Foster Justice (8 page)

She leaned back in the chair, her mind racing. What did this mean? How could Thomas be promoting Trey's paintings and saying he was one of his top artists when he didn't even have a cell number for him?

The answer was obvious: He couldn't. Trey was missing, at best, and quite possibly dead. And Thomas was involved.

Alarmed and dismayed, Jasmine rose so abruptly she knocked over the heavy executive-style chair. As she bent to raise it upright, the arm of the chair knocked into the side of the desk. She heard a strange, hollow clicking sound emanating from the bottom of the desk. She bent down and looked under the heavy piece of furniture. A hidden compartment built into the side of the panel supporting the file drawers on the right of the desk had popped open. It was the exact dimensions of the panel and so cleverly concealed, she'd never have seen it even if she'd been looking. She crawled all the way under the desk because she couldn't see inside the drawer and realized it had a spring catch. She popped it and the long, deep sideways drawer came loose in her hands.

Scooting out, she emptied the contents onto the top of the desk.

Just some contracts, including the one for Trey's land. She opened the document and scanned it, her nerves jangling when she read the legal plat description. Mineral rights, section so-and-so of the Dorado field. Next she fingered through yellowing old newspaper articles, one showing Thomas riding a pumpjack, a cowboy hat in his hand as if he rode a bucking bronco. She checked the date: 1995.

There were torn bits from a couple other articles. The paper had yellowed about the same so she concluded they were from about the same era. She carefully spread the tiny scraps on the desk pad, wondering who had taken them and why. She saw only “Thomas Hopper . . . land fraud.” And the second one showed a caption but no picture: “Lead investigator Texas Ranger Gerald Foster testifies in Hopper trial.”

Jasmine didn't need a picture to complete the vivid one in her head. She knew Chad and Trey's dad had been named Gerald. Everything snapped into place, and the image was not pretty.

Why Mary was away, why she felt so guilty. She must be helping Thomas in whatever land scheme he was working on. Trey probably took these articles when he saw his father's name mentioned. That also explained why Thomas had reacted so strongly to Chad. Perhaps even why he'd invited Trey out here. If Chad and Trey were sole owners of the last parcels of a big new claim in the Dorado field, Thomas would do anything to get them out of the way. Especially if they were the sons of the man he blamed for his prison sentence years ago. He'd told her about his time in jail, made light of it, saying it was the making of him and so on, but from this perspective it was obvious he was up to his old tricks and hadn't learned a thing. Changing his name from Hopper to Kinnard didn't change his stripes.

The only question was—What did she do now? If she told Chad what she'd found, he'd go on a tear and haul Thomas back to Texas, procedure or not. She knew he was working without jurisdiction, that he'd quit the Rangers to find out what had happened to his brother. Besides, these scraps were not real evidence, not enough to convict Thomas of murder anyway. Thomas would hire the best criminal lawyer in the country and Chad would be the one under fire. No authority, wrong arrest, lack of jurisdiction, the string of infractions just kept scrolling across her mind's eye.

The only viable option, legally anyway, was to collect more evidence.

Feeling very old and in need of a shower, she put everything back the way it was, carefully attached the drawer into its hiding place, grabbed her check out of the desk, turned off the lights and powered down the computer, being sure she closed out of all the menus she'd used. She also deleted her browsing history, and then she locked the office door. She put the keys behind the counter as Thomas had asked, threw the lock catch on the front door as she exited, and walked out.

She was opening the door to her sporty little car when she sensed someone watching her. She looked up and saw a hooded Hispanic kid, tattoos on his arms, wearing a backward baseball cap, watching her from behind a light post.

Thinking nothing of it because men of all ages stared at her, she got into her car and started it.

So she didn't see the kid pull out a cell phone and make a call. “She just left. Want me to follow her?”

C
had waited for Corey to come on the line, looking down at the fax confirmation in his hand. He'd just come from a copy store where he sent the fax to Corey's machine. His partner should have had time to see it by now.

“Corey Cooper.”

“Hey, Corey, it's Chad. You get the fax I just sent?”

“I figured that was you, with the CA area code. Why on earth did you send me the signature page of an invoice for some work of art?”

“That work of art is by Trey, and I think the man who signed the receipt is involved in his disappearance. If you can access the Del Mar files, I want you to cross-check the signature and handwriting with any of the deeds we have copies of from the land grab task force. This Kinnard guy might not be using his real name if he's head of the Del Mar corporation, but he can't change his handwriting.”

“Chad, I'd be pissing in the wind. I'm no handwriting expert. Besides, I'd have to sneak in after hours since I'm not on the case, and if Sinclair caught me . . .”

Chad could see the shudder even across the miles. He whacked his hat against his thigh. “Then give the fax to the head of the division working the Del Mar case with the FBI, not sure who that is—”

“Uh, Chad, guess you haven't heard. Sinclair said he was getting stale, so he asked to head the case. Right after you left.”

Crap!
Chad smashed his hat back on his head, half wishing he'd punched his old boss and erstwhile friend. He was close, he could smell it, and this Kinnard was not only hiding what he knew about Trey, he was hip deep in the Del Mar muddy waters. There was Texas in his office, Texas in his attitude, and too many connections between him and Trey. His gut told him this asshole was head of the Del Mar Corporation that had signed the contract to buy Trey's half of the land. Now all he had to do was prove it.

Chad said wearily, “All right, well, just hang on to it for now. You got the name of that FBI fella leading the task force on the Feds side? Maybe I can't go through official channels, but I still own a ranch acquired in a questionable land deal by our prime land fraud suspect. Just say I'm doing due diligence on this Del Mar Corporation.”

While he waited, still standing under the exterior awning by the Beverly Hills copy store using his cell phone, Chad heard a distinctive roar. He looked up in time to see that suspicious green lowrider prowl around a corner—two car lengths behind Jasmine. He recognized her sporty little Acura exiting the alley behind the gallery. When she turned, the lowrider turned after her. He punched the End button on his phone, glaring up the long blocks to where he'd been forced to park his dually. They'd be gone by the time he reached it . . .

He bit off a curse and scanned the street in time to see a cab disgorge a passenger directly across from him. He ran to the driver. “Follow that green car.”

“Off duty. Sorry.”

The two cars had already rounded the corner. Never had he wished more for his badge than now, but he did the next best thing—flashed one of his dwindling hundreds. “How about now?”

The cabby grabbed the bill and opened the rear door. Chad climbed in. “Catch up to that green lowrider that made a left, but keep your distance. I don't want him to know we're following him.”

Starting his meter, the cabby did as directed. He was a grizzled old pro with a graying ponytail. He knew how to trail a suspect, staying several cars back in the next lane over so he could always see his target.

They wound up Wilshire slowly as rush hour was starting, and when they reached West Hollywood, snaked through less crowded side streets. The cabby dropped so far back they could barely see the bright green tail end, but then the car stopped. The cabby stopped, too, pulling to the side as if parking.

Chad used the zoom feature on his cell phone to take a picture of the vehicle's rear license plate. Inside the car he made out the driver, wearing a baseball cap. Using the zoom on his phone again he tried to get a picture of the driver but only caught the back of his head. “Drive forward,” he instructed the cabby. “Slowly. I'm going to duck down in the seat so he won't see me. Stop at that stop sign two blocks up. I should be able to get a good shot of his face from there.”

While the cabby complied, Chad tossed his hat on the seat and ducked behind the rear seat. When the cabby stopped again, Chad inched above the rear windshield and snapped a pic. This time he got a clear shot of the driver's face. He was on a cell phone and frowned as if he didn't agree with what were obviously instructions, but he shrugged and tossed the phone down.

“You want I should drive on?” the cabby asked.

“Circle the block and come down that street he's stopped on, but pull up before he sees us.”

Sure enough, when they'd circled the block and he could see the street sign, Chad recognized the name. This was Jasmine's street. He glanced up at the historic looking fourplex, old but still impressive, knowing Jasmine lived in a one-bedroom on the top floor. He'd run her sheet before he came out here and he recalled the address though it was nicer than it had sounded on paper.

The outside stair landing was empty, the ornate wrought-iron gate closed, but her car was parked in a tiny slot next to the building. So this asshole was definitely following her. However, for now she seemed safe because the lowrider had rumbled back to life. “Can you cut behind this building up the alley and come in behind him again? I need to see where he goes next.”

“Yes, but it's gonna cost you.”

“So what else is new in this damn place?”

The cabby glared over his shoulder. “You don't like it here, git. Just so's you understand, cowboy. You don't like us, we don't like you.”

“Well, lookee here, someone else speaks the lingo.” Chad waited until they were moving again, following the same gangbanger he'd seen in Kinnard's office. The kid had driven south on La Cienega Boulevard to pick up the 10—toward downtown. He kept his tone conversational. “I thought you Californios were all the liberal, live-and-let live type. I can't walk down the street without someone calling me a cowboy and I haven't ridden a bronco in fifteen years. I love fine wines and expensive art. So who's stereotyping?”

The cabby growled something to himself but subsided and went with the flow of traffic several cars behind the lowrider. Chad sighed, thinking he needed access to a blackboard and his old English teacher, what was her name? Oh yes, Miss Gorne. She'd make him write his favorite word five hundred times, the same one she'd made him write whenever he acted up. Oh, he could spell it just fine. Funny how he'd never learned its meaning....

Patience.

 

As soon as she walked into her apartment, Jasmine saw the flashing light on her answering machine. She listened to her messages. Junk call, sales call . . . she caught her breath as she recognized the voice. Trey . . . Husky, quiet, panicked.

“Jasmine, no time, they took my phone, can't reach Mary, someone else has her number, she must have a new one. They're holding me out near City of Industry, I think. Some kind of deserted warehouse. Cars everywhere. Think it's a chop shop. Can you call my brother in Amarillo at the DPS offices, don't remember his work number, he didn't answer his cell—” The call cut off abruptly.

Jasmine flew to her cell phone before she remembered she and Chad had never actually spoken on the phone. He seemed to know all about her, but she didn't even have his number as she'd been too conscientious to record it from Thomas's files. She tossed the phone on the couch, took a deep breath to steady herself, then, her fingers shaking only slightly, she paged through the digital messages until she found the time stamp. She glanced at her watch—three hours ago. Damn, what if they'd caught him and that was why he'd hung up abruptly? Jasmine looked down at the caller ID but the number Trey was using must have been unlisted because it showed “unavailable.”

No time to waste.

Holding her phone close so it would record as she replayed Trey's message, she tried to remember what little Chad had said about where he was staying. Just “farther east up the 5.” Big help. Time to make another stop at the gallery, and this time she wouldn't be invading Chad's privacy because he'd be desperate to hear this tip. She grabbed up her purse, stuffed in her cell phone, locked her door, and flew down the stairs to her car.

Fifteen minutes later she snuck into Thomas's office, greatly relieved he wasn't there, and turned on his system. Using the Dorado password, she brought up his digital contact list. She paged through the screens until she found Foster, Chad. Using her cell phone so she'd have the number, she dialed the unfamiliar area code.

All it did was ring . . . a few times only, as if he'd turned the phone off in the middle of the rings. His curt message came on, name only. She spoke softly, “Chad, I just got a message from Trey. He's being held somewhere in the City of Industry he thinks. I know where that is if you'll meet me. Here's my number in case it doesn't appear on your screen.” She recited it and turned off her cell phone. She was about to power off the computer when she noticed another notation below his cell number.

Thomas was nothing if not efficient. Address in LA: Los Angeles Equestrian Center, Burbank. Good, that was on the way to City of Industry. She turned off the computer and bolted out.

 

Chad tapped the cabby's shoulder. “Pull in behind that truck so he doesn't see us.” The cabby complied without a word.

The lowrider had pulled up to a grungy diner downtown, but a brand-spanking-new Mercedes C63 AMG was parked a few spaces down. Not exactly typical wheels for this demographic but exactly what Kinnard would drive. Every instinct he possessed told Chad he needed to hear what these two unlikely allies said. No way Kinnard would even come here unless he didn't want to be seen.

Chad's cell phone rang as he was getting out, and irritably he shut it off and tossed it on the seat, along with his hat so he'd be less conspicuous. He'd gotten another missed call earlier, but when he looked at the contact it said “unavailable,” so he'd not paid it much attention.

From his window, the cabby watched him trying to blend in, and shrugged as if to say,
Doesn't help. You're still a sore-tailed cat
.

Chad glared at him. “I'll be back.”

“You have the wrong accent for that line.” The cabby smirked.

Did everyone out here reference the whole world with movie lines? Biting back something more pungently Texan, Chad peered around the big cargo truck that was double-parked, the rear ramp down, still idling. He couldn't see a damn thing from here; he'd have to move closer. He had to move almost into the doorway to see inside the diner's grimy plate glass window, but sure enough, he recognized the punk, facing him, and Kinnard's fancy-suited but perfectly straight back and five-hundred-dollar haircut.

When the punk glanced up, Chad ducked to the side. What he'd give for some of that fancy audio equipment they sometimes used on stakeouts. No way could he slip in and out of this joint without their seeing him. He debated the wisdom of his next move, but it was the only thing he could think of at the moment. He went back to the car and opened the cabbie's door. He pulled his last hundred from his wallet and dangled it in front of the scowling face. “Another tip for you plus full fare if you'll slip into that diner and play little pitcher.”

The cabby snatched the hundred. “Little pitcher?” He got out.

“You know, little pitchers have big ears.” When he got a blank look, Chad stood back and waved his hand impatiently toward the diner. “Never mind. Eavesdrop.” Must be another Texas saying Mama had cursed him with.

Chad pulled the cabby to the side of the door. “See those two huddled together near the back? Can you slip into that booth behind them and see if you can hear what they're saying?”

The cabby eyed him up and down. “You a cop?”

“Not anymore. I'm looking for my brother, that's it. I promise it's nothing illegal.”

The cabby sighed heavily but walked into the diner and seated himself as Chad had requested. He pretended to read a menu but from Chad's perspective he did indeed have big ears. Chad also suspected this wasn't the first time this grizzled veteran of the LA freeway wars had listened in on people. However, he'd barely sat down before Kinnard rose abruptly. Not offering his hand to the kid, he turned on his heel and strode arrogantly toward the door.

Chad barely had time to duck out of sight behind the idling truck. Kinnard stalked toward his vehicle, anger in every abrupt move. Usually he was smooth as owl shit even in the way he moved, but not this time. What had they been arguing about?

The punk exited on his heels and went to his lowrider, firing it up. He screeched off before the cabby could make it to the door. Chad gestured impatiently,
come on!
But by the time the cabby had started his engine, the lowrider's rumble had faded. They drove around the block, searching, but it was gone.

“You catch anything?” Chad asked

“Not much. Something about how the gangbanger could clean up his own mess from the old dude. That he'd come out and check the new merchandise himself sometime tonight. Then he got up and left.”

A chill slithered down Chad's spine. Mess? Had time already run out for Trey? And he'd lost his best lead . . .

When he arrived back at his truck after paying the astronomical cab fare with his credit card, Chad was just in time to see a tow truck driver hooking up his dually. Chad bolted out of the cab and ran to the driver.