Page 8 of Deny Me
“What kind of truck did you say was involved?” Saint asked, his gaze fixed on something to his right. King glanced that way and cursed.
“A rusted-out Chevy,” he said as he rounded the car. Shoved into the woods at the edge of the trailer park was just such a truck. With a quick look around to be sure they weren’t being watched, he followed as his friend approached the driver’s side of the vehicle.
An early ’90s model, it looked like. This Chevy had definitely seen better days, right down to the bald tires. And at the front, where the hood had been rammed into the underbrush, King could see crumpling and scrapes to the front edge.
The red streaks of paint against the truck’s original, badly faded black made his chest hurt.
“Guess that answers one question,” Saint said. He slid a hand beneath the brush along the truck’s nose. “No grill. Is this the truck your girlfriend described?”
That word—girlfriend—hit him like an arrow between the eyes. At one time he’d called Charlotte more than his girlfriend; she’d been his everything. A hard growl left him before he realized it was coming. “Don’t call her that,” he barked. “Quit dicking around and do your job.”
Which wasn’t fair. Saint wasn’t on a job; he was doing King a favor. And he had no way of knowing how much the topic of Charlotte scraped him raw.
“Come on, man. You gotta admit no one’s made you this touchy in a long time. You been hiding your girl—”
Before Saint could get the full word out, King had him slammed against the truck, his arm a hard bar across his friend’s throat. “Don’t. Call. Her. That.”
“Whoa,” Saint croaked. He spread his hands wide, surrendering. “Chill, brother. I got it. The girl’s off-limits.”
“Way off-limits.” To Saint and to him, because if he was reading the signs right, Wes was the one with the right to call Charlottegirlfriend.
And that didn’t bother him at all. Really.
“You gonna let me go or choke me out?”
He hadn’t even realized he was leaning into Saint, the arm still across his friend’s neck pressing harder. He jerked back. “Fuck.”
Saint rubbed at his windpipe. “Ditto.”
King scrubbed a hand down his face. He’d just confirmed that every word out of his mouth had been a lie, hadn’t he? His sharp glance warned Saint to keep his mouth shut about it.
Saint’s lopsided grin offered no promises.
Perfect. Just what he needed. Catholics knew how to lay on the guilt, and that cross hanging around Saint’s neck wasn’t just for show. The man would be laying it on thick soon.
At least King could delay it for a little while. He walked toward the tailgate to take a photo of the truck’s license plate.
Saint snapped some images of the front of the vehicle, at least the parts that were visible. “Want me to call it in?”
The return to business allowed him to take a breath. They were in a different part of Atlanta than Blossomwood, physically as well as economically. Not only would they have to deal with interdepartmental bullshit, but any answers they could get from the cops would be delayed days, if not weeks or months. That wouldn’t keep Charlotte or her client safe. “Let’s check out the trailer first.”
Saint nodded, his steps falling easily in line with King’s as they followed the curve in the road. Three trailers up on the right side sat number 14, the address Wes had given him. No plants or grooming here. The concrete pad in front was a scarred, dirty mess; the stairs going up to the front door looked like a huff and puff from the big bad wolf would blow them right down. Blacked-out windows left no way to see inside.
As natural as breathing, King took up position to one side of the front entry while Saint scouted the back. When his friend returned with a sharp shake of his head, King narrowed his eyes on the door, settled a hand on his chest within easy reach of the holster just beneath his coat, and started up the stairs.
The top half of the screen door was glass, the bottom empty where an actual screen should have been. Sitting jaggedly, the door banged hard against its frame when he knocked. The sound ricocheted in the emptiness of the park.
No answer. The motorcycle Wes said Charlotte had described wasn’t here, but that didn’t mean Richard Jones wasn’t. King knocked again.
“Bro,” Saint said behind him. A glance over his shoulder caught his friend nodding toward a nearby window. “Movement.”
The father or daughter? No way to tell given the state of the windows.
“Richard Jones,” King barked, using his best cop voice, “come out now! Hands up! Don’t make us come in there!”
It was a bluff—they had no authority to go inside, and not enough cause to justify it even if they did. But if it got him what he needed, King would chance it.
The sound of creaking behind the door tensed his muscles—footsteps. He backed down the stairs and slid his hand inside his jacket to rest on the butt of his gun. “You heard me, Jones. Out! Now!”
