L.A.P.D. Special Investigations Series, Boxed Set: The Deceived, The Taken & The Silent (64 page)

“I like it, too. Too much.”

“Stay a little longer.”

When his lips went from her mouth to her breasts and lower, she couldn’t have left if she wanted.

Later, back in her own bed, Laura stretched out, feeling more mellow than she had in, well, she couldn’t remember how long. Everything about being with Jordan felt so normal, and she wanted the feeling to last forever.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

IT WAS STILL dark when Jordan got out of bed. He wasn’t going to examine what had happened last night, because if he did, he’d either feel like a jerk, or want to stay and make love with Laura all over again. He gathered some fresh clothes, showered and headed out the door.

But even driving on an icy road in the dark couldn’t keep him from thinking about Laura. He’d never felt as good as he had when he was with her. And he’d never felt so unsure. Take away the fact he was investigating issues concerning her, take away the fact she felt she was in danger and wouldn’t tell him why, take away all that and then what did he feel?

A lot. He cared about her. For all the good it would do. He had no idea where the case was going to end up. No idea what her involvement with Kolnikov or DeMatta was...except that it was more than she was saying. Of that much, he was sure.

Still, they fit so perfectly together. Talking with her was as natural as breathing. Making love was, too. She’d dispelled any reservations he’d had the second her lips met his.

But why was this…relationship…whatever it was, so compelling? He didn’t have the answer. All he knew was that despite his vows not to get involved, he was. And if he continued to pursue the relationship, he’d only hurt her in the end. How could he ask someone to be a part of his life when his life was a lie.

He wasn’t Jordan St. James, the son of L.A. socialites Harlan and Mary St. James. And his brother Harry, Harlan Junior, wasn’t his brother. Jordan was a bastard whose heritage was questionable. His brother had made the point every day from the time he learned Jordan had been adopted.

He’d come to grips with Harry’s jealousy long ago, and Harry had, too. But it’d taken even longer to come to grips with his own need to belong. He’d done all the right things, was a decorated officer, the best at whatever he did. But nothing changed the fact that he was a bastard his own mother didn’t even want. How could he ever father a child when he didn’t know what he might inflict on that child?

Though he’d learned to live with his own questionable DNA, he wasn’t going to drag anyone else into his quagmire.

When he reached a point where he thought his cell phone could catch the satellite, he checked his messages. One from Luke sounded garbled. Was he drunk? He hadn’t been drunk since last year on his son’s birthd— Damn. He’d vowed to be there for him this time.

He punched in Luke’s number. No answer. He left a message telling Luke he was on his way to headquarters and he’d see him there.

Three and a half hours after he’d left Big Bear, he pulled into the police garage. Luke’s car wasn’t there. Heading into RHD, he noticed the floor was nearly empty and stopped at Mary Beth’s desk.

“Another Studio Killer homicide,” she said.

Jordan was glad he’d missed it. He had work of his own to do and he could do it a lot faster without interruptions. He checked the Delores Matthews file. Rita Valdez said the woman mentioned Hawaii, but he found no references to the island in the file. But he did note that she’d been married once in Hawaii.

He set up a search for her former married name, and within the hour he had what he was looking for. Hilo, Hawaii. Her ex still lived there. It’s possible he’d know where she is. If she was still alive. But that was a whole other investigation. Then he remembered Rico was in Hawaii. He hated to disturb a guy on his honeymoon, but if anyone would understand, it would be Rico. His partner wanted DeMatta as much as the rest of the RHD. He punched in his partner’s number at the hotel where he and Macy were staying.

After making arrangements with Rico to contact the ex, and then finishing up his reports, he called Luke again. No answer. Damn. If Luke wasn’t home, or at the station, he was probably at Bernie’s.

Jordan piled up his work and headed for the bar. By the time he arrived it was getting dark outside. It was even darker inside.

The place was nearly empty. Luke sat at the bar, his glass shoved toward the bartender. “Hit me again,” he said loud enough for the handful of patrons to hear.

“You sure you haven’t had enough?” Dylan, the barrel-chested bartender, said gruffly.

Luke glanced up, squinting at the neon lights above the bar. “Not today.”

The bartender took the empty glass. “Okay, but give me your car keys first.”

Just then someone slid onto the stool next to Luke, who turned to look at the man. Jordan walked closer, but couldn’t identify the guy from the back and wasn’t sure if he should interrupt. He sat at a table behind the two men.

The other guy ordered a shot, and when he got it, he turned to Luke and said, “I’ve got a message for a friend of yours.”

Jordan took a second look at the guy. Fortyish. A burly man, wearing a dark suit. Nondescript, except for a mole on his left cheek.

“Yeah?” Luke said. “Well, I don’t have any friends.”

“Detective St. James.”

Jordan’s attention spiked.

“He’s no friend,” Luke said before he knocked back another shot. “Who’s the message from?”

“Someone who could have your friend’s job in a heartbeat.”

“Go screw yourself,” Luke snarled. “You got something to say to him, tell him yourself. Who the hell are you, anyway?”

“I work for someone who thinks your friend should leave well enough alone.”

Jordan bolted to his feet, but before he could act, Luke had grabbed the guy’s shirt collar and lifted him off the ground. “You slimy bastard.”

“Your friend could get hurt. The girl could get hurt—” The creep gurgled, his words cut off by Luke’s hand against his throat.

Within seconds, Luke had flipped the guy around and flattened him against the bar, pulled his hands back and cuffed him. “Call it in,” Luke ordered the bartender. He shoved his face next to the guy’s ear. “You got some more threats from your boss?” Frisking the guy, he removed a .38 Magnum from an inside holster. “You can tell me at the station.”

The big man laughed. “You’re wasting your time, pork chop. The only person I’m talking to is my lawyer, and he’ll have me out before you get me there.”

Jordan sidled up next to Luke. “Nice work, partner.”

Luke didn’t seem surprised to see him. “Just another day in the life of…” Luke mumbled, something Jordan couldn’t make out, adding, “You win some, you lose some.”

It was obvious Luke was in no shape for business. Jordan knew how to take care of it.

Less than five minutes later, two officers entered the building. “Detective St. James,” he said quickly, to cover for Luke.

“What’s the problem?” one of the uniforms asked.

“Disorderly conduct.” Jordan knew they wouldn’t take the guy downtown because he’d made a couple of threats.

“He’s lying,” the thug said.

One of the officers pulled out the suspect’s identification. “Dutch Greene. So, am I going to believe you or my fellow officer here?” He laughed as he said it. “You got anything else to say, you can tell us on the way downtown.”

Jordan watched them leave. Dutch Greene was a name he’d heard before. One of DeMatta’s men.

He turned to Luke. “Come on, buddy. I’m taking you home.”

***

The next morning, as Jordan pulled into the garage across the street from headquarters, he had two things on his mind. Laura and Cait’s safety. He had to get the guy in the black car. And then he had to talk to DeMatta about last night.

When Jordan walked in, heads turned his way. As he passed the row of desks, Ralston said, “The captain’s gunning for you, big guy.”

Jordan heard Ralston chuckle under his breath but didn’t acknowledge him. As soon as he reached his desk, the light on his phone flashed. He picked up.

“In here now, St. James.”

What the hell? Jordan crossed to Carlyle’s office. “Nice vacation?” McIntyre called after him.

Jordan got the feeling Mac knew where he’d been. But it wasn’t possible. No one knew. “Perfect,” he shot back.

He palmed open the door of the captain’s office. “Good morning.”

“The hell it is.”

Okay. This was about more than Jordan taking an unannounced day off. He sat across from the boss. “That bad?”

“I hope you know what you’re doing on the Kolnikov case, because I’ve got both the chief and the mayor on my ass.”

“Why should they care?”

“They didn’t say.”

Jordan shrugged. He knew exactly what the captain wasn’t saying. Too bad. He didn’t give a crap about the private lives of the chief or the mayor or any of their friends. If they were dumb enough to stick out their…respective parts in questionable places, that was their problem. “I’m not looking to expose her client list, if that’s what they’re worried about. I want to solve Kolnikov’s murder, and I want to nail DeMatta.”

“You uncover one thing and more pops up. I don’t want this coming back to haunt me.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m not saying anything. I want you to wind it up.”

“They must really be tightening the screws,” Jordan said, disappointment grinding in the pit of his stomach. The captain had always done what he believed was right, never kowtowed to the powers that be.

“I’ve got three years to retirement.”

“And I’ve got a new lead.”

The captain stared at Jordan, as if weighing the possibilities. “Tell me.”

“The boyfriend no one mentioned before. His name is Nick. Apparently he had contact with Kolnikov a short time before her death.”

“You got somewhere to go with it?”

“I do.” It was a lie, but he was in so deep it didn’t matter. He just hoped the captain didn’t have to pay for it in the end. “And I got a new lead on Delores Matthews.”

The captain steepled his beefy hands, placed his fingertips against his lips. “A good lead?”

“Better than nothing.”

Jordan waited.

Finally the captain said, “You need help?”

“Not yet.”

Carlyle nodded. “Then do it.”

As Jordan got up to leave, he reached out and shook the captain’s hand. “You’ve restored my faith in the system.”

“Get out of here.” The captain waved him off.

Back at his desk, Jordan saw Luke coming in. Damn, he looked like crap. His clothes were the same ones he’d worn last night and it looked as if Luke had slept in them. His hair was just as bad.

Jordan caught his buddy near the door and pulled him back into the hall, the alcohol fumes overwhelming. “Let’s take a leak.”

They headed for the john, where Jordan checked to make sure they were alone. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here yesterday.”

Luke’s eyes resembled road maps. “No problem.”

“I’m your friend. It’s my problem.”

“Then give me a fucking break.”

Jordan crossed his arms. “Okay. Only you need to get washed up. There’s a razor in my locker and a clean shirt.”

Luke rubbed his eyes as he slumped against the wall. “He would’ve been eight years old.”

Jordan’s heart ached for his friend. But he couldn’t let Luke wallow in self-pity, not if he wanted to remain in the department. “I know. And next year he’d be nine.”

Luke’s head snapped up.

“You can’t bring him back, Luke. No matter how much alcohol you siphon into your rapidly deteriorating body.”

His friend stood there, as if trying to absorb what Jordan had said. Finally, he straightened. “Right. You’re right. I’ll get cleaned up.”

Luke started to turn but stopped. “The guy at Bernie’s last night, I’m kinda foggy about what happened.”

“He lawyered up and split.”

“Who’re we talking about?”

“Dutch Greene. One of DeMatta’s crew. Same lawyer.”

Luke rubbed his eyes again. “I’ve got to get something to wake me up.”

As he remembered the threat—the threat toward not only him, but Laura and Caitlin—Jordan’s chest tightened. Hot blood coursed through his veins. He swung around.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m going to the source,” Jordan spat out. “Frank DeMatta.”

“If you wait, I’ll go with you.”

Jordan clenched his hands into fists. “Thanks, but I need to do this alone.”

***

Using her laptop, Laura worked on the Victory House budget for the next year, homeschooled Cait for a few hours and spent the rest of the day outside with her daughter. She marveled at the quiet; the only sounds were their laughter and snow crunching underfoot. She was awed by the majesty of it all, the almost perfect symmetry of the trees, the pristine snow. So different from the Valley. Snow covered everything like a layer of spun cotton.

That night, the stars glittered like diamonds against a black-velvet backdrop. It was so clear, so unlike the sprawling city. Cait had pointed out a couple of constellations she knew and Laura helped her identify what she could. Maybe she was biased, but Cait seemed smarter than other almost eight-year-olds.