Relative Malice (21 page)

Kendall told him where they were and described the truck. She read off the plate number. “We’ll keep them covered until you get here.”

“Don’t try to be heroes. The guys he’s with are felons and probably armed.”

“Fine.”

Kendall knew Nash had been up against men like these before, but she’d be little help to him if things went south. They’d agreed to stay in place, Nash in the bar and Kendall in the Land Rover, until Kahn and his men arrived. She hated to think about the alternative: if the trio left the bar and she and Nash had to detain them.

She turned to go back to the car when she heard the sounds of a scuffle from inside the tavern. It was show time whether she wanted it or not. She froze in place, gun drawn, heart beating wildly. A minute later the door flew open. Two men ran out and jumped into the high cab of the truck. She watched helplessly as the truck squealed out of the lot. Nash must be taking on Jordan if his friends were so eager to desert him. What could have gone wrong?

When the door burst open a second time, Nash and Jordan stumbled out, clinched together. Jordan had a gun in his hand, and Nash was gripping his wrist. Kendall wanted to get off a shot at Jordan, but didn’t dare without taking a chance of hitting Nash. She followed their progress into the lot, keeping her gun trained on them, waiting for an opportunity. Before she got one, Jordan’s gun went off, leaving Nash on the ground, gripping his leg. Jordan took off running. Kendall fired at him as he disappeared around the corner of the building.

She ran to Nash and knelt next to him, fearful the bullet had hit his femoral artery.

“I can take care of this,” he cried. “Go!”

Jordan had run toward the street. She hated to leave Nash, but Jordan was the only one left who could tell her what had happened to Philly.

“Kenny, stop him,” Nash yelled.

She couldn’t run, and it felt like she was moving in slow motion. Her abdomen hurt and her pulse raced. Staggering after Jordan, she knew her only hope was to get off an accurate shot. When she reached the front lot, he was running along the side of the highway, headed toward an area thick with woods. He left the road, lurching through the heavy snow. Kendall leaned on the hood of the Malibu and took a well-placed shot. Jordan went down.

She hadn’t killed him; he was pulling himself up off the snow-covered ground. Two hasty shots buzzed near her and she slid to the ground for cover. By the time he managed to stumble nearer the woods, sirens were screaming in the distance. Wounded, he wouldn’t get far; his blood would map his progress through the woods. Kahn would have to handle it from here.

Kendall hurried back to Nash.

35

Kendall and Nash were transported to the Stillwater hospital. An ER doctor checked her over, changed the bandages on her abdomen, and sent her away with a warning to get some rest. Despite her constant inquiries, they hadn’t told her a thing about Nash, and all she’d heard about Jordan was that he was still alive.

Kahn had to be in the building somewhere. She found him in the ICU waiting room. “Detective Halsrud. I see you’re all in one piece.”

“Where’s Nash?”

“He’s in surgery. The bullet missed the artery. The doctor said he’ll be fine, but there may be some question about a full recovery for his leg. You know how doctors are, they can’t tell you anything for sure, but recovery from these things usually comes down to how hard you work with physical therapy. The waiting area for surgical patients is on the second floor, north wing.”

When she said nothing, he added, “You never told me how you found Jordan.”

“Is he alive?”

Kahn nodded toward the glass-enclosed room on their right. A cop in a blue uniform sat in front of it. “He needs surgery, but they have to stabilize him first. Don’t get your hopes up; we won’t be able to talk to him for some time—maybe days.

“I called your boss. Thought he should know about the fine work you did, you and Nashlund.”

She didn’t enlighten him about Brynn, who’d been a key player in locating Jordan. She swallowed hard, hating what she had to do. “Did someone let Nash’s wife know he’s here?”

“Schoenfuss said they’d take care of it.”

“I’m going to go check on him.” She felt her face growing hot and turned away form him before he noticed, grateful she hadn’t had to be the one to call Shari Nashlund.

“I’ll keep you updated on Jordan,” he called after her.

A concession on Kahn’s part, but Kendall had no time for gratitude. She hurried to the surgical floor, flashing her badge at the first nurse she found in the area. “Adam Nashlund. What can you tell me about him?”

“He’s in surgery. The waiting area is over there.” She pointed to a room off the main corridor. Kendall was happy to see a coffee and beverage station next to a full-length couch. She found a cup of orange juice, downed it, and lay down on the sofa.

She dropped off the minute she lowered her head. When she woke, the clock on the wall said she’d been asleep for nearly two hours. Someone had covered her with hospital blankets and snuck a pillow under her head. A nurse walking by saw her sitting up and rushed into the room.

“Detective, we didn’t know about your surgery. I’m sorry I didn’t offer to make you more comfortable while you waited.” She turned to leave the room. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

A petite woman with short, auburn hair in a crisp, fashionable cut entered the room. She might’ve been in her late thirties but could have passed for a teenager in the right light. She had a small nose, bright blue eyes, and a reassuring smile.

“You’re awake. Good. I’m Shari Nashlund.” She held out her hand to Kendall, who wanted to sink back into the couch. She took the woman’s hand, painfully aware Shari’s hand looked like a child’s inside her own.

“Kendall, I hope you don’t mind, but I told the nurses you’d just had surgery. They brought me a pillow and some blankets for you. I’m glad you were able to get some rest. They said Nash’s surgery went well. He’s in recovery now. We’ll be able to see him soon.”

“That’s wonderful.” It was a relief that Nash would be all right, but meeting his wife, who’d turned out to be the kind of woman she’d always envied, made her want to bolt from the room. Visions of the previous evening with Shari’s husband kept popping up in her mind like ducks in a shooting gallery.

“You need to rest,” Shari said kindly. “Would you like me to drive you back to your hotel?”

Kendall studied her for signs of cattiness, but all she saw on Shari’s face was concern. “Thank you, but I’ll go back after Nash is awake. I need to tell him what’s happening.”

Shari took a seat across from her. “Sure. We can wait together.”

Nash, his usual swarthy complexion pale, laid flat with his head on a pillow, his left leg propped up and swathed in bandages. Kendall stopped at the foot of the bed. She wanted to tell him how worried she’d been, how much it mattered to her that he recover. But with Shari out in the waiting room, everything had changed.

“You got Jordan, right?” he asked.

“Yeah, he’ll need surgery when he’s stable. He might not make it.”

“Has anyone questioned him?”

“No, he never regained consciousness after they found him.”

He held up a hand. “Come here.”

When she stood next to him, he took her hand. “I was scared shitless when you went after Jordan. I heard the shots and I was afraid it was you that went down.”

“I came back to you after I shot him; you were passed out.”

“Yeah. I think I gave it up once I saw you on your feet.”

“What went wrong in there, anyway? Did Jordan make you?” she asked.

“No. I sat close enough to hear them talking. I was right about his friends; they’d been at the courthouse all morning waiting to pick him up after the hearing. Some court moron left Jordan alone, and he took advantage of it and walked. When he came out of the courthouse, his buddies assumed he’d been released and Jordan didn’t set them straight.

“So, I’m sitting at the bar when guess what comes on as breaking news? Jordan’s escape. They turned on him and told him he was on his own, they couldn’t afford to get involved in a jailbreak. I was afraid they’d change their minds about leaving him there and tried to stop Jordan when he started to follow them out. That’s when things got out of control. Sorry everything ended up on you.”

“I’m just glad you’re going to be okay.” Kendall wanted to shed a few tears of joy, and tell him how much she cared about him, but this wasn’t the time or place. There might never be one. She fought to hide her feelings, which she feared surrounded her like a brightly painted sandwich sign.

“I’m glad your surgery went well,” she said. That sounded so freaking formal, but what could she say?
It was fun, but I see your wife is back in the picture and she can take over now?

His dark eyes met hers. “Thanks for being here. But you should go back and get some rest.”

Was he dismissing her? “Yeah,” she said, easing her hands from his. “I should go.”

“We still have to find the kid.”

He’d said “we.” But Kendall couldn’t let one word inflate her meager hopes. She’d known he was married and wasn’t so naive as to think that his wife’s divorce threat in the heat of anger would be binding. She had to back off.

“Schoenfuss will have to let me work the case now. I’m staying here tonight, then maybe I’ll go back and talk to him in the morning. Kahn’s been fairly amenable. I think he’ll let me in when Jordan’s able to be questioned.”

“Keep me in the loop. I’ll pitch in again as soon as I’m back on my feet.”

“Sure.” She turned to leave, fighting back tears that threatened to fall as a giant lump blocked her throat.

36

Thursday

Kendall woke up in her bed at the hotel and looked at the clock. It was nearly 7:00 a.m., too early to call the hospital and check on Nash and Jordan. Still moving cautiously, but at least on her own power, she got out of bed, showered and was getting dressed when her phone rang. It was Dawn Marshall, the caseworker from Chelsea’s past.

Family Services had explained to Kendall that the records weren’t computerized as far back as Chelsea Glausson’s time, and it would take weeks to locate detailed records. The woman had been good enough to ask around and gave her the name and phone number of the woman who had been Chelsea’s caseworker. Kendall arranged to meet her at the Mall of America, where Marshall was a member of an exercise group that walked there every morning.

At the mall, giant snow movers still worked at turning mountains of snow into an area resembling a parking lot. Kendall parked on the level where she was to meet Dawn Marshall and walked to the coffee stand Marshall had described. The only person near the stand was a woman in her fifties with snow white hair. She wore a blue jogging suit, dutifully performing stretching exercises while she waited. Kendall showed the woman her ID.

Marshall smiled and held out her hand.

Kendall gingerly lowered herself into a chair after shaking Marshall’s hand.

“Family Services told me you might remember Chelsea Glausson. Her last name was Cochrane twenty-three years ago.”

“I do remember Chelsea. I couldn’t believe it when I saw the picture of her and her family on the news; I recognized her right away. She was such a beautiful girl.”

“Why didn’t you contact the police?” Kendall asked.

“There didn’t seem to be any reason to, Detective. Chelsea had managed to rise above her past and have a wonderful family life. How could what happened to her family have anything to do with the past?”

“That’s why I need to talk to you. What can you tell me about her? I know about the prostitution and the heroin, but that’s about it.”

Marshall took a seat opposite Kendall. “I was a rather overzealous caseworker back then. I lasted a total of three years before I burnt out. I couldn’t accept that I didn’t have the ability to save everyone. It’s an occupational hazard, I suppose.” She chuckled. “I didn’t get very far from it all, though. Now I’m the director of a shelter for young women. We take in runaways mostly. Nothing is as gratifying as turning a young life around.”

“And were you able to do that for Chelsea?”

“No. I can’t take any credit for Chelsea’s epiphany.”

“Tell me what you remember about her.”

“It wasn’t allowed, but I always carried a small notebook. I kept my own records and impressions of my clients, things that normally wouldn’t be put in the files. After you called last night, I dug out the notebook with what I’d written about Chelsea Chocrane.”

This could be the break Kendall needed. “So it stoked your memory.”

“It did. Chelsea called me after she ran away from the last foster home, told me the husband had begun touching her inappropriately. She refused to come in, said she was nearly seventeen and could manage on her own. She got a job and waitressed for a few months. The next time I heard from her, she admitted the job hadn’t lasted and she was working the streets. I told her I could help her, but it was too late. She already had a habit and refused to come in.”

“Was that the last time you talked to her?”

Marshall sighed. “She called me one day and wanted me to meet her, said she had a problem. In my world that usually means drugs or an arrest. When I met her, Chelsea said she was pregnant. I told her I could help get her into a clinic where she’d get off the drugs and have the baby in a safe environment.” She paused, rubbing her hands against her arms. “She claimed she’d already stopped using, that she didn’t need rehab. She wanted to know about adoption and said she felt the child would be better off with people who could support it and give it a good home.”

Kendall wondered where this was going. “But you didn’t place her child, right?”

“No. I never saw her after that day. But she had a friend with her, a tough-looking girl who never said a word while Chelsea and I talked. Truthfully, I suspected maybe it was her friend who was pregnant and Chelsea was just trying to get the information for her.”

“Why wouldn’t she let you help her with the baby?”

Marshall met Kendall’s eyes. “She asked me how much money she’d get from the agency that handled the adoption. When I explained to her the most they’d do would be to pay her living expenses and doctor’s fees, she and her friend left.”

“You never heard from her after that?”

“No. But two years later, when I began working at the shelter, the girl I’d seen with Chelsea that day started spending nights with us. I asked her about Chelsea. She told me Chelsea sold her baby for what she described as a ‘shitload’ of money.”

Kendall didn’t think the chill running through her body could be blamed on her weakened condition or the weather. Chelsea Glausson sold her baby. And now Philly could be meeting the same fate. Coincidence? It couldn’t be.

“Do you have the girl’s name?”

She handed Kendall a small slip of paper. “I knew you’d want it. Her name is Twyla Pratt; another girl who’s succeeded in living an honest life. She takes in foster children and does some online work for a medical clinic. I’m pretty sure that’s still her address. You’d better let me call her first and set it up for you.

“Twyla’s a wonderful person, but she has horrid taste in men. If you’re lucky, you’ll catch her between the bastards.”

Rather than drive back to the hotel, Kendall found an upholstered chair to park on while she waited to hear from Dawn Marshall. Caffeine and doughnuts kept her awake until her phone buzzed.

“I spoke to Twyla, Detective. She wants to talk to you, but she has this problem at home. Her latest bad boy moved in with her, uninvited. Sits in front of the TV all day drinking beer and smoking weed. She has these four foster kids and is worried about his influence on them, not to mention getting a visit from Family Services before she can get rid of him.”

“Are you saying she wants a quid pro quo? I oust the cockroach for her in exchange for what she can tell me about Chelsea?”

Marshall paused a moment. “I know it sounds bad, but believe me, she
is
great with those kids, and she takes in some of our girls to help out. Does them a world of good to work with the kids.”

Nothing ever came easy. “No problem. I’ll do what I can for her.”

Twyla Pratt’s neat, two-story bungalow was nicely fenced, the only house on the block that didn’t look ready for a wrecking ball. A teenage girl answered the door wearing a smock smeared with paint. She led Kendall to the kitchen where a dark-skinned woman was stirring something in a kettle big enough to cook a small cow. She threw in a pile of sliced carrots, wiped her hands on her apron, and greeted Kendall with a friendly smile.

“Hi, I’m Twyla. You must be Kendall.”

Kendall showed Pratt her ID. A small bedroom off the kitchen looked like it served as a TV room. Kendall could see a man’s legs propped up on the foldout footrest of a large, leather recliner.

Twyla nodded in the direction of the recliner. “I’d really appreciate it, Detective,” she said nervously.

“Can I assume you don’t want to have any ties with this loser after today?” Kendall asked.

In a voice low enough not to be heard in the next room, she said, “Got that right. Lookit this.” She pulled the collar of her blouse aside to show a bruise on her neck the size of an open hand. “Don’t worry about the kid-gloves. Just don’t want the girls or the younger kids to know what’s going on. They’re all downstairs now, finger-painting with the girls.”

Kendall walked into the TV room, closing the door behind her. She announced herself and flashed her badge.

A heavily built, black man with a shaved head looked up at her, then back at the TV. She kicked the footrest with as much strength as she could still muster.

“Listen up, asshole. Get all your stuff together. You’re going to vacate these premises—now!”

“An’ why would I be wantin’ to do that, bitch?”

Kendall was suddenly grateful for the knowledge she’d gleaned of her father’s friends. “You’ve heard of Detective Jonathon Brady?”

Brady, who she hoped hadn’t retired since the last time her father had told one of his famous stories about the man, was known as the worst hardass on the Minneapolis force. He and Jim Halsrud had gone through the police academy together and remained friends. Brought up on charges for excessive force more than once, he had the best solve rate on in the city.

At the name Brady, the man rose from the chair, his menacing gaze never leaving hers. Kendall picked up her phone. “I have him on speed dial in case you’re thinking about doing something stupid.”

Kendall followed him into an adjoining bedroom, where he pulled out a large duffel from a closet. She watched as he emptied the contents of one of the dresser-drawers into the bag and followed him to the bathroom where he added his toiletries. When he’d finished, she escorted him out the front door. As he walked out, she said, “I’d better not hear you gave Twyla any shit about this. If I do, Brady will have your ass in a cell so fast your head will swim.”

Kendall watched as he drove away, then went back inside and joined Pratt on a worn, floral patterned sofa. “

“Thanks for the help,” Twyla said. “So you wanna know about Chels?”

“We’re trying to find her little girl. It’s hard to know what might be helpful, so I need to know everything you remember about her.”

The woman’s eyes misted, and she pulled a used tissue from a pocket in her apron. “That girl was a blessin,’ she was. Wouldn’t be here today if it weren’t for Chels. Don’t know why anyone would do such a thing to her an’ her family.”

“Her caseworker told me you knew her when she was working the streets.”

“Yeah, we were tight back then.”

“You were with her when she went to ask the caseworker about adoption?”

Pratt sat back and folded her arms. “Yeah. I told her not to go there.”

Kendall waited for an explanation.

“You had to know Chels,” Pratt began. “When she got hooked on horse, she wasn’t like the other girls who started usin’, you know? Most of ‘em, they get desperate, do anything for a fix, go downhill fast. But Chels got mad, kept talkin’ about gettin’ off the streets, gettin’ clean and findin’ a real job. Then when she got pregnant, she kicked it and done it all by herself except for a couple nights I sat with her. I told her if she went in, they’d jus’ put her an’ her kid back in the system.”

“Did she know who the father was?”

“Nah. Chels didn’t know how it happened. Jus’ did.”

“After suffering through withdrawal, she still wanted to give up her baby?”

“She tried to find a job, but when you’re underage and been on the streets, not much out there. Chels was dead set on makin’ a better life for herself an couldn’t do it with a kid to worry about, too.”

They were getting to what Kendall had come here for. “What did Chelsea do with the baby?”

She looked down and whispered, “She sold him. For ten thousand dollars.”

Kendall watched as Twyla dabbed at her eyes. “Who gave her the money for the baby?”

“We heard about this broker; someone gave us a phone number to call. Chels never saw the person. But she promised Chels the people that wanted him was a professional couple that couldn’t have kids of their own.”

Chelsea’s story was hitting Kendall too close to home. She had to get this over with. “Him? The baby was a boy?”

“A beautiful lil’ boy, with a tiny face like a’ angel. His skin was soft and the most beautiful color, coffee with cream. An’ those eyes! Bright blue eyes, just like his momma.”

The dates fit. Blue eyes and coffee-colored skin. Kendall’s instincts were right; Chelsea’s baby could have become Travis Jordan.

Kendall called Nash to tell him what she’d found out.

Before she began, he asked, “How did it go with the boyfriend?”

“He won’t be back.” Sometimes it was prudent not to give too many details. Kendall brought him up to speed on the day’s progress.

“So, you’re still thinking Jordan’s her kid?”

“The timelines fit, so it’s possible. I know is seems kind of out there, but it would explain a lot, don’t you think?”

“It could. Do we know if Jordan was an adopted kid?”

“No. I have to call Kahn again and find out. I never got a copy of his file.”

Kahn answered his phone on the first ring.

“Do you have any info on Travis Jordan’s parents?” Kendall asked.

“No. He grew up on the streets. In and out of the system a couple times, but never in for more than a minute.”

Kendall thought she might as well spring her theory on him rather than try to lead up to it. “There are indications he may have been Chelsea Glausson’s son.”

Kahn coughed loudly into the phone. “What did you say?”