IT BECAME a game of cat and mouse—although Frank wasn’t sure if he was supposed to be the cat or the mouse, but it definitely was a game of some kind because not long after the Great Pizza Incident, he found himself lurking in the parking lot hoping the Dumpster kid would show his face again.
Frank left food out and got notes in return—sometimes accompanied by small trinkets, like a beaded bracelet or a Golden Gate keychain. He wore the bracelet, and the tiny metal icon now hung from the RV’s rearview mirror. After a month and a half of chasing the blond kid’s trail, Frank came out of the Amp’s back door with a bag of In-N-Out he’d meant to leave for the boy when he found himself staring at a very filthy Forest sitting at the same café table they’d exchanged food and notes on.
If anything, the kid looked even worse than the first time Frank’d seen him, and the overly hungry look on Forest’s face made his stomach clench in sympathy. There were frozen burritos he could microwave. The Double-Doubles in the bag were going to the kid, even if Frank had to shove them down Forest’s throat.
“Here,” Frank said, tossing the bag to the boy. “Have some dinner.”
“I don’t take handouts,” Forest growled as he dug into the bag and pulled out one of the thick cheeseburgers. “I told you I’d do you for the food.”
“I’m not into little boys.” Frank groaned when he eased into one of the chairs.
“But you keep giving me food,” the kid pointed out through a mouthful of meat and fries. “You gotta want something.”
“Maybe I just don’t want you out on the street.”
“Yeah right, because everyone’s just lining up to take other people’s kids. Whatcha want? Blow or hand?” Forest yanked at the air with his fist. “I’m better with my hand. I can’t throat it right, but I’m working on it.”
The kid’s words hit Frank hard, and he blinked, unsure about what to do with the lump in his throat. “Tell you what, kid. How’d you like a job? I need some help in the studio.”
Chapter 1
Drowning in tears,
Soaked too long in my salt.
This is what I am.
This is what I should be.
Something that never ends.
But I want to be more than me
—Blue Notebook 3/8
“MORGAN! TEAM One ready?”
Captain Leonard’s query rattled through Connor’s earpiece. The rough gravel in the man’s voice came from a cigar habit he’d had instead of any defect in the equipment. Leonard’s aggression boiled out through his voice, shotgunning his orders to the TAC team through a mic. A cancerous spot on his lung took him off the street, but he’d recovered more than enough to kick their asses. Leonard was also the first one to pull a rookie up and walk him gently through training.
Connor’d been that rookie once, and while parts of his ass were still smarting from some of his fuck-ups, he had to admit Leonard knew what he was doing—especially when they were going in blind to a dilapidated RV doubling as a meth room.
“Team One ready,” he replied into his headset, tapping Roberts on the shoulder.
The early-morning hours brought in the fog, its misty air drawn toward the cooling city’s hills. With the damp came a steep of smells unique to Chinatown. Somewhere close by, a small back-alley factory made li hing mui, and the wind carried the preserved plum’s scent of anise and sugar through the area’s tight weave of buildings. The light crackle of nightlife continued off behind them, hidden by the brick buildings surrounding the nearly empty parking lot they were about to descend upon.
Its sole occupant, a swaybacked RV from the seventies, sat at the back of the lot, its tires flat and wispy grass growing up through the cracks in the asphalt around it. A couple of swap-meet tents provided a kind of lanai area, and someone’d set up a few mismatched plastic chairs around an upended wire spool, its flat surface marred with cigarette burns and candle wax. The RV’s original door’d been torn out at some point, with a larger one framed in. Instead of the standard flimsy aluminum ladderlike steps leading up, a sturdy set of wooden stairs led up to the RV’s front door.
The wind picked up again, and Connor held his team in the shadows, waiting for Leonard to give him clearance so they could crack open the RV and find who they’d come for.
“On your call, then,” Leonard growled. “Bring ’em all back out, Morgan.”
“Like they’re my babies, sir.” Connor grinned even though Leonard couldn’t see him. “Moffatt, Evers, you’re on point. Davis, Clark, cover six. Roberts, time to break it down.”
They went in slowly, circling the RV until they got to the front. Keeping to a tight pattern, Con motioned Roberts to slam through the RV’s door. He’d had the barest of thirty minutes to pull the raid together, pulling up the manufacturer’s schematics for the ancient motor home from someone’s Facebook page. It wasn’t a lot to go on, but it was the best they could do—especially since the informant told them the meth was moving out that night.