Stolen (Lucy Kincaid Novels)

by Allison Brennan

  “Gabrielle?” he called out. “It’s Patrick Kincaid from San Diego. Your door was open.”

  Nothing.

  The living room was just that, no work or desk area. He didn’t want to roam through her house, he already felt uncomfortable being here. He went into the kitchen and rummaged through a couple drawers before he found a sales flyer. He turned it over, pulled a pen from his pocket, and started writing a note. What was he going to say? To phone home? To call him?

  He jotted down his name and number and put it under a magnet for Chinese take-out on the refrigerator.

  Still, the unlocked door made him nervous. He went up the stairs to the loft to make sure there was no sign of anyone breaking in.

  The loft was two long, narrow rooms, both of which looked down into the living room at different angles, with a bathroom between them. One was Gabrielle’s bedroom, one her office. Gabrielle’s bed was unmade, clothes strewn all over a chair in the corner, make-up and other girl things covering the dresser. In the den was a couch that had a pillow and sleeping bag open on it. Company?

  But there was no blood, no sign of anyone searching the place to suggest a robbery.

  He went back downstairs just as Gabrielle—wow, she’d gone from stunning to gorgeous, but he’d have recognized her anywhere—was running up the short staircase from the entry. She glanced at him, green eyes wide with shock, then turned and ran back out the front door.

  “Gabrielle! It’s Patrick Kincaid!”

  His words were cut off by the metal door slamming shut.

  Damn, damn, damn! He’d scared her, and that made him feel like shit.

  He ran after her.

  As soon as he opened the door, he was hit over the head and pushed down, and something hard was pressed against his back.

  Solely on instinct, he kicked his legs, rolled over, and flipped his attacker, his hand grabbing the wrist that held the weapon he knew wasn’t a gun.

  It was a cell phone.

  “Dammit, Gabrielle! It’s Patrick Kincaid.”

  She stared at him blankly. He jumped up, holding out his hand for her. She didn’t take it.

  “The cell phone would protect you better if you called nine-one-one.”

  Recognition crossed her stunned expression, and she got up on her own and grabbed her phone from his hand. “Patrick? Kincaid? What the hell are you doing here? And in my apartment?”

  “The door was unlocked.”

  “So you just walked in?”

  “Your mother sent me.”

  “My mother?”

  He rolled his eyes and brushed off his slacks. “Can I come in?”

  “You already have.” She glared at him and opened the door.

  He followed her. “Gabrielle—I’m sorry, but—”

  “Elle.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Only my family calls me Gabrielle. As soon as I went to college, I changed my name. It’s Elle.”

  “Like the letter ‘L.’”

  “Like the last syllable of my name,” she snapped.

  “Elle, I’m sorry. Really. Your mother was worried because she couldn’t reach you—”

  “And you came all the way from San Diego? No—wait—you live cross country now, don’t you?”

  “Washington. But I was in Sacramento.”

  “So you drove two hours just to check on me?”

  “Your mother is worried—” he said again.

  “Because I said I couldn’t come home for Christmas? Jeez!” She tossed her hands in the air, then scratched the back of her head as if she was still confused.

  “Because,” Patrick said, “she’s left a dozen messages and you haven’t called her back. And your employer said you took vacation time.”

  “I’m thirty-two years old and my mother is sending a cop after me because I don’t answer my phone.”

  “I’m not a cop. I’m a family friend.”

  “Tell her I’m fine. Thank you. Good-bye.”

  Elle seemed agitated, over and beyond her irritation that Patrick had been in her apartment.

  “What’s wrong?”

  She gave him a puzzled look. “What’s wrong?”

  “Why do you do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “Deflect. I ask questions. You don’t answer them.”

  “I have a lot going on, Patrick.” She spread her arms wide and spun in a circle. “Take a good look. Tell my mother I’m alive and well.”

  “Call her.”

  “I will.”

  “Now.”

  She scrunched up her nose. “I haven’t seen you in, like, ten, twelve years and you break into my house and order me to call my mother?” She laughed, but it sounded strained.

  Patrick didn’t want to get in the middle of a family squabble, because he was getting the distinct impression that this was all about family, and family—even a close clan like the Kincaids or the Santanas—could drive anyone crazy.

  When she realized that he was serious and that she was still holding her phone, she made a production of punching the buttons. A moment later Patrick could hear a loud Gabrielle! on the other end of the line.

  “Mama, I can’t believe you sent Patrick Kincaid to track me down. I am so embarrassed!”

  She didn’t look embarrassed; she looked pissed.

  “I told you, I have to work. It’s an important case, I can’t take the time off.”

  Patrick raised his eyebrow, but Elle wasn’t paying attention. She listened to her mother talk, then both of them started talking in rapid Spanish. Patrick wasn’t as conversational in the language as his younger sister, but he’d been raised by a Cuban mother so he had a grasp of Spanish. And the conversation was rapidly deteriorating as Elle explained why she had to spend Christmas preparing for a case, and why it was important, and that she couldn’t do it in San Diego because she needed access to her law office.

  And the entire time, Patrick had the strong impression that she was lying. And not just because her employer had said she had taken vacation time.

  “I love you, too, Mama. I’m sorry—I’ll visit as soon as I can. I know it’s not the same as Christmas—I know, it’s been two years—Mama, please, I feel bad already. Yes. I promise.” She hung up. “There,” she said to Patrick. “Satisfied?”

  “I did my job,” he said. “But why did you lie to your mother?”

  “What? I didn’t. I am working.”

  “Your law firm said you were on vacation.”

  “I don’t need to explain myself to you—look, Patrick, I really have to go.”

  “You just got home.”

  “Because I needed to get some things.”

  The buzzer rang and Elle briefly looked like a deer caught in headlights. She ran to her front door and pressed a button on the panel. A screen with a black-and-white image popped up. An Asian woman in jeans and a long, wool coat was at the door. She rang the buzzer again.

  “Shit, what’s she doing here?” Elle backed away from the door as if it were about to attack.

  “Who is she?”

  “A social worker. Damn, I have to wait until she leaves. This is the worst day in my life!”

  Patrick knew he was going to regret it, but he said, “Can I help?”

  “No!”

  “What does she want?”

  “Something I can’t give her.” Her cell phone rang and Elle looked at it. “She’s calling me now. Dammit!” She then glanced at Patrick and said, “Tell her we’re not here.”

  “We?”

  “She’s going to ask about Jami. Tell her Jami and I went out and you don’t know when we’ll be back. Look, I can’t lie to her, but you can!” She tossed Patrick her phone.

  Skeptical, and wholly uncomfortable with what Elle asked him to do, he answered the phone. “Santana residence.”

  “Is Gabrielle Santana there?”

  “I’m sorry, who’s calling?”

  “Lea Chin, I need to come up.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m not
supposed to let anyone inside while Gabrielle isn’t home.”

  “Who’s this?”

  “Who’s this?”

  “Lea Chin, with the San Francisco Department of Child Welfare. I need to inspect the apartment, and Ms. Santana has been avoiding me. Where’s Jami?”

  Elle had leaned close to him to hear both sides of the conversation better. Lea Chin had a much softer voice than Mrs. Santana.

  “Not here either.”

  “And you are?”

  “A friend.”

  “Ms. Santana didn’t inform us that a man was living with her.”

  “I’m just visiting.”

  “Jami’s curfew is ten p.m. I expect to hear from Ms. Santana by then, or Jami will be placed in custody.” She cut off the call.

  Patrick had no idea what that conversation was about. “Elle, what just happened?”

  She glanced at her watch, then grabbed her phone back from Patrick. “I have two hours to find Jami. I’ve been looking for her since noon!”

  “Who’s Jami?”

  “A fifteen-year-old who’s in deep trouble and will be in deeper trouble if she doesn’t show up in court Tuesday morning. Something spooked her when I went out for groceries. I know it. She wouldn’t just leave. She knows how important this is!”

  Elle ran into the kitchen, opened the freezer, and took a can of coffee from the freezer. But there was no coffee inside—only money. Roughly a thousand dollars in fives, tens, and twenties.

  “I’ve never known anyone who keeps money in her freezer.”

  “My mom,” she said. She counted out three hundred dollars and pocketed it, then put the can back. She ran upstairs and came back a minute later with a bag filled with clothes, and a heavier jacket with a hole in the elbow. “Thanks for covering with Lea for me.”

  Patrick was going to regret this. But he said, “Let me help.”

  She stared at him as if surprised by the offer. “Don’t you have someplace to be?”

  “My flight doesn’t leave until tomorrow.”

  “It’s nice of you. Really. But no one is going to trust you. You look—well, you look like a cop. I know where she hangs out. They don’t like cops. Especially cops who dress like kids from a rich prep school.”

  Patrick glanced down at his khaki Dockers slacks and leather loafers. Rich prep kid? Hardly.

  He said, “You’ve been looking for her all day and couldn’t find her.”

  “I have to convince the right people that they can trust me, and I’ll be able to find her.” She didn’t sound optimistic, just determined.

  “You need help. I have the time. And the training.”

  Her expression showed her inner battle, but she finally said, “Okay, fine, thanks. But just trust me out there, okay? Don’t do anything, well, cop-like.”

  “I haven’t been a cop in nearly eight years.” She glared at him. “All right, I’ll try not to act like one.” They walked out. He motioned to the door. “Aren’t you going to lock it?”

  “Jami has the downstairs door code, if she comes back she needs to be able to get in.” She waved her hand dismissively. “It’s not like I have anything valuable in there, except my computer.”

  They walked down the metal stairs to the lobby. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on with this kid?”

  “There’s nothing to tell. She’s a witness and I need to keep her safe until Tuesday morning.”

  Warning bells rang in his head. “A witness? Why aren’t the cops watching her?”

  “Because no one realizes that she could be in danger. They wanted to ‘protect’ her by putting her in juvenile hall, and that’s exactly where Lorenzo’s crew could get to her. I promised the judge that she’d be in court on Tuesday morning to testify—it’s required for her plea arrangement—and everything was going great until this afternoon. I gave her a phone, but she’s not answering it.” Elle went out not the front door, but down a hall and through a door marked FIRE EXIT. No alarms went off. “It’s disabled,” she said dismissively. “If Lea is hanging around, I don’t want her to see me.”

  Patrick realized then that something much, much bigger was going on. “Why not call the cops and have them help you?”

  She spun around. “Look, you’re going to have to trust me on this. If I tell anyone she ran away, they’ll put a bench warrant out for her and she’ll not only go to jail before she testifies, but her plea deal is off. She’s fifteen. She’s been on and off the streets since she was eleven. I got her a great arrangement, and if she testifies, the day after Christmas she’ll be put in a group home that can protect her, send her to school, make sure she has a real shot at a future. And that’s why I’m not going to San Diego.”

  Patrick had a dozen questions—was Jami a client of hers? What kind of law firm did she work for? Why would she agree to bring a client to live with her? Who was the girl testifying against? Did she leave the apartment willingly? Had she been coerced?

  Elle led the way to a carport in the building next to hers. “I don’t have my own spot, but my best friend is a flight attendant and she’s gone half the time and lets me park in hers.” She looked back at Patrick as she headed for the car. “I’m going to retrace my steps, but she’s probably hiding out in the Haight.”

  “The infamous Haight Ashbury?”

  Elle rolled her eyes as she stopped next to an older Honda Civic. She put the bag of clothes in the back seat, which was packed with blankets and boxes of granola bars and Gatorade bottles. “Just get in.”

  “Santana!” a voice shouted from behind them.

  Patrick turned and saw two men rapidly approaching.

  “Get in!” she shouted. She was already turning the key to the ignition before she’d closed her door.

  Patrick did. “More social workers?”

  A gunshot rang out.

  “That’s a warning, bitch!”

  Elle pulled out of the carport and sideswiped one of the guys. He shouted profanities at them and his partner fired another shot, this time at the car. It missed.

  “How did they know where I live?” Elle glanced over her shoulder, eyes wide, knuckles white on the steering wheel. She turned onto Howard from the alley and sped up.

  “Who are they?”

  “I think they work for Richie Lorenzo.”

  “Who the hell is that?” Patrick was getting testy, because he really hated being shot at—especially when he didn’t have a gun on him.

  “A drug dealer. Jami used to work for him. That’s what got her in trouble with the police.”

  “Is that who she’s testifying against?”

  “No,” she said in a tone that made Patrick feel like he’d missed several conversations. But she didn’t clarify as she turned onto another street and started winding through hills.

  “Elle, talk to me! Who is this kid testifying against? Does Lorenzo work for him?”

  “Lorenzo works for no one. He’s a twenty-three-year-old punk who takes runaways and has them sell his trash.”

  “And the case? The trial?”

  Elle hesitated, then said, “Jami is testifying against a prominent businessman who is running a sweatshop down in Dogpatch—over near the old Candlestick Park. Without her, the guy walks, and he’ll just set up somewhere else.” She bit her lip. “But I think Lorenzo has been helping him, and Lorenzo wants Jami back in his stable, or dead. Maybe they cut a deal or something.”

  She bit her lip and glanced at Patrick. Though there were tears in her eyes, her jaw was clenched in anger. “I have to find her, Patrick. I can’t lose another kid to those bastards.”

  Titles by Allison Brennan

  Stalked

  Silenced

  If I Should Die

  Kiss Me, Kill Me

  Love Me to Death

  Carnal Sin

  Original Sin

  Cutting Edge

  Fatal Secrets

  Sudden Death

  Playing Dead

  Tempting Evil

  Killing
Fear

  Fear No Evil

  See No Evil

  Speak No Evil

  The Kill

  The Hunt

  The Prey

  Critical Acclaim for Allison Brennan’s Novels

  Stalked

  “Once again Brennan weaves a complex tale of murder, vengeance, and treachery filled with knife-edged tension and clever twists. The Lucy Kincaid/Sean Rogan novels just keep getting better!”

  —RT Book Reviews (4½ stars, Top Pick)

  “The novels featuring Lucy Kincaid and her cohorts are marked with deep characterizations and details of the workings of investigations by private eyes, the police, and the FBI … Catch the latest in this series as Lucy continues to evolve in strength and wisdom.”

  —Romance Reviews Today

  Silenced

  “Brennan throws a lot of story lines into the air and juggles them like a master. The mystery proves to be both compelling and complex … [A] chilling and twisty romantic suspense gem.”

  —Associated Press

  “The evolution of Lucy Kincaid from former victim to instinctive and talented agent continues in Brennan’s new heart-stopping thriller … From first to last, this story grabs hold and never lets go.”

  —RT Book Reviews (Top Pick)

  “An excellent addition to the Lucy Kincaid series. Lucy and Sean continue to develop as complex, imperfect characters with a passion for justice … The suspense was can’t-put-it-down exciting.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  If I Should Die

  “Brennan’s Lucy Kincaid/Sean Rogan books are not only excellent procedural thrillers, but also chart the evolution of an intriguing relationship. The peeks into the mind of this heinous killer are all too chilling, making the threat level palpable and the story riveting. Brennan is on a major roll!”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “In bestseller Brennan’s roiling third suspense novel … rooting out the cancer that infects Spruce Lake reveals a convoluted history of increasingly deadly crime.”