Lock&Load (PASS Series Book 3)

by Freya Barker

  I smile my gratitude, because that too was thoughtful of him.

  “It’s okay, I can wait until Rosie picks her up. I don’t have to work until two.”

  “What time is she picking her up?”

  “Rosie said she’d be by after nine.”

  “It’s barely seven thirty now. I can handle this little troublemaker for a bit. Go on,” he urges me.

  The truth is, a shower will make me feel better. Decision made, I shove the last piece of toast in my mouth, nod at Radar, and dart toward my bedroom.

  I take a little longer than anticipated, determined to wrangle my hair into submission, and when I step out of the bedroom, I’m surprised to hear more than one voice from the living room.

  “You’re early,” I tell Rosie when I see her sitting on my couch, a sleeping Tessa on her shoulder.

  Rosie swings her head around at my voice, a smile on her face.

  “Missed my little peanut.”

  “Did you guys have a good time last night?” I ask, my eyes drifting to Radar, who is perched stiffly on the armrest of my wing chair.

  “The best,” Rosie says, as Radar gets to his feet.

  “I should get going.”

  “Yeah, of course,” I mumble, feeling a little awkward with my friend’s curious eyes darting between us. I’m not sure what she’s thinking, finding me in the shower with Radar looking after her child at this hour of the morning, but I can see the wheels in her head spinning. “I’ll walk you out.”

  I can feel her eyes burning on my back as I follow Radar to the front door.

  “Thanks,” I tell him as he steps outside. “For the coffee, for the heads-up, and for the shower,” I ramble.

  He turns around, grinning, as he taps his index finger on the tip of my nose.

  “Any time.”

  The simple touch makes my knees weak and I grab on to the doorpost when he turns away. I watch him walk toward the stairwell, his gait limber and confident, and try not to stare to hard at the flex of that tight ass.

  Trouble.

  Chapter Five

  Radar

  “You heading out?”

  Yanis sticks his head in the door, just as I’m packing my laptop in my backpack.

  “About to.”

  “Big plans for the weekend?”

  I look up. Yanis isn’t one for idle chitchat so the question is out of character.

  “Heading down to Montrose, helping my dad with some repairs. Why?”

  “Got a call from Underwood. They picked up that kid you told them about.”

  By the time I got in this morning, Bree had already put in a call to the chief of police. I never got a response from either Garcia or Bissette to the email I sent, so I figured they had things in hand and focused on other work I had waiting.

  “Oh yeah? Good.”

  “His father walked in ten minutes later with his lawyer, so they’re not getting much. They’ve been trying to get more info from the kid’s social media accounts but apparently those were deactivated this afternoon. Underwood is asking if there’s any way you’d be able to still access those.”

  I straighten up and face my boss.

  “It’s technically possible. Deactivated accounts are just hidden, not removed. A warrant should be enough to get access.” Yanis raises one eyebrow. “You want me hack into them?”

  “Underwood does. Briscoe and his lawyer have already made it difficult for the GJPD to get a search warrant for the house and car.”

  It’s tricky. In fact, it’s unlikely you’ll be able to get in and out without being detected, which could bring a whole different set of issues. Unlikely, but not impossible.

  “Does he realize that even if I could get in, none of what I uncover can be used as evidence?”

  “Course he does. He’s confident he’ll get the warrant signed eventually, but he’s in a hurry to get something to work with before he has to let the kid go.”

  I guess I could have a look tonight; Dad goes to bed early. I share as much with Yanis.

  “Want me to shoot it straight to him should I find anything?”

  He shakes his head. “Send it to me, I’ll find a way to get it to him discreetly.”

  Discreetly is a better word than covertly, I guess. It doesn’t escape me that this is, at the very least, an unusual request by a chief of police who just spent the past almost year trying to clean up his department. I swing my pack over my shoulder and turn off my desk light.

  “You recognize the irony here, right?” I challenge my boss, who grins in response.

  “Sure, but there’s a difference between breaking the law for personal gain, or bending the rules for justice.”

  Now it’s my turn to grin and shake my head. I’ve done both breaking and bending, but then I’m not in a public post.

  “I’ll be in touch,” I say as I step out of my office, closing the door behind me.

  “Have a good weekend.”

  Yanis claps me on the back and disappears into his own office. I lift my hand to Bree and Dimas, who look up when I pass, and tell Lena—our office manager—I’ll see her Monday, on my way out the door.

  I swing by my apartment to pick up my bag, my tools, and my dog, make a quick stop at the hardware store to get a few supplies, and am on the road by five.

  “Another beer, Son?”

  Dad pushes himself out of the chair.

  He’d waited for me with dinner, even though he always eats early, and insisted he take me out for a good steak. Of course we had our customary argument over the bill, but I let him win this one. It was already close to eight when we got back to the trailer. Despite the cool weather, we’ve been sitting outside on his minuscule deck, prioritizing the work that needs doing.

  “I’ll pass, Dad.”

  The roof is at the top of the list. No use doing anything else unless the trailer is waterproof, which is currently not the case, judging by the water stains on the ceiling. I hope it’s something I can fix, or else I’ll have to get a contractor.

  I watch my father shuffle his way inside; a little concerned he seems to have slowed down even more. He doesn’t like it when I ask about his health—gets his back up easily—but I’m going to poke the bear.

  “When’s the last time you saw Doc Childs?” I ask when he walks out, a fresh bottle in his hand. He glares at me, but I don’t back off. “Looks like you’re hurting.”

  “I’m fine,” he grumbles, lowering himself in the chair. He stares straight ahead, takes a deep tug on his beer, inhales deeply, and finally turns his eyes on me. “Last week. Body’s going to shit.”

  “How so?”

  “Got the gout.” He rubs a hand down his lower leg while taking another drink from the bottle.

  “Hate to say it, Dad, but drinking beer doesn’t help.”

  I imagine it’s not easy for a man like my dad—who’s always been strong and active—to be forced to slow down in any way.

  “That’s what that quack said. Gave me a list of stuff to avoid. Bunch of bullhicky.”

  “Childs is hardly a quack and you know it.” I get a grunt in response. “Did he prescribe something?”

  He huffs. “More pills. Bathroom is starting to look like a damn pharmacy.”

  “Maybe lay off the beer for a bit, give them a chance to work,” I suggest carefully.

  “Fucking hate getting old. Each time I visit the damn doctor, another little pleasure is taken. Can’t work with my hands no more, can’t eat the good stuff ‘cause I gotta watch the cholesterol, and now I’ve gotta give up my beer.” To underline his displeasure, he tosses the remainder of his bottle back and moves to get up again.

  “Where are you off to?”

  “Bed. I’m tired,” he grunts, moving to the door.

  I feel bad. Dad is only seventy-three, retired from the force eighteen years ago with great hopes of enjoying the rest of his life. Then Mom died just five years into his retirement and his life has never been the same.

  I lift my feet
off the railing and follow my father inside, catching him on his way to the bathroom.

  “When you’ve got this thing licked, and the weather gets a little warmer, why don’t you and I take off into the mountains for a weekend? Get some fishing in. Haven’t done that in a while.”

  His bleary eyes turn to me. He looks old and I make a mental note to give my brother a call as soon as Dad’s in bed.

  “Sure,” he says with a sad smile that makes me feel guilty.

  Life gets so damn busy; I tend to forget time is running out on some things.

  “Then that’s what we’ll do. Maybe I can convince Hugh to join us?”

  He nods. “That’d be good. Night, Son.”

  “Night, Dad. Love you.”

  “Back atcha, kid,” he mutters, as he slips into the bathroom and closes the door.

  Hillary

  I’ve been dealing with a difficult resident this morning.

  The man was found by the back door of a convenience store, bleeding from a cut to his head and his face bruised and swollen, but he wouldn’t let EMTs come close. Instead he insisted he be brought here.

  I patched him up with a couple of stitches and an ice pack for his face, but he won’t tell me what happened and even at my urging, he refuses to get checked out at the hospital. I’m worried he has a concussion or worse.

  “I just want to make sure you didn’t crack your skull, Jeff,” I push. “You could have a bleed we can’t see, your brain could be swelling and we wouldn’t know it until it’s too late.”

  “I’m fine,” he grumbles.

  “How long were you out there?” I try a different tactic to get some answers. I checked the log and noted he hadn’t signed in last night, as all residents are required to do, which means he’d been gone all night.

  He shrugs. “Couple of hours, I guess.”

  I wonder if perhaps he couldn’t remember, which might indicate he’d been out at least for some time.

  “Were you on your way here when it happened?”

  A deep groove appears between his eyebrows as he tries to remember. Could be he was too drunk last night, judging by the alcohol fumes still coming from his pores. There is a strict no alcohol policy at the shelter, but that doesn’t mean the guys don’t drink while they’re out on the streets. Not much we can do about that.

  Many of our residents use the shelter for a roof over their heads and a sure meal, but like to maintain their freedom during the day. They know they have to be in by eleven at night, or they’ll find the doors locked, and if they don’t show up more than one night they could lose their bed.

  “Must’a been.”

  It’s like pulling teeth.

  “They hit you from behind?”

  It’s a wild guess, but one that pays off when his eyes—bloodshot but sharp—flash to me.

  “Damn cowards,” he grinds out between clenched teeth. “Punks. Still got one of them. Came at me with brass knuckles and I broke his damn arm.”

  Pride. It doesn’t matter what their life circumstances are, most of these veterans still have pride.

  The brass knuckles have me concerned; it implies intent.

  “I think you should make a report to—”

  “No cops,” he repeats what he told me earlier, as he gets to his feet.

  Also not a surprise, these men have a healthy distrust for law enforcement and in some cases with reason.

  “I can’t force you, Jeff, you know that. However, if there is a group of punks, as you call them, out there targeting people—”

  “They were punks,” he interrupts me as he walks to the door and opens it. “Kids. More than one. But I still ain’t talking to the cops.” Then he disappears into the hallway.

  I go over the conversation in my head while I clean up the medical supplies, but it’s not until I sit down to write up a report something jumps out at me.

  He mentioned breaking the arm of one of his attackers.

  We had a pretty busy shift last night—four victims of a car accident brought in at the same time—but I recall the patient with his arm in a homemade sling I’d led to a cubicle before the end of my shift. He was brought in by his mother, who claimed he’d fallen out of bed. The boy himself had been tight-lipped. I took a quick glance at his forearm and could tell from the distinct deformation he’d need ortho. I put a call in for the surgeon before I left for the night.

  It would be a long shot, but I can’t help wondering whether the kid really fell out of bed. That’s something you see with younger children, but not with big, hefty teenagers.

  On a whim, I pick up the phone and dial the direct line for the emergency room. A familiar voice answers.

  “Hey, Maureen. It’s Hillary. I’m just checking in on a patient from last night—I forget his name—a sixteen or seventeen-year-old kid, brought in just before the end of my shift. He had what looked like a spiral fracture of his right forearm, and I put in a call for the orthopedic surgeon before I left. Could you have a look?”

  “I saw Dr. Brandall leave just a few minutes ago. Let me have a look.” I hear the rapid tapping of keys before she comes back on the line. “Curtis Philips. Displaced spiral fracture of radius and ulna, right arm. Brandall had him in surgery early this morning and it looks like he’s back on the orthopedic wing to recover.”

  I contemplate popping over to the hospital after my shift here and pretend to be checking in on him. Maybe if his mother isn’t there, he might be a little more forthcoming on what happened. It’s unlikely the two incidents are related, but even if the boy has nothing to do with the attack on Jeff, I’d still be curious to know how he got that injury. His mother’s story he fell from his bed sounds a bit far-fetched. Had I been a little sharper last night, I would’ve picked up on that sooner. Just because the boy is man-sized doesn’t necessarily mean he can’t be the victim of abuse.

  “Curtis?”

  The dark-haired kid turns his head to the door. I notice he’s alone in the room when I walk in.

  “Yeah?”

  He sounds a little groggy, not unusual after general anesthetic. Its effects can linger.

  I move closer to the bed and pull up a stool so I can get eye level with him.

  “I’m the ER nurse, Hillary, remember me from last night?” He nods ever so slightly but doesn’t lose the suspicious expression on his face. “You came in at the end of my shift and I was gone before the orthopedic surgeon came in. I wanted to check and see how you were doing. I see you had surgery?”

  “Yeah.”

  Still monosyllabic but a little more relaxed.

  “Are you feeling okay?”

  “Sore.”

  “I bet.” I indicate his bandaged arm. “Every so often try to wiggle your fingers a little. Get the blood flowing, it helps with healing.”

  I watch him wince as he tries to follow my suggestion, and I notice the swelling and abrasions on his knuckles.

  “Are you right-handed?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s gonna suck. How long do you have to be in the splint for?”

  “Dunno.”

  He sounds sleepy and his eyes drift out the window.

  “Your mom said you fell out of bed…” His focus snaps back to me. “Does that happen often?”

  “No.”

  His response is very clear, very firm, and very defensive. Like it would be a sign of weakness if he did.

  “But you fell out of bed last night?” A grunt is all I get this time, but he squints his eyes on me. He’s not liking the questions and I want to know why. “Looks like you did some damage to your hand as well.” I point at the scraped up knuckles just visible under the edge of the removable splint.

  “Can I help you?”

  A woman’s voice sounds behind me and I turn to find his mother standing inside the doorway, a bakery bag in her hand. I get up from the stool and smile at her.

  “Hi, Mrs. Philips?” I hold out my hand. “Hillary. I’m the ER nurse who first looked after you last ni
ght. I popped in to see how your son is doing.”

  Hesitantly she takes my hand, but her eyes drift beyond me to the hospital bed.

  “Yes, I remember now,” she says in a timid voice.

  She sounds more like a victim than a potential abuser and when I turn to look at her son, I catch him glaring at her. Interesting.

  “I should probably get going,” I announce, figuring I’ve overstayed my welcome as it is. “Glad to see he’s doing okay. Hopefully they’ll let you take him home soon.” The woman forces a smile and nods as I move past her. I turn when I get to the door. “Get better soon, Curtis.”

  I wasn’t really expecting a response, but the cold stare he gives me follows me all the way to the nurses’ station where I have a quiet conversation with the charge nurse.

  Chapter Six

  Hillary

  “We’d like you to have a look at these pictures.”

  Detective Garcia slides a sheet of paper with three images on it toward me. One of them is the same as one of the shots Radar showed me on Friday, the one with the kid flipping the camera the bird.

  “Does he look familiar?” the female detective asks with an edge to her voice.

  They both showed up at my door this morning. At first I thought it was Radar again, getting me out of bed on a day I don’t have to, and I yanked the door open only to find the detectives outside.

  On a Sunday morning at eight thirty. Who does that?

  After the heads-up I got on Friday, I’d expected to see them a lot sooner. I may have been a bit prickly getting caught in my ratty robe again. Garcia was apologetic, but Detective Bissette looked at me disapprovingly, her lips pressed shut.

  I pick up the sheet of paper and look closely at the other two images I hadn’t seen before. One shows the boy fishing off a dock somewhere, and the other is clearly a school picture.

  “He looks familiar in this one.” I point at the one with the obscene gesture. “Pretty sure he was one of them.”

  “Pretty sure?”