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  She shrugged. “Sure, you’re the only cop who cares.”

  “You have a chip on your shoulder that’s blinding.”

  “Mixing metaphors now?”

  Patrick wanted to throttle the lawyer.

  “I guarantee that he knew Kami was missing before you walked in. He didn’t ask the questions he should have, and he’s steering you toward this Lorenzo guy.”

  “I asked him about Lorenzo! If Lorenzo has Kami, I need to get her away from him.”

  “And this Lorenzo guy is just going to let you walk away with her?”

  “I’ll figure it out when I find her.” She peeled out of her parking place and whipped around the corner.

  Patrick closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Trying to remain calm, he said, “We need a plan. We can’t go into a potentially dangerous situation without knowing what we’re facing.”

  “I want to check out her dad’s place,” Elle said. “If Kami really wants to hide, she might go there. It means she’s really scared—and desperate.”

  “Swing by my car—it’s about four blocks from your place, on Howard.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m going to pick up my gun, which I left locked in the trunk. I didn’t think I’d need it, now I fear I will.”

  “I don’t like guns.”

  “Most drug dealers do.”

  Patrick also wanted to pick up his laptop computer so he could run a deep background check on Clark Grayson as well as Richie Lorenzo. Patrick had always been an information guy. When he was a sergeant in the San Diego Police Department, he’d been in charge of the e-crimes unit, back when most police departments didn’t even have an e-crimes division. What he learned there, what had only been strengthened since joining RCK Protective Services, was the military motto “intelligence, planning, execution.”

  They didn’t even have basic intelligence now, let alone a plan that wasn’t riddled with holes.

  “Patrick,” Elle said in a soft voice, and he immediately thought she was attempting to manipulate him. “I know this city and these people very well. I can handle this.”

  “You need help, and I’m willing—against my better judgment.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’t want to go home and face your mother if you get yourself killed because I walked away.”

  “I’ve faced worse,” Elle said. By her tone, she was fibbing. Again. “They weren’t trying to kill me. You heard them, it was a warning.”

  “A warning means back off or they will kill you.”

  Her jaw clenched and she didn’t say anything. Because she couldn’t. Patrick was right.

  He said, “I’m going to help you, and for now I’ll keep the police out of it. But if there’s any reason to call them in, for the health and safety of you or Kami, I will do so.”

  “All right,” she said reluctantly. “First, we go to Kami’s dad’s house. Then, we go back to your car for your stupid gun.”

  CHAPTER 3

  “Stay here,” Elle told Patrick when they arrived at a run-down narrow house up a steep hill. In the dark, Patrick couldn’t tell whether the house was divided into apartments or one large unit, but he guessed the former. “I don’t want to overwhelm Kami’s dad—I need his cooperation.”

  It was obvious Elle expected an argument, but Patrick didn’t give her one. He wanted a few minutes alone to call RCK.

  “Okay,” she said with a nod and got out of the car.

  Patrick watched her walk up the stairs to the door, then he called Jaye Morgan, the computer guru for RCK.

  “You know it’s nearly ten o’clock on a Saturday night, right?” Jaye answered in lieu of hello.

  “Did I interrupt something?”

  “No, but you could have.”

  “I’m sorry, but I really need your help.”

  “Anything for you, PK,” she said happily. Patrick honestly didn’t think the girl slept; she seemed to have endless energy.

  “I don’t have access to my laptop right now, and I need you to run a couple names for me. One is a social worker who might look squeaky clean on the surface, but I know he’s dirty. The other is a known drug dealer.”

  “E-mail me their names and any other info you have and I’ll see what I can find.”

  “You’re an angel.”

  Jaye snorted. “Remember that on my birthday.”

  Patrick laughed and hung up. He kept an eye on the house while he sent Jaye the information she needed to begin the background. He added Elle and her law firm to the list as well. She was keeping something from him, and that irritated him.

  Elle was still the impulsive, compassionate teenager she’d been fifteen years ago, but there was far more at stake here than a suspension or detention.

  He used his phone to look up the company Elle worked for, Feliz, Hochman, and Fellows. They were a full-service law firm that handled a variety of cases including civil litigation, estates, and criminal defense. Elle was listed as “Gabrielle J. Santana, Esq. Pro Bono Division.” Did that mean she only handled pro bono cases? Didn’t all attorneys take a few freebies? How did she get paid? Salary? Was that common? There were only two attorneys with that designation on the rather generic law firm Web site, Elle and Madeleine Starr.

  Generic Web sites for lawyers were common, and a cursory search in the news told Patrick that Feliz and company was more respected than not. The criminal defense they handled was predominately on behalf of criminal neglience for the city and county of San Francisco, nothing high profile like drug dealers and murderers.

  How had Elle gotten hooked up with them? Why did she take only pro bono cases? Was it more profitable for the law firm to hire young and idealistic lawyers and pay them a salary rather than billable hours?

  Again, this was an area Patrick was only marginally familiar with.

  Elle had an almost obsessive need to help people, and the fact that she hadn’t seen the subtle manipulation by her so-called friend Clark Grayson told Patrick that maybe she couldn’t see the truth about Kami. What if she had used Elle’s goodwill and trust in her to run from the drug charges? Disappear because she didn’t want to go to juvenile hall? In Patrick’s experience, criminals ran because they were guilty. Of course there were exceptions, but they were few and far between. And Kami was a street kid with a criminal record. It would be easy for her to disappear, and Elle, no matter who she knew or where she looked, wouldn’t find her if she didn’t want to be found.

  Elle walked back from the house. She pulled open the door, jumped into the car, and slammed it shut. “Fuck!” She banged her fist on the steering wheel. “What a bastard! Not only does he not know where Kami is, he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care about his own daughter. Actually said he told her mother to have an abortion, it’s not his fault she didn’t. Can you imagine?”

  Patrick could. He’d been a cop for a long time. Too often, families were a percolator of violence. Husbands who abused wives, mothers who abused children, extended family who did nothing to stop it, or even contributed to it. The cycle of violence seemed like a slogan, but it was far too real to be dismissed. So when he heard of stories like Kami’s, they were too familiar to shock him.

  He’d had an idyllic childhood—an army brat until he was almost a teenager, when his father was assigned to a permanent post in San Diego shortly after Lucy was born. But even with the moves and having little money for extras, his parents were always there for him and his siblings. They’d had family game night more than once a week, shared nearly every dinner, and supported each other. Problems with homework? He had brothers and sisters who could help. Wanted help on his batting? Dillon drove him to the batting cages, or took him to the park when Patrick didn’t have money for the cages. Without Dillon, Patrick would never had made varsity as a high school freshman.

  Elle had had the same upbringing. Other than her father’s sudden death ten years ago, the Santanas and Kincaids could have been clones. She chose this career because she saw injustic
es in the world—so why was she surprised that Kami’s father didn’t give a damn about his own kid?

  Elle glanced at him. “Why are you staring at me? Have something to say?”

  “Just thinking about how lucky we were growing up.”

  That obviously surprised Elle, and she turned the ignition rather than respond. “We’re going to the teen center. I will find Lorenzo and he will tell me where Kami is.”

  “My car first.”

  “You think a gun is really necessary?”

  Patrick pulled his phone from his pocket. “Or I can call the police.”

  “You can be a jerk, you know.” She made an illegal U-turn and sped back toward her place.

  Patrick’s phone vibrated. Jaye sent him a message:

  Lorenzo has a long record, and an active bench warrant from two weeks ago for missing a court hearing on a misdemeanor possession charge. Grayson has a sealed juvie record, clean as an adult. Want me to dig?

  Patrick immediately responded: Don’t do anything illegal.

  Like his former partner Sean Rogan, RCK computer master Jaye Morgan could (and would) hack into any computer system to get information. Patrick had learned early on working for RCK that he had to make clear he didn’t want Jaye—or Sean—to break laws to gain information. Too often Patrick found himself wanting to cross the line—and taking a step across when he was pushed—but he didn’t want a cloud hanging over him, wondering if he’d gone too far, trampling over privacy rights and worse. He’d been a cop first, dropping out of college when his nephew was murdered. He realized that while he loved baseball, and had had major league scouts looking at him since high school, he wanted to do something with his life that meant something, that helped people. Being a cop had satisfied him for a long time. Now he felt the same about his work with RCK.

  He glanced at Elle. They weren’t all that different. “Why do you do this?”

  “Do what?”

  “Pro bono work for teens.”

  “It’s not all I do.”

  “But it’s your passion.”

  She didn’t say anything for a minute. “When I started working for Feliz I was still in law school. I lived with three other girls because I had no money. I had scholarships and loans for my classes, got paid next to nothing for the internship, and worked the late shift at a twenty-four-hour gym. It was a good deal, because I could study. I don’t think I slept more than three hours a night during those years … anyway, between the gym and my BART station, there was a large group home. I never thought much about it until one night there was a shoot-out inside, two kids were killed, and the police swooped down and arrested everyone. The other kids were automatically put into the system. No one competent was there to protect their rights. It wasn’t even someone in the house who’d gone in shooting, it was a gang who wouldn’t let their members leave. The group home was a second chance, but even when kids want the opportunity, others try to stop them.

  “I realized that these kids, through little fault of their own, had been dealt a shitty hand. They were doing what they could to survive, but if there wasn’t someone there to help—help legally—they would learn that no one cared. They’d become the future criminals, the drug addicts, dying young because they lost all hope.

  “I can’t live knowing that there are so many kids who are without hope. You’re right, we had an amazing childhood. I hate myself sometimes because I used to complain that I had to wear my sister’s hand-me-downs, which were themselves secondhand clothes. I had to share my bedroom my entire life with two of my sisters. Three hotheaded Cuban girls in the same room? It was hell … but nothing compared to what these kids go through. They’d be happy to have hand-me-downs, a warm jacket, a hot meal. My mom never let us go hungry. We were always tight for money growing up, but we always had a home and dinner on the table, fresh fruit in the refrigerator, a library card, and shoes that fit.”

  She stopped at a red light. “So I went to Gary Feliz, whom I had interned for, and told him we needed a pro bono division. He put Madeleine Starr in charge of the program, and I became her intern, then worked for her when I graduated. Maddie is just like me, but cares even more. Because she had been one of those kids.”

  Patrick pointed to his rental sedan on the next corner. She illegally double-parked, and said, “Be quick.”

  She didn’t look at him, and Patrick had the distinct impression that she regretted spilling her guts. But he was glad she had. Now he understood Elle, and that gave him the information he needed to get them out of this situation without bloodshed.

  He opened his trunk. He threaded his holster through his belt, then holstered his Glock. He slipped a backup clip in his pocket, then grabbed his laptop. While he was at it, he pocketed his jammer. Back in Elle’s car, she said, “I hope you have a permit for that.”

  He ignored the hostility in her voice. “We need a plan, and don’t tell me to wing it. I want to know why you think Lorenzo will help you.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Then what are we doing?”

  “I’m going to the teen center. It’s Saturday, it’s open until midnight, so we have a little time. I’m hoping to spot one of Lorenzo’s kids, someone we can follow to his place. Once I know where he is, I can sneak around and see if Kami is there.”

  “That’s an awful plan.”

  “You have a better one?”

  He didn’t, because he didn’t know the layout of the teen center and he had to assume that a drug dealer like Lorenzo would have armed thugs. They often used underage kids because the system dealt differently with fifteen-year-old killers than eighteen-year-old killers.

  “When we get to the center, you can look for Kami and ask around, but don’t follow anyone. There’s an active warrant for Lorenzo. If we—”

  “How do you know that?”

  Patrick glared at her. “You knew and didn’t tell me?”

  “He’s a drug dealer. There’s always a warrant for him.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “It’s irrelevant.”

  It wasn’t, but Patrick let it slide—this time. “If we see him, we tell the cops where he is. We’re not confronting a guy who knows the cops want him.”

  “If I turn him in, he won’t tell me where Kami is!”

  “And why would he tell you now? Why do you think he even knows? Dammit, Elle, what aren’t you telling me?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Bullshit.”

  Her jaw clenched and unclenched. “I plan to offer Lorenzo my help. Help him with the bench warrant. It was a misdemeanor charge; even with his record, I can get him community service if he agrees to testify against Christopher Lee.”

  Patrick almost laughed, but Elle was deadly serious.

  “And you think he’ll do that? Testify against his supplier?”

  “Yes, with the right motivation.”

  “Elle, he won’t.”

  “You don’t know that. You don’t know him. I have to give him a chance to do the right thing.”

  “He’s more scared of his supplier than he is of the police. I guarantee you he will not turn. Have you considered that his supplier told him to silence Kami because she was going to testify?”

  “Yes, but he wouldn’t.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s been protecting her for years. I don’t think he’ll hurt her.” She bit her lip.

  Patrick shook his head. “He doesn’t have to do it. He can turn her over to someone who will.”

  “I can’t believe that.”

  But her voice said the opposite. Elle drove white-knuckled through the city. Patrick would be lost if he had to find his own way back. “Kami could be in hiding herself,” he said. “Or run away, out of the city, because she didn’t want to testify, knowing what could happen.”

  “I promised her she’d be safe.”

  “How good are the promises she’s received in the past?”

  “I’ve always done what I said I would do,” Elle
said. “She knows she can trust me.”

  “What if she thinks she’s protecting you? What if she’s scared and just wants to disappear? Sacramento. Stockton. Even Los Angeles. She doesn’t have to stay here.”

  “She wants to stop Christopher Lee, too.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she was friends with Doreen.”

  Patrick had no idea what Elle was talking about. “Who’s Doreen?”

  “Shit,” she mumbled.

  “Is this what you’ve been keeping from me?”

  She didn’t say anything.

  “Stop the car. Let me out.”

  “Patrick—”

  “Now.”

  What was Elle supposed to do? Tell Patrick everything? He would never understand. Or … maybe he was the only one who could. He’d seen shit, as a cop.

  She pulled over to the side of the road, but she didn’t turn off the car. “Don’t go,” she said quietly. She hated asking for help, but even she recognized when she was in over her head. “Please.”

  He didn’t make a move to get out. Instead, he asked, “Is Doreen the girl who died of a drug overdose?”

  Elle closed her eyes and nodded. “It’s my fault Doreen is dead,” she said quietly.

  “Why? Because you gave her the drugs?”

  “Of course not!” Why was Patrick doing this? Pushing her to lose her temper?

  “Tell me, Elle. Tell me how this started and who Doreen is to you.”

  She hadn’t told anyone about Doreen. Not the details. Not even Dwight, though he suspected she had a personal reason for wanting to take Christopher Lee down.

  “A year ago, Doreen came to me because she thought that Christopher Lee was supplying drugs to Richie Lorenzo. She knew I’d helped some kids get out from under Lorenzo’s thumb, and she knew how I felt about drugs. Doreen was sixteen, had watched her mother turn into a drug addict and her father go to prison for dealing. She recognized the signs when others didn’t. She knew who Lorenzo was, and found out something that made her suspicious about Lee.

  “I didn’t want to believe her. I was helping Lee raise money for the teen center; it was already under construction. I admired how he gave jobs to kids who had no other way to feed themselves or who could learn a skill that would help them later in life. But I agreed to follow Lorenzo to meet his supplier—and it was Lee. I saw it with my own eyes.”