We headed to the parking lot, and I clicked the opener on my Bentley Continental GT, but Ricky stopped and fished out his own keys. "We can't take yours. No one will speak to us."
I sighed but followed him to what looked like a thirty-year-old Mazda. I winced at the rust and nearly bald tires, and just about broke out in sweat at the infant seat in the back. The passenger-side door wouldn't open until Ricky pushed it from theinside, but I got in silently. At least I hadn't had to wear a suit for breakfast, although the jeans and sweater still screamed money.
Not that this was a time to question my life choices. Just a time to question my sanity.
Chapter five
Turnover - Losing possession of the puck to the opposition.
Cole
The first shelter on Colfax was a dead end. The woman at the front desk barely looked up from her paperwork when Ricky described Phoenix, just shook her head and said they'd already emptied out that day, but they’d been full since nine pm the night before. "Try the Salvation Army on Lawrence," she suggested without much hope in her voice.
I slipped her a twenty anyway. "If someone matching that description shows up, could you give me a call?" I wrote my number on the back of a scrap of paper. She pocketed the money with practiced efficiency. "Sure, honey."
The Salvation Army was the same story—full capacity, no Phoenix. But the volunteer there, an older man with kind eyes and weathered hands, at least seemed to care. "Skinny kid with brown hair?" He scratched his beard thoughtfully. "Lot of those around. But if he's new to the streets, he probably wouldn't know about the good spots anyway. Most of them end up under the highway or in the warehouse district."
Another twenty changed hands. Another note with my number.
We drove through downtown Denver as the late morning sun climbed higher, checking doorways and alleys. I'd never really looked at the city this way before—seeing the people huddled in blankets, the makeshift camps tucked into corners where police wouldn't immediately notice. How had I lived here for months without seeing any of this?
Because I was a rich arrogant prick that never looked.
"There," Ricky pointed to a group gathered around a trash can fire under the I-25 overpass. "Let's check there." He parked the Mazda, and I followed him toward the small encampment. The smell hit me first—unwashed bodies, stale alcohol, and something else I couldn't identify but that made my stomach turn. A woman with matted gray hair looked up as we approached, her eyes suspicious and calculating.
"Looking for someone," Ricky said, keeping his voice gentle. "Young guy, twenty-five, brown hair with blond highlights. Really thin. Would have been wearing expensive clothes."
The woman snorted. "Expensive clothes don't last long down here, son. You cops?"
"No," I said quickly. "Just looking for a friend."
She studied me with shrewd eyes, taking in my designer jeans and cashmere sweater despite Ricky's warnings about my appearance. "Friend, huh? What kind of friends lose track of each other?"
I pulled out my wallet and saw several pairs of eyes track the movement. "The kind who made a mistake," I said, extracting two fifties. "Have you seen him?"
The money disappeared into her coat pocket faster than I could blink. "Maybe. Rich boy got himself rolled last night, couple blocks from here. Saw him limping past around two AM, all beat to hell."
My chest tightened. "Which direction was he heading?"
"Toward the river. But that was hours ago. Could be anywhere by now." She settled back against her sleeping bag. "Or nowhere."
Her words hungin the air like a death knell. I swallowed hard, the implication crawling under my skin. Ricky shot me a worried glance. "The river," I said, already turning. "Let's check there."
We trudged along the embankment, scanning every huddle of blankets, every prone figure. The South Platte wasn't much more than a glorified creek in parts, but its banks offered some shelter from the wind and prying eyes. Perfect for someone who didn't want to be found. "How long has he been homeless?" I asked Ricky as we picked our way through discarded needles and broken bottles.
Ricky shook his head. "On and off since he was sixteen. Foster care kicked him out, and he's been hustling ever since. Got framed for something he didn't do a while back—theft at some office where he was working when it was really the owner's light-fingered nephew. Couldn't get steady work after that because they wouldn't give him a reference, and the nephew's buddies came and trashed his apartment so he lost his deposit. He picks up fast food jobs but they don't cover rent. He borrowed my car for deliveries but it broke down twice so they fired him." The more I learned, the heavier the weight in my chest became. I'd been so quick to judge, so ready to believe the worst.
"And my father? Is he involved in this?"
"Phoenix never mentioned your father was involved," Ricky said, carefully stepping over a passed-out man. "It wasn’t just you. We thought any of the team if he couldn't get you, but you're the one always in the press and you don't have a girlfriend."
It still screamed of my father, though. Find someone desperate enough to do anything, point them at me, and wait for the inevitable scandal. Then swoop in to "save" me from my own foolishness, tightening his control even further.
We searched for two more hours, checking every encampment along the river. Each place was the same—suspicious faces, desperate eyes, the occasional flicker of recognition when we described Phoenix, but no solid leads. I emptied my wallet of cash, handing out twenties and fifties until I had nothing left but credit cards.
"He's not here," Ricky finally said, his voice hollow with defeat. "We should try the warehouses next."
The sun was high overhead now, beating down mercilessly even for January. I followed Ricky back to his car, trying to ignore the growing dread in my stomach. What if we were too late? What if Phoenix had been more badly hurt than the woman suggested?
