Foster Justice (6 page)

Nope, as much as he hated to have to continue to see her, his best lead stood about five feet six inches, had auburn hair, and knew Trey much better than she admitted. Chad was about to leave and get in his truck to go back to the dance club when he noticed elegantly attired couples entering a doorway. Inside was a black-suited maître d' with a pile of menus in his arms.

Hell, it was worth a shot. Chad walked to the entrance and scanned the packed dining room. His gaze drifted over her the first time. She was laughing at something her companion had said, and looked so classy in the white ruffled blouse, he almost didn't recognize her. But her laugh was very distinctive, musical and husky at the same time, and his gaze zeroed in on the pair. She was with the same man who'd escorted her the first time he'd seen her at the art gallery.

“May I help you, sir?” The maître d' smiled at him with that oily obsequiousness displayed only at the best places, which Chad seldom frequented.

Chad hesitated. The direct approach hadn't gotten him anywhere. Time to try finesse. Chad didn't much like the taste of the little-used word, but the fear in his gut for his brother was a good motivator. “I like that little two-top over there near the window. May I have that?”

“For one?”

“Yes.” It was also right behind Jasmine. Careful to pass behind her so she didn't see him, Chad sat down with his back to them but well within earshot and pretended to peruse the menu.

One table over, Jasmine was beginning to think she'd made a mistake in agreeing to have dinner with Roger, but she had her own questions to ask. “So how long have you known Thomas?” Jasmine took a demure taste of her lobster bisque, soup spoon angled away as she'd been taught in fancy schools an eon ago.

“About five years. I've been his attorney for three. I helped him form his various corporate entities.” Roger leaned across the table to take her hand. “Jasmine, why won't you go out with me?”

Using the excuse of her napkin to pull away, Jasmine wiped her mouth and said lightly, “I just did.”

“You know what I mean. Really date me, not just have dinner with me.”

“Despite my occupation, I have to get to know someone, Roger. And I'm too busy right now for complications.”

Roger leaned back and blew a breath through his teeth. “So now I'm a complication? I thought you liked me.”

“I do. But I'm not in a place right now where I can get involved with anyone. And since you and Thomas are both friends and business partners, that makes things even more difficult.”

“How so?”

“Thomas is my employer and a mentor to me and I . . . haven't exactly had the best of luck with men in the past.” Jasmine searched for a way to defuse the situation and was glad when their meal arrived.

As soon as the waiter left, Roger meticulously folded his napkin over his lap, his every movement controlled. “I get it. I'm good enough to use for my knowledge and my library, but anything serious, no.”

“That's not it, Roger. I'm just not ready right now . . .” Jasmine trailed off when she saw the precise but vicious way he dissected his steak.

She smiled and mimicked a cultured male voice, “Would you like a nice Chianti with that?”

This surprised a laugh from him. “I've been compared to many things, but Hannibal Lecter isn't one of them.” He cut another bite, less viciously this time. “All right, you win. I'm a lawyer, I know how to play the waiting game. What would you like to talk about?”

 

Chad had ordered the least expensive thing on the menu, a sirloin in the mere thirty-dollar range, as he listened to their conversation. Man, she was good. Lead a man by the ring in his nose like a prize bull. Then slam the door to the breeding pasture just as he scented the cow. Chad wondered if she'd used the same tactics on Trey. Likely.

Sexual artifice like that could only partially be instinctive; most of it was learned through much practice. His instincts about her from the time he'd seen her name on that card had been right, confirmed in the seductive tease of her lap dance, and now by the way she dangled a poor bastard who was all but panting for her.

Chad half listened to them talk about legal issues and the Lakers until he finally tuned them out. A waste of time and money coming here. He'd pushed his half-eaten meal away and signaled for the check when the conversation got interesting again.

“Has Thomas mentioned his newest artist from Texas?” Jasmine asked.

“You mean the guy who painted the landscapes we liked the other day?”

“Yes. Trey Foster. I'm friends with him and have left him a lot of messages he hasn't returned, so I'm a bit worried.”

“Never met the guy. I don't recall Thomas mentioning him. Why don't you ask him?”

“I did. But he only tells me Trey went up the coast to work on his art. The other thing that's weird is, don't you think it's strange he didn't have Trey sign his paintings?”

“You know, he creates mystique as he builds a new artist, then he plans to have Trey personalize them when they sell. Adds even more value.”

Blindly, Chad signed his credit card receipt, still listening. What game was she playing? Had she seen him sit down behind her? Or could it be she really didn't know where Trey was? And was really worried about him . . .

Then his ears literally started burning . . .

“His brother is here looking for him. He came to see me at the club and acts like I'm involved in Trey's disappearance. He . . . scares me a little.”

“Has he threatened you?”

“No, not really.”

“Give me his name and I'll do a background search on him—”

“I already did. I know someone at USC who has access to all the databases. He's a Texas Ranger. And Trey even talked about him, so I know it's him.”

“Oh. Well, hopefully he's not dangerous. He's probably out of his depth here, and also out of his jurisdiction. I wouldn't worry about him. Trey will turn up.”

When Larsen changed the subject to movies, Chad stalked out. As he exited the hotel, he smiled grimly. A bit afraid of him? She was smarter than she looked . . .

C
had came to a dead stop when he saw a gleaming limo where his truck should have been. He went to remove his hat and smack it against his leg before he remembered he'd left his Stetson at camp since it didn't exactly match the dress pants and shirt.

Chad took a deep breath to calm himself. He was about to go back into the hotel to ask about the tow yard when he noticed a motorcycle idling half a block away. Chad's eyes narrowed. Was this prick stalking him?

He strode over. “You the one who called the tow truck driver?”

Riley took off his sun shades and rubbed them against his pristine, starched uniform shirt. “Yep.”

“You got a hard-on for me, or are you just an asshole?”

“Actually, you were in a commercial zone. You know, hazard to commerce and traffic, all that.”

“Hazard my eye. You might as well piss around the perimeter of this fancy little city. You know, protecting your turf, all that.” Chad imitated the kid's perfect diction.

“You're pretty aggressive for a guy working his own case with no authority.”

Chad's hand reached for the place where he kept his badge and then fell.

The sunglasses were folded neatly and inserted into Riley's shirt pocket. “I admit I am a bit curious. Why did a Texas Ranger come to Lost Angeles—”

“I prefer the land of fruits and nuts myself—”

“Or should I say former Texas Ranger?”

Chad realized this Riley O'Connor must have called Sinclair to assess his status. Since he'd only resigned a week ago, it was doubtful his resignation was showing up in the databases when the cop ran the plates. The kid was more thorough than he gave him credit for.

But all Chad said was, “Well, feature that. Even pucker-assed Beverly Hills cops know how to run plates.” He turned on his heel and went back into the hotel to get the tow yard address, smiling grimly as he felt Riley's glare boring between his shoulder blades. Four tickets, two days. Must be some kind of record.

 

A few days later, at the Los Angeles Equestrian Center in Burbank, Chad debated how much good it would do that he'd filed a missing persons report with the LA police and the City of Beverly Hills. They'd barely paid him any nevermind because he lived in Texas, not LA, but they said they'd get back to him. It was a formality he knew he had to take care of, but that didn't help his frustration level.

Then he caught a break, blessing the fact he'd brought his old police band radio. Listening, he stood up so fast he knocked his coffeepot into the campfire. Sizzling, the fire went out but ignited all his nerve endings as the radio blared, “Nineteen ninety-eight red Camaro abandoned on Sixth and Alameda, downtown Los Angeles, Texas plates. Owner reported missing. Tow truck driver saw signs of foul play.”

Chad was slamming the door on his truck before the dispatcher finished asking for officers to meet the driver at the scene. Normally he'd have tidied his campsite before leaving, but he knew he had to be fast to make it downtown from Burbank while the trail was hot.

Over an hour later, Chad had navigated his rig through heavy traffic to see a driver in overalls hooking Trey's car to his tow truck. Slamming on his brakes, Chad left his dually double-parked because there was no time to look for a space on the crowded street. He turned on his flashers and bolted out to meet four cops. Two wore uniforms, probably the ones manning the black-and-white, but one was in a suit and tie and the other, likely the crime scene investigator, wore a lab coat as he packed a large bag. Chad recognized a sampling kit, though this one was definitely a bit more high-tech than what he was used to.

The detective held several plastic bags in his hand, peering down at them. Chad had one flashing glance of what looked like a smashed piece of pink bubble gum before the detective pushed all the evidence bags in a yellow envelope and handed it back to the technician.

Chad tried to be patient, he really did, but all that came out was, “Can I see that?”

The detective looked at him and scowled. “This is a police investigation—”

“The owner of this vehicle is my brother. I'm . . . a former Texas Ranger. I came to LA to look for him. He's been missing over a week.”

The detective gave him that cop once-over, boots to hat, and shook his head, obviously not impressed by Chad's current credentials. “Sorry. You'll have to go through channels. Have you filed a missing persons report?”

“Yes.” For all the good that would do him. LA's backlog of missing persons was in the thousands.

“Then you'll be contacted when we know something. This isn't Texas, it's California. We respect the law. Now run along.”

The two uniformed cops snickered but looked away at Chad's expression.

To hide his anger, Chad pulled his hat low. “Is that bubble gum you found?”

The detective turned back to him. “Could be. So?”

“So Trey hates bubble gum. Never chews it. So sample it for DNA.”

Grudging respect pushed a bit of the knee-jerk dislike out of the detective's face, but he still blustered, “We don't even know for sure if this Trey Foster is really missing or just abandoned his vehicle—”

“Trey loves that car. If there were signs of a struggle, it would save your department some time and budget to let me do a quick search before the evidence is tainted. I know what to look for.”

The detective sighed heavily, eyeing Chad again. Then he said curtly, “Captain won't like this, it's not proper procedure, but what the hell, I'd want to do the same if it was my brother. Let me see your ID.” Using an iPad, the detective took a screenshot of Chad's Texas driver's license, made a notation on the digital case file, then handed Chad's ID back. “You have five minutes.”

Pulling on disposable gloves a tech handed him, Chad started in the trunk, the detective hovering. “You have a swab kit?” Chad took the swabs and baggies the technician handed him and carefully scraped the dark red streak on the trunk liner. He bagged it.

The tow truck driver said, “I found the same blood on the backseat.”

“It's not blood. It's paint. Trey is an artist.” Chad slammed the trunk and handed the bagged swab to the technician. “I think that particular shade is called Indian Red.”

Ignoring the detective's obvious surprise, Chad opened the rear car door. He took another sample of the dark red streaks the tow truck driver had mentioned. He found nothing else of interest in the back so moved to the front. He immediately froze, staring at a long gash in the leather. That wasn't there when Trey left, Chad was sure of it.

Chad ran another swab along the deep cut in the driver's seat. It was long and straight, as if cut by a knife, but the edges were frayed in a jagged pattern. Using the tweezers the detective handed him, Chad pulled at the foam, looking for particles of something, anything that would give them a clue to what someone had been searching for. Stuck to the side of the foam Chad saw something flaky, a bit darker than the cream foam. Very carefully he used the tweezers to pull at the flake, dropping it into another evidence bag. He straightened and held the bag to the light.

The detective peered at it, too. “Looks like yellowed paper.”

“Yes. An old newspaper clipping—you can see part of a date at the bottom.” Chad turned the bag to a better angle. “Looks like the number nineteen—the rest is gone, but it may be a 1990s date. Can your techs see if they can get a paper match?”

The detective took the bag. “I'll insist on it. Thanks.”

A chill ran up Chad's spine as he considered the mounting evidence that Trey had been nosing into something that might have got him kidnapped, but he only handed over the sample and carefully moved the seat backward and forward, taking off his hat so he could eyeball under the seat as it moved. Using the long tweezers again, he removed a crumpled piece of blue, white, and pink paper. He sniffed it. “Bazooka.”

“That's standard street issue for you Texas Rangers, right?” One of the hovering uniformed cops snickered at his wit, but his smile faded under Chad's glare. He backed up a step as Chad straightened.

“I told you, Trey hates bubble gum. I'd wager my mama's best china the DNA on this wrapper matches the gum. How good are your CODIS files?” Chad knew the LA police had to have a port to the FBI's Combined DNA Index System, CODIS for short, that allowed law enforcement nationwide to access national files on prior convictions and samplings.

“The latest, if we can get a sampling through the backlog.” The detective had relaxed further and even offered a cop to cop look of amused frustration, which Chad returned. From Maine to California and points south and north, there wasn't a cop alive who didn't hate the red tape that went along with the job.

Chad went back to his search, shoving his gloved hand up under the seat springs on the driver's side. He felt something and pulled out a crumpled but familiar card. “Gentleman's Pleasure. Jasmine Routh, headliner.” Without a word, Chad shoved the card into a bag, handed it over to the technician, and then went to the other side, but he found nothing else of interest.

Lastly, he knelt and examined the tire treads. “You sampled this mud?”

“Yes,” the technician answered.

“And you took a scraping of the gash on the driver's seat, looking for metal particles?”

“No, it didn't look recent.”

“It wasn't there when Trey left Amarillo. Long knife, jagged edge. Could be a Ka-Bar. Trey's never used a knife like that in his life. Someone searched his car, even ripped open his seat. It's usually full of trash, but it's clean except for what we found. So yes, signs of foul play.”

Chad pulled off the gloves and tossed them into the trash bag at the scene. “Thanks for the look-see.”

The detective slowly, with obvious reluctance, held out his hand. “Impressive police work. Sorry we missed a few things.”

“Thanks.” Chad shook his hand, took the proffered card. “I'll be in touch if I find out anything else.”

“I guess it wouldn't do any good to tell you not to interfere in a police investigation.”

Tilting his hat to the right angle, Chad said, “Nope,” and turned on his heel. He was still close enough to hear part of the reaming the detective gave his technician for shoddy work. He smiled, glad he'd at least made these big-city assholes have a modicum of respect for his breed. His smile faded as he saw his dually tail lights receding up the street, the front end hooked to a big tow truck. Chad ripped off his hat and slammed it against his leg. “Aw hell . . .” As he looked up the street, he saw a green lowrider skid around a corner.

The car registered with him somewhere, but resigned, and at this point more worried about Trey than the inconvenience, he went into the adjacent shop to get the name of the tow yard. He wondered if any of these tow truck guys had stock he could buy into . . .

 

Every time a man in boots and a hat entered the club, Jasmine felt an urge to flee. And every time, it turned out to be a wannabe cowboy instead of the real thing. Maybe he'd given up. Maybe he'd found another lead to follow. Or hopefully, maybe Trey had finally broken his silence and phoned his brother, so she'd never have to see Chad again. Mary had left a message telling Trey that Chad was in LA looking for him.

Jasmine did her best, but she knew she was jumpy and it was showing in her dancing. Before, she'd been able to pretend under the blinding lights that she was dancing for her one and only, but Chad had a way of making the entire place feel seedy. No matter her goals—to better herself and help others defend themselves against an overreaching, cold legal system—it was wrong to use her natural gifts to coax so much money from men who could oftentimes ill afford it. Yes, there was always another, younger girl to take her place, but at least she'd not be complicit in propagating this horrid, wrong stereotype that all strippers were loose women.

Conversely, Jasmine knew she'd have to shoulder enormous student loans if she quit this job. She'd lived hand to mouth so long after coming out here, she couldn't bear the thought of yet another new beginning loaded down with so much debt. She'd never be able to afford to hang out her own shingle if she didn't pay as she learned.

So despite her qualms, she stayed. And she danced. Hoping Chad was gone forever.

She was just starting to relax a bit into her old self when he showed up as she was serving drinks while another headliner performed. Praising her lucky stars she'd insisted on wearing her top, she stopped at his table far in the back and deadpanned, “What's yer poison?”

He tilted his hat back but didn't remove it. “When you talk like that, you only remind me what a good actress you are.”

She snatched his hat off and tossed it on the chair next to him. “And when you act like this, you remind me you never listened to your mama. Mind your manners.”

The rueful smile playing about his lips loosened some of the starch in her spine. At least he could laugh at himself...

“You sure you're not from Texas?”

As if she were deaf, she pointed at the sign that was prominent on every wall: Three Drink Minimum. “You drinking or leaving?”

“Michelob. On tap.”

She walked off, hoping he'd leave before her number.

When she came back a few minutes later with his beer in a frosty mug, she couldn't help herself—she looked at his crotch. But apparently despite the other girl's crescendo, where she even took off her G-string against code, Chad's posture was relaxed and there was no lump in his jeans.