Foster Justice (18 page)

Far behind, he heard Riley driving his four-wheel drive, minus the horse trailer, but even that vehicle wasn't as nimble over this terrain as Chester. The cop cars, built for speed and maneuverability, had fallen way back. Chad wondered where in hell these idiots thought they were going up this rough dirt track, but then they'd had few options.

By the time they'd all realized the truck had made its own secondary exit, the big rig was a ways up the trail. It was so big it could carve its own path through the scrub, and its tough tires spewed rocks as if they were sand.

Chad had taken one look at the winding trail leading upward and quickly saddled Chester.

“What the hell do you think you're doing, Foster?” Riley asked.

“I'm not losing Trey again, no matter what.” Chad leaped onto Chester, dug his heels into his flanks, and almost lost his seat as the stallion bolted forward. Chester was in fine fettle, tired of all the standing, and eager to run.

Riley was left literally eating dust as he hurried to unhook the trailer and use Chad's truck to follow.

Now Chad moved to the right side of the track, keeping pace with the truck, reaching for the door release. Trey was in there. He had to be. His gloved hand almost connected with the latch, but at a curve in the path the truck spat rocks back at Chester. The stallion automatically veered away, back to the middle of the track.

Chad hesitated, afraid to use his Peacemaker to shoot out the tires, but he had no idea what was going on inside that trailer. What if the kidnappers decided to cut their losses and toss Trey out? He had to stop this rig.

Reaching behind his back to pull out his pistol, Chad used one hand to steady Chester into a smooth lope so he would be stable enough to aim.
Whump!
One rear tire flattened as the bullet pierced its tough hide.
Whoosh!
Another lost air on the same side. The truck lurched, its right rear axle grinding against gravel.

This time Chad was able to unlatch the rear door as the truck ground to a stop. He'd barely begun raising it before gunshots spit at him, but he was expecting that and leaped off Chester to the side ledge of the big rig, his booted toes barely finding purchase. He waited for the hail of bullets to die so they'd have to reload.

However, the guys in the cab weren't going quietly. Fire erupted from that direction, too. Chad flattened himself and fired back, but his four remaining shots didn't last long.

Meanwhile, Riley had almost reached them, and one of the Indio cops was literally riding shotgun. He fired several times toward the cab and the returning fire stopped, giving Chad time to raise the rear door enough to swing inside. He took one quick look, but had no time for shock at the sight of Jasmine. Jasmine holding someone with dirty blond hair.

He'd had no time to reload, but he hoped they hadn't either. His buck knife bared, he kicked a pistol away from one hood, and engaged the other. The switchblade his opponent wielded was wicked but no match for his sturdy hunting knife. The other hood picked up a crowbar and approached.

Jasmine used a long leg to sweep his feet from under him. He toppled, hitting his head against an engine block. He went limp.

Chad forced the gangbanger's knife hand away from his midsection, lifted a knee and whacked the guy's wrist against his leg several times. Wincing, the guy dropped his knife. And then the other cops were there, the two perps from the cab already cuffed, pushed in front of them.

Scarcely aware of the other cops, Chad was focused on one thing: the way Jasmine carefully cradled Trey. She bit her lip and shook her head slightly as she looked up at him, tears in her eyes. Gently, Chad turned his brother's head away from her shoulder so he could see it. He looked unconscious and his face was a mass of swelling and bruising. As Chad watched, he spit up blood. Chad felt Riley hovering.

“Goddammit, get a rescue chopper in here, Riley.” But Riley had already leaped back outside to pick up the radio.

As gently as they could, they laid Trey flat. Chad took the first aid kit from Riley and peeled Trey's shirt away. Trey's ribs were a crisscross of bruises and one was obviously broken. It looked like he'd been beaten with a tire iron. Chad found little to bandage; most of the damage was internal.

Then Trey groaned. His lashes fluttered and he looked up, those blue-sky eyes smiling even in his pain. “I knew you'd come,” he whispered, his voice so hoarse Chad scarcely recognized it. “You got my message?”

Unable to talk over the lump in his throat, Chad nodded.

“They found the hole I cut near the cab and beat me really bad that last time. You still have it?”

Chad pulled the nugget from his pocket and handed it to Trey. He wanted to say a million things, how sorry he was at the way he'd acted, it was time to go home, they'd figure out what to do about the taxes without selling the land, how much he loved his brother. He could only watch helplessly as the grayness he'd felt since leaving Amarillo consumed his world, the last circle of light ringing his brother's peaceful face.

“I'm . . . sorry, Chad. Sorry I came out here, sorry you gave up your job to find me.”

Chad covered his hand. “I'm sorry, too, little brother. But we'll get you out of here, just hang on.”

The few words seeming to exhaust him, Trey clutched the necklace in his fist. Then he looked at Jasmine. He caught her hand and put the necklace in it. Then he caught his brother's hand, tugging at the glove. Chad removed it and did what Trey wanted—he caught Jasmine's hand in his. In this way they both held the Foster legacy of love in their clasped hands.

Trey's eyes fluttered closed.

“Trey,” Chad said. When there was no answer, Chad yelled, “Where the hell is that goddamn chopper?” He began performing CPR on his brother, even knowing it was too late.

Trey's face was as peaceful as he'd ever seen it....

M
ore emergency responder vehicles had arrived, but Chad didn't stir from his brother's side. When a technician jumped into the truck to help lift a stretcher inside, he recoiled at the look Chad gave him and jumped back out.

Chad tipped his hat low so Jasmine couldn't see his face, but she saw his lean jaw flexing. She had no idea what to say to comfort him because tears were streaming down her own face. Trey had been one of the kindest people she'd ever known. And she didn't know why, but she felt guilty. True, it was Mary who'd actually drawn Trey to LA, but she'd been complicit, a pawn in Kinnard's elaborate chess game, to better herself financially and fund her law school ambitions. And she'd used her looks on Chad just as he'd always said, though for a far more basic reason than he realized: She wanted him. For more than a day, or night.

Forever. But he'd never trusted her. Would he hate her now?

The rescue copter whirred overhead and landed some distance away, on the only flat ground. Chad stayed put, his head bowed, holding Trey's lifeless hand.

When two more technicians peeked inside, she tentatively touched Chad's shoulder. “Chad, they need to take him back to the hospital.”

He flung her hand off, and still without looking at her, leaped out of the truck and glared at an emergency technician. “I'm his next of kin. You don't touch him without my written permission.”

The technician stammered, “Ah, yes—sir, tha-that's standard practice—”

Riley looked up from a conference with Indio, Riverside, and CHP law enforcement. He moved aside and clasped Chad's arm sympathetically. When Chad flinched away he only said, “Kinnard's slipped through us somehow. We figure he must have had his own chopper waiting up in the mountains, that's why he came here to this isolated location. We're trying to track any registration numbers now, but nothing's come up yet. Montoya's gone, too, and his gang members never rat on him, so we've got a lot of work ahead of us.”

Chad said emotionlessly, “Where's Chester?”

Riley nodded toward a stand of trees where Chester was munching a clump of grass as his lead was held by a police officer.

“You searched the warehouse yet?” Chad asked Riley.

“In progress.”

“I want to be there. Can someone take me back? Someone can ride Chester back to the trailer—”

“I will.” Both men turned to see Jasmine standing there, listening. Chad opened his mouth as if to object, but he shrugged and turned back to Riley.

For the first time ever, Riley looked as if he didn't know quite what to say. “I thought you might want to, uh, accompany the chopper—”

“No. I can't do Trey any good that way,” Chad snarled. “See he's . . . taken care of until I can get there. But first I'm going to see that Kinnard's brought in, even if it kills me, too.” Chad turned on his heel toward a waiting patrol car, pulling an old pearl-handled pistol from his waistband and loading it with bullets from his pocket.

Riley saw the weapon, but shook his head when the CHP sergeant made a move toward Chad. “I'll finish up here and join you at the warehouse,” Riley called after Chad. The patrolman drove off, Chad in the passenger seat. As he passed Jasmine and Chester, Chad didn't even turn his head to look at them.

Worried about Chad, Jasmine hiked her skirt to her thighs and climbed on Chester. He stood docile as her slight weight settled in the saddle, not even mad she'd pulled him from his grazing. She kneed him gently and he moved forward, wending his way through various vehicles. When they were clear, she encouraged him to a brisk trot, something driving her to get back to the warehouse as soon as possible, but the dirt track was too rough for a gallop. She couldn't risk hurting Chester.

When she arrived at the warehouse thirty minutes later, she saw Chad holding something, staring down at it intently. Evidence boxes were being loaded into the back of a van and a crime scene investigator walked up to Chad as Jasmine tied Chester to a tree and approached.

“We have to add that to the inventory,” the investigator said. “You can review the evidence later.”

Chad reluctantly handed it over, tearing off his gloves. When the investigator was out of earshot, he caught her arm and hauled her close, but there was nothing lover-like in his touch as he lowered his head and whispered fiercely, “You lying bitch. I'm going to take you back to Amarillo to face justice, Texas style. It's not fraud anymore, babe. It's accessory to murder.” He stalked away to load Chester into the trailer, which had been linked to his truck, adding, “And stay the fuck away from my horse.” He got in the cab and drove away, dirt splatting at her so that she had to move aside. She saw Chester stumble inside the truck and knew how careful Chad was, typically, when he was hauling the stallion.

But this behavior wasn't typical . . .

She stared after him. When Riley got out of another vehicle and approached, she bit back tears. “I know he's upset, and I don't blame him for that, but I got myself kidnapped for him. I was trying so hard to help him find Trey . . .” Her voice trailed off as Riley held up a long plastic sheath. Inside was a contract headed simply, “For Services Rendered, Jasmine Routh, consultant, shall supply the following services to the Del Mar Corporation.” It went on to list a legal-sounding scope of work that mentioned the Foster brothers by name.

She'd never seen it before but she recognized Roger's fine hand, the bastard. She held out a hand for it, but Riley shook his head and dropped it back on top of the stack in the evidence box. Jasmine said evenly, “I can tell you I never signed a contract like that. This is more of Kinnard's false evidence trail. Can't you see he's doing all he can, including implicating me, to keep Chad away from Texas?” When Riley just looked at her, she sighed. “Luckily I can prove I've been doing all I can to accumulate evidence against the Del Mar Corporation. And I can prove Thomas Kinnard is the principal. Can you take me back to my place?”

 

Sometime later, at the Los Angeles Equestrian Center, Chad tried to focus on brushing Chester, but the normally soothing motions couldn't block the memories that came in a torrent now. Happy memories of Trey before they got so crossways. But none of them were solid enough to blank out the trauma of his brother's bruised, puffy face, relaxed in death.

Chad leaned his forehead on Chester's shining withers, but even the scent of horse couldn't comfort him. He knew he needed to go on to the morgue and sign the papers authorizing the autopsy. He knew he needed to face Jasmine and make her admit her collusion in luring Trey out here. Maybe then the bile of self-disgust wouldn't make him want to vomit. Above all, he knew he needed to drag her back with him to Texas whether she wanted to go or not. Only there, where his neighbors could ID her as Trey's floozy, and where he had jurisdiction, would she be punished as she deserved. He was the outsider here and he'd already seen the Beverly Hills style of justice.

Slow and maybe.

She deserved now and certain.

Now Trey was dead, no jury in West Texas would let her off scot-free, especially with her name on that contract with the same Del Mar Corporation that had finagled so many out of their mineral rights. That document gave him legal basis to take her back, even without a subpoena.

But for the moment, he was helpless under a black cloud of grief stronger even than the one that had enveloped him when his mama died. Trey had been his last remaining family, and the way he'd tried to bless Chad into a relationship with his girlfriend, as if even in death he wanted his brother to be happy, only made Chad feel worse. And then the horrible thought he'd been avoiding sucker punched him in the gut: Would Trey have been so generous if he'd known Chad had been screwing his girlfriend while he'd been beaten almost to death?

Broken at last, Chad fell to his knees and wept. Chester nuzzled at his hair, whuffing his sympathy, but Chad didn't even feel it.

 

Inside her apartment, Jasmine made sure Riley saw the mess everywhere. “If I'm partnered with Thomas, why did he send his hoods to kidnap me and search my place for the most important piece of evidence linking him to the Del Mar Corporation?”

“Is that why you were at the warehouse? They'd kidnapped you?”

“Yes, and I think were about to kill me. Look.” Jasmine turned a bright light onto her face and showed him the barest tape residue around her mouth. “Left over from the duct tape.” Riley ran a gentle finger along the residue and then did it again as if he liked the feel of her, so she pulled away.

She walked to the map on the wall and tore it down. “Thomas falsified that contract as he's falsified so many documents. I'm no angel”—she began typing her combination into the revealed digital safe—“I do manipulate men for money, but almost from the day I met him, I've done all I can to help Chad find Trey.” She reached inside the cavity and pulled out the sheaf of papers, leaving her neat stacks of hundreds banded inside. “Now I'm going to do all I can to bring to justice the man who's responsible for Trey's death. And who's wrecked so many lives.” Including hers, if Chad never forgave her for Trey . . . but she didn't say this, at least not to Riley.

Riley flipped through the papers quickly and froze on the last page. “According to Foster, law enforcement agencies in five states have been looking for this signature page.”

“Are they strippers who know how to manipulate Kinnard's attorney?”

Riley's grin was genuine and stretched his tired face. “Yes, well, I'm sure you also know this may not hold up to a legal challenge because of the way you acquired it.”

“I'm not an attorney or a police officer, and given the Del Mar Corporation has been trying to imply I'm working for them, which I'm not, I think most jurors would agree I have a right to defend myself. And I've been assisting in your investigation, haven't I, as a concerned citizen?”

Riley was already on his cell phone. “Get an evidence team over here right away.” He hung up and carefully stacked the copies on the coffee table. “You can positively ID Montoya and his guys as the men who kidnapped you?”

“Yes, if you can put him in a lineup.”

Riley stared at the bronze of the bronco rider. “Are you going to see Foster?”

“If he'll see me.” She recalled the way Chad had refused to even look at her when she rode past him, but she had to try. She couldn't leave him to face his grief alone, though until she cleared her name, she'd probably make him feel worse, not better.

She wished for the umpteenth time she had Mary's new cell phone number. Mary was the only one who could settle all of this.

 

In Amarillo, Mary sat in her rental car and stared at the door marked Texas Department of Public Safety. And in smaller print, Land Fraud, Rustling Investigations. The office of Texas Rangers Company C was inside, and she knew Chad Foster had worked there until he quit to go tearing after Trey. She also knew that if she walked through that door, she'd not only lose the financial stability she'd worked so hard for, she might ultimately lose her life, even if she didn't go to prison.

Thomas Kinnard didn't take kindly to informers.

She could probably get Jasmine to help negotiate immunity for her if she agreed to testify against Thomas. But no matter how she weighed the consequences, the alternative was more terrible: Trey had disappeared, and if she didn't go forward, now, it might be too late for him.

Mary drove away, resolved to return with all the pertinent documentation: the surveys, the geological, even her own contract with Thomas. But first she had to dismiss the workers at the rig and shut it down . . .

 

A couple of hours later, his expression impassive but for the pinkish cast to his eyes, Chad entered the hospital where they'd taken Trey. As usual, he hadn't been able to find anywhere to park because none of the public spaces in the hospital lot had been big enough to accommodate his dually. So he was double-parked near the entrance, but he couldn't put this particular duty off.

However, when they showed him Trey's body to get a positive ID, Chad's knees threatened to buckle again. He thought of the clinical brutality of an autopsy, which he'd seen more than once: the splitting of the chest for removal of the organs, the weighing of the brain, the corny jokes the medical examiner's team often cracked just to keep their sanity . . .

Chad tossed the pen down without signing the autopsy approval form. “No. I just want to purchase a wooden coffin to take him home in. An autopsy is pointless. We know he was beaten to death, probably with a tire iron. Trey . . . hated hospitals.” Chad held up his hand when the morgue technician began to protest. He slapped down a credit card. “Run this. Just pack him in ice, insulate him as well as you can, and I'll come pick him up tomorrow morning.” He turned and walked off. Since he had no intention of staying in California to pursue the case, it didn't matter if Trey was autopsied anyway. The legal evidence in Texas would be Kinnard and Jasmine.

Time for an even more unpleasant duty . . . time to go see Jasmine. Chad wished he never had to lay eyes on the bitch again, but she was the best, the only link really, to Thomas Kinnard. One way or another, when he dusted the California dirt from his boots tomorrow, she'd be in that truck with him.

Chad walked outside, on autopilot as his brain was already forging ahead to the likely charges against Jasmine once he got her to Amarillo. He almost stumbled against the tiny vehicle before he saw it. One of those little three-wheeled carts operated by the parking gestapo. Parked alongside his dually while an officious little guy in a uniform scribbled a ticket.