"Will do," I agree.
"Your office is the third door on the left," he says before stepping out into the hallway with Ames.
"Man, fuck you and my office," I mutter to his back.
He and Ames both chuckle and then take off in the opposite direction.
I pull my phone out and call Kincaid.
"What's up, Sasquatch?"
"Lillian was discharged about an hour ago," I tell him, ignoring the nickname he gave me.
Kincaid is…well, he's something. He walks and talks more like a gangbanger than a federal agent. He's incredibly intelligent and damn good at reading people, but he hides a lot behind fake smiles, jokes, and the tattoos he wears like armor. Gangs respect him because they know you don't cross him and survive. Other cops respect him because he is fucking fearless. He's an enigma, one of those rare men who step up and handle business, no questions asked. He's also got up enough walls to make Fort Knox look like an easy mark.
"Good. Any news on when T will get to take her back to Seattle?" he asks as I lock up Finn's office.
"Not yet. Where are you? I may have a lead on Pledger."
"I'm out scaring the neighborhood children. What kind of lead?"
"That kind that had Nazario Leyva personally calling me," I tell him, knowing damn well that'll pique his interest. He and Leyva have some kind of weird history. He saved Leyva's life years ago. I wouldn't call them friends, but they're not exactly enemies either. They respect one another. That's neither here nor there though.
"Kaleo not cooperating with you?" I ask, guessing that's what he's dealing with right now.
"Kaleo's too stupid to know how to spell cooperating," he snorts without elaborating further. "Give me thirty minutes to finish up here and I'll be there."
The phone beeps, letting me know he just hung up on me.
I snort and shake my head, not surprised. Kincaid has exactly two modes, I've come to learn. He either rants like a motherfucker, or he says what he needs to say and then he's done. There is no in between with him, no casual chit chat.
Shoving my phone in my pocket, I head toward my office, ready to get this bullshit over with.
"Dude," Kincaid says a little over an hour later, drawing to a stop in the recesses of the secure parking garage where we store our decoy cars. He cocks his head to the side, eyeing the old Corsica in front of him with a heavy dose of suspicion. "This motherfucker is going to fall apart and we'll be Flintstoning our asses out of dodge if shit goes down."
"It'll make it," I say, chuckling at his assessment because he's not wrong. The car is one good speedbump from falling the fuck apart. It's more rust than white paint these days, and has dents big enough to qualify as craters. The engine burns oil like a motherfucker, and the driver's door doesn't open from the outside. But it'll blend where we're going, and that's all that really matters. If Remi is the one who broke into el Demonio's warehouses last night, I don't want him to see us coming.
"If you say so, Fred," Kincaid mutters doubtfully and then stalks around to the passenger side. He shoots me another suspicious look over the top of the car and then shakes his head and pops the door open.
"Reach over and open the driver's door for me. It won't open from outside."
"Jesus fucking Christ. I'm going to die in a goddamn Corsica," he mutters beneath his breath.
For guys like us—tall and comprised of bulky muscle—getting out of this car is a hell of a lot harder than getting in it is. So I wait to tell him the seatbelt doesn't work until he's already crammed himself inside…just in case he has second thoughts.
He shoots me a dirty look and then slams his door closed.
I laugh loudly and wait for him to open the driver's door for me.
"So where the fuck are we going?" he asks once I'm crammed into the car beside him, my knees digging into the cracked dashboard.
"According to the tracker Leyva put on the car, it's parked on Stanford over in Skid Row." I roll out of the parking garage and hook a right. The pungent stench of burning oil fills the air. "That particular block is mostly taken up by seafood distributors and warehouses. I'm thinking he's hiding out in tent city, hoping to blend with the homeless population until he can figure out his next move."
"Fucking awesome," Kincaid snorts.
He sounds about as enthusiastic at the prospect of hitting up tent city as I am, but it's the only lead we've got at the moment. Skid Row is depressing as fuck. The homeless have set up makeshift tents all throughout the area, turning the sidewalks into a maze of tarps and ingenuity borne of desperation.
Unless Remi comes back for the car, hitting up the vagrant population is our best bet. I'm not so sure we'll find him, but if he is hiding out with the city's homeless, maybe we'll be able to flush him out by asking around.
Either way, I want a look at the car. It may give us some hint as to what he's been up to or where he's going. I also need to get something I can track myself attached to the vehicle. I don't want to be beholden to Leyva for information any longer than necessary.
Kincaid doesn't say much as we drive, instead opting to stare out the window as we creep closer to Skid Row. His jaw is clenched tight, his frustration obvious. I want to press him on the Kaleo issue, but keep my mouth shut. Last thing I need to do right now is piss him off. It doesn't take a genius to see that being back in Los Angeles is fucking with him. He's a powder keg, ready to explode.
I just hope like hell he doesn't blow.
"Tell me about Remi Pledger," he says eventually.
"Remi was on the taskforce when Finn recruited me ten years ago," I tell him, not sure how much he already knows about the man. "He's fifty-four, single, with no kids."
"Ever married?"
"Once. His wife left him fifteen years ago."
"I'm guessing it ended badly?"
"Doesn't it usually?" I ask, earning a shrug from Kincaid. Sad fact is, marriages don't usually end because everyone is happy. Even when kids aren't involved, divorces get ugly. I don't know all the details about Remi's marriage, but I know it didn't end well. His wife got half of his shit, and he got bitter.
When I reached out to her, she didn't have much to say. She's remarried with four kids now, and it's been years since they last spoke. Seems not even the woman he spent ten years of his life with knew much about him.
"So why does a guy like him go to a guy like Francisco?" Kincaid asks.
"Same reason every other motherfucker does. Money."
"How long was he a cop?"
"Thirty years, give or take."
Kincaid frowns thoughtfully, but doesn't say anything else for a long moment. The closer we get to Skid Row, the more run down and depressing the city becomes. Buildings in this area are old and falling apart. Those that are open for business are surrounded by large chain-link fences and gates. Windows are broken out of those that stand abandoned. Cracks and potholes send the Corsica bouncing all over the roadway, ramming my knees into the dashboard every time.
"It doesn't jibe," Kincaid says a few minutes later. "The dude is single with no kids. He's maybe a year from retiring. He lives modestly in a home he owns. He drives a fucking Prius. He doesn't gamble and has no debts I could find. He's not money hungry."
"You've been looking into him."
Kincaid turns those steely blue-gray eyes in my direction. "Little Mama walked inside Teplo with T every night without a single complaint. When Noel took him hostage, she stared me and Ames down and told us she was going in after him whether we liked it or not. And when she realized they weren't all going to make it out, she pushed T and Ames out the door while the club blew up around her. Yeah, I looked into the motherfucker who hurt her. His life ended the second he put his hands on her."
"Agreed," I say, holding his gaze.
He eyes me for a minute and then jerks his chin up, letting me know he knows I'm on the same page as him. Even if Remi hadn't put Mila and Talia in the sights of el Demonio, I'd still be in this fucking car chasing down this lead
…and for the exact same reasons Kincaid is. I've seen grown ass men balk at doing what that little ballerina did without hesitation. She earned my respect long before I met her. She gained my protection the day I brought her and Tristan to Los Angeles. And she'll have my loyalty until the day I die.
She's family now. And you don't fuck with my family.
"It doesn't jibe," I agree as we roll into Skid Row several blocks from Stanford. "Whatever he was doing with Francisco wasn't about the money. Or it wasn't just about the money. I don't know what his angle was or why he was working it, but I plan to ask him as soon as we find him."
Whatever he was doing doesn't really matter now, but I want to hear from his lips why he betrayed his badge and his brothers. I plan to find out before I kill him. Whatever his reasons, whatever his justification…I hope to hell he thinks it was worth his life because that's the price he's going to pay for it.
An elderly man stumbles out into the roadway in front of the car, forcing me to slam on the brakes to avoid hitting him. He stops in front of the car and looks up at us, his eyes narrowed. Judging by the layers of dirt on his torn clothing and his matted beard, he's homeless. He's also high as a kite or drunk. His eyes are bloodshot and unfocused.
He stands there for a long moment, staring at the car like he can't figure out where it came from. When he doesn't move out of the roadway, I hit the horn.
"Fuck your mother!" he yells, lifting a middle finger in the air before he kicks the front fender, damn near falling over in the process. He manages to right himself before he hits the ground and then stumbles out of the roadway, muttering. With the windows rolled up, I don't know what he's saying, but I can guess and none of it's particularly complimentary.
"I hate this fucking city," Kincaid mutters from the passenger seat once the old man staggers out of the way.
"I don't much care for it either."
Ten minutes later, we find the car. Remi parked it behind a fence at an abandoned seafood packing plant. Despite being only partially concealed, the silver Civic hasn't been broken into. The car is old, but in decent shape. The doors are locked. The license plate is still attached to the vehicle.
I pull out my phone while Kincaid walks around the vehicle, peering in through the windows.
"Dispatch, how can I help you?"
"Addison, it's Roman."
"Hey, Roman," Addison Russell, one of our dispatchers, says. "What's up?"
"I need you to run a tag for me."
"Go ahead with it."
I rattle the tag off to her. The sound of her tapping on a keyboard comes through the line and then a bell tone sounds, indicating she's got a return for the vehicle.
"The tag expired a couple months ago," she says a second later. "It should be displayed on a 2001 Honda Civic, blue in color. It's not stolen."
"Who's the registered owner?"
"Clay Long over in Lennox. You want the address listed on the return?" Addison asks.
"Yeah, give it to me." I stride around the vehicle to the driver's side so I can read the VIN plate on the dashboard. "I've got the VIN for you to run, too."
"Cool," Addison says and then rattles off the address listed on the vehicle return. "I'm ready for the VIN whenever you are."
I give it to her, and then wait for her to get a return back from the system. It doesn't take long, but I'm impatient as hell.
"Hmm," she says after a minute.
"What?"
"The car is registered to a Don Pledger."
"Don Pledger?" I narrow my eyes on the vehicle, surprised. I expected her to tell me it was stolen, not that it belonged to a Pledger. "You're sure?"
Kincaid glances in my direction, a question in his eyes.
I hold a finger up, silently telling him to hold on.
"Positive. I'm looking at the return now," Addison says.
"Can you print that and send a copy to my email?"
"Sure. You need anything else?"
"Yeah, see what you can find on this guy."
"Anything you're looking for in particular?"
"Anything you can come up with," I tell her. If anyone can track down information on this guy, Addison can. She's a relatively new dispatcher, but she's smart and thinks outside the box. If there's anything to find, she'll find it. "See what you can find on the Long subject too."
"Will do."
"Thanks, Addison."
"You're welcome."
"What?" Kincaid asks as soon as I hang up the phone.
"Hang on," I mutter to him and then dial Mila's number.
Kincaid shrugs and goes back to checking over the vehicle.
Luke answers on the third ring.
"You ever hear Remi mention a Don Pledger?" I ask him.
He thinks about it for a minute. "Not that I recall. Why?"
"We just found his car over in Skid Row."
"Huh," he says like he's surprised by that too. "Let me make some calls. I'll see what I can find out."
"What's my girl doing?"
"She's in the bathroom," Luke says, a smile in his voice. "You did good, Roman. She's sweet and funny as hell."
A warning growl rumbles in my chest, a bolt of possessiveness striking through me like lightning. I trust Mila implicitly, but I will rip Luke's throat out if he keeps talking about her like she hung the moon. She did hang it. For me. "Don't even think about it, Luke," I warn him, my voice lethally soft.
"Do I look like I got a death wish?" he asks. "I know she's yours. I'm not fucking stupid and I'm not saying I've got a thing for her. I'm just saying I like her for you. She suits you."
That settles me down. Slightly. I fucking hate leaving her with anyone who isn't me. I've never wanted all of someone's time and attention like I do with her. I've never felt for anyone what I feel for her. I can't fucking wait to find Remi Pledger so I can be the one there in her personal space all the time.
"Tell her she has my permission to kick your ass if you cross a line," I tell him, partially joking. I believe him when he says he doesn't have a thing for her, but I'm still jealous as hell he's there with her and I'm not. "You guys need anything?"
"I'll tell her," he mutters. "Nah, man, we're good. Watching soccer."
"Mila's watching soccer?" I can't keep the thread of disbelief out of my voice. Mila hates sports.
"Roman?" I hear her ask in the background.
"She seems into it," Luke says with a chuckle.
"It's the fucking short shorts," I mutter, earning another chuckle from Luke.
"Hi," Mila whispers to me a second later.
"He likes you."
"Yeah?"
"Luke doesn't like most people."
Mila and I talk for a few more minutes before I disconnect and then shove the phone back into my pocket. I have to take several deep breaths to calm my ass down before I can face Kincaid. Just hearing her voice got me worked up. I'm hard as a rock, aching for her. I can't wait to get home to her.
Once my dick goes down, I turn to Kincaid, who's leaning up against the trunk of the car with his arms folded across his chest, staring out at nothing with a frown on his face. He looks like someone ran over his puppy, but I'm not going to tell him that.
"The car isn't anything special," he says when he finally notices me watching him. "We can break a window, but I doubt we'll find shit of use."
"The tag is fictitious. The vehicle returns to a Don Pledger."
"Family member?" he asks me.
"Not to my knowledge. Remi's parents are deceased and he was an only child."
Kincaid stares at the car for a minute and then shrugs. "Could be an alias."
"Possibly."
"Or an extended family member."
"Maybe. I've got people looking into it to see what they can dig up."
"The tag is smart," Kincaid says after a minute. "Most people wouldn't have gone through the trouble of finding a tag that matches the type of vehicle he's trying to hide. They'd snag the first tag they came across, slap it on their ca
r, and call it a day."
"Remi's a smart guy. He's been a cop a long time."
"Exactly. If he went through all the trouble of finding a matching tag, why not also pick a car we can't associate with him?" Kincaid asks, still eyeing the vehicle like it's a puzzle to solve. "He's too fucking smart to make rookie mistakes."
He's not wrong. "What are you thinking?"
"I'm thinking maybe he's not trying too hard to hide. Maybe he wants to get caught." Kincaid shrugs like he isn't sure what the deal is. "Maybe he's up to something else. I don't know. But I'm guessing being on the run isn't a walk in the park for him. With the drugs gone and el Demonio running for the hills, I'm thinking a guy like Pledger looks like a damn good second choice to anyone and everyone with an axe to grind."
"You think the other gangs are going to come for him?" I ask, not so sure he's wrong about that either. Elijah Noel and Jose Guerrero are dead. Jesus de Silva is in jail. Anyone else with any pull in el Demonio's inner ranks has taken off. Rival gangs are out for a little payback in whatever form they can get it. Remi's connection to Francisco and el Demonio has been all over the news since the press conference. He's the only target left and everyone knows it. He's smart enough to know it too.
"I think he's as good as dead no matter what he does," Kincaid answers. "And I think he knows that too. He's not running for the nearest border and he's not trying too hard to hide. I think he wants to get caught. And if he's as smart as we all know he is…he knows damn well that there are cops out here looking for him who don't want him to survive. So either he's got an ace up his sleeve we don't know about or he's desperate."
"I guess we'll find out soon enough," I mutter, crouching down beside the car to attach a tracker. I slide my hand along the rear wheel well and then snap it into place. If Remi goes looking for the device, it won't take much for him to find it, but if Kincaid's right and he wants to get caught…I'm thinking he'll leave it where it's at.
When I stand back up, Kincaid's gaze shifts down the road, toward where a row of tents crawl across the sidewalk, before coming back to me. "There's no fucking way we're going to be able to search tent city alone," he mutters.
Desire Me (Her Best Friend's Father Book 4) Page 5
