“I promised her she’d be safe.”
“How good are the promises she’s received in the past?”
“I’ve always done what I said I would do,” Elle said. “She knows she can trust me.”
“What if she thinks she’s protecting you? What if she’s scared and just wants to disappear? Sacramento. Stockton. Even Los Angeles. She doesn’t have to stay here.”
“She wants to stop Christopher Lee, too.”
“Why?”
“Because she was friends with Doreen.”
Patrick had no idea what Elle was talking about. “Who’s Doreen?”
“Shit,” she mumbled.
“Is this what you’ve been keeping from me?”
She didn’t say anything.
“Stop the car. Let me out.”
“Patrick—”
“Now.”
What was Elle supposed to do? Tell Patrick everything? He would never understand. Or … maybe he was the only one who could. He’d seen shit, as a cop.
She pulled over to the side of the road, but she didn’t turn off the car. “Don’t go,” she said quietly. She hated asking for help, but even she recognized when she was in over her head. “Please.”
He didn’t make a move to get out. Instead, he asked, “Is Doreen the girl who died of a drug overdose?”
Elle closed her eyes and nodded. “It’s my fault Doreen is dead,” she said quietly.
“Why? Because you gave her the drugs?”
“Of course not!” Why was Patrick doing this? Pushing her to lose her temper?
“Tell me, Elle. Tell me how this started and who Doreen is to you.”
She hadn’t told anyone about Doreen. Not the details. Not even Dwight, though he suspected she had a personal reason for wanting to take Christopher Lee down.
“A year ago, Doreen came to me because she thought that Christopher Lee was supplying drugs to Richie Lorenzo. She knew I’d helped some kids get out from under Lorenzo’s thumb, and she knew how I felt about drugs. Doreen was sixteen, had watched her mother turn into a drug addict and her father go to prison for dealing. She recognized the signs when others didn’t. She knew who Lorenzo was, and found out something that made her suspicious about Lee.
“I didn’t want to believe her. I was helping Lee raise money for the teen center; it was already under construction. I admired how he gave jobs to kids who had no other way to feed themselves or who could learn a skill that would help them later in life. But I agreed to follow Lorenzo to meet his supplier—and it was Lee. I saw it with my own eyes.”
“Why didn’t you turn the information over to the police?”
“I did! I used all my clout with law enforcement and they raided his business, TK Clothing, and found
nothing
other than minor OSHA violations. He was clean, according to them, and he paid his fine and all was well. But it
wasn’t
good, and Doreen was so disillusioned by the system that she planted a recording device in Lee’s office. She told me after the fact. I would have stopped her.”
But Elle wasn’t certain she would have. She wanted Lee as much as Doreen did.
“I don’t know what happened, but Doreen disappeared. I was frantic, searching for her just like now…” Suddenly, Elle saw the parallel and she clutched her stomach.
“What happened?” Patrick asked quietly.
“Someone—one of Lee’s men, I know—dumped her body outside my apartment. She was barely alive. I tried to save her. But—” She drew in a deep breath, forcing herself not to cry. Forcing herself to control the rage that she constantly fought whenever she remembered Doreen dying in her arms.
“Sorry,” Doreen had said. Elle could barely hear her. “I—I failed.”
“No, no! Hold on, Doreen, please.”
Doreen’s petite body was shaking uncontrollably. Elle took off her sweater and put it over the girl as she tried to hold her. Where was the ambulance? How long did it take to get here in the middle of the fucking night?
“It’s worse,” Doreen whispered.
“Don’t talk.”
“It’s worse than I even knew.”
Doreen didn’t speak again, and by the time the ambulance arrived three minutes later, Elle knew she was dead.
“Elle?” Patrick’s hand was on her arm.
She took a deep breath. “Kami knew Doreen. I didn’t know it at first, and one day I said too much. Told Kami that I knew Lee had killed Doreen and that’s why I was so focused on learning everything about him and his connection with Lorenzo. Kami started snooping, she wants to take him down just like I do, but she’s young and reckless. She doesn’t understand she can’t do it alone.”
“That’s the pot calling the kettle black,” Patrick muttered.
“I’m not reckless.”
“Yes you are, but I understand why.” Patrick touched her cheek and turned her to look at him. It was dark, but she didn’t mistake the determined set of his square jaw. She wanted to turn everything over to Patrick, to let him fix this mess, but she’d always cleaned up her own messes.
“Patrick—”
“You have to trust me, Elle,” he said. “You’re in a dangerous game with dangerous people who have already proven they will kill to keep their drugs moving. If you don’t trust me, listen to me, you’re going to get hurt—or worse.”
“You’re a Kincaid, right? Truth, justice, and the American way.”
She was being sarcastic—it was a defense mechanism—but she couldn’t stop herself.
But instead of being angry, Patrick smiled. “I like it.”
He dropped his hand and Elle breathed easier. Who could have imagined she’d still have a crush on Veronica’s boyfriend?
Ex-boyfriend. Veronica is married with two kids.
“Drive,” Patrick said, “and tell me more about this teen center.”
“Christopher Lee donated the land and a public-private partnership built the facility. It’s sixty thousand square feet, with an indoor basketball court, a library, computers, games, a meeting hall, and more. There’s four full-time staff members and several part-time staff and volunteers. They’re good people … but they all have bought into the myth that Christopher Lee is this wonderful and caring philanthropist. It’s a beautiful facility, much needed. During really cold or stormy weather, the city lets us open it as a youth shelter. It’s open from six
A.M.
until midnight on the weekends, and until ten
P.M.
during the week.
“Lee’s garment factory is walking distance, and many of the kids work for him part-time. That’s how Doreen got in, and how she found out that he was dealing. She came to me, and—I went to the police. But they found nothing, because Lee is smart. He probably has one or more of them on his payroll. He became suspicious, and Doreen paid the price. That’s why I can’t just call the police. I don’t know who I can trust inside.”
“And he knows about you.”
“Why do you say that?”
Patrick chuckled in amusement. “Because you’re not someone who can keep her emotions to herself. If you had to see him after that, he’d know just by looking at you.”
“You sound like that’s a bad thing. I can’t lie. I can’t hide what I really think about people. If that’s a fault, sue me.” She paused. “Lee ordered his people to throw Doreen out of a car in my alley the night she died. I know it and I will prove it. Somehow.”
This was personal for Elle, and now he knew for certain. The story about Doreen dying, Lee’s involvement, and now Kami missing—Elle blamed herself, and she wasn’t thinking ahead.
Patrick was going to have to do that for her.
He needed to talk this out with her. If revenge was in her heart, Patrick had to find a way to stop it.
CHAPTER 4
They parked at the far end of the parking lot adjacent to the teen center. There were only a few cars, but Patrick wanted to assess the terrain before they went in, and the end of the lot provided him with the best visual of the entire grounds, even with the fog.
He liked that someone had taken the time to decorate the center for Christmas. White lights trimmed the front windows, and a tree in the front was decorated with large plastic ornaments and green and white lights. There were basketball courts on the other side of the center from the parking lot, and a lot of open space. The streets that framed the center’s boundaries weren’t as clean and bright—warehouses, decrepit apartments, and boarded-up businesses.
He asked Elle, “How many entrances? Exits?”
“Two entrances, one that goes straight into the gym, and the main entrance. The gym entrance is closed after six
P.M.
The other exits are alarmed.”
“I’m more concerned about safety issues.”
“There haven’t been any major problems since it opened. These kids know that if a few rotten apples get in, they’ll mess it up for everyone.”
Patrick wasn’t sure that was true, but he didn’t comment. “I’m going to let you go in alone,” he said, “because as you said, I look like a cop.”
She gave him a genuine smile. “Maybe if you let your hair grow a bit, replace the conservative Dockers with faded jeans, and get a nice tat on your arm…”
“No way in hell am I getting a tattoo.” Two of his brothers had them, but Jack had been in the army and Connor had been an undercover cop. Patrick had never had the urge to inject ink under his skin.
When Elle’s eyes sparkled, Patrick said, “You have one.”
“Two.”
“Where?”
“That’s for you to find out.” She winked and got out of the car.
Patrick decided to ignore Elle’s flirtatious comment. She was trying to divert his attention from the seriousness of the situation and he wasn’t sure what to make of it. The brief connection they’d made when she told him about Doreen was gone, and this was Gabrielle Santana, after all, the girl who had the ability to appear wholesome and sexy at the same time.
Besides, her mood changes threw him for a loop. First she was driven and worried, then angry at Kami’s father, then grumpy that he insisted on retrieving his gun. Her anguish about Doreen was real, of that he was certain, but she had a well-honed defense mechanism that kicked in whenever those emotions hit her. He didn’t know if she was flirting with him to throw him off guard or because she was relieved he was helping her.
Maybe a little of both.
Patrick watched her cross the parking lot and enter the building. Elle was a bundle of energy, a spitfire his mother would have said—and that could be taken as a compliment or an insult.
Elle was beginning to grow on Patrick.
He looked around the area. There were no street decorations to signal that it was Christmas, only the tree and lights in front of the building, visible through the thinning fog.
To the north of the entrance, a group of young men played basketball on a lighted, outside court. Two on two, three black kids and a tall, skinny white guy. The fog wasn’t as thick as earlier, but the air was still damp. He got out and walked over to them. They eyed him warily. Patrick was six foot three, but except for one scrawny black kid, the others were as tall or taller.
He made eye contact. “Up to taking on an old guy?”
“You?” The short kid snorted.
“Baseball’s my sport, but I also played hoops in high school.”
“You a cop?”
“No.”
They didn’t believe him, but he couldn’t help what they thought.
“You want something.”
“I do.”
The short kid nodded. “You and me against them.”
“Three on two?”
“Yep.”
Patrick put his hands out and was thrown the ball. “What’s your name?”
“Jazz.”
“I’m Patrick, but in college they called me K.”
“Just ‘K’?”
“Special K.”
Jazz snorted again. “And you’re a cop.”
“I’m not a cop.”
Patrick didn’t know whether Jazz believed him or not. He’d earned the nickname long before the moniker referenced a drug.
“Then what are you?”
“Private investigator.” Patrick bounced the ball. “Ready?”
Almost immediately, Patrick realized he was too old to be playing basketball with teenagers. Against Sean, one-on-one, he could hold his own, but Jazz was fast and the other guys were good.
Still, he read Jazz and they developed an unspoken communication. The kid should be playing varsity. He wasn’t tall, only about five nine, but as a point guard he’d rule the court. They scored the first basket on a dunk, and Jazz high-fived Patrick.
Fifteen minutes later, it was 20–14 against him, but Patrick cried uncle. “I’m getting too old.”
“What are you, thirty?”
Thirty-six. He’d always looked younger than his age. “Close.” He needed water. “Good game.”
“Not bad for an old cop. But you should know, I’m not a rat.”
“I know.”
“How?”
“Because I know you.”
He snickered. “Never seen you before. You’re not from the city.”
“I live in D.C.”
“You’re a fed?”
“No. I told you, I’m a private investigator. I’m visiting a friend. Elle Santana.”
The kids immediately recognized the name, and the white kid said, “Elle’s friend? Why didn’t you just say it? Or are you trying to jam her up?”
“I’m helping her.” Patrick spoke to the group, but focused on Jazz. He was the leader; the others deferred to him. “We grew up together, so when this thing went down with one of her clients, she asked me to help. And—between us—I used to be a cop, until seven years ago.”
“And they still let you carry a gun?” Jazz gestured to his holster.
“I have a permit.”
“Can I see it?”
“No.”
Jazz grinned. “So why you helping Elle?”
“Her client Kami’s in a jam.”
“Kami’s in trouble?” the white kid asked. But by Jazz’s expression, he knew. They all knew who Kami was, but Jazz knew what had happened. The kid didn’t fear much, but Patrick could see in his old, dark eyes that he was worried.
“Have you seen her tonight?”
They all shook their heads, except Jazz, who hesitated.
Patrick said, “Maybe you didn’t see her, but know where she is?”
Jazz ignored Patrick but motioned for his boys to walk across the court, and they talked, unmindful of the cold through their thin hoodies. Then Jazz returned alone and the other three went into the building.