Cold Snap

by Allison Brennan

  “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.

  “I don’t know where Kami is, but you know Lorenzo?”

  Patrick dipped his head.

  “He’s looking for her.”

  “Is she in danger?”

  Jazz shrugged. “I’m only telling you this because Kami’s a good kid, and I don’t want her hurt. I haven’t seen her for days, but Ace”—he gestured toward the building where his friends disappeared—“thought he saw her at TK at closing today.”

  “TK?”

  “The clothes shop. You know, where they make T-shirts and shit. They hire out of here. Ace is sixteen, so he has good hours and shit. I’m too young.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Fourteen.”

  Patrick would have guessed older, just from the way the kid held himself. “Thanks for your help, Jazz.”

  “Eyes open, it’s been a weird night already.”

  Before Patrick could ask him what he meant, Jazz slipped away.

  He walked back to the car and pulled out his laptop. He sent Jaye a note to dig as deep as legally possible into Christopher Lee and TK, a clothing manufacturer in San Francisco, focusing on finances. Any business that regularly imported or exported could easily run drugs. Patrick had seen it quite a bit in San Diego because of the proximity to the Mexican border, but any city with a port was particularly vulnerable.

  On the map, TK was only half a mile from the teen center. It was definitely worth checking out the facility. He closed his laptop and put it under the seat.

  He considered going there without Elle, except that he didn’t know what Kami looked like, and she had no reason to trust him. He didn’t want to spook her. At least he had a viable lead to share when Elle came out, instead of trying to find the drug dealer who might want her dead.

  As Patrick watched the teen center, he saw several male youths approach the entrance, then lurk. Jazz knew about the situation with Elle and Kami; there could have been others who did as well. Someone could have tipped Lorenzo off that Elle was inside the building, alone, asking questions. Jazz and his friends knew Patrick was here; no one else did.

  He turned off the overhead light in the car and slipped out, quietly closing his door. The center itself was well lit, and the thugs didn’t seem to care if they were spotted. They were definitely waiting for someone. Patrick could see six, but because visibility was low, there could be more out of his sight. Jazz and his friends hadn’t come back out. It was eleven-thirty, and the center would close soon.

  Patrick decided he needed to be bold. He didn’t know if one of these kids was Lorenzo, but he doubted it. No one seemed to be a leader, they were all just … waiting. Patrick strode toward the doors without saying a word as he passed. They remained silent as well, but watchful. Patrick opened the door and went in with purpose.

  A twentysomething black girl with a nose ring and tight braids manned the front desk. She had a stack of textbooks next to her, two of which were open and marked up. “We’re getting ready to close, sir. Are you here to pick someone up?”

  She said it in a tone that implied she’d be shocked if he had a kid here.

  “Elle Santana.”

  “Oh.”

  “Where is she?”

  “I don’t know. She came in about forty-five minutes ago.”

  “Can I look around?”

  “The facility is for young adults under twenty-five.”

  “Elle’s thirty-two.”

  Elle stepped around the corner and said, “It’s not polite to talk about a girl’s age.” She smiled at the nose-ring chick and said, “Thanks, Mikayla, I got what I needed. And don’t forget, if you see Kami, text me.”

  “No problem,” Mikayla said, still looking suspiciously at Patrick.

  Elle brushed past Patrick and was about to walk outside when Patrick grabbed her arm and pulled her to the side.

  She glared at him and shook off his grip. “Dammit, Patrick, I don’t like to be manhandl
ed.”

  “There’s six guys loitering outside.”

  “This is a teen center. There are always kids loitering. It’s not a crime here.”

  “In this weather?”

  “Are you always so suspicious?”

  “They arrived thirty minutes after you did. And they’re waiting. For you.”

  “Paranoid, too.”

  “You’ve got to trust my instincts because it’s pretty damn clear you have none of your own,” Patrick snapped. “I have a lead on Kami.”

  “You? From your trusty rusty computer?”

  “From the basketball players outside. She was seen earlier this evening at TK.”

  “No, she wouldn’t dare go there, especially since Lee suspects she’s turning evidence against him. She wouldn’t risk it.”

  “Unless she’s trying to find the evidence she told you she already had.”

  “Two girls told me they saw her at an apartment building not far from here.”

  “You’re being set up.”

  “Maybe the basketball players were playing you.”

  “You’re impossible.”

  “TK is closed—unless you want us to go our separate ways? I’ll check out my lead and you check out yours.”

  “I’m not letting you out of my sight.” Though he was growing more irritated by the minute.

  “What, you’re my personal bodyguard now?”

  He ignored the sarcasm. “Do what I say.”

  She was about to argue with him, but his attention shifted to the door. Two of the thugs were coming in. They spotted Elle and sauntered over, their jeans hanging low on their hips. “Miz Elle, we hear you looking for Kami.”

  Elle eyed them. She spoke without her usual friendly tone. Maybe her instincts weren’t as bad as Patrick thought.

  “Word gets around fast,” she said flatly.

  “We’ll help find her.”

  “Thanks anyway, but I have help.”

  “We’ll look, just the same.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t,” Elle said. “I’m sure you’re just looking out for Kami, but I need to talk to her.”