Rafe kept repeating the younger man's name, since every time he said it, the kid's fear seemed to jack higher and higher. Good. He needed to be good and scared. An image of Greer's stricken face flickered across his mental eye. A low, threatening rumble vibrated in his chest. This fiendin' junkie had been threatening her for months either for shits 'n' giggles or because he had a screw rattling around his stringy head. No matter his reason, Rafe itched to pound on the little creep. To make him hurt for every hurt he'd inflicted. The kid better thank God, Buddha, or fucking Big Bird that Chay was here. Because if not … His fists tightened at his sides. Yeah, he'd better be grateful.
"I'd spill in the next two seconds, or I'm walking away," Chay warned Justin.
"All right! All right! I dropped off a box in Chestnut Hill," he confessed on a shrill note, his palms flying up in the traditional "hold up" gesture. "But I don't know jack shit about a bomb. Or letters. He gave me half a gram of smack to deliver a package. That's it. I swear!"
Chay crossed his arms. "That smells like some more crap you're unloading. I don't know many dealers who'd trust a junkie to keep his word. You in the habit of playing delivery boy, Justin?"
Justin whimpered. "I needed to score, man. Bad. He gave me half before I left, and the other half when I came back. He could've asked me to deliver a fucking body, and I wouldn't've asked any questions."
"Who's this ‘he?'" Rafe snapped.
"Huge dude. Big-ass tiger tattoo on his neck. Name's Adam Morgan. They call him Tag. That's all I know."
Frustration coursed through him like a tidal wave. Damn, he believed the little shit. Which meant their job just got a whole helluva lot more complicated.
"What does he look like? Hair? Height? Age?"
"Black hair, brown eyes. About as tall as you I guess, a little heavier. I don't know how old he is, man. Maybe about thirty? A little older?"
"Where do you meet Adam-slash-Tag?" Chay asked. "Where does he deal?"
"Usually over on Blue Hill Avenue."
Rafe nodded and shifted backward, as did Chay. Justin's skinny, stooped shoulders lifted and lowered on a soft sigh. Relief slackened his features, and he slumped against the van.
"It goes without saying this conversation didn't happen, right?" Justin frantically bobbed his head up and down. Rafe reached in his back pocket and removed his wallet. He flipped through the plastic sleeves until he located a card. Plucking it free, he extended it between his fingers. "I can't make you get off that shit, but if rock bottom finally kicks you in the ass, call this number. They're good."
Justin accepted the card for the crisis center Rafe volunteered with, but he doubted the younger man would take him up on the offer. At least any time soon. Already the sullen, hungry mark of the addict was making its reappearance, replacing the fear. Resentment curled his lip, shaded his eyes, nerves twitched in his nearly emaciated frame. Heroin had its claws deeply entrenched in him. Rafe just hoped he reached out for help before he turned up in a vivid eight-by-ten across some vice detective's desk, another statistic.
Weariness pelted him like a steady rainfall against a cracked window just shy of splintering.
He could've been Justin.
At fifteen, he'd been filled with rage, self-destructive, and in so much pain. His mother had just kicked his father out of the house, after he'd thrown a beer bottle at Rafe. He'd ducked in time, but the glass had shattered on the wall behind him, and a shard had sliced him across the eyebrow. Absently, he rubbed the scar. The same one Greer had kissed the night before.
The mark reminded him he'd survived, that he hadn't been entombed by the fury that had almost taken him out. He'd started drinking heavily, had gotten his first tattoo illegally. Fought to inflict the agony eating him alive on someone else. He'd been on a fast track to juvie or worse.
His friends had saved him, dragged him back kicking and fists flying from the edge he'd danced on. His friends and Mr. Langston, his computer science teacher. While others had given up on Rafe, Mr. Langston hadn't. Even after he'd busted him using one of the computers in the lab to change his history and language arts grades. Instead, the teacher had recognized the hunger for acceptance and affirmation under the defiance. Then he introduced him to a world of code, script, and algorithms.
Discovering his passion had granted him purpose. Either no one had invested in Justin or he had yet to find his.
"Take this, too." Chay handed the kid his business card. "If this Tag reaches out to you again, make sure your next call is to me. Got it?"
"Yeah, man. Sure." With a jerky bobblehead nod, he scooted past Chay and Rafe, snatched the driver's door open, and clambered inside. Seconds later the truck coughed to life and peeled out of the parking space.
They stared after it, silent.
"You think we'll hear from him again?" Rafe murmured.
"Not about this. One can only hope about the other," Chay replied referring to the card Rafe had handed Justin. Turning around, he retraced their steps toward the rear of the lot. Rafe fell into step beside him.
"In the meantime," Chay continued, "I'll call Leah and see if she can charm any of her cop buddies. Maybe they can give her something on a dealer named Adam Morgan, street name Tag with a tiger tattoo on his neck. I'm thinking that kind of identifying mark can't be so difficult to pinpoint." Leah had resigned from the police force a year and a half earlier after an injury on a B&E call. Rather than ride a desk, she'd resigned and entered the private investigation field. After her employer's death a few months ago-at her hand, since he was a murderous psycho-she'd joined his and Chay's firm as one of their security personnel. Her police training and experience made her an excellent employee. But the running joke around the office was, "Don't piss her off. Remember what happened to her last boss."
"Yeah, do that, and I'll see what I can come up with, too." They halted next to Rafe's rear bumper. "With just a name, street name, tattoo, and no DOB or social, it'll be like trying to find a needle in the proverbial big-ass haystack, but … "
Chay didn't comment. Wouldn't have done him any good anyway. Rafe had the nagging suspicion that time was speeding up on this whole deal. Too much was happening. When the menacing acts had started, the letters had been spaced a couple of weeks apart. Now, in the matter of three days, there'd been letters, fucked-up dolls, and a dead bomb. The level of aggression and the lapse in time had escalated at a rate that had him agitated, restless. He had no clue what the stalker's next move would be, but it set his Spidey sense to tingling.
As a matter of fact … He glanced down at his watch. "I need to get to the restaurant and pick Greer up from her lunch date."
"Date?" Chay smirked, fishing his keys out of his pocket.
"Shut up, smart-ass. It's with her brother and-" His mouth twisted as if he'd just tasted something incredibly rotten. "Noah."
"Methinks that's jealousy I detect."
Rafe flipped him off and ignored his friend's evil chuckle.
"Call me if you come up with anything," Chay called over the hood of Rafe's truck.
"Will do. Hey." Rafe frowned, rubbed a knuckle over his eyebrow. "What do you think the chances are of all this ending easily?"
All traces of humor evaporated from Chay's features, leaving behind a sober stare and a flat, unsmiling mouth.
"None to not a chance in hell."
"Yeah." Rafe nodded. "That's what I thought."
Chapter Sixteen
"I'm surprised your guard dog let you out of his sight today."
Greer set her spoon on the plate her bowl of soup rested on and met Noah's glower across the table. She shot a look at Ethan, who slowly shook his head and resumed eating his salad. A sharp retort jumped on her tongue, but she swallowed it down along with the sip of water with lemon she'd ordered with her bowl of potato soup. Noah had been brooding since she'd arrived at the restaurant for a lunch date with him and Ethan. If the snide complaint had come from anyone but him, she wouldn't have curbed her equally caustic reply. But it was Noah. Her best friend. And besides, beneath the surly attitude she detected the hurt and worry. And love.
"Raphael isn't my keeper, Noah," she said calmly. "Or jailer."
"I can't tell," he snapped. "He escorted you here and ordered you to stay put until he returned. If that doesn't sound like he has a leash on you, I don't know what does."