Proof (Caroline Auden Book 2)

by C. E. Tobisman

  In his left hand, the man held a piece of wood. In his right hand, he held a bull knife, which he used to shave thin slivers onto the dry grass. Though he did not look up, Caroline had the distinct sense he knew they were approaching.

  “Yo, Hitch,” the man’s voice rumbled when they reached the edge of his clearing.

  “I need a favor,” Uncle Hitch said.

  Still whittling, the big man grunted his assent.

  “I need you to keep my niece safe,” said Uncle Hitch.

  Caroline flushed. Her uncle was ditching her with an ox of a man with a knife.

  “That’s Jake,” said Uncle Hitch from beside her. “He’s an Army Ranger. He served a tour in Iraq. You’ll be safe here with him while I . . . try to, um, function.”

  “I don’t need a babysitter. I need a phone. I need someone on the police force I can talk to. Someone honest.” Caroline knew there had to be honest police officers. In fact, her rational mind told her most of them were likely honest. But Captain Nelson’s eyes still haunted her.

  Hitch let out a mirthless laugh.

  “These people . . . they’re the government and the police and corporate America,” he said. “They’re all out there. They’re all working together. All the time. Can’t trust anyone.”

  Paranoia. Caroline saw it smoldering in her uncle’s eyes. That it might have some basis in reality this time only made it harder to judge.

  “Do you have any money?” Caroline asked. She could get a burner phone. With a phone, she could call a friend to wire her some money. Then she could work on finding her way to an honest member of law enforcement.

  Hitch turned out the pocket of his trousers. “I’m a little short on cash at the moment.”

  Caroline exhaled her frustration.

  She regarded the clearing. She’d have to find a friend or colleague who could give her shelter while she figured out her next move. It would be dangerous for anyone to harbor her, and it would be humiliating for her to have to ask. But she needed help—help her wild-haired still half-drunk uncle couldn’t give her.

  “You can’t go.” Hitch’s voice echoed across the clearing, stopping Caroline’s steps. “They know where you live. Lord knows what else they know—your friends, your classmates. They could come after you anywhere. There’s going to be an APB out on you, too. The police are going to come looking for you. And Oasis clearly has people inside the department.”

  The possibility of rotten cops made Caroline pause. She had little time to find refuge, she realized.

  “How soon will the APB come out?” she asked.

  “As soon as you miss an appointment or something, someone’s going to report you missing, and that’ll trigger the APB,” said Hitch.

  Caroline’s heart lurched at the mention of missing appointments. Mateo’s guardianship hearing was today. In five hours, Judge Flores would call his afternoon calendar. He’d expect her in court, presenting evidence of Rogelio Gonzalez’s gang affiliation or drug activities. He wouldn’t expect her to be sitting beside the Los Angeles River, trying to figure out who was trying to kill her.

  “I need a phone. Right now,” Caroline said.

  Hitch chuckled again. “Sorry, but my iPhone’s out of service.”

  “You don’t understand. I need to attend a hearing telephonically. A little boy’s life depends on it.” Caroline had never attended a hearing by phone, but she knew it was allowed. Standing in court, she’d often heard attorneys call in to the court’s phone line rather than attend in person. It seemed irresponsible, or at least bad form, but it was an accepted practice. And now, for her, it couldn’t be avoided.

  “No one has a phone out here,” Hitch said, his face growing serious.

  “What about at a shelter or residence hotel or something?” Caroline asked, scanning the jagged skyline of downtown. She didn’t know the landmarks of the homeless world, but there had to be a place with a phone.

  “No chance you’re going to get through a whole hearing at one of those,” Hitch said.

  “This isn’t negotiable,” Caroline said, setting her jaw. She couldn’t miss the hearing.

  “What isn’t negotiable is that you need a federal prosecutor,” said Hitch.

  Caroline nodded. Even still smelling of the previous night’s bender, her uncle was right. He’d been a detective long enough to know how the system worked.

  “I might know how to find a prosecutor. An honest one,” Hitch continued. “But you need to stay out of sight. I’ll try to reach him for you, but you need to stay off the grid.”

  Caroline heard the implication in his words—he thought she should stay on the street with him. She was about to tell him there was no chance of that, but she stopped at the evident concern in his eyes. He cared. He was trying. In his own way, he was offering her a place to stay where he thought she’d be safe.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, “but I need to find a phone. I know it puts me at risk of being seen, but there’s just no other way. I have to do this.”

  Hitch exhaled.

  His eyes settled on Caroline’s bare feet. He’d watched her pick splinters and glass out of them before she’d painfully risen to follow him to the clearing where they’d found Jake.

  “I suppose we do need to get supplies for you if you’re staying out here with us,” Hitch said.

  “Distribution center?” Jake asked.

  Those two words were only the third and fourth utterances Caroline had heard the big man make, but they seemed promising.

  “There’s a phone there?” she asked.

  “Sho’ is,” Jake said. “Oasis don’t operate those centers, either. Could be okay. I could take you there.”

  Caroline regarded Jake. She wasn’t a fool. Having a burly Ranger watching her back would probably increase her chances of surviving her current nightmare. Even if that Ranger looked like a shell-shocked homeless man whittling a figurine that looked like a poodle.

  “Sounds good,” Caroline said. She looked at her uncle. “I promise it’ll just be a quick call.” Or calls, she amended silently.

  Standing up, Jake shook the wood shavings off the creature he had carved. A sheep. The likeness was impressive, Caroline decided. Jake had followed the whorls and curves of the piece of wood, sculpting them down to reveal a reclining sheep.

  He tucked the carving into the pocket of his army jacket—probably the real thing, not a surplus item, though he’d torn off his name tapes and rank. Then he bent down to lift a rucksack to his shoulders. A sleeping bag and tent dangled from the faded green nylon. Neither was new, but both looked carefully compacted and secured with well-executed knots.

  “I’ll try to reach this federal prosecutor I know,” Hitch said.

  “Great,” Caroline said. “We can do that after the distribution center.”

  “Naw,” Hitch said, “I gotta do this alone. Could take me some time.”

  He looked to the side, not meeting Caroline’s eyes.

  He was thirsty, Caroline realized, and not for water.

  Did he really even know a federal prosecutor? Or had he just left her with a babysitter so that he could go slake his thirst for booze?

  “Let’s just meet up later at East Seventh,” Hitch continued, facing Jake, still not meeting his niece’s eyes. “You know the spot, right?”

  “East Seventh,” Jake confirmed.

  Caroline watched her uncle shuffle off, his feet crunching on twigs until he disappeared.

  She tried not to think about where he was going, what he was doing, and whether he’d return.

  She didn’t have time to worry about him. She had Mateo Hidalgo to worry about.

  Not to mention her own survival.

  Caroline regarded the small auditorium. Someone had arranged supplies by category. Blankets piled at one wall. Shoes and clothes organized in boxes at another. A row of bagged lunches topped a table along the third wall. On the fourth wall, an open door led out to the street and the park beyond that.

  A pict
ure of DA Donita Johnson and Police Chief Donald Park hung over the door. Apparently the two city officials had helped set up the distribution center to address the reality of the two hundred thousand homeless people living in Los Angeles.

  Caroline walked to the boxes of clothes and shoes. Another patron squatted in front of the shoes—a slight woman with long ebony hair and tanned skin. At odds with the morning hour, the woman wore a bias-cut red dress and satin ballet slippers. Apparently she, like Caroline, was looking for more appropriate footwear.

  The woman looked up sharply as Caroline approached. Her hands, which had been rummaging through the shoe box labeled “7–7½” stilled. Her large, dark eyes held worry.

  Instinctively, Caroline slowed her step.

  “Mind if I join you?” Caroline gestured down at her own feet. Dirt stained and scratched, they spoke eloquently of her reasons for needing what the box offered.

  In answer, the small woman scooted to the side to make room for Caroline.

  “Find anything good?” Caroline asked, noting the row of paired shoes the small woman had organized on the floor beside where she squatted.

  “There aren’t any size sevens in here,” the woman said. “They’re all too big for me. What size are you?”

  “Seven and a half.”

  In her periphery, Caroline could see the woman studying her feet.

  “Maybe try these,” the woman said, reaching to offer one of the pairs she’d put aside. “They’re the best ones I’ve found.”

  Taking the pair of faded Converse high-tops, Caroline pulled them onto her feet, then stood up. Though ill fitting and old, the shoes were a vast improvement over bare pavement.

  “Thanks,” Caroline said to the still-squatting woman.

  Then she glanced up at the clock.

  It was 12:35.

  She still had a little time before the one o’clock hearing. Under ordinary circumstances, she’d be sitting in a corner of a courthouse, studying her argument notes, jotting down a few last-minute ideas. But now, instead, she was collecting shoes and hoping the lady shouting into the phone would vacate it before the hearing began. She was also trying to forget the other worry that pulled at her mind.

  “Do you happen to know whether Oasis has anything to do with running this place?” Caroline asked the slight woman still crouching by the shoes.

  Jake had already said Oasis didn’t operate the distribution center, but Caroline could not erase the image of Amy’s battered face from her mind. Oasis had done that. Being out in the open was dangerous. But it was necessary. She had to attend the hearing.

  Not that it would matter, some part of her mind whispered. She still didn’t know how to thwart Rogelio Gonzalez’s guardianship petition. She’d filed bits of evidence. Hints of subterfuge. She’d found a whiff of drug dealing. But no actual proof. Nothing that would convince Judge Flores to prevent Mateo from living with Gonzalez.

  “Oasis? I’ve been told they don’t usually run distribution centers,” said the woman. “Thank God,” she added, frowning.

  Caroline cocked her head at the negative reaction to Oasis.

  But before she could ask about its source, there was a shout from outside.

  The woman’s head snapped up. Then she rose and hurried toward the door.

  Caroline watched her go with a furrowed brow.

  “Here,” Jake said from behind Caroline, causing her to turn.

  In one hand, he held a child’s sleeping bag, a castoff from some middle-class family.

  “Thanks,” Caroline said.

  As she took the bundle, her stomach sank.

  The prospect of spending another night outside settled around her. She had no close friends in Los Angeles except Amy. Even if she could convince her building manager that she was stuck in the hospital, say, with a hurt friend, she’d still need someone to enter her apartment and gather her wallet and computer—something someone would have to do at the risk of his life, and even if the hit man wasn’t watching the apartment, that person would have to meet her to deliver her possessions and observe her state, not ask questions, not spread gossip about her sanity among her colleagues or neighbors.

  If Hitch came through with his contact, she’d have a prosecutor who could help her find refuge. But for now, all she had was a kid’s sleeping bag decorated with little red fire trucks.

  Caroline held it to her nose.

  It smelled like wooden bunk beds and fabric softener. It smelled like . . . a home.

  A loud voice from outside made Caroline look up from her musings.

  “Stay right here! Daryl says you’ve got to wait for him,” a man said. It sounded like the kind of order someone would give to a child, but this was no place for a kid.

  Caroline met Jake’s eyes.

  He shrugged.

  Tucking the sleeping bag under one arm, Caroline walked to the door to investigate.

  Outside the distribution center, a man wearing a white T-shirt advertising Bud Light stood in front of the same small woman Caroline had met moments earlier by the shoe box. The kind woman who’d given her the Converse she now wore on her feet.

  “Please. You’ve got to let me go,” the woman said, hugging her arms around herself.

  “After Daryl comes, you can. He’s gonna be here real soon. You just have to talk to him.” Mr. Bud Light was no longer shouting. Instead, he spoke with a tone of reasonableness wrapped in condescension. A babysitter’s voice.

  A cluster of onlookers gathered to watch the altercation. People in ragtag clothes. Some from the distribution center. Some from a homeless encampment in the nearby park.

  “I need to go.” The woman took a half step away, her full mouth quivering with urgency, but Mr. Bud Light grabbed her arm.

  “Just stop right there, Lani,” he said. “I told you—you’ve got to stay here.”

  Caroline drifted closer, shrugging off Jake’s hand.

  “Hey,” Jake called after her. “Too exposed out here—” His low voice carried, but it wasn’t enough to stop her.

  “Is there a problem?” Caroline asked, approaching the scene. She stopped three feet away from the man. Hopefully far enough that he couldn’t reach her.

  The small woman called Lani froze, her eyes sharp with concern, her gaze flitting from Caroline to Mr. Bud Light to the park beside the distribution center.

  “You should stay out of things that aren’t your business,” Mr. Bud Light growled at Caroline, his jaw tightening.

  Fear sparked in Caroline’s breast. She’d taken a risk by getting involved. Perhaps a foolish one. She hadn’t been able to watch without trying to help, but now she was a target, too.

  In the near distance, the sound of an engine approached.

  Seconds later, a pickup truck came into view, tearing down the road in front of the distribution center.

  With a bump and a screech, it jerked to a stop in front of the trio.

  The door clanged open, and a lanky man climbed out. A gold chain glittered around his neck, swinging from side to side with the motion of his long strides.

  “Lani!” he shouted.

  The woman’s eyes widened. Twisting her hand free of Mr. Bud Light, she spun and ran toward the park. The satiny soles of her ballet slippers blurred with the speed of her retreat.

  “I tried to keep her here, Daryl—” Mr. Bud Light began as Daryl approached.

  But Daryl ignored him. Instead, he watched Lani, as if doing the math. She was only twenty yards ahead and veering toward the trees.

  He launched off after her.

  But as he came parallel with Caroline, she stuck out her foot. It wasn’t a premeditated act. She didn’t like him, and she didn’t like his friend. And suddenly, there he was, right in front of her at the exact moment that it occurred to her that he should not be allowed to catch a woman who was running away from him.

  Daryl’s boot snagged on her ankle.

  He plummeted forward, his momentum carrying him to the ground.

  He
landed hard with a huff of expelled air.

  When he looked up, the gold chain had looped across his mouth.

  “Damn it!” Daryl shouted, spitting out his chain and struggling to his feet. His eyes followed Lani, who had now reached the trees—too far to catch.

  Daryl rounded on Caroline, glaring at her with wide, angry eyes.

  He took a half step toward her but then stopped.

  In her peripheral vision, Caroline saw the hulking shape of Jake move forward to stand beside her. With deliberate slowness, the Ranger crossed his forearms across his chest.

  “I’m so sorry,” Caroline said to Daryl. “Are you okay?”

  Daryl eyed Jake.

  “That was my girlfriend,” Daryl said, apparently deciding that excuses were the better part of valor. “I just wanted to talk to her.”

  “She didn’t look like she wanted to talk,” Caroline ventured, looking in the direction Lani had disappeared.

  Instead of answering, Daryl turned away from Caroline and Jake.

  He tromped back toward his truck, his footfalls hard and petulant.

  Mr. Bud Light followed, climbing in the passenger-side door and slamming it overly hard. Then, with a roar of impotent rage, the truck tore away from the distribution center.

  Soon, peace reigned again. A few tentative birds chirped their joy at the end of hostilities. The cluster of onlookers began to disperse now that the show was over. Some gathered backpacks or shopping carts. Others shuffled off into the encampment in the park.

  “What do you think that was about?” Caroline asked, glancing back at Jake.

  “Dunno,” Jake said, his eyes still watching the access road where the pickup truck had departed. “Haven’t seen her before. Probably that guy beats her. None of my business.”

  The words hung in the air like a challenge. It was none of anybody’s business beyond a moment of entertainment—don’t ask questions, Caroline supposed.

  Beside her, she sensed Jake’s unease. He wanted to get out of the open.

  Rather than waiting for him to insist, she retreated back inside the distribution center. She needed to get to the phone anyway. The hearing would begin soon.