Foster Justice (9 page)

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 missed 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.

“You know, there's an easier way,” Jasmine offered. “I know someone who works at the police department. Maybe he can help us trace the call. Y'all can do that, right, even when it's unlisted? My provider is AT&T and I know they have a deal with the Feds.”

Even with all the stink in the media about privacy, he was impressed she knew that. Most people didn't. She was pretty smart for a stripper. “Who is it?”

“Riley O'Connor. He sometimes works on the side in security at the gallery—” She broke off at the look on his face. “You know him?”

“Kinda. He a pucker-assed whey-faced motorcycle cop?”

“I wouldn't put it that way, but yes.”

Chad thrust the scrap of paper into her hand. “It's a green lowrider with a flame decal wrapping the hood, fancy chrome rims. You call him. I'm going to City of Industry. And be careful, because the driver's also been following you.”

“But Chad, there are hundreds of warehouses there. I thought you wanted my help navigating the city. I won't even charge you at the going rate of fifty dollars an hour.”

In other circumstances he might have smiled at the gibe, but not now, with his best lead since he got here. “Maybe I'll get lucky. Besides, this could be dangerous.”

“I'm coming with you.” She stuffed the paper in her jeans pocket. “I can call him on the way.”

He blocked her path, eyeing her up and down. “You'd be real popular in a gangbanger area dressed like that.”

The T-shirt still clung to her nipples and her hair was a riot of damp curls. She looked exactly like a woman ready for bed. But not for sleep. But then she mostly looked like that. He turned sharply away and broke into a jog toward his truck, ignoring her plea to wait.

For once, he could put her out of his mind easily enough. He drove off, tires popping gravel, and punched the Play button again on his phone. The message was a bit degraded, having been copied twice, but Trey's panicked voice was clear enough. That scared him, for he'd only heard that tone once before. Shortly after their parents died, Trey had fallen into a rattlesnake den.

He'd called until he was hoarse, but Chad hadn't heard him until he went looking for his little brother because supper was ready. He'd never realized that limestone outcropping on the edge of the bluff hid a small cave until Trey's trembling voice reached him faintly on the wind.

Chad called back, “Trey! Where are you? Call to me again.”

“On the bluff. Hurry, Chad, there's snakes everywhere and two of them bit me. Bring a rope . . .”

Chad stopped cold and ran back to the house at top speed for the antivenin kit. He pulled Chester out of the pasture and jumped on him bareback, just taking time to halter him and grab a rope.