Foster Justice

by Colleen Shannon

  “The latest, if we can get a sampling through the backlog.” The detective had relaxed further and even offered a cop to cop look of amused frustration, which Chad returned. From Maine to California and points south and north, there wasn’t a cop alive who didn’t hate the red tape that went along with the job.

  Chad went back to his search, shoving his gloved hand up under the seat springs on the driver’s side. He felt something and pulled out a crumpled but familiar card. “Gentleman’s Pleasure. Jasmine Routh, headliner.” Without a word, Chad shoved the card into a bag, handed it over to the technician, and then went to the other side, but he found nothing else of interest.

  Lastly, he knelt and examined the tire treads. “You sampled this mud?”

  “Yes,” the technician answered.

  “And you took a scraping of the gash on the driver’s seat, looking for metal particles?”

  “No, it didn’t look recent.”

  “It wasn’t there when Trey left Amarillo. Long knife, jagged edge. Could be a Ka-Bar. Trey’s never used a knife like that in his life. Someone searched his car, even ripped open his seat. It’s usually full of trash, but it’s clean except for what we found. So yes, signs of foul play.”

  Chad pulled off the gloves and tossed them into the trash bag at the scene. “Thanks for the look-see.”

  The detective slowly, with obvious reluctance, held out his hand. “Impressive police work. Sorry we missed a few things.”

  “Thanks.” Chad shook his hand, took the proffered card. “I’ll be in touch if I find out anything else.”

  “I guess it wouldn’t do any good to tell you not to interfere in a police investigation.”

  Tilting his hat to the right angle, Chad said, “Nope,” and turned on his heel. He was still close enough to hear part of the reaming the detective gave his technician for shoddy work. He smiled, glad he’d at least made these big-city assholes have a modicum of respect for his breed. His smile faded as he saw his dually tail lights receding up the street, the front end hooked to a big tow truck. Chad ripped off his hat and slammed it against his leg. “Aw hell . . .” As he looked up the street, he saw a green lowrider skid around a corner.

  The car registered with him somewhere, but resigned, and at this point more worried about Trey than the inconvenience, he went into the adjacent shop to get the name of the tow yard. He wondered if any of these tow truck guys had stock he could buy into . . .

  Every time a man in boots and a hat entered the club, Jasmine felt an urge to flee. And every time, it turned out to be a wannabe cowboy instead of the real thing. Maybe he’d given up. Maybe he’d found another lead to follow. Or hopefully, maybe Trey had finally broken his silence and phoned his brother, so she’d never have to see Chad again. Mary had left a message telling Trey that Chad was in LA looking for him.

  Jasmine did her best, but she knew she was jumpy and it was showing in her dancing. Before, she’d been able to pretend under the blinding lights that she was dancing for her one and only, but Chad had a way of making the entire place feel seedy. No matter her goals—to better herself and help others defend themselves against an overreaching, cold legal system—it was wrong to use her natural gifts to coax so much money from men who could oftentimes ill afford it. Yes, there was always another, younger girl to take her place, but at least she’d not be complicit in propagating this horrid, wrong stereotype that all strippers were loose women.

  Conversely, Jasmine knew she’d have to shoulder enormous student loans if she quit this job. She’d lived hand to mouth so long after coming out here, she couldn’t bear the thought of yet another new beginning loaded down with so much debt. She’d never be able to afford to hang out her own shingle if she didn’t pay as she learned.

  So despite her qualms, she stayed. And she danced. Hoping Chad was gone forever.

  She was just starting to relax a bit into her old self when he showed up as she was serving drinks while another headliner performed. Praising her lucky stars she’d insisted on wearing her top, she stopped at his table far in the back and deadpanned, “What’s yer poison?”

  He tilted his hat back but didn’t remove it. “When you talk like that, you only remind me what a good actress you are.”

  She snatched his hat off and tossed it on the chair next to him. “And when you act like this, you remind me you never listened to your mama. Mind your manners.”

  The rueful smile playing about his lips loosened some of the starch in her spine. At least he could laugh at himself...

  “You sure you’re not from Texas?”

  As if she were deaf, she pointed at the sign that was prominent on every wall: Three Drink Minimum. “You drinking or leaving?”

  “Michelob. On tap.”

  She walked off, hoping he’d leave before her number.

  When she came back a few minutes later with his beer in a frosty mug, she couldn’t help herself—she looked at his crotch. But apparently despite the other girl’s crescendo, where she even took off her G-string against code, Chad’s posture was relaxed and there was no lump in his jeans.

  “I’m for hire, if you make the offer enticing enough,” he drawled. “Want a lap dance?”

  Embarrassed he’d caught her looking, Jasmine turned to leave so quickly she stumbled on one of her stilettos. She would have fallen into his lap if he hadn’t steadied her with a surprisingly gentle touch on her arm. When she tried to pull away, he turned her to face him.

  “No, I don’t find her attractive the way I do you. Wouldn’t it be easier if you just asked?”

  “Nothing is easy with you.” She jerked away but stood her ground. “You not only like it that way, you thrive on it.”

  “I admit I like a challenge. So how about a different deal?” He rubbed his chin as if contemplating. “I need someone to help me navigate the shark-infested waters of LA. I keep getting tickets or my rig towed, so obviously I no speako the lingo.”

  She laughed, flinging her long ponytail over her shoulder to tease, “Have they cited you yet for being outside the hash marks? I got a two hundred dollar one for that.”

  “No, but I got the one for being fifteen minutes late.” He laughed. too, and the moment was so intimate and warm as they shared a common experience that Jasmine was startled when a man at a nearby table banged the tabletop.

  He was wearing a very expensive suit and a very cheap attitude. “Hey, you bitch, I’ve been signaling you for five minutes. We need some service.”

  Chad made to rise but Jasmine shook her head, pinned on a blank smile, and went to take their orders. When it was time for her to go get dressed for her act, she decided to take the bull by the horns and see what Chad had been going to say to her. She wanted, no, needed, to get him out of here before her performance. Why he unsettled her so, she didn’t know, or at least couldn’t admit, not yet, but this place felt two sizes too small when he was present.

  He was playing with an untouched third Michelob when she walked up. “We got interrupted and I have to go backstage, but I wanted to see what you were about to propose.”

  “Curious?”

  “My eyes are green.”

  “I noticed.” Chad put a generous tip on the table and caught her elbow. “Can you walk me to my car so we can chat in private?”

  “I can’t leave the club dressed like this. This way.” She walked him to a private meeting room and snapped on the light. He closed the door.

  “Would you be willing to spend a few hours with me several times a week if I pay you, say, fifty bucks an hour?”

  That was chicken feed compared to what she earned in a night. “Why? Why me?”

  He hesitated then admitted, “You know the city, you know Trey, and I’m hoping you might help me track him down, show me some of the places y’all hung out.”

  She relaxed a bit when he confirmed her suspicions. If he’d lied, she’d have told him no. “I honestly don’t know where he is. His gir—” She broke off, about to mention Mary, but she knew he’d
just think she was making her up. Why not? It would give her a chance to introduce him to Trey’s real girlfriend when Mary returned from her mysterious mission. When he saw the two of them together, he’d have to admit he’d zeroed in on the wrong redhead. The fact that she wanted to get to know him better, whether it was good for either of them or not, she would keep to the secret confines of hopes and dreams . . .

  “You have a deal.” She held out her hand. He shook it. He held the door wide for her with his Texas courtesy.

  “Should I stay for your act? Anything new?”

  “No, same old same old.”

  He nodded, but the words seemed hauled out of him. “Why do you cheapen yourself like this?”

  She backed away several steps and the distance allowed her to say honestly, “When I moved out here, I worked three jobs while I tried my hand at acting. I still couldn’t make my bills. When I finally faced reality—” She broke off, not quite ready to tell him about her studies. “Let’s just say I do my best to make it a craft, not just a slutty act. You can tell me when you want to get together. My number’s on that card you keep flashing at me.” She stalked off, wishing she’d told him no.

  The next morning, Jasmine dragged herself out of bed after a few hours of sleep. She listened to her voice messages. Nothing of import except another message from Mary.

  Her friend sounded as if she were battling tears. “Jasmine, I’m sorry to keep bugging you about this, but I’m stuck on a job and can’t pursue it myself. I . . . have a feeling something awful might have happened to Trey. I just don’t think he’d go this long without calling me, especially after coming back to LA. Would you do me a huge favor and slip into Thomas’s office sometime when he’s gone and check his computer contact list for a different cell number for Trey? He gave me this new one and I’m beginning to think he deliberately gave me the wrong number. This one keeps going straight to voice mail. Thanks, talk soon, hope work is going well.”

  Jasmine hung up, pouring herself a cup of coffee. She had an early class, but she wasn’t bleary eyed just because she’d worked into the wee hours. She was having trouble sleeping because of worrying about Trey. Sure, Chad was getting to her, too, but she’d honestly liked Trey and she knew that though he might ignore big brother for a while, he’d never ignore Mary.

  But why on earth would Thomas give both of them a wrong number? Behind his affable smiles and helping hand, always with conditions, Thomas was about two things: money and power. She’d assumed his interest in Trey was because of his talent, but if Thomas had deliberately kept Trey and Mary apart, he had a reason not related to art.

  Idly, staring into space, Jasmine stirred cream into her cup. She touched the cup to her lips, almost burned her tongue, and spit the sip back as she recalled an offhand remark Trey had made about his homestead.

  “Enough oil and gas under it to make us rich, but Chad, like my daddy, won’t let them explore because he wants to keep the land safe for ranching. We’ll just see about that.” And he’d moodily ordered another drink.

  Jasmine knew the source of Thomas’s money was oil and gas. The gallery was a sideline, and not very profitable at that, at least not yet. Mary was a geologist, and Jasmine suspected her trip was related to oil and gas. Could that be the connection?

  A priori, as they were teaching her in law school, if Trey wasn’t up the coast painting as Thomas claimed, and his disappearance had nothing to do with art, then it had to do with Thomas’s true interests . . . Jasmine set her cup down almost untouched and turned off the coffeepot, hurrying to dress. After class, she’d make a trip to the gallery and search Thomas’s contact list as Mary had requested. She had to help find Trey, not because Chad had asked for her help, but because she loved Mary, liked Trey, and had to know the truth about Thomas.

  Or so she convinced herself. The fact that she’d also be working to prove herself to Chad didn’t enter into her decision to snoop . . .

  CHAPTER 7

  Chad parked his dually the closest he could to the gallery. This time, when he got out, he didn’t just glance at the parking sign. He walked over to it and read it carefully. Two hours, nine to five, except for, he read the small print, street sweeping day. Tuesday. This was Wednesday. Clear.

  Chad wore a snap-button shirt today. He felt for the tiny imprint in his pocket, satisfied when he felt it still there where he’d put it after leaving the electronics store. Since he wasn’t a Ranger anymore, what he was about to do could get him arrested, just as Sinclair had predicted, but somehow Chad knew Kinnard wouldn’t call the cops under any circumstances.

  Closing the gallery door gently as the chime sounded, Chad paused at the window display, once again admiring the black-and-white painting of the lonely man on the bluff. The discreet price tag on the back, five thousand dollars, was darn near a month’s take-home pay and had to come from his dwindling retirement account, but it would still be cheap if buying it elicited the reaction he suspected would come from Kinnard. It was also very strange Trey hadn’t signed the painting, and Chad knew that must be because Kinnard had told him not to.

  Besides, it was the only way he could figure out how to get into the man’s office.

  Kinnard entered from a side door, that too-smooth smile Chad detested on his face. It faltered a bit when he saw his customer, but Kinnard offered his hand. “Welcome back. What can I do for you?”

  “I can’t get this painting out of my mind. It would be perfect for over my couch.” If I had one, he amended to himself... Trey had taken it.

  “Yes, it’s one of my current favorites. Shall I have it wrapped for you?”

  “Would you mind if I used your landline to check my account balance and move my funds from a holding account so I can write you a check? I don’t like using a cell phone for a sensitive transaction like that.” All true enough.

  Kinnard hesitated a bit too long.

  Which only whetted Chad’s instinct that the man was hiding something. “If it’s an inconvenience, I can drive back to my hotel and do it from there, but I won’t be able to come back until tomorrow.” Close the sale was every true salesman’s basic credo. Chad smiled slightly as he waited for Kinnard’s response.

  True to form, Kinnard stepped aside and waved a hand before him. “No problem, you can use the phone in my office.”

  Chad stopped so abruptly as he entered the office that Kinnard stepped on his heel. Chad barely noticed. The office was a complete contrast to the spare modernity of the showroom. From the huge oak desk to the original Western bronzes and the enormous buffalo painting over the studded leather couch, this office spoke of a man who loved the West. How did this jibe with the slick Beverly Hills businessman? This office might have been on the front of Texas Oilman magazine.

  He only said, “Nice office. Is this the phone you want me to use?”

  Nodding, Kinnard moved a stack of papers onto a credenza to leave the desk clear.

  Chad walked behind the desk and pulled a checkbook from his rear pocket. He waited, but Kinnard hovered at the edge of the rug. “Do you mind if I have some privacy?”

  Reluctantly, Kinnard exited, leaving the door slightly ajar.

  Eyeing all the corners for surveillance devices, Chad walked to the door and closed it firmly. No cameras that he could see. Besides, Kinnard wasn’t likely to record his own dirty dealing.

  Chad pulled the tiny bug from his shirt pocket, quickly went to the desk phone, pried apart the receiver end with his smallest knife blade, and wired the bug inside. With all the news about prying ears on cell phones, Chad was hoping Kinnard did indeed have a lot to hide and would use his landline whenever possible. It could still be bugged, of course, but wasn’t as easy to trace. Chad put the receiver cap back on and then used the phone to call his bank.

  A minute later, a discreet knock came at the door.

  “I’ll be out in a minute. I’m on hold,” he called through the door.

  While he waited, wondering why every bank on earth used the same el
evator-type music, Chad quietly pilfered Kinnard’s desk. He found nothing more suspicious than a stack of cream-colored stationery—with a Dallas, Texas, address. Chad folded one of the sheets into fourths and snapped it into his pocket.

  A representative finally came on the line. Chad’s transaction was short and sweet, and he didn’t even have the heart to ask for his account balance; he knew it was pathetic. He memorized the confirmation number simultaneous with another knock, this one less discreet. Chad called, “Come in.” As Kinnard entered, Chad thanked the banking rep and hung up the phone.

  Kinnard offered an expensive pen. Nodding his thanks, Chad wrote out the check for five grand. He was signing with a flourish when he sensed someone entering the open office door.

  He looked up. A burly young man who couldn’t have been more than legal age by much, hovered there, but he had the attitude to match his muscles. His face was pocked with acne scars. He wore a baseball cap backward, had tattoos from bicep to wrist on both arms, wore baggy jeans, and his underwear showed. If he’d carried a sign marked South Sider, his gang affiliation couldn’t have been clearer. Even in Texas, the Los Angeles Latino gang that spanned lots of Southland geographies, was notorious. Chad couldn’t help it. His eyebrows rose as he looked at Kinnard.

  Looking flustered for the first time since Chad had met him, Kinnard caught the guy’s arm. ”I told you never to come here.”

  “I had to. We got trouble.” Cold black eyes glanced at Chad, then quickly away.

  With an apologetic look at Chad, Kinnard shoved the guy out the door and closed it, blocking Chad’s view.

  Chad left the check in the middle of the spotless desk pad and hurried to a wooden file cabinet. He bent down to appraise the lock to see what type of tool kit he’d need when he opened it later.

  Satisfied, Chad wandered the office, appraising the art, when Thomas reentered. “Sorry about that.” He scribbled out a receipt.