CHAPTER 11
Trey awoke to a burning pain in his side, his head, and his arms, which were pulled behind his back and tied. He’d fallen over long ago, and even in the dark he recognized the smell of oily car parts overlaid by the scent of diesel exhaust. He bounced over hard planking as he was jostled; the burning in his extremities became a blessed numbness.
He was in one of the big rigs, headed God knew where. Almost certainly out of LA, but at least he was still alive. His ruse about Mary had worked. They’d beaten the living tar out of him for the second time in a week, and he retched but had nothing to vomit. When the nausea slowly passed, he couldn’t avoid the hot flow of tears. Mary . . . For a moment he allowed himself the luxury of emotional pain and somehow it was worse than the physical.
She’d led him on like a prize bull into the glare of the arena, tempting him as a dancer and then giving him those sultry looks and long kisses to sucker him back out to LA. The couple of times they’d had sex had been the highlights of his romantic life. The brief time she’d spent with him in Texas made him miss her all the more, until he’d signed away his heritage to trail her back to LA. Now he understood why she’d been so curious about the lay of their land, had even bent several times to examine the rock strata and shaded her eyes to look at the pumpjacks adjacent to the homestead.
She’d been working with Kinnard all along. And Jasmine? Was she involved, too? He knew Jasmine had worked longer at the club than Mary had, but now he suspected Mary had been planted there as a guest act just for his benefit. She’d certainly given it up quickly enough when he asked.
So Kinnard had adroitly used two red-haired floozies like bait to lead the Foster brothers away from their land, if he hadn’t been lying during their confrontation at the warehouse about how Chad was attracted to Jasmine. And knowing Chad, who’d been too long without a woman, how could Jasmine not be to his taste, stripper or not? And they’d fallen for it, hook, line, and sinker.
He blinked, forcing the tears back, but in the crack at the rollup door, which allowed in a few rays of sunlight, he could see shadows. Night was coming or his vision was getting blurry. Probably a bit of both.
Ignoring the pain in his wrists, he forced himself to sit upright. Using his feet to push his weight against the side of the truck, he levered his upper back slowly up until he could get his feet beneath him. His arms were almost wrenched from their sockets as they took the brunt of his weight. They settled back into blessed numbness as he staggered against a car, bending over the hood to hold himself upright over a bad road bump. Pain knifed into his side, but he only braced himself as best he could.
When the rig’s tires hummed again, he wound like a drunkard through the packed cargo until he brushed against something sharp. A car part of some kind, half out of its canvas cover. It snagged on his shirt, ripping it. He turned around and sawed at the duct tape holding his wrists together, feeling blood seep over his fingers, but he was so angry at his gullibility that he didn’t care. Served him right.
Then he was free. He rubbed his wrists for a few minutes, and slowly feeling came back into them, the tips of his fingers on fire as if he’d had frostbite. He opened and closed his hands to keep his circulation going, as Chad had taught him years ago during a blue norther.
Chad. . . . if he knew his big brother, Chad was already in LA tearing the city apart looking for him. At least that taunt to Kinnard hadn’t been an empty one. And Kinnard hadn’t scoffed at him. In fact a very subtle flicker of his eyes at the gibe made Trey feel as if Chad had already made Kinnard understand that the Foster brand of justice—keep on a-comin’—had passed from father to son.
If Chad was here, Trey had to get a message to him somehow.
When the burning faded to a dull ache, he used his fingers to feel around every part of the cargo bay. Flashlight, paper, pen, in that order. He had a plan, such as it was.
He pushed Mary to the back of his mind. Right now he just had to stay alive long enough to confront her . . .
In the nicest hotel Amarillo, Texas, offered, Mary paced her spacious room from one side to the other. It had been almost two weeks now since she’d spoken to Trey. Jasmine had told her several of Trey’s paintings had sold, but he hadn’t been in to pick up his check.
Something was wrong. It didn’t do any good to talk to Thomas because he was lying. Trey had stumbled on something he shouldn’t, and Thomas would have his own private little Latino gang shut him up. The question was—how?
Mary’s circuit brought her to the mirror. She looked at her reflection, and for a moment, her lovely face wavered, becoming a ghastly caricature with a long, beaked nose and pointy chin. She blinked the tears away, only then realizing they’d distorted her vision. It had been a long time since she’d cried, and she certainly hadn’t counted on falling in love with her mark. She’d been alone so long since she hit the streets at sixteen that she’d forgotten what it felt like to need another human being. People scared her for the most part, especially men. Oh, she knew how to use her looks to her advantage, but the two times she’d had sex with Trey had been different. He was so . . . sweet. As creative and generous in bed as out of it.
When he left to go back to Amarillo, she’d been devastated.
Jasmine and her unquestioning friendship had put the first crack in her armor. She didn’t care that Mary had walked the streets at one time. Until she got a grant to go to junior college, and from there scholarships to USC to work on her geology degree. The two redheads turned out to have a lot in common.
So when Thomas had approached Mary and asked her to be a guest star at the strip joint where Jasmine danced, offering her a handsome sum to do so, Mary had accepted without a second thought. It wasn’t until Thomas promised to sweeten the pot if she could get Trey Foster interested, that she began to realize Thomas, as usual, had some grand plan that typically involved fleecing someone.
And now here she was in Amarillo, using the newfound geology skills she’d been so proud of to complete his plan. He needed someone compliant, someone who would look the other way if he had to bend the law a bit, so he’d taken an interest in her schooling and gotten her an internship at a big firm to learn the ropes of assessing new deposits. It was a lousy economy and she’d welcomed his connections. At first. Now she wore golden handcuffs linking her to him, despite his likely involvement in Trey’s disappearance. One percent of the gross revenue produced by the wells was a helluva lot of money. Enough to keep her safe for a very long time.
But what would that mean in the end if she lost the only man she’d ever met who made her believe in love? Mary blinked and wiped her tears on her sleeve until her own face stared back at her in the mirror. The darkness in her blue eyes was nothing new, but that hatred had never been self-directed before.
The rig was almost set up. She knew now she wasn’t going to reach Trey. She was on her own, and she had a very big decision to make.
Chad tossed and turned on Jasmine’s plush couch, unable to get comfortable. She’d insisted on tucking sheets over the soft leather, a bottom one and another one on top along with a homey quilt his mother might have used. He’d fingered the scalloped edge and lifted an eyebrow at her. “You quilt, too?”
Her lips twitched. “No, it was my mother’s.” At his doubtful look she said grimly, “Strippers have mothers, too. Kinda like Texas Rangers, I imagine, unless you sprang full blown from “Lone Wolf” Gonzaullas like Athena from Zeus. Of course your head’s big enough to do that.”
Arrested, Chad looked up from the quilt to her face. How the hell did a Californio big city girl know about one of the most famous Texas Rangers? Or, for that matter, did all strippers know so much about Greek mythology?
She must have read his expression because she hustled to the kitchen, as if fearful she’d revealed too much. “Sandwiches for supper?”
“You don’t need to wait on me.” He moved to get up but his head swam and he had to sink back.
She peeked around the corner. “Today only, full restaurant open and turn-down services at night. If you’re a good guest I may even put a chocolate by your pillow.” She disappeared again.
He settled back, but he still felt uncomfortable. He had to get to his rig. The bug he’d planted on Kinnard’s office phone had been active long enough that he might find something revealing on it. Jasmine had told him they’d towed his rig to the Beverly Hills impound lot, this time, one and only, on the house. He also wasn’t comfortable leaving the Peacemaker there, even hidden.
While he waited, he looked around her small but comfortable living room. Lone Star map reproduction, Western Remington-style statues, a book on Texas history. Either she was a big Western buff or she knew a lot more about Texas than she let on. Chad rubbed his tender head, but the worst of the aching had subsided. Not for the first time, he’d observed the duality of a personality that troubled him.
Bottom line, whether he was using the Ranger instincts honed by ten years of interviewing various law breakers, or his questionable instincts as a man, this woman did not add up. She didn’t fit his preconceived notions of a stripper or anyone else.
Which left . . . what? Him confused as hell and worried about his brother. Right where he started.
Jasmine carried a tray in. It bore a steaming soup tureen, a neatly halved grilled cheese and a bag of potato chips. She set it on the coffee table in front of the couch. “We can have fresh fruit for dessert, if you like. Nowhere has better fresh fruit than California.”
“Umm, yeah. Fruity out here.” He took a big bite of the sandwich at her glare. “I’m just saying . . .”
“Why is it that even when you’re complimentary, every other word out of your mouth sounds like an insult?” When he didn’t answer, she ripped open the packet of chips. A few went flying. She bent to pick them up. He knew she intended to toss them in the trash. On impulse, he caught her hand and brought them to his mouth. He lipped them from her hand and then licked the salt residue away. He looked at her as he did so.
Her eyes widened, going that clear green that was like sun on a prairie. The thought was so fanciful and unlike him that when she jerked away and got to her feet, fleeing to the kitchen, he let her go. That’s all he needed, to wax poetic over a woman he didn’t, couldn’t trust.
She was Kinnard’s little sex-kitten pet he put on display, and that was proof enough of her morals. He forced the delicious supper down, leaning back against the couch, listening to her banging pots and pans. Slowly the warmth and sustenance steadied him until he almost felt normal.
Hearing his Mama’s chiding voice in his head, he went to the kitchen, grabbed a towel, and began to dry the skillet she’d washed and put into the dish drainer. She opened her mouth to protest, gave a little shrug, and handed him the clean spatula to dry.
And so it went for his first evening at her place. Little domestic chores, shared, as if they’d been longtime roomies. When she brought out the vacuum, he lifted the coffee table to let her vacuum beneath, then the legs of the heavy couch. Each time, she bit back a protest because she seemed to sense his need to help. He winced once as he straightened. She reached out to feel his forehead, but when he glared and straightened, her hand dropped.
He flopped back on the couch. “Thanks. I can only stand so much mothering.”
“I’m not your mother, I just have a natural sympathy for pain. Sue me.”
While she was busy, he’d been eyeing the legal books on her shelf. “I have a feeling you could defend a lawsuit pretty handily.”
She followed his gaze. “Oh. That.”
He waited.
Her voice was so soft, he had to strain to hear. “Maybe there’s more to me than meets the eye. Maybe I grew up around lawyers and maybe stripping isn’t my long-term career goal.”
“Maybe you should quit pussyfootin’ around and tell me if you’re going to law school or not.”
She shrugged. “Think what you like. You always do.” She wheeled the vacuum back to the closet and closed the door firmly. “You need anything else? I’m going to bed. I’m tired and I have to work tonight.” She didn’t look at him as she spoke.
He felt her need to be alone and shared it. “I’m good. Sleep well.” When she reached her door, he added in a gravelly tone, “Hey, Jasmine.”
She paused with her hand on the door knob. “Yes?”
“Thanks.”
She nodded and fled into her room.
For he knew that’s what she was doing. Fleeing from him. And perhaps from her own feelings? Chad picked up the remote but stared unseeingly at the map on the wall. If he was smart, he’d flee, too, right back to Texas where he belonged.
But the memory of a freckle-faced kid shadowing his every step overpowered even the gut-wrenching emotions Jasmine incited in him.
As if it were yesterday, Chad could visualize Trey. “Chad, why does the sky smell so funny after it rains?” And through the progression of years, “Chad, why can’t I take the truck? You never drive it.” Or “Chad, I’m leaving for California for a while.” And lastly, “Chad, when you paint everything in black and white, sooner or later you end up with gray. And gray’s a mighty lonely color.” And then he’d disappeared in a cloud of dust.
Would that be his last memory of his brother?
Tossing aside the remote, Chad picked up his cell phone and dialed the saved number for the cabbie who’d driven him earlier. He had to get his truck and check the surveillance on Kinnard’s phone. Jasmine would never even know he was gone. Using the key she’d loaned him, he locked her door and went down the steps. He plopped down on the bottom step to wait, wondering if he should kill two birds with one stone and stop at the Beverly Hills station to talk to Pucker Ass. He glanced at his watch, thinking Riley had told him he was working long hours. Seven p.m. Would he still be there?
An hour later, Pucker Ass, AKA Riley O’Connor, glanced up when the Beverly Hills duty officer appeared at his desk, looking agitated. “There’s a cowboy asking for you. He looks a bit green around the gills and mean enough to spit venom. Says he’s helping with an investigation, and he’s going at it now with Captain Barnes. He’s going to get himself arrested.”
“Damn the man, he’s supposed to be in the hospital.” Riley hurried out to the entry desk and sure enough, Foster towered over Captain Barnes, who made up for his lack of height in lofty diction and soaring intellect.
Foster stabbed a finger in the air at chest height, almost hitting the little officer in the nose. “He’s my brother, and I don’t give a flying f—”
Just in time to make Chad swallow the obscenity, Riley banged on the glass divider. “Foster, I’m ready to discuss the file with you. You’re late.”
Barnes turned on him. “You actually made an appointment with this . . . this . . .”
Chad ripped off his Stetson before he could finish and looked like he wanted to throw it against the wall. “If one more guy calls me a cowboy I’m going to rake him with my spurs just to prove him right.”
Riley kept his smile pasted on. “This way, Foster.” He buzzed the door open. “Sorry, Captain, but he’s already aided the LA police in their part of the investigation into his brother’s disappearance, and he’s a former Texas Ranger with forensic training, so the chief said he could assist. He has a slight concussion but insisted on coming in today.” Riley gave Chad a look.
Chad paused long enough to mutter to Barnes, “Sorry, my head aches like blue blazes, but I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”
Captain Barnes relented. He nodded at Riley, though he still refused to look at Chad. “Very well. Since you went through proper channels, I presume my protestations are immaterial.” He swiveled on his heel and marched out the front door.
Frozen, Chad stared after him. “That guy come from the Precambrian or the primordial soup?”
When the duty officer smirked and retook his seat, Riley hustled Chad inside the office, to the chair facing his desk. “He’s got an eidetic memory and is the only one who can soothe all the rich old ladies when they come into the station. He’s raised millions in funding for the department’s charities.”
“Perfect. Honorary title. I hope you don’t let him near a gun.”
“Never mind him. Just thank me for stopping him from arresting your ass.” At Chad’s glare, Riley sighed. “Why the hell aren’t you in the hospital?”
“You think I’m going to lie flat on my back while my brother is missing and probably in extreme danger?”
“Does your Ranger captain, Sinclair I think his name is, know you’re in LA going off half-cocked?”
Chad shrugged.
“Does Jasmine know you’re here?”
Chad shrugged.
“You really expect me to share the entire file with you?”
This time, Chad didn’t shrug. For a moment, Riley read in his eyes a fear for his brother so deep that Riley was surprised it didn’t take life and grab the file. Which would be tough, since most of their investigations these days were digital. Riley wheeled his chair over. “I give up. It will take less time and resources to keep you in the loop than it would to shut you out. Not to mention the uproar if we actually took a decorated Texas Ranger into custody.”
“Former Texas Ranger. Now I’m just a guy from Amarillo who can’t get laid.” Chad reddened, obviously regretting his frankness as Riley burst into laughter.
“You’re honest, I give you that, Foster. If it makes you feel better, in that way, at least, you’re just like Beverly Hills lawyers. I know more than one who can’t get laid, either. Jasmine’s actually pretty choosy.”
Chad just whacked his hat on his thigh, which Riley recognized as the Ranger’s body language when he was begging to change the subject. Riley pretended to study his computer, recalling his conversation with Sinclair about Chad. Sinclair had told him, without saying it, to do what he could to help Chad’s investigation. “He won’t stop unless you shoot him. And he’s one of the best men in my company when it comes to tracking down missing persons. Not that I’d intrude. It’s your department’s call, of course, whether to involve him.”
So with Jasmine’s pleading, Riley had gone to the chief to ask for the unusual arrangement, but that didn’t mean Riley was happy with the way Chad had barged in here, when he should be in bed. Chad stood up and wheeled his own chair around, bent his head briefly, and then fell into it. Riley bit back another caustic remark, handed Chad the hard copy of the file for docs they hadn’t scanned, and opened the digital portion on his computer.
Jasmine finally tired of tossing and turning and got out of bed. She dressed for work and then slammed out, not surprised to find Chad gone. Nothing would interfere with his investigation. She was glad she’d be gone when Chad got back. Having him here was just as hard as she’d feared. She was so drawn to this man, more than any other, and if she wasn’t real careful, she’d fall in love with a man who hated her.
Or at least hated what she did. It wasn’t like she’d chosen to be a stripper, no one did. But if the options were that or forgoing law school, well, the choice seemed pretty straightforward. And she hadn’t slept with as many men as Chad apparently assumed. No, the real way to get past his defenses, other than the obvious one, was to help him get evidence against Thomas. If Thomas Kinnard was really the mastermind behind a land fraud in the Texas Panhandle, using an entity that was, according to Chad, a dummy shell called the Del Mar Corporation, based in California and the Grand Caymans, only one man would have access to the records. Because he’d drawn them up.
If she brought Chad proof of Thomas’s involvement in the Del Mar Corporation, he’d have to believe she wasn’t part of the scheme. And it might be leverage to save Trey. Still thinking, Jasmine wasn’t quite as luminous that night on stage.
Two hours later, Chad exited the Beverly Hills police station, more frustrated than ever. At the snail’s pace of the BHPD’s investigation, he’d never find Trey in time. He was usually a stickler for the legalities in a case, but he wasn’t a Ranger now. He was a brother.
Chad fired up his truck after checking it for damage from being in the impound lot. But if anything, it was cleaner, which didn’t surprise him anymore. Everything this city did was as picky as its residents. His nausea had faded and the residual dizziness only troubled him when he stood up too fast. Still, he sat with the giant engine idling, debating what he was about to do. Riley wouldn’t like it. Hell, Sinclair wouldn’t like it either, but that was too bad. He was out of options. Legal ones, anyway.
Chad’s truck seemed to drive the short route all by itself. Chad circled the dark gallery twice to be sure, but he saw no light or any sign of occupation. It was past ten, so that wasn’t surprising. The tiny parking lot in front was empty, and when he passed the alley and looked down it, there were no vehicles. Chad parked in the alley behind the Dumpster, eyeing the security camera trained on the back door of the gallery.
Avoiding the camera’s eye, he circled the building to the window he’d noticed when he was transferring the funds for the painting. It was a heavy dual-paned window, no doubt wired to the gallery’s security alarm. Taking the glass cutter he’d selected from the small case of tools he carried, he carefully cut the first pane of glass at the very edges next to the window frame. It was a big-paned window, so if he cut just right, he should barely fit inside without having to raise the window and break the security alarm contacts. With the first layer of glass cut, he put on his gloves and tapped gently, breaking the bond between the two layers. Part of the glass cracked, making it easier to remove. The second layer was thinner and cut easily. Chad propped both almost intact pieces of glass against the side of the building, tossed his case over the sill, and boosted himself through the window. He felt a few slivers of glass pierce his heavy work shirt, but then he was up and over.
Chad pulled the small flashlight from his case and appraised the room. He started at the desk, but found only bills, art receipts, meeting agendas, nothing interesting. He eyed the computer, which was off, and moved to the drawers, knowing there was no way he’d be able to break the password. He searched each drawer thoroughly, but again found nothing of interest beyond the stationery he’d seen before. In frustration, he slammed the drawer closed. It made an odd, hollow sound, not quite closing properly.
Chad knelt and looked at the drawer bottom, seeing that it didn’t shut correctly because it had a panel behind it. He tapped and played with the panel and suddenly it sprang outward, leaving a deep cavity. Chad shined his light inside and saw some yellowing newspaper articles. He pulled them out carefully, stiffening at the sight of a familiar, but much younger, face.
Thomas Hopper had discovered a brand-new pool of oil called the Dorado field. Some of the largest deposits were around Amarillo, Texas. A later article hinted that exploration was in progress and the Texas Ranger land division was investigating the partnership. Chad remembered the tiny scrap he’d found in Trey’s car seat. He held up the paper to the light, trying to recall the color of that scrap. They seemed to match. Then he saw, cut off but still legible, his father’s name as arresting officer. Chad knew Trey must have taken these articles, which was why a scrap had been left in his seat.
Everything fell into place.
Why Kinnard had left Texas and assumed a new identity. Why he’d opened an art gallery in one of the world’s richest cities. His interest in Trey had nothing to do with art and everything to do with their land. He’d wanted them out of the way so he could drill, illegally if need be, because he’d had a hard-on for the vast pool of oil under the Amarillo plains since he’d struck his first well in it over twenty years ago. He’d known Chad would come running to rescue his brother, leaving him clear to drill.
Must have been a great bonus to the bastard that they were Gerald Foster’s sons. The next leap was a short one: Thomas Kinnard had to be the head of the Del Mar Corporation. If he and the California agencies could prove that, they’d have enough evidence to put the bastard away for land fraud. For good this time. And a charge of kidnapping would sweeten the sentence.
And Jasmine? What was her role? The dull headache began again at that thought, so he shoved it away instead.
Chad hesitated, badly wanting to take the articles, but instead he made a mental note of the dates, knowing he could pull them from archives, and put everything back as it was. Best if Kinnard just thought there’d been a break-in until Chad could convince Riley to get a warrant. He dumped out the desk drawers, found a bank bag holding what seemed to be petty cash, and had no choice but to take the money to perpetuate the MO of a theft.
He next circled his light over the closet. He opened it, and inside saw art supplies, brushes, paints, easels. He was about to close the door when he saw a splintered leg on one of the easels. Something jarred his memory. He turned the easel around, seeking a tag of some kind. There it was, on the back: Lubbock Art Supplies. This easel was Trey’s. Using his cell phone to take a wide shot of the easel and its location in the closet, along with a close-up of the label, Chad deliberately disarranged everything to make it look like thieves had searched the closet. Chad started on the file cabinet, but he stiffened as he heard a car pulling up in the front. Lights slashed across the lobby floor at the same time, and then the sound of a smooth engine turned off. Voices, one that was Kinnard’s and a second one with Hispanic overtones.
With one last scan to be sure he’d taken all his tools, Chad tossed some files on the floor, vaulted over the window feet first, his broad shoulders almost getting stuck as he dangled, his feet a foot from the ground. But he wriggled from side to side and managed to get free. Safely on the ground, he still had a dilemma to face. If he started his big engine, Kinnard would hear it for sure. If he didn’t, it would be a dead giveaway that he’d been there because it was highly unlikely they wouldn’t see the missing glass, look outside, and notice the truck.
Chad got in his truck and fired it up, backing up a short distance, and then, as a head poked out the broken window, Chad put the truck in gear and drove forward as if entering the alley. He parked, got out and lifted a hand. “Howdy, Mr. Kinnard.”
“We’re closed.” Kinnard scowled at the broken glass on the ground.
“I just came by to see if you still had that painting of the pumpjack and cactus, couldn’t get it out of my head, but I see you have bigger problems.” Chad made his voice sympathetic. “Looks like you had a break-in. Want me to call the police?”
“No, thank you, I can handle my own security. Why’d you come by so late?”
“Can’t sleep, I know you work late sometimes—” Chad broke off.
Another head poked out the window, and Chad recognized the driver of the green lowrider. They shared a look. Chad pulled his hat down low, but it was too late. Lawman and criminal had an instinctual recognition of an adversary.
Kinnard saw it, and his lip curled. “Cut the crap, Foster. You just broke into my office and when I can prove it, I’ll see you in jail.”
Chad debated lying, but he shrugged. “Maybe we’ll be cell mates.”
“Find what you’re looking for?”
“Not yet. But I will.”
“Little brother run away from home? Can’t find him, huh? Pity.”
Chad took a long stride forward before he realized he’d moved. “I know who you are and what you’re doing, Mr. President of the Del Mar Corporation.” Chad was tempted to mention the easel but knew Kinnard would only destroy it.
Kinnard’s smile only deepened. “Ask Jasmine. I hear she’s helping with the legal work. She might be able to point you in the right direction if you want to meet the president.”
Chad recoiled at the implication that confirmed his fears about her, but he caught himself. He knew Kinnard was yanking his chain. His voice came, long, low, and more Texan than usual. “We exterminate vermin in Texas. No mercy. But then you know all about Texas, don’t you?” Chad went to his rig. He gave both men an equal share of his rage, looking from one to the other. “Time you learned about justice, Foster style. If my brother is hurt, I’ll kill you.” Chad drove away.
When he got back to Jasmine’s, he slipped inside and went straight to the couch, but despite the late hour, all he could do was stare up at the ceiling. He really should listen to the surveillance recordings, but he was literally sick at his stomach and his head was aching again. Tomorrow.
Besides, both of his main suspects were back in Beverly Hills, and wherever they’d taken Trey, he’d bet it was outside the city. For a moment he wondered if he should try to follow Montoya, but his truck would be a dead giveaway and he didn’t have any more hundreds to bribe cabbies. Besides, if he went off half-cocked he might make a conviction even harder in this nanny state.
As tough as it was, Corey was right. He’d talk to Riley about the easel and see what he could stir up. “Patience,” Chad whispered to himself. The word came a bit easier than usual . . .
But unable to sleep and unable to lie still, Chad got up and powered on Jasmine’s computer. She’d told him he was welcome to it. Chad spent the rest of the night searching for Thomas Hopper, the Dorado field, and the Del Mar Corporation.