downstairs corner had taped newspapers — now yellowed with age — over her windows.
Angel sat between two bushes and worked on catching her breath. Her side still hurt and she knew in daylight she’d look like she’d been beaten up. That was fine with her, she could still blend in, but not if she had blood on her clothes.
She had one place she could go. An abandoned warehouse on the edge of Van Nuys where runaways often hung when the weather turned bad. It wasn’t safe, not by a long shot, but she probably wouldn’t get killed because Hispanics dominated that area, and she could pass. She’d gone there before when she needed to escape — like the times her mom brought guys with grabby hands home.
And it would be a good place to continue looking for Marisa.
Chapter Two
Jake M What the fuck is going on?””d orrison sat in the far corner of the long bar where he could see both the back door and the front door. It was a dive bar that rarely saw trouble because it was filled with retired cops and old private eyes. Jake was neither, but he fit in nonetheless. Ex-Marine, ex-cop, ex-felon. Now, he took jobs where he could get them, mostly under-the-table assignments for Clive Cutler, a slimy bastard bounty hunter who had one redeeming quality: he paid on time.
Jake didn’t much care to see Cutler this Saturday night — he’d just gotten back from a five-day chase of a bail-skipping drug-runner across the godforsaken desert in Eastern California and Nevada. California wasn’t all glitz, glamour, beaches and palm trees. He’d delivered Chester Smith to Cutler two hours ago. Went to his one-room apartment above the bar to shower the sand and grime from his body, and came down for a meal of Jack Daniels and peanuts.
So when Cutler walked in, Jake almost slipped out the back. Except there was an expression on his face that Jake didn’t often see: worry. Cutler never worried. He was pissed off and angry most of the time, occasionally defeated, but never worried.
Cutler sat down next to him. “Jake, don’t kill the messenger, okay?”
Cutler wasn’t worried; he was scared. Jake said, “You know me.”
“Yeah, I do, just remember, I’m the one who brought this to you, okay? As soon as it came across my desk, I brought it to you.”
Jake’s gut twisted. “What?”
Cutler slipped Jake a piece of paper. It was part of a dispatch report from LAPD. He scanned it. Two cops shot in Reseda outside a group home, one DOA, one critical. Possible ambush. They were transporting a juvenile prisoner from Sylmar.
“I don’t know the cops. And most aren’t my friends anymore.” Not after he nearly beat to death a fellow cop and was sent to prison for two years. Jake would do it all over again, but this time without witnesses and no one would find the body. Any cop who not only made it easy for underage prostitution to thrive, but participated in it, deserved worse than the beating Jake had dished out.
But in L.A., Jake would never have gotten a sympathetic jury, especially after the asshole judge had tossed Jake’s evidence of the dirty cop screwing thirteen-year-old runaway prostitutes, so he took the plea agreement his lawyer negotiated and considered himself lucky.
“It’s not the cops; it’s the prisoner they’re hunting. A material witness in some big case, and considered a possible accomplice. With a thousand cops looking for her, thinking she helped a cop killer, she’ll be dead on sight. You know that.” He paused, nervous. “I thought you’d want to know.”
Jake had no idea what Cutler was talking about. He looked at the sheet again, read it more closely.
Iliana Estella Saldana, aka Angel Saldana
“Are you fucking with me?”
“No, swear to God Jake, it’s legit. I don’t know what she did to get dumped in juvie, I don’t know what’s going on other than every cop in L.A. is looking for her.”
Jake pushed back from the bar. “Call me as soon as you find out anything
.”
Jake went
Angel sat between two bushes and worked on catching her breath. Her side still hurt and she knew in daylight she’d look like she’d been beaten up. That was fine with her, she could still blend in, but not if she had blood on her clothes.
She had one place she could go. An abandoned warehouse on the edge of Van Nuys where runaways often hung when the weather turned bad. It wasn’t safe, not by a long shot, but she probably wouldn’t get killed because Hispanics dominated that area, and she could pass. She’d gone there before when she needed to escape — like the times her mom brought guys with grabby hands home.
And it would be a good place to continue looking for Marisa.
Chapter Two
Jake M What the fuck is going on?””d orrison sat in the far corner of the long bar where he could see both the back door and the front door. It was a dive bar that rarely saw trouble because it was filled with retired cops and old private eyes. Jake was neither, but he fit in nonetheless. Ex-Marine, ex-cop, ex-felon. Now, he took jobs where he could get them, mostly under-the-table assignments for Clive Cutler, a slimy bastard bounty hunter who had one redeeming quality: he paid on time.
Jake didn’t much care to see Cutler this Saturday night — he’d just gotten back from a five-day chase of a bail-skipping drug-runner across the godforsaken desert in Eastern California and Nevada. California wasn’t all glitz, glamour, beaches and palm trees. He’d delivered Chester Smith to Cutler two hours ago. Went to his one-room apartment above the bar to shower the sand and grime from his body, and came down for a meal of Jack Daniels and peanuts.
So when Cutler walked in, Jake almost slipped out the back. Except there was an expression on his face that Jake didn’t often see: worry. Cutler never worried. He was pissed off and angry most of the time, occasionally defeated, but never worried.
Cutler sat down next to him. “Jake, don’t kill the messenger, okay?”
Cutler wasn’t worried; he was scared. Jake said, “You know me.”
“Yeah, I do, just remember, I’m the one who brought this to you, okay? As soon as it came across my desk, I brought it to you.”
Jake’s gut twisted. “What?”
Cutler slipped Jake a piece of paper. It was part of a dispatch report from LAPD. He scanned it. Two cops shot in Reseda outside a group home, one DOA, one critical. Possible ambush. They were transporting a juvenile prisoner from Sylmar.
“I don’t know the cops. And most aren’t my friends anymore.” Not after he nearly beat to death a fellow cop and was sent to prison for two years. Jake would do it all over again, but this time without witnesses and no one would find the body. Any cop who not only made it easy for underage prostitution to thrive, but participated in it, deserved worse than the beating Jake had dished out.
But in L.A., Jake would never have gotten a sympathetic jury, especially after the asshole judge had tossed Jake’s evidence of the dirty cop screwing thirteen-year-old runaway prostitutes, so he took the plea agreement his lawyer negotiated and considered himself lucky.
“It’s not the cops; it’s the prisoner they’re hunting. A material witness in some big case, and considered a possible accomplice. With a thousand cops looking for her, thinking she helped a cop killer, she’ll be dead on sight. You know that.” He paused, nervous. “I thought you’d want to know.”
Jake had no idea what Cutler was talking about. He looked at the sheet again, read it more closely.
Iliana Estella Saldana, aka Angel Saldana
“Are you fucking with me?”
“No, swear to God Jake, it’s legit. I don’t know what she did to get dumped in juvie, I don’t know what’s going on other than every cop in L.A. is looking for her.”
Jake pushed back from the bar. “Call me as soon as you find out anything
.”
Jake went
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