Cold Snap by Allison Brennan Page A

guy. The fog wasn’t as thick as earlier, but the air was still damp. He got out and walked over to them. They eyed him warily. Patrick was six foot three, but except for one scrawny black kid, the others were as tall or taller.
    He made eye contact. “Up to taking on an old guy?”
    “You?” The short kid snorted.
    “Baseball’s my sport, but I also played hoops in high school.”
    “You a cop?”
    “No.”
    They didn’t believe him, but he couldn’t help what they thought.
    “You want something.”
    “I do.”
    The short kid nodded. “You and me against them.”
    “Three on two?”
    “Yep.”
    Patrick put his hands out and was thrown the ball. “What’s your name?”
    “Jazz.”
    “I’m Patrick, but in college they called me K.”
    “Just ‘K’?”
    “Special K.”
    Jazz snorted again. “And you’re a cop.”
    “I’m not a cop.”
    Patrick didn’t know whether Jazz believed him or not. He’d earned the nickname long before the moniker referenced a drug.
    “Then what are you?”
    “Private investigator.” Patrick bounced the ball. “Ready?”
    Almost immediately, Patrick realized he was too old to be playing basketball with teenagers. Against Sean, one-on-one, he could hold his own, but Jazz was fast and the other guys were good.
    Still, he read Jazz and they developed an unspoken communication. The kid should be playing varsity. He wasn’t tall, only about five nine, but as a point guard he’d rule the court. They scored the first basket on a dunk, and Jazz high-fived Patrick.
    Fifteen minutes later, it was 20–14 against him, but Patrick cried uncle. “I’m getting too old.”
    “What are you, thirty?”
    Thirty-six. He’d always looked younger than his age. “Close.” He needed water. “Good game.”
    “Not bad for an old cop. But you should know, I’m not a rat.”
    “I know.”
    “How?”
    “Because I know you.”
    He snickered. “Never seen you before. You’re not from the city.”
    “I live in D.C.”
    “You’re a fed?”
    “No. I told you, I’m a private investigator. I’m visiting a friend. Elle Santana.”
    The kids immediately recognized the name, and the white kid said, “Elle’s friend? Why didn’t you just say it? Or are you trying to jam her up?”
    “I’m helping her.” Patrick spoke to the group, but focused on Jazz. He was the leader; the others deferred to him. “We grew up together, so when this thing went down with one of her clients, she asked me to help. And—between us—I used to be a cop, until seven years ago.”
    “And they still let you carry a gun?” Jazz gestured to his holster.
    “I have a permit.”
    “Can I see it?”
    “No.”
    Jazz grinned. “So why you helping Elle?”
    “Her client Kami’s in a jam.”
    “Kami’s in trouble?” the white kid asked. But by Jazz’s expression, he knew. They all knew who Kami was, but Jazz knew what had happened. The kid didn’t fear much, but Patrick could see in his old, dark eyes that he was worried.
    “Have you seen her tonight?”
    They all shook their heads, except Jazz, who hesitated.
    Patrick said, “Maybe you didn’t see her, but know where she is?”
    Jazz ignored Patrick but motioned for his boys to walk across the court, and they talked, unmindful of the cold through their thin hoodies. Then Jazz returned alone and the other three went into the building.
    “I don’t know where Kami is, but you know Lorenzo?”
    Patrick dipped his head.
    “He’s looking for her.”
    “Is she in danger?”
    Jazz shrugged. “I’m only telling you this because Kami’s a good kid, and I don’t want her hurt. I haven’t seen her for days, but Ace”—he gestured toward the building where his friends disappeared—“thought he saw her at TK at closing today.”
    “TK?”
    “The clothes shop. You know, where they make T-shirts and shit. They hire out of here. Ace is sixteen, so he has good hours and shit. I’m too young.”
    “How old are you?”
    “Fourteen.”
    Patrick