The Good Daughter (4 page)

She closed her eyes against the headache and sighed softly. Was she ready to make this her future? Lately, she felt as though she’d sleepwalked through her life.

Just then, a sense of being watched assailed her. She opened her eyes.

Vince Coronado stood perhaps twenty feet away. Around him shimmered that raw, rugged energy that emanated from him whether still or in movement. Having only seen him in jeans before, she was frankly astonished at how polished he appeared, yet how uniquely his own man. Black pleated slacks and soft, black band-collared shirt, a pearl-gray jacket draping his broad shoulders—he could have stepped off a runway in New York.

But the vivid blue eyes drew her back to his face. He made no move to approach her, yet somehow she felt as though he stood right beside her, whispering in her ear.

“Ready to go?” Roger’s voice jolted her. She
glanced up at him; when she looked back, Vince had disappeared.

“What is it?”

“I thought—” She shook her head to clear it. “I could have sworn I saw Detective Coronado.” There—she’d said his name. Maybe speaking it to Roger would rob Vince of the odd pull he exerted.

Roger laughed. “Coronado at the opera? Not likely. He’s probably shooting pool and drinking beer tonight.” His laughter turned harsh. “He’s got nothing else to do. In fact, he should probably be considering a new career.”

“I don’t think he’s—”

“Be careful, Chloe. You don’t have enough experience to understand men like him. We can’t allow rogue cops in this city.” His tone hardened. “We’re under enough heat for the recent crime wave. Someone like him only makes things worse.”

Chloe started to retort, but decided not to waste her time trying to open Roger’s closed mind. She was operating on instinct, anyway.

Instinct told her Roger was wrong. Vince wasn’t a rogue cop. He might be unconventional—aggressive, even. He quite certainly carried baggage from a past she could hardly imagine.

But he’d defended a child when he was one himself. He cared, probably too much for his own welfare. None of that, however, was grounds for taking a good cop off the force.

One of the reasons she’d taken this job was that she’d seen a chance to really help in a way she’d never have
been able to in a safe suburban practice. Cops were human and they made mistakes, but they were extraordinary, too. Every day they put themselves in harm’s way for little money and few thanks.

Sometimes, however, they needed help, even the strongest of them. She might not have the makeup to strap on a gun and run toward danger, but she had her own contribution to make.

She smiled then. Even if certain recipients, like one Detective Coronado, fought like crazy to avoid taking it.

J
UST SOUTH OF
Town Lake, Vince sat on his back-porch steps in the darkness. Through the screen door, the 1958 Maria Callas recording of
Bohème
wafted. He almost hadn’t used his ticket tonight, yet he was glad he had. His problems hadn’t vanished, but the music had shifted his focus for a few hours.

Beside him, the old tomcat purred loudly, butting his head against the hands clasped between Vince’s knees. Vince stirred, then looked down at the furry form weaving a figure eight around his feet. “I thought I told you to leave.”

Another head butt.

“I’m not feeding you forever. I hate cats.”

Fur brushed the side of one hand. He shook his head and scratched the cat’s neck while he stared at the moon through the trees.

Chloe St. Claire unsettled him. He didn’t like it.

Nonetheless, he couldn’t help a grin at the memory of her shock tonight. He didn’t go often, but no law said
cops couldn’t appreciate opera. Vince thought he liked having taken her off guard.

Then he recalled Barnes beside her and frowned. They looked like matching bookends: Ms. Cool and Elegant and Mr. GQ, Couple on the Rise. They’d have two golden children and a golden retriever to match. He’d drive a Lexus, and she a Mercedes. They’d live in Tarrytown, with a weekend place in the Hill Country, each one featured in
Southern Living
or maybe even
Architectural Digest.

It was good to remind himself of who she really was. He couldn’t believe he’d told her so much. He didn’t like how easily she invited confidences. He couldn’t afford to trust her; she worked for the same department that wanted to hang him. If he could get by with never seeing Chloe St. Claire again, he’d be better off.

He reached for the screen door. “Tomorrow, cat—you’re outta here.” Then he opened the door, stepping carefully as brown-and-white fur slipped between his feet.

“C
HLOE
?” The raspy voice of her secretary rang out the next morning.

“Wanda, if you’d stop smoking, your allergies might improve.” She smiled at the thought of the frown no doubt decorating the diminutive redhead’s face.

“Don’t start with me,
chère.
It’s the end of the month.”

Monthly reports. Chloe hated them, too. Her voice softened. “Are you all right?”

“I will be when Lester gets the hell out of my apartment.”

“Want to come talk about it?”

Wanda’s breath hitched, and Chloe could almost see her struggle. Passion made people foolish. Wanda refused to see the whole man; she’d never have taken up with Lester otherwise, or the last two Lesters, for that matter.

“Detective Coronado is here for his appointment.”

Chloe tensed. “All right.” Good. At least her voice sounded even. “Send him in.” Then she stared at the doorway as he strode inside, still larger than life.

For one long span, neither moved.

“Doc.” He nodded, voice clipped, blue eyes shuttered.

“Hello, Detective.” Had she imagined the previous night? “Did you enjoy the opera?”

A cocky grin. “Surprised to see me there?”

“I shouldn’t say yes.”

“Not proper cop music?”

“Is there such a thing? I didn’t know they taught music at the academy.”

One dark eyebrow rose as he conceded the point. “Let me surprise you more. I even finished college. Night school while I worked patrol, but still… college. As a matter of fact, one of my professors introduced me to opera.”

Female, she’d bet anything. But she wouldn’t ask. Chloe turned away, gesturing to the corner seating. “Your choice, Detective.”

“You’ve got dynamite legs, Doc. You should wear short skirts more often.”

Chloe frowned past the spike of pleasure. “That’s an inappropriate comment for this meeting.”

“Barnes got the only claim?”

Chloe crossed her arms over her chest. “It’s none of your business.”

“It is when the woman who holds the key to my future is sleeping with a man who wants my head.”

“I’m not—” She stopped. His raised eyebrows maddened her. “My personal life has nothing to do with your case. I’ve told you before and I’ll repeat it. Everything you say in here—”

“Is confidential,” he parroted. He stepped closer,
leaving less than a foot between them. “Is it, Doc? Can lovers ever keep anything totally secret from each other?”

Chloe forced her gaze up to his, wrapping her arms tighter.

He leaned forward, so near she could feel his warmth.

Her gaze flicked to his mouth. She swallowed with effort. “I’m very good at keeping secrets.”

“I can’t afford to assume that.”

“You can take it to the bank.”

“You sure?” He cocked his head. “You have to admit that you’d be uneasy in my place. You’re buddies with Newcombe and sleeping with Barnes—”

“Don’t say that again,” she snapped.

“You’re not buddies with Newcombe?” His eyes challenged.

“Detective, insulting me is not going to get you off my appointment list any sooner.”

“What will?”

Surprised that his words stung, she locked her eyes on his. “Being honest with me will go a long way.”

“I haven’t lied to you.”

“Perhaps not. But not lying and being honest are not necessarily the same thing. You’re kidding yourself if you don’t admit that the pressures on you right now are enormous. You may be a legend in the department, but that doesn’t mean you’re not human. Anyone would be having problems with all that’s been thrown at you lately.”

He stood very still, eyes searching hers. She thought
the real Vince might be peering over the barricades, just a little. “Anyone, Doc? Even you?”

Chloe froze. “We’re not talking about me.”

One eyebrow lifted. “Maybe we should. Why are you so nervous?”

“I’m not nervous.”

He shot a pointed glance at the arms wrapped against her body. Immediately, she dropped them, but she knew she had to reciprocate with something or he’d never trust her. And whether or not he wanted to believe it, he needed someone to listen, somewhere to turn. Too much was bottled up inside him, and it was only going to get worse. “Of course my job impacts me, but I know how to handle what I hear, and I want to help you.”

He studied her. “One of the guys said you really came through for him. Told me to give you a chance.”

“Will you?” She was surprised at how much she cared.

“I don’t know. You’ve heard about the warrant?”

“Yes.” She understood what he was asking. “But I didn’t hear it from Roger.” She sighed. “Do you want to wait for Rick to come back from vacation? Perhaps that’s better.”

“Wait two more weeks? No way. I can’t afford the time.”

“Then give me a chance to prove you can trust me.”

“It’s not that easy, Doc.”

“I know it’s not. The shields you’ve built to survive your work don’t come down without effort.” She leaned forward, willing him to believe her. “I don’t want to
destroy them, Vince. I’m only asking you to come out and talk to me for a while. I realize that you need them, but this is a safe place.”

Vivid blue eyes bored into her. Chloe was on trial. Never before had she felt so much the burden of that vow she made to every client, a pledge not to weaken him if he gave his trust. For this man, rebuilding his defenses would be a painful process if she, by failing him, destroyed their foundation.

“If I had any choice, I’d be out of here.”

“I know.”

Endless seconds passed, strung taut with challenge. Finally, he spoke, his voice strained. “I’ll try, Doc. That’s all I can promise.”
Don’t let me down,
his eyes demanded. But he turned away before she could answer. “I’ll set an appointment with Wanda on my way out.”

When the door closed, Chloe sagged into her chair.

T
HAT NIGHT
, Vince pushed through the crowd at the bar, using his height to advantage in scanning for Tino. This was his next-to-last option of places Tino used to haunt. The Tejano music was deafening, the smoke thick, the smell of sweat and beer all too familiar. His job took him into too many dives like this, ones he’d once happily frequented himself. Now, more often than not, off-duty nights were spent sanding floors or stripping wallpaper.
Gettin’ old, son,
he thought.

Just then, someone stumbled against him. Only quick steps on his part kept the beer from spilling on more than his shoes. Shouting erupted, and more shoving—

And at the center of the brewing fight was none
other than Tino Garza. For a moment, Vince examined the changes prison had wrought. Without the old scar across Tino’s left temple, would Vince have recognized him? Even as he assessed the transformation, his heart sank.

Prison gang. The tattoos, the abundance of ripped musculature…Vince didn’t have to see a distinct gang symbol to know it was true.

It shouldn’t be a surprise—the greater shock would be for Tino to have come out of prison straight. He’d always been wild, always hotheaded. Vince knew the stats: prison-spawned gangs recruited from street gangs. They were syndicates, a well-oiled machine. Guys on the outside funded the lifestyle of those in the joint by whatever crimes were necessary—robberies, for sure; auto theft; drugs; gambling—whatever it took. You got caught, you took your sentence, knowing that you’d be well tended on the inside, that the obligation would hold for as long as the revolving door existed.

In the eyes of the members, honor bound them. Families were cared for, time served made less painful by plentiful funds, drugs, whatever an inmate wanted, as long as he knew the score. Once out, you hooked up with your area commander and got your assignments. Funnel the money into the system as expected, and you could live your life in relative peace. Get crosswise with it…you and anyone you cared about were history.

Organizational charts, disciplinary system…the adult gangs were half corporate, half military in their behavior, but a taste for violence lay at the heart of it.

That was the bottom line: a world more brutal than
any bleeding-heart liberal could imagine. Those exhorting prison as rehabilitation were kidding themselves. As long as blood and money were entwined, no one got out alive. Get along, play your part—you might live to be a little older. Fail, or worse, try to get out—you were dead. Period. End of story.

“Hey, buddy, how the hell are you?” Tino spotted him and abandoned the brewing fight to greet Vince.

Though Vince had gone to a certain amount of trouble to adopt a disguise he’d never used undercover, without making it impossible for Tino to recognize him, he had no desire to be the center of attention. He jerked his head toward the exit and left without checking to see if Tino followed.

He did. “Let me buy you a drink, man. For old times.” Grabbing Vince around the neck, Tino hugged him and slapped his back. “Help me celebrate my independence.” He clasped Vince’s arm and tried to pull him back toward the door, but Vince resisted. “Hey, check you. Been workin’ out, man?”

Vince stepped back into the shadows. Half a head shorter, Tino showed the effects of what had to be years of doing weights, no doubt with the addition of steroids. Vince kept his tone light. “Me? I just grew up. What happened to you? You decided against majoring in the arts?”

Tino laughed and clapped Vince’s shoulder. “What can I say? I’m not a kid anymore,
carnal.
”

Carnal. Brother.
Once they had been that in all but blood. “So you came back to the old hometown, eh?” Vince asked.

Tino shrugged, his eyes glittering with God knows what chemical assistance. “Missed my buddy. How the hell you been doin’, Vince?”

“Can’t complain.”

“I heard about you in the joint, you know. You got a rep, big brother. Fair number of guys wouldn’t mind doin’ a tap dance on your head.”

“Popularity’s a curse.”

“Yeah, but you got a real fan club with the boss,
ése.
” Eyes glittering, feet jittering…Tino was laying down a load of BS too deep for boots.

“What are you after?” Vince asked.

“I don’t know what you mean. Me, I’m just here with my big bro—you ain’t so much bigger than me now, are you?” Tino brandished his fists and danced around. “Want to go three rounds? Bet I can take you, not like when we were kids.”

“Cut the crap. Tell me why you’d do something as stupid as sending me a postcard. To my house, man. What the hell were you thinking?”
And how did you know where to find me?

Tino’s feet stopped dancing. His arms dropped to his sides. “Hey, don’t worry about that. That wasn’t no prison thing. I found out from Leticia. You told her how to get in touch if she needed you.”

Leticia. Tino’s old girlfriend, mother of his child. Vince had checked in on her and Tino Junior periodically to make sure she was all right.

“Leticia wouldn’t give you the time of day,” Vince said.

“She does now. She still loves me, man.” Tino scowled. “You been trying to move in on me, Vince?”

“You know better than that.”

Tino’s eyes still glittered too brightly. “Do I?” Menace trembled in the air, and Vince could feel how far away from their boyhood bond Tino had moved.

Then Tino laughed. “Yeah—” He socked Vince on the shoulder, harder than strictly affectionate. “You wouldn’t poach. Leticia wants us to be a family now, her and me and little Tino Junior.”

“That’s good,” Vince said. “Every boy needs a father.”

“’Cept you and me, eh? We don’t need those rotten sonsabitches who ran out on us. You had it best—yours left before you knew him. That way he wasn’t knocking you around, you or your mama.”

Their eyes met, and Vince knew Tino was thinking about the battered boy Vince had first met on the streets.

Tino’s voice softened. “You were
mi padre, Vicente,
young as you were. You were the one who showed me how to make it on the streets.”

Vince shook his head. “But I didn’t save you from them.”

Tino’s juking and jiving stopped cold. “You could do that now, bro.”

At last they were at the heart of why Tino had written.

“I didn’t leave anything on that postcard that could tie it to me, so no one would make the connection. I was watchin’ your back, Vince. Just like always.”

Vince didn’t argue, though he could have. Tino had been a skinny, scared kid who, more often than not, started the fights Vince had to finish to rescue him. “I appreciate that you were careful.” He studied Tino, already a bad feeling in his gut. “So what is it you need now?”

“This ain’t for me. It’s for you. I got your dream operation, man. You’d be a hero for sure.”

“Heroes are for comic books.”

His friend leaned closer, the jittering under way again. “No, listen to me, man. This can work. See, I got my assignment from my area commander. The D.A.’s office is pushing the cop shop to turn up the heat on Los Carnales. Crackdowns are a pain in the ass and just make it harder to do business.”

Los Carnales. Moreno’s bunch. Tino’s gang. Though his every nerve leaped to attention, Vince managed a simple shrug. “In case you haven’t heard, I’m not on duty right now.”

“Oh, I know that. The boss knows that. He’s got a proposition for you.”

A proposition from Moreno, the man he wanted to take down more than breath. Vince nodded for Tino to continue.

“See, the boss hears you’re not getting much appreciation for the job you do. You put a lot of the boys in jail, but your own people ain’t givin’ you your propers for that. Word on the street is that your job is on the line. We can help you out.”

The little prickle that always alerted Vince to danger zipped up the back of his neck. Adrenaline followed it
whenever he neared the center of the action, and already his heart rate was speeding up. Vince battled back the urge to let any of it show on his face. “I won’t be out of the game long. Just routine procedure.”

Tino shifted on his feet. “Not what the boss is hearing. IAD’s after you,
compadre.
That’s why this is a great thing for you. Hear me out, man.”

“I’m not promising anything, but go ahead.” For a moment he wished that he hadn’t met Tino in public. If word of this meeting got out to Newcombe…