L.A.P.D. Special Investigations Series, Boxed Set: The Deceived, The Taken & The Silent

by Style, Linda

They spent the next three hours studying and after lunch went grocery shopping. Most of the girls had few skills when it came to making a life for themselves. Learning to prepare a menu, cook, buy groceries, pay bills and do the laundry were as much a part of the shelter’s program as counseling.

  Back home, as the girls put away the groceries, Laura was reminded of how far the shelter had come.

  Everything had worked out perfectly. But if Detective St. James kept asking questions…

  Her chest tightened at the thought. Breathe. She took a couple of deep breaths to ward off an attack. Too late. Her hands got clammy, her heartbeat pulsed erratically. Damn. Every time she thought she’d conquered the panic attacks, she was reminded that she hadn’t.

  “I’ll be right back,” she said. Holding on to the wall, she crossed to the bathroom down the hall from the kitchen, bent over the old sink, stained with makeup from the girls, and splashed water on her face. Her pulse calming, she stared at herself in the mirror.

  Had she done the right thing three years ago? God knew it wasn’t the first time she’d asked herself the question. She’d done what she thought best for her daughter at the time.

  Then, in one brief moment at Eddie’s funeral, her need to protect her child became a desperate quest. She remembered it as vividly as if it were yesterday. Standing in the drizzling rain at the cemetery with Caitlin and Eddie’s mother at the gravesite, breathing in the scent of damp leaves. The rhythmic thud of heavy wet earth against the top of the casket decried the end of Eddie’s life. Her heart filled with sadness. Sadness and regret. Caitlin tugging on Laura’s shirtsleeve. “It’s him, Mommy. That’s the man who came to see Daddy.”

  Coming back to the moment, she’d snatched her daughter’s hand with the speed of light and held it in a vise grip to keep her from pointing. The man her daughter had been looking at was Frank DeMatta.

  Shaking, Laura averted her gaze and ignored the man’s nod of acknowledgment. But on the way to the car, he’d stopped them, reached into his pocket and handed her a package wrapped in brown paper. “For you and the child,” he said. Then he added in a whisper only she could hear, “I take care of my own. Remember that.”

  He couldn’t possibly know. Could he? And just because he’d been at the house didn’t mean he was Eddie’s murderer. Did it?

  And if she believed that, she was living in a third dimension. She’d been on the streets long enough to know all about Frank DeMatta—and how he took care of people who crossed him.

  Eddie had crossed him.

  On the way home, she’d told Caitlin she was mistaken, explaining the man at the funeral had been out of the country for a long time. Cait had accepted the explanation and said maybe she’d dreamed it. And in the three years since, Cait had never brought it up again.

  During the investigation of Eddie’s murder, she’d lived in a perpetual state of anxiety, worrying that somehow someone would find out Caitlin had been at her father’s that night. And then Eddie’s murderer would know. When the police closed the active case because they had no more viable leads, she’d nearly collapsed in relief.

  But the guilt dogged her. Eddie’s murder would go unsolved, but her daughter’s safety superseded everything. The package DeMatta had given her contained money. A lot of money. And she knew the only money DeMatta had was blood money—money she would never use and couldn’t give back.

  They hadn’t seen DeMatta again, and after a couple years, she’d been lulled into feeling safe. She closed her eyes. They weren’t safe. They’d never be safe. Not with Detective St. James’s asking questions. Everything could change in an instant.

  “Okay, we’re done!”

  She heard Brandy’s voice like a faint echo in her head. She splashed more water, took a couple more long breaths, went back into the kitchen and plastered on a smile. “Thanks, girls. Dinner at six.” Which meant the teens had the rest of the afternoon to themselves.

  The front door slammed. “Second shift is here,” Rose announced.

  The three women alternated schedules every other month, so no one had to take the worst hours all the time. The changing schedule gave Laura more evenings to spend with Caitlin.

  Caitlin. Laura glanced at her watch. She wasn’t home yet and she should be. Hurrying through the living room, Laura checked her watch again, all senses on alert. Why had she ever agreed to let her walk home alone?

  “I saw Cait down the block,” Rose said, stopping Laura before she reached the door.

  She heaved a silent sigh of relief.

  “Hey, everyone. My mother sent brownies.” Rose raised a cake pan for all to see, then turned to Laura. “Something change around here?”

  It was no secret Laura was overprotective. “Nothing earth-shattering. Cait wanted to walk home with the other kids.”

  A knowing smile crossed Rose Blackthorne’s face as she tugged off her tan leather jacket, then hung it on the coat tree by the front door. “Right.”

  Laura wasn’t fooling anyone with her casual response. Rose knew how protective Laura was, knew exactly how big a deal it was for her to let Cait walk home by herself.

  Rose was also a mother. And one of the most beautiful women Laura had ever met. Her smooth bronzed skin and well-toned body gave no indication she was over forty and had three children.

  Laura, Phoebe and Rose had worked together for three years now, and both their business relationship and their friendships were unshakable. Each evening Rose went home to her children and her mother, who stayed with her, while Phoebe stayed at the shelter a few nights a week, along with Laura. Laura wished she had another home to go to sometimes, like Phoebe, a place for just her and Caitlin. But there was no money to hire someone to stay full-time. No money to buy another place, either.

  “The cop come back today?”

  “He did. He was asking questions, but not about anyone here.”

  “Good. I hate when the police get involved.” Rose headed for the kitchen, and on her way she said to no one in particular, “Keep your mitts off the brownies till after dinner.”

  Laura hurried to the front door to see if she could spot Caitlin through the window. If she went outside to look and Cait saw her, the poor kid would be embarrassed all over again.

  She saw the two girls walking slowly toward the house, chatting and laughing, and Laura realized how much Caitlin needed the independence. As much as she hated letting go, she had to if her daughter was to live a normal life.

  And Laura wanted that more than anything.

  ***

  “I’m not sure Ms. Gianni was telling me everything,” Jordan said to Luke across the table at Bailey’s Sports Bar and Grill. Along with Rico Santini, Luke Coltrane and Will Houston were the best detectives in the RHD. They also happened to be his best friends. Rico, who’d convinced Jordan to come to the bar, hadn’t made it after all, and Will, aka Tex, had been there earlier with Simon McIntyre, one of the newer detectives in the unit, but both had left on a call out.

  “You think she’s lying?”

  As reruns of highlights and best plays in last week’s football game showed on the big screen, Jordan picked up the pitcher of beer and half filled his own glass. Luke was drinking soda. The announcer’s voice rose above the din of clinking glasses and the raised voices of the regulars—mostly cops—going head-to-head on the plays. “No. Not lying,” he answered Tex. “Withholding. Not telling me what she knows.”

  “And her motive for that would be?” Luke leaned back on two legs of his chair, eyes riveted on the television.

  “She seemed edgy when I asked about DeMatta.”

  “That slime would make anyone nervous. We all know what happens to people who get on his list.”

  “But why would she worry?”

  Luke looked at Jordan. “No reason—unless she has something to hide.”

  Luke was familiar with the Eddie Gianni case—they all were. Luke had even worked on the case for a brief period after the botched protection job.

  “My t
hought, too. She said she’d met Kolnikov.”

  “Anything good?”

  “No. We got interrupted and I left. I should’ve stayed, been persistent,” Jordan said, more to himself than to Luke. His buddy’s attention was back on the screen.

  He should’ve asked Laura more questions. She’d said Kolnikov seemed nice. That she was kind. Obviously Gianni didn’t know the whole story there. But he did. He tightened his grip on his glass and refocused on the television.

  Except his mind wouldn’t cooperate. The Gianni woman knew more than she was saying. He saw it in her body language, the way she avoided looking him in the eyes. He didn’t know what she was withholding, but his instincts were usually on target.

  For about the hundredth time, he asked himself the same question Rico had asked earlier—why was he was so interested in this case? Anyone who housed young girls and prostituted them for money was scum. A woman who’d slept with DeMatta and worked for him for thirty years had to be as amoral as DeMatta himself. Why bother?

  The answer was always the same.

  Because he had to.

  Because it was personal.

  What he knew so far was documented in three different case files. Kolnikov’s, Eddie Gianni’s, and that of Delores Matthews, one of DeMatta’s girlfriends who’d done a disappearing act. Speculation had it she was either dead or hiding out so she didn’t get dead. Among the three cases he knew a few things for sure. The LAPD suspected Kolnikov housed the women DeMatta’s pimps recruited. They suspected DeMatta was involved in her death. But they couldn’t prove either.

  Jordan knew Matthews had worked for Kolnikov. He knew Kolnikov’s clientele were high rollers, and both women had been arrested more than once. He also knew Kolnikov had influential friends.

  Combine that with the best attorneys available and you had a walk every time.

  The one common thread in the cases was Frank DeMatta. And the focus of all three of the investigations hadn’t been so much on solving the crimes as it was pinning something on the mobster. With good reason. If they took DeMatta down, half the illegal businesses in L.A. would crumble.

  Luke suddenly launched to his feet, his arms pumping. “Hoo-yeah!” His hoots joined with a cacophony of other shouts. Then, as if just noticing him, Luke clapped Jordan on the shoulder. “Hey, man, what’s with you?”

  “Yeah, great play,” Jordan answered.

  “You still thinking about the case?” Luke grinned. “Or the woman?”

  Jordan wasn’t in the mood for their usual banter.

  “She’s a stunning woman,” Luke said, his tone implying he didn’t know how Jordan could resist.

  Stunning, yes. Great hair and fascinating eyes. Those facts hadn’t escaped him. She was tall and had more curves than the skinny model types he usually dated. She was also too classy to be married to a punk like Gianni. “Lots of pretty women in the world. Besides, she’s off-limits. You know how that works.”

  “I know, but life doesn’t always work the way it’s supposed to. I might’ve tried for a date myself if I hadn’t been going through divorce hell.”

  “So, what’s keeping you from it now?” Jordan needled.

  Luke turned away. “I’ve got other interests.”

  Jordan doubted it. He knew Luke hadn’t been involved with anyone in ages because he was still in love with his ex-wife. They’d lost a child and the stress had been so overwhelming, the marriage crumbled under the pressure. Luke had spent the next two years in a deep depression, medicating with booze.

  His friend’s divorce only confirmed Jordan’s beliefs about the hopelessness of marriage. If a love like Luke and Julianna’s couldn’t hold a marriage together, nothing could.

  The only thing that had kept his parents together for forty years was money. And seeing what marriage could do to two people, why bother? Particularly when he was such a lousy judge when it came to weeding out the women who were only interested in his money. He wasn’t going to get burned again.

  “So what now?” Luke asked. “You got another lead?”

  With the game over, they headed out the door together and walked to the side of the building where their cars were parked.

  “I need information from Laura Gianni and I’m going to get it.”

  “For what it’s worth,” Luke said as he reached for his car door, “she’s a tough lady. I don’t think you’ll get anything from her she doesn’t want to give.”

  Jordan smiled. “I’ve got a hundred-dollar bill on it.”

  Luke stuck out his hand. “You’re on, bud.”

  They shook on it and Jordan waved Luke off before he headed for his own ride. Clicking the remote, he opened the door, slid inside the SUV and started the engine.

  Thirty minutes later he was turning the corner toward his town house in Brentwood, a gift to himself after he graduated Wharton Business School. The property was a good investment, even if his parents didn’t think so. No big surprise. They seldom approved of his choices.

  They’d expected him to invest the trust money he’d received from his grandfather in their multifaceted family conglomerate, Avecor, as his younger brother, Harry, had. But it hadn’t worked out as they wanted. His decision to join the police force after earning his MBA had been another bone of contention between Jordan and his parents.

  But after thirty-five years, he didn’t give a damn anymore if anyone approved of what he did. He was tired of trying to be the best, trying to prove he was good enough and that he really did belong. Though he loved his adoptive parents dearly and had always wanted to please them—he had to live with himself.

  He pulled into the garage next to the Jag he rarely used, walked inside and went through the ritual: keys on the granite countertop, jacket on the back of a chair, over to the fridge. He wasn’t particularly hungry after the buffalo wings at the bar so he grabbed a beer instead.

  In the so-called media room, the L.A. Times was still on the end table next to his favorite chair—a well-worn, black leather lounger that every woman who saw it hated. Aside from the chair, table and the LED TV, the room was empty. His living room had only been recently decorated because his mother couldn’t stand seeing it with no furniture.

  Sitting, he turned on the news. Same old, same old. He shuffled through the paper and pulled out the crossword puzzle. It didn’t hold his interest, either. He kept coming back to Laura Gianni’s big green eyes and how they’d sparked with recognition when he’d mentioned Anna Kolnikov.

  He picked up the phone on the table, pulled a note from his shirt pocket with Gianni’s phone number on it and punched it in. He’d rather stop by, catch her unexpectedly. He worked better with people when they didn’t have a chance to prepare a stock answer. But it had been impossible to talk to her with so many people around. She might even be more receptive if she could pick a time and place that worked for her.

  “Hello.”

  He recognized her distinctive voice immediately. A sleepy voice. Sexy. “Laura Gianni?”

  “Who’s calling?”

  “It’s Detective St. James. I’d like to talk to you again.”

  “I don’t know anything more than I told you already.”

  “I understand. I had some other thoughts about this case, other questions I need to ask.”

  “Well, I don’t understand why. I run a shelter for runaways. I counsel them. I don’t know anything other than what I’ve told you, and I have no time to be answering questions I’ve already answered.”

  He’d seen her dedication to her job, how fiercely protective she was of both her daughter and the girls who stayed at the shelter. He admired dedication. In his job he saw too many mothers who didn’t give a rat about their kids. Mothers who abused their children or gave them away as if they were garbage. His own biological mother had done the same.

  “We could meet somewhere other than the shelter if you’d like,” he added. The silence on the other end went on so long, he thought she might’ve hung up. “It’s important.”

/>   She finally said, “I’m sorry. I can’t. I don’t have the time. And I really must go now.”

  The next thing he knew he was listening to the dial tone. What the— He couldn’t remember the last time someone had stonewalled him, and he felt stupid he’d allowed her to do it.

  But then, her refusal said a lot. His questioning made her nervous. Scared her, maybe?

  Well, whether she had time or not didn’t matter. He was going to see her…and the when and where would now be up to him.

  And Luke was going to be out a hundred bucks real soon.

  ***

  Laura set the phone on the table, her hand trembling. Detective St. James unnerved her, so much so, she wasn’t sure she’d made the right decision.

  Within seconds, she felt as guilty as she had after talking with the detective earlier today. Anna had been a friend. But she couldn’t see how her personal feelings would be any help in solving Anna’s murder. And if Frank DeMatta was behind it, her life would be worth squat. Maybe Caitlin’s, too.

  But, apparently, he didn’t believe she had nothing to tell. What other reason would he have for being so insistent? It’s possible he wanted information about the shelter’s former residents who had history with Anna so he could talk with them? If that was the case, he was out of luck there, too.

  If it had just been about Anna, she might’ve agreed to meet him. But at his mention of DeMatta, every instinct screamed for her to run the other way. If DeMatta even suspected she knew he’d been at Eddie’s the night of the murder…and he found out she was talking to the police—it wouldn’t matter that she was talking to him about Anna.

  She rolled over and tried to go back to sleep, but the detective’s words played again in her head. It’s important. She’d heard urgency in his voice. Emotion.

  She’d worked with enough cops to know they had to keep a distance or the job would eat them up. Her job was similar in that respect, but she found it difficult to remain detached. When she got involved, she got involved. Maybe she and the detective were a little alike in that way.

  Another thing…why was he investigating a case that had been closed for four years?