Page 40 of Big Bad Wolfe

“Hi, Miss Jillian,” the girls chirped as they walked past.

“Hi, Susie, hi, Jen,” Jillian replied.

Zane’s lips quirked. “Miss Jillian?”

“That’s the way the younger ones refer to the staff. It’s easy for them, and respectful but not too formal.” She chuckled. “While you work here, they’ll call you Mr. Zane.”

“If I work here very long, I’ll be on a Valium drip.”

“You’re so cute when you’re panicked.”

“Give me a firefight with armed wackos any day of the week.”

She dropped Casey off at his already rollicking classroom, then led Zane down the shabby linoleum floor into a hallway, bright with overhead fluorescents. A colorful mural adorned the full length of both walls—a detailed primitive painting of Cape Hope, including a beach dotted with people flying rainbow-colored kites. The white-capped Pacific Ocean rolled in the background. “Nice. Original and expressive.”

“We’ll be sure to preserve it when we remodel this section. The kids painted it, with the former art instructor’s help. Unfortunately, she moved to Portland this spring, so we’re temporarily without an art program.”

Halfway down the hall, vigorous pounding accompanied by thumping music pumped from inside a closed set of double doors that led to the auditorium. “You have demolition going on in there? I didn’t see it on the schedule.”

She chuckled. “Not exactly.”

Zane accompanied her as she strolled into the small auditorium, complete with empty theater seats for about a hundred people. Dark blue velvet curtains framed a tarp-covered stage holding a trio of young teens. A very tall, skinny African-American boy was enthusiastically hammering a blank canvas backdrop over a frame. His shorter, sturdier, crew-cut blond pal painted bricks on another backdrop of a darkly menacing inner-city alley—depicting giant rats clustered around several overflowing Dumpsters—at the same time good-naturedly razzing his friend about being careful not to nail his thumb.

A raven-haired, barefooted girl wearing black spandex bike shorts beneath a neon green tank top stretched tight over a pregnant belly choreographed dance moves to the hip-hop music blaring from a laptop perched on a chair beside her, while also scribbling notes on the script in her hand. Her finely-chiseled features, long straight locks, and flawless copper complexion revealed at least partial Native American heritage. She looked like she was barely sixteen.

Zane winced. A baby having a baby.

“Hey guys, how’s it going?” Jillian shouted over the din.

The hammering stopped, and the trio’s attention concentrated on them.

The taller boy grinned. “Hey. Sets are lookin’ good, don’tcha think?”

“Fantastic,” Jillian agreed.

The blond kid’s hand self-consciously slid upward to cover a long red scar that ran from his right temple to his chin. His fond glance lingered on Jillian, then he stared warily at Zane and frowned. “Why’d you bring the heat?”

Jillian tilted her head. “How do you know he’s a police officer?”

Blondie snorted. “Look at him. Hard law rides in the dude’s eyes. He scoped us out, scoped out the room and saw everything in seconds. He moves, stands like he’s totally ready for anything.”

Two minutes tops, and his cover was blown to hell—by a kid. “Observant, aren’t you?” Zane replied easily. The teen might be young, but everything about him from his combative stance to the fairly recent knife wound on his face said honed fighter. “You might make a decent cop yourself.”

The girl burst into raucous giggles. “Farley, a narc? He’d wear nothing but a sparkly pink thong on the beach before he’d wear a badge.”

The blond boy flushed and scowled.

Zane shrugged. “Being street savvy teaches you exactly how the bad guys think. That kind of experience eventually creates the best cops.”

Farley’s calculating gaze held Zane’s for a few more seconds before he dropped it to stare at his paintbrush.

“This is FBI Special Agent Zane Wolfe,” Jillian said. “He’s a friend of mine who’s volunteered to upgrade our computer system. Zane, this is Farley, who has inexhaustible energy, and as you’ve noticed, an infallible eye for detail. The carpenter is Calvin and he’s a whiz with a hammer or saw. And Tala is our brilliant choreographer who also wrote the script, lyrics and music for our first big production, a gritty modern urban take onLes Miserablesthat the community’s teens are really going to relate to.”

Impressed, Zane nodded at the trio on stage. “A load of talent in here.”

“Damned straight, popo,” Farley muttered.

Jillian didn’t say a word, simply looked at the boy with patient expectance.

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