Foster Justice (13 page)

 

An hour later, Pucker Ass, AKA Riley O'Connor, glanced up when the Beverly Hills duty officer appeared at his desk, looking agitated. “There's a cowboy asking for you. He looks a bit green around the gills and mean enough to spit venom. Says he's helping with an investigation, and he's going at it now with Captain Barnes. He's going to get himself arrested.”

“Damn the man, he's supposed to be in the hospital.” Riley hurried out to the entry desk and sure enough, Foster towered over Captain Barnes, who made up for his lack of height in lofty diction and soaring intellect.

Foster stabbed a finger in the air at chest height, almost hitting the little officer in the nose. “He's my brother, and I don't give a flying f—”

Just in time to make Chad swallow the obscenity, Riley banged on the glass divider. “Foster, I'm ready to discuss the file with you. You're late.”

Barnes turned on him. “You actually made an appointment with this . . . this . . .”

Chad ripped off his Stetson before he could finish and looked like he wanted to throw it against the wall. “If one more guy calls me a cowboy I'm going to rake him with my spurs just to prove him right.”

Riley kept his smile pasted on. “This way, Foster.” He buzzed the door open. “Sorry, Captain, but he's already aided the LA police in their part of the investigation into his brother's disappearance, and he's a former Texas Ranger with forensic training, so the chief said he could assist. He has a slight concussion but insisted on coming in today.” Riley gave Chad a look.

Chad paused long enough to mutter to Barnes, “Sorry, my head aches like blue blazes, but I shouldn't have taken it out on you.”

Captain Barnes relented. He nodded at Riley, though he still refused to look at Chad. “Very well. Since you went through proper channels, I presume my protestations are immaterial.” He swiveled on his heel and marched out the front door.

Frozen, Chad stared after him. “That guy come from the Precambrian or the primordial soup?”

When the duty officer smirked and retook his seat, Riley hustled Chad inside the office, to the chair facing his desk. “He's got an eidetic memory and is the only one who can soothe all the rich old ladies when they come into the station. He's raised millions in funding for the department's charities.”

“Perfect. Honorary title. I hope you don't let him near a gun.”

“Never mind him. Just thank me for stopping him from arresting your ass.” At Chad's glare, Riley sighed. “Why the hell aren't you in the hospital?”

“You think I'm going to lie flat on my back while my brother is missing and probably in extreme danger?”

“Does your Ranger captain, Sinclair I think his name is, know you're in LA going off half-cocked?”

Chad shrugged.

“Does Jasmine know you're here?”

Chad shrugged.

“You really expect me to share the entire file with you?”

This time, Chad didn't shrug. For a moment, Riley read in his eyes a fear for his brother so deep that Riley was surprised it didn't take life and grab the file. Which would be tough, since most of their investigations these days were digital. Riley wheeled his chair over. “I give up. It will take less time and resources to keep you in the loop than it would to shut you out. Not to mention the uproar if we actually took a decorated Texas Ranger into custody.”

“Former Texas Ranger. Now I'm just a guy from Amarillo who can't get laid.” Chad reddened, obviously regretting his frankness as Riley burst into laughter.

“You're honest, I give you that, Foster. If it makes you feel better, in that way, at least, you're just like Beverly Hills lawyers. I know more than one who can't get laid, either. Jasmine's actually pretty choosy.”

Chad just whacked his hat on his thigh, which Riley recognized as the Ranger's body language when he was begging to change the subject. Riley pretended to study his computer, recalling his conversation with Sinclair about Chad. Sinclair had told him, without saying it, to do what he could to help Chad's investigation. “He won't stop unless you shoot him. And he's one of the best men in my company when it comes to tracking down missing persons. Not that I'd intrude. It's your department's call, of course, whether to involve him.”

So with Jasmine's pleading, Riley had gone to the chief to ask for the unusual arrangement, but that didn't mean Riley was happy with the way Chad had barged in here, when he should be in bed. Chad stood up and wheeled his own chair around, bent his head briefly, and then fell into it. Riley bit back another caustic remark, handed Chad the hard copy of the file for docs they hadn't scanned, and opened the digital portion on his computer.

 

Jasmine finally tired of tossing and turning and got out of bed. She dressed for work and then slammed out, not surprised to find Chad gone. Nothing would interfere with his investigation. She was glad she'd be gone when Chad got back. Having him here was just as hard as she'd feared. She was so drawn to this man, more than any other, and if she wasn't real careful, she'd fall in love with a man who hated her.

Or at least hated what she did. It wasn't like she'd chosen to be a stripper, no one did. But if the options were that or forgoing law school, well, the choice seemed pretty straightforward. And she hadn't slept with as many men as Chad apparently assumed. No, the real way to get past his defenses, other than the obvious one, was to help him get evidence against Thomas. If Thomas Kinnard was really the mastermind behind a land fraud in the Texas Panhandle, using an entity that was, according to Chad, a dummy shell called the Del Mar Corporation, based in California and the Grand Caymans, only one man would have access to the records. Because he'd drawn them up.

If she brought Chad proof of Thomas's involvement in the Del Mar Corporation, he'd have to believe she wasn't part of the scheme. And it might be leverage to save Trey. Still thinking, Jasmine wasn't quite as luminous that night on stage.

 

Two hours later, Chad exited the Beverly Hills police station, more frustrated than ever. At the snail's pace of the BHPD's investigation, he'd never find Trey in time. He was usually a stickler for the legalities in a case, but he wasn't a Ranger now. He was a brother.

Chad fired up his truck after checking it for damage from being in the impound lot. But if anything, it was cleaner, which didn't surprise him anymore. Everything this city did was as picky as its residents. His nausea had faded and the residual dizziness only troubled him when he stood up too fast. Still, he sat with the giant engine idling, debating what he was about to do. Riley wouldn't like it. Hell, Sinclair wouldn't like it either, but that was too bad. He was out of options. Legal ones, anyway.

Chad's truck seemed to drive the short route all by itself. Chad circled the dark gallery twice to be sure, but he saw no light or any sign of occupation. It was past ten, so that wasn't surprising. The tiny parking lot in front was empty, and when he passed the alley and looked down it, there were no vehicles. Chad parked in the alley behind the Dumpster, eyeing the security camera trained on the back door of the gallery.

Avoiding the camera's eye, he circled the building to the window he'd noticed when he was transferring the funds for the painting. It was a heavy dual-paned window, no doubt wired to the gallery's security alarm. Taking the glass cutter he'd selected from the small case of tools he carried, he carefully cut the first pane of glass at the very edges next to the window frame. It was a big-paned window, so if he cut just right, he should barely fit inside without having to raise the window and break the security alarm contacts. With the first layer of glass cut, he put on his gloves and tapped gently, breaking the bond between the two layers. Part of the glass cracked, making it easier to remove. The second layer was thinner and cut easily. Chad propped both almost intact pieces of glass against the side of the building, tossed his case over the sill, and boosted himself through the window. He felt a few slivers of glass pierce his heavy work shirt, but then he was up and over.

Chad pulled the small flashlight from his case and appraised the room. He started at the desk, but found only bills, art receipts, meeting agendas, nothing interesting. He eyed the computer, which was off, and moved to the drawers, knowing there was no way he'd be able to break the password. He searched each drawer thoroughly, but again found nothing of interest beyond the stationery he'd seen before. In frustration, he slammed the drawer closed. It made an odd, hollow sound, not quite closing properly.

Chad knelt and looked at the drawer bottom, seeing that it didn't shut correctly because it had a panel behind it. He tapped and played with the panel and suddenly it sprang outward, leaving a deep cavity. Chad shined his light inside and saw some yellowing newspaper articles. He pulled them out carefully, stiffening at the sight of a familiar, but much younger, face.

Thomas Hopper had discovered a brand-new pool of oil called the Dorado field. Some of the largest deposits were around Amarillo, Texas. A later article hinted that exploration was in progress and the Texas Ranger land division was investigating the partnership. Chad remembered the tiny scrap he'd found in Trey's car seat. He held up the paper to the light, trying to recall the color of that scrap. They seemed to match. Then he saw, cut off but still legible, his father's name as arresting officer. Chad knew Trey must have taken these articles, which was why a scrap had been left in his seat.

Everything fell into place.

Why Kinnard had left Texas and assumed a new identity. Why he'd opened an art gallery in one of the world's richest cities. His interest in Trey had nothing to do with art and everything to do with their land. He'd wanted them out of the way so he could drill, illegally if need be, because he'd had a hard-on for the vast pool of oil under the Amarillo plains since he'd struck his first well in it over twenty years ago. He'd known Chad would come running to rescue his brother, leaving him clear to drill.

Must have been a great bonus to the bastard that they were Gerald Foster's sons. The next leap was a short one: Thomas Kinnard had to be the head of the Del Mar Corporation. If he and the California agencies could prove that, they'd have enough evidence to put the bastard away for land fraud. For good this time. And a charge of kidnapping would sweeten the sentence.

And Jasmine? What was her role? The dull headache began again at that thought, so he shoved it away instead.

Chad hesitated, badly wanting to take the articles, but instead he made a mental note of the dates, knowing he could pull them from archives, and put everything back as it was. Best if Kinnard just thought there'd been a break-in until Chad could convince Riley to get a warrant. He dumped out the desk drawers, found a bank bag holding what seemed to be petty cash, and had no choice but to take the money to perpetuate the MO of a theft.

He next circled his light over the closet. He opened it, and inside saw art supplies, brushes, paints, easels. He was about to close the door when he saw a splintered leg on one of the easels. Something jarred his memory. He turned the easel around, seeking a tag of some kind. There it was, on the back: Lubbock Art Supplies. This easel was Trey's. Using his cell phone to take a wide shot of the easel and its location in the closet, along with a close-up of the label, Chad deliberately disarranged everything to make it look like thieves had searched the closet. Chad started on the file cabinet, but he stiffened as he heard a car pulling up in the front. Lights slashed across the lobby floor at the same time, and then the sound of a smooth engine turned off. Voices, one that was Kinnard's and a second one with Hispanic overtones.

With one last scan to be sure he'd taken all his tools, Chad tossed some files on the floor, vaulted over the window feet first, his broad shoulders almost getting stuck as he dangled, his feet a foot from the ground. But he wriggled from side to side and managed to get free. Safely on the ground, he still had a dilemma to face. If he started his big engine, Kinnard would hear it for sure. If he didn't, it would be a dead giveaway that he'd been there because it was highly unlikely they wouldn't see the missing glass, look outside, and notice the truck.

Chad got in his truck and fired it up, backing up a short distance, and then, as a head poked out the broken window, Chad put the truck in gear and drove forward as if entering the alley. He parked, got out and lifted a hand. “Howdy, Mr. Kinnard.”

“We're closed.” Kinnard scowled at the broken glass on the ground.

“I just came by to see if you still had that painting of the pumpjack and cactus, couldn't get it out of my head, but I see you have bigger problems.” Chad made his voice sympathetic. “Looks like you had a break-in. Want me to call the police?”

“No, thank you, I can handle my own security. Why'd you come by so late?”

“Can't sleep, I know you work late sometimes—” Chad broke off.

Another head poked out the window, and Chad recognized the driver of the green lowrider. They shared a look. Chad pulled his hat down low, but it was too late. Lawman and criminal had an instinctual recognition of an adversary.

Kinnard saw it, and his lip curled. “Cut the crap, Foster. You just broke into my office and when I can prove it, I'll see you in jail.”

Chad debated lying, but he shrugged. “Maybe we'll be cell mates.”

“Find what you're looking for?”

“Not yet. But I will.”

“Little brother run away from home? Can't find him, huh? Pity.”

Chad took a long stride forward before he realized he'd moved. “I know who you are and what you're doing, Mr. President of the Del Mar Corporation.” Chad was tempted to mention the easel but knew Kinnard would only destroy it.