Furious (15 page)

T
WENTY
-S
EVEN

Miranda brushed her newly dyed wet hair down over her eyes. Then she picked up the scissors and cut her bangs straight across her forehead, right above her eyebrows. She snipped the length next, cutting it an inch under her chin. Long pieces of moon-white hair fell to the floor and into the sink. She took her time getting all the stragglers, then set the scissors down. The next five minutes were spent carefully lining her eyes with the black kohl pencil she’d bought at the drugstore. Dark lipstick came next. Before exiting the bathroom, she took a good, long look at herself.

They would never recognize her. Nobody would.

After cleaning up, she went to the bed, picked up the remote, and shut off the TV. The motel she was staying in was better than the last one. At sixty-five dollars a night, she couldn’t stay very long. But she’d needed a safe place where she could change her looks without worrying about some dude with a gun knocking down the door.

She put on the jeans she’d bought from a secondhand store. They felt soft against her skin. Long-sleeved cotton shirt, socks, boots, coat. Last she slid the strap of a worn leather bag over her shoulder, then gathered garbage and any evidence of her ever being there.

One last sweep over the room and she was ready to go.

After leaving Fowler to lick his wounds, Beast, Rage, and Faith drove to the Red Ink Tattoo Parlor in West Sacramento. Not the best area, but the place was clean.

A tattoo artist, a thin man with long, brown hair, sat on a stool as he worked on a woman’s back. Her skin was red and raw. He used a needle connected to a long tube and a foot pedal. The machine sounded like a dental drill. Another man, who supposedly worked at the parlor but who wasn’t the least bit interested in customer service, used an elbow to support most of his weight on the glass counter as he flipped through a comic book. He didn’t bother sparing them a glance until Rage walked up to him and showed him the picture of the tattoo Faith had painted.

“Where do you want it?”

“I don’t. We were hoping you could tell us where the tattoo might have been done.”

He smelled like chewing tobacco, and he had a cemetery tattooed on the side of his face, complete with little grave markers that read, “RIP.” “Like looking for a needle in a haystack,” he said. “But I’ll tell you this—if that picture is at all accurate, it’s amateurish work. Nothing more than a symbol or a fancy letter. My guess is that it could be the letter
A
,
H
,
K
, or
R
.”

They thanked him and moved on. From there, they took to the streets, hanging flyers and showing anyone who would take a look the pictures of Lara and Hudson along with a photograph of the two men Faith had painted on the wall. A few people appeared concerned and took a flyer, but most were uninterested, making it clear they had problems of their own. One girl with short white hair and too much kohl smeared around her eyes had looked frightened when Faith shoved the picture in her face, but she took the flyer anyhow and walked off in a hurry. There were also the exceptions—the people who pretended to know something in hopes they would be paid for information. Like the elderly woman who walked hunched over and who’d been following Faith around for the past thirty minutes, grabbing her arm and poking at her side with a crooked finger as she talked about her horrible life and asked for a handout.

Across the street, Faith saw Rage yelling at a man with long hair and a bushy mustache, ready to jump him before the guy wisely slunk off. A few feet away, Beast picked up a guy by the front of his shirt and pressed him against a graffiti-covered wall outside a liquor store, cursing him up and down while his girlfriend beat her fist against Beast’s back.

Faith sighed. Clearly her new friends had picked their nicknames for a reason. At this rate, she could end up back in jail, and then how would she ever find her children? But then again, who else would be so willing to help her? It was simply time to call it a day. “Listen,” Faith said, turning to face the woman who had yet to stop poking her. “I already gave you my last ten dollars. And you gave me nothing in return. I’m going to ask you one more time to please leave me alone.”

“For someone who wants answers,” the old woman muttered, “you’re not a very good listener.”

“Are you kidding me?” Faith’s temper flared. “You’ve told me your whole life story. Your husband died of AIDS, and you haven’t seen your kids in who knows how long because you chose the needle over your family. You had a shitty childhood and more than anything in the world, you need a hit of heroin or meth or whatever the hell your drug of choice is because you’re getting all wobbly in the knees and your eyes look like they’re ready to pop out of your head.” Faith stopped, took a breath, pushed hair away from her face. What was she doing? Why was she yelling at this poor woman? She used to take her kids to visit an old folks’ home because she wanted to teach them how their elders should be treated . . . with respect. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Forgive me. It’s been a rough day.”

The woman continued to stare at her. There was no fear in her craggy old face. No emotion at all. It was true. The woman had made bad choices and lost everything along the way. She had nothing left but tattered memories and a craving for any chemical substance that might keep the pain at bay for one more day, maybe only an hour. Faith was about to walk off when the old woman reached out once more and said, “I also wanted to tell you I’ve seen that man before.”

Faith’s brow furrowed. “What man?”

“The one in your picture.” She pointed a finger at the flyer in Faith’s hand. “The one with the curly hair and pointy, birdlike nose.”

Cheap perfume, stale smoke, and forgettable music filled the air at Dinah’s Place, the seedy strip club where the hunchback woman had said she’d seen the curly-haired man a few short weeks ago. It was a sordid little place: dark and hungover. Although they didn’t serve alcohol, there was a bar next door. Convenient.

They found a table close enough to the door where they could ask customers coming and going if they recognized the curly-haired man in the picture. It had been a long day. It was nearing midnight, and Faith’s throat was sore from breathing in secondhand smoke. A young woman in the back of the room was giving lap dances to patrons. Her movements were robotic, her eyes a blank stare.

The man she was dancing for glanced Faith’s way. He looked familiar. Picture in hand, she walked that way, taking a closer look at the customers as she went.

“Piss off,” someone told her.

“Twenty dollars for a blow job,” a man sitting at the bar offered.

At closer view, she realized she’d never set eyes on the man before.

She continued on, determined to check the place thoroughly, making double sure the curly-haired man they were looking for wasn’t there before she left.

“Time for you and your friends to leave.”

Faith turned around and found herself face-to-face with a slender male. His black hair was slicked back with gel. His mustache was a thin, dark line above his upper lip. She assumed he was the manager since she’d seen him ordering people around.

“I’m looking for someone,” Faith explained as she showed him the picture she was carrying.

“Never seen him before. Unless you’re buying a lap dance, sweetie, you need to make yourself scarce.”

Ignoring him, she continued on her original path.

He grabbed her arm and squeezed so hard she felt his fingernails dig into her skin through her shirt.

“Ouch.”

Beast appeared, his eyes dark and foreboding as he grabbed hold of the man’s wrist. Faith swore she heard a bone crunch. The manager grimaced.

“We’re going to take a look around,” Beast explained. “I’m sure you don’t mind.”

Beast let go of the man’s wrist and then proceeded to escort her to the back, watching over her as she checked the faces of every man and woman in the place. Beast explored the men’s restroom while she checked inside the ladies’ room.

All clear, nothing to see here,
Faith thought as she exited the restroom.

Rage waited for them at the door, and together the three of them made their exit.

Instead of heading for his truck, Beast’s attention was on a customer who had exited the bar next door and was now staggering across the street toward his car. His body swayed as he dug into his pocket for a key.

Beast crossed the street. Without a word said, he took the drunken man’s keys from him and tossed them onto the roof of a nearby building. The guy bitched and complained, every word slurred as Beast pulled his phone from his pocket and made a call.

“He’s calling the guy a cab,” Rage said as if she’d seen it a hundred times before.

Faith recalled hearing Beast’s story in anger management class . . . how he’d returned from war only to lose his family. “I know Beast lost his wife and daughter in an accident. Do you know what happened?”

Rage nodded. “The driver, an eighteen-year-old female, had been texting her boyfriend.”

That explained his anger over the driver he’d caught texting,
Faith thought.

“The girl survived,” Rage went on, “and was charged with assault. Beast requested she travel to schools in the area to talk to students about texting while driving, but nope, she didn’t want to do that. Instead she served six months in jail and paid a fine. A real pisser if you ask me.”

Faith watched as Beast settled a beefy hand on the drunken man’s bony shoulder and led him to the curb to take a seat while they waited for the cab.

“I should get home,” Faith said.

“What about the curly-haired dude with the big nose?”

“I’ll have to come back. It’s past my curfew.”

“Curfew? As in be home before a certain time?”

“It’s part of the deal I made with the judge. I’m supposed to be home by ten o’clock every night.”

Rage snorted. “We should probably all go. You’re all set up on Instagram and Twitter, and I was able to link Amber Alerts to your Facebook page, but I still have some work to do on your website.”

“I appreciate all you’ve done. Let me know what I owe you.”

Rage waved off any talk of money. “If sex traffickers are involved,” she said, “we might want to hang out on Watt one of these nights and talk to some of the girls who do business there—see if they know anything.”

“Good idea,” Faith said. “After class this week?”

“Sure. Miniskirt, tank top, and heels so we blend in.”

“I’ll try to put something together.”

“Yeah, and do something with your hair. You know . . . no ponytail. And maybe a little eyeliner.”

Faith grimaced. “Anything else, boss?”

She gave her a once-over. “Hmm . . . maybe a push-up bra would help.”

T
WENTY
-E
IGHT

Through tinted windows, Richard Price saw more than one pedestrian running to catch the light rail around the corner. Across the street, a man he didn’t recognize opened the door to Bill’s Liquor Store off Del Paso Road and disappeared inside.

He had his brother to thank for dragging him into this godforsaken business. Growing up, he and Randy had never seen life through the same lens. While Randy got high with his friends and sold drugs on the street corner, Richard put himself through law school and became a public defender, fighting for the inalienable rights in the Constitution. Richard made sure the French-speaking murderer went free because the cops failed to read him his rights in his native tongue, and he stood by the beautiful young woman who’d robbed the old lady next door of her life’s savings. Long hours in a cockroach-infested office finally took its toll, and when his brother, now living the life of luxury in a million-dollar condo with a view of downtown and the Capitol dome, suggested to Richard that he come over to the dark side, or should he say “darker” side, Richard jumped at the chance.

And so here he sat five years later in his brand-new Mercedes. He had it all—a flashy office, a big house, a beautiful girlfriend . . . so why the hell did he feel so damn helpless and depressed? Sadly he knew the answer. Because he’d become one of them . . . one of the guilty parties he used to defend. And he didn’t like it one bit. He wanted out. This wasn’t a Hollywood movie. He knew of other people who’d found creative ways to get out of the business. There had to be a way. He just needed time to come up with a plan.

He straightened and glanced at the clock. Time to go.

He wasn’t looking forward to talking to Aster. But he’d put off this meeting long enough. Bells clanked as he pushed open the door. The young kid behind the cash register gave him a subtle nod of his chin as Richard made his way to the back of the store. The place smelled like cigars and Johnnie Walker Red. He had to shimmy his way through high stacks of boxes to get to the door to the back room.

He knocked twice, waited, then entered a smoke-filled room. He always thought it was strange that his boss conducted business in the back of a liquor store instead of a pricey high-rise or an office building closer to his home in El Dorado Hills, but who was he to question these things?

Aster sat at a massive library desk made of solid oak set squarely in the middle of the room. His work area was a mess, piled high with stacks of papers and overfilled ashtrays. The other guy, the one Richard had seen enter the store a few minutes ago, patted him down.

He didn’t like being touched, especially by a simple thug in ratty clothes who was probably hired right off Craigslist. “Nobody dresses up anymore?” he asked.

Surprisingly, Aster pushed himself to his feet, came around his desk and met him halfway. He clapped him on the back and then introduced him to his friend Patrick.

Aster had gained a few pounds since he’d last seen him. The boss’s face was getting jowly. Two necks had become three. He kept his gaze on Aster’s eyes, which wasn’t easy considering the caterpillars he had for eyebrows.

“Take a seat,” Aster said as he walked back to his chair.

Richard smoothed out his tailored suit, pulled out a thick envelope from the inside coat pocket, and set it on Aster’s desk. Then he took a seat on one of two spindle-backed chairs and tried to get comfortable before giving up.

“Have you found the money?” Aster wanted to know.

He shook his head.

“And what are you doing about it?”

“We’re keeping an eye on the woman, but so far she hasn’t been much help.”

“What about her husband’s partner? Have you talked to him?”

“He’s vanished. We don’t know where he is, but we’re looking for him.” He didn’t have the heart or the balls to tell Aster that the feds were also looking for the guy.

“Bottom line,” Aster said, “your men failed to deliver. For weeks, because I respect you and the work you do, I’ve looked the other way. But I can’t ignore it any longer. Now that the McMann woman has recovered, she’s becoming a nuisance. Isn’t that right, Patrick?”

“It’s true. She’s everywhere.”

Richard loosened his tie. “What do you mean
everywhere
?”

“Are you serious?” Aster looked at Patrick, who merely shrugged.

“The McMann woman invited reporters and cameraman right into her living room to look at a painting she did of your idiot men on her fucking wall! It might have served you well to tell the idiots to wear a fucking mask. To make matters worse, the crazy bitch picks up a computer keyboard and bashes it over a detective’s head.” Aster’s face was red, and his jowls were flapping. “The woman knows how to stay in the news! But that’s not good enough; she somehow befriends a fucking giant and another bitch crazier than her, and they all make a spectacle at that candlelight vigil thingy.”

Aster had worked himself into a tizzy, spittle flying from his lips like hot oil. “That woman is determined to find her kids, and she’s asking the whole damn world for help. She’s gotten thousands of likes on that site where teenagers like to hang out.”

“Facebook?”

“Yeah, and the others, too,” Patrick said.

Aster waved his fat fingers through the air and sort of hunched over his desk as if he’d worn himself out. “All that social media crap is for the birds. Waste of time, but millions of people seem to like it just fine. And that’s a problem.”

Richard raised his eyebrows. “What’s she going to find on Facebook?” He shook his head. “Is that why you called me here?”

Aster grimaced. “The point is, the McMann woman is making a fuss—a big fuss. She’s making sure everyone sees the picture she painted of the two fucking idiots who killed her husband and took her kids.”

“I’ve seen it,” Richard said. “There’s no likeness to my men whatsoever. Nobody would recognize them from one of those paintings.”

“Patrick disagrees.”

Was Aster married to Patrick? Who was this guy?

“If she locates one of the idiots you’ve got working for you, they could connect them to you, and then to me. Get the picture? That would mean trouble,” Aster continued. “And if there’s one thing I try to steer clear of, it’s trouble.”

“Listen,” Richard explained calmly, despite his growing irritation. “They’ve been laying low for a while now. They’re out of the public eye. No one is going to see them.”

Aster shook his head, and his jowls followed suit. “Not good enough. I want them out of the country by next week.”

“Can’t do. They’re two of my best.”

Aster laughed. “Two of your best? Seriously? Those guys were your best?” Before Richard could answer, he pounded a fist on his desk. “I’m not asking you. I’m telling you.” The lines in his face deepened. “Don’t piss me off, Richard! This whole thing is fucked up. I can’t do anything with these kids right now, not with their pictures all over the place. I don’t need your guys anywhere in the city. In fact, I don’t want them anywhere near the Sacramento airport, either. I want both your men driven to Arizona and flown out of the fucking country.”

“For Christ’s sakes, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

“This is no joke.”

“For how long?”

“Until I tell you otherwise.”

Frustrated, Richard started to stand.

“That’s not all,” Aster said.

Teeth clenched, Richard forced himself back into the chair. It took everything he had within to remain seated.

“Patrick here is going to keep an eye on McMann and report back to me every few days.”

“Jesus.”

“If she’s doing anything that makes me uncomfortable, you’ll be the first to know.”

“Sure. Fine. I’m not worried. How much trouble could one little schoolteacher cause anyhow?”