Second in command, p.17
Second in Command, page 17
part #1 of Fairview Station Series
“You haven’t done anything wrong, Louis. I might need you to tell someone else about this later, but not right now. For the time being, please keep this between us.”
“I will. If you need it, I have a picture of the check. I keep detailed records, thanks to my job as an army financial management technician, fancy title for an accountant.”
Jazz clasped Louis’s hand and shook vigorously. “You’re a true gem, Louis. I’ll get back to you about this.” She glanced at her watch and headed toward her car. Emory would be leaving work soon. She shot her a text. Ready when you are? Your place?
* * *
Emory jumped when her phone pinged with Jazz’s text. Her desk looked like a disaster zone with CPS monthly reports and stats piled on one side and the USAA pages on the other. Her normally open door had remained closed all day while she compared the numbers, and her vision blurred from too much reading. She pulled a stack of papers toward her, stuffed them into a folder along with the notes she’d made, and returned Jazz’s text. The ten-minute drive home wouldn’t be enough to process what she’d confirmed today or how to explain it to Jazz.
When she pulled into the parking lot of her complex, Jazz was leaning against the side of her 280Z, feet crossed at the ankles like a roguish hero on the cover of a paperback. Emory’s mouth dried, but she tamped down her desire. This meeting was about work and her career so she had to focus on that, not how delicious Jazz looked.
Jazz lifted a plastic bag from the hood of her car as Emory approached. “I brought Chinese.” Emory’s stomach growled. “And apparently a good thing too.”
“Didn’t take time for lunch,” Emory said, unlocking the door and depositing the folder of papers on the kitchen counter. “Give me a second?”
“I’ll get the food ready if that’s okay. Wine?”
“Yes, please.” She changed into a pair of tights and a thigh-length sweatshirt before downing two aspirin for her persistent headache. She returned to the kitchen where Jazz had set the small dining table with food and their drinks. The setting was intimate, the small light over the oven casting muted shadows through the room. “Nice.”
Jazz offered her a glass of wine. “Looks like you could use this.”
She took a sip and then another. “Mmm, you have no idea how much.”
“Rough day?”
She nodded. “Do you mind if we eat first? I’d appreciate a few minutes to unwind before diving back into the mess I’ve uncovered.”
“Your wish is my command.” Jazz pulled out a chair and waited for her to sit. “I wasn’t sure what you like, so I got a variety. Chicken, beef, and pork dishes, along with a tofu option, lots of vegetables, fried rice, and of course, fortune cookies.”
“I like everything.” She spooned some food onto her plate and asked, “So, what have you been up to since we slept together?” She blushed and the warmth spread when Jazz grinned. “I mean since Sunday night.”
“Please don’t let it get out that all we did was sleep. I have a rep to protect.”
“I’m sure you do, darling.”
“Which I’d gladly relinquish for you, Ms. Blake.” Jazz squeezed her hand and told her about the trip to Atlanta and her reprimand.
“Sorry you got into trouble. Guess it was my fault.”
“Well, you did draw quite a crowd at the ballgame, but I violated the rules, so I deserve the punishment. Wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been.”
“Any further word on Shea?”
“We put out a nationwide alert but nothing yet.”
They ate quietly for a while, Jazz apparently content to allow her to decompress and enjoy her meal. When she pushed her plate away and emptied her second glass of wine, Emory was ready to get down to business. “I’ve done some number-crunching on Karen’s proposal, but before I share what I think I’ve found, I’d like your opinion.” She reached for the folder on the counter, removed her notes from the stack, and handed the rest to Jazz. “Why don’t I get you another beer and clear the dishes while you read, and then we can talk?”
Jazz settled on the sofa with a beer in one hand and the folder in the other while Emory busied herself to keep from commenting. The minutes oozed past. Emory wiped the table and countertop for the second and then third time, glancing at Jazz and searching for some indication of what she was thinking, but her face was blank.
Finally, Jazz closed the folder, placed it on the coffee table, and drained her beer. “Can I get another, please?”
Emory twisted the top off the beer, handed it to Jazz, and joined her on the sofa. “Well?”
“I’d say Ms. Patrick’s bookkeeping is suspect.”
“You think?” Emory’s voice was tight, her tone high and sharp.
“And it appears she’s making quite a profit from USAA adoptions.”
Emory pulled the notes she’d made from her pocket. “Considering the going rate for private adoptions is between ten and thirty thousand dollars, I’d say she’s making a killing. Either USAA isn’t aware she’s jacking the prices up or they don’t care as long as they get paid.”
“The only way to prove she’s done anything wrong is to check the company records and see if they match hers or if there’s a discrepancy. If she’s reporting the higher rates, and the company doesn’t object, I’m not sure we have a case. The prospective parents aren’t likely to file complaints. They’re often willing to pay exorbitant rates for children, especially babies.”
The knots in Emory’s stomach from earlier in the day when she’d come to the same conclusion returned but twisted tighter. “The other part of the issue is the money she apparently pays foster parents to take kids on the hard-to-place list.”
“I talked to Louis today, and he confirmed his payment. Karen sold it as standard practice. Is it possible she justifies that as an incentive condoned by the company?”
“Anything is possible. I’ve never been on the private side of things, so I’m not sure how they operate or what is within the acceptable range. From my perspective, her actions are at least ethically questionable if not criminal.”
“So, she’s paying folks to foster older children, which ups her stats and makes CPS look less efficient. She fast-tracks the newborn adoptions because she’s overpaid and motivated, which again makes CPS look inept by comparison. It all comes down to money. What happens now, Em?”
“Without USAA’s records to compare to Karen’s, we’re at a dead end, and—” Her throat tightened. The thought of anyone buying and selling children to the highest bidder made her nauseous. She’d worked her entire life for the best possible treatment and placement of children, and to see it reduced to dollars and cents was unacceptable. And with figures like these unchallenged, USAA could put CPS out of business entirely. “I could be out of a job shortly.”
“Do you really think it’ll come to that?”
“Private companies want their own personnel, people they can control. Outsiders cause problems and ask questions. I’ve already made it clear to Karen that I’m not a fan.”
Jazz took a long pull of her beer and a strange look settled across her face. “All this sure puts a different spin on my experience.” She seemed to be thinking aloud, her voice low, eyes distant and unfocused. “CPS handled my adoption.” To Emory the statement sounded like an indictment. “Privatization wasn’t even on the radar. No one paid to adopt me, and my foster parents certainly didn’t receive any compensation to take care of me, except for the measly twenty-eight dollars a day, which was probably less back then. Maybe private companies could do a better job.”
Emory stared open mouthed while disbelief and pain bolted through her. “What?”
“I don’t mean the payment part, but if incentives help get children better homes, why—”
“I can’t believe you right now, Jazz.”
“I just meant I wouldn’t have minded if money changed hands as long as I had a family who treated me well. I think any kid would feel the same.”
Emory slowly placed her wine glass on the coffee table. “So, checks and balances are unnecessary, and an impartial government agency is outdated? We should turn the whole operation over to a for-profit agency whose only concern is their bottom line?”
“It might’ve saved me four years of hell.” Jazz took another sip of beer and seemed to realize what she’d said. “Em, I didn’t mean to insult you or your profession.”
“But you’ve managed quite nicely.” Emory stood and waved toward the door. “Thank you very much for your opinion. I’m sorry to have wasted your time. I’ll be happy to reimburse you for the meal.” Jazz’s comments stung professionally and even more personally. She’d expected encouragement and support, not a recommendation for the opposition.
“Emory,” Jazz said, moving toward her. “I’m just giving you another perspective. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
The revelations of the day had left her raw and unsettled. Jazz’s defense of a system so obviously compromised was too much. “I’d like you to go, please. I might be overreacting, but I need time to think. If I’m to be unemployed soon, I have to plan. Good night, Jazz.” Emory opened the door and waited until Jazz crossed the threshold before closing it behind her. The hope of Jazz as an ally, and possibly more, seemed further away than ever, and the absence hurt more deeply than she’d imagined it could.
Chapter Fourteen
Jazz was on her way home from work, still thinking about her disagreement with Emory yesterday, when her cell rang. She snatched the phone from the console, eager to explain one more time what she’d meant about the privatization issue, but hope vanished when she saw the Fairview Station number. “Lieutenant Perry.”
“Loo, we’ve got a location on that phone we’re tracking,” the tactical sergeant said.
“Get your team together. I’ll be back at the station in five minutes.”
“We’re assembled and waiting.”
When she pulled up to the station, six tactical officers, three in uniform and three plainclothes, were near the loading dock checking their vehicles and equipment. She parked, pulled her vest over her head, and walked to the sergeant’s car, waving the officers together. “Everybody seen the alert on this suspect?” The officers nodded. “We have warrants for failure to appear on a felony cocaine charge and assault. He has a violent history so let’s be cautious. He should have an eleven-year-old girl with him, which means we need to be especially careful. Any questions?” When nobody spoke up, she added, “Let’s move.”
Jazz rode with the squad sergeant, a man of few words. “Where are we going?”
“Red Carpet Inn on Isler Street. I’ll send one of the plainclothes to the desk to see if Spencer is registered once we’re in position.”
Jazz wiped her sweaty palms down her pants legs. The thought of Shea with her so-called father in this sleazy motel made her stomach roil. She checked the sergeant’s tracking app, and Shea’s phone was on, but she hadn’t answered for days. To Jazz, that meant she couldn’t. Another flash of discomfort burned through her.
“Do we need to stage before going in?” Jazz asked.
The sergeant glanced at her. “We’ve got this, Loo. The guys know where to be and what to do. If he’s in there, he won’t get past us.”
She nodded. “Sorry, you know what you’re doing.” He was one of her best tactical supervisors, and she didn’t need to second-guess his decisions. She was more personally involved than she should be, and it showed in how she felt and reacted. Never good in high-stress situations.
One of the undercover vehicles pulled into the Red Carpet lot while the marked vehicle continued out of sight. The sergeant stopped at a business across the street with a clear view of the front of the motel.
“I’m heading to the office,” an officer said over their operational frequency.
A plainclothes officer approached the lobby. The radio was silent, and the minutes stretched. Jazz scanned the area trying to spot the undercover vehicles, but they blended nicely with the others on the lot. If she could pick them out, Spencer could as well. When the plainclothes officer walked out of the office and disappeared around the back of the building, Jazz blew out a long breath. Almost show time.
“He’s registered in room fourteen, ground floor, no windows or doors on backside. The vehicle isn’t in the lot. Standing by, Sarge.”
“You get the pass key?”
“Roger.”
“Use it if you can.” The sergeant pulled across the street toward the motel. “All units move in.”
Police swarmed the Red Carpet parking lot, and officers jumped out of vans, cars, and from behind buildings and rushed toward the room. One carried the heavy battering ram. As she ran to join them, she heard an officer yell, “Police. Warrant.” And then a crash as the ram shattered the flimsy door.
“Police. Freeze. Police.” A few seconds later, the shouting quieted and she heard only a very loud TV in the background.
The hairs on Jazz’s neck stood up as she pushed her way into the room.
“We’re clear,” the sergeant said. “Turn that damn thing off.”
“But where’s—”
“There.” He pointed to the cell phone she’d given Shea lying on the nightstand.
“Damn it.” The room offered no signs of a struggle or any evidence Shea had been there. Now what? She scanned the parking lot and surroundings for Spencer’s van. Maybe the prick was watching, laughing at them and his own cleverness. She stormed toward the office, her hands clenching and unclenching at her sides.
“Where is the man in fourteen?”
The greasy-haired attendant rose from his chair behind the desk, bringing a strong odor of cigarettes and fried food with him. “No idea. If you busted my door, you’re going to fix it.”
“And if you don’t tell me everything you know about that man and the child he had with him, you’re going to jail.” Jazz reached across the counter to yank him closer, but stopped when the sergeant came in. “Tell me.” She stared at him long enough to convince him she was serious.
“Okay.” He raised his hands. “Hold on while I check the records.” He shuffled through the papers strewn across his desk. “Here it is.” He waved the registration form in the air, and Jazz snatched it.
“Checked in two days ago. Registration the same as we got from Atlanta PD.” She dropped the paper back on the counter. “What about the girl?”
“What girl? I never saw no girl. He checked in alone as far as I know. Got change for the vending machines a couple of times and kept to himself. Never let us clean the room.”
“You ever seen him before?” Jazz asked.
“What do you mean?” The man looked away.
“I mean has he been here before, alone or with anyone else?”
The sergeant leaned over the counter. “You better tell us the truth. If you lie, I’ll have a marked police car in your lot every day until you’re forced to close the doors. I don’t think your clientele would like us monitoring their activities.”
“You can’t do that.”
“Watch me.”
Jazz crossed her arms and waited while the man pondered his options. A few seconds later, he nodded. “He used to be a regular with some other guys. They’d rent a room for a couple of days and then move on.”
“What other guys?” Jazz asked.
“No idea who, but I know what they were.”
“Don’t make me drag this out of you,” she said.
“Drug dealers. Paid in cash and threw in a nice bonus if I didn’t make them sign in or give their vehicle registrations. Always took the last room on the end. I’d see people park on Isler Street and walk in. Steady flow of traffic. You know the drill.”
The sergeant glanced at her. They were thinking the same thing. Definitely drug dealers. “Anything else?”
The manager shook his head.
“You sure?”
“I’d tell you.”
The sergeant handed him a business card. “If any of those people come back, call me, and I mean immediately, not after they’re gone.” He followed Jazz out of the lobby into the parking lot. “Sorry, Loo.”
“We follow the leads. At least we know they’re in town. Keep your guys sharp. I’ll have a little something for the officer who finds Spencer and the girl.”
* * *
Emory opened her apartment door to a smiling Diane holding two bottles of wine. “You’re such a perfect dinner guest.”
“Totes.” She hugged Emory, pulled back, and gave her a slow appraisal. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Emory turned before Diane could ask more and headed for the kitchen. “Get comfy. Dinner is low-carb so we don’t totally undo our spinning success, and because there must be wine.” She stirred the pork browning in olive oil and pulled the vegetables she’d chopped earlier from the refrigerator. “You like stir-fry, right?”
“You know I do.” Diane hefted the two bottles of wine in the air. “If it’s pork, must be pinot. Could I interest you in a glass?” She flicked the rim of Emory’s empty goblet with her finger. “Or in your case another glass.”
“Please.” Emory stirred the vegetables into the pork, added soy sauce, a pinch of brown sugar, fresh grated ginger, and red pepper flakes. “It’s almost ready.”
Diane poured herself a glass of wine and scooted up to the island. “I love you.”
“Uh-oh. That usually means you’re about to say something I won’t like.”
“Can’t a girl tell her bestie that she loves her without being sus?”
“Out with it.”
Diane took a long sip of wine. “Okay, I love you because you hooked me up with your friend Jane. TBH she’s GOAT!” Emory flashed her a speak-English glance. “Sorry. To be honest, she’s the greatest of all time. FR. For real.”
“I thought you two would hit it off. Have you slept with her yet?”
Diane grabbed her face with both hands and opened her mouth in fake shock. “A lady never kisses and tells, but she is totally not the dick and dash type. She’s special.”
