Page 41 of Fight for You
“For when? For whom?”
“Last night. It doesn’t say Jordyn’s name specifically. But it’s the same address I gave him for her once I found an old email address:[email protected]. She had consented to email chats with a doctor’s office. So, yes, I believe this private security firm in this chat did the hit for Aleksandr.”
“What’s that address? Where’d they go?”
“Santa Barbara. A sweet pad. Let me get it …” Wannabe Hitler’s fingers shuffled over the keyboard. He clicked into the thread and provided the full address. Seconds later, the CI clicked onto another screen.
I almost got whiplash from how fast the young Hitler moved.
“Oh.” I nodded. Now, we were getting somewhere. Instagram. I read the username, “Santa Barbara’s Community News.” There was a fire at that residence last night. “Click onto the news article.”
The CI was already pressing a button.
“Not the comments. That’s just gossip. Tell me who died!”
The guy lifted his brows. “Isn’t this something you can look into at the precinct?”
“No.” I gritted the lie. “Now, get the job done!”
Less than a minute later, I lowered my head while passing through the garage. Sparks flew in my direction from the door of a Dodge Ram being dismantled as I strolled out into the sunlight. I was a few blocks from the beach. But not my own backyard. Huntington Beach was the Skinhead capital of Orange County. I had no jurisdiction here.
I got into my Ford Explorer, aiming to put space between these Nazis and me. And I wanted to place an even longer crater between myself and any interaction I had going to find Jamie. So far, neither Leith nor his parents had called.
How long would Clan MacKenzie expect me to be in … was it Paris?No. Venice Beach … Venice, Italy.Oh, yeah. I was getting too old for the banana-in-the-tailpipe game.
Under no circumstances would I plug my credentials into the LAPD database while searching for Jamie. That was why I’d gone to Ledbetter. Someone else might toss their cookies thinking ofthat age and trafficking in the same equation, but not me. And not Ledbetter.
While we’d seen it all, I’d taken it a step further by erring on the side of whatever would get me closer to the position I was interested in.
At this time in my life, I’d like to retire with three stars on my uniform, indicative of Assistant Chief of Police. Hell, before Leith’s cryptic call, I craved four stars—Nolan McGregor, Los Angeles Chief of Police, had a nice ring. But I’d settle for just the three stars.Gotta make sure Jamie dies?—
A call came through just as I navigated the 605 Freeway.
The skinhead?
Paranoia rose up in my throat. Teeth gritted, I answered. “Who is this?” Of course, I knew who.Grrr!The Nazi could’ve recorded this conversation.
“I found plates on your friend.”
I almost blurted out that the man had the wrong number. Nae. I’d handle the situation later.
“How?”
“A facial-recognition tool that scrubs satellites.”
“You know—you know his current whereabouts?”
“Yep. South Los Angeles.”
While the Nazi spat a derogatory about Mexicans, I winced. South Los Angeles placed Jamie MacKenzie closer to his parents. Was the prodigal son coming home? “Make and model?”
“Jeep Gladiator.”
Hmm? Thenuggethad a real man’s car. I didn’t have time to process this, not on a call I’d rather not be having. “Gimme that license plate.”
Once the call disconnected, I glanced in the rearview mirror and grinned. An idea formed based on what I’d just witnessed at the chop shop. I punched the button on my smartphone. This is tooeasy. Often, cops transposed the numbers on a license plate. If I caught heat for this call, I’d blame mymistakeon old age.
The second the internal dispatch answered, I said, “This is Deputy Chief McGregor. Requesting assistance on a 503. The assailant held the Jeep Gladiator’s owner at gunpoint.” I provided the thief’s likeness—Jamie’s physical features—and the address of a gas station in East Los Angeles that was central to the area.
