, wondering how to really thank this former boss who still stood behind him despite his reckless departure.

Sinclair seemed to hear Chad's dilemma even across the miles. In his usual fashion, he knew how to diplomatically defuse the situation. “Okay then, well, good luck and keep me posted. And, Foster . . .”

“Yes, sir?” Chad heard the lilt of laughter and braced himself for a barb.

“Be good, and if you can't be good, be careful. If you can't be careful, name it after me.” Laughing, he hung up.

Smiling wryly at the witticism he'd heard most of his life, Chad also hung up. But the tease was pointed enough that Chad wondered what Riley had told Sinclair about Jasmine . . . If he only knew how closely he'd called the situation.

While he waited for the text, Chad went back into her apartment and scribbled a message for Jasmine, not wanting to wake her. Or so he told himself.
S
OMEONE FOUND
T
REY'S NUGGET NECKLACE WITH A MESSAGE TO CONTACT ME FOR A REWARD
. I
'M MEETING HIM AT
6
A.M. ON THE EAST
I-10
TOWARD
R
IVERSIDE
. M
AY NOT GET LOOSE UNTIL THE MORNING
. I
'LL CALL YOU.
He hesitated, then added in bold block letters,
A
ND BE CAREFUL
. K
EEP YOUR DOORS LOCKED EVEN WHEN YOU
'
RE DRIVING, BECAUSE YOU
'
RE BEING FOLLOWED
.

When he was done with that, he looked down at his contact list, sighed, and thumbed through to Riley O'Connor's name. He left a detailed message on the cell phone line Riley had given him, and then he locked the door, trying it to be sure it was secure. He went down the street to his truck. He didn't know what he'd find in Riverside, but he had one partner in California he'd trusted with his life before, so he'd best get started now.

He had to wait at the drug store for the clerk to come yawning to the desk, and by the time he had the money, two hours had passed and he still had one more critical errand to run. At this rate he'd barely make it to Riverside in time.

The equestrian center was on the way. The horse trailer might slow him down a bit, but if Trey was really on the outskirts of Riverside, he was being led far away from the big city, where Chester's skill set might come in much more handy than a truck. Chad fired up his engine and turned toward Burbank, yawning. It was almost dawn, and he hadn't slept a wink. His vision was a bit blurry, but all he needed was a huge cup of joe.

 

Light took over from the darkness, glimmering through the cracks in the truck, awakening Trey from a restless doze. He was so parched, his heart was pounding hard enough to choke him. They'd only given him one bottle of water, which he'd slurped down as they held it to his lips. Trey looked toward the small hole he'd gouged in the rubberized seal around the cab's sleeping area which had a rear access. The seal was meant as insulation and a pad to protect the compartment from weather and noise, but it had grown brittle with age and that flaw might be his salvation.

He'd spent most of the dark hours prowling the trailer. About five hours earlier, his bumbling about the cargo bed had finally yielded what felt like a flashlight. When he turned it on, it was dim, but provided enough light to make out racks and boxes. It didn't take long to find what he needed.

Trey had wadded up the nugget necklace in the blue disposable shop towel he'd found and written on as best he could, using oil and a screw, and carefully fitted another towel over it exactly so the writing wouldn't smear. He wadded up a last towel around the note and necklace, and used a piece of duct tape to protect it, leaving a couple inches of the chain outside the tidy packet in hopes the shiny gold would attract attention. Then he waited, listening to the rhythm of the wheels on the pavement. He'd felt the big vehicle downshift and held his breath. Sure enough, they were slowing.

He'd lost his balance and had to grab the rack as the truck sidled up a ramp, pulled in somewhere, and then stopped. Trey tensed, hoping they didn't check on their unwilling passenger, and breathed a sigh of relief as he heard the gas cap being unscrewed. They'd stopped for gas. There wouldn't be a better time.

Trey had forced the little packet into the tiny opening he'd made, but when he heard voices, he hesitated. He didn't know where the tank was or which side of the truck they were on. If they saw him do this, he was toast. So he waited what seemed like forever, but finally the truck rocked slightly as both the driver and the man on the other side got back into the cab. As the truck began to move out of the lot, Trey pushed his desperate message farther into the hole he'd made. It stuck as the truck gained momentum and he almost panicked, but when he pushed it with the screwdriver he'd found it plopped free. He'd visualized it falling to the side of the highway and prayed whoever found it would want the reward promised more than the nugget.

The necklace was the only identifying item he had left; they'd taken all his ID and his phone. The half-ounce nugget wasn't worth 2k, which was how he'd arrived at the amount for the reward. He only hoped Chad had that much left, assuming he was in LA, as Trey suspected. For sure if they called Chad's cell number, which he'd inked in oil, Chad would instantly recognize the inscription and know he'd left it.

Now, hours later, with no way of knowing if Chad had received his message, Trey sank against the side of the truck, trying to sleep again as the truck rocked on. His eyes were gritty and his throat beyond parched, but he was still too scared to rest. He'd wrapped duct tape around his wrists again as best he could, but it was tough with his hands behind his back. Still, the blood should convince them he'd just loosened the binding. If they caught his ruse this time, it would be his last. Kinnard might not have the balls to kill him, but Montoya seemed to enjoy hurting people and the minute the heat was off, Trey had a feeling he'd be a tumble of bones in a desert grave.

He prayed Chad got his message, because if this didn't work, he was fresh out of inspiration. And while he'd gained a reprieve, he knew eventually Kinnard would have to kill him simply because Trey knew too much about the sorry reputation Kinnard had gone to so much trouble to hide. Not to mention his involvement in stealing cars from his own patrons and swindling farmers and ranchers out of their land...

Finally the big rig jerked to a halt over a rough surface. Sitting up, Trey smiled grimly. He must have more of the Foster grit in him than he'd suspected, because he almost looked forward to his next meeting with the son of a bitch. As the cargo door began to roll up, Trey said a quick prayer, using words he'd also never suspected he'd say.

“Keep on a-comin', Chad. Keep on a-comin'.”

F
ifty miles away from Trey, Chad had parked his dually outside the coffee shop at exit 445, stuck the Peacemaker in his waistband underneath his jacket, and got out. Dawn glimmered in the sky. He checked on Chester, but the stallion was an old hand at riding in trailers and looked almost bored. Chad had his hand on the diner's doorknob when a loud, “Foster, wait!” made him turn.

To his surprise, Riley O'Connor exited an unmarked car with two other uniformed cops. In the sunshine coming up over the buildings, Chad saw one wore a Riverside CA insignia, the other Beverly Hills.

“So you got my message in time.” Chad struggled to keep the surprise out of his voice but obviously didn't quite succeed.

The other two cops glared, but apparently Riley was growing accustomed to Chad's behavior. He deadpanned back, “We used our connections to turn all the lights green on the way here. We can do that, you know, seeing we own ten million or so people.”

“Yeah, I keep forgetting you guys own Los Angeles, too. Lead on.” Chad opened the door with a flourish for the other three to enter the quiet little coffee shop, and followed on their heels. He spotted a nervous kid right away, who kept looking toward the door. He had tattoos on both skinny arms and a pierced nose and eyebrow. Great, the upstanding citizen type, or so Chad's gut reaction butted in. Still, for Trey's sake, he tried to keep an open mind as he walked up to the kid and offered his hand. “Chad Foster.”

The kid shrank away. “You didn't say anything about cops.”

Chad's hand dropped. “You have the nugget?” He pulled out his wallet and fanned it open, showing all the hundreds he'd picked up before leaving the Western Union outlet Sinclair had given him.

Riley jerked his head at the cops and they sauntered to the counter to order coffee. Riley and Chad sat down in the booth across from the nervous kid. He relaxed a bit, reached into his grungy coat and pulled out a greasy disposable blue shop towel.

Using a napkin from the dispenser on the table, Chad gently worked free the duct tape, which was loose anyway. Sure enough, Trey's gold necklace shone up at him. Chad would have recognized it anywhere. Their mother had given them each one shortly before she died, trying even with her last breath to make peace between the siblings. Chad kept his in the safe at home as he disliked jewelry of any sort; Trey's never left his neck, even in the shower.

“Where did you find this?” Chad asked. He had to clear his throat and try again.

The kid held out a grimy hand. “The money, man.”

“I will, I will, but I need as much information as possible to try to track down my brother. He left this necklace, his most prized possession, as a message for me. A plea for help, really. His life is in danger and if I'm to find him I need details. Where exactly did you find this?”

The kid sank back sullenly. “I-10 near the 60 interchange.”

“Do you recall the exit number?”

The kid's eyes squinted as if the light hurt them. “No, but it was near an Exxon station because that's where I'd stopped for gas. When I was leaving I saw a piece of the chain shining in my lights on the side of the road. That's all I know.” He held out his hand with a pleading look.

Riley had pulled out his phone and was texting notes. In a kind manner, so as not to spook the kid, he got the boy's name, address, and phone number. Chad gave him the money and the kid bolted, almost running out the door.

Riley stared after him. “Going straight to score, I imagine.”

“Probably.” Chad carefully spread out the napkin, hoping for clues. Along with the grease, there were also bits of grime and in the corner . . . Chad inhaled sharply. “Blood.”

Riley bent over the napkin, moving it from side to side with a fork. “What's Trey's blood type?”

“AB negative.” Their eyes met. AB negative was a very rare type.

“You have a sample of Trey's DNA anywhere?” Riley asked.

Chad shook his head. “Likely the blood that's there is tainted anyway by all the grease and dirt. But if you can have your lab match the type, that's good enough for me. And proof enough for a judge to get a warrant, especially since this is Trey's necklace.”

“To search what?”

“I have a trail of circumstantial evidence a mile long. Kinnard's gallery, of course, his car, his house . . .”

Riley was shaking his head. “Kinnard is friends with most of the judges in Beverly Hills. You still don't have a direct link to him.”

Chad slammed his hands against the table. “Dammit, don't cops in Beverly Hills ever use their guts?”

Riley glared. “Yes, for processing food, as nature intended.”

Chad debated letting Riley listen to the illegal recording to see if he could identify the woman who'd left a message about Trey, but no doubt Pucker Ass would go through channels and with that namby-pamby captain already pissed off, Chad couldn't chance being thrown in jail. He'd never find Trey in time then. “So you won't try to get a warrant?”

A heavy sigh was answer enough. Chad leaped to his feet. Every muscle in his body was rigid with the effort, but he managed a gravelly, “You'll have the blood typed?”

Riley nodded.

“And if you'd be so kind as to have the surveillance cameras along the I-10 checked for the two big rigs that came out of the warehouse yard as we drove in, I'd appreciate it. We already ran the numbers, but whether they looked clean or not, I'm betting Trey was in one of them and we just missed him.”

“Worth a shot. At least we'd have an idea of where they were a few hours ago.”

Gesturing to the two cops that it was time to go, Riley went toward the door. After they exited, he held it wide. “Coming?”

Chad stalked out. The patience and politesse he'd used just then to get Riley to cooperate had flat worn him out. His head was aching like a son of a gun and he hadn't eaten since the marathon session with Jasmine. Still, he had to hold it together long enough to check out the Exxon station.

Riley gave him a shrewd look as he sagged against the door of his truck. “Can you see straight? Your vision blurry?”

Chad shook his head. “I just need to eat and haven't slept in over thirty hours, but now's not the time to take a break.”

Riley smiled slightly. “I thought you were going to sleep at Jasmine's so she could keep an eye on you.”

Chad fiddled with his keys in response, pulling his hat low, hoping Riley couldn't see his reddening cheeks.

If he did, Riley took mercy on him. “I'll drive your truck.” Riley held his hand out for the keys.

“Not hardly. You ever driven a horse trailer before?”

“Couple times. Why on earth did you bring Chester anyway?”

“Chester's like a weapon. It's better to have him and not need him than to need him and not have him. He can go places no one else can.”

“And if you wreck your truck, how does this help your brother? Or your horse?”

Reluctantly, Chad handed over the keys and hauled himself into the passenger side. Riley fired up the big engine, nodding his approval at the rumble.

Chad was surprised at the adept way he drove the truck out of the small lot, making slow, wide turns to give Chester time to brace himself. But he didn't comment. He was too busy watching the road. “Stay on the access.”

After about thirty minutes, Chad saw a familiar sign gleaming up ahead. Riley saw it, too, and pulled into the Exxon lot. The unmarked police car followed.

Chad was out the door before the truck stopped. He used the sampling kit Riley had brought and collected several dirt samples from various places around the entrance. He handed the bagged samples to Riley. “I'm going in to talk to the clerk. Do you have the ability to run a search and see if the Del Mar Corporation has any property in San Bernardino or Riverside counties?”

Riley nodded and went to talk to the two cops. They got back into the unmarked car and used the computer-like console to stab in some letters. As Chad started toward the food mart, Riley returned and caught his arm.

“Let me do the talking for once, okay? This is my investigation after all.” When Chad looked at him in his unyielding fashion, Riley said, “I want to save your brother, too. And if Kinnard is guilty of what you say, no one has a bigger interest in seeing him jailed than the Beverly Hills Police Department. Before he does any more damage.”

Unlike Pucker Ass, Chad had learned through too many tough investigations and dead ends to trust his gut. Trey was in imminent peril. He could sense it. But he nodded reluctantly and let Riley lead the way in.

As he passed under an overhang high enough for big rigs, Chad noticed the tiny cameras trained at each of the pumps. Gas retailers always installed them now, so they could prosecute deadbeats who tried to sneak off without paying. The question was, would they share? Riley was right. He was better suited for this part of the investigation.

 

The same morning, after a restless night missing Chad, Jasmine drove toward Roger Larsen's office, unaware that she was tailed several cars back by an expensive but nondescript black Land Rover with dark windows. She wondered where Chad was but figured the best thing she could do now was help the investigation.

As she pulled up outside Larsen's expensive but discreet office, she decided it was a good thing she'd just completed her corporate law class because she knew exactly the document to look for. There were many ways to shield the leadership of a shell entity, but the articles of organization had to be signed legally by the managing member.

She entered the office, relieved to find the receptionist apparently away. She called, “Roger, are you here?”

Larsen walked out of his inner office, a delighted smile on his face. “Jasmine! I'm so happy you stopped by just in time for you to take me for coffee.”

Jasmine accepted his quick kiss and gave him her best smile. “I'd love to, Roger, but I have a paper due in a week for my corporate law class. I was wondering if you'd mind if I borrowed a couple of your law books?” When his smile faded she added hastily, “But maybe we could get takeout and you could give me some pointers on how to argue my brief? I love that little Thai restaurant up the street. That is, if I'm not interrupting. It opens early and I'm starving. I love their egg noodle dishes with chicken.”

Larsen's smile appeared again. “Sure, I didn't have time for breakfast. What would you like?” He went to put on his jacket, but Jasmine shook her head. “It's hot for this time of year.”

He hung the jacket back on the rack inside his office and went to the door. “Back in a jiff.” He exited.

The second he was gone, Jasmine snatched a ring of keys out of his pocket, went to his locked files, and looked under the
D
's. She skimmed through them.

Next she tried the
K
's. She snatched out the file marked, “Kinnard, Thomas.” But there was only a white sheet in it marked, “Removed to confidential files.”

She slammed the file closed and searched the office. She looked through his desk, but it only held office supplies. She spied a tiny closet and opened it. Inside was a much heavier vault-type file cabinet with a sturdy lock. She tried all the keys, but none fit the lock. Frustrated, she looked in his desk. Slammed the drawer. No keys. Then she snapped her fingers. She'd heard tiny keys rattling in his pocket more than once. She looked in a hidden, zippered pocket in his suit jacket and pulled out a strange key with an octagonal shaft and head. She tried it in the vault filing cabinet inside the tiny closet. It turned smoothly. She found a file marked “Kinnard, Thomas.” It was very thick.

There it was. Her heart sank at this tangible proof of Thomas's involvement in land fraud and probably in Trey's disappearance. She skimmed through a thick stapled pile labeled, “Incorporation Papers, Del Mar Corporation,” but she knew Larson would be back any moment, so she didn't have time to read the file. She went to the copier, unstapled the thick sheaf of papers, and inserted them in the sheet feeder.

Outside, Roger Larsen walked up to his door, whistling. He carried a large takeout bag from the Thai restaurant Jasmine liked, but before he could enter, a hand fell on his arm. He turned, startled, to see one of Thomas's gang members glaring at him. “Why is the
chica
here?”

Roger scowled. “She just needs my help with a legal brief for class.”

The hood muttered something that might have been “
pendejo
,” but aloud he said, “Check your files,
cabrón.
She's helping the Texan. He's staying at her place. The
jefe
doesn't trust her anymore.” He smiled, a gold tooth gleaming to match his heavy gold necklaces. “If we go down, you go down.”