Читать книгу Truth Be Told - Barbara McMahon - Страница 7

JO HUNTER DRESSED IN the bad-girl attire that was so familiar—black jeans, black motorcycle boots, tight black T-shirt, spiky hair and an attitude she wore like a shield. She was going to the precinct, but to protect her cover, she dressed the part. If anyone saw her, she’d bluff her way through by saying she’d been picked up. It had happened once a couple of years ago. That, of course, had made it even easier for her to infiltrate that particular drug ring. Working undercover vice was dangerous, but also exciting. Some days she wondered if she was risking death just for the adrenaline rush. Mostly, however, she was not introspective, just anxious to rid the Los Angeles streets of the vermin who preyed on the innocent.

Like the bastards she’d busted last night.

Arriving at the station early, she quickly climbed the worn stairs to the second floor, heading to the desk she shared with Jim Peterson. He worked vice, too, specializing in child porn. That was one vice she didn’t want to get involved in. Drugs was her area. Teenage pushers in the local high schools, to be specific. Jo looked far younger than her twenty-eight years and could pass for a high-school kid.

“Hey, Jo, nice going on that bust,” one of her fellow officers called out.

She waved and smiled, sitting at the computer and logging on. Jim had different hours. For the most part, sharing the desk worked. She pulled up the arrest records, scanned them, and then opened the word processing program. Jo shut out the sounds of the bullpen and concentrated on writing her report.

An hour later, her shoulders ached from sitting at the computer. Being out and about sure beat working at a desk. Stretching, she decided a cup of coffee and chocolate would revive her, so she headed for the candy machine located on the first floor. God, she hated doing reports.

A minute or two later she was studying the machine’s selection—like it had changed in the past five years.

“Jo? Jo Hunter?”

She turned, suddenly on her guard. For a minute she didn’t recognize the man. Handcuffed and being escorted by a uniformed officer, he was lanky and scruffy and obviously hadn’t shaved in a day or two. Who…? Then she recognized him.

“Heller? Josiah Heller?” For heaven’s sake, it was a guy from her hometown in Mississippi. What were the odds of her ever running into anyone from home here in L.A., much less at the station?

“Hey, Jo, looking good,” he said, tugging on the hold the officer had. “Hold up, man. I know her.”

Jo glanced at the uniformed cop, no one she recognized. Hoping her cover would hold, she assumed her persona of street tough. “I’d ask how’s it going, but it looks bad,” she said to Heller, motioning to his cuffs.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“Getting something to eat. They wanted me for questioning. No charge yet. I think the good cop is showing me how fine a dude he is to let me get some candy without someone breathing down my neck—like they don’t have cameras everywhere watching my every move. I head for the door and watch the swarm.” She prayed one of her friends didn’t happen along and call out to her.

“Hey, I know what you mean.”

“What are you doing in L.A.?” Jo asked, hoping the policeman would have enough patience to allow Heller another minute or two. He was someone from home. Not a friend, not someone she would ever have looked up, but suddenly that tenuous connection seemed important.

“This and that. This is a bum rap. I’ll beat it. You ever get back home?”

Jo shook her head. She’d screwed that up royally. There was no home to return to.

“I heard about Maddie beating you,” Heller said. “Bitch. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s child abuse.”

Jo was surprised. She hadn’t known the boy Heller had been very well. They’d dated a couple of times—on her part mostly just to tick Maddie off. He’d been a big-time troublemaker back then, and it looked as if nothing had changed.

“Hear from my old lady now and then,” he said next. “Thought you might want to know—Maddie Oglethorpe had a stroke. She’s not expected to make it. Payback time.” Heller seemed to brighten at the thought.

Jo sucked in her breath. The words hit like fists. Maddie was dying?

“Let’s go,” the cop said, pulling Heller off balance enough that he had to take a step.

“Maybe we can catch up later,” Heller said, smirking as his gaze ran down the length of Jo.

She couldn’t answer, could only hear the echo of the words not expected to make it. She remembered the last time she’d seen Maddie, the accusations she’d thrown at her. The anger and hurt and confusion that had filled her.

The wrong she’d done Maddie. And April and Eliza.

Jo felt sick. It had been years since she’d thought about that last day.

She turned and almost ran back to her desk. She had to get her reports done and talk to the lieutenant. She needed time off—needed to get home. To see Maddie and apologize. To talk to her one more time. She had to get to Maraville before Maddie died to see if she could make things right.