Mojo (27 page)

The girl stood and walked into the light. “You are Dylan Jones, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, that’s me,” I said.

She was wearing a white sweater, blue jeans, and sneakers, but what really stood out as she walked toward me was the stunning combination of black hair and blue eyes.

“Brett?” I said. “Brett Seagreaves?”

Then I realized I was wrong. I was staring straight at Ashton Browning. The sight of her made me feel like Chuck Norris just kicked me in the chest.

“Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t recognize you. You dyed your hair.”

“It seemed like a good idea,” she said, reaching up to touch her hair. “Too many pictures of me in the news. I thought it might buy a little privacy.”

I’m like, “Uh, it looks good.” After all the times I’d thought of meeting her face to face, I couldn’t think of anything better to say.

Next to the swimming pool, we stood only a couple of feet
apart. The pool had finally been covered for the off-season. Ashton smiled shyly. An extra dab of makeup covered what was left of the bruise under her right eye, but none of the photos I’d seen of her had prepared me for how beautiful she was in person. I asked her how she knew who I was, and she explained her brother told her about me and how I tried to find her.

“He even gave me your articles for the school paper,” she said. “It means a lot to know that someone cared so much. That’s why, when I heard you were coming to visit my father, I had to talk to you.”

Looking into those blue eyes, I could almost forget what had just happened inside the guesthouse. Almost.

“I’m glad that’s how you feel,” I told her. “But I don’t think your dad agrees. I was just talking to him. You’d think he suspects me of being involved in what happened to you somehow.”

And she goes, “Oh, don’t let him scare you. I’m sure he doesn’t really think that. He’s just upset. We’ve all been through so much.”

“I know. I can’t even imagine the stress your family’s been under.” I looked across the covered swimming pool. “But I’m pretty confused about this whole thing with Beto Hernandez.”

“Why? What did my father tell you?”

I looked back into her eyes and thought I caught a trace of worry, like maybe she was afraid of her father. “He didn’t say a whole lot at first. But I think he ended up saying more than he wanted to.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean he mentioned something about you seeing Beto.”

“Seeing?”

“I’m guessing he meant like romantically.”

“And you don’t believe that?”

“Not really. I was thinking more along the lines that you were actually involved with Hector Maldonado maybe.”

I could tell she hadn’t expected that name to come up.

“So you did know Hector,” I said.

Nervously, she glanced over my shoulder. “I can’t talk about that right now. My father might be coming back from the guesthouse soon.”

“Just tell me real quick—what was going on?”

She backed away. “I will, but not now. Not here.”

“Why not?”

“Too dangerous. You know that place Gangland, right?” I nodded.

“Okay, meet me there tomorrow afternoon, say at four o’clock. It’s closed then, but I can get my brother’s key. We can talk without anyone else around.”

“I don’t know if I want to go there. Can’t we meet somewhere else?”

She was getting more nervous. “No, that will be the best place. I can’t be seen in public right now. It’ll be safe—no one goes there in the daytime. Please, say you’ll come.”

I told her okay, and she started away but turned back, grabbed the front of my T-shirt, and kissed me on the cheek. “Thanks again for caring so much,” she said, and then she dashed down the stone path into the dark.

“You’re not going to believe this,” I told Audrey as soon as I scrunched down into the front seat of her car.

“Oh no,” she said. “You think you have another clue.”

And I’m like, “More than that.”

As we drove away, I filled her in on what’d happened, starting with the prickly conversation with Mr. Browning. She had to admit she was pretty impressed with how I stood up to him, but she was more impressed by my surprise meeting with Ashton.

“Wow,” she said. “You know what? I would never have thought it, but you might actually be on to something this time.”

“Yeah, I’m sure I am. You should’ve seen her. She was definitely worried someone would see her talking to me, someone who is making her keep quiet about what really happened.”

“Like her father?”

“Either him or Tres or both. I wouldn’t be surprised one bit if Tres was the one who snatched her and her dad’s the one who’s making her put the finger on Beto. There’s only one way to find out. I have to meet her at Gangland.”

Audrey thought about that for a moment. “Well,” she said finally, “you can’t go by yourself. If her brother finds out, he might send Mr. Sideburns after you with his switchblade again.”

“You’re right,” I said. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

By the time we got back to my house, we had a plan worked out: Randy and I would take Audrey’s car to Gangland while Audrey and Trix waited for us down the block in Trix’s BMW. As an extra precaution I’d call Audrey’s phone just before going inside and leave the line open so she and Trix could hear what was going on. That way if anyone started pulling out switchblades, they could call the cops pronto.

The next afternoon, we got together with Trix and Randy and laid out our idea. Trix’s like, “That is the coolest plan ever,” but Randy didn’t exactly agree.

“Let me get this straight,” he said. “You wouldn’t take me to Hollister with you in the hot chick’s Mercedes. You didn’t even bother to tell me you got invited back to Gangland that second time. But now when things might get all hairy, you want me to tag along and maybe take a switchblade in the ass? I don’t think so.”

He was right, of course. I’d let the glitter of Gangland mix me up. “I’m sorry about that,” I said. “I really, truly am, dude. I forgot who my real people were for a second. And I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t want to come along, but I need you. No one else but you could help us pull this off. Besides, think of it this way—we’ll be like secret agents. Chicks love that.”

He stroked his pseudo-mustache for a moment, then goes, “You’re right, dude. Chicks
do
love that. I’m in.”

“All right,” I said. “Let’s do it.”

It was true—the plan was fabulous. It really was secret-agent-worthy. Still, when the time came to head to Gangland, my nerves twanged like an electric banjo. And not just because
of the potential for danger, but also because now I finally had my shot to show Ashton what I was worth.

As we drove, I kept checking the rearview mirror to make sure Audrey and Trix were behind us. Meanwhile Randy rattled on about how, if Sideburns showed up, one of us should hit him high while the other hit him low. This might’ve been a good idea except, as I remembered it, Randy hadn’t been much help the last time Sideburns rolled into the picture.

When we got to Gangland, there was only one car parked by the loading-dock entrance, a white Porsche, which I assumed belonged to Ashton. While I called Audrey, Randy pulled down the sun visor to check his mustache in the mirror. It was no less scraggly than the last time we came to Gangland, but he was proud of it anyway.

On the phone, Audrey’s like, “Okay, we’re all set. Keep the line open.”

“Roger that,” I said. It seemed like the situation called for something official.

Figuring out where to stash the phone so she could hear what was going on presented a problem, though. I couldn’t carry it, and I was afraid it might accidentally turn off if I put it in my pocket. I’d worn the porkpie, thinking I might lodge it under there, but it jostled around too much, so I ended up tucking it into my sock.

On the loading dock, I knocked on the metal door where we entered Gangland the first time we came. No answer. I tried the knob. It was unlocked, so Randy and I ambled right through. Inside, the place was so movie-theater dark it was hard to see. And without the crowd and lame music, the emptiness and silence of the place gave off more of a graveyard feel than a party atmosphere.

“Is anyone here?” I called, but still didn’t get an answer.

We walked further in, and Randy goes, “Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

There was actually an echo, it was so hollow in there.

“This is weird,” I said. “We got here at almost exactly four o’clock.”

We went across to the corridor, which was even darker than the main room, but a thin sliver of light shone from beneath the door at the far end. I bent down so my phone would pick up my whisper. “Okay, Audrey, I think she’s in the office. Keep listening.”

Just behind me, Randy goes, “All this dark is weirding me out.”

“Yeah,” I whispered. “I don’t like it either.”

Somewhere along the way, I knew we’d pass the dressing room where the bands, dancers, and fighters hung out while waiting to entertain the stupid Gangland members. This would be a good place for some paid long-sideburned skulker to lie in wait, ready to jump us from behind as we passed, so I ran my hand along the wall until I felt the opening of the doorway.

When I stopped to check it out, Randy rammed into me from behind, almost knocking me over. My phone fell out of my sock. I picked it up, but now I’d lost my connection to Audrey. I was just about to call her back when the door at the end of the hall opened.

“Is that you, Dylan?” All I could see was a black silhouette in the doorway, but it had to be Ashton.

“Uh, yeah,” I said, tucking the phone into my pocket before I could finish dialing Audrey’s number.

“What are you doing stumbling around in the dark?” she asked.

“I didn’t know where the light switch was.”

“Well, come down here so we can talk in the office.”

She backed into the light. She was gorgeous in a white sleeveless top and black slacks. It was like those near-death stories you hear where there’s a light with an angel in it waiting at the end of a dark tunnel.

As Randy and I walked into the office, she goes, “I thought you were coming alone.”

And I’m like, “I would have, but you seemed so nervous last time we talked, I thought maybe you could use some extra help.”

She smiled. “That’s nice of you, but it really wasn’t necessary.”

“Don’t worry about Randy,” I said. “He’s okay. He’s been helping me search for you, so we’re both on your side.”

Randy walked over and shook her hand. “I met your dad,” he said. “We talked a little bit about the banking business. I’m thinking about going into a career in that line.”

She looked past him toward me. “I’m sure if you trust him, Dylan, then I can too. Why don’t you have a seat? I’ll fix you something to drink. Will diet soda be okay? I think that’s the only thing in the fridge.”

Of course, I’m not a fan of diet anything, but I said okay just to be sociable, and Randy, well, he’ll take anything that’s free. She fixed the drinks in whiskey-style glasses and talked about how good a writer she thought I was after reading my articles about her. She thought I really had a future in journalism. She even thought I should start my own blog.

She handed me and Randy our drinks and then sat behind the desk. After one sip, I remembered why I didn’t like diet soda—the aftertaste was like liquid rubber.

Randy disagreed. “That hits the spot,” he said. “You
wouldn’t have a little rum I could splash in here, though, would you?”

“No, sorry,” she replied. “I’m not really the partyer like some of my other friends you’ve met.”

Randy’s like, “Me either. I just like a little rum now and then. And a good cigar.”

This, sadly, was what he thought would impress her.

“Look,” I said, “I’m sure you didn’t ask me here to talk about rum and cigars.”

“No,” she said. “Not exactly.”

“You want to know what I think?” I asked.

“I’d love to.”

“I think you couldn’t talk last night because your dad is putting pressure on you to say what he wants you to say.”

She shifted uneasily in her seat. “Why would you think that?”

I took another pull of my soda. “For one thing, because you got kind of panicky when I mentioned Hector Maldonado’s name, and for another, because I don’t think Beto Hernandez really kidnapped you.”

“You don’t?”

“It’s that brother of yours,” Randy said. “We think he’s kind of a douche.”

She’s like, “What? Tres? Don’t be ridiculous.”

And I go, “What Randy’s trying to say is that some things don’t add up. For example, I got the idea your dad thinks you and Beto were, like, a couple until you wanted to break things off, and then he wouldn’t let you go. I know Beto a little bit, and he just doesn’t seem like that type. And I don’t think he’s
your
type either. No, I figure you’d be more likely to go for a guy like Hector.”

“You think you know me well enough to say that?”

“I’ve done my research. You and Hector are both good people. Idealistic. Kind of like me. I can see the two of you hitting it off.”

“But why would you think I even knew this Hector person?”

“Well, you obviously recognized his name. You probably met him while you were delivering meals to the Ockle ladies. Hector’s grandmother lives right next door. It all fits—you broke up with Rowan right around the time you started at FOKC, and then not too long after that, Hector’s dead and you vanished. Seems pretty likely somebody didn’t like the idea of you and Hector together. At first, I thought it might be one of your exes—Rowan or Nash—but if it was either of them, you wouldn’t have that good a reason to go along with the story about Beto, would you? Rowan’s family doesn’t have the status anymore to apply any pressure on your dad, and truthfully, your dad’s probably not the type who would be pressured by Nash’s family either, no matter how much money they have. No, I think your dad’s private detective found out Tres had you locked up somewhere and then framed Beto to keep Tres from getting into trouble. Your dad can’t have people knowing his own son killed Hector and then tried to get you out of the way because you knew about it.”

“Yeah,” added Randy for emphasis.