Foster Justice (7 page)

“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 . . .

C
had 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 elevator-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.

The rumbling sound of a loud engine caught Chad's attention. Still acting casual, he sauntered to the side window, twitched the heavy curtain aside and looked out. A green lowrider leveled itself with hydraulics over the rough alley pavement and screeched out of view before Chad could read the rear plate. He frowned. He'd glimpsed that car before . . . Where was it?

It came to him and his hand clenched so hard on the curtain he heard the stitching tear slightly. Oh, the green lowrider was familiar, all right, and with that flame decal flowing over the hood, probably one of a kind.

The same car had hovered a half block away as the driver had watched him search Trey's car. He'd only noticed it because of its loud engine, paint job, and flashy hubs, but he was certain it was the same car. A gangbanger's car at the site of his brother's abandoned vehicle in a rough area downtown, now showing up at the Beverly Hills gallery where Trey's work was displayed?
Coincidence my ass
, Chad thought.

Blindly, Chad let the curtain fall and turned. Despite the gallery owner's protests to the contrary, Kinnard was connected to Trey's disappearance, and Chad was pretty damn sure he'd just met the coconspirator. So angry he couldn't meet the man's eyes, Chad pulled his hat low over his face. So far evidence linking Kinnard to Trey's disappearance was circumstantial at best; he still had to bide his time.

He accepted the receipt, looked down at it, and gave it back. “You mind signing it? Just to make it official and all, from the owner of the gallery.”

Kinnard's eyes narrowed as they met Chad's, but when Chad smiled blandly, Kinnard could hardly say no after a man had written him a five-thousand-dollar check. He signed it. This time, Chad folded it and put it in his other shirt pocket. “Pleasure doing business, Mr. Kinnard.”

“Same here, Mr. Foster. My artist will be pleased at your recognition of his talent.”

“Surely would enjoy meeting the feller.”

“I'll tell him when we talk that you asked about him.”

“Any chance I can get his number?”

“That's against my contractual agreement with my artists. But again, I'll ask his permission next time we speak.”

“And when might that be?”

“He's up the coast painting, mostly in solitude, so I never know when he'll call. He leaves his phone off, but I assure you when he comes back to town he'll personalize his signature on the painting for you.”

Convenient. And not like Trey, who hated solitude and didn't much care if he left his name behind. Some of his best work had been produced in a painting class. But Chad only shrugged and exited the office. He lifted the wrapped, bulky painting under one arm, nodded his thanks, and moved to the front door.

It opened before he reached it and in stepped Jasmine. She was dressed casually today in tight jeans and a long T-shirt over her hips, and never had she been more appealing to Chad. She was even wearing cowboy boots. His favorite color. Red.

She arched her eyebrows at the painting in his arms, glanced at the bare window display, and smiled at him as she held the door. “You two were made for each other.”

“That's more like my line, isn't it?”

“I don't think you could use a line if your life depended on it.”

The words were out before he could stop them because they came from deep in his gut, where he lived. “I bet you've heard every last line there is.”

Her smile faded and she pointedly stepped aside so he didn't brush against her as he exited. “Better an honest attempt to get me into bed than a hypocrite who thinks he's too good for it.”

Chad turned so fast the bulky painting caught his hip. “No one calls me a hypocrite!” The Fosters, even Trey, had always prided themselves on honesty.

She hesitated, and then, as if goaded, snapped, “Well, there's only one way to find out. I owe you a lap dance.” She gave him that north-south look. “I dare you. I double dog dare you. Show me you don't want me right down to your big ol' pointy-toed boots and I'll believe you.” She closed the door so hard it brushed him in the butt, leaving him half in the doorway, half on the sidewalk.

But then the little witch, or maybe she fit the other rhyming word better, always left him off balance.

He stomped off in his big ol' pointy-toed boots to his truck.

Inside the gallery, Jasmine steadied her shaking hands by gripping her satchel purse more tightly. She didn't want Thomas to see how much Chad Foster could rile her. However, Thomas came rushing out of his office, his hair a bit mussed, which was unusual for him, his expression grim.

He lightened up a bit when he saw her. He gave her a distracted kiss on the cheek as she passed him. “You here for your check? I think I just sold the last painting that was in the show, but your bonus should be pretty good. I told Roger to leave it in my desk. I'll get it for you, but then I've got to run—”

“I can get it, Thomas. I know where you keep them.”

He tossed her his keys. “Lock the door and my desk and leave the keys behind the counter in the gallery when you're finished. Gotta go.” He bolted out.

She stared after him. She didn't recall ever seeing him so frazzled. And Chad hadn't been exactly bubbly either, but then he never was. She suspected they'd had some type of confrontation.

She unlocked his office door, closed it behind her, and appraised the dim, elegant room. When her schedule allowed, she'd even used his password and his computer to help him with his accounts, so he was comfortable giving her free rein in his private space.

Clicking on the desk lamp, she sat down in his desk chair and powered up his computer. However, when she tried the password he'd given her, she got an error message. Well, she was only supposed to pick up a check, so he'd have no reason to give her a new password. Still, that he'd changed it without telling her was a bit worrisome. And while she was a bit squeamish about sneaking around like this in the office of a man who'd been kind to her, worry about Trey and concern for Mary overrode her scruples. This had nothing to do with Chad.

Absolutely nothing. She didn't care what he thought of her . . .

Not at all.

Did Thomas not trust her? Or was he hiding something? Or was it both?

She stared into space for a minute, trying to think what password he might have used. None of the usual, kids, pets, of which he had neither. Despite all the warnings from Internet gurus, just about everyone she knew used the same password or variant of something easy to remember, and Thomas was not that computer literate. She thought of the things most important to him and a memory popped into her head of the time he'd told her of his first big oil discovery.

His eyes had lit up as they shared wine in his office one night and she'd asked about his oil activities. “Everyone said that field was played out, but the geologicals showed substrata that broke off on a diagonal and angled downward. It was obvious to me they just drilled in the wrong place. It was called the Dorado field, West Texas.”

Dorado. She typed it in the password box and the computer came to life. Feeling like an intruder, she went straight to his contacts list and scrolled through to the
F
s. She must have missed it. She scrolled through more slowly, but sure enough, Trey wasn't listed. She was there, here was Chad's cell phone listing. Jasmine seriously thought about entering Chad's number into her phone but felt that would violate his privacy since he hadn't offered it. She looked once more, but found nothing for Trey . . . or a new number for Mary. That was very odd because she was sure Mary was working for Kinnard.