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CHAPTER 3

Eighteen years ago in Newark

Corrine thought that having to live with her mother was torture, but her first day at Eastside High School surpassed her idea of torture. She didn't know anyone at the school, and her fellow students made it clear they had no interest in getting to know her. She saw the usual cliques, the bullying, the put down of anyone different. And, she was different, and proud of it.

At her mother's house, she had no interest in interacting with its three residents, so she stayed in her room most of the time. But at school, she'd been hoping for ... hell, she'd been hoping to make a friend, just one friend. That notion was disabused after one of the school's "royalty" knocked her books out of her arms and other students kicked them down the hall, laughing as they watched her struggle to pick them all back up. The day just got worse after that.

For the next few weeks, Corrine tried to be as invisible as possible. Her junior year had only a few weeks left in it and then summer break would begin, and she wouldn't have to deal with any of this torture for three whole months. She'd just have her mother, Chet and Chase to avoid. She was counting down the days until she graduated next year and was on her own.

Her worst class was English, not because of the subject matter but because of the other students. Corrine rarely spoke in class, but even when she was silent, other students would single her out and make fun of her. So, she frequently skipped that class and waited it out in one of the lesser-used restrooms. When the restrooms were occupied, she'd make her way to the gym and burrow under the bleachers.

One day, as she slipped under the myriad of metal rails, she realized she wasn't the only one in hiding. There was someone hunched up next to the back wall, half-blocked by a metal column. As she got closer, she realized it was a boy she'd seen hanging out with the Cuban youth gang. They were the wannabe bad boys aiming for membership in the real Cuban gang. All Newark high schools had these youth gangs. Hell, even the elementary schools had them. She'd belonged to the Portuguese version at her old school.

She'd been avoiding Eastside's Portuguese gang. Why? She wasn't sure. Other than to honor her father's wishes. He'd hated that she hung around with Jax and his bunch of lowlifes. Now that her dad was gone, she realized how much she wanted him to be proud of her, not to disappoint him. But she was so alone, and she was so effing tired of it.

Stepping over the bleacher supports, she made her way over to the lone boy. He watched as she approached. He looked to be about her age, maybe a year or two younger. He wasn't much bigger than she was. She liked his skin tone: not too dark and not too light. It was just right. Like the color of the morning bica her father had always made for her, after he added a splash of milk. The boy's deep brown eyes were framed with long black lashes any girl would kill for, and his dark hair was tied back with a leather thong. He wore the standard uniform of ratty jeans, a dark t-shirt and a pair of work boots. And, she smiled to herself, he was freakin' good-looking. She dropped down next to him.

Neither said anything for a while. They just watched from under the bleachers as the boys' basketball team practiced drills. Finally, without turning around, Corrine said, "My name's Wren." She hated the name Corrine because that's what her mother called her, and she couldn't bear to have anyone but her father call her Renie. She thought Ren, or even better, Wren, would be her new, independent identity, she decided.

"I'm Carlos," the boy said. "You're new, aren't you?"

"Yeah. I used to live in North Ironbound. My father ran a café just off Ferry Street."

Carlos nodded, but still didn't look at her. "Prime real estate. Why'd you move?"

All she could get out was, "Bad times."

"Oh, you lost the café?"

Corrine shook her head. "Lost my father." Despite her best efforts, there was a slight quaver to her voice.

Carlos swung his head to look at her. "¡Lo mama!" he muttered, and then clarified, "That sucks."

She nodded. "It sucks big time."

They were both quiet again, until Carlos asked, "I'm blowing off algebra. What are you ditching?"

"English."

The bell rang, signaling a class change.

"Tomorrow?" He glanced at her again.

She smiled at him and nodded. "Tomorrow."

Present Day Trenton

The next thing Stephanie knew, the man was flying through the air, with Ranger and Tank piling on top of him. In seconds, they had the man handcuffed, pulled upright and had thrust him, face first, roughly against the brick wall.

"Stop!" Stephanie yelled, grabbing Ranger by the arm and trying to pull him off the man. "Back off."

Ranger cut his eyes to her, the question unspoken.

"I know him," she stated. "We're friends." She let her eyes slide from Ranger to the man he was tightly holding on to. The man was a little taller than Ranger, but much leaner. His eyes were gray and his light brown hair was wavy and long enough to brush his shoulders. He hasn't changed much, Steph thought. He was still a looker.

"We were good friends, several years ago," she explained. There was a muffled sound coming from the man, but his face was mashed sideways against the wall and the words weren't clear.

"Friends," Ranger said, his hands still gripping the man's upper arms, his eyes riveted to Steph's. His inflection made the word sound like a statement, but to Steph, it was a question, loud and clear.

"We used to ... um ... see each other, back when I was working for E.E. Martin," she explained.

"See each other," Ranger repeated, his voice still monotone.

"Yes," she replied testily. "We were lovers. Is that what you wanted to hear?"

Ranger's face was no longer blank. His eyes widened for an instant before narrowing and turning cold.

"Well, well, well. Another lover," Joe Morelli chuckled, as he walked up behind Ranger and Stephanie. "You're full of surprises, Cupcake." He turned his attention to Ranger. "Is this man FTA, or do you handcuff and rough up all of Stephanie's old lovers?"

Ranger glared at Morelli, but just for a moment. He turned the cuffed man around and shoved him back up against the wall. The look in Ranger's eyes was assessing, and murderous. Lesser men had pissed themselves under such intense scrutiny. The man stood calmly and let Ranger study him. Then the man focused on Stephanie.

"Curls, this might be a good time to tell your bulldog to release me," the man said. "The cuffs are cutting off my circulation."

Morelli stepped in closer. "If this man has committed a crime, I'll take over." He reached in front of Ranger, but was jerked back by Tank. "Hey," he cried, puffing up. And then Steph stuck two fingers in her mouth and blew a piercing whistle.

"Stop it ... all of you," she shouted. "Tank, let Joe go. Joe, back off. And Ranger, uncuff Chase."

No one moved at first. Steph stamped her foot. "Now!" she commanded.

Tank stepped back from Joe, who also stepped back. Ranger didn't move.

"Chase is a friend of mine, Ranger. He's not going to hurt me. I don't know why you and Tank attacked him, but take those handcuffs off of him, now." She glared at Ranger. He glared back, but, slowly, he dropped his hands away from Chase. "The cuffs," Steph gestured. He didn't respond immediately, but under Steph's intense stare, he finally uncuffed Chase. He did not back away.

"Well, that was fun," Chase said, rubbing his wrists. He held out his hand to Ranger. "Chase Fields."

When Ranger still didn't move, Steph inserted herself between the two men and smiled up at Chase. "It's been a while, Chase. It's good to see you. I only wish it was under better circumstances." She turned and gave Ranger a hard stare. Then she linked her arm with Chase's and gently pulled him away from Ranger. "What are you doing here in Trenton?"

"I came to see you," he told her, as she led him away from the crowd that had gathered in all the excitement.

"Me?" she cried. "Why? We haven't seen each other in years. Are you still living in Newark?"

He nodded. "Yeah, I'm still in Newark, still running the bike shop. Except the bike shop has grown. I've opened stores in several cities in Jersey and Pennsylvania."

"That's cool!" she replied. "I always knew you'd do well."

From close behind them, Ranger cleared his throat. Steph stopped, and she and Chase turned to face Ranger. "Let's do this the right way this time," she announced. "Ranger, this is an old friend of mine, Chase Fields. Chase, this is my husband, Ranger, um, Carlos Mañoso." Chase stuck out his hand again, and this time Ranger took it. They shook hands briefly before Ranger started his interrogation.

"Why were you stalking my wife?" he demanded.

Steph frowned and her eyes ping-ponged between the two men. "Stalking? Were you stalking me, Chase? And you," she swung on Ranger, "you knew about this? And you didn't tell me?"

Chase held up his hand in a "slow down" gesture. "I wasn't stalking you, Curls, but I didn't have your number. I wanted to talk with you, and I wanted to catch you alone. I was hoping we could talk in private, without a crowd." He glanced around at all the people milling in the parking lot, many still hoping for some action.

"Then let's go someplace quieter." She glanced over at Ranger. "The house?" she asked.

Ranger shook his head and replied, "RangeMan."

Lula, wisely, had been hanging back when all the commotion started, but now she piped up. "We can take my Firebird. It's just over there," she pointed. Morelli had sidled up behind them, along with Tank, who loomed over everyone.

Ranger immediately took charge. "Lula, the shopping trip is cancelled. Morelli," he started, "I don't know why you're here, go away. Tank, get the SUV and we'll meet you at the curb." He pulled Stephanie to his side and indicated to Chase to follow him.

...

When they stepped off the elevator on the fifth floor of the RangeMan offices, Ranger turned to Tank. "Take Mr. Fields to my office. We'll be there in a minute."

Chase spoke up. "I was hoping for a private meeting with Curls, if you don't mind."

"I do mind," Ranger challenged.

Stephanie interceded. "Tank, please show Chase to the conference room. Chase, would you like something to drink? Water, coffee, a soda?" Chase shook his head. She looked pointedly at Tank. After a quick glance at Ranger, Tank led Chase down the hall and they disappeared into the conference room.

Ranger gave Stephanie his full attention. "Curls?" he probed. He did not sound amused.

But Stephanie was amused, by Ranger's reaction. She grinned. "It was my biker name. Chase had ... has a motorcycle shop in Newark. He called it Chase Your Dreams. He taught me how to ride and, for a couple of years, that was how I got back and forth between Trenton and Newark. But, the wind really messed with my hair, and since I was a lingerie buyer for E.E. Martin, I had to look presentable. I finally turned in my V Star bike for a Mazda Miata."

Ranger closed his eyes. He knew there were still a lot of dark secrets in his life, but he thought he knew everything about his wife. She had lived her entire life in the Burg, and in the Burg, you lived your life in a goldfish bowl, especially someone as noticeable as Stephanie Plum. When he opened his eyes, he looked at his beautiful wife with renewed wonder.

"So, you were lovers?" he asked, making it sound more like an accusation than a question.

Without blinking, Steph spat out, "Yes. Like you, there were other people in my life before I met you."

He ignored that pointed jab. "Why does he want to talk to you?" Ranger queried her.

Steph began to bristle, feeling as if the interrogation had already begun and she was the suspect. "I don't know," she demurred. "Why don't we go in and ask him?" She started to move toward the conference room, but suddenly spun around and poked her finger against Ranger's chest. "Just to give you fair warning, later today we are going to talk about what happened in the parking lot at Pino's."

"You can bet your sweet ass, we are," Ranger muttered under his breath, as he followed her into the conference room.

Stephanie took charge as soon as she entered. "Tank, this is personal, so if you wouldn't mind..."

Tank looked at Ranger, who was pulling out a chair across the table from Chase. Ranger nodded. Tank left the room and closed the door behind him.

Steph sat down next to Chase. "I'm sorry for what happened earlier. I hope you weren't hurt? My husband is very protective of me." She glanced over at Ranger and gave him a forced smile.

"I'm fine," Chase replied, unconsciously rubbing his wrists. "I wasn't sure what kind of reception I'd get, but it certainly wasn't that."

"You said you wanted to talk to me. What about?" she asked. "I still have the leather jacket you gave me. Do you want it back?" She smiled at him, letting him know she was teasing.

Chase returned the smile. "You were one badass biker in that jacket and jeans, your curls flying behind you."

Ranger shifted in his chair. He had a flashback of him and Grace, and Stephanie, at the safe house last year. Had Stephanie been as uncomfortable then as he was now?

No one spoke for a while.

Chase finally began. "I know you were a bounty hunter. I saw a couple of newspaper articles a few years ago. They called you the Bombshell Bounty Hunter. I thought maybe you still did that kind of work ... finding people." He looked at Ranger and then back at Stephanie. "But maybe you don't."

"I did that for several years. It was an extremely interesting job, if a little messy and dangerous. But I just recently started a new job, here at RangeMan. I'm their new Customer Relations manager."

"Oh," he said.

"Do you need a bounty hunter?" she asked. "Ranger has a few guys on staff that still do that kind of work." She looked at Ranger.

Ranger spoke. "Babe, I don't think he's looking for a bounty hunter."

"But..." she started.

"He's right," Chase said. "I don't need anyone brought in in handcuffs, but I do need help in finding someone."

"You need a private detective," Ranger said. "We don't do that kind of thing here at RangeMan. I can give you some names, though."

"I've tried a private detective. Two of them, in fact. Neither of them had any luck. I was hoping ... you seemed to have such extraordinary success, Curls, um, Stephanie. The papers said you always got your man."

"They exaggerated a bit," Stephanie protested. "Who do you need found?"

"It's my half-sister. It's..." Chase looked away, a pained expression on his face. "I need to find her for my son, actually." He looked back over at Stephanie. "I'm married now, to a wonderful woman, Sylvia, and we have a son, Eric. He's six. He's a great kid, a really great kid."

He pulled out his wallet and removed a picture, handing it to Stephanie. Smiling up from the paper was a cute little boy with gray eyes, sandy hair and splash of freckles across his nose. She showed Ranger the picture and then gave it back to Chase. "He's adorable. I bet he looks a lot like you did when you were that age."

Chase nodded. "He does. I knew I wanted kids, but I had no idea of the effect a kid could have on you. When he was born, he changed my life. And now..." Chase suddenly stood up and started pacing. As he strode around the small room, he talked, more to himself than to Stephanie or Ranger.

"Eric started getting sick about two years ago. No one knew what was wrong with him. He was misdiagnosed by several doctors, which delayed getting him quick treatment. When we knew what was wrong..." Chase paused and took a deep breath. "Eric was finally diagnosed with leukemia. It's cancer of the blood." Chase ran both hands through his hair.

"The poor kid's been through the wringer. He's been in and out of the hospital numerous times, and he's endured chemotherapy, but now, he needs a bone marrow transplant." He looked over at Stephanie and she could see the despair in his eyes. "He's too sick for the doctors to use his own body's cells. He needs what's called an allogeneic bone marrow transplant, from a related donor. Neither my wife nor I are a match.

"Eric has a rare blood type. My mom had the same type, but she died when I was in high school. We've been through the registry, but haven't had any luck. There was one potential donor, but when he was approached to donate for Eric, he declined. Unfortunately, nearly fifty percent of registered donors back out when it comes time to actually donate. It is beyond frustrating. We've even considered having another child, in the hopes they would be a match." He gripped the back of a chair. "That's how desperate we are. We've got no other living blood relations, except for my half-sister."

"Is she a match?" Stephanie asked.

"I don't know. There are so many factors involved in making the perfect match. And we have to find a perfect match. Eric is getting weaker by the day and a partial match, that he might reject, could be the end of him. I ... I have to try everything I can." His voice had risen to a panicked state. Stephanie came up out of her chair and went to him, folding him in her arms. He was crying, his face buried in her shoulder. After a few minutes, his sobs subsided. Steph led him to his chair where he collapsed.

Steph glanced over at Ranger. "Would you get him a bottle of water, please?" Ranger was back within forty seconds, placing the bottle in front of Chase. Steph sat down next to him and rubbed her hand up and down his back until he was calm and able to drink some water.

"I'm sorry. I thought I was doing okay, but I ... I guess the strain is getting to me," he apologized.

"No need to be sorry. It's a stressful situation. It's your son," Stephanie said. "I'm so sorry you and your family are going through this. I'd like to help in whatever way I can. Tell me about your half-sister."

Chase lifted his head and stared at Steph, a flash of hope brightening his face. "I don't really know much about her. My mother had her when she was very young, fifteen, I think. Her parents felt she was too young to take care of a baby and too young to get married. The father was several years older than my mother, and he took full custody of the baby. My mother married years later, to my father, and they had me. I barely saw my sister, only a few times when I was growing up. We didn't get along very well." He looked over at Stephanie and shrugged. "I was a pretty bratty kid."

"I was pretty bratty to my older sister, too," Steph commiserated.

"She came to live with us when her father died," Chase continued. "I hadn't started high school yet, and Corrine, that's my half-sister, had less than two years of school left. She moved in during the spring of her junior year. She was pretty messed up and kept to herself most of the time. But that summer, my mother—I guess I should say our mother—got really sick and Corrine had to take care of her. Corrine really stepped up and not only took care of Mom, but she took care of me and my dad, too, and the house. And then, a few days before school started again, she just up and left."

"She ran away? Where did she go?" Steph asked.

"I don't know. We never heard from her again," Chase said.

"Oh, wow," Steph exclaimed.

"Did anyone try to find her," Ranger asked. "Did your parents report her as a missing child?"

Chase nodded. "Yeah, my dad did. We didn't have much to give the cops, though. I know they kept an eye out for her in her old neighborhood, and they told us they sent out a missing child report to other states. But we never heard anything. Mom kept getting sick and she wasn't strong enough to do much other than plead with the cops to continue looking for her, and then she passed away a year later."

"That must have been hard on you and your father. I'm so sorry, Chase," Stephanie sympathized. "What else can you tell us about ... Corrine, was it?" Stephanie asked.

"Her name's Corrine Silva. Her father came to the States as a Portuguese immigrant, and he ran a diner in the Ironbound District in Newark."

Ranger leaned forward. "The Ironbound? Do you know where?"

Chase shook his head. "I think it was somewhere in the North District. All I know is that he owed a lot of money on the diner, so it was sold when he died, and Corrine got nothing."

"Do you have a picture of Corrine?" Ranger asked.

"No," Chase said. "The only picture I know of is the one the police used when she first disappeared. It was her sophomore high school yearbook photo."

"Describe her."

Chase shifted his focus to Ranger, and so did Steph. In fact, she stared intently at him.

Chase exhaled. "I don't know what she looks like now; she'd be thirty-four or thirty-five, I think. But when she was seventeen, she was small, um, petite, I think they call it. She had blonde hair and fair skin. Her eyes were gray, like mine. Family trait, I guess."

"Who were her friends?" Ranger pressed. "Who did she hang out with?"

"No one, as far I know. She didn't talk about her life before she moved in with us, and no one ever called the house to talk to her. No cell phones in those days. She didn't seem to make any new friends at Eastside. I'm sorry I can't be more help. She kept to herself. She cried herself to sleep a lot. I had the room next to hers." Again, he shrugged.

"I don't even know if she's still alive. Runaways don't have a good track record for a long life," Chase said. "She could be using a different name. She could be a drug addict or a prostitute, for all I know. Or she could be married with a dozen kids of her own. Or she could be dead. But I need to know, and soon. I need to know for Eric. If Corrine can't help him, we have to move on to something else. I can't ... I won't give up."

Steph sat up straight and blew out a long breath of air. "I'll do it. I'll help you find your half-sister."

Tears sprang up in Chase's eyes, and he stood and hugged her. Ranger also stood, but he stayed on his side of the table. He watched as the two former lovers hugged, laughed and cried together.