Foster Justice Read Online Free Page B

that. I’m telling you, he’s a victim of foul play . . . if you send detectives to the art galleries in Beverly Hills—”
    A click interrupted him. Chad crossed off the last notation, LA police , and shoved the list aside. The flashing computer screen on his desk showed a search engine titled “Corporate Locators.” The middle of the screen flashed, “Del Mar Corporation. Nothing found.” Chad snapped off his screen in disgust, looking up at his Texas Ranger colleague, Corey Cooper.
    Where Chad was living blood and bone representing Texas’s ranching heritage, Corey could have posed for a poster advertising the state’s new diversity. His name was Irish like his father’s, but his lush dark hair and honey-toned skin bore more of the 50 percent heritage of his Mexican mother. While no doubt their immediate ancestors had tried to kill one another, Corey and Chad had turned an armistice into a friendship based on shared beliefs. The Job was better furthered by cooperation rather than the old blood feud between Rangers and Mexicans, going back to 1836 when Texas was a republic and the Rangers were first formed.
    â€œI thought you had a business card to follow up on to find this redhead,” Corey said in a soft drawl that bore no trace of a Spanish accent. His mother had forbidden him to speak Spanish at home, but he was still fluent when he wanted to be.
    Chad often had to strain to hear Corey, but the way he spoke lent as much weight to what he said as the words themselves. People tended to listen to him. Carefully. “I did. Gentleman’s Pleasure won’t tell me squat. I hope the whole fucking state falls into the ocean.” Chad shoved his hat back and rubbed his forehead.
    â€œTrey’s there,” Corey reminded him.
    â€œHe’ll float along with all the other turds.” For the first time, Chad realized Corey had an arm behind his back. “You got a trick up your sleeve or an itch to scratch your ass?”
    Apparently used to Chad’s shortness, Corey merely unveiled the paper he held with a proper flourish. “Since you had the police artist sketch that tattoo you saw, I’ve done some of my own research. Forget the old motto ‘One riot, one ranger.’ You’re looking in the wrong place to find Trey. Your new motto should be, ‘One tattoo, one floozy.’ How many tattoo artists do such a distinctive design, even in Hollyweird? Find the artist, you find this Jasmine.”
    Chad grabbed the drawing as if it were a lifeline. The words were torn from him. “Thanks, Corey. I . . . never shoulda let him leave.”
    Corey looked at the many medals and award plaques bearing Chad’s name on the wall above his desk. “You always take too much responsibility for everything. Trey’s an adult. It’s not your fault he went off half-cocked and then disappeared as soon as he reached LA.” An impish smile curled Corey’s sensitive mouth and for a moment he was his Irish father’s spitting image. “Women like that keep your peter in the jar beside their beds for special occasions.”
    â€œHe’s just a kid. And the only family I have left. I’m gonna haveta go out there to find him.”
    Corey was shaking his head before Chad even finished. “Nope. Sinclair won’t let you transfer to that FBI task force working in Californio. He wants you after those rustlers in Menard. Since you’ve had more rustler arrests than anyone on the force, it makes us all look good—”
    Chad rose. “We’ll see about that.”
    Corey stared after him, black eyes flaring with alarm as Chad marched to the door stamped “Captain Ross Sinclair, Company C, Texas Rangers.”
    â€œPatience, Chad,” Corey warned.
    Chad repeated the word as if in a Cantonese dialect. “Pa—tience.”
    Inside his office, Ross Sinclair looked up from paperwork, frowning as Chad