Henry’s mother appeared exactly as Dewi would have pictured a middle-aged grifter named Fawny—looking ragged, dark roots exposed in frizzy and harshly over-bleached blonde hair, her tackily over-applied makeup unable to fully hide how old and wrinkled her face really was, no doubt from years of hard living, and with tits too unnaturally perky for a woman her age and build to not be filled with silicon.
Emily had, as Dewi instructed her earlier, compiled a list of Henry’s friends and associates that she’d gathered from memory and from scouring social media accounts, along with addresses in some cases. Dewi forwarded all of that to Ken to follow up on. He was also trying to see if it was possible to get a ping on the guy’s cell phone, but so far he hadn’t. Apparently, the number Emily had and used for him was actually an Internet phone number that forwarded to his real cell phone. Making it practically untraceable in that timeframe and with the tools Ken had at his disposal.
“What do I do now?” Emily tearfully asked.
The apartment was full of packed boxes, but it looked like she still had more packing to do. “Get back to packing. If your parents show up before we’re back, call me immediately and tell them I’m ordering them to wait here.”
She nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
Their first stop was the address where Henry had ordered Emily to bring the money. It was a unit in an old, small, run-down one-story roadside motel that advertised daily and monthly rates on a cracked and faded sign out front. Dewi parked two blocks away to wait while Joaquin sprinted to the location.
I know it can’t be this easy.
She easily kept track of his progress via a location app all the Enforcers had on their phones, but they were also using two-way radios that had good range, and wearing small earpieces so they could communicate.
“This place is a dump,” he said. “How did a place like this get spared by any number of hurricanes?”
“Dude, focus,” she said. “We’re not here to critique their curb appeal. What do you see?”
“Not many people around right now. A few cars.”
“What about the vehicle we’re looking for?” she asked.
“Negative. Circling around back.” He went quiet for a moment. Finally, “Can’t see in the window. Curtain in the way.”
“Hear anything inside?”
“Nothing. Bars on the window, so can’t go in or out this way. No back door. No vehicles back here, either. Barely enough room between the building and the fence next door to walk with all the garbage.”
“Wait by the door. I’m coming in.” She quickly drove over, parking right in front of the unit, where Joaquin now stood off to one side of the door with his hand on the gun holstered under his shirt in his back waistband. It was only five doors down and clearly visible from the office, so there wouldn’t be any chance of secrecy regarding this part.
Dewi moved to the other side of the door and motioned for Joaquin to remain silent before she reached over and pounded on it. “CPS, open the door!”
Joaquin shot her an odd look, but she ignored him and pounded again. “Child Protective Services. Open up! ¡Abre la puerta!”
Joaquin arched an eyebrow at her.
“See?” she whispered. “I know a little.”
She normally didn’t impersonate government officials but sometimes it was necessary to gain the slight advantage she needed until she could get close enough to put hands on someone and use her Prime powers. It was more likely anyone inside might open the door for a woman shouting they were CPS than if Joaquin knocked and said they were police.
Still nothing.
Joaquin listened at the front window, which wasn’t barred but where a ratty-looking curtain hung in place blocking his view, and shook his head.
The door, which was made of cheap wood, looked old and battered. “Cover me,” she said. She drew her gun and kicked the door open on the first try, planting her foot just under the knob. The old wood in the frame easily splintered under the force of her Prime Alpha wolf strength, and the door slammed back on its hinges, hitting the wall.
Empty. It was obvious someone lived there, but they weren’t home and there were no signs of a baby. The place thickly reeked of stale cigarettes and weed. There was a full-sized bed, unmade, a bathroom that looked like it needed a flamethrower to clean it, and a decrepit table and chair. An old color TV sat on the stained and battered dresser. Dirty clothes, empty beer and liquor bottles, and random garbage was strewn all over the room.
“Son of a bitch,” she muttered.
An older man ran up, screaming at them in Spanish. From his neatly pressed dark blue guayabera shirt and the name tag pinned to the upper left pocket that readOrlando, she guessed this was the manager or owner.
Dewi holstered her gun, reached out, grabbed his arm, and sent him a Prime command to calm down and believe whatever they said. Fortunately it was easy to do that with mental images and not actual words, so a language barrier wasn’t an issue. “Tell him we’re CPS,” she told Joaquin. “Ask him about the tenant in this unit.”
Joaquin quickly spoke with the man, Dewi understanding less than half of their conversation.
Which is exactly why he’s here and Beck isn’t. Can’t wait to tell him I told him so.
