"Yes," he agreed quietly, "they do."
It's a violation of written procedure and your procedure. Under Lipton it was pretty standard. Her words came back to him, and the compliment implicit in them warmed him. He hadn't liked Upton's approach to most things, and he'd worked hard to change the written policies and the much harder to tackle unwritten policies.
"They tell me," he said slowly, "that I've turned Trinity West around for the better. I hope it's true."
"It is," she said earnestly. "You've set the tone, made the changes—"
He waved off her compliments, although he would have been happy to hear more. From her, anyway. But he had other intentions at the moment.
"If it is true, it's not me that's done it It's the fact that I have people like you there to carry out the changes, people who know what's right and pursue it, who know that to protect is as big a part of police work as enforcement, people who can still manage to care when a normal human being would have given up on it long ago."
She stared at him, turning pale and blushing by turns. "I…" She swallowed visibly. "Wow," she said, rather weakly.
He grinned. "You earned that wow."
"I … thank you."
"Now, I hope you're going to relax this weekend and not spend all your time thinking about work."
She looked suddenly guilty and stared at the lonely couple of fries left on the plate.
"Kit?" he asked, his tone ominous.
"I was thinking of driving up to the honor ranch north of L.A. tomorrow."
"Let me guess," he said, "Martin Rivas?"
She gave him a rather sheepish nod. "It'll be a nice drive."
"Certainly," he said dryly, "right through downtown Los Angeles." He paused, then added, "You realize even if he confirms his mother's story, we've only got hearsay."
"I know. But I still want to hear what he has to say."
And that, he thought, was Kit Walker in a nutshell. Some cops would drop a case the moment it became clear it could never be prosecuted. But Kit's goal wasn't a conviction, it was the truth. Even when the truth came in shades of gray not so easily categorized. He added another item to the rapidly growing list of reasons he admired her.
He was beginning to think perhaps he admired her a little too much.
* * *
Kit sat in Carmela Rivas's living room, sipping sweet, tangy tea and looking at the mementos a loving mother had saved. At all stages of his young life, Jaime Rivas looked at her, baby pictures that showed his ready grin, toddler shots full of wide-eyed wonder, childhood images of energy and enthusiasm, more serious adolescent photographs that nevertheless let that irrepressible grin peek through. And more, report cards showing a steady, stellar progress—hardly the sign of a boy caught up in the gang life. Jaime had been a good student, with teacher after teacher remarking on his potential. School papers marked with As and Bs, with a few A pluses on those dealing with his passion, which had been history.
"He used to say, 'We have to learn from the past, Mama, if we are going to change today.' He wanted to make the world a better place for his little brother."
Kit had to steady herself before she looked at this boy's mother. Mrs. Rivas had, this time, if not welcomed her, at least stirred herself to the hospitality of the tea without a grudging undertone. Considering what she believed about cops, it was more than many would do, Kit thought. She was beginning to see the strength of this woman, whose quiet dignity never deserted her even when she was furious.
She made herself look across the polished dining room table at the woman. "I am so very sorry, Mrs. Rivas. Jaime was clearly a wonderful boy. I believe that he was all you say he was and that he was not in a gang. I'm sorry for your loss. I'm sorry for the world's loss. We can't afford to keep losing young men like him. Or his brother."
Carmela Rivas stared at her. And Kit thought she saw the sheen of moisture in her eyes. "You can say this? After seeing Martin in that place today?"
Kit smiled gently. She had thought, at the last minute, to call Mrs. Rivas and ask if she would like to ride to the honor ranch with her. It was along drive, and perhaps she was tired of making it alone. She'd told Kit she went every weekend to see her surviving son.
"It seems fairly clear to me that Martin is angry. Very angry."
She meant it. The boy was in custody for a string of joy-riding and minor vandalism offenses, relatively small things. And things that could easily be nothing more than a scream of rage, an announcement to the world that had taken his brother away that he would fulfill its grim expectations of him, as well.
"He loved his brother very much, didn't he?"
"The sun rose and set in Jaime, for Martin. He has never gotten over his death."
Nor have you, Kit thought. But then, how could she, when it was still a raw, open wound, exacerbated every time she saw a police officer?
Martin Rivas had indeed been an angry young man, even after all this time. And less disposed than his mother to speak to a cop. Only Mrs. Rivas's stern admonitions had gotten him to tell her what little he knew. The witness he knew only by his gang moniker of El Tigre had come to him, knowing he was Jaime's little brother, and told him he'd been in the alley that night, taking a leak. He'd seen it happen, all of it. If it had been one of his homies, of course, he would have come to his aid, cop or no cop. Since it hadn't been, he had dodged out of sight. But he had watched.
"He saw a cop beating up your brother?" Kit asked.
"Yeah." Martin had sneered defiantly. "Big ol' white pig. Beat him to death, for no reason at all. Pigs just like to beat on people, that's all, 'specially home boys. Beat 'em or rip 'em off."
"How did he know it was a cop? Was he in uniform?"
"No. But El Tigre knew him. Maybe he busted him once or something. Cops are always bustin' homies for nothin'. But Jaime, he wasn't no gangster. No reason to kill him. Bastard."
He'd clammed up, and Kit knew it was because angry tears were threatening and that the boy would die before he'd cry in front of a stranger, a woman and most especially a cop.
What she didn't know was how much of the description he'd snarled was literal and how much was typical street stereotyping of any and all cops. Martin insisted that was all he knew. That El Tigre had been going to tell him more, but he'd died before he could.
She also didn't know if there was any truth to what Martin said El Tigre had said. As she sat, in what had been Jaime's obviously loving home, looking at the sad memorabilia of a young life cut short, as she listened to Mrs. Rivas's impassioned declarations, as she remembered a brother's fierce anger, she found herself believing. Enough, at least, to continue digging.
"I think I'll go take a look at the scene, where it happened," Kit said, standing up. "Thank you for the tea, Mrs. Rivas. It was very good."
"I think," the woman said slowly, "that you must call me Carmela."
Kit left the tidy little house feeling as if she'd won a battle.
* * *
Chapter 6
«^»
"Bitch," the young man muttered.
Kit tensed, then sighed. Maybe she'd been off the street too long. Stuff like that used to roil off her back like rain down a window.
"Yeah." Another male voice, heavy with pride and swagger chimed in. "This is our ground, you're trespassin'."
"Your ground," she said carefully, "is in my city."
"You gonna take over the racket now, that it, puta?"
She'd been called that before, and it didn't bother her much. She knew "whore" was the most common way these macho idiots referred to any female. She tried to consider the source and ignore it.
But the nimble increased, that blending of threatening voices that only a group of angry young males could produce. The fact that there were four of them against one lone female made them cocky, and that made Kit mad.
"Cops only come down here to hassle."
"Think a badge makes them God."
"Take your white ass back to—"
"
Maybe we'll give you a little reminder of your visit"
Something about the tone of that last one set off an alarm in her head, and she turned just as a flick of the wrist opened a butterfly knife in the hands of the tallest of the four. She shifted her balance to the balls of her feet, almost welcoming the outlet for all the frustration that had been building in her for days.
She was taking a risk, gambling that nobody was going to pull a gun on her, and if they did that she could get to hers, tucked in her holster at the small of her back under her jacket, first, but she didn't see a choice if she wanted to have a chance to get something here.
The tall one jabbed the knife toward her, not really trying to stab her, just to scare her, she guessed. But it gave her what she needed. She grabbed his wrist and yanked. Caught off guard, he stumbled toward her. She stepped aside and let him go past. He twisted wildly, trying to free his wrist. Kit felt the sting as the blade sliced through her sleeve and caught her forearm, but she never let go. He was off balance, and she used his height against him, kicking his feet out from under him. In a split second he was down and she was kneeling on his back, his knife in her own hand, tickling his ear.
"You think this makes you tough? Four of you on one? And that one a woman?"
She wanted to tell him exactly what it made him—a coward—but knew if she did his pride would stop him from giving her what she wanted. This was the only one among all the street denizens she'd questioned or tried to question today who had dodged her gaze when she'd mentioned the Rivas murder. He knew something, and she wanted it.
His three companions moved restlessly, unsure what to do while she held the weapon at their friend's neck. They were looking at her in surprise, with a touch of respect.
"I suggest we all just back it up a notch," she said. "Now maybe you don't care that somebody got murdered on your ground without your say. Maybe you don't care that you and your homies are being blamed for it while the real killer laughs. But that boy who was killed, his mother cares. And so do I."
The three looked at each other, then at her warily. But she'd stake her detective badge on her guess they didn't know anything. It was this one who'd reacted, this one who'd been so eager to scare her off he'd risked a charge of assault with a deadly weapon on a police officer. And he was maybe twenty, old enough to have been around five years ago.
She nudged her captive's ear once more. "Tell your buddies to cut out."
"What?" His voice had a squeak in it that hadn't been there before. She was gratified to know he was scared.
"You heard me. Get rid of them. Unless you'd rather they all went to jail with you."
"Go, man!" he yelped. The three scrambled to comply, leaving them alone in the alley a dozen yards from where young Jaime had died.
"Now," Kit said, easing up on him, letting him sit but keeping the knife in his line of sight. "You got a name?"
"They call me Mako."
Charming, Kit thought. "Like the shark, I presume?"
He nodded, a tiny bit of the gang swagger returning.
"Okay, Mako, here's the deal. On the one hand, I can run you in for assault on an officer. Possession of this weapon should add to that, and whatever else I might find on you could make it even more interesting."
His eyes widened slightly, and she wondered what he did have stashed on him. It went against the grain to let it pass, but she had to keep her eye on the bigger goal.
"On the other hand," she continued easily, "I'll make you an offer. You tell me what you know about that night, and you walk away."
He looked at her doubtfully, his distrust obvious. "Just like that? I walk?"
"Yep."
"No cop ever done me no favors before. Hell, they're either hasslin' me or shakin' me down. I hate cops."
Kit sighed. "I'm sure the feeling's mutual. Have we got a deal?"
"I just tell you what I know, and it's over?"
"It's over."
She flipped the knife shut with a handiness that seemed to impress the kid. She thought. Being taken down at all had to have been a blow to his pride. That it was a woman would make it almost irrecoverable. And these kids lived—and too often died—for that pride. If she gave him a chance to recover some of it, he might give her what she needed.
"Tell you what," she said, "you can even tell your buddies that you sweet-talked your way out of it with the lady cop."
She could see that idea appealed to his burgeoning macho aspirations.
"Do I get my blade back?"
"If I like what I hear."
She didn't like what she heard. She hated it. Hated the idea, hated the ramifications, hated the position it put her in.
But she wasn't surprised.
* * *
"Ouch," Kit said.
"Tough," Dr. Roxanne Cutler retorted as she swabbed antiseptic into the cut on Kit's forearm. "You Trinity West people keep disrupting my day, you can just be quiet and take your medicine.
"Yes, Roxy," Kit said meekly. "But do you have to administer it so gleefully?"
"Yes. It's one of my few joys."
Kit laughed despite herself. The young black ER doctor was a favorite among Trinity West personnel, herself included. Kit knew Roxy had had more than one chance to move out of the ER, but she seemed to thrive on the chaos. And she was exactly the distraction Kit needed right now. She was in an ugly place and she didn't know what to do about it.
"You should laugh," Roxy said. "You're darn lucky. Your jacket sleeve saved you. A little bit deeper and you'd be looking at my needlework for the next week."
Kit wrinkled her nose. "Thank goodness for that."
"Don't you be casting aspersions on my seamstress skills," Roxy said as she applied some small adhesive sutures to the cut, then began to bandage it.
Kit heard voices coming from the desk area as a new arrival spoke to the nurse. She caught herself listening intently, then gave an inward groan. Even here, she thought. She could have sworn that sounded like Chief de los Reyes. She couldn't get the man out of her mind even here. She'd been thinking about him far too much lately. She'd been thinking about how different he seemed compared to the laughing, happy man he'd been when Anna had been alive. She'd been thinking how much she'd like to see him like that again.
She'd been thinking how much she liked seeing him, period. And that was worse than dangerous territory—that was idiocy. Even beside the impossibility of it for work reasons, it felt odd, somehow, to begin to think of him that way. Not quite wrong, but not quite right, either, for the simple reason that he'd been Anna's husband, and Anna had been her friend.
Not that it mattered how it felt to her. He would certainly never even think of her that way. He was still in love with Anna, and even if he wasn't, Kit knew she wasn't his type. Anna had been tiny and sweet, all dark eyes and sleek, long, raven dark hair. She was too tall, too fair and far from sweet.
No she wasn't his type at all. He would want someone like Anna. If he ever wanted anyone again in the first place. And she told herself that was really what this was all about, that she wanted to see him no longer so alone, not that she wanted him herself.
That made perfect sense to her, and she was pleased she had finally figured out her confused thoughts.
"Kit!"
Her head snapped up. She gaped at him as if she wasn't quite sure she hadn't imagined him. But there was no denying it. Miguel de los Reyes was hurrying across the emergency room toward her, looking much more concerned than this minor cut warranted. And looking so familiar and yet so different.
It had been a long time since she had seen him in anything except his uniform or the somber dark suits and button-down white shirts he wore to work The shirt was the same, but it was open at the throat and the sleeves were rolled up on his forearms. And he had on a pair of snug, faded jeans that made her wonder if there was another forty-four-year-old man out there who could look so darn good in the things. If this was his standard Saturday attire, she was all for it.
He c
ame to a halt in front of her. "Are you all right?" Before Kit could assure him she was fine, he turned to Roxanne. "Is she all right?"
"She's stubborn, overworked and has no social life," Roxy said calmly. "But other than that, she's fine."
Kit could have throttled her attending physician at that moment. "What are you doing here?" she managed to ask him.
He seemed to relax slightly when she spoke. "Dr. Cutler called me when you came in."
Kit shifted her gaze to Roxy accusingly. "Standing orders from the man," the doctor said with an exaggeratedly innocent expression. "If one of his people comes in, he gets called. I do as I'm told."
"Your obedience is exemplary," Kit muttered. She knew darn well Roxy did as she pleased.
Roxy, ever unruffled and clearly not at all intimidated by Kit's glare or the presence of the chief of police—after all, she had once saved his life—merely shooed him into the waiting room, telling him, "You can have her back in a minute."
"Darn it, Roxy," Kit said as soon as he was gone, "that's the chief, for crying out loud. A little discretion, please?"
Roxy taped the last of the gauze with an enthusiasm Kit could have done without. Then the young doctor put her hands on her hips and looked at Kit straight on.
"Honey, if that man would look at me the way he just looked at you, I'd throw discretion to the wind."
Kit gaped at her. "What?"
"I've had the hots for that man since I first laid eyes on him. But he's never looked at me like that," Roxy said cheerfully. "And the way he rushed in here in a panic, thinking you were going to be fastened to a bank of machines and IVs? Mmm-mmm, girl, if you don't go for it, you're a fool."
"Roxy," Kit said when she had recovered enough to speak, "I think you've finally cracked."
"Uh-huh. That's why when you saw him come in, you looked like you'd seen the Holy Grail."
Kit blushed furiously, felt it and wondered where all the control she'd worked so hard for had vanished to. She was too old to be blushing like this. She was thirty-six, for crying out loud, how long did it take to outgrow it?
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