Page 22 of Shadows of Justice

I shrug, tapping my foot. Time to deliver.

“I’d say that it’s worth a shot. From what Sugar alluded to, Mary-Ann has gotten creative with her product. Even dabbling in the flesh trade.”

Jennings perks up. “You’re talking human trafficking? She actually said that?”

I bite my cheek and school my features into a mask of calm. “Sure did. Even Fernandez heard it, you can ask him. I really think it’s worth it, sir, if I may say.”

I’m getting damned good at lying.

He stares at me for an uncomfortable amount of time and then scratches his trimmed salt-and-pepper beard.

“All right, Schaeffer, you win,” he says, and I almost launch out of my seat. “Get it issued. I’m not doing the paperwork.”

“Yes, sir!” I say and hop up, headed for the door.

“Go home afterwards,” he calls after me. “No more coffee!”

“Yes, sir!” I say again, and mean it.

It’s a step in the right direction, and I’m confident that with Mary-Ann’s list of priors, she’ll be up to no good in no time, and we’ll be able to nab her. Sure, I told a little white lie about Carlos being present the entire conversation with Sugar, and about what was said, but it’s for the greater good, right?

The adrenaline wears off, and I suddenly feel the fact that I’ve been awake for thirty hours straight. I need my bed—now.

I head home after issuing the APB, a smile on my face for the first time in a long time—and, for a change, it’s because of Leo Barone.

“For the love of all that is good and holy!”

I smack my hand onto my ringing phone on my nightstand.

I feel like dog shit. I know I didn’t just fall asleep, but it feels like I might as well have. I lift my sleep mask off of one eye and peek at the caller ID.

Pasadena Police Department.

“This is Schaeffer,” I say, scratching my head of knotted hair and sitting up against my boho-style headboard.

“Morning, sunshine.” It sounds like Jennings.

“Morning,” I say, yawning, and glance at the time. 4:56 PM. “Everything okay?”

“Everything’s great, actually,” Jennings says. “But not so good for a certain Mary-Ann Lewiston.” I sit up straight, all sleepiness gone.

“Oh?”

“That’s right. It seems your APB triggered a trooper to spot the car’s description that’s registered in her name around ten thirty this morning. He ran the plates, and it was her car. He called it in and Detectives George and Kingston caught up with her and followed her around for a while.” He pauses, and I realize I’m forgetting to breathe.

Holy fucking shit.

“Here’s where it gets good. They watched her and two other unwashed cronies pull a seventeen-year-old girl—bound and gagged—out of the trunk behind a dumpster in a parking lot.”

I almost drop my phone. Seventeen years old.

“The two other losers also had warrants out, and Mary-Ann isn’t going to see the light of day for a damn long time, Schaeffer,” he says.

Hearing my name reminds me that I can speak.

“Yes—uhh, yes, sir. That’s incredible news!”

“You’re damn straight it is. Afterwards, a team accessed her car’s GPS and followed the most visited address—some old shithole on the south side. Judge Clemson signed off and we knocked the door down an hour ago. She had all the fixings to produce and distribute almost anything she could ever want in there, ledgers dating back years—and I mean years. They coincide with Watson’s outfit, Schaeffer. Your source was right. She’d clearly taken over Frankie’s clientele and decided to run his game with her own style of flair.” I swallow, standing up to pace as he speaks.

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