Acting Brave (Fenbrook Academy #3) (59 page)

***

After hours of going through files and building up a list of possibilities, I got into my uniform and we hit the streets. At midnight, fueled by pizza and coffee, we were still going. We barged our way into dealers’ houses, claiming we’d had anonymous tips. We kicked down the doors of their crack houses and picked up their underlings in the street, until they had no choice but to talk to us. Six times, it looked as if guns were going to be pulled on us and, if I hadn’t been able to keep my anger in check, I don’t think we would have made it out alive. But every time, we talked our way out of it through a mixture of threats and promises.

We did everything we could within the law, and then we bent it as far as we could. But our list of potential dealers kept growing, not shrinking, and every lead we chased down led to a dead end.

As dawn broke, I pulled over to the side of the road and rubbed my unshaven cheeks. I needed more coffee, and sugar. And a miracle.

Ahead of me, I saw a Dunkin’ Donuts sign. A familiar one. The one I’d bought coffee and donuts from the morning Hux was shot.

I’d come full circle. Back on the streets, back in a patrol car, still in love with Jasmine. Back then, I’d thought that I wasn’t right for her because I was just some dumb cop. Now, it was a cop she needed...and I’d still failed her.

I thumped the steering wheel in frustration, catching the horn by accident. It blared, the sound filling the empty street.

Another patrol car coasted to a stop beside mine. A familiar voice came through the window. “You still throwin’ tantrums, Kowalski?”

I turned. Martina, my ex-girlfriend, was grinning at me through the window.

“I’ve been getting better,” I said tiredly.

“Yeah, I heard. The redhead with the big chichis. Good therapy for any guy.”

I sighed. “She’s in trouble, Martina. I got to find her brother.”

“Hooper told me. So, she the real thing, this actress?”

I turned to look at her, seeing the trace of pain in her dark eyes. Pain that was part of something bigger—concern, for me.

“Yeah,” I said. “Yeah, she’s the real thing.”

She nodded. Looked sharply away and then back, suddenly blinking as if she was—
Nah!
Not Martina. “You’re wasting your time talking to dealers,” she said, her voice a little strained. “You should check down Roehampton West. Those old buildings. Lots of rooms and lots of addicts. If I was new to the city and I didn’t have a lot of time, and I was going to stash someone, I’d put him there.”

I looked at her, amazed. “Thanks, Martina.”

She was blinking again. “Yeah. Anything for a buddy, right?” And she roared away.

I sat and thought. She had a point: Jasmine’s dad had been in a hurry, knowing the cops were close to arresting him. Maybe he hadn’t gone to a dealer friend. Maybe he’d just literally dumped Nick in Roehampton West along with all the other junkies, where no one would notice him, and left him there. It was unthinkable, to me, that a parent could do that to their child, but this was Jasmine’s dad….

***

I took a cruise along Roehampton West as the sun came up, but without much hope. Even if Martina was right, it would take days to go room-by-room through the abandoned buildings. They were massive—cheap concrete apartment buildings that were crumbling and falling apart with age. And I’d have to go room-by-room to do it right. If I just glanced around, I might come within six feet of Nick and never see him huddled in the shadows.

I pulled into an alley and thought again, feeling the familiar web of police deduction and raw cop hunches settle over my mind. Just like the old days, before I lost Hux. But it wasn’t enough.

So I closed my eyes and tried to put myself into Jasmine’s dad’s shoes, just like Jasmine had taught me to do with a character at Fenbrook.
I’m in a hurry. I’ve just hustled Nick out of Jasmine’s apartment. I put him in a car, drive him to where I hear all the junkies hang out. Put him in some corner somewhere and shoot him up with heroin.

But then what? He needs more each day. I can’t leave him money—what if he spends it on cab fare or finds a pay phone and calls Jasmine or calls the cops. Killing him isn’t an option. If the other junkies report a body, the police will pick him up, ID him, and try to do me for his murder. I can’t just leave him week’s worth of drugs for the same reason—he’ll overdose and kill himself and I’ll still be a suspect.

So I have to have someone visit each day. To bring him his daily dose. Someone I trust. Someone who wants to keep me out of jail because they rely on me to employ them.

I opened my eyes.

I found a homeless guy and paid him fifty bucks for his old, brown leather trench coat, and pulled it around me to hide my uniform. Then I messed my hair up, rubbed some dirt on my face, and sat down on a step to wait. I had no idea if I was right, or if it would pay off in time.

It was mid-morning before he showed. A familiar face, the youngest, and strongest of the guys from the ice cream parlor. The Scottish enforcer called Thomas.

The smart thing to do would be to wait until he left. Then I could quickly search the building, find Nick, and get him to Chicago. The problem was that, if I knew addicts, Nick would shoot up whatever Thomas gave him the instant he got it. And then he’d be high for the rest of the day and unable to testify. I had to stop Thomas before he handed over the drugs.

I waited until he entered a building, then crept after him.

Chapter 72

Ryan

The building was even worse inside than I’d expected. The ceilings were sagging and falling in, in places, and even in the daylight there were thick black patches of shadow that could easily conceal a hole in the floor. Junkies eyed me suspiciously as I passed, but most of them were too out of it to even think about moving. I followed Thomas up a metal staircase. There was a hole in the ceiling many floors above us and rain had been trickling down the staircase like a waterfall for months or maybe years. It creaked alarmingly when I stepped on it, rust flaking off and pattering down to the steps below. It was going to be difficult to be quiet.

Thomas turned off on the third floor and I followed, keeping one room behind him. He gave no sign of having seen me. And then, on the next room we came to, he turned and bent over a pile of old rags on the floor. A leg flopped out as Thomas rooted through the rags, the foot bare and the skin pasty white. They’d taken his shoes to discourage him from running.

The leg didn’t move. God, was he already dead?!

Thomas grabbed the leg and shook it and, at last, there was a weak groan. Nick raised himself up to sitting and I almost wanted to throw up. He was pathetically thin—they must have barely bothered to feed him. And he was jonesing already, now that he’d been woken up, trembling and hugging himself.

Thomas handed him a wrap of aluminum foil. Nick grabbed it and brought out a needle, a bottle of water, and a lighter. Another minute and he’d have cooked up the heroin and injected it. Time to move. If I was careful, I could knock Thomas out before he even saw me.

I inched forward and a floorboard creaked underfoot. Thomas whipped around to face me...and pulled a gun from his jacket.

Shit.
I reached instinctively for my own gun—and remembered the captain still had it.
Shit, shit.
After all my careful cop work, how had I been so stupid? Why hadn’t I called in Charlie C or Hooper for backup?

I felt myself getting mad. Well, fine. I’d failed with smart. I’d give pure, dumb muscle a try.

I let out a roar and ran at Thomas, my head lowered like a bull. He was young and fit and used to fighting, but I was bigger. And I had something he didn’t: vengeful, white-hot rage.

I crashed into him and together we hurtled straight into the wall. The rain-soaked plasterboard disintegrated and we smashed straight through into the next room and staggered into the wall on the far side. We were going slower, by then, and fell through it, collapsing onto the floor with me on top.

The gun went off. I didn’t feel anything, so he’d either missed or I was already dead and I’d feel it in a second. No use in worrying about it now. I banged his hand against the floor, trying to loosen his grip on the gun, but he socked me in the eye with his other hand and rolled over, getting on top of me.

Through the two holes we’d made in the walls, I could see Nick filling the syringe. Even if I survived the fight with Thomas, he was going to have shot up by the time I got to him. Jasmine’s dad was going to go free.

Thomas’s fist caught me across the face while I was distracted. Then another whack, this time with the gun, and I felt something crack. “We all fucked her, you know. Over and over. Sweet little slutty Emma.”

I let out another roar and heaved him off me, throwing him across the room. I staggered to my feet, the room spinning a little. I was going to tear him apart. I was going to—

Thomas rolled onto his back and pointed the gun at me. There was no way I could reach him in time.
This is how it ends. Dead in an abandoned building. Jasmine’s dad walks.
I’d failed.

I saw Thomas’s finger tighten on the trigger...and then he gave a grunt of pain and shock, twisting around to look behind him. There was a syringe sticking out of his leg. A syringe that Nick, having dragged himself to us on his belly, had just emptied into Thomas’s bloodstream.

Thomas collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut. I sat down heavily on the floor. I could feel my cheek throbbing and figured it was broken. There was a hole in the collar of my coat where Thomas’s shot had missed me by less than an inch.

I stared at Nick. He was still jonesing, shivering as if it was the depths of winter. But somehow, he’d resisted the urge and sunk the dose into Thomas, instead.

“You’re going to be okay,” I told him, still getting my breath back. “You’re going to be okay.”

Chapter 73

Jasmine

Closing statements.

The prosecuting attorney did his best, but he just didn’t have the evidence. With my testimony undermined, the jury was swinging toward
not guilty.
We all knew it. I could see my dad and his attorney trying not to grin.

All of this. All of it for nothing. I could have gone on being Jasmine, after my dad came to my apartment. I would have lost Ryan, but maybe I could have carried on the illusion with my friends, and I could have carried on the show and followed my dream.

But I knew it wouldn’t have been worth it. Not without Ryan. I’d still have been living a lie, unable to connect with anyone. Even now, with all the horrible truths that had emerged, I just wanted to be with him. Maybe we could crawl into a deep, dark hole where my dad and his friends could never find us. Maybe, eventually, I could learn to stop being scared.

The judge raised his gavel to send the jury out to deliberate.

“HOLD IT!”

The doors of the courtroom crashed open and Ryan stumbled through, supporting a barefoot, filthy Nick. I had to stop myself from screaming. Ryan’s face was swollen and bruised all up one side while Nick looked painfully thin and deathly pale.

Both attorneys ran for the judge’s bench, the prosecutor babbling about how Nick must be allowed to speak while the defender raged that it was too late. The judge raised his hands to quiet them both. “Enough! I’ll hear from the police officer. You!” He motioned Ryan over. “What’s going on?”

Ryan helped Nick to the judge’s bench. “Your honor, this is Nick MacGinnis. Son of the defendant. He was kidnapped to stop him testifying. MacGinnis’s lieutenant has been keeping him in an abandoned building, dosed with heroin.”

“Can you prove any of this?” asked the judge incredulously.

“I don’t have to, your honor. I just ask that you let him testify.”

The judge looked at the defending attorney, who’d gone pale. He looked at Jasmine’s dad, and then at Jasmine herself, and then at Nick.

“I’ll allow it,” he said at last.

***

Nick could barely stand, but he clung onto the edges of the witness stand, leaned close to the mic, and told the jury what had happened that night in the woods. He was far from being a respectable, reliable witness. No one was going to believe an addict
or
an escort-turned-actress. But together…. I could see the jury exchanging looks. The balance was tipping our way. They just needed one tiny extra push.

I knew what I had to do. I’d given them to the prosecuting attorney when I first met him, and we’d been going to bring them out at the end of my testimony. But after the defense had ambushed me with the escort file, my confidence had been in shreds, and I hadn’t had the guts.

Now, watching my brother testify, seeing what my dad had done to him, I did.

As Nick stepped down from the stand, I caught the prosecuting attorney’s eye and gave him the nod.

“Your honor,” he said immediately, “there’s one more thing I need to show the jury. These photographs have already been entered into evidence, but we were refraining from using them. They show Miss Kane, hours after her escape from Chicago.”