The Rookie Club Thriller series Box Set

by Danielle Girard

  Lavick winced when he saw her.

  She frowned, hating the term they’d used. No life should be classified like garbage. “I was just finishing up that paperwork before the training drill. We got something else?”

  “A European immigrant, no I.D., found dead in an alley down by 6th Street,” Lau said. “There’s a place nearby called the ORG Lounge. They’ve been known to use immigrant labor though we’ve never pinned them.”

  “A throwaway,” Cameron said out loud.

  “Shitty choice of words,” Lavick admitted.

  “Probably accurate,” Cameron replied. Most of the people she dealt with were probably considered throwaways of one sort of another. “I’ll go with you.”

  “Ballestrini can do this on his own,” Lavick said. “We’re running a drill today.”

  “If it’s okay, Sergeant, I’d like to go.”

  “Make it quick, you two,” Lavick snapped. “It’s going from Sex Crimes to Homicide, not us. We’re there to try to link it to our traffickers.”

  “That’s going to be hard to do if we don’t know who she is,” Ballestrini said.

  “Damn near impossible,” Lavick agreed. He looked at Ballestrini and tilted his head.

  Interpreting the message, Ballestrini nodded.

  Cameron took the file from Ballestrini as they headed out to the black and white. “What was that all about?”

  “Huh?”

  “You and Lavick. He tilted his head, like he was telling you something.”

  “I didn’t notice anything. Probably just telling us to be quick.”

  Cameron watched him. It sounded like bullshit.

  Ballestrini was humming some show tune to himself. Cameron wished she could feel as cheery. She flipped through the pictures of the dead woman until she got to one where she could make out the features of her face. This was no woman. She was a child, fifteen at most. Her skin was deeply bruised, especially around the mouth. The bright color of the bruises meant she hadn’t died immediately after her attack. The girl had long, thin brown hair and pale skin with dark eyes, a thin neck and an angular jaw. She was likely from Yugoslavia, Russia, or the Czech Republic. She was frail and trim. From the set of her nose and mouth, Cameron had guessed she was attractive. What false promises had lured her to America?

  One hand rested by her face. Cameron could see the purplish-red ligature marks on her wrist. She flipped the images that showed how she had been thrown in the dumpster, her clothes tossed in beside her. Disposable. The perp would probably never be caught. Without families to report them missing, the immigrants had less hope for justice than the prostitutes, who sometimes met the same fate. Prostitutes could usually be ID’d. Families occasionally came forward to claim bodies.

  Cameron closed the file and got into the passenger seat of the black and white.

  “Okay, I got a quick one, cheer you up,” Ballestrini said as he turned onto 6th. “I got chills, they’re multiplyin’…”

  “Grease,” she said quickly.

  “I didn’t even get to the fun part,” Ballestrini said, sounding disappointed. “And I’m losin’ control. ‘Cause the power you’re supplying. It’s electrifying.”

  “Okay, Ballestrini, you better shape up.”

  “’Cause you need a man?” he sang out.

  Cameron opened the file again. “No, because I need some damn peace.”

  Ballestrini went quiet.

  The partnership with Diego had been so effortless. Instead of always working to fill the silence the way Ballestrini did, she and Diego had enjoyed it. They had communicated as much through silence as through words.

  They debated their cases, what they thought was right and wrong. As a rookie cop, she had assumed the law was always right. Diego was constantly pushing her to see it from the other side. He was like Ricky that way. They had also agreed that their job was to uphold the law, whether or not they agreed with it.

  When she started in Special Ops, Diego had been on vacation, visiting his sister in Mexico. The guys on the team had treated her harshly that first week, mostly in jest, but there was some real competition and a good deal of flirtation, too. This was nothing new for women in law enforcement. It was rare to find a man who didn’t think of her as a potential sex partner before accepting her as a teammate.

  When she met Diego, he shook her hand firmly and said, “I hear you’re a hell of a shot. Welcome to Special Ops.” Then, he walked away. No downward glance, no sly smile. Watching him stride out of the room, she thought he was incredibly sexy.

  Ironically, it was during a debate about immigration policy that she and Diego hit on their first real disagreement. Cameron believed the U.S. had to limit the immigration for the country’s economic viability. Diego thought there should be more opportunities for immigrants to come in legally. She had known nothing of his family, nothing of the women his father and uncle had left behind. That had come much later. It was through Diego’s passion that Cameron had first recognized her real attraction for him. Their relationship had started shortly after.

  Ballestrini pulled up to the curb in front of the ORG Lounge. The downstairs bar was a dive, but it was rumored that a more lucrative business ran upstairs. The club was suspected of having a second staff of girls who catered to that business. It was likely that their “throwaway” had been part of that. According to Lavick, it had been a long time since the cops had successfully busted the place for anything illegal. She wondered if it was bad luck or if the current owners had some connections.

  She let Ballestrini make his way around the car before following him in the front door. It was dark inside. Both she and Ballestrini waited a minute for their eyes to adjust before stepping farther inside. It took human eyes thirty minutes to become fully accustomed to the darkness. Had they been expecting anything other than a peaceful conversation, they would have been wearing special equipment.

  Red, puckered velvet lined the walls. A man in a dark suit stepped forward as though waiting for them. He was thin and wiry with a nose that seemed almost as long and skinny as he was. His small dark eyes were narrow as he peered through a pair of triangular-shaped glasses. He had the look of a German accountant, not a strip club owner.

  “I’m Officer Ballestrini, and this is my partner, Officer Cruz. We would like to talk to you and your staff.”

  “That’s not a problem, but I’m the only one here right now,” the man said, his voice free of the German accent she’d been expecting. He said problem like “pra-blem” with a slight nasal tone like someone from Chicago.

  “And your name?” Ballestrini asked him.

  Cameron asked him to spell out the name and wrote it down.

  Just then, a back door opened, and a woman came out carrying a case of Budweiser bottles. She was stocky with short, blond hair and a figure not right for stripping. Cameron figured she must be the bar-back.

  “Other than Roseanne.” He shot the bar-back a glare, but Roseanne didn’t appear to notice.

  “We hope you might have some information about this woman,” Cameron said, handing over the photograph. Ballestrini slid in and stuck the picture under the man’s nose. It was a good tactic. The picture was striking and disconcerting. If the man was going to tell them anything, the shock factor might help him along.

  The man stared at the picture, frowning in a thoughtful way that seemed practiced and shook his head. “She isn’t familiar.”

  Ballestrini took the picture back. “Maybe I can check with Roseanne?”

  “Of course.” He led them toward the bar.

  “You’re the proprietor?” Cameron asked.

  “One of them,” he responded after giving her a flat expression. He was a good liar, if that’s what he was doing.

  The man grabbed the photograph from Ballestrini. “Roseanne,” he said as though speaking over loud music. “These officers would like you to look at this picture.”

  Roseanne glanced up at him like he was an idiot as she wiped her hands on a dishtowel. W
hen she was done, she pulled the picture from his hand and walked away from him with it. A few feet down the bar, she set it down and stared at it. “Who is she?”

  “We don’t know,” Ballestrini said.

  Cameron stepped toward the bar. “All we know is that she was brutally raped and beaten, then left in a dumpster less than a half mile away.”

  Like the man, Roseanne seemed resistant to the horror in the photo.

  “No,” Roseanne said. “I don’t think I’ve seen her.”

  Cameron knew she was lying. As she met the woman’s gaze, she could see her apology.

  Ballestrini put his hand out for the photo. “We certainly appreciate your help.”

  Was he done?

  “Some of the bouncers are out back,” Roseanne said, handing the picture back. “You might ask them. Like Stuart says, I’m only in a few days a week.”

  “Of course,” Stuart said. “Why don’t I take you back there?”

  “I’ll wait for you out here,” Cameron suggested.

  Stuart’s gaze shifted back to Roseanne. “Whatever makes you most comfortable, Officer.” To Roseanne, he said, “Don’t forget, we ordered the extra cases for tonight, so make sure we’re topped off. It’ll be the first thing Dominic checks when he gets in.” He checked at his watch. “He should be here within the hour.”

  Cameron thanked him as he left with Ballestrini. He glanced back twice as her partner chatted amicably to him.

  “I really can’t talk,” Roseanne said quickly. “Like he said, I’ve got a lot of work to do.”

  “I understand,” Cameron told her, but she met the woman’s eyes and stepped closer. “Dominic is an owner?”

  “And my brother,” Roseanne said. “He’s why I’m here. If you can believe it, this is our inheritance.” She gave a little nod as she spoke, as though to explain to Cameron why she couldn’t say more.

  “So, why are you backing the bar?”

  “Because I do the buying and settle the alcohol bills. It’s the only way the inventory doesn’t go down my brother’s throat. It’s a shitty business to be in, but the money’s not bad.”

  “And where does Stuart fit in?”

  “Stuart is our partner because of the times when I wasn’t doing the inventory.” Roseanne slapped the towel on the bar. “Like I said, I really need to get back to work.”

  Cameron moved up to the bar. “And the woman? You’re sure you never saw her.”

  Roseanne didn’t meet her gaze. “I’m sure of it.”

  “They say she was raped by as many as six men,” Cameron lied. Maybe it hadn’t happened to this one, but it happened to some of them.

  Roseanne lowered her head.

  “They need to pay for what they did. This girl is maybe fifteen. She deserves some justice.”

  “Don’t we all.” Straightening her shoulders, Roseanne said, “I’m sorry. Like I said, I never saw her.” With that, she threw the towel over her shoulder and walked out from behind the bar.

  “One more question, Roseanne.”

  She turned back.

  “Do you handle the alcohol for the business upstairs, too?”

  Roseanne’s eyes narrowed. “There is no business upstairs, Officer.”

  With that, she walked to the back of the club and disappeared through another door.

  Chapter 22

  Cameron stepped outside into the bright light and pulled her cell phone from an equipment pocket on her pants. She saw she’d missed a call from Ricky and played the voicemail.

  “Cam, it’s me. I promise I can explain,” he started. His voice was like she’d never heard before. “I need a few days to talk to Evelyn first, but I’ll call as soon as I can. I am really sorry, Cameron. It never occurred to me that it was a bad idea to share Nate’s paternity.”

  What the hell did that mean? Share his paternity with who? What did she do now? Just wait? She deleted the message and called headquarters for Jamie’s cell phone number.

  “Inspector Vail,” Jamie answered, sounding winded.

  “Jamie, it’s Cameron Cruz.”

  “Oh, shit. I thought you were going to be my snitch. Fucker was supposed to get me a name, and he hasn’t called.”

  “Sorry. I wish I could help.”

  “Ugh. No. Sorry to snap. How are you? How’s the baby?”

  “He’s great,” Cameron said.

  “Wait until he hits 12. I tell you, Zephenaya has math homework that I didn’t do until college. We need an in-house tutor.”

  Cameron sighed. “I’m not ready for that.”

  “Thankfully, you’ve got some time.”

  The two women were quiet. It was tough to transition from their sons to dead women.

  “What are you waiting to hear on?” Cameron asked her.

  “Four dead prostitutes and one more in a coma who got the crap beat out of her so bad her mother swears it isn’t her. We had to use dental records to prove it.”

  “Jesus.”

  “I hope to hell Jesus wasn’t involved, but if he’s around, I could certainly use some help.”

  “Well, I’m afraid I’m not going to be any use to you there. I’ve got a dead one, though, and I wondered if you had info on her.”

  “She have a name?”

  “Another Doe, I’m afraid. She was found in a dumpster a few blocks from ORG Lounge, down at—”

  “I know where it is. I swear I’m down there more than the working ladies. When’d she come in?”

  “Last day or two, I think, but I’m not sure.”

  “I’m sure she’s in a pile on my desk. I can call you when I get to her. I’ve got these four and then a bad ending to a first date in Noe Valley.”

  “I talked to a guy named Stuart at ORG Lounge and a woman named Roseanne. She knows something, but I can’t get it out of her.”

  “Why are you guys in on this one?”

  “Deceased is an immigrant, probably came off one of the boats we’ve been trying to track down.”

  “Sorry I don’t have more for you.”

  Though she’d only met him briefly, Stuart had pissed off Cameron. She didn’t like how controlled he was or how unhelpful. And it pissed her off that someone had treated the girl like a piece of trash. “She’s under my skin for some reason.”

  “You’re new to these. Give it time. Maybe it’ll grow on you.” Jamie paused. “Sorry, it’s terrible. Listen, I’ve got to go. I’ve got your cell number now. I’ll call if I find out anything.”

  Cameron was saying goodbye when Jamie added, “I heard you made it to the last dinner. I’ll try to get to one, too. Would be good to catch up.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “Bring pictures of the little guy,” Jamie said.

  “You, too.”

  They hung up. Cameron remembered the days after Jamie found out about her husband’s affair. The anger. So much anger. How would Diego’s betrayal change her? Would she close up like a clam and dig into work like Jamie had? Was there something about women who went into law enforcement that made them such tough eggs to crack? Or was it what happened to them once they were there?

  When he came out of the club, Ballestrini blinked wildly at the brightness. His arms out to his sides like he was blind, he looked a bit like a Weeble as he tried to get his eyes to adjust.

  Cameron walked to the car. “Want me to drive?”

  “Nope.” Ballestrini pulled his sunglasses from his breast pocket. “Man, that place is like a dungeon.”

  “Think how much they save on electricity.”

  He grunted his amusement and opened up the car.

  “You get anything else?”

  “Nah. They say they don’t know anything. We’re not getting anything from those guys.”

  She glanced over as he started the car. “You believe them?”

  “Nah. Everybody lies.”

  That was true.

  “You get anything else from Roseanne?” he asked.

  “No. She and her brother are partial own
ers. Sounds like her brother got them in some trouble, so they had to take Stuart on as an investor. I doubt she’d risk losing what she’s got left. I guess they inherited it.”

  “Back on patrol, one of my buddies had this area as his beat. Said there was a rumor that it was partly owned by a cop at one time.”

  “Really, who?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “No idea. I don’t think he knew either.”

  Cameron pulled the file out from under the seat and flipped through the pictures again. “When’s the autopsy on this one?”

  “Should be done. Sergeant said he had called for a copy.”

  She probably wouldn’t see it. If the case went to Sex Crimes or Homicide, there would be no reason. The sergeant likely ordered it as a follow-up measure, but she was interested. Surely there was enough evidence on the body and clothes to link it back to someone or somewhere. The question was: did anyone have time to pursue it? She shut the folder.

  They got back to the bay in time to work the drill. Someone had come up with a scenario and set up a fake perimeter and a series of obstacles.

  Cameron was on equipment detail now, her days of reconnaissance over. She would fight for it sometime, but not until she was ready. Maybe she never would be.

  She and Zagrafis worked the equipment truck, checking for the necessary pieces. Zagrafis had started in Special Ops after Diego left. Quiet by nature, he had shared that he was married and his wife was pregnant and that he’d come out of the Army after serving two tours in Afghanistan. She liked him. They worked well together. The silence was a nice change from Ballestrini. She opened the pelican case, a hard, plastic briefcase where they kept their ammunition, and checked their supply of grenades, sting balls, and flash bangs. Zagrafis called out the shields, a sawed-off shotgun, rounds for the shotgun and less-than-lethal rounds, which were essentially a beanbag in a 37mm shotgun round.

  They put on black, sub-fighting suits over their regular uniforms. She pulled on her aviator gloves, the thumbs and forefingers cut out so she had a good grip on her weapon. She pulled on a balaclava made with flame-retardant cloth. Then came the tactical goggles, which looked like ski goggles, only they were made by Kevlar with bulletproof material. Finally, she donned a heavy vest with a ceramic plate and her helmet. With her belt, it all weighed the equivalent of three bowling balls.