Foster Justice (19 page)

Chad literally saw red. He'd been here less than a month and he'd accumulated four parking tickets and had had to retrieve his truck three times from a tow yard; the cost of this ticket would likely be astronomical. Still, he kept his tone polite. Patient. Or tried to... “What's the problem, Officer?”

“Can't you read all the No Parking signs? You're blocking traffic at a public installation where emergency vehicles must have ingress and egress.” The parking Nazi ripped the ticket off and handed it to Chad. “Texas plates don't give you the right to take your half in the middle. I've given you three separate citations. You're lucky I didn't have you towed. Would have been within my rights to do so.”

Chad fingered through the copies, but his gaze was so blurry he couldn't even read them. He merely got in his truck before he followed his impulse to level the Nazi. But when he moved to pull away, he saw that the little vehicle, parked at an angle behind him, had him blocked.

Chad rolled his window down, but the parking Nazi was speaking animatedly into his cell phone, ignoring him. Chad ground his teeth, but that only gave him an aching jaw. He glanced in his side mirror and saw if he reversed just right . . .

All his frustrations boiled over at once: the fruitless search for Trey, finding him too late, the way Jasmine emasculated him, the way Kinnard had out maneuvered him and escaped a law enforcement dragnet of copters and three different agencies . . . and two days without sleep to cap it off. His disembodied hand reached out for the gearshift and thrust it into reverse.

Chad backed up, the satisfying crunch of metal angel music to his ears as his huge bumper crumpled the side of the little cart. He looked outside his window to be sure the parking Nazi was clear. He was safely standing under the entrance awning, his mouth agape as the hand holding his phone sagged down.

Satisfied the little prick was watching, Chad pulled forward for better leverage and backed up again. This time the flattened side of the cart was no match for the size of Chad's huge tires. The dually barely jolted as the cart fell beneath the four-wheel-drive's rear wheels.

Chad revved his engine and moved forward, the crunch of crumpling metal drawing out his first smile in over a day. He yelled out the window, “I got me here the most powerful passenger truck diesel engine in the world today. You got to ask yourself a question—‘Do you feel lucky?' Well, do you, punk?” And he backed over the cart again. One more time for good measure; then he got out to appraise his handiwork. Not a scrape on his own paint or a dent in the tailgate.

“You like Hot Wheels?” Chad asked conversationally. “Me too. Just for you, the new Fosterized Demolition Derby model. Enjoy.” Chad tipped his hat and moved to get back in the truck, only to find his exit out of the lot blocked by several security vehicles with flashing lights. Full-size this time. A police car zoomed into the entrance, siren blaring.

The parking Nazi wore his own grim smile, pocketing his phone. “Let's see what the judge has to say, Dirty Harry.”

Chad didn't resist as the police officers pulled his arms behind him and cuffed him. And for the moment at least, the residual glow from the sight of the Demolition Derby Hot Wheels car pancaked under his truck was enough to keep him happy even when they hustled him into a Beverly Hills police car.

Wouldn't Riley be happy to see him?

A
weary Riley was wrapping up with the evidence guys at Jasmine's apartment when his cell phone rang. He answered, and then held the phone away from his ear as a high, very proper voice blasted him. “I'm going to insist the judge set his bail at twenty thousand dollars at least. This asinine, puerile behavior will not be tolerated by anyone in a joint investigation with us, Texas Ranger or not. Is that clear, Officer O'Connor?”

“Yes, Captain Barnes.” Why the hell had the chief let Barnes take over as head of the investigation? Riley suspected he knew the answer: Barnes had asked. Because he wanted to keep an eye on Chad Foster. When Barnes was calm again, Riley asked, “What did Foster do to get arrested?” He listened to another earful. When he hung up his cell phone, Riley was torn between laughing and groaning.

Jasmine caught his arm. “Is Chad in trouble?”

“You could say that. He's in jail.” He explained quickly.

Jasmine's tired eyes filled with tears and she had to look away. “He lost it because of Trey.”

Riley wasn't so sure, but he only shrugged. “Doesn't change the charges of destruction of public property and endangering an officer.”

Jasmine made a move toward her safe, but then stopped and looked over her shoulder at Riley. “They won't let him out until bail is set, will they?”

“No. He appears before the judge tomorrow at nine a.m.”

As evidence guys carried out the boxes, Jasmine plopped down on her couch as if she no longer had the strength to stand. “Maybe a night in jail will clarify things for him.”

“Maybe.” Riley was doubtful.

She caught his tone, but she didn't argue. “I'll go bail him out in the morning.”

Riley gave her a look. “Not a good idea, Jasmine. He's a huge flight risk; no way he'll stay here now with Trey gone.”

“I'll pay the fine the judge levies against him.”

Riley whistled. “It will be in the thousands.”

She waved a hand to indicate her lack of concern, and walked him to the door.

He said, “I'll appear in court with him. Maybe that will help.”

As he hovered on the doorstep, she reached up to kiss him on the cheek. “Thanks, Riley. When Chad comes back to himself, he'll thank you, too.”

Riley muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “not hardly” as he walked down the steps.

 

Early the next day Texas time, fifteen hundred miles away, Mary got out of the car, hefted the briefcase containing her contract with Thomas and her geological surveys showing where and how they'd decided to drill on the Foster homestead, and walked up the staircase to the DPS office door. With every step, she felt the burden of guilt lift.

 

Inside, Sinclair was reviewing the files on the Del Mar land fraud case with Corey. “I'll say this for the bastard, he's slick as owl shit when it comes to writing ambivalent legal documents.”

“Yeah, Chad mentioned he met some smooth-ass Beverly Hills lawyer type.”

“Get his name. We'll run a background on him. Call Chad. I want to know what happened with the reward money I loaned him anyway.”

Corey eyed his boss as if hesitating, but Sinclair must have seen the question in his eyes. “Spit it out.”

“I thought you accepted his resignation? Why are you helping him?”

Sinclair retorted, “Why are you?” At Corey's dull flush, he relented. “I'm not blind, Cooper. I didn't have to pull your cell phone records to see how often you've been in communication with Foster since he supposedly quit. I've been stretching the rules trying to help him because I'd feel exactly the same way if it was my brother, but I can only do so much unless he comes back and takes up his job again.”

“So you'll revoke his resignation if he does?”

Sinclair's gaze strayed to the shredder in the copier room. He shrugged. “Don't quote me on this, but what resignation?”

Sighing his relief, Corey dialed Chad's cell phone number.

 

Inside an evidence locker in Beverly Hills, Chad's phone vibrated weakly, and then went dead.

Corey hung up a few seconds later. “It just rings. I'll try him later. But one thing I'm pretty sure about . . .” Corey hesitated, obviously not wanting to make his former partner look bad.

Sinclair encouraged him. “Go ahead. I know Chad's tearing LA apart with his bare hands. He's staying with some redheaded stripper or something, so his standards have obviously lowered a notch.”

The words were barely out of his mouth when a receptionist ushered a voluptuous, tall redhead into the office. She waved a hand toward the seating area outside Sinclair's door. The redhead started forward, looking determined. Her purse slipped off her shoulder, disarranging her V-neck blouse and revealing a discreet but lovely butterfly tattoo on the curve of her breast. Sinclair's executive assistant met her and offered coffee.

Sinclair nodded as Corey exclaimed, “That's the same tattoo Chad had me try to track down. Oh my God . . .” Corey shook his head.

He and Sinclair burst out at the same time, “Chad's got the wrong redhead!”

Sinclair looked at Corey. “And he likes her, doesn't he? Even though she's a stripper?”

Corey nodded grimly.

Sinclair's smile stretched from ear to ear. “This will be fun.”

 

Totally unaware of the turmoil his actions were causing in Texas, Chad was awakened from a dead sleep by the opening of his cell. He rubbed his eyes and sat up on the comfortable cot. He hadn't been surprised to learn that even jail cells in Beverly Hills were clean and plush, as far as such things went.

The uniformed officer who let him out gave him a sour look. “Your bail's been made.”

Chad was flummoxed. The judge, under Captain Barnes's urging, had set Chad's bail at twenty-five thousand. That was pocket change to Sinclair, but not to Chad, and he cringed at the thought of asking for a loan of such magnitude. Half hoping the judge would relent after Riley talked to him, Chad had decided to cool his heels—and his temper—for a day or two. He had done the crime after all, so as cops said, he might as well do some time. But his brother would be buried in only one place. The place he belonged.

Since he hadn't contacted anyone in Texas, who on earth out here had that kind of money? He was no closer to an answer after he retrieved his belongings and signed his exit papers. However, as he read the release agreement, he realized Riley had brokered a deal for him with the DA: They made him sign an affidavit stating he'd be back for his trial but had pressing family business to deal with in Texas. They were allowing him to leave California.

As he walked out into the lovely California sunshine, Chad blinked, dreading his next move. He almost wished he could go back to that cot that was more comfortable than his sleeping bag, but the memory of holding his brother's lifeless hand steeled him. Time to face Jasmine. Do his best to talk her into going to Texas with him. If she refused.. . Chad pulled his cell phone out of the bag, not surprised to find it dead; he'd left his charger at Jasmine's. He shoved the phone back.

By the time he went through all the red tape required to retrieve his truck, it was early afternoon. When he got to her place, Chad hesitated. He still had a key, but he didn't think it was right to use it under the circumstances, so he knocked on the door. No answer. He knocked louder. It was too early for her to be at work and her car was in the small lot.

He was turning away when a muffled scream out back chilled his blood. He leaped down the stairs in two strides. He ran behind the building in time to see Jasmine being forced toward a sedan with darkened windows, its engine running. The guy who dragged her had a hand over her mouth. He couldn't see the face under a hoodie but he recognized that burly frame. Montoya!

Montoya was too busy trying to subdue a struggling Jasmine to see him. She kicked backward with her booted foot and Montoya winced but only tightened his grip. Chad felt for the knife in his boot before he realized he hadn't sheathed it after getting his stuff back at the station. His pistol was in the truck, yet he only had seconds to act. Montoya had brutally dragged Jasmine close enough to the car to open the trunk with his clicker. He tossed her inside, and the one scream she had time for before he closed the trunk was muffled as he shut the lid. He moved toward the driver's door but he never made it.

In a linebacker-style blitz, Chad tackled him.

They went down, Montoya on the bottom, but he'd obviously had more back-alley fights than Chad. And he still had a knife. He bared it along with gritted teeth. A diamond in one front tooth sparkled in the sunlight as he clenched the eight-inch blade's handle and jabbed upward toward Chad's ribs.

Chad saw it coming and jackknifed sideways, but the knife still passed so close it snagged his shirt. It was so sharp the chambray work shirt shredded in a jagged tear, but the blade was slowed for a second, and that was all Chad needed. Rearing back, Chad raised his fist and brought it down with all his fury and grief right into Montoya's grimace. Chad felt his fingers slice open from the diamond as his fist raked across, but he didn't care because he also felt Montoya's front teeth go back into his mouth at the impact of the blow.

Howling, Montoya released the knife and it clattered to the asphalt. He held his arms up to protect himself, squirming in pain from his broken teeth, but Chad had no mercy. He punched again, this time at Montoya's nose. Montoya tried to throw back a punch, but his blow was upward and he was in so much pain, his fist didn't have much impact on Chad's lean jaw. Barely feeling it, Chad punched again, feeling the satisfying crunch of bone. Montoya went limp.

Hearing Jasmine's muffled screams and bangs on the inside of the trunk, Chad jerked free a clothesline someone had strung from the side fence and used it to hogtie the limp gangbanger. Then he felt in Montoya's pants for the keys, and clicked open the trunk.

Jasmine sat up, squinting, both fists raised, but then she saw who it was and sank back. “Thank God. You're out.”

He helped her onto the pavement. “Yeah. Someone paid my bail, still don't know who. You all right?”

“I'm OK. He didn't have time to do much damage.” She opened her mouth as if to add something, but closed it when she saw Montoya, barely recognizable with all the blood on his face. He was still out. She smiled a bit when she saw the neat way he was trussed, like a steer at a rodeo.

“He say anything about Kinnard?” Chad asked.

“No, but I'm pretty sure Thomas sent him after me. I'm a liability now. So is Mary. We're probably the only ones who know how deeply he's involved in oil and gas deals. He's even discussed them with us.”

He started to ask the obvious question—Who is Mary?—but she was still frazzled from her ordeal and he had to get to a phone and call Riley. Kicking the knife well out of Montoya's reach, he followed her up the stairs and picked up her landline. She went into her room, and he heard the water running.

While he waited for Riley to answer, he looked around. Everything was neat as a pin. It usually was, but this time things looked . . . different. The books were gone, as were the bronzes and the map. He was surprised to see a small safe, open and empty. He wondered what she had of such value as to need one, but then Riley's voice mail came on.

He left a message on Riley's cell phone about Montoya and then called the main station number, explaining he needed a medic and arresting officers dispatched ASAP to Jasmine's address. He hung up, going toward her room. “Jasmine, I have to go back out and stay with Montoya. I called the police . . .” He trailed off in shock as he looked around her room. She had boxes and suitcases everywhere. And there, on top of the bed, was an open satchel with stacks of cash on top.

He looked from the cash back to her. “Going somewhere?” He glanced at all the baggage. “Or should I say, are you running somewhere? Was that little scene with Montoya for my benefit? You've been working with Kinnard all along, haven't you?”

A dull, angry flush colored her cheeks. “You have no right to say that to me after I paid your bail.”

He blinked. “Why would you do that?” He glanced back at the banded piles of hundreds. “And where would you get that kind of cash?”

An angry zip was his only answer as she closed her satchel and slipped the strap over her shoulder. “Think what you damn well please. You always do anyway.”

Chad pushed back his hat, wishing he'd been more tactful. Now she was pissed and would never agree to go to Texas with him. He was debating what to do about that when a knock came at the door.

Jasmine stalked past him and opened it. She stepped back. “Hi, Riley.”

Riley glanced between the two of them, sensing the tension in the air, but he only looked at Chad. “You got Montoya?”

Chad led him down the back steps. Montoya was groggy but awake enough to struggle at his bonds. However, Chad had tied him securely, wrists lashed behind him to his ankles.

Riley's lips quirked as he saw Chad's handiwork, but he only said, “Good job, but did you have to break his nose?”

“Yes. He's lucky that's all I did. He was trying to kidnap Jasmine.”

“For the second time.”

Chad tilted his head as he weighed that information. “So she says. How do you know she wasn't in that rig with Trey because Kinnard told her to watch him? She has been one gorgeous red herring from day one.”

Riley stared at him as several cops hustled Montoya away, one reading him his rights as he went. “How you could think so badly of her after she risked her life to help you is beyond me. Not to mention paid your bail and negotiated terms with the DA that allow you to leave so you don't get into more trouble. Also, did you know she got the incorporation papers showing Kinnard's signature as principal of the Del Mar Corporation? That was enough for the DA with all the evidence the task force has been accumulating against the corporation. We've requested a warrant to bring Kinnard back for questioning. He flew to Amarillo this morning. Unfortunately, we didn't find the booking in time to stop him.”