36 Hours (5 page)

“Tell me what happened tonight,” he said.

Angel hesitated. She munched on a few more Cheerios as she thought it through. “It’s a long story.”

“We have time.”

“For the record, I’m not in a gang. Or screwing anyone.”

“Good.”

“I’m not seeking your approval.”

“Okay.”

She bit the inside of her lip. “Last summer, my best friend Marisa got involved with George Garcia, who’s the dopey idiot younger brother of Raul Garcia who runs the G-5 gang. George is seventeen, Marisa is stupid. Two weeks ago, Marisa called me because she was scared, and I went to go get her. And we witnessed something real bad. We ran. I convinced Marisa that we had to go to the police.”

“What did you see?”

“Raul Garcia killed two women. Maybe prostitutes, I don’t know. He said they deserved it. So we told our story to the police, then again to a prosecutor, but Marisa got cold feet and told George she wasn’t going to testify. That was Tuesday, after our talk with the lawyer. I haven’t seen her since.”

“Why didn’t they put you in protective custody?”

She shrugged. “Why would they? The lawyer told me to keep a low profile and be accessible. But my mom got picked up for drunk driving—again—and was in mandatory detox. Some creeps were hanging around my apartment, so I disappeared and missed my follow-up meeting with the DA chick. I guess she sent the cops to find me because she was afraid I wasn’t going to show up Monday. Yesterday morning they put me in juvie, and then I was transferred to the group home. When I got there, people started shooting. I ran.” She bit her lip. “I’m really sorry about the cops. They were jerks, but I’m sorry they got shot.”

Jake didn’t say anything for a minute. “Who knew you were there?” he asked finally.

“I don’t know. I thought the prosecutor was going to keep me in juvie. There’s a court hearing I have to be at, eight-thirty Monday morning. That’s when I’m supposed to tell the judge everything I saw. And Marisa is supposed to be there too.”

“Where is she?”

“I don’t know.” She picked at a gouge in the table. “I’m scared she might be dead. She’s never been good on the streets. She tends to do stupid shit. I thought she might have gone to the warehouse you found me at, but when I asked around, no one had seen her.”

“Someone there ratted you out.”

“Kai. The Garcias control everything in this area, though when Owen ran the warehouse they had an agreement and Garcia stayed away.”

“Were the shooters at the group home when you arrived?”

She nodded. “Hiding in the van. Anyone could have told them—the cops, the group home, the prosecutor, the judge, the warden at juvie--I have no idea. I don’t know who to trust.”

“Trust me,” Jake said.

Angel wanted to, but fifteen years of believing he didn’t want anything to do with her was hard to forget. “I don’t really have a choice, do I?”

“Get some sleep. At dawn we’ll track down that prosecutor.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Angel said. She put her head down on the table.

“Take the bed.”

“I’m okay.”

“Do it. I’m not sleeping anyway.”

Angel hesitated, not knowing whether she should trust this stranger, dad or not. Finally, she got up and lay on the bed, eyes open. “Thanks,” she said quietly.

Jake watched Angel—his daughter—battle her natural tendency to mouth off. A defense mechanism. The dangerous situation coupled with meeting him after ten years had unnerved her. He didn’t blame her. The police had fucked up by not putting her in protective custody, but that probably would have meant juvie, where there was no guarantee of safety if the gangs really wanted to get to her. And unless there was a pending trial, the city didn’t have the money or manpower to put her in a safe house.

Jake poured himself another cup of coffee. Angel was his responsibility now. He would have taken the responsibly ten years ago when he first learned of her existence, but Gina wouldn’t let him. She didn’t want Jake in her life, and didn’t want him in Angel’s life. And Jake had been stupid, young, and a Marine on temporary leave when he found out the truth. He’d been partly fucked up anyway, doing what he did and seeing what he saw. He could have ended up dead overseas. Angel would have been taken care of because as soon as he found out she was his, he listed her as his next of kin. If he was killed in action in the Marines, or in the line of duty as a cop, she would have gotten his death benefits.

Though maybe she wouldn’t have. If Gina hadn’t told her he’d been sending five hundred dollars a month for the last ten years, maybe she wouldn’t have told her about the death benefits.

He wanted to throttle the woman.

“Jake,” Angel whispered. “I heard something.”

He froze, then heard a car door shut in the alley. How the fuck had they found her?

He turned out the solitary light, went to his door and listened, then held up three fingers. He glanced at Angel. She nodded her understanding.

Jake quietly put a chair against the door, under the knob. There was only one way in or out from the hall, and if he were the bad guys, he’d have someone downstairs guarding the door into the bar.

“How’s your ankle?” he whispered.

She gave him a thumbs up.

He slid up the old window and winced at the creak it made. There was a small balcony, not much wider than a fire escape. Below was a narrow walkway. It went through from the alley to the street. A couple locked doors and that was it. No place to hide. If whoever was after them blocked it off, they were dead.

“Roll when you drop. Don’t put all your weight on your feet,” he said.

“Sounds like something I’d need to practice,” she snapped.

The knob rattled.

“Now,” Jake mouthed.

Angel scrambled out onto the balcony, climbed over the railing, and hung there. Jake followed. The balcony creaked under their weight.

“Drop!” he commanded.

Gunfire erupted at the door and Angel dropped. She tried to roll, but fell on her ass. Jake dropped, pulled her up and they ran toward the alley.

An idling car blocked his Charger. The driver leaned out when he saw them and laid into the horn, then drew a gun. A kid, younger than Angel, with a damn gun.

Jake slid across the hood of the low rider, feet first, and kicked the gun out of the kid’s hand. He pulled him from the car and ordered Angel to get in.

She jumped into the passenger seat as two of the three men outside his apartment came running down the back stairs.

“Down!” Jake said as he slammed the car into reverse and drove straight back, down the alley, scraping against a Dumpster, until he was on the street. The glass shattered on Angel’s side, but she was huddled on the floor. He slammed on the brakes, put the car in drive, and sped forward.

“You hit? You okay?”

Angel climbed back into the seat and said, “I’m fine.”

“You’re sure?’

“I said I’m
fine.
What do you want? An inventory?”

Sarcasm was a good sign.

She continued. “How did they know I was with you?”

“Did you know that kid? He wasn’t older than you.”

“No. How did they know I was
here
?!?” she repeated in a panic. “Did they follow us? Did you tell somebody? Who knew I was with you? Who did you tell?”

“Calm down.” Jake understood her anxiety, but he right now he had his own concerns.

“Don’t tell me to calm down! They found me at the group home, they found me at my apartment—okay, I get that. But the warehouse? Here? Everyone’s conspiring against me!”

“We need to dump this car,” he said.

He hadn’t told Cutler he was going to bring Angel back here, and Cutler damn well knew that Jake’d kill him if he betrayed him. But Jake couldn’t risk going to Cutler’s. If they knew Angel was with him, they knew who Jake worked for.

Which meant that someone in the system—someone with access to all Angel’s records—wanted her dead. This wasn’t a simple gang hit.

“Who knows I’m your father?” he said.

“No one. Not even me. I mean, I knew your name, but that’s it. And it’s not like I told anyone, ‘yeah, my deadbeat dad is Jake Morrison, who’s yours?’” She stopped, then said, “I’m sorry, I know now it’s not all your fault.” She huddled in his USMC T-shirt.

“Someone had to know.”

“Who did
you
tell?”

“One person knew I was looking for you, and he’s the one who told me about the shooting in the first place. He didn’t know I’d found you, and he would never have thought I’d bring you back to my place. It’s not Cutler.” He hesitated. “What about your juvie records?”

“Oh, yeah, blame it on the bad kid.”

He signed and worked to control his temper. He asked with exaggerated calm, “Did your mom put my name on your birth certificate?”

“Yes,” she said quietly.

His name would be in the file, and it wouldn’t be difficult to find out where he lived. But that initial information had to come from someone with access, someone who knew where to look. He didn’t see gangbangers going through county records looking for background intel on a fifteen-year-old girl.

The corruption went way up the ladder.

He didn’t have a lot of friends in L.A., but he had a few. He mentally ran through his list. He had one cop he was still close to, Tommy Lind, but calling him would put his friend on the spot—Jake would save that for a last resort. He had one Marine buddy who lived in Sunland. But Lucky had issues, and Jake hadn’t seen him since he got out of prison eighteen months ago.

Jake really didn’t have much of a choice. He had to dump the car fast because the cops were likely looking for it. And he didn’t want to dump it near Lucky’s house, in case the cops canvassed the area.

Angel wasn’t talking. She was staring out the open window, not caring that it was raining. He turned the heat on high, but she didn’t blink. She was a tough kid, but a night like tonight could wear down even the toughest.

He circled streets near the Burbank airport. Many of the side streets didn’t have security cameras, and people often parked there who didn’t want to pay for parking and didn’t mind walking. He just needed to find one he could hot wire without a fuss.

“What are you doing?” Angel asked.

“Looking for a car.”

“You’re going to steal a car.”

“Borrow.”

She snorted.

He pulled over behind a beat-up sedan and tossed Angel a rag he’d found under the seat. “Wipe down the car,” he said. “I don’t want to make it easy for the cops to track us. Inside and out.”

She did what he told her to do, and Jake checked out the sedan for an alarm. He could disarm one, but if someone had an early morning flight or was getting to work early – it was nearly five a.m. – he didn’t want to draw attention.

He made quick work of hot-wiring the car, and it purred into life.
Purr
might be an exaggeration. The car didn’t sound well.

“Angel, in.”

She complied. He wished he knew what she was thinking. He didn’t know what to say to make her trust him, but right now all he cared about was finding a safe place to stay while he figured out what to do.

He took back roads around the Verdugo Mountains into Sunland.

“Where are we going?” Angel finally asked.

“A buddy from my unit.”

She didn’t say anything else.

“Angel, I’m going to figure this out.”

“Just – you know, maybe find me a place to stay for the next day and I’ll be fine. Once I get to the courthouse Monday morning, there’s nothing anyone can do to me. I’ll tell my story, and that’s that.”

“I don’t think it’s that simple.”

“I don’t want your help.”

“You don’t have a choice.”

She wouldn’t look at him. His fingers clutched the steering wheel. Hard. He wished he could just drop her off at a shelter and say good riddance, but now that he’d met her, he couldn’t walk away like he’d done ten years ago. He couldn’t continue keeping an eye on her from afar. Angel was his kid. His
daughter.
That meant something. Maybe he didn’t realize it when he was a twenty-three-year-old Marine who’d just found out during his two-week leave that he had a five year old kid, but he damn well knew it now.

Jake circled around Lucky’s neighborhood until he felt confident that there was no one who shouldn’t be here hanging around. The sixties and seventies era homes looked tired, a mix of old and remodeled, of chain link fences and low stone walls and dying rose gardens. Lots of motorcycles and trucks and cars up on blocks. A blue-collar, working class neighborhood. As the homes went higher into the mountain, so did the quality and the prices.

Lucky’s house was up a street that twisted and turned. Jake parked two streets over, off the main road. This time, he wiped down the car, including the wires, and Angel stood in the damp air and watched with blank eyes that reminded him too much of his own.

“It’s not far,” he said as they walked.

She didn’t complain, and Jake almost wished she would. Arguing with him would convince him that she was paying attention, that she was on her game and cared about what happened.

Two blocks later, they were at Lucky’s house. It was a small early seventies ranch house set back from the street with faded siding, a carport, and prominent
no solicitors
sign. The only indication that anyone was living there was the Harley in the carport and a shiny flagpole in the middle of the dead lawn.

The sun had just begun to light up the eastern sky, but the street was still quiet. If Lucky was the same paranoid bastard that he’d been in Afghanistan, he would know someone was at his doorstep before Jake knocked; but he knocked nonetheless.

He didn’t hear much of anything inside, except for the faint hum of a radio. He took a step back and put a protective arm near Angel.

A sound around the side made Jake turn and put his body between Angel and the threat. “Lucky, it’s Jams.” He used his nickname.

“Really? Jams? Wow.” Lucky stepped out of the shadows, though Jake could barely see him because his skin was so black. He had a knife in his hand, which he dropped to his side. “What are you doing here?” He eyed Angel. “Isn’t she a little young?”