CHAPTER 6
Chad came to a dead stop when he saw a gleaming limo where his truck should have been. He went to remove his hat and smack it against his leg before he remembered he’d left his Stetson at camp since it didn’t exactly match the dress pants and shirt.
Chad took a deep breath to calm himself. He was about to go back into the hotel to ask about the tow yard when he noticed a motorcycle idling half a block away. Chad’s eyes narrowed. Was this prick stalking him?
He strode over. “You the one who called the tow truck driver?”
Riley took off his sun shades and rubbed them against his pristine, starched uniform shirt. “Yep.”
“You got a hard-on for me, or are you just an asshole?”
“Actually, you were in a commercial zone. You know, hazard to commerce and traffic, all that.”
“Hazard my eye. You might as well piss around the perimeter of this fancy little city. You know, protecting your turf, all that.” Chad imitated the kid’s perfect diction.
“You’re pretty aggressive for a guy working his own case with no authority.”
Chad’s hand reached for the place where he kept his badge and then fell.
The sunglasses were folded neatly and inserted into Riley’s shirt pocket. “I admit I am a bit curious. Why did a Texas Ranger come to Lost Angeles—”
“I prefer the land of fruits and nuts myself—”
“Or should I say former Texas Ranger?”
Chad realized this Riley O’Connor must have called Sinclair to assess his status. Since he’d only resigned a week ago, it was doubtful his resignation was showing up in the databases when the cop ran the plates. The kid was more thorough than he gave him credit for.
But all Chad said was, “Well, feature that. Even pucker-assed Beverly Hills cops know how to run plates.” He turned on his heel and went back into the hotel to get the tow yard address, smiling grimly as he felt Riley’s glare boring between his shoulder blades. Four tickets, two days. Must be some kind of record.
A few days later, at the Los Angeles Equestrian Center in Burbank, Chad debated how much good it would do that he’d filed a missing persons report with the LA police and the City of Beverly Hills. They’d barely paid him any nevermind because he lived in Texas, not LA, but they said they’d get back to him. It was a formality he knew he had to take care of, but that didn’t help his frustration level.
Then he caught a break, blessing the fact he’d brought his old police band radio. Listening, he stood up so fast he knocked his coffeepot into the campfire. Sizzling, the fire went out but ignited all his nerve endings as the radio blared, “Nineteen ninety-eight red Camaro abandoned on Sixth and Alameda, downtown Los Angeles, Texas plates. Owner reported missing. Tow truck driver saw signs of foul play.”
Chad was slamming the door on his truck before the dispatcher finished asking for officers to meet the driver at the scene. Normally he’d have tidied his campsite before leaving, but he knew he had to be fast to make it downtown from Burbank while the trail was hot.
Over an hour later, Chad had navigated his rig through heavy traffic to see a driver in overalls hooking Trey’s car to his tow truck. Slamming on his brakes, Chad left his dually double-parked because there was no time to look for a space on the crowded street. He turned on his flashers and bolted out to meet four cops. Two wore uniforms, probably the ones manning the black-and-white, but one was in a suit and tie and the other, likely the crime scene investigator, wore a lab coat as he packed a large bag. Chad recognized a sampling kit, though this one was definitely a bit more high-tech than what he was used to.
The detective held several plastic bags in his hand, peering down at them. Chad had one flashing glance of what looked like a smashed piece of pink bubble gum before the detective pushed all the evidence bags in a yellow envelope and handed it back to the technician.
Chad tried to be patient, he really did, but all that came out was, “Can I see that?”
The detective looked at him and scowled. “This is a police investigation—”
“The owner of this vehicle is my brother. I’m . . . a former Texas Ranger. I came to LA to look for him. He’s been missing over a week.”
The detective gave him that cop once-over, boots to hat, and shook his head, obviously not impressed by Chad’s current credentials. “Sorry. You’ll have to go through channels. Have you filed a missing persons report?”
“Yes.” For all the good that would do him. LA’s backlog of missing persons was in the thousands.
“Then you’ll be contacted when we know something. This isn’t Texas, it’s California. We respect the law. Now run along.”
The two uniformed cops snickered but looked away at Chad’s expression.
To hide his anger, Chad pulled his hat low. “Is that bubble gum you found?”
The detective turned back to him. “Could be. So?”
“So Trey hates bubble gum. Never chews it. So sample it for DNA.”
Grudging respect pushed a bit of the knee-jerk dislike out of the detective’s face, but he still blustered, “We don’t even know for sure if this Trey Foster is really missing or just abandoned his vehicle—”
“Trey loves that car. If there were signs of a struggle, it would save your department some time and budget to let me do a quick search before the evidence is tainted. I know what to look for.”
The detective sighed heavily, eyeing Chad again. Then he said curtly, “Captain won’t like this, it’s not proper procedure, but what the hell, I’d want to do the same if it was my brother. Let me see your ID.” Using an iPad, the detective took a screenshot of Chad’s Texas driver’s license, made a notation on the digital case file, then handed Chad’s ID back. “You have five minutes.”
Pulling on disposable gloves a tech handed him, Chad started in the trunk, the detective hovering. “You have a swab kit?” Chad took the swabs and baggies the technician handed him and carefully scraped the dark red streak on the trunk liner. He bagged it.
The tow truck driver said, “I found the same blood on the backseat.”
“It’s not blood. It’s paint. Trey is an artist.” Chad slammed the trunk and handed the bagged swab to the technician. “I think that particular shade is called Indian Red.”
Ignoring the detective’s obvious surprise, Chad opened the rear car door. He took another sample of the dark red streaks the tow truck driver had mentioned. He found nothing else of interest in the back so moved to the front. He immediately froze, staring at a long gash in the leather. That wasn’t there when Trey left, Chad was sure of it.
Chad ran another swab along the deep cut in the driver’s seat. It was long and straight, as if cut by a knife, but the edges were frayed in a jagged pattern. Using the tweezers the detective handed him, Chad pulled at the foam, looking for particles of something, anything that would give them a clue to what someone had been searching for. Stuck to the side of the foam Chad saw something flaky, a bit darker than the cream foam. Very carefully he used the tweezers to pull at the flake, dropping it into another evidence bag. He straightened and held the bag to the light.
The detective peered at it, too. “Looks like yellowed paper.”
“Yes. An old newspaper clipping—you can see part of a date at the bottom.” Chad turned the bag to a better angle. “Looks like the number nineteen—the rest is gone, but it may be a 1990s date. Can your techs see if they can get a paper match?”
The detective took the bag. “I’ll insist on it. Thanks.”
A chill ran up Chad’s spine as he considered the mounting evidence that Trey had been nosing into something that might have got him kidnapped, but he only handed over the sample and carefully moved the seat backward and forward, taking off his hat so he could eyeball under the seat as it moved. Using the long tweezers again, he removed a crumpled piece of blue, white, and pink paper. He sniffed it. “Bazooka.”
“That’s standard street issue for you Texas Rangers, right?” One of the hovering uniformed cops snickered at his wit, but his smile faded under Chad’s glare. He backed up a step as Chad straightened.
“I told you, Trey hates bubble gum. I’d wager my mama’s best china the DNA on this wrapper matches the gum. How good are your CODIS files?” Chad knew the LA police had to have a port to the FBI’s Combined DNA Index System, CODIS for short, that allowed law enforcement nationwide to access national files on prior convictions and samplings.
“The latest, if we can get a sampling through the backlog.” The detective had relaxed further and even offered a cop to cop look of amused frustration, which Chad returned. From Maine to California and points south and north, there wasn’t a cop alive who didn’t hate the red tape that went along with the job.
Chad went back to his search, shoving his gloved hand up under the seat springs on the driver’s side. He felt something and pulled out a crumpled but familiar card. “Gentleman’s Pleasure. Jasmine Routh, headliner.” Without a word, Chad shoved the card into a bag, handed it over to the technician, and then went to the other side, but he found nothing else of interest.
Lastly, he knelt and examined the tire treads. “You sampled this mud?”
“Yes,” the technician answered.
“And you took a scraping of the gash on the driver’s seat, looking for metal particles?”
“No, it didn’t look recent.”
“It wasn’t there when Trey left Amarillo. Long knife, jagged edge. Could be a Ka-Bar. Trey’s never used a knife like that in his life. Someone searched his car, even ripped open his seat. It’s usually full of trash, but it’s clean except for what we found. So yes, signs of foul play.”
Chad pulled off the gloves and tossed them into the trash bag at the scene. “Thanks for the look-see.”
The detective slowly, with obvious reluctance, held out his hand. “Impressive police work. Sorry we missed a few things.”
“Thanks.” Chad shook his hand, took the proffered card. “I’ll be in touch if I find out anything else.”
“I guess it wouldn’t do any good to tell you not to interfere in a police investigation.”
Tilting his hat to the right angle, Chad said, “Nope,” and turned on his heel. He was still close enough to hear part of the reaming the detective gave his technician for shoddy work. He smiled, glad he’d at least made these big-city assholes have a modicum of respect for his breed. His smile faded as he saw his dually tail lights receding up the street, the front end hooked to a big tow truck. Chad ripped off his hat and slammed it against his leg. “Aw hell . . .” As he looked up the street, he saw a green lowrider skid around a corner.
The car registered with him somewhere, but resigned, and at this point more worried about Trey than the inconvenience, he went into the adjacent shop to get the name of the tow yard. He wondered if any of these tow truck guys had stock he could buy into . . .
Every time a man in boots and a hat entered the club, Jasmine felt an urge to flee. And every time, it turned out to be a wannabe cowboy instead of the real thing. Maybe he’d given up. Maybe he’d found another lead to follow. Or hopefully, maybe Trey had finally broken his silence and phoned his brother, so she’d never have to see Chad again. Mary had left a message telling Trey that Chad was in LA looking for him.
Jasmine did her best, but she knew she was jumpy and it was showing in her dancing. Before, she’d been able to pretend under the blinding lights that she was dancing for her one and only, but Chad had a way of making the entire place feel seedy. No matter her goals—to better herself and help others defend themselves against an overreaching, cold legal system—it was wrong to use her natural gifts to coax so much money from men who could oftentimes ill afford it. Yes, there was always another, younger girl to take her place, but at least she’d not be complicit in propagating this horrid, wrong stereotype that all strippers were loose women.
Conversely, Jasmine knew she’d have to shoulder enormous student loans if she quit this job. She’d lived hand to mouth so long after coming out here, she couldn’t bear the thought of yet another new beginning loaded down with so much debt. She’d never be able to afford to hang out her own shingle if she didn’t pay as she learned.
So despite her qualms, she stayed. And she danced. Hoping Chad was gone forever.
She was just starting to relax a bit into her old self when he showed up as she was serving drinks while another headliner performed. Praising her lucky stars she’d insisted on wearing her top, she stopped at his table far in the back and deadpanned, “What’s yer poison?”
He tilted his hat back but didn’t remove it. “When you talk like that, you only remind me what a good actress you are.”
She snatched his hat off and tossed it on the chair next to him. “And when you act like this, you remind me you never listened to your mama. Mind your manners.”
The rueful smile playing about his lips loosened some of the starch in her spine. At least he could laugh at himself...
“You sure you’re not from Texas?”
As if she were deaf, she pointed at the sign that was prominent on every wall: Three Drink Minimum. “You drinking or leaving?”
“Michelob. On tap.”
She walked off, hoping he’d leave before her number.
When she came back a few minutes later with his beer in a frosty mug, she couldn’t help herself—she looked at his crotch. But apparently despite the other girl’s crescendo, where she even took off her G-string against code, Chad’s posture was relaxed and there was no lump in his jeans.
“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 . . .