photo of Mallory Zedman out of his briefcase. “Take Shattuck south. There're three or four more places.”
They spotted Mallory at a sidewalk café on College and Ocean View, just south of the Berkeley city limits. She was sitting across from a tall African-American boy in a camouflage jacket.
Chadwick parked across the avenue. He and Olsen watched for twenty minutes until the boy in the camouflage got up to take his empty espresso cup into the café, leaving Mallory alone at the table.
Chadwick said, “Now.”
Olsen stuck her pepper spray canister into her denim jacket. Her hands were trembling.
“You'll do fine,” Chadwick told her.
“This is the one who attacked her mother with a hammer, right?”
Olsen was a big Swedish girl, a former college basketball player with a drill sergeant's haircut and a master's degree in child psych, but at the moment she didn't look much older or tougher than the girl they were picking up.
Chadwick said, “Don't worry.”
“Don't worry. Yeah. Okay. Her friend is a dealer. You think he'll be armed?”
“That's why we've waited. We don't want to have to hurt anyone.”
“You're kidding.”
Chadwick opened his car door, looked at her expectantly.
“You're not kidding,” she decided.
They got out of their rental car, stepped into the crosswalk.
The evening fog was snapping down over the East Bay like a Tupperware lid, muting the sound of the BART trains at Rockridge station, the hum of traffic on Highway 24. The air smelled of roasting coffee and fresh-cut freesia.
Chadwick was glad for the commuters on College—the moms with strollers, the black-clad students on their way to the bookstore or the burrito shop. When you're six-foot-eight you welcome all the help you can get covering your approach.
At the café table, Mallory Zedman was studying a chessboard, her middle finger resting on the head of a white pawn.
She was fifteen now. Her blond hair had been dyed a combination of orange and black, thin braided strands of it looping above her ears like racing stripes. Her face had filled in, making her look more like her mother, but she still had the sharp nose and intense eyes of her father—eyes that could go from humor to anger in a millisecond. Her biker jacket was too big for her, her tattered jeans rolled up several times at the ankles. The skin under her eyes was pneumonia blue, and the way she shivered, Chadwick figured she was hungry for her next fix.
He tried to imagine her as a small bundle of energy in an oversized T-shirt, shouting with glee as she flew onto Katherine's bed. But that little girl was gone.
“Mallory,” he said.
She looked up.
No recognition—just fear. She glanced inside the café window, saw her friend Race with his back turned, talking to the guy at the espresso machine.
“That's not my name,” Mallory said.
Then she looked at him more closely, and her wariness eroded into bewilderment. “Chadwick?”
“Long time, sweetheart. This is my colleague, Ms. Olsen.”
“What are you—” The color drained from her face. “Don't hurt Race. He didn't do anything. My father's lying to you.”
“Easy, sweetheart.”
Mallory started to get up.
Olsen made the mistake of coming around the table, taking Mallory's arm. Mallory yanked away, overturning the plastic chair.
“We're not going to hurt anybody,” Chadwick assured her. “Your mother hired us. We're escorting you to a boarding school—Cold Springs Academy.”
“A boarding . . . you're fucking crazy. You're shitting me.”
Inside the café, Mallory's friend in camouflage hadn't turned around yet, but it was only a matter of seconds.
“Your mother's made the decision, sweetheart,” Chadwick said. “Cold Springs is a good place to turn your life around.”
“I don't need turning around.”
“You're living on the street with a drug dealer,” he reminded her. “Is that where you want to be?”
Mallory glared down at the chessboard—a lopsided game in progress,
They spotted Mallory at a sidewalk café on College and Ocean View, just south of the Berkeley city limits. She was sitting across from a tall African-American boy in a camouflage jacket.
Chadwick parked across the avenue. He and Olsen watched for twenty minutes until the boy in the camouflage got up to take his empty espresso cup into the café, leaving Mallory alone at the table.
Chadwick said, “Now.”
Olsen stuck her pepper spray canister into her denim jacket. Her hands were trembling.
“You'll do fine,” Chadwick told her.
“This is the one who attacked her mother with a hammer, right?”
Olsen was a big Swedish girl, a former college basketball player with a drill sergeant's haircut and a master's degree in child psych, but at the moment she didn't look much older or tougher than the girl they were picking up.
Chadwick said, “Don't worry.”
“Don't worry. Yeah. Okay. Her friend is a dealer. You think he'll be armed?”
“That's why we've waited. We don't want to have to hurt anyone.”
“You're kidding.”
Chadwick opened his car door, looked at her expectantly.
“You're not kidding,” she decided.
They got out of their rental car, stepped into the crosswalk.
The evening fog was snapping down over the East Bay like a Tupperware lid, muting the sound of the BART trains at Rockridge station, the hum of traffic on Highway 24. The air smelled of roasting coffee and fresh-cut freesia.
Chadwick was glad for the commuters on College—the moms with strollers, the black-clad students on their way to the bookstore or the burrito shop. When you're six-foot-eight you welcome all the help you can get covering your approach.
At the café table, Mallory Zedman was studying a chessboard, her middle finger resting on the head of a white pawn.
She was fifteen now. Her blond hair had been dyed a combination of orange and black, thin braided strands of it looping above her ears like racing stripes. Her face had filled in, making her look more like her mother, but she still had the sharp nose and intense eyes of her father—eyes that could go from humor to anger in a millisecond. Her biker jacket was too big for her, her tattered jeans rolled up several times at the ankles. The skin under her eyes was pneumonia blue, and the way she shivered, Chadwick figured she was hungry for her next fix.
He tried to imagine her as a small bundle of energy in an oversized T-shirt, shouting with glee as she flew onto Katherine's bed. But that little girl was gone.
“Mallory,” he said.
She looked up.
No recognition—just fear. She glanced inside the café window, saw her friend Race with his back turned, talking to the guy at the espresso machine.
“That's not my name,” Mallory said.
Then she looked at him more closely, and her wariness eroded into bewilderment. “Chadwick?”
“Long time, sweetheart. This is my colleague, Ms. Olsen.”
“What are you—” The color drained from her face. “Don't hurt Race. He didn't do anything. My father's lying to you.”
“Easy, sweetheart.”
Mallory started to get up.
Olsen made the mistake of coming around the table, taking Mallory's arm. Mallory yanked away, overturning the plastic chair.
“We're not going to hurt anybody,” Chadwick assured her. “Your mother hired us. We're escorting you to a boarding school—Cold Springs Academy.”
“A boarding . . . you're fucking crazy. You're shitting me.”
Inside the café, Mallory's friend in camouflage hadn't turned around yet, but it was only a matter of seconds.
“Your mother's made the decision, sweetheart,” Chadwick said. “Cold Springs is a good place to turn your life around.”
“I don't need turning around.”
“You're living on the street with a drug dealer,” he reminded her. “Is that where you want to be?”
Mallory glared down at the chessboard—a lopsided game in progress,
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