3. Louise
Chapter 3
Louise
“I hate him! I fucking hate him. Asshole.”
Slamming my fist into the steering wheel makes the anger course through my veins even more. How is it possible, after all this time, that he’s able to push my buttons with zero effort? I anticipated he might still feel sore about our parting of ways eight years ago, but I’d hoped he’d at least hear me out. I’d used my long-time friendship with Rick to coax him to tell me where Draven was staying, and then I’d gone and fucked it up.
I could have, should have handled the situation better. Wrecking his bike and kneeing him in the ‘nads was just stupid. For one thing, Draven loves his bike as much as he loves his mother, and he’s pretty fond of his balls, too, I imagine. Having to sleep with an ice pack on his them for the next few nights won’t endear me to him, either. A much more sensible approach would have been to walk away, give him time to reflect, then return in the morning when we’d both calmed down. Instead, I’d allowed desperation to get the better of me and, in the process, made him dig his heels in further.
Three days have passed since my sister Kiera went missing—the sixth woman to do so from the Camden area of New Jersey in the last week. Three days, during which time I’ve barely slept, too busy trawling through every scrap of evidence I can get my hands on, which isn’t an easy feat considering my boss locked me out of the investigation the second my sister disappeared. Conflict of interest, he called it. Bullshit. I’m more motivated than any single member of that investigative team to find the vital piece of the puzzle that will lead us to Kiera and those other women.
But what drove me to Draven was when I discovered the case is being taken over by the FBI. That means I’ll lose access to the regular updates from my boss. His assurances of, “Don’t worry, Rhodes. The captain told me we’ll be kept up to date with progress,” don’t fill me with confidence. I have prior experience of the feds marching in and taking over. They don’t like to collaborate. Actually, that isn’t true. They simply don’t see the need to collaborate.
As the adrenaline over my argument with Draven dwindles, the fear for Kiera returns. My ribs work in great heaves as panic settles in for the night. Pressing a hand to my chest to ease the pain, I take several deep breaths, willing my heart rate to slow. I can’t afford to accept defeat when I have so much to lose.
Instead, I’ll give Draven some space and pay him another visit first thing in the morning. If I get up early enough, I should catch him before he heads back to New York, as he likely will now that the case he worked on with Rick is closed.
Whatever Draven’s faults—and there are many—I know him well enough to hedge a bet that once he allows me to explain about Kiera, he’ll be compelled to help. All I have to do is get him to listen.
During the eight-year gap since I’d last been in his company, I’d almost forgotten the sheer size of the man, as well as the menace that emanates from him. That towering presence is precisely what I need to help me find Kiera and the other missing women. Draven doesn’t open doors, he crashes through them, and given the nature of this case, a man who isn’t afraid to cross the line will be indispensable in cracking it.
There’s only one reason young, beautiful women are disappearing without a trace, and my limited experience with sex traffickers tells me we are running out of time. If Kiera is smuggled out of the country, I’ll never get her back.
The thought curdles my stomach. I can’t bear to think about how frightened she must be. If I let myself think about that, I’ll lose focus. As difficult as it is, I have to approach this the same way I would any other case, with diligence and determination. I’ll plow on until there’s a conclusion, and hope with everything in my heart that it’s a positive one.
I adore my baby sister. The thought of her being in pain, cold, frightened, or hurt kills me. What are those vile bastards doing to her? I don’t know how our family will ever recover if she doesn’t make it.
It takes two hours to drive back to Camden from Newark, thanks to a damn highway wreck that resulted in a line of traffic four miles long. By the time I park the car and set foot inside my apartment, depressed doesn’t even begin to portray my mood. The time sitting still while waiting for the highway patrol to clear the wreck gave my despair over Draven’s reaction time to fester. Whatever I do tomorrow, staying calm is the only chance I have of getting him to listen.
I grab a bowl of leftover pasta from the fridge and rest it in my lap while I remove the stack of papers detailing the evidence in the women’s abductions. If my boss knew I had these, he’d write me up for about ten violations. Equally, if he thought I’d simply sit back and do nothing while my sister is in the hands of God only knows who, he is sorely mistaken.
After spreading them over my kitchen table, I pore over every sentence—again. By now, I can almost recite the evidence collected word for word. Not that it matters. I’ve hit a brick wall. Cold doesn’t begin to describe this trail. Glacial is a much better description. Kiera and the other five women have disappeared as if they never existed. But Kiera does exist, as do those other girls. Every one of them has a family that must be going out of their minds with worry. They have to be somewhere, hopefully alive and unharmed.
I put my head in my hands. Oh, God, the thought of having to tell Mom and Dad Kiera hasn’t made it, and that despite my best efforts, I haven’t been able to save my sister—their daughter. My parents are so proud of my career achievements. They think I can solve any problem, including Kiera’s disappearance. They don’t understand the politics behind the law enforcement machine, nor can I expect them to.
Unable to stomach the pasta, I set it to one side, my paltry appetite deserting me as I wearily clamber to my feet and stretch out my back. My attention falls on the large clock hanging on the kitchen wall. Almost midnight. Nothing more can be done tonight. I may as well try to get some sleep. In the morning, after some much-needed rest, I’ll be able to think more clearly, plan my approach to Draven, and hope he gives me the time of day.
I spend the next several hours tossing and turning. At six a.m., I give up on the idea of napping, and crawl out of bed, with my eyes still glued shut as I stagger into the shower.
Draven will help me. He will. He has to. I refuse to accept another outcome. As much as it galls me to admit it, without him I have an uphill struggle on my hands. If eating humble pie and admitting that I handled what went down between us badly is what gets Draven to help me, I’ll do it.
Feeling moderately awake now after my shower, I scrape my hair back into a ponytail, and dress in jeans, a button-down shirt, and sturdy boots. The thought of food turns my stomach still, so I choose to downing two cups of strong coffee instead, then grab my keys and head out. Traffic will be light this early in the morning, given it’s Saturday. If I get lucky, I’ll catch Draven before he leaves for home.
The drive to Newark takes forty minutes, but when I pull into the motel, my heart sinks. The space where Draven had parked his bike is empty. He must have left already. Goddammit. It’s only seven fifteen. If I call Rick this early on a Saturday when he isn’t rostered on shift, he’ll kill me. As antsy as I am to get this over with, it’s a much better decision to grab another coffee and wait until it at least turns nine before calling Rick for Draven’s contact details.
I find a diner down the street from Draven’s motel, where I step inside, I glance around. Apart from a guy sitting close to the door in a crumpled gray suit, nursing a cup of coffee, the place is empty.
“Sit anywhere you like, honey,” the lone waitress says, pointing her chin at the row of red, faux leather benches. “I’ll be right over.”
I slip into a booth by the window and open the menu. Even though I’m still not all that hungry, I order a cheese omelet and a coffee before I remove the folder of paperwork that contains the few details we know of Kiera’s case—more out of habit than hope. When I open it and stare at the front page, the words swim together, exhaustion from the last few days finally catching up with me. If I had something to go on, I’d feel more energized. Anything to cling onto other than this series of dead ends.
I have to believe something will turn up, with the chances of that happening increase significantly if I can persuade Draven to work alongside me. I’ve followed his career over the last eight years, often asking myself why, even though, deep down, I know the answer. There are few investigators with a nose for the truth like him. One way or another, I have to force him to listen. I’ll chain myself to his fucking leg if he refuses to hear me out for a third time. I’ll do whatever it takes to save Kiera, including throwing myself at the mercy of the man who hates my guts.
When my food arrives, I push it around my plate, killing time until I can call Rick and coerce him into giving me Draven’s home address. I could call his office—the number is publicly available—but if I do that, he won’t answer. He’ll have his receptionist stonewall me. I could also drive over to his office building and stage a sit in, but all that will do is get his back up and make it even less likely he’ll hear me out. Turning up at his home isn’t ideal either, but I’m hoping the ballsy move will catch him unawares and stall him long enough for me to tell him about Kiera.
My legs bounce, and I fiddle with my necklace, wondering how Draven will react when I knock on his door. Knowing him, it will be vocally, especially given how we left things last night. To take my anger out on his bike… Dumb. As. Fuck. Draven has always loved bikes. The only time he’d ever driven a car was when we were out on patrol. Hell, kicking that thing was the equivalent to smacking a stranger’s child, and it had garnered the same reaction: outrage.
I blow out a heavy breath, close my eyes, and run through what I’ll say in my head. Contrite is the right approach. I’ll start with an apology, then calmly ask him to give me a few minutes to explain why I need his help. Surely he won’t be able to simply dismiss me if I I’m reasonable.
I snort. This is Draven. There’s no telling how he’ll react to any given situation.
Eventually, the clock edges toward nine. With five minutes to go, I can’t wait any longer. Rick’s phone rings, then goes to voicemail, so I hang up and immediately redial. On the third attempt, his drowsy voice answers.
“You’d better be close to death, Rhodes.”
“Sorry, Rick. I wouldn’t call if it wasn’t urgent.”
He yawns loudly. “Some days I regret meeting you at the academy.”
I chuckle. “You love me.”
Another yawn. “Go on, then. Hit me with it.”
“I need Draven’s address.”
“I already told you where he’s staying.”
“Yeah, he checked out. I need his home address.”
“Fuck off, Rhodes. I can’t give you that.”
“Oh, come on, Rick. Don’t start spewing data protection bullshit at me.”
“I don’t give a shit about data protection. I do give a shit about Draven ripping me a new asshole when he finds out I’ve blabbed his address all over town.”
“Telling me hardly counts as blabbing all over town. If he’s pissed off, I’ll square it with him.” No idea how, though.
Silence greets me.
“Come on, Rick. Do this, and I’ll owe you. You never know when you might need the favor returned. I really need his help to find Kiera. You know Draven’s methods. He’s my last hope. I can’t leave this to the feds, I just can’t. She’s my sister, Rick. My baby sister, and who the fuck knows what she’s going through.” I wince as a slug of pain fills my chest but somehow push the thoughts of how scared she must be to one side. I can’t afford to let it consume me. “Every second counts.”
A resigned sigh comes down the phone line, and I know I’ve won. “If he’s on my ass over this, I’ll be on yours.”
Relief swarms through my gut. “It’s all cool. Trust me. Remember, Draven and I go way back.”
Right to the gates of Hell.
“I’ll text it to you. Now I’m hanging up so I can get back to sleep.” He cuts the call, and seconds later, my phone pings with a text. Good old Rick. I knew he’d come through for me.
I leave some money on the table for my barely touched breakfast, send a faint smile and a wave at the server, then climb back into my car. Once I’ve entered the coordinates into my GPS, I set off, joining the I-95 toward Manhattan. Even with the early hour and it being the weekend, it still takes more than sixty minutes before I arrive at Draven’s seven-story apartment building. I locate a parking lot a couple of blocks over, find a space, make sure my car is securely locked, then walk back to Draven’s street.
It’s a stroke of luck his building isn’t one of those that needs someone to let you in. Draven wouldn’t, that’s for sure, and waiting for someone to exit will only make me more anxious about the difficult conversation ahead.
The elevator arrives promptly. I step inside and press the button for the top floor. Halfway down the corridor, I find apartment 715.
Taking a deep breath, I mutter, “Here we go,” and rap on the door.
There’s no answer, so I knock again. Still nothing.
Either he’s out, or he’s peeked through the spyhole, seen it’s me at the door, and thought, screw that . Then again, that isn’t Draven’s M.O. If he didn’t want to talk to me, he’d wrench open the door, tell me to fuck off, and slam it right in my face.
Ten minutes pass with no sign of him, so I go for a walk, needing to clear my head. After wandering around for a while, I return to his place. There’s still no sign of him, but he has to come home sometime, unless he hasn’t returned to Manhattan at all.
Oh, shit.
What if he’s already moved on to another job that, given what I know about his private investigative business, could take him anywhere in the country?
Ice crystals form in my blood, and I swallow past a lump in my throat. I need Draven. Without him, I don’t know where to turn to find Kiera. The foul taste of panic and despair spills onto the back of my tongue.
Breathe. Stay calm.
I hang around Manhattan all day until, finally, at six p.m. after knocking and receiving nothing more than stony silence, I rap on his neighbor’s door. Maybe whoever lives here will know where to find Draven. It’s a long shot, but I’m desperate.
A shuffling noise comes from the other side, followed by the sound of a chain sliding and a deadlock being turned before the door draws back.
“Yeah?” the guy who answers drones, a half-smoked cigarette hanging from his lips and his hair in disarray as though he’d raked it with his fingertips.
“I’m looking for Draven. He lives next door,” I say.
“And?”
I go for a friendly smile. “I thought you might know where he is.”
“Who wants to fucking know?”
My smile falls, and I shove my police badge in front of his face. I have no jurisdiction in Manhattan, but I doubt this rude, arrogant ass will be any the wiser. “Me. I want to fucking know. Or we can do this down at the station if you’d prefer.”
His eyes widen. “All right, darlin’. No need to get testy.” He scratches his cheek and takes another drag on his cigarette. “If he isn’t in, then he might be at Murphy’s bar over on 155 th .”
I mutter a begrudging, “Thanks,” and jog down the stairs to the street. Pulling up Google maps, I punch in the name of the bar. It’s only five minutes away, although due to the crowds swarming the streets of midtown, it takes me ten minutes to get there. Green signage displays its original Irish heritage, and as I push open the door, a jolly atmosphere greets me.
Relief swarms through me when I spot Draven—can’t miss the big bastard really—sitting at the bar. He’s deep in conversation with a guy so handsome, he wouldn’t look out of place on the runways of Milan, Paris, and London. Though he’s too clean for me. I prefer the rough type—the bad boy type.
The Draven type.
Urgh. Why do I have to be attracted to him?
No time to get lost in my head now, though. I have to convince him to work with me on this case and hope our third meeting ends better than the previous two.
Kiera’s life depends on it.