The Rookie Club Thriller series Box Set

by Danielle Girard

  At least she didn’t carry the ram. She passed Lau, carrying the solid iron tube. Cameron had only rammed one door with it, in training. That one experience had left her without the use of her right shoulder for nearly a week.

  By the time it was over, everyone was exhausted. Lavick didn’t seem in any mood to discuss the autopsy on their Jane Doe. She left before the talk of drinks. Her phone rang as she pulled into Señora Accosta’s house to pick up Nate. “Cruz.”

  “It’s Jamie.”

  “Hey, what’s up?”

  “Something weird about your Doe.”

  Cameron checked her rearview mirror, then wondered why she’d done it. “What do you mean?”

  “No one’s touching her. Autopsy got filed, but supposedly there’s no evidence, no prints, nothing.”

  “No evidence?”

  “Couldn’t believe they told me with a straight face. Found in a dumpster, and they claim the body was clean.”

  Clean meant there was little trace evidence on the body. It was simply impossible unless the dumpster had been cleaned out and sanitized. “That’s it? They won’t do anything else?”

  “Probably not, especially with our load. She gets put in the Doe file until we get missing ones who might fit her description. Then we try to match ’em.”

  “Who filed the autopsy?”

  “Duane Grafton, know him?”

  Cameron said she didn’t.

  “He’s about the dumbest piece of shit on the planet,” Jamie said. “If someone wants a body overlooked, Duane’s their man. He couldn’t see a bullet hole if it hit him between the eyes. And believe me, I keep hoping.”

  “So where did the body go?” Cameron asked.

  “State burial. Oh, shit, Cameron. I’ve got to go.”

  Cameron leaned back against the seat. Triage happened in police stations and morgues, just like in hospitals. The less evidence and the less likely the victim was to be missed, the farther it fell on the list of cases to be pursued. It bothered her, but that was the reality of working with limited resources.

  What disturbed her was the idea that someone was lying about evidence. How could a body come out of a dumpster completely clean? But if it wasn’t a coincidence, what did the murder of two ICE agents have to do with a dead immigrant?

  And how did it all tie back to Diego?

  Chapter 23

  “We can’t afford it.” Michael Lavick pulled himself out of his comfortable chair and walked toward the garage. Maybe there he could find some peace. Ever since Ray’s shooting, there was no peace to be had. His team was on marina watch with nothing to show for it. It was making him absolutely nuts.

  His wife, Bela, followed, yapping in his ear. “I’m not having the girls grow up like we did. I want them to have the opportunities we didn’t. We agreed on this.” When she got angry, her accent was pronounced. It used to be charming. Now it was just irritating.

  He turned around. Did she realize how she sounded? How could she not understand that it was too expensive? They had agreed she would stay home with the girls. Each of them had grown up in families where both parents worked just to make ends meet. His job had always supported both of them and the girls. They lived in a nice area of Berkeley; the girls went to good schools, got big Christmases. It was so much more than he’d ever had. But, Bela always wanted more. Sure, he did too, but he was the one trying to get the math to work. There had come a point where he couldn’t.

  They had to cut back. “Come on, you’re not talking about opportunities. You’re talking about extravagance, Bela. Dance lessons, music lessons, she has all those. And now you want her to have a private dance instructor? We can’t afford it.”

  She crossed her arms and jutted her chin. She wasn’t budging. “Mariela wants to be a dancer. Do you want to crush her dream?”

  Michael took two steps toward his wife. “Do you hear what you’re saying? You’re talking about a private instructor. It’s seventy dollars an hour. It’s too much right now. Why doesn’t she continue in the class she’s in? I can’t believe she really needs private lessons at this stage…”

  His wife turned her back. “The instructor says she’ll get much more out of private time.”

  So will he, Michael thought. Something like sixty dollars an hour more. He couldn’t believe his wife was being so stubborn. His father had emigrated from Hungary with his mother before he was born. Michael was a surprise and not an especially welcome one. The story was that his parents let the nurse at the hospital name him. He remembered the struggles they’d had, especially before his father had been promoted to manager of the small shoe sole company in the town in New Jersey where he’d grown up. His mother worked as the secretary for a successful Hungarian banker until she was sixty and then only quit because the banker finally retired.

  Lavick had always promised himself that he would do better for his own children. And he did. Much better. He’d made sacrifices to make some extra money, but for his wife, it was never enough.

  “It’s important to her, Michael.”

  He focused on his wife’s face, knowing she was waiting for him to change his mind. He always did. He doted on Bela, bought her gifts for the birth of their children, for anniversaries, remembered flowers. She’d been good to him, too, but it seemed that with every present he gave her came a higher expectation for the next one.

  Where had he gone wrong? Had the mistake been in not involving her in the finances? Not telling her how close they were to the edge? How hard it was to afford the things they already had. Along the way, he’d been smart and clever with the money. He’d been lucky on some business ventures. But, it all meant extra work. And it wasn’t like he’d gotten anywhere. In fact, with each new success, he ended up deeper in debt.

  “Michael?”

  He was filled with resentment for the way she tried to trap him with those brown eyes. He studied the expensive makeup that added a rosy tint to the cheeks he had loved when they were pale. She touched his arm. All he felt were her long, fake nails. He saw the color she added to her hair, making it darker rather than the auburn tones he’d fallen in love with. Even the small, flat mole on her neck that he’d kissed so often when they’d first been together was now covered by makeup. She thought it was ugly. He’d thought of it as a mark of beauty.

  “It’s important to her,” she said, breaking him from his thoughts.

  “We can’t do it.”

  She froze like ice beside him. It would be that way for some time. She was good at anger, but he’d long since passed the point where he would do anything about it. She didn’t understand. They would need to address it soon. He’d been stupid to be so traditional and keep the situation from her. He’d wanted so much to provide for her, but he had failed. Now, he needed her to know where they stood.

  She walked away as he knew she would. They would have something he hated for dinner. Chicken, probably. He hated chicken. Or tacos. Maybe chicken tacos. That was her way of saying he was in trouble. He was in trouble. He was in deep trouble, but right now, he didn’t care.

  He walked out the door to the garage. His wife never followed him. She could barely stand to park her car there because of his “heap,” as she called it. It was actually a 1932 Ford V-8, three-window coupe. It was the only car his father had ever owned, and when he died, his mother had given it to Michael. His wife thought he should’ve had it scrapped, especially because his father hadn’t gotten it running in the last ten years of his life.

  But Michael refused. In hindsight, working on the car was the only thing he had ever done for himself. The car was about him—about his parents and him. He’d once hoped there might be a child who would want to help him with it, but Mariela and Alexis couldn’t have been less interested.

  He flipped on the bright, fluorescent garage lights and walked slowly around the car. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t made a hell of a lot of progress in fourteen years. When he got it, the frame was rusted and pitted. Almost nothing had worked. He’d join
ed a car club and learned how to do things. He’d sandblasted the frame. He’d primed it and painted it red. That’s about when his wife’s interest had peaked. She claimed not to have seen any progress since then. But, he’d been working steadily.

  He subscribed to Hemmings Auto News. He’d found a replacement speedometer NOS, meaning new old stock. It was an original 1932 speedometer that had never been used. The thing cost him almost $500. He’d felt so guilty that he’d paid for it from his lunch allowance. Shit, he deserved something for himself.

  Really, the car was coming along nicely. The big problem was the intake manifold. The one in the car had to be completely junked. But, he’d made a friend in a Heliarc welder who’d been able to patch an intake manifold he’d salvaged from a ’37. Now, the problem was the fuel pump. He’d had to make his own gaskets, and they were leaking. Plus, the carburetor was messed up. He popped the side leaf and folded it back from the engine. Then he detached the fuel pump and pulled it out, his hands black with grease.

  He set it on his worktable and pulled his stool up behind him. He loosened the nuts on the flange and worked the lock washers off. He tried to pull the fuel pump loose from the intake manifold, but it was stuck. He braced it between his knees and fought it.

  “Damn thing.”

  He gritted his teeth. His mind drifted to his frustration with Bela as he gripped the two pieces and tried to detach them. He wanted the girls to be happy, to have opportunities. He never imagined that they would be spoiled.

  Suddenly, the fuel pump loosened. One of the flange bolts raked across his palm. He dropped the pieces and grabbed his hand. “Shit.”

  He shook it and wiped the blood on a rag before leaning down to pick up the pieces off the ground. The light caught something disc-shaped and silver on the front seat of the car. A DVD.

  “What the hell?”

  He read the top. “January 11th, 10:30 PM.”

  He put the fuel pump down, and holding the rag, carried the disc into the house, trying to remember what he was doing on January 11th.

  He walked past his wife in the kitchen.

  “Are you ready to talk?”

  He didn’t answer her as he made his way to the family room. A swirling storm was rising in his head. The date was familiar. What the hell was it? Pressing the rag to his bleeding hand, he kicked the door shut with his foot and powered up the player.

  He rested on his haunches and flipped the TV on, without bothering for the remote. He slid the disc in and pushed play. The screen filled with an image of a room. A card table was centered in the frame. A few chairs formed a circle around it. He watched as a gym bag was tossed through the door and knew exactly who had thrown it. The next bag came in. Then, a familiar face carried a third bag in and set it up on the table. He couldn’t move as he watched himself unzip the duffel and take hold of a thick stack of bills in each hand, then wave them around.

  “Oh, Lord.”

  Chapter 24

  Rosa insisted on going to a baby music class for kids age six months to a year. “He’s not six months. He’s not even four months,” Cameron argued.

  Rosa waved off the comment as silly. “He’s extremely advanced for his age.”

  As it turned out, brains weren’t required for the class, but more head control than Nate had would have been helpful as they bobbed and danced. Everyone thought he was Rosa’s baby. Cameron mostly sat and watched. She was a good mother, she told herself, but somehow she never fit the mold of the good mother in her own mind.

  These women did. Even the way they looked. They were rounded like the other women in Cameron’s life had always been—had hips and breasts. They knew the words to “The Wheels on the Bus” and “Hush Little Baby, Don’t Say a Word.” All Cameron knew was that there was some reference to buying a kid a diamond ring and a horse and cart.

  Rosa ate it up. She laughed and danced with Nate, drawing him to her like a woman in love. Cameron waved like a father trying to be involved but not knowing quite how. That was more her role. Thank God for Rosa.

  They stopped for lunch on the way home at their favorite little Mexican dive where the chimichangas were almost as good as Mama’s. Neither she nor Rosa ever ordered anything else. The shredded beef was so tender it was like chewing butter. Piled with cheese and beans and sour cream and guacamole with garlic and lemon and spicy salsa, it was enough to make the world right for a few minutes.

  The owner called Cameron and Rosa “Las Chimamigas,” some combination of chimichanga and amigas. They rarely explained to people that they were sisters and Cameron knew they were an odd pair—this tall, skinny blond gringa and a curvy Latina. Then Cameron spoke Spanish and people figured she was somehow Latin, despite her looks.

  Even with the distractions, Diego and the bankbook had not strayed far from her mind. She had texted Sydney Blanchard for ideas about how to disable the password on the jump drive, but she hadn’t heard back. She hoped Diego knew what he was doing.

  Full and tired, Cameron, Rosa and Nate arrived home as Nate was falling asleep. Cameron took the bags. Rosa held Nate as they made their way to the front door. Cameron inserted her key into the top bolt when she noticed deep gouges in the lock that shone like the copper of a new penny.

  “Go to the car,” she told Rosa.

  “¿Qué pasó?” Rosa asked. Whenever Rosa was stressed or upset, she naturally spoke Spanish.

  “Someone’s been here,” Cameron answered her sister in Spanish. “The lock’s been tampered with.”

  Scowling, Rosa glared at her with familiar disapproval.

  “Not now, Rosa. Just go.”

  Rosa cradled Nate close and ran back to the car.

  Cameron knew people robbed houses in broad daylight. Her gun was inside in a lockbox in the front closet. Without her weapon, she pushed the door open and stepped inside.

  Someone had been through the place. Pictures were off their hooks, pillows shredded, and books dumped on the floor.

  Cameron scanned as she moved. It felt like she was on recon and yet, when she caught sight of Nate’s favorite rattle—a black-and-white-striped stick with colorful rings on it, her throat seemed to close.

  She opened the hall closet with one hand and spotted her lockbox. She stopped in a corner of the hallway, turned the combination and flipped open the latch.

  Gripping the gun, she continued down the hall, the image of Nate’s rattle burning like a brand. She said nothing, her breathing even, as she walked foot over foot. She cleared each room like she was on the job. But it wasn’t. Someone had been in her home. Nate’s clothes had been pulled from the drawers, his diapers strewn across the floor. She had an impulse to get down on her knees, to straighten and clean up. Her son’s things, clothes that touched his body. She trembled with fury. Then, remembering, she ran into the kitchen and pulled open the dishwasher. Rosa’s jewelry box lay at the bottom, but no bankbook. She hadn’t taken it out of her pants.

  In the laundry room, she pulled dirty clothes out of the washing machine by the armload before she found it. She tucked the plastic bag with the bankbook and jump drive into her jacket pocket and continued through the house.

  When she was sure no one was there, she made her way outside. Rosa sat in the front seat of the car, holding Nate. Cameron saw the fear in her face. She couldn’t take her sister inside. Not now, not looking the way it did.

  She opened the passenger side and took Nate from Rosa’s arms. Rosa started to get out, but Cameron stopped her. “We’re not going in.”

  Rosa’s eyes widened. “Someone’s there?”

  “Not anymore.”

  Though Cameron had expected it, Rosa didn’t argue. Perhaps she sensed Cameron’s own rage. Cameron buckled Nate into his car seat and got back in the car.

  She pulled out of the driveway without knowing exactly where she was going. On the freeway south, she gripped the wheel and focused on driving. Ideas flashed by like the yellow lines on the road. They’d come for the bankbook and the jump drive. That much
was obvious. But, who were they and why did they want them so badly? More importantly, which side was Diego on?

  “What’s going on, Cameron?” Rosa’s voice was low as though she were trying to keep Nate from hearing.

  Cameron glanced over.

  “You have to tell me. You’ve been acting crazy ever since you went back to work.”

  Cameron searched for the right way to unload all of it.

  “Don’t treat me like a baby, Cameron. I’m your older sister.”

  “It’s a lot,” Cameron warned.

  “I’m ready,” Rosa assured her.

  Cameron started with the night she’d seen Diego and the shooting.

  “Oh, Dios!” Rosa had exclaimed after Cameron said his name. Then, Rosa was silent as Cameron explained the evidence that was mounting against him. The truck registered in his name, another killing with the same gun. She left out that he’d been at the house and had left her the bankbook and the drive. When she was done, Rosa asked, “You think he broke into our house?”

  “No.”

  “The person who broke in is looking for him?” Rosa pressed.

  “Right.”

  “What can we do?”

  Cameron hesitated, unsure if Rosa meant what could they do to help put Diego behind bars or what could they do to help him. “I’m not sure,” she finally said.

  “I don’t believe it for a second,” Rosa said, her fire kindled. “There is no way he shot that man unless he had to.”

  Cameron reached over and grabbed her sister’s hand and squeezed it.

  Rosa squeezed back, but she was on a roll and it kept going. “I mean it. Someone is setting him up. Because he’s Latino. You hear about that shit all the time. Oh, pardon Tía Rosa’s bad language,” she said to Nate in the backseat.