Kara convinced Michael to let her drive. After all, she knew the city better than he did, and GPS wasn’t always the best guide in traffic, especially on side streets. She ignored his commentary about her driving as she headed from the hotel to the small office that housed First Contact, the nonprofit Will Lattimer ran that focused on park cleanup and individualized assistance to the homeless. He’d started it primarily to help veterans when he learned one of his Marine buddies was living on the street, but expanded it to assist anyone who said they wanted help.
Kara didn’t know Will well—they’d only met a few times at Colton’s place—but she knew he and Colton both served in the Marines, though not in the same unit. Will hadn’t called her back, but even the FBI couldn’t force someone to answer their phone, so it was time to track Will Lattimer down.
The First Contact office was a long, narrow space in a row of warehouses in Atwater Village off San Fernando Road. Most of the businesses weren’t retail storefronts but destination businesses—computer repair, a nonchain auto-parts store, a mechanic, a paper supply company, and several roll-up doors with no signs. Half the places were for lease.
Because of the central location near four different freeways, volunteers met here to gather supplies for park cleanups, which was their primary activity. Will believed the key to getting people off the street was to talk to them one-on-one and connect them with services like drug rehab, transitional housing and job training. But the first step was to find out why they were on the street.
Will had a lot more patience than Kara.
Kara pulled up next to an unmarked cop car. “Damn. I assumed the detectives talked to Will yesterday.”
“Tread lightly,” Michael warned. “We’re not here officially.”
She smiled broadly. “Trust me.”
Michael sighed, got out of the car, looked around. He was still acting the bodyguard. She walked next to him toward the door. “You look like a fed,” she said. Michael dressed impeccably in a suit, shirt and tie. His shoes were always polished, and she wondered how he kept his clothes in such great shape when they traveled. She wore black tactical pants because they were comfortable, a white polo shirt and a lightweight black blazer to hide her weapon.
As Michael reached to open the door, it swung toward him and a detective walked out. He looked the part—slacks, button-down shirt, no jacket, badge and gun on his belt. He gave them a second glance and Kara said, “Detective.”
He nodded, then walked quickly to his car and left.
“I know him,” Kara muttered. “Damn, I don’t know his name. I may never have known his name, there are a lot of cops in LA, but I’ve seen him before.”
It would come to her, or she’d ask Lex. Caucasian, forties, five foot ten, about one-eighty.
“I got his plates,” Michael said. He pulled out his small notepad and scribbled the numbers.
“You’re awesome, partner,” she said.
They walked inside and almost ran into a man who was coming to the door. He had a key in hand and appeared to be about to lock it.
“We’re closing,” he said, nervous and edgy.
Kara glanced around the space. Two small offices in the back of the long, narrow warehouse. The rolling door had been blocked off by a temporary wall that didn’t reach the ceiling. A scarred conference table took up the middle of the floor where it appeared a mailing project was partly complete—stacks of letters, some folded, some stuffed. A woman in one of the offices was on the phone. She put it down when she saw Kara and Michael.
“Who just left?” Kara asked.
The man didn’t answer. He was mixed race, short curly dark hair, a roughly trimmed beard, hazel eyes. The woman was Caucasian with light brown hair and blue eyes. They both were thin and neatly dressed, but Kara suspected they were recovering addicts. They were skittish, wary, looked ready to bolt.
Honesty would work best.
“I’m Detective Kara Quinn with LAPD, and this is my partner, FBI Agent Michael Harris. Who was the man who just left? I know he was a detective.”
“He didn’t give us his name,” the man said. “Um, we have to go.”
“You can give me a minute,” Kara said. He didn’t give a name? They were either lying or the detective wasn’t following protocol. Or maybe he didn’t identify himself as a detective, though he’d come in a city vehicle and wore a badge. “Do you work here?”
“I do,” the woman said. “Gina Rocha. I work here mornings.”
It was only nine. “You always quit so early?”
“I have errands to do for my boss.”
“Is your boss Will Lattimer?”
She blinked rapidly, surprised. “Yes.”
“Will is a friend of mine,” Kara said. “I need to talk to him, but he’s not answering his phone.”
“When I see him, I’ll tell him.”
“Why are you so nervous?” Michael said.
Michael sometimes sounded too authoritarian, too much like a tough cop. He was a rock always, but he was also very law and order. Sometimes, situations—especially talking with people naturally nervous around authorities—required a little more finesse.
“I’m not,” Gina said, clutching her oversize purse.
“Can we sit down and talk a minute?” Kara asked.
Gina shook her head. “You can call Will, or I can give him a message, but we have to go.”
“Why was the detective here?”
“We couldn’t help him, he wasn’t happy about it.”
“Why are you scared of him?”
The two exchanged glances.
“We haven’t done anything,” Gina said firmly.
“I didn’t say you had,” Kara said. “But from where I’m standing, you both look nervous. We’re not here to jam you up for anything. I need to talk to Will—it’s very important.”
“I don’t know where he is.” Gina’s chin tilted up, defiant. “I don’t know why he won’t answer your call, except that maybe he doesn’t want to talk to you. And if he doesn’t want to talk to you, then I don’t, either.”
She folded her arms across her chest.
Kara only had FBI cards labeling her as a “special consultant,” so she asked for a piece of paper and pen. Gina walked back to the office and brought out a notepad and pencil.
She scrawled out a message to Will and left her number. She hoped it conveyed the urgency without giving away too many details.
“If he comes in or calls, give him this message,” she said to Gina. “Like I said, it’s very important.”
“I promise to give him the message.”
Kara left, and Michael followed her.
“They’re addicts,” Michael said as they got into the car. He clearly disapproved.
“Maybe. They’re not using now.”
“How can you tell? The woman was nervous, the man was jumpy and scratching his arms.”
“I’ve been around enough addicts to know they’re mostly clean. My guess? They’re transitioning.”
“Meaning?”
“They were homeless, now have some sort of semipermanent housing, maybe a group home. Colton always said that Will was a miracle worker, really good at getting people off the streets. He must trust Gina to hire her. I suspect in his line of work, he’s a good judge of character.”
As she spoke, she backed out of the parking space and drove down the alley, then stopped at the dead end where she could discreetly watch the building.
“What are you doing?”
“Waiting.”
She didn’t have to wait long. Two minutes later, Gina and the man left the building. They locked the door, had an intense conversation, then the man hugged her tightly and they stood close together, not talking. A few minutes later, an Uber pulled up. They both got in.
Kara followed.
“Maybe the detective intimidated them because they’re guilty,” Michael said.
“Of what?”
“Drugs?”
“Drugs are not going to get anyone jammed up. We’re not allowed to arrest anyone for using. They have to be selling some weight, or committing another felony while in possession, and the paperwork is a nightmare.” Michael knew as well as she did that most DAs didn’t prosecute drug-related crimes anymore.
“If they’re transitioning as you said, maybe they’re nervous because they’ll be kicked out of the program if they’re caught using.”
“Depends on the program,” Kara said. “I don’t think they were high, but I could be wrong.”
“You don’t think you are.”
“Nope.” Kara glanced at Michael. “Does this bother you?”
“What?”
“I don’t know. The conversation? Addicts? Drug use? You seem uncomfortable.”
He didn’t say anything for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts. That’s one of the many things she appreciated about Michael—he was thoughtful and rarely spoke off the cuff. Sometimes, she wished she had the same skill set.
“Maybe,” he said slowly, “this all hits too close to home.”
Michael rarely talked about his childhood. Kara knew that he’d grown up very poor in Chicago. She didn’t know much—just that his father was out of the picture, his brother was killed in a drive-by shooting, and his mom died of a drug overdose before he turned eighteen. He’d been in foster care for a few years, which hadn’t been pretty. Michael had told Kara more than once that the Navy saved him—he enlisted the day he graduated from high school.
Kara couldn’t picture a desperate Michael—he was the epitome of the Great American Hero. Served his country with distinction. Went to college when he got out of the Navy, then joined the FBI. He’d always gone above and beyond, getting certified in SWAT, underwater rescue and more. He could be a flirt, and he dated quite a bit, but Kara had always thought that was because he was looking for “the one”—he valued his home, wanted a family. He didn’t say it in so many words, but a few things over the months she’d worked with him had given her that idea.
“I’m sorry,” she said honestly. “I had sucky parents, but I didn’t have a rough childhood.” Her parents were con artists and thieves, not violent or drug addicts.
“My experience has been most addicts don’t change. With the addiction comes theft, violence, destruction of everything and everyone around them.”
“It’s not easy, and I certainly have no answers. As a cop? I want to arrest them all to get them clean. But that’s neither viable nor realistic. They’re breaking the law, but we can’t arrest them except under very specific circumstances. The slippery slope of desperation where they are just looking for money to get more drugs, lose their friends, family, home... It’s depressing. But I’m sure there’s more to it than that. A lot of the vets Will helps suffer from PTSD and the VA is a bitch to work with to get help.”
“It’s a bureaucracy, but if you know how to work the system, you can get what you need,” Michael said.
“Because you see the benefit. You’re willing to do what it takes and fight for what you want. Other people see a mountain they can’t climb. Will helps make that journey easier. But not everyone wants help, and the laws being as they are, we can’t force them to do anything they don’t want to do. I just wish we didn’t make it so easy for them to continue down destructive paths.”
Kara tried to see things as they were, not better or worse. She tended to be cynical, but mostly, she was a realist.
She slowed as the Uber carrying Will’s two helpers stopped at the north end of Echo Park Lake. They got out and at first she thought she was wrong—that they were still using, in the park to buy drugs. There were dozens of homeless encampments along the semipermanent chain-link fencing the city had put up. She felt Michael tense next to her.
Then she saw Will Lattimer.
“Bingo,” she said. “The guy in the dark green shirt with the blue baseball cap? That’s Will.”
She pulled over, parked illegally and jumped out before anyone could skirt away. Michael followed, letting her take the lead.
As she approached, Will glanced over, looked straight at her. Then Gina saw her and said something to Will. He handed Gina something—keys, Kara realized—and Gina and her friend walked away.
“Kara,” Will said when she was within earshot. “If this isn’t a blast from the past.”
“You shouldn’t be so surprised,” she said. “I left you several messages.”
“I’ve been really busy. I’m sorry.” He turned to Michael, extended his hand. “Will Lattimer, director of First Contact.”
“Special Agent Michael Harris, FBI,” Michael said.
“FBI,” Will repeated. “Well, Kara, I was surprised to get your call. I meant to call you, but—”
She interrupted. “You’re avoiding me, and I don’t know why. But two things you need to know. First, Craig Dyson is dead.”
“I heard. It’s awful.”
“Yeah. I was there.”
Will reached out, his hesitation gone. “Oh, God, Kara, I’m so sorry.”
“Which brings me to the second thing. Craig’s dying words. He told me to find Violet.” Not in so many words, but Kara was clear on the meaning. “Then he said to talk to you. Why?”
Kara watched Will. He seemed confused, but she wasn’t positive he wasn’t acting. Then, he paled, as if just now realizing the scope of the situation. “I don’t know—”
“Yes you do,” Kara cut him off. “You know damn well what’s going on. And I think it has to do with Violet Halliday.”
“How do you know Violet?” he asked. Stalling.
“Craig wanted me to meet her because of something about my investigation into Chen and information she had. He said she was a whistleblower. I was irritated because I sensed that Craig was going to cut a deal with Chen. I remembered the name, and that she was bringing him a file but was locked out because of the shooting. Then, I heard from LAPD that she’s a person of interest.”
“She did not—” He abruptly stopped talking.
“You know what’s going on and it revolves around this girl. Who is she, what does she know, did she kill Chen and why?”
“She didn’t kill Chen. Dammit.” He looked around, then said, “This isn’t a good place to talk. People are watching me because they think I’ll lead them to Violet. I don’t know where she is. I wish I did. She’s in danger, but I don’t know what information she had for Craig. I told her to be careful. Look, I have people I trust searching for her, and when I find her, I’ll call you.”
She didn’t know if what he said was the truth or mostly lies.
“The police are looking for her,” she said.
“You can’t trust anyone. There’s so much money involved, I don’t know who’s dirty or who’s clean.”
“Money involved in what?” Michael asked.
“What did Craig tell you?”
“You’re hedging,” Michael said.
“Because I don’t know you,” Will said, defiant.
“You know me,” Kara said. “Colton was my partner and your friend. If anything, you should come clean because of that.”
He stared at her oddly. His mouth opened, closed. Then he nodded. “Yeah. You’re right.”
She waited, and Will finally started talking.
“Craig was about to impanel a grand jury to look into how the city and county allocates housing grants for the homeless,” he said. “I have been fighting the city for years and getting nowhere, but after you took down Chen, some new information came to light about how grant money is distributed and spent. The volume of corruption—the nonprofits within nonprofits with everyone getting a cut until less than 10 percent gets to the people who need it. We are talking billions—with a B. Billions of dollars.
“The thing is—nothing about the structure is illegal. It’s immoral and unethical, but the way the grants are written, there’s nothing illegal about it. I’ve tried to get the media to expose the waste, but they’re not interested. Craig found something to hang his hat on—employee economic interest reporting violations. He was going to use that to segue into a larger investigation into how the grant money is spent under an old public fraud law he uncovered that has rarely been used. If he could prove that money was steered to the friends and family of those making financial decisions, then he had a case to open a full audit. But he needed the grand jury to do it.”
Kara’s head was spinning. “So you think that someone killed Craig because he was going to impanel a grand jury that may have issued an indictment against some politician?”
“More than one,” he said. “And some of these people had ties to Chen, a known human trafficker. Some of these politicians profited from Chen’s business.”
“Are you suggesting that someone killed Craig to protect a damn politician?”
Will nodded. “And Chen.”
“Because he was going to plea,” Michael suggested.
“Craig told me the case against Chen was solid,” Will said, “and he was going to use that to leverage him into turning state’s evidence against multiple people. I don’t specifically know who—Craig was keeping that information close to the vest until the grand jury.”
“So someone kills Chen to prevent him from talking, then someone kills Craig so he doesn’t pursue an investigation.” She didn’t see it. “Killing Chen—yes. No honor among thieves. But a prosecutor? These kinds of public corruption cases are held up for years because of motions and postponements and paperwork and bullshit. Murder is a whole other animal. Something else is going on.”
Will shrugged. “I don’t know what to say. This is what I’ve been working on with him. I planned to testify as an expert to the grand jury. We’ve been talking about it for months. I have research, documentation, facts to back up my statements, and more than a decade working with the homeless and navigating the city bureaucracy. I’ve seen the waste firsthand.”
“Then it’s this Halliday girl who has information,” Michael said. “And no one knows where she is.”
“I’m worried about her,” Will admitted. “She called me yesterday in a panic, said that she needed to meet me, that she would be at the Fifth Street Park.”
“Where’s that?” Michael asked.
“A small downtown park about a mile from city hall north of I-10. It’s a homeless encampment now, but she volunteers for me on the weekends.”
“And she would go there?” Michael asked, surprised.
“Sure,” Will said. “Everyone knows her. If she needed help or to hide in the open, that’s where she would go. But when I got there, she was gone, and there were these thugs I’d never seen before going through the camp, harassing people, asking about her.”
“Could they have worked for Chen?”
“They weren’t Chinese—they were Hispanic. Three men, under thirty, looked to be gangbangers. Swaggered in, tossed a couple tents, all attitude. One had a neck tat, but I couldn’t make out the details. They left when they saw me, but threatened me by ‘shooting’ their fingers.”
“You need to watch yourself,” Kara said. “Some of those gangs don’t need a reason to kill you.”
Will dismissed her concern. “When they were gone, I talked to the people at the park. Violet had been hiding in a tent, but when she saw the men looking for her she slipped away, leaving her phone behind.”
“Where’s her phone now?” Michael asked.
“In my office.”
“Your office workers told me they didn’t know where you were and yet came right here,” Kara said.
“Don’t blame them. I told Gina and Fletch not to tell anyone where I am.”
“Even the police?” Michael said.
Will was growing irritated. “I don’t know you, and I know Kara isn’t with LAPD anymore.”
“I am,” she said, “just temporarily assigned to the feds until this Chen thing is resolved. A detective who didn’t identify himself was looking for you, too,” she added.
“Fletch told me he was an asshole. Thought Violet was there. Demanded to search. He walked around, looked in the offices—which are open, the doors don’t even lock—and even searched the cabinets where I keep supplies. Fletch and Gina aren’t confrontational, they only watched him.”
“You’re not telling us everything,” Michael said. He was just as irritated with Will as Will was with them.
“Look, I’m done,” Will said. “When I talk to Violet, find out what spooked her, maybe I’ll call you.”
“You need to call me,” Kara said.
“First, I have to find Violet.” He looked around, closed his eyes, shook his head. “Dammit, you both look like cops, and no one is going to talk to cops around here. Let me handle this.”
Kara stepped forward and said in a low voice, “No matter what, you call me tonight and give me a report, even if it’s that you found nothing. Do not avoid my calls. This fraud investigation Craig was running? There has to be more to it. We’re talking about murder. Killing a DDA in the fucking courthouse. Violet is in danger, and you know it. If she really did find something, the smoking gun that she was bringing to Craig yesterday afternoon, then my team can protect her a whole lot better than you.”
Will watched Kara and her partner walk away, then he swore and kicked the trash can next to him, hurting his foot.
He sensed before he saw someone approach him from the trees. Will whirled around, stared at his old friend who blended in so well with the homeless. Khakis, layered shirts, jacket, thick beard, hat, sunglasses. The sunglasses because some things—like being a drug addict—you can’t fake if someone looks in your eyes.
“Goddammit, Colton, why didn’t you tell me that Kara doesn’t know you’re alive?”