“No cops,” she insisted. “If CO’s at the prison are involved in this, why not local police? You can help me find Cole.” Her face was a stubborn wall of determination.
Why would someone who worked for Corrections and Rehabilitation not trust the authorities?
Frankie pulled a paper from her handbag and shoved it across the table. It was the coded message, wrinkled and torn, she claimed Cole had given her when she was examining him in the prison clinic. “Can you tell what it means?”
Cruz was impressed by her composure. The attack and threats must’ve been terrifying, but she managed to maintain a cool outward fa?ade.
He reached across the table, took the note, looking around to check if anyone had noticed. “It looks like gobbledygook,” he complained after a glance.
“Maybe, but Cole Hansen risked his life getting it to me in prison. He couldn’t know his release date would come so quickly.”
Cruz lifted one eyebrow. “Don’t make Cole Hansen into some kind of hero, Dr. Jones. He’s an ex-felon. He’ll say or do anything to make his life easier.”
“Maybe.” Frankie shifted in her chair. “But I don’t think he’s a killer. I think he’s a guy who got caught up in something he doesn’t know how to get out of.”
“In every one of his prison terms he’s been ganged up,” he reminded her.
“You know how it is in prison,” Frankie returned hotly, pink flushing her high cheekbones. “It’s all about survival.”
Cruz sighed and rubbed his right temple. Damn, the woman gave him a headache. What kind of prison doctor was also a liberal, left-wing supporter of prisoners’ rights?
But she did look appealing when she blushed.
“You may be right,” he returned, “but unless we can find Cole, get him to help us figure this out, it’s just a useless piece of paper.”
“A piece of paper intended for the president of the Lords of Death,” she countered.
Cruz nodded. “There’s that.”
“We have to find Cole before someone else does.”
“You need to worry about your own safety first. If you’re correct, and someone’s trying to get to you, you’re in trouble. If you won’t go to the police, do you have somewhere that’s secure?”
Frankie had already found her safe house, but only nodded.
“Okay, go to this – this place you have – and make sure no one follows you,” Cruz ordered, pushing back from the table, throwing a few bills down.
He reached for her phone lying on the table and programmed his number into it. “Wait for me to call. We’ll talk about that – ” He nodded at the note “ – later.”
“Wh – what are you going to do?”
“I’m going to locate Cole Hansen.”
Cole needed help, but didn’t know where to turn.
As his last few dollars ran out, he scrounged around for empty soda cans and got enough change for a cup of coffee and a dollar sandwich at McDonald’s. Another manager, another young kid, gave him warning looks as he huddled quietly in the corner, so he left.
By now he was real grubby. He hadn’t washed since he’d left prison and was sure the frowns and stares he got from people in Old Town was from the stink coming off him. He’d never lived on the street before. In between jail and prison stints, he always found someone who’d give him a place to stay, a few weeks here, a few there, even if it meant sleeping on the floor or in the garage.
Desperation was a ball of sodden bread clogging his throat.
He sat on the steps of the Washington Street Church. Looked around the corner to see the small sign of the Jesus Saves building. Cruz had said the woman there, Angie Hunt, was good people. Cole didn’t know if he could trust his parole officer or not, but what choice did he have?
He was that desperate.
Chapter 31
Cruz caught up with Cole Hansen by sheer accident.
Cruising down Washington Street, he swung his jeep into the parking lot behind the Washington Street Church where the parishioners served breakfast on weekdays for the homeless. A few stragglers lingered about, drinking coffee and eating breakfast bars.
Cruz idled his vehicle a few moments, watching the people who exited the back door of the church. Suddenly, Cole came out of the wide double doors and looked around carefully. He hoisted his backpack on one shoulder while he sipped from a Styrofoam cup.
Clearly, Cole didn’t recognize Cruz’s car. The parole officer eased out of the seat, closed the door quietly, and started walking toward the parolee. Cole caught the movement, and in a flash tossed aside his cup of coffee and hauled ass around the side of the building.
Damn! Cruz hated the runners. He took off after him.
Cole was faster on his feet than Cruz had expected, but no match for him. He worked out regularly and ran five to seven miles a day. Single, with few hobbies, and both parents passed away, Cruz had little else to do with his spare time.