A MAN TO TRUST

by Justine Davis

  And that longing scared her. Terrified her, she who had been determined to always make it on her own, who had constantly reminded herself that there was only one person she could always count on, and that was herself.

  "I have to go," she repeated, not looking at him, when his silence became too much.

  "'And don't ask where, Cruz, because you're a cop and I don't want or need your help,' is that it?"

  She looked up at him then. For an instant she wanted to trust him, to have faith that he indeed did genuinely care, that he would truly try to help and not simply toss Melissa into a system that would grind her up and spit her out as it had so many others. If it had been only her, she might have done it. But it was Melissa's welfare that was at stake, and she had no right to gamble with that.

  "She would only run if she saw you," she said, knowing it was the truth, but not the whole truth. And Cruz just looked at her, as if he knew it as well as she did.

  "And you're afraid if I found her, I'd drag her off, handcuffed, kicking and screaming, right?"

  "No," she said, "not like that. Not you. But you'd have to do something. Call her parents, something."

  "So she does have them?"

  Kelsey blinked.

  "Parents," Cruz prompted.

  Kelsey drew back, sucking in a breath. She had to get away from him. She just couldn't think straight around him, and she always seemed to be giving away more than she meant to, telling him things she'd never meant to let out. And she didn't know why. All she knew was that if everybody reacted to him this way, he must be a damn good cop.

  "I have to go," she said for a third time, aware that she sounded almost desperate. And before he could say anything else, she turned and literally ran.

  And tried to convince herself that she was running to something, instead of away.

  * * *

  He wouldn't have done it, Cruz told himself, if the karate studio where Sam took her lessons wasn't just a few blocks from Trinity West. It wasn't as if he were going out of his way or anything, it was just handy, so he stopped in. Sam would be so intent on her lesson—as she was on everything that interested her—that she wouldn't care if he was there or not, so he had an hour to kill. And he was curious, that was all. So he'd gone to the station to poke around a little.

  "Hey, Gregerson, I thought you were on vacation!"

  "Damn, you wouldn't catch me here if I didn't have to be!"

  "Never figured you for a workaholic."

  The salutes rained down on him as he went down the hall, and he grinned and waved them all off without speaking. This place was his second home, and the very walls welcomed him. Not that it was a particularly homey place; Trinity West was a square, uninteresting-looking two-story building, with tall, rectangular windows all around that mostly overlooked other buildings and a weed-filled empty lot. They still laughed about those windows, the dark laughter of cop humor; the regular glass that had been installed when the station was originally built had been belatedly replaced with bullet-proof material when a sniper explicitly demonstrated what marvelous targets the windows were at night, when lit from inside.

  Cruz saw Lieutenant Robards headed down the hall toward the men's room—that gait that was a cross between a swagger and a waddle was unmistakable—and dodged into the detective-division office before he was spotted; he was in no mood to deal with the dinosaur. Fortunately, a visit to the men's room was usually good for at least a half hour—there had been a time when the Robards bathroom pool had been a going concern—if not longer.

  Bypassing his own small office, Cruz headed across the large room filled with desks in various stages of disarray, set up in pairs, back to back, in clusters of varying sizes, separated by waist-high portable dividers. At this time of the morning, most were occupied by investigators doing what it sometimes seemed they did most: making phone calls and shuffling papers. Phones rang regularly, adding to the backdrop of blended voices; it was a familiar mixture of sounds to Cruz.

  He turned left at the far wall, where a long, low case held the books that were also familiar to any detective division; penal codes, the Physician's Desk Reference, and the ubiquitous tools of any investigator, telephone books from all over. Above the bookcase was a bulletin board with the requisite wanted posters, crime warnings and advisories from other departments on missing persons, property and unidentified bodies. Cruz supposed it was like any other police agency in the country; he'd visited enough others to know that they were all alike enough to give a sense of comfortable familiarity to almost any cop.

  He stopped beside one of the neater set of desks, behind a low divider labeled with a sign that said Juvenile and Sex Crimes. The name plaque declaring the closest desk the domain of Detective Gage Butler was half hidden by a pile of file folders—the paperless office had yet to arrive, and probably never would at Trinity West, Cruz thought; their budget didn't run to fancy computer systems—and the chair was empty.

  He grimaced; he'd been hoping Gage would be here. But then he noticed the battered leather jacket hanging up beside the suit coat most detectives kept handy in case they had to make an unscheduled court appearance, and he knew Gage had to be around somewhere. He wore that jacket as if it were a talisman, had worn it ever since Cruz had known him.

  Cruz heard a peal of laughter from the reception area, where Pam, the steel-gray-haired woman who ran the office with an iron hand, had her desk.

  Barely a second later, a tall, rangy man with a shock of thick pale blond hair that fell forward over his left brow stepped into the office through the reception area. Tan and fit, he looked as if he should be lolling on the beach ten miles due west, at Marina del Mar. He also looked barely old enough to have graduated from any police academy, let alone be a cop with seven years under his belt.

  His youthful looks were something the department had put to great use when he first came on board, sticking him undercover in the local high school before he ever did a day on the street. When he came out, after racking up a string of impressive arrests and cutting off a drug supply line that had kept a large number of Marina Heights kids strung out most of their waking hours, he'd had quite a reputation. There had been some grumbling when he was handed this detective position shortly after, but it hadn't lasted. Not when they'd seen the job he was doing.

  Cruz had quickly learned that Gage Butler was possessed of a quick mind and a prodigious memory, and was a man utterly driven; he himself had spearheaded the drive to shut up the grumblers by making it well-known that Butler was doing the ugly job better than anyone ever had. So well that when the time came that Gage would normally have been rotated out of the assignment, no one had really wanted to take his place, knowing they would have an incredible record to try to match. So Gage had stayed, continuing to do the job no one else wanted.

  And Cruz kept to himself the thought that it was costing Gage more than anyone else. It showed in his eyes, which held an expression Cruz had never quite been able to define, but that unsettled him nevertheless.

  The green-eyed blonde with the baby face spotted him then, and smiled widely as he approached.

  "Hey, Sarge, what are you doing here?"

  "You flirting with Pam again?" he countered, grinning.

  Gage laughed. "Sure. Keeps her from trying to set me up with her granddaughter."

  Cruz laughed; Pam's granddaughter was eighteen and, as one of the less gracious members of the department had once said, tended to wake up in a brand-new world every three minutes or so.

  "So what brings you into this place on your vacation? You looking for Kit?" he asked, referring to Kit Walker, his boss, the sergeant in charge of the Juvenile/Sex Crimes unit. "She's out on an interview."

  Cruz shook his head; the last person he wanted to see right now was Kit, with her too perceptive mind and wry humor.

  "Actually, I wanted to see you."

  Gage looked surprised. And the tiniest bit wary, a common enough occurrence in a cop confronted with a sergeant, even if it wasn't hi
s immediate supervisor.

  "Officially?" he asked.

  "Relax," Cruz teased. "You're safe. Robards didn't send me."

  Gage grimaced. "That man…"

  "I know. But he's our cross to bear. Besides, he likes you."

  "That's not saying much, and if it's supposed to make me feel better, it doesn't. Worse, in fact."

  Cruz knew that Gage was tremendously uncomfortable with the fact that the arrogant, vindictive lieutenant was pleasant only toward him, as opposed to the man's vicious, diligent attempts to make everyone else's life a living hell. And Cruz had discovered when he and Gage went on an extradition flight to Denver a couple of years ago that Gage knew perfectly well that it was his all-American-boy image that kept Robards off his back. And kept the heavy-jowled lieutenant on the backs of cops like Ryan Buckhart and Cruz Gregerson.

  Only Gage's complete dedication and determined refusal to curry any favor with the detested Robards kept the rest of the section from ragging him about literally being Robards's fair-haired boy. In fact, Cruz suspected Gage occasionally went out of his way to tick Robards off, just to keep the playing field more level.

  "I'll bet it kills him to take orders from Chief de los Reyes," Gage said with a grimace. "And he's ten times the cop—and the man—Robards is."

  "Yes, he is." And there wasn't a man in this department, save Robards, who would dispute that; Miguel de los Reyes had the utter and total respect of his line officers.

  "Sorry," Gage said. "Didn't mean to go off on you. And he's been … almost subdued lately. Ever since Ryan took down the Pack, he hasn't had much to say."

  Cruz grinned. "What could he say? Ryan pulled off a miracle."

  Gage grinned back. "Yeah. And he had to admit 'that Indian' was a hell of a cop. Must have hurt."

  "Badly," Cruz agreed.

  "Does the heart good, doesn't it?" Gage quipped. Then, joking aside, asked, "What was it you wanted?"

  "I'm just looking for information. On a runaway."

  "Well, I've certainly got that," Gage said, gesturing toward the stack of papers on his desk. "From every state in the union, every size, shape and condition, I got 'em. More in the computer, if it's working. What are you looking for?"

  "I don't have much," Cruz warned. "Don't even know if she was reported."

  Gage grinned. "Ah, a challenge. Hit me."

  "Female, about fourteen to sixteen, I'd guess, first name Melissa. About five-five, kind of thin, brown hair dyed blond, but a while ago, it's kind of two-tone now. Brown eyes, I think." Gage scribbled as Cruz ran through his sketchy description. "I'd say she's either been on the run for a while or she's ill. She looked pretty hollow-eyed."

  "Long-distance, you think?"

  Cruz considered that, then, slowly, shook his head. "I don't think so. I'm not sure why, but I get the feel it's more local. She looked … California."

  He didn't mention Kelsey at all; it was hardly something that would help Gage. If, indeed, he could do anything at all with the little bit of information he'd been able to give him.

  "Anything else?"

  "Afraid not. I only got a glimpse of her."

  "What made you think she was a runaway?"

  "Just … a feeling."

  Gage nodded, not questioning, accepting that sometimes that was all a cop had to go on. Just a feeling.

  "I know it's not much," Cruz said.

  Gage shrugged. "I've started with less. She at risk?"

  The phrase used by the Department of Justice to designate missing persons whose welfare was considered in danger because of the circumstances of their disappearance had been in Cruz's mind all morning.

  "I don't know," he finally said. "I know she was scared, but that might just have been of me."

  "Of you? Hard to believe," Gage said with a grin.

  "Thanks," Cruz said wryly.

  "Hey, we all have our crosses to bear. I've got my face, you've got whatever it is that makes people open up to you like oysters."

  "Interesting analogy." Cruz's tone was dry. And he couldn't help thinking that there was at least one person who didn't open up to him like an oyster or anything else, who, in fact, was more of a clam, sealed up tight, beyond his reach. "Just do what you can," he said. "And let me know."

  "Okay. I'll get right on it."

  Cruz hesitated, considering telling the detective there was no rush, especially given the caseload he knew Gage carried. But when he opened his mouth, that wasn't what he said.

  "And this is … unofficial, okay?"

  "I haven't seen you and you didn't ask," Gage said easily.

  "Thanks, buddy."

  A good man, Cruz thought, not for the first time, as he headed back out to his truck. And he wondered yet again what it was that drove Gage Butler. All the officers who worked with him came away shaking their heads in wonder. "The man never stops," they always said. "I don't know what he runs on."

  Neither did Cruz, but he thought Trinity West should be damn grateful they had him.

  He glanced at his watch as he settled into the driver's seat; he still had better than half an hour before it was time to pick up Sam. Maybe he would swing by and pick up some lunch, maybe her favorite junk food, with a ton of fries. Sort of make up for this morning. Not that she hadn't broken a cardinal rule, but he knew that simply having one of her beloved creatures exiled to the garage was punishment enough for the tenderhearted Sam. And she'd taken it well, not arguing, not letting Kelsey take the heat for her. Yep, he was pretty proud of that little scamp.

  "Cruz! Wait up!"

  He glanced up and saw Gage sprinting across the parking lot toward him. He held a piece of paper, and when he skidded to a stop beside the truck, Cruz saw that it was one of the familiar interagency flyers.

  "What you said about her hair being dyed blond a while ago made me think. This came through a few days ago."

  He handed the paper through the window. Cruz stared at the photo. It wasn't the best of reproductions, and she looked older, wearing makeup and with her hair pulled back, and she was much thinner now, but there was no mistake.

  It was the girl he'd seen at Kelsey's.

  And she was in more trouble than he'd thought.

  * * *

  Chapter 9

  « ^ »

  "Is that her?"

  Cruz nodded. "It's her."

  "I was afraid of that. But you were right. Ventura's pretty local."

  Cruz's mind was racing. He knew he could simply call the reporting agency, the sheriff's office, and find out the status of the girl and the circumstances around her disappearance. It would be the logical next step, but he found himself retreating from the idea. And he grimaced inwardly, because he knew exactly why he was doing so: Kelsey. Until he knew exactly what was going on, he didn't want to make this any more official than he had to.

  He looked from the flyer to Gage. "You know anybody up there?"

  Gage looked thoughtful, then shook his head regretfully. "Sorry. Only guy I knew up there left a couple of years ago." He gave Cruz a considering look. "I gather you want this off the record?"

  "For the moment," Cruz answered.

  "Okay. Why don't I call them and make a routine request for a copy of the report? I can just say I'm working a case that probably isn't related, but I'm trying to cover all the bases."

  Cruz considered that. He knew it was a common enough practice, and that it would rouse little curiosity on the other end, without any follow-up. It happened all too often when agencies had a dead body they couldn't identify; you called for any missing-person report that even came close.

  And more importantly at the moment, he knew he could trust Gage to keep his mouth shut if asked.

  "I could have them fax it, if you've got time to wait," Gage added.

  Cruz nodded. He got out of the truck, and they walked back toward the Trinity West building.

  After Gage had made the call, Cruz, with one eye on the clock, calculating how long he could wait and still make it to pick up S
am, waited by the fax machine. It was in the records section of the department, and he'd already taken more ribbing from the clerks there about being unable to stay away from the place even on vacation. He would have waited at his own desk, maybe even looked through what had been piling up since he left, but Robards was back in his office, and Cruz had no desire to ruin his day by seeing the man.

  Idly he wondered when the chief was going to run out of patience with Robards and reel him in. The man was an anachronism, an old-school cop who had stubbornly and arrogantly refused to adapt as times—and law enforcement—changed all around him. For a long time, the running joke had been that irony meant Robards being torn between hating technology and computers, yet wanting to use them to spy on his subordinates.

  He was also a bigot, a sexist and a few other things that were even more pernicious. And it was this that kept him from being simply a joke. He'd been in tight with Chief Lipton and he'd exploded in wrathful incredulity when Miguel de los Reyes was chosen by the city council as interim chief after Lipton had been gunned down. He would be damned, he'd shouted, if he would take orders from a greaser.

  Nobody knew what had been said in the closed-door session that followed in de los Reyes's office, but Robards had not been heard saying another word against the man—at least, not within the walls of Trinity West. Yet another thing to admire the chief for: whatever he'd done, it had shut Robards up. And there hadn't even been any blood spilled that he knew of, Cruz thought.

  But the man's tyrannical reign over the detective division continued. Not that there was much de los Reyes could do, not to a cop with thirty years on, not unless he screwed up really badly.