Hard Evidence

by Pamela Clare

  'That covers my department." Irving tucked the file under his arm. "What about the information she wants on you? Should I let the feds handle that?"

  And then it hit Julian.

  Son of a bitch!

  Tessa had probably filed the same request with the FBI. It wasn't the records themselves that concerned him. He'd had to live every day with the truth of what he'd done three years ago. It didn't matter what she knew or didn't know, as long as she didn't print it. But at any moment, he was going to be getting a pissed-off call from Dyson—or worse, Margaux— demanding to know why he'd kept them in the dark. And what fun that would be.

  Dyson didn't call until nearly four o'clock. He'd been every bit as furious as Julian had expected him to be. He'd threatened to yank Julian off the case, questioned his objectivity, and twisted the knife by reminding Julian of the times he'd gone to the mat for him. Then he'd gotten down to business and demanded a full briefing on Zoryo.

  Julian had filled him in, omitting any mention of Pasha's, then brought him up-to-date on Wyatt's arrest and the discovery of the warehouse—two bits of information he was certain Burien already had. He hated keeping Dyson in the dark, hated deceiving the man who'd been his mentor, but he couldn't share information with Dyson without sharing it with everyone in Dyson's chain of command. And someone in that chain was the broken link.

  Julian had just hung up when his cell phone rang again.

  "I told Dyson not to put you on this case! I told him I thought you were in it for your own damned reasons!"

  "What a delight to year your voice, Margaux, and what a surprise." He didn't blame her for being angry. Burien had shot her, killed two of her friends. She was very likely the only person in the world who hated Burien more than he did.

  "Cut the crap. What the hell do you think you're doing?"

  "I'm trying to stop a killer."

  "Goddamn it, Julian! You think you want him more than I do? You weren't there when he and his goons killed half my team and put a bullet in my leg. If you blow this—"

  "You've been chasing him for three years, and what have you accomplished? You've linked a bunch of websites together, tracked some of his accounts, watched his money come and go. And still he's one step ahead. There's a leak in the bureau, Margaux."

  "Of course there's a leak! I know it. Dyson knows it. We stood with you when you asked for an internal investi…" Her words trickled to a halt. "Oh, God! Do you think it's Dyson? That's why you're keeping secrets. Or maybe you think it's me."

  "I don't know who it is. I just know Burien's not getting any info from me."

  "Go to hell! You're off this investigation. I want you off. Your cover's blown. Burien obviously knows who you are, and so does that little slut of a journalist!"

  Julian felt his temper surge. "I wouldn't throw the term 'slut' around if I were you."

  Margaux laughed. "You said you'd take care of her, and you did, didn't you? Dyson tells me you've been playing bodyguard. Is she that good in bed?"

  "I wouldn't know. I haven't slept with her."

  "Don't tell me you've gotten honorable in the past few—"

  Someone knocked on the door to Julian's office, and Pe-tersen shuffled in, a confused look on his face.

  "It's been great catching up, sweetheart. Later." Julian hung up, cutting Margaux off in mid-sentence. "What is it?"

  "Irving said to let you know a guy named Psycho called dispatch to tell Dark Angel that Blondie is back and asking questions. Does that make any sense to—?"

  "Son of a bitch!" Julian was on his feet in a heartbeat, shoving a stunned-looking Petersen out of his office and locking the door behind him. "Tell Irving to alert the cops in Aurora. I think Tessa Novak is hangin' in the 'hood again."

  Chapter 17

  Tessa found Syko and Flaco much faster this time—or rather they found her. She'd asked for them in the same neighborhood where she'd run into them before and had just gotten the cold shoulder from a group of teenage girls when a gleaming royal-blue Cadillac Coupe Deville pulled up behind her, throbbing with bass.

  The door opened. A kid with a face she recognized from last time climbed out, gesturing with the gun in his hand. "Yo, Blondie, get in."

  Heart beating faster, Tessa ducked down and slid into the backseat, the kid pushing in after her, squeezing her in between him and another man. Only when the car pulled away from the curb did she realize Syko and Flaco weren't in the car.

  "Where are—?"

  The front-seat passenger turned his head, looked back at her through mirrored sunglasses. "Syko say we ain't supposed to answer no questions, so you sit quiet."

  She shut her mouth, sat quiet, watching Aurora roll by outside the tinted windows, the throbbing rhythm of hip-hop bumping against her eardrums. A storm was rolling in over the mountains, pushing a cold wind ahead of it. Even though it wasn't yet sunset, the sky had gone dark, streetlights automatically coming on. Maybe it would finally snow.

  It hadn't been hard to get out of the newspaper. She'd waited for the right moment, then had taken her purse and notepad and, tucking her hair beneath the scarf she'd hidden in her purse, she'd headed down the back stairs and out the rear exit into the alley. Within a few minutes she'd stood near the 16* Street Mall, hailing a cab.

  No one had seen her go.

  Certainly, this wasn't the smartest thing she'd ever done. But she needed to finish the interview she'd started last week before they shipped her off tonight. She wouldn't be able to interview anyone on the streets after tonight. She needed to ask Syko what he'd meant when he'd told her there were worse dangers than gangs on Denver's streets. Had he been thinking of sex traffickers? What did he know about them? Where did they operate?

  She knew instinctively that Syko and none of his gang would hurt her. They had too much respect for Julian—or "Dark Angel"—to harm her. But, as Syko had pointed out, they weren't the only ones on the streets.

  The kid to her right rolled down his window, whistled at some passing girls, who glanced up, smiled, their arms full of school books.

  "Mmm, she likes me," he said before howling like a coyote.

  The driver gave a snort. "She don't want nothin' to do with no gangsta, cuzz. She goin' to college."

  "Maybe I'll go with her."

  They laughed.

  Tessa's thoughts drifted to the anonymous letter. She had no trouble believing Julian was a special agent and not a cop. His loner attitude, the authority he seemed to carry even with Chief Irving, his access to information—it all made sense. But she hoped the allegations in the letter were false. She didn't even want to consider the possibility that he might have illegally detained a suspect, interrogated him, and then covered up his death.

  Yet hadn't she overheard him trying to do something similar with Wyatt? Hadn't he urged Irving not to get a warrant?

  Yes, he had.

  She'd already put in an open-records request, and Chief Irving had immediately denied the allegations, throwing his considerable weight behind Julian.

  "You're being manipulated by someone who wants to cause trouble," he'd told her, agreeing to an interview on Monday. "The inmate in question was taken into custody quite legally, interrogated according to procedure, and then committed suicide despite every effort to prevent just that. Julian Darcangelo is not crooked."

  She hoped with all her heart that what Irving had said was true.

  And if it wasn't?

  She was a journalist. She would do her job.

  The car turned into the parking lot of a sprawling brown apartment complex and made its way in a horseshoe around to the other side. Tessa found herself being hurried through a door covered with skeletons and jack-o'-lanterns into a crowded apartment that smelted heavily of marijuana and cigarettes.

  Syko sat in a recliner, surrounded by more than a dozen members of his gang, who watched her, their expressions ranging from hard-edged indifference to curiosity. She knew they saw her as just a rich white chick with a fancy education and a job
. In truth, she had more in common with them than she did her friends and coworkers.

  Syko took a slow drag on a joint, passed it to the kid next to him. He held the hit, pointed at one of the younger gang members sitting on a battered couch, and motioned for him to move.

  The kid stood, moved aside, freeing up a place for Tessa.

  Tessa pulled off her scarf and sat, feeling the heat of fifteen pairs of eyes upon her. She met Syko's gaze, tried not to show her fear or to let on that she felt their hostility, her heart beating hard in her chest. "Thanks for meeting with me."

  "You didn't give me much choice, showin' up on the streets and askin' for us." He looked at her through eyes that should have belonged to a much older man. "You're either crazy, or you're braver than any chick I know."

  Tessa took the bait. "Why do you say that?"

  "Hell, girl. Since you been running those articles about Denver gangs, you made it hard for everyone on the streets. We got folks watchin' what we do, cops crawling up our ass."

  "Maybe you all should stop selling crack and go back to school or get a job." She willed herself not to break eye contact.

  The entire room seemed to hold its breath.

  Then Syko laughed. "I can see why Dark Angel likes you. And he's right—you do get yourself into trouble."

  Julian didn't like her, but Tessa didn't think this was a good time to clear up that particular misunderstanding.

  "Know why we brought you here instead of meetin' with you on the streets?" Syko asked. "To keep you from gettin' popped. Word on the street is Slobs put a hit on you to pay you back for their boys gettin' busted."

  The Bloods had a contract on her? This sounded so absurd she almost laughed. "They want to kill me? They're going to have to get in line."

  He grinned. "So why you want to talk with us?"

  "Last time we spoke you told me there were worse things than gangs on the streets. I wondered what or who you were thinking of when you said that."

  Flaco spoke in Spanish, apparently unaware she understood. "Se trata de esa muchacha, la quefue asesinada." It's about that girl, the one who was murdered.

  Tessa switched to Spanish, satisfied by the startled looks on their faces. "Creo que los hombres que la mataron son traficantes—hombres que intercambian y venden a mujeres y a ninos y los obligan a la prostitution." I think the men who killed her are traffickers—men who trade and sell women and children and force them into prostitution.

  For a moment, Syko seemed to weigh his words. Then he spoke in English. "When I try to sell you some rock, I don't make you buy it. I don't make you use. I give you the opportunity, but you decide. Some people ain't like that. They don't give you no choice."

  "Where do they operate? Where can I find them?"

  He gave a snort, but there was no humor in it. "You don't want to find them, Blondie. We're talking hard core—international players, syndicate types. They don't give a damn about nothin' but money. But don't ask me for names, 'cause I don't know, and even if I did—"

  "Please!" Tessa interrupted him. "I've put my life on the line for this! All I want is to bring that girl some justice. She was only sixteen. Please tell me what you can, and I promise I won't bother you again."

  Syko sat in silence for a moment. "Everyone out."

  The other gang members got up and reluctantly shuffled out, including a voluptuous girl with aqua eyes and dark corn-rows who'd been standing behind Syko's chair.

  "Not you, sugar." Syko reached out an arm and drew her onto his lap.

  The girl giggled and ground her butt into him.

  Tessa sat in silence, waited for him to speak.

  "Like I said, these are international players. You gotta quit thinkin' 'bout gangbangers and start thinkin' more like The Godfather."

  And she understood. "They're Mafia."

  "Yeah, but what color Mafia? That's the question you—"

  A boy of about ten years old ran through the front door, rushed up to Syko, and whispered in his ear. The rest of the gang followed him through the door, looking back over their shoulders.

  Syko nodded, clapped the boy on the back, then looked over at Tessa. "Someone's been looking for you."

  As she got to her feet, the door flew open.

  Julian.

  Dressed in his black leather jacket and black leather pants, his eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses, his face shadowed with stubble, he stepped into the room like menace come to life. He glanced at her, and a muscle in his jaw clenched. Even though she couldn't see his eyes, she felt the anger in his gaze.

  How had he known she was here?

  "I owe you." He tossed something to Syko—a bundle of bills—then looked at her and motioned toward the door with a jerk of his head. "Come on."

  She turned toward Syko, smiled. "Thanks, cuzz."

  He laughed. 'Time to jet, Blondie. A-town ain't safe for you."

  She had a feeling he wasn't just talking about traffickers.

  Not wanting to overstay her welcome—or provoke Julian's temper—she swept past Julian and out the door.

  Julian watched Tessa hurry down the sidewalk ahead of him, chin high, purse slung over her shoulder, a dark scarf over her long curls. Wearing a gray woolen dress coat over a short black skirt and a lacy, white blouse, little pearls on her ears, heels clicking against the concrete, she couldn't look more out of place if she tried.

  Had she really just called one of the most dangerous gang-bangers in Denver "cuzz"? A part of him wanted to laugh out loud. The rest of him wanted to strangle her.

  He'd hauled ass to Aurora, breaking more than a few traffic laws along the way, hoping he'd find her before anyone else did, trying to decide what he'd do with her when he did. When he'd seen her sitting on Syko's couch, surrounded by pot smoke and gangbangers, he'd wanted to toss her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and carry her off—or bend her over his knee. How could she be so completely oblivious toward the rage she'd engendered among the town's gangs? She'd brought the cops down on their heads, and, if it hadn't been for Syko's gang, she'd likely already be lying bloody in an alley.

  Trying to rein in his temper, he fell in beside her, his gaze searching for danger on the storm-darkened street He took her arm in his, guided her toward his truck. "This way, Goldilocks."

  She jerked her arm free. "No, thank you. Special Agent Darcangelo. I can take a cab. You have important things to do, remember? Like conducting illegal interrogations and covering up deaths at the jail."

  "You don't know what you're talking about!" He grasped her arm firmly this time, pulled her along with him, his fury boiling over. "Do you have any idea how stupid it was for you to come here?"

  "Slow down! I can't walk as fast as you!" She pulled back on her arm, and he realized she was all but running beside him, her smaller gait made tricky by her fancy shoes. "Believe it or not, I know this wasn't the smartest thing I've ever done, but I needed to finish the interview you interrupted before Irving sent me into exile!"

  "What you needed to do was drop this damned story!" He reached in his pocket for his keys, opened the driver's side door of his truck. "For Christ's sake, Tessa, you have at least some idea of what you're dealing with. Do you really think anyone who kidnaps and sells human beings is going to think twice about killing you or worse? Get in!"

  She turned to face him, looked up at him through those big blue eyes of hers, her emotions as plain to see as clouds in a clear blue sky—anger, fear, grief. "What kind of reporter would I be if I didn't do everything I could to get to the bottom of this? Do you think Christiane Amanpour hides when her investigations get rough?"

  He had just started to say he didn't give a shit about Christiane Amanpour when he saw it—the red dot of a laser sight quavering against the white of her blouse.

  With time to do nothing but react, he stepped into the line of fire and pinned Tessa against his truck with his body, pulling her head tightly against his chest just as hell broke loose.

  Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! />
  Shattering pain drove the breath from his lungs as five rounds slammed into his back. In a haze of agony, he heard Tessa scream. Was she hurt? Had a stray round hit her? Had one of the bullets passed through him and gone into her?

  The squeal of tires.

  A siren.

  Unable to tell how badly he was hurt, he thrust Tessa through the open driver's side door and across the seat, pressing her head down. Then using the door for cover, he drew his .38 and dropped—or fell—to one knee. He fired three shots at the assailant's vehicle, one of which punctured a tire. The car crashed into a parked truck.

  "Julian! Oh, my God, Julian!" Tessa surrounded him with surprisingly strong arms and tried to pull him backward into the truck. He could tell by her voice she was in tears.

  He had to get her out of here. He thrust his keys into her hands, then stood and staggered around the hood to the passenger side, keeping one eye on the scattering passengers from the shooter's vehicle.

  Gangbangers. Not Burien's men.

  He slid into the seat, slammed the door, and forced air into his lungs, nearly blinded by the pain of breathing. "Drive!"

  "I need to call an ambulance!" She started to crank the wheel as if making a U-turn. "Let me at least try to stop the bleeding."

  He grabbed the wheel, fighting to keep himself upright and conscious, spots dancing before his eyes. He didn't have the strength to explain. "Not safe! Get to Speer!"

  She gaped at him as if he were crazy, but did as he asked, turning her head to glance at him every few seconds, her eyes wide and worried, her face streaked with tears.

  "Eyes on the road!" he shouted when she came close to running a stop sign.

  A call came over his radio, but he ignored it, focused instead on breathing. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. Goddamn, it hurt!

  The drive seemed to take forever, though he knew she was going as fast as she could. She was actually a skilled driver, weaving through traffic like a pro, clearly an experienced speeder. He imagined she'd put that skill to use quite often as a journalist.