The Taken Page 16

  “And others kill for it.”

  Bridget held the questioning gaze for a moment, then jerked her head down at Kit’s nails. “I’d let them sit for a bit to make sure you don’t smudge. Or maybe let your man drive.”

  Kit didn’t correct her this time. She’d been warming to the idea of Grif anyway, backing up to it like it was a cold night and he was a flame. Sex did make people do strange things. But Kit would be careful not to do anything too strange—or so she told herself. “Thanks for your time, Bridget.”

  They settled up, but Kit paused with her hand on the door. “What you were talking about earlier,” she said, frowning. “Maybe that’s what everyone is really after. Not just sex, but a passion and thrust and a love for life that’s, I don’t know, almost desperate.”

  “Maybe.”

  “You think that kind of passion is meant for everyone?”

  Now Bridget did look at her like she was foolish. But she also looked wistful. “Ideally.”

  But they weren’t in an ideal world. And it was too bad, Kit thought, exiting the shop. Bridget might have talked to her if they were. Kit might have been able to trust her. And neither of them would have to fear a man with a whole different sort of thrust—corrupted, soured, rotting . . . and seemingly unstoppable.

  She expected Grif to grill her as soon as she was back in the car, or at least chastise her again for getting a manicure while on the job, but he only tossed the phone in her lap and shifted to face her. “Tony called. Guess which little birdie finally flew his coop?”

  “No way,” Kit said, eyes grown wide. She’d had a long conversation with the old man that morning, encouraging him, aptly, to spread his wings. It just seemed sad to waste what time he had left on this earth hiding from what was both possible and inevitable: death. What kind of life was that, anyway?

  “Look, if I can walk around with a killer following me now,” she’d said to him, “why can’t you go out there after forty years?”

  Tony gave her his death stare. “Have you ever had a bomb go off beneath the car you were supposed to be driving?”

  “No. Have you ever been attacked by two men in your own bedroom?”

  “Three. And more than once.”

  Kit frowned. “Oh.”

  Yet he’d done it. He’d left his safe house for the first time in decades and Kit liked to think something she’d said had contributed to that. “So where is he?”

  “A coffee shop down on Western Avenue, one he used to frequent when he was still made. He wants us to meet him there. Have a celebratory ninety-nine-cent special.”

  Kit knew exactly where it was, in the old industrial area now littered with auto shops, XXX movie houses, and a scattering of taco carts. It was closely watched by Metro, carefully ignored by the tourist bureau, and loyally frequented by old-timers despite the unchanging menu and dated decor. Maybe even because of it. One half-expected Lefty Rosenthal to suddenly saunter through the wooden door, and it was one reason Kit and her friends loved the place.

  “So is she holding back?” Grif finally asked.

  “Who, Bridget Moore?” She nodded at his sound of assent. “Of course.”

  “Think she was the contact who lured Nicole to the Wayfarer?”

  “I don’t know.” Frowning, Kit turned the possibility over in her mind. “I think it’s time to bring Dennis in. I think he can help.”

  “I told you. No cops.”

  “I trust him.”

  “No.”

  Kit tried on Tony’s death stare. When Grif only blinked, she filed his definitive “no” under “maybe” and let her expression clear. “Well, either way, I like her.”

  Grif looked at her. “Even though she might be hiding something that can help you solve Nicole’s death?”

  “Yes.”

  “But . . . aren’t you angry?”

  “Nah. Who’s to say that I wouldn’t do the same? Besides, much of the world’s problems could be solved if we were all just gentler with each other.”

  She’d also run into too many reluctant sources to let them get to her now. Sometimes they came around on their own. More often they got tired of her nagging and just fessed up. It was rare that her ability to circle a source and dive back in from another direction didn’t create some fissure of opportunity she could crack.

  So she’d do so again in this case. Maybe not until Saturday, when she’d hit the Chambers benefit—with beautiful nails and a fantastic dress—but for now she’d fortify herself with a veggie omelet, limitless coffee, and—most important—hope.

  “Do you always have to see the best in everyone?” Grif said out of nowhere, watching her face with something close to a wince.

  “Yes.” She swung into the triangle-shaped lot in front of the hash house.

  “Why?”

  Turning off the car, she almost laughed at his bemused expression. “You should just be thankful I do, otherwise I’d be obsessing over your presence in my bedroom on a night someone tried to murder me—”

  Grif sighed dramatically. “Not that again.”

  “—instead of thanking you for your help in the days since,” she finished, and that shut him up. Kit smiled. “I am thankful, Grif.”

  He looked away. “I know.”

  “I’m also still a bit obsessive.”

  He sighed again, this time resigned. “I know that, too.”

  Letting it go for now, Kit climbed from the car. “You know, I could ask the same of you. Do you always have to see the worst in people?”

  “Yes.” And before she could ask why, he jerked his head at the coffee shop. “Case in point.”

  Kit spotted Tony’s head rising like a plucked chicken to peer at them through the window. She frowned at Grif over the hood. “If you don’t see the best in him, then why are you staying with him?”

  He seared her with a look as he slammed the car door shut. “ ’Cause we’re friends.”

  And he strode across the lot in that smooth, dangerous gait.

  A man with thrust.

  Shaking her head, she followed him in.

  Tony was seated in a wooden booth lined with lumpy red cushions, perched at a table that looked like it’d been lacquered in lieu of cleaning. Hunched over a plate of pasta the size of his head, surrounded by a half-dozen other dishes, he glanced up, eyes gleaming. “You gotta try the ziti!”

  Kit smiled as she slid into the seat across from him. “It’s good to see you out, Tony. How does it feel?”

  “I forgot what it was like. So many scents, so many noises.” He jerked his head, and Kit saw a waitress coming their way with a coffee pot. “What do you think of her?”

  “Long in the tooth,” Grif muttered, before the mugs were dropped down in front of them. Kit elbowed him in the stomach.

  Tony grinned up at the waitress as she refilled his cup, then leaned forward when she left. “Ah, but she’s got all her own teeth. I like that. Here. Try the meatballs. And these pancakes. They’re amazing. I tell you, you can’t get this delivered.”

  Grif held up his hand, but Kit dug into the pasta. It really was good. Tony wiggled his brows when she sighed, which made her laugh again. How could Grif not like this guy?

  “You’re being rude,” she told him, and both men stared. “You are. This is a celebration. Tony’s first day back in the real world. Here. Eat some ziti.”

  She held the fork up to his mouth. Grif pursed his lips and glared.

  Tony laughed. “You’re not going to sway that stubborn old coot with macaroni. If he’s determined to be moody, he’s gonna be moody.”

  “You should talk,” Grif shot back.

  “Respect your elders,” Kit hissed so that Tony couldn’t hear. She smiled over at him apologetically, and ate the bite Grif had rejected. “His loss.”

  “ ’At’s all right. Grif and I go way back. Fifty years, give or take.” He squinted in Grif’s direction. “That about right, Shaw?”

  “That’s right, Tony,” he said, but gave Kit a knowing loo
k. Dementia. She frowned sympathetically, and felt her appetite take a slight dive.

  Tony dug around his plate, still talking. “Yep, I used to look up to ol’ Grif here. He knew when to hedge and when to move the line back. ’Course, he was working a legal trade . . . and had that stunner of a wife to keep him in line.”

  Kit’s stomach sank further, and she swallowed hard.

  “Tony,” Grif said lowly.

  “What?” Tony looked up, catching the look on his friend’s face. “Oh. Sorry, Grif.”

  There was silence that felt like it would fill the hour, then Tony tapped at the corners of his mouth with his napkin. “Listen, I been asking around for you. Got out the old Rolodex. Used the old number. Actually got ahold of the kid.”

  “What kid?” Kit glanced up, blinking. “What number?”

  Tony looked at Grif, and raised his brows.

  Grif gave a short nod. “It’s okay. You can talk in front of her.”

  Tony nodded and resumed eating. “Ray DiMartino. He’s fifty-seven now, not really a kid anymore I guess, but I’ll always see him running the dice in the back of his dad’s liquor store.”

  “How . . . endearing,” Kit said.

  Tony chuckled. “Anyway, he owns the old place on Industrial, though they ain’t running booze no more.”

  “What is it?” Grif asked.

  “Ever hear of Masquerade?”

  “The strip club?” Kit asked.

  “Gentlemen’s club,” Tony corrected, causing Kit to scoff. He pointed his fork at her. “Sorry, missy, but you can’t change a man’s predilections. It’s simple human nature.”

  Kit waved her perfectly manicured hand in the air. “I don’t care about that. There’s just no, I don’t know, life to it. No story to unfold with the dance, no suggestion of magic to come. No nuance to make a boy dream of more. Just body parts swinging around in your face.” She shuddered.

  So did Tony. “Your point?”

  “You should see a neo-burlesque show if you want to see something truly sexy. There’s drama, there’s kitsch. Winks and nods. It’s not just titillating, it’s full of life. It’s fun.”

  Tony shook his head. “See what I been missing? Neo-burlesque. Everything old is new again.” He dug back into his ziti. “Anyway, the kid remembers you. Said you used to throw him a few bills when he was cleaned out.”

  Kit drew back. How was that possible if Grif wasn’t from here, and was over twenty years younger than the man in question? She wondered again about Tony’s dementia, but her phone buzzed with a text before she could follow the thought.

  Meanwhile, Tony kept eating, kept talking. “He’s grateful for the work you did on behalf of his family and his aunt Mary Margaret, and said you’re welcome to meet him at the club. Any night but Monday. That’s his night off.”

  “Thanks, Tony.”

  Tony shrugged. “Hey, we’re friends, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  Chewing, the old man nodded for a bit, then stilled. “I gotta take a leak. Don’t touch my chow.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it.” Grif waited until the old man had slid from the booth, then turned to Kit. “What just happened?”

  Distracted, Kit pulled her gaze from the window, and focused on him. “Sorry. I wasn’t listening. What?”

  “Not with Tony. With you.” Grif almost looked angry as he studied her face. “One minute you’re eating like a starved horse and talking sex with a man three times your age. The next you’re staring out the window as if you’re the one stepping out for the first time in thirty years. Who was on the phone?”

  Kit blew out a breath, surprised. She should have known he’d been paying attention. “It was just a text from Paul. Tickets for the benefit are waiting in my mailbox. He thought it best to just drop them off as he didn’t have time to meet in person.”

  Grif studied her carefully, then finally said, “Why do you do that?”

  She stopped rubbing her eyes. “What?”

  “Give that knucklehead your softest emotion, then let him load it up and fire it back at you.” He shook his head, disgusted. “You always look war-torn when you come off a conversation with Pretty Paul.”

  She didn’t chide him for the nickname. “I feel it, too,” she admitted, and frowned. Was that the first time she’d said it out loud? Sighing, she leaned her head back, then rolled it toward him. “What about you. Tony mentioned a wife?”

  Even now, at the last word, Kit’s throat tried to close up. Of course he would have a woman. Probably more than one, looking like that—walking with thrust, taking up all that room. He didn’t wear a ring, but many men didn’t. Maybe it was because of his job. She’d read enough detective novels. Letting clients and suspects know you had family could be dangerous. Of course, he might not have worn one for the same reason Paul hadn’t. The thought depressed her.

  “I’m married to my work these days.”

  The words lifted her spirits, but the regret shadowing them did not.

  “There’s more to life than that,” Kit said softly.

  “That right, Kitty-Kat?”

  The way he said it made her heart skip faster, and blood flooded the rest of her pulse points. The mild crush she was nursing over this severe man unfurled, blooming until her breath literally caught in her chest. And when he laid one wide hand over hers, she trembled. Having first seen his hands bunched into fists, flailing on her behalf, she didn’t know what was more shocking—the unexpected gentleness of his roughened palms or the pooled warmth as they slid down her fingers, cocooning her knuckles, heating her skin.

  “Remember how you said we should all be more gentle with each other?”

  “Yes.”

  “Maybe you should start with yourself.”

  Kit frowned.

  And then Tony was back.

  And then, regrettably, Grif’s touch was gone.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Grif had been fighting sleep for a day and a half, ever since Sarge had threatened him with unforgettable dreams and a “living nightmare.”

  So when he lay down on Tony’s couch while waiting for Kit to finish primping for the charity ball, he told himself he was just going to shut his eyes for one moment. Rest his body for the night to come. He had no intention of actually sleeping, which was why he was already entering the bungalow, hand-in-hand with Evie just as he had fifty years prior, before he even realized he was dreaming.

  Of course, by then it was too late.

  Defy me again and I’ll send you dreams you’ll never forget.

  This dream picked up where the first had left off, on the final night of his first life. He and Evie had already arrived in Vegas and been driven by golf cart to a room that was a bungalow in name only. Hidden deep within the thick foliage of the Marquis’ horseshoed center, these were the high-roller suites. Evie squealed at the sight of all the white marble and gold paint, right at home in accommodations meant for a movie star.

  “Everything’s comped, Mr. Shaw,” the bellboy said, but the owner had already told him that. Anything for the man who tracked down my darling kidnapped niece, said Sal DiMartino, clapping Grif on the back. Anything for the P.I. who’d put his family back together.

  “It’s like the honeymoon we never took,” Evie beamed, once they were alone. Guilt sailed through Grif at that, but he’d been working long hours back then, and she had, too, until a few weeks later, when she quit, saying standing on her feet behind the counter at Woolworth’s was too hard on a woman trying for a baby.

  But she wasn’t remotely fragile on this night. They exhausted themselves with each other in the bedroom, then again in the gilded shower. The heated water was bested only by Evie’s hot mouth, her need for him thrumming in the tightening of her thighs around his waist.

  “Tonight we’ll make a baby,” she said, the words wet on his cheek. Tonight all their greatest hopes for the future would come true.

  And she stared up at him like they already had.

  But
the Grif that was fifty years older and deader knew better than that, even as the dream-Grif felt his heart swell.

  I love her best like this, he thought. Bare-faced, stripped of clothing and artifice, wet and giving him a look that belonged to him alone.

  But later, when her hair framed her face in tight, gold waves, and she wore a wiggle dress and high heels, he thought her just as perfect. She dabbed perfume at her wrist, a lilac memory that made him pulse, and flashed him a knowing smile. Her nails matched her dress, a blend of dark cherry and glitter left over from the holiday season.

  “It’s perfect for Vegas,” she explained, blowing on the tips, helping them dry. Then they wrapped their arms around each other’s waists and traded the privacy of their courtyard bungalow for the action of the clanging casino floor.

  Evie went on to repay Sal DiMartino’s generous hospitality by chip-hustling her way through the craps pit. She moved like a charmer in a pit of snakes, and Grif was as enchanted as everyone else.

  Yet this time he was also aware of the plasma.

  He couldn’t turn his head, couldn’t do anything he hadn’t done the first time, but he’d dwelled in the Everlast, and knew what to look for now. The dead could spot death coming, even from the corner of their eyes.

  So his eyes remained glued on Evie’s wrist, and as time ticked away on his celestial meter, he noted the gambler next to Evie watching it, too. The man, balding and wide, bit his lip as she threw a seven, hooting in celebration even as she slipped a couple of chips out of the rack near his waist. She turned her head away when he tried to buss her cheek in thanks, and fluttered her lashes at Grif, laughing like all of life was a game, and a grift at that.

  Behind her, death—the world’s greatest con—inched closer.

  Grif sipped at an old-fashioned, and then another. He switched to straight whiskey when Evie ignored the subtle jerk of his head and continued to hold the table like she was spotlit in the main lounge of the Silver Slipper Casino. He admired her moxy and style, every red-blooded man at the table did, but he was surprised to realize this time around that he hadn’t much liked it on this night.