The Lost Page 8

  But Marin didn’t have to say it. It was on the faces of everyone in the pressroom who’d overheard the command. And it was in Kit’s heart, too, berating her with every beat.

  Hey!”

  Kit paused to run a hand over her head as Grif clomped down the stairwell behind her. She wanted to be composed when she reached the ground floor, so she’d opted for the stairs.

  “Kit!” Grif yelled again, but Kit was counting stairs, and rummaging for cigarettes in her bag, pissed at herself for not doing better. Being better.

  What was wrong with her? She knew not to let her enthusiasm get away from her like that. She might be a bit impulsive—and maybe Grif was right that she was a tad flighty, too—and passion was fine in one’s personal life. “But not in your professional one,” she chided aloud, and kept counting down.

  Old accusations of nepotism and favoritism and other “-tisms” rattled off the old stairwell, and as much as Kit tried to ignore them, they also rattled in her brain. Yes, there were those who believed she worked at the paper solely because it’d been started by her great-grandfather, but none of those people really knew Marin Wilson. She hired, and kept, only the best.

  “Hey,” Grif huffed, finally catching up with Kit halfway down the second-to-last flight. “What was that all about?”

  “That was me being an idiot,” she muttered, wincing again as she remembered the disdain in Marin’s stare. Kit worked hard to prove to her aunt that while she might be the mercurial Shirley Wilson’s—Marin’s sister—daughter, her father’s stalwart blood roared in her veins, too. It burned that she could blow it so damned easily. “I didn’t prepare before I went in there. I didn’t give her anything to work with or bring anything new to the table. I failed.”

  “Failed?” She could feel Grif staring at her. “Honey, you’ve barely begun.”

  “Exactly.”

  Grif remained silent for a moment. “But there was more. That was . . . personal.”

  Kit reached the ground floor, and pushed steel, emerging into the open air. The heat ambushed her, and she blew out a breath against it. “She expects a lot from me.”

  “More than the other reporters?”

  “Of course.” Tucking her head, she lit her cigarette.

  “Because she hopes you’ll take the editorial reins someday?”

  Inhaling deeply, Kit looked at him, thinking maybe if she said the words aloud they wouldn’t weigh on her so very much. “Because if I don’t, then I’ll be just like my mother.”

  Grif spoke softly. “And what’s wrong with that?”

  “Nothing. Unless you were her sister.” Kit smiled wryly, then shrugged. “My mother was . . . golden. It was hard on Marin.”

  “You’re standing up for her,” Grif said, with a tilt of his head.

  Kit took a drag, then sighed. “Being my mother’s daughter wasn’t easy, either.”

  Shirley Wilson-Craig—the beautiful black sheep of the Dean S. Wilson newspaper fortune—had married blue-collar, and at the time it was a scandal among the Vegas elite. Shirley had reveled in it, which made Kit smile . . . but it also meant Kit had a mother with a high-class pedigree and no sense of duty, and a father who valued duty but possessed an utter disregard for class.

  Kit disregarded nothing. She was twelve when cancer claimed her mother’s life, and sixteen when that bullet felled her father. After she’d grieved the second time—broke down, as she told Grif, and put herself back together yet again—she swore that whatever remained of her tenuous life would hold meaning. That’s why she was so upset now. She hadn’t just disappointed Marin. She’d disappointed herself.

  “I thought you loved her,” Grif said, not understanding.

  “I did. Still do.” She spoke quickly, because her heart came near to bursting every time she thought of her mother. “She was perfect. Beautiful, graceful, aristocratic, wicked smart.” She smiled wistfully, but the smile faded as a thought ambushed her: If I were more like my mother, Grif would have already forgotten Evelyn Shaw.

  “You’re all of those things, too,” Grif said, his timing uncanny.

  Kit snorted, but waved away his raised eyebrow by saying, “Marin has some other words for me . . . but, look, she’s under a lot of pressure. Most newspapers are worth less than the paper they’re printed on, these days, and the fate of ours weighs on her. So, no, I’m not standing up for her, but I don’t blame her, either. Besides, a dead woman can still cast a long shadow. If anyone knows that, it should be you.”

  She hadn’t meant to say that last part. It slipped out, more of a murmur around her cigarette than a statement, but Grif’s hearing was impeccable, and his hand was immediately on her arm. “What does that mean?”

  “I just meant that your wife’s death, even though it was over fifty years ago . . .” Kit ducked her head. “It still haunts you.”

  “ ’Course it does. But it doesn’t cast . . . what’d you say? A shadow over me.”

  “No,” Kit said, and finally looked up. She swallowed hard. “Just everyone around you.”

  Grif’s hand fell away. The look on his face was so injured and stunned that Kit wanted to reach for him. But she’d finally said what had been haunting her for so long, so not only couldn’t she stop, she didn’t want to.

  “Look, what do you think it feels like?” Flicking her cigarette away, she crossed her arms. “To know the man I love spends most of his waking hours thinking of another woman?”

  Hurt shifted to confusion as he drew back. “I’m not thinking about her all the time.”

  “No, but you’re chasing her down.” She laughed humorlessly. “And sometimes it feels like she’s chasing you, too.”

  “What?”

  Kit shook her head. For a smart P.I., he could be so stupid. “You say her name in your dreams all the time, Grif.”

  “That’s what this is about? I’m not even conscious.”

  “Have you ever dreamed about me?”

  “I don’t need to. You’re here.”

  Kit felt her expression turn to stone. Grif swallowed hard. “Wrong. Answer.”

  She turned away, and when his fingers wrapped around her arm this time, she gave it a violent shake. She shouldn’t have let herself get drawn into this conversation, she thought, striding to her car. But all it’d taken was one slip in thought, one reminder of how hard it was to be compared to someone who was perfect—someone who would always be perfect now that time had also made her saintly—and Kit was suddenly doubting everything she was.

  But what’s to doubt? She wasn’t perfect, but she was vibrant and smart and, yes, cheery.

  She was also alive.

  So, with the safety of her car between them, she finally looked up. Grif was on the other side, his reply waiting, too. “I don’t compare you to Evie, Kit.”

  “Maybe not consciously,” she conceded, “but the shadow of her memory is in your eyes every time you look at me. You should at least know that.”

  Grif just continued to stare at her so blankly that she knew he’d never even given it any thought. Shaking her head, Kit wished the whole conversation away. Then her phone rang.

  Wish granted, she thought, answering without viewing the number as she climbed behind the wheel of her car. Still silent, Grif slid in next to her. “Kit Craig.”

  “Detective Carlisle.” Dennis’s voice teased at her formality, though it sobered again with his next question. “How would you like to visit with a junkie who spent all of last weekend with one Jeap Yang?”

  Right now? Kit thought, blowing out a hard breath. “I’d like nothing more,” she said, and busied herself by pulling out her Moleskine. A little conversation about drugs and rotting flesh might be just what she needed to banish her worries over a dead woman.

  Chapter Seven

  Thirty minutes later, a very tense thirty minutes later, Grif trailed Kit into a bar just a shade shy of full dark. Probably best, Grif thought, eyeing the sag of the industrial ceiling, and the bumps in the uneven concrete floo
r. It would be charitable to call the place a dive. A permanent dark stain led directly to the bar, where vinyl swivel stools sat in uneven clumps, the seat-backs damaged and slumping, not unlike the men occupying them.

  It was nearing four in the afternoon, so the after-work crowd had yet to arrive, but there was still a handful of customers lined along the scarred bar top. One listlessly plunked quarters into a flattop video poker machine while two others watched a ball game above the bar with the same lackluster enthusiasm. A fourth man simply stared into space, face blank above his half-empty beer glass.

  Choice digs, Grif thought, then returned his gaze to Kit’s ramrod back. Her uncharacteristic cheerlessness matched the mood of the room, but it also confounded him. He still wasn’t quite sure what’d happened in Marin’s office, or what led to their strange conversation in the parking lot afterward.

  Did he dream about her?

  That wasn’t the Kit Craig he was used to. His girl was relentlessly optimistic, dogged, and thick-skinned. Her overflowing confidence, despite any odds, was one of the things he loved about her. And she lived in emotional sunlight. A shadow cast over her? By Evie?

  Hardly.

  But he didn’t need to understand it to see she was truly upset, and the conversation wasn’t over, though he’d have to wait to ask her more. Detective Carlisle was already waiting.

  They crossed the room to the far corner, where Carlisle hovered over a man who wobbled in his seat. There was nothing wrong with the chair, but the man was disheveled, unwashed, and sour-smelling, and currently picking at a wound on his forearm with unswerving fascination. With thin, brittle hair and a pocked face, the man was lean but not fit, long-limbed but lacking strength.

  The most telling thing about him, though, was the solid ring of plasma outlining his body, a bright strip that only Grif could see. Not long, Grif thought, refocusing on the man. Not if he kept up this way.

  The man’s expression didn’t alter when he spotted Kit and Grif standing there, his gaze sliding away after a mere moment, his hands renewing their restless fidgeting.

  “This is Trey Brunk,” Dennis said in a normal tone, though Brunk appeared not to hear. “He’s a heroin user, as he’ll readily tell you, and he has his rages, which is how we had the great fortune to meet. But he’s not so bad.”

  Clearly accustomed to Brunk’s lack of focus, Dennis leaned close, startling the man by putting a hand on his bony shoulder. “Hey, Trey. These are the people I was telling you about. The ones who are trying to help me find out what happened to Jeap.”

  Thin lips pursed tight, Brunk shook his head. “Hell, I know what happened to him. He went floatin’ on a pile of shit. Once you stop caring about the crop, man, you step on the dime.”

  “He means Jeap’s drugs were bad,” Dennis translated. “And that’s what killed him.”

  Grif huffed as the plasma outlining Brunk’s frail body pulsed. This man’s “good” drugs weren’t exactly being kind.

  “So where were you when Jeap took his final trip?” he asked Brunk.

  Brunk held up his hands like he was fending off charges. “Hey, man, I was asleep for most of last week.”

  “Including yesterday?” Kit asked.

  His head bobbed once. “Asleep,” he said definitively.

  “You sleep a lot, Mr. Brunk?” asked Grif.

  Brunk’s rolling gaze circled back up and almost stuck on Grif’s. His eyes were watery, though. Like the life inside him could pour right out of his sockets. “That’s how I break the cycle,” Brunk said. “I got this theory. Down the dozers and I can sleep through the super flu. Then I don’t got to face the evening. Get it?”

  Grif and Kit both looked to Dennis for translation.

  “He means if he takes enough sleeping pills he won’t have to feel the heroin withdrawals.”

  Which could last a week, Grif thought, remembering Dr. Ott’s words. From the looks of things, Brunk spent every other week sleeping.

  “Why did they call him Jeap?” Kit asked.

  “Called himself that. Short for J.P., but I don’t know what that was short for.” Brunk snorted as he looked up at them. “I called him Chevy sometimes. Or Ford. And I’d add it to the other half of that Chinese sign, just to fuck with him, you know?”

  “You mean ‘yin’?” Kit said, following along admirably. Grif was already half-lost. “Like Chevy Yin?”

  “Yeah, he hated that.” Brunk laughed nostalgically, picking at his arm before moving his fingers, worrying his face. His hands were moving faster now that he was more alert. “He said he was the light side of the yin-yang circle thingy. You know, ’cause he was so light-skinned and all.”

  Kit and Grif looked at each other. Death pallor aside, Jeap was dark-skinned. At least compared to them. Brunk read their confusion. “I know! But he said he was white where he came from, so . . .”

  Grif looked up at Dennis, but the officer just shrugged as well. “Jeap Yang was his legal name. I’ll dig for more.”

  Kit nodded, then returned her attention to Brunk. “What about a girl? Someone new who he was hanging out with recently?”

  “Oh, sure.” He blinked rapidly, then jolted when he remembered. “Brandy. Or Britney.” He blinked again. “Bianca?”

  “Think, Trey,” Kit said, then softened her voice and her face with a smile. “It’s important.”

  But Brunk shook his head. “I really don’t know, man. She liked those wigs, you know? Different colors. Pinks and blues and yellows. She was very bright actually.” He squinted like even the thought hurt his eyes.

  “And she was the one who introduced him to the crocodile?” Kit asked.

  “All I know is he wasn’t using it, and then suddenly he was.” Brunk shrugged, growing bored—or, more likely, tired—with the conversation. He slumped farther in his seat. “But if anyone knows what happened to Jeap, it’d be Brandy.”

  “Or Bianca,” Grif muttered.

  “Britney, I think,” Brunk said, bobbing his head until it fell to his chest. Kit looked at Grif and sighed. Waste of time.

  But, surprisingly, Brunk rallied, head snapping back up. “Good guy, that Jeap. Laid-back for a tweeker. I think he really believed in all that mystical Oriental bullshit. Thought it would help him get clean, so one day he could work in a restaurant. And then he could own a restaurant. Those other burnouts would laugh, but they were assholes. I never laughed.”

  “That was nice of you,” Kit said, as if that made him less of a burnout.

  Brunk nodded. “Well, he was the best cook.”

  The fact that he’d lost his most reliable heroin cook dawned on Brunk then, and his nostalgic smile melted. He picked at his arm for a moment, then looked up at Dennis. “I’m thirsty, man. Got anything for me to drink around here?”

  Dennis shook his head, impatient now that he knew Brunk couldn’t help. “I look like a waitress to you?”

  “You said you’d make it worth my while, bro.” Brunk’s eyebrows lowered, and so did his voice. “C’mon. It’ll help me sleep.”

  “Shit.” Rolling his eyes, Dennis pushed from the wall.

  Brunk’s head sagged as Dennis walked away, as if the retreating detective were pulling all his energy away with him. His chin dropped onto his bony chest, and a soft snoring started up almost immediately.

  Grif jerked his head at the slumbering junkie. “Didn’t give us much.”

  “And we still don’t know how the Russians tie in.” Wincing, Kit flopped into the chair across from Brunk. “Marin’s going to have my head.”

  “That’s too bad, sweetheart,” Grif said, pulling out a smoke. “I like it where it is.”

  “You’re just trying to make me feel better.”

  “No, actually it balances you out.”

  She rolled her eyes, but didn’t smile.

  “Fine.” Grif shrugged, and blew out a stream of smoke. “Maybe she’ll stuff it and mount it over her office door. You could chin-wag at her all day long from that position.”

 
“Yeah.” Kit finally smiled back. “She’d hate that.”

  Grif’s reply was cut short by Brunk’s head unexpectedly swiveling around on his shoulders. It popped up on his neck like a jack-in-the-box before snapping straight. The tinny tune was still bouncing through Grif’s mind when he caught sight of Brunk’s eyes, which were suddenly star-pricked and darkly alive with interest.

  Kit gasped.

  “Hello again.” Brunk’s whole face shifted as someone else’s smile raised his cheekbones high. Though still gaunt, his face looked wide and almost healthy. His body straightened in his chair, and his fidgety hands folded together. “I thought we might make a formal introduction.”

  What the hell are you doing here?” Grif whispered, dropping close to Kit, palms on the table. Shocked into silence, still staring into those overbright eyes, she didn’t move at all.

  “Just visiting. Same as you . . . Griffin Shaw.”

  The fallen angel’s voice remained light, but its words had the weight of knowledge, and each syllable emerged from Brunk’s thin lips in a way that made the human look like a ventriloquist’s dummy, which wasn’t too far off. It was merely animated flesh instead of wood.

  “Oh, yes,” it said, at Grif’s lowered brow. “I know all about you now. I’ve been asking around, you see.”

  “Wait,” Kit said, recovering, though she clutched Grif’s biceps in her hands. Grif didn’t blame her. An icy breeze enveloped them every time Brunk opened his mouth. “He can possess the living?”

  “It can possess those who have no possession of themselves,” Grif said shortly. “And it’s not a he.”

  The fallen angel scrambled Brunk’s features into a scowl, but they smoothed out once the onyx stars in his eyes shifted. “There you are. Katherine Craig. Reporter, native Las Vegan. The girl who lives in the moment, but dreams of the past. The girl who loves the truth.”

  “How do you know me?” Kit whispered, color draining from her face.

  “I torment dead people,” it whispered theatrically, then laughed so that Brunk’s Adam’s apple bobbed madly.