Against the Edge

Seven

Eddie Jeffries was in jail. Early the next morning, Ben put Sol to work trying to locate the guy, and an hour ago he’d struck pay dirt. Though Sol was still working on information on Bridger/Bennett, he’d found Melvin Edward Jeffries in the Santa Clarita Sheriff’s Station jail. Arrested for drunk driving’third offense.

“Santa Clarita’s less than an hour away,” Claire said excitedly as Ben used the inmate locator on the website to verify Jeffries hadn’t been moved to another prison.

Finding Jeffries still there, he checked out the visitor information. “Visiting hours 10:00 a.m. to 2:00 p.m. Plenty of time. You might not be able to go in with me’only one adult per visit. But I’m a P.I., and sometimes they’ll bend the rules a little if there’s a good reason.”

“I’d like to give it a try. If I can’t get in, I’ll wait in the car.”

He helped her clear the empty orange-juice glasses and the plates that had held the bagels and cream cheese she had made them for breakfast.

Ben raised his coffee mug and downed the last few drops. “Let’s get going.”

Claire grabbed her purse and they started for the door when his cell phone rang. He recognized the number. “Brodie,” he said to Claire.

“What have you got?” he said into the phone.

“Got a lead on a kid, blue-eyed, black-haired, about nine or ten,” Ty said. “He’s working for an ex-con named Rueben Gonzales, got him making drug deliveries. Word is he’s a fairly new addition to Gonzales’s crew.”

Ben’s adrenaline started pumping, his pulse pounding. “How do we get to him?”

“I’ve set up a meet, told him the kid was worth a couple of grand if he’s the one we’re looking for. I figured you’d be willing to pay if it’s him.”

“I’ll pay whatever it takes.” In the underworld, a runaway like Sam could be a valuable commodity’depending what Gonzales had in mind for him. His hand unconsciously fisted. “What time’s the meet?”

“Noon. A bar called La Fiesta, five thousand block of Whittier Boulevard, east of the I-5. I’ll meet you there.”

Ben closed the phone, looked up to see Claire’s eyes locked on his face. “Is it... Is it Sam?”

“I won’t know till we get a look at him. Guy named Gonzales is using him as a drug mule.”

Her legs seemed to give way, and she sat down hard in one of the kitchen chairs. “Oh, my God, Ben.”

“Take it easy. We don’t know if anything bad has happened to him. Hell, we don’t know for sure it’s him.”

She swallowed, shook her head. “If he’s... If he’s been hurt or...or abused...I’ll never forgive myself.” She started crying, her long hair falling forward around her face.

Ben eased her up out of the chair and turned her into his arms. Her body shook as she sobbed against his shoulder. “Take it easy, baby. There’s no use crying until we know what’s going on.”

She hung on a moment more, took a shuddering breath and moved away, her green eyes glistening with tears. “I should have come to you. I should have found out for myself what you were like.”

He reached out and wiped a tear from her cheek. “So now you’re sure I’m a good guy?”

Claire’s chin went up as he had known it would. “Well, so far you’ve been great, but technically it’s too soon to make a definitive evaluation.”

He felt the rare pull of a grin he didn’t release. “Look, you thought you were doing what was best for Sam. That means a lot to me. You may not have made the right call, but you cared enough to come to Texas to find me. You’re doing everything you can to help me find Sam.”

She wiped away the last of the dampness on her cheeks. “I thought he would wait, give me a chance to work things out.” She swallowed. “I thought, in time, the judge would reconsider and grant me custody. I wanted that, Ben. I wanted that so much. I should have told him, let him know how much I cared.”

Her lips were trembling. Worry lines marred her forehead. She was different from most of the women he knew, stronger, more concerned. He wanted to haul her back into his arms and kiss her. Hell, he wanted to do a lot more than that. But Claire deserved more than the lust he felt whenever he looked at her.

“I’ve got to get going. I want to take a look around, check the layout. With people like these you can’t be too careful.”

“I’m going with you. If it’s Sam, he’ll need me.”

“Not this time, Claire. I can’t protect you and Sam both.”

He went into the bedroom to retrieve his Nighthawk .45, pulled it out of its holster, checked to be sure the clip was full, then shoved the magazine back in. Sliding the pistol back into his holster, he clipped it to his waistband behind his back beneath his black T-shirt.

He dug into his duffel and took out the envelope filled with cash he had brought from the safe in his house. Leaving two thousand in the envelope, he left the rest of the cash in the bag. He wasn’t a rich man, but he wasn’t poor, either. After he’d left the SEALs, the skills he’d acquired had earned him big money, most of which he had stashed away. He made a good living as a P.I., and he’d saved a lot of that, too.

He returned to the living room and found Claire pacing.

“I can’t just sit here and do nothing.” She followed him to the door. “Take me with you.”

She was standing in the entry, her eyes full of worry, slender and elegant, so damned pretty. He paused in front of her, bent his head and kissed her, just a soft melding of lips. “Not this time, angel.”

Ben forced himself to walk away.

* * *

La Fiesta was a pink stucco building in an area at the west end of East L.A. Ben was glad the meet wasn’t farther into the neighborhood. Here, only half the signs were in Spanish. Farther along the street, there was no English at all.

He drove around the block, wishing he wasn’t in a damned-near-new, highly jackable, bright red Honda Accord, wishing he wasn’t garnering looks from the sullen young toughs loitering on the street corners.

He spotted another new car pulling up in front of him a little ways from the bar, a black Chevy Silverado with chrome wheels and wide tires. Tyler Brodie spotted Ben, stepped down from the cab and walked over.

“Nice ride,” Ben said. Ty was wearing the same scuffed cowboy boots and jeans Ben remembered, but his baseball cap was dark blue today with a gold Lakers emblem on the front.

“I just bought it. I was driving a little Toyota Tundra, same red as what you’re driving. It drew too damned much attention.”

Ben’s mouth edged up. “Yeah, I’m sure no one notices those fancy chrome wheels.”

Ty grinned.

Ben tipped his head toward the Accord. “This is Claire’s car.”

Brodie shoved his bill cap back, eyed the car with interest. “A red-car woman? I wouldn’t have figured.”

Ben couldn’t stop a smile. “I guess you never know.” He was starting to like Tyler Brodie. He might have a youthful, pretty-boy face, but he took his work seriously. “You think they’re here?”

“Some of them will be. Not Gonzales. He’ll be waiting for word we’re here first.” Brodie caught a glimpse of what could only be a weapon in Ben’s waistband beneath his black T-shirt.

“Nighthawk .45,” Ben told him.

Brodie opened the flowered sport shirt he was wearing, exposing the shoulder harness underneath. “Beretta M-9. Old habits, you know.”

Standard-issue military weapon. Once a marine, always a marine. “Let’s go.”

Ty caught his arm. “Just one thing...I got a hunch you’d rather shoot these guys than pay them. I don’t like these lowlifes any better than you do, but keep in mind this is how Johnnie and I make our living. We can do a lot more good, help more people, if we keep our information channels open.”

Ben flicked a glance toward the bar, thought of the boy, thought Brodie was about half-right about taking these assholes out. “I’ll try to restrain myself.”

“Just so you know, Gonzales is pretty low on the food chain. He deals, but he isn’t into trafficking...at least not that I know of. You got the money?”

Ben tapped the envelope stuffed into the back pocket of his jeans. “They get it if they’ve got my kid.”

Following Brodie, he made his way in through the front door. La Fiesta was a restaurant as well as a bar and the place was busy with the lunch crowd. The smell of tortillas, meat and cheese made Ben’s stomach growl. Bagels and cream cheese wasn’t bacon and eggs.

Mexican pop music played in the background. Ty slowed as a beefy Hispanic with stringy black hair down to his shoulders approached them.

“This way, amigos.”

There was no one in the bar except more of Gonzales’s men. They didn’t come forward to pat them down, didn’t need to, since it looked like all of them were armed.

Ben’s conceal carry wasn’t valid in California. At the moment, he didn’t care.

The others moved a little away, leaving their leader to handle the exchange.

“Señor Brodie. I see you have brought your friend.” Rueben Gonzales was lean and hard, his skin as brown as old oak. A scar ran from the corner of his mouth to his ear, making him look like one badass son of a bitch.

“Where’s the boy?” Ty asked.

Gonzales tipped his head toward a door at the rear of the bar and an instant later, in walked a short, fat banger pushing a black-haired boy in front of him.

For several heartbeats, Ben stood frozen. Then the kid stepped into the light and looked at Ben, and he knew the boy wasn’t his son.

Ty said nothing, just stood there waiting for Ben’s decision. Ben kept staring at the kid. He was older than nine, maybe ten or eleven. There was a bruise on his cheek and his lip was split. He had a shiner that was turning purple. His blue eyes looked resigned and yet there was a spark of defiance there.

The fat man moved forward and tipped the kid’s chin up so Ben could get a better look. The fat guy grinned. “This one’he is a virgin. He is too much trouble so you get him cheap.”

Ben’s stomach knotted. He looked at the kid and blind rage struck him. His jaw turned to steel and he exploded, throwing a punch that landed so hard against the fat man’s jaw it sent him flying backward over the bar. Beer glasses slid the length of the counter and catapulted into the air. A woman screamed as the guy crashed to the floor, breaking more glasses and heavy bottles of booze, groaning but not getting up.

Ben heard the unmistakable ratcheting of pistol slides. When he turned, he saw four semi-autos pointed in his direction. Ty Brodie pointed his M-9 at Gonzales.

“The price just went to twenty-five hundred,” Gonzales said calmly.

Ben pulled the envelope out of his pocket and tossed it on the table. “Two thousand. That’s all I brought. I’ll take the kid off your hands and he won’t give you any more trouble.”

Gonzales gestured to his men, who put away their weapons. Ty reholstered his pistol. Gonzales picked up the envelope, opened it and thumbed through the hundred-dollar bills. “This is your lucky day, amigo. Take the boy and go.”

The kid didn’t resist when Ben put a hand on his shoulder and guided him out of the bar, wove through the restaurant, then outside to the Honda Accord. Ty walked a few feet behind him.

“I’m glad you got your son back,” Brodie said once they were back to their vehicles. “For a minute there it was kind of touch-and-go.”

“He’s not my son.”

Ty’s dark brown eyebrows went up as Ben opened the door and settled the boy in the passenger seat, clicked the seat belt into place across his chest. “He’s not mine, but he’s someone’s. I couldn’t just leave him there. I’ll take him to Claire. She’ll know how to handle it.”

Brodie clapped Ben on the back. “I’ll keep looking. I’ll let you know if anything turns up.”

“Thanks. You’re a good man, Brodie. You can watch my back anytime.”

“Same here.” Ty headed for his pickup, and Ben slid behind the wheel and started the engine, glad to be leaving the area.

“What’s your name?” he asked the boy as he drove up onto the freeway, heading back to Santa Monica.

“Ryan.” The kid’s battered features turned hard. “I won’t let you hurt me. I’ll run away as soon as I get the chance.”

“No one’s going to hurt you, son. I’m going to get you home.”

“I don’t have a home.”

Ben’s gaze swung back to the boy. “No mother or father? No relatives?”

The kid didn’t answer. Which meant there was someone. Just not someone he wanted to go back to.

“I’ve got a friend,” Ben said. “She can help you find a place, people you can trust to take care of you.”

The kid’s chin cocked up. “Why should I believe you?”

“Because I’m telling you the truth.” Ben pulled out his P.I. badge and tossed it into the boy’s lap. “I’m looking for my own son. His name is Sam. You haven’t seen him, have you? Black hair like yours? Eyes more like mine.” He fixed one of his glacial stares on the boy. Ryan’s eyes were a much darker blue than his own.

The boy shook his head. “There were other kids around, but none with eyes like yours.”

“Where you from?”

The kid didn’t answer.

“That bad, huh?”

“If they make me go back, I’ll just run away again.”

Ben wasn’t sure what the authorities would do, but if the boy’s home life was really that bad, he figured they would put him in foster care.

“When you talk to them, tell them the truth. Tell them what it was like there. Don’t spare the details. I don’t think they’ll make you go back if it’s that bad. I think they’ll find you a better place to live.”

The kid looked up at him with so much hope in his eyes Ben’s chest clamped down. “You really think they’ll help me?”

“Yeah, I do.” Ben’s gaze strayed from the road back to the boy. He wondered what Claire would say when she saw he’d brought the wrong kid home.

* * *

“Get in the goddamn truck!”

Sam tried not to cringe at the vicious look on Troy’s face. “There’s a law against drunk driving,” he said.

“I don’t give a shit.” Troy reached over and cuffed his head. “Do as I say. Get in the truck before I kick your skinny little ass.”

Troy’s black Lab moved forward, his tail between his legs. Pepper whined and pressed against Sam’s leg. Sam moved far enough away that Troy couldn’t reach them. “Come on, Pep, we gotta get going.”

Pepper was Troy’s dog but sometimes Troy was mean to him, just like he was to Sam. He and Pep were friends. The black Lab stuck by him no matter what. Troy wasn’t usually too bad a guy, except when he got drunk. When he drank, he got crazy mean. Sam was afraid of him then, and Pepper was, too. Lately he had been that way a lot.

Sam climbed into the old white beat-up Chevy, waited for the dog to jump in, then slammed the door. He buckled his seat belt like his mom had taught him, even though Troy never used his.

The engine roared to life and the truck pulled out of the gravel lot in front of The Roadhouse, spitting up dirt as the car fishtailed back onto the highway. Troy had been in there drinking beer for at least two hours while Sam and Pepper waited outside.

Before that, they’d been staying with a lady Troy knew. She was nice. She baked them a cake and let Pepper sleep with him on the bed in her son’s old room. Then she got mad at Troy for getting drunk and told him they had to leave.

Sam almost wished he’d taken Pep and run off while Troy was in The Roadhouse, maybe hitched a ride with someone. But his mom was dead, and he didn’t have anywhere to go.

Sam squeezed his eyes shut as he thought of his mother lying there sick in her hospital bed. He remembered the day she died, how Claire had taken him home with her, how she had let him live with her for a while.

She’d said she would help him. She and his mom were friends and he had liked her a lot. He wanted to live with her more than anything, but she didn’t want him.

Not really. She had let them put him in some crummy house where the people believed their own kids were perfect and never did anything wrong. Kenny was older and he thought he was a tough guy. But Sam was smarter, and he wouldn’t let Kenny push him around.

Kenny was a jerk and his sister was a tattletale, always making up stories that weren’t true. He liked Suzy and Tim, but they were afraid of Kenny and the Robersons, and they would never stick up for him or even for themselves. They would just stand there and look frightened.

He didn’t want to stay in a place like that. He wanted his mom, but she was dead. He wanted to be with Claire, but she had forgotten about him.

His throat ached. He closed his eyes so Troy couldn’t tell he was trying not to cry. Pepper whined and nudged him, curled up against his side.

At least he had Pep.

The only friend in the world he could trust.

Eight

To keep herself busy and not wonder if Ben would find Sam in East L.A., Claire went out to the carport and opened her storage locker. She had kept a box of Laura’s things, stuff Claire had put away for Sam when he got older.

If she was right and the boy Ty found wasn’t Sam, they would need to continue their search. She had gone through the box right after Sam disappeared, looking for photos to give the police. Aside from pictures of Sam and Troy Bridger, she hadn’t found anything helpful among Laura’s possessions, but there was always a chance she had missed something.

Carrying the cardboard box into the living room, Claire set it down on the coffee table in front of the sofa, retrieved a pair of scissors, cut the packing tape and opened the box.

Sam’s baby clothes sat on top of a pottery plate with his handprint that Sam had made for his mom in kindergarten, and some crayon drawings he’d made that Laura had kept on the refrigerator.

Beneath them, photo albums. The one with photos of Bridger and the latest picture of Sam’photos she had given the police’Claire picked up and flipped open.

Most of the pictures had been taken with the inexpensive digital camera Laura carried when she took her son to the zoo or the time she and Claire had taken him to Disneyland last year for his birthday.

They were in order front to back, oldest to newest. She flipped to the back, to the most recent shots, including a few Claire had taken: Sam hamming it up at Christmas, Laura and Sam having Easter dinner at Claire’s apartment.

She ran her finger over that one and thought of her friend. In the pictures Laura looked so normal. They didn’t show the times she had drunk too much and passed out on the couch, the times she had forgotten to pick up Sam after his Little League baseball game.

They showed the Laura that was smart and funny and a very good friend.

Claire turned the page, realized two were stuck together and pulled them apart. She froze. There was a photo of Laura with Troy and two men, a picture she had never seen. She set the album down and ran into her bedroom, went over to her desk and grabbed a magnifying glass out of the top drawer.

Back in the living room, she studied the photo more closely and saw that the two men looked a lot like Troy. Enough like him, in fact, to be the brothers Sadie had mentioned. Laura hadn’t said anything about the visit when she and Troy had been living together, but the resemblance and the men’s ages made it hard to mistake the relationship.

She pulled the four-by-six glossy off the page and examined the men’s features. Same height, around six feet; same solid, no-fat build; same dark hair, same fair skin, same face shape and eyes. Troy’s were blue, she remembered, his best feature.

It was what they were wearing that was even more interesting’identical drab green camouflage T-shirts. On the front was a fist and underneath the numbers 33/6. She didn’t know what the sign and numbers meant, but she had a feeling it was important.

She set the photo aside and continued through the album but found nothing more.

She closed the box and set the picture on the coffee table and looked at the clock. More than two hours had passed. Where was Ben?