Touch of the White Tiger by Julie Beard Read Free Book Online

archives. Even if I won the Nobel Peace Prize twenty years from now, they’d pull out this footage of me in handcuffs for a retrospective of my life. Oh joy.
    “Okay, let’s go,” the cop finally said when four camera crews were practically breathing down my neck.
    “Angel, did you do it?” shouted one female reporter, shoving a microphone the size of a pen in my face.
    I jerked my head away and kept walking. The camera operators walked backward in front of me, their head gear recording my every grimace and scowl.
    “Angel, do you have anything to say to the Chinese girls you rescued?” said a good-looking male reporter.
    “Why did you kill the mayor’s son, Baker?”
    I turned sharply to see who had shouted this last outrageous question and came face-to-face with Rodney Delaney, a gruff, gray-haired reporter who had been in detox at least five times for five different addictions, according to Hank. Delaney’s face had more lines than a sushi chef’s cutting board, and his nose had more skeins of broken veins than the legs of an aging drag queen.
    “What did you say, Delaney?” I demanded to know.
    “Who paid you to kill the mayor’s son?” he shot back out of the side of his mouth, clearly trying to egg me into a good sound bite.
    I jabbed his chest with a forefinger. “Look here, you presumptuous, drunken, ambulance-chasing—”
    “Back off, Delaney!” A man in his midtwenties, with red hair and light freckles, pushed his way through the crowd. It took me a minute to realize it was my foster brother. Hank shoved Delaney back, then pulled me into a fierce hug. Though handsome, Hank was stocky and soft like a teddy bear.
    “Wh-what are you doing here?”
    He looked down at me with a world of worry creasing his forehead, then said to the cop, “Officer, I’m Hank Bassett, a relative and a producer at WFFY-TV. If you’re going to walk my sister, then you’re going to have to walk me, too.”
    The officer nodded and we moved ahead. Hank held out an arm, forcing the reporters to keep their distance.
    “Back off!” he shouted. “Come on, give us a break. You got your voice-overs, now go on back to your vans.”
    Finally, we gained some distance from the news crews. Hank explained that was because they needed some wide shots to intersperse with the close-ups they’d already recorded, not because the reporters were having mercy on us. Accepting the bizarre fact that we were now both newsworthy, Hank placed his arm around my shoulder and held me close. I leaned into him, fighting tears. He was my kid brother and he’d rescued me. He’d fended off his own colleagues to protect me.
    “Thanks, pal,” I said with emotion. “I owe you.”
    “Everything’s going to be okay, Angel,” he reassured me. “I called Mom and Dad when I heard the story on the police scanners. They’re waiting for you in the processing center. They’re working on getting you a lawyer. Maybe Jack Berkowitz, he’s one of the best.”
    “Okay.” I wasn’t going to turn down legal help a second time, although I didn’t like having to trouble Henry and Sydney for it. They were the Evanston couple who’d rescued me from two years of hell in an abusive foster home after Lola had gone to prison for bookmaking. The Bassetts were well-to-do, educated and had completely accepted me into their family. At times like this, I didn’t feel worthy of their unconditional love.
    I hated having to face Henry after embarrassing him likethis, and I worried that he’d taken the news of Victor’s death very hard. My fears were confirmed when I entered the family conference room on the third floor of the criminal processing center.
    Henry sat at the table, looking older than his sixty-five years. His silver hair was not quite in place and shadows lined his cheeks down to his Vandyke. Sydney sat by his side, looking lovely as usual, with her frosted hair pulled back in a bun and the best makeup money could buy, which made her look as if she