Hard Evidence (8 page)

She'd been interviewing him for about half an hour, the rhythm of their conversation dictated by the color of the traffic light. He smelled strongly of alcohol and had the restless edge of someone who'd lived most of his life on the street. Dressed in a dirty green army coat and tattered jeans, he held a cardboard sign that read, "Vietnam vet. Anything helps."

But Arthur wasn't really a war vet. He was an escaped felon who'd thumbed his way to Colorado from Louisiana, or so he claimed. When that announcement hadn't scared Tessa off—and after she'd laid a five-dollar bill in his hand—he'd started talking. He told her how gang members picked on the weaker homeless people, stealing their money, their booze, and their drugs, beating them up if they resisted—or just for fun. He told her how most of the time, those who'd been beaten chose not to seek medical help for fear the police would get involved.

"It's the rules of the street," he'd said.

The light turned green, and the queue of cars accelerated and moved down the street.

Arthur came over and stood beside her, his gaze on traffic. "It's too damned warm," he said. "I make better money when it's cold. People feel bad for me."

Tessa went back to her questions. "Have you heard any rumors about a turf war, any talk about a teenage girl being killed in a drive-by?"

Arthur glanced down at her as if she'd asked something really stupid. "There's always a turf war goin' on. And, yeah, I heard about the shootin', but I ain't heard no one say who done it. Was she wearin' colors?"

¡Ayudeme! ¡Me van a matar!

"No, not that I could see. She wasn't wearing much of anything, actually."

Arthur nodded. "Coulda been anyone who done it. Maybe gangs. Maybe her pimp. Maybe she was workin' as a mule."

Her pimp? A mule?

Tessa hadn't considered those possibilities. "She seemed too young to be working as a prostitute."

Arthur laughed. "You ain't spent much time on the streets. A lot of homeless kids end up turnin' tricks, bein' pimped. Some trade sex or do porno for food. They gotta survive somehow. Hell, some join gangs to keep away from the pimps and the dealers."

The light turned yellow, then red.

A new queue of cars drew up beside them. Arthur went off to beg, while Tessa digested what he'd told her.

Was it possible that the girl had been a homeless teen who'd gotten mixed up with a pimp? Had she been trying to escape and been killed in retribution? Were the three other girls family and friends, as she'd assumed, or were they part of some pimp's stable? She remembered what Mr. Simms told her about the older woman.

I always thought it was strange the way she watched them
—
like a hawk. I figured maybe she wanted to make sure they didn't steal nothing
.

A window rolled down, and a middle-aged woman with short brown hair and a round face waved a white flyer out the window, interrupting Tessa's thoughts.

"First Baptist Church is offering a soup kitchen this Sunday," she shouted over the sound of idling motors, thrusting the piece of paper into Arthur's hand. "Lots of good food and warm winter clothes. Be sure to come, and bring your lady friend."

Arthur turned to Tessa and handed her the flyer, his lips curving in a smile. "She thinks you're my woman."

Tessa glanced down at her denim jacket, black turtleneck, jeans, and the Merrells on her feet. Did she look homeless?

Arthur laughed at her reaction. "You want to talk with the gangs, you gotta hit Crack Park in Five Points or head into Aurora."

"Crack Park?"

He grinned, then turned back toward waiting dollar bills. "Curtis Park. But you'd best watch out, darlin'. Them boys'll eat a tidbit like you for lunch."

More than any other street, Colfax told the story of Denver. It carved its way east to west, from the projects of Aurora past the golden dome of the state capitol to the skyscrapers of downtown, passing from poverty to ostentatious wealth, from adult bookstores to art galleries, from pawnshops to museums, until it turned into Highway 6 and disappeared into the mountains beyond. Its sidewalks were walked by hippies and housewives, prostitutes and politicians, students and senior citizens, businessmen and bag ladies alike.

Tessa parked her car in front of a Muslim grocery at Colfax and Yosemite and walked east into Aurora. She'd spent a few hours in Curtis Park, interviewing more homeless people and hearing similar stories from them. Everywhere she'd looked there was gang graffiti, most of it street advertisements for crack dealers. But she hadn't seen anyone who looked like a gang member or a dealer. She'd have to come back at night.

Now it was nearing evening, and the streets bustled in the waning daylight. A young man dressed in jeans and a gray hooded sweatshirt sold homemade CDs out of the trunk of his car, his speakers throbbing with bass. An elderly grocer adjusted the display in his window. A gaggle of young Latinas stood by the front door, sipping soft drinks and giggling.

They stopped giggling when she walked up to them.

She switched into Spanish, introduced herself, and showed them her press card. The girls watched her through mistrustful eyes as she told them about the shooting and described the victim. But before she could ask them whether they'd heard anything, they hurried away, shaking their heads.

"
No sabemos nada
," said one.
We don't know anything
.

She got the same reaction from an elderly African-American couple, a group of young men playing a game of three-on-three, and the cashier at the nearby liquor store.

No one wanted to talk with her.

She couldn't blame them. She knew what it was to grow up poor, to trust no one, to fear outsiders. And that's what she was here—an outsider.

She had just passed what was obviously a housing project when a group of five boys—all around the age of ten—walked up to her. Most wore Oakland Raiders caps turned to the side, and a few had blue bandanas tucked in their jeans pockets or tied around their necks.

Mini-Crips?

"You want somethin'?" one of them asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

He looked pretty tough for a kid still small enough for Tessa to turn over her knee. She felt a stab of sadness that anyone so young should have to be so hard. Had she been this way?

"I'm Tessa Novak with the
Denver Independent
newspaper. I'm looking for someone who can tell me what's happening on the streets." She showed them her press card, thought of the graffiti she'd seen near the site of the shooting. It was taking a big risk, she knew, but if she didn't do something, she wasn't going to get anywhere. "Syko or Flaco around?"

And what are you going to do if
they
are the killers, girl
?

The boy who'd spoken to her shrugged, and the kids walked off.

"Short conversation," Tessa murmured to herself, inwardly grateful they hadn't seemed to have heard of the two.

She'd be lying if she said she wasn't nervous. More than once she'd felt a strange prickling on her neck and had gotten the feeling she was being followed. She knew there was violence on these streets; she'd written news articles about it. But she also knew most of the people living here weren't dangerous. Like everyone else, they were just trying to make it through another day. People passing through from wealthier parts of the city saw the graffiti, the poverty, the decay— and they felt afraid. What they didn't see was the sense of community, the loyalty, the flower beds, the hardworking parents trying to give their kids a better life.

She continued on her way, crossing the intersection at Sable, aware it was almost dark. She needed to hop on the bus and catch a ride back to her car, but she'd realized a block or two back that she wasn't seeing only Crips graffiti now. She'd crossed into a part of town claimed by both Crips and Bloods. She'd stopped to document the graffiti down a side alley when that strange prickling ran down her neck again.

Then she heard voices approaching from behind.

She turned—and found a dozen young men headed straight for her. It was too dark for her to see their colors, but she had no doubt they were gang members. Her heartbeat ratcheted up a few notches.

Teenagers, Tess. They're teenagers.

The teenagers were taller than she was. They stopped a few feet away from her, glared down at her. More than one held a gun.

Tessa swallowed, willed herself not to show fear.

"I'm Syko. That's Flaco. Word is you're lookin' for us."

"Gentlemen," she said. "I'm so glad you're here."

Chapter 8

Syko and Flaco weren't happy to see her. That much Tessa knew for certain.

Adrenaline spiking, she showed them her press card and handed them each a business card. Then she told them about the shooting, described the victim, gave them the address of the house where the girls had been seen.

"I saw your graffiti down at Colfax and York, and I thought if anyone knew what was happening on that end of town it would be you two."

The kid closest to her, the tallest one of the bunch, laughed. "Hey, Flaco, you hear this shit? You put in some work down at Colfax and York?"

The youth beside him shook his head, his gaze fixed on Tessa. "Hell, no, man."

"Lots of people get lit up on the streets. Don't mean we know who done it."

"Have you heard anything, any rumors about who did? Another gang maybe?"

"Why should I tell you?" Syko shrugged, took a step toward her, crowding her.

She stood fast, lifted her chin, heart thrumming. "Because

I'm the only one stupid enough to stand by myself in a dark alley and ask."

Sniggers passed through the group, and Syko gave a snort.

Flaco shook his head, a smile on his face. "You're loco, lady."

"Could be we heard something." Syko eased off, gave her space. "Could be we're too smart to talk about it, even with a sweet
chula
like you."

"Is there a turf war going on?"

"Hell, Blondie, you mean more than usual? No."

"Have you ever taken in kids living on the street?"

'Take 'em in, give 'em food, a home, family. It happens."

"What do you do if they try to leave the gang?"

Syko crossed his arms over his chest. "Depends. Sometimes we give 'em a courting out. Sometimes we kick the shit out of 'em. Could be she was leavin' some other gang, but I doubt it. There's worse things than gangbangers on these streets."

The other kids laughed and nodded.

"I've heard pimps prey on homeless teens, force them to work—" She felt the attention of the group shift, heard the safeties on several handguns click off.

She wondered for a moment if she should pull her gun, too, and she felt an impulse to laugh at the thought of her standing in an alley drawing her gun with a bunch of gang members. But then she remembered how quickly Julian had taken the revolver from her. She didn't want to give the bad guys another weapon to use against her.

"Dark Angel," Syko said, looking beyond her down the darkened alley. "Fuck!"

Then he and Flaco murmured something to the group in words she didn't catch. Heads craned. A few younger members of the group took several steps backward, but Syko and Flaco held their ground.

Heart in her throat, Tessa turned toward the crunch of boots on gravel.

A man walked in long strides through the darkness toward them. Nothing but a dark silhouette, shadow against shadow, he walked down the alley with the grace of a predator. She didn't need to see his face to know who he was.

Julian.

He walked up to stand beside her, acknowledged Syko and Flaco with a nod of his head, and rested his hand in the small of Tessa's back, the heat of his touch burning through her denim jacket. The intensity of his presence seemed to make the air vibrate, the signal unmistakably one of suppressed violence, menace, dominance.

"Yo, Dark Angel, we just kickin' it. Is Blondie here with you?"

Dark Angel?

Tessa almost laughed. Then she heard Julian's answer.

"Do me a favor. Keep an eye out for her, and spread word that she's under my protection. She has a bad habit of getting herself into trouble."

Furious, Tessa started to object, but Syko cut her off.

"You got it, man." Then he looked down at her. "Why didn't you say you was Dark Angel's woman?"

"Because I'm not!"

But no one was listening to her.

"We gotta jet. See you, Blondie. Dark Angel, man." Then Syko gave a jerk of his head and the group turned on their heels and strode back down the alley.

Tessa whirled to face Julian. "You just scared off the only interview I've gotten all day!"

He took her arm, his gaze on the alley behind her. 'Time go to, Goldilocks. I'll give you a ride back to your car."

She jerked her arm free. "Forget it. I'll take the bus."

"No, you won't." His gaze seemed to scan the street.

"Who the hell do you think you are?"

"Your best chance of getting home in one pretty piece."

She gave a disgusted snort and stomped off ahead of him. "Oh, please! I was doing just fine without your help. I didn't need to be rescued!"

"They're killers, Tessa." He overtook her in one step, fell in beside her, each of his strides easily two of hers. "They got to be gang leaders by pulling the trigger."

"They weren't going to pull the trigger on me!"

From the distance came the wail of a police siren.

"Maybe not, but I didn't feel like taking that chance just so you could grab a headline."

"Headlines?" For a moment, she couldn't believe what he'd just said. "You think I'm doing this for the glory?"

He glanced down at her. "Aren't you?"

"No! I'd much rather be at home sitting in a hot bath reading a book than slinking down some stupid alley scared to death. I'm just doing my job."

"You're not just a reporter, Tessa. You're a murder witness. Or had you forgotten?"

"Of course I haven't forgotten!" She felt tears of anger sting her eyes, blinked them back. "
She's
why I'm here! I can't let my fear keep me from doing right by her."

"Either you're brave, or you're stupid." He pointed to the left toward a beat-up pickup truck that might once have been blue. "My truck is over there."

Whatever she was, she wasn't brave. Confronting Syko and Flaco had taken more from Tessa than she'd realized, and as the adrenaline wore off, she found herself wanting desperately to be home behind locked doors. Disappointed with herself for being so easily shaken, she let herself be herded toward his truck.

"You drive that? I was expecting the Batmobile."

He opened the passenger-side door. "You're sweet. Get in."

She climbed into the front seat, still seething. She'd gone through a lot of effort to find Syko and Flaco, and she'd actually been making progress when Julian had driven them off. He was interfering in her ability to do her job. His misleading message about their relationship might make the streets safer for her, but it might also make it more difficult for her to connect with people. Syko and Flaco had seemed anxious to get far away from Julian.

And then it hit her. Why would -a dozen armed gangbangers fear one man? They'd outnumbered him in every way—fists, feet, bullets. And yet they'd been afraid.

Julian slid into the driver's seat, slipped his key into the ignition, and glanced over at the woman beside him. He had to admire her courage. There weren't many women who'd have dared to do what she'd just done. She was pissed off, and he couldn't blame her. He'd blown her interview flat out. If he were in her very fine shoes, he'd feel just as angry.

He'd spent the past three hours cruising the streets, looking for her, his sense of urgency growing stronger as the sun set. He'd known she was following a gang angle, had felt certain she'd head into Five Points or Aurora. He'd spotted her little black Thunderbird with its press plates at Colfax and Yosemite and had regretted that he hadn't put a tail on her.

When he'd finally caught sight of her, she'd been standing in that alley surrounded by Syko's gang, one small, soft woman against a dozen men with steel, and he'd felt something he hadn't felt since he was a kid—fear. His heart had kicked him in the ribs, and honest-to-God adrenaline had shot through his veins. He'd walked into that alley loaded for bear, only to discover she didn't need his help. Somehow she'd wrapped a group of hardened street thugs around her itty-bitty pinky finger.

He started the engine, slipped into traffic, turned west on Colfax.

"I'm parked at Colfax and Yosemite."

He didn't tell her he already knew that.

Then she gave a laugh. " 'Dark Angel'? More like 'Fallen Angel.'"

"You're right about that, honey."

"What is 'Dark Angel' anyway? Your gangsta-rap name?"

"Just a name."

"Why are they so afraid of you?"

"Recent experience."

For a while, neither of them spoke. Julian glanced over to find her glowering out her window, looking like a furious kitten. It was the first time he'd seen her in blue jeans, and he couldn't help but like what he saw—soft curves that seemed all the more feminine because they were sheathed in pants. Still, he was amused.

ms was her barrio look?

Although she was clearly angry with him, her body language told him rage wasn't the only thing she was feeling. Her legs were pressed tightly together, her hands clutched around her notepad and held fast in her lap. She was nervous, afraid to be with him.

So she felt the connection, too.

What you're feeling is chemical
, he wanted to say.
We can work it off at your place
.

"I'm not your enemy, you know," he said instead.

She glanced warily at him. "You could've fooled me."

"I think we got off on the wrong foot." He drew up to the light at Yosemite and braked. "I'll make it up to you over dinner."

What the hell are you thinking, Darcangelo?

Clearly he
wasn't
thinking—not with his brain. The last thing he needed was to spend any real time with her. They'd end up having animal sex on the floor, and afterward she'd look at him with hurt in those big blue eyes when he told her there'd be no white picket fence.

Her eyes flew wide for a moment. "Oh, no! No, no. That would be a major conflict of interest. No, I couldn't do that."

"Sure you could."

She gave him a sideways glance. "What do you mean by that?"

"Come on, Tessa. We're both adults. It's called sexual attraction." He could almost see the color rising in her cheeks.

"I-I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't you?"

"You are far too sure of yourself, Darcangelo."

"Mmm-hmm."

"If you want the truth, I really despise you, especially now that you've cost me a night's work. You're cocky and arrogant, and you've interfered with my job!" The words seemed to gush out of her. "In fact, I'm so angry I want to hit you, except that would be bad manners. I don't hit people."

"I understand." He had to hide his smile. "And you're right, you know."

"I am?"

"It would be a conflict of interest and a bad idea for us to have sex."

Are you listening to yourself, Darcangelo?

"Just drop me off at… My car! No, no, no!"

Julian looked to the spot where her little T-bird had been parked—and saw a skeleton. In the hour and a half since he'd seen it, the car had been stripped, hubcaps, tires, mirrors, engine components, and presumably most of its interior stolen.

"Oh, my God!" She started to open the door. "Oh, God!"

Julian reached across her and held the door shut. "Stay in the truck! You don't need to go anywhere near it. I'll call it in, have DPD take care of it."

"But it's my car!"

"It was."

The light turned green. He accelerated.

He reached for his radio, made the call, arranged for a tow to the impound yard. When he was done, he looked over to see Tessa staring out the window, wide-eyed and clearly stunned.

"Now you know why I leave the Batmobile in the garage. I'll take you home."

"Fine." She looked over at him, arms crossed, obviously still angry. "But don't think this makes up for arresting me or ruining my interview. I live at—"

"I know where you live."

Tessa turned her rental car into the underground parking garage and had to drive down two levels before she found a spot. Not only had she lost her car—the first new car she'd ever owned—but her parking karma sucked. She turned off the ignition, grabbed her briefcase, glanced at her watch.

"Damn!"

She was late for her interview with Chief Irving and the head of the gang taskforce. Did Christiane Amanpour or Barbara Walters or Jane Pauley have problems like this? Somehow she didn't think so.

They don't have Tom Trent for a boss either, girl.

She'd arrived at the paper this morning to find photocopies of her mug shot stuck on bulletin boards throughout the building with the word "WANTED" typed above it. She might have found it funny if she hadn't lost so much sleep last night, first arguing with Julian in her imagination and then fighting nightmares. Even a triple-shot latte hadn't been able to restore her sense of humor. She'd vented to Sophie about the arrest and the interrupted interview—taking care to keep Julian's name secret—and was astonished when Sophie smiled.