The Taken

by Vicki Pettersson

  But Grif was obviously preoccupied. He kept touching his head like it was tender or he was worried or he’d forgotten something. He snapped at her when she asked if he was okay, and refused to answer when she asked what they were going to do next. The only thing that kept him from sullying her fragile good mood was recalling the way he looked the night before, hanging with her friends, listening attentively as they spoke of Nic’s life, and all the while watching the bar door to make sure Paul—or someone—didn’t return. She’d even caught him studying her face a couple of times, like she was some sort of riddle he was trying to figure out. When she asked him what he was thinking, though, he just shook his head and turned away.

  She was getting to know him, Kit realized, as they set off from Tony’s to follow their sole lead. Grif only spoke when he had something definitive to say, then used as few words as possible to do so. She couldn’t say she liked his taciturn nature, but she appreciated his directness. It was much more refreshing than, say, the way Paul had once used countless words to camouflage his lies.

  And, of course, the way Grif had watched after Charis’s baby had been sweet, talking with the little girl as if discussing something important. There was just something about big, gruff guys with tiny, vulnerable babies that was so life-affirming and reassuring. So she sighed, smiling slightly at the road as she drove, while Grif continued being a grump beside her.

  “You always this happy when investigating murder?”

  “I don’t always investigate murder,” she said, reason enough to be happy. Yet he wouldn’t want to hear that her mood also had to do with him. With all the questions still swirling around his sudden appearance in her life, even Kit wasn’t sure how she felt about it. But it didn’t stop her from being comforted by the very same.

  “Bridget Moore,” Kit said, clearing her mind and pulling out her smart phone. “Her first arrest was for solicitation, at nineteen, almost a decade ago. She may have some underage arrests, but we’ll never know. Juvie files are sealed, but this one says she was born and raised in Vegas. No listing for a Bridget Moore that matches her age, though.”

  “So she changed her name?”

  Kit shrugged. “And opened the nail salon where we’re headed, a year ago. Incidentally, it was an all-cash purchase. Probably her savings.”

  “Tired of running from Lance Schmidt?”

  “Tired of trading her body for that money,” Kit guessed. “Else why not head out to Nye County to escape Schmidt’s reach and work her trade legally?”

  Grif jerked his head. “The legal brothels won’t take you if they know you’ve been working the street. She’s got a record. Does she have a boyfriend? Husband?”

  “Unknown on the first. Nothing recorded on the second.”

  Grif made a noise in the back of his throat. “So maybe she found one and he wanted her straight.”

  “Or she wanted to be straight for him.” Kit sighed. “Wouldn’t that be nice?”

  Grif huffed again, disbelief evident in the sound, his slump, his lidded gaze.

  “Everyone deserves a fresh start,” Kit said, answering his unspoken skepticism.

  “I don’t think it works that way, Kit.”

  And he looked so sad when he said it that Kit almost ran a red light.

  They drove the rest of the way in silence. It was ten in the morning, and the streets were steady with local traffic, the tourists confined to the Strip and the airport and the downtown buffets as if held there by an invisible lasso. The street where Moore’s shop was located held only a sprinkling of pedestrians, and a roofed bus stop where a man was currently having a conversation with a pigeon. Grif eyed them both warily as Kit pulled into the lot. One car, a late-model Toyota, sat alone.

  “Staying or coming?” she asked, turning off the car as Grif continued to stare at the man at the bus stop.

  “Coming.” Yet even before the sole woman inside caught sight of Grif, her glance toward the door was wary. She’d been disinfecting tools, drying them and laying them neatly across a folded towel on the counter. She was dressed in tight jeans and a UNLV sweatshirt, but even its size couldn’t disguise a bosom that’d probably paid dividends in her previous profession.

  Kit’s gaze skittered over the bleached hair and dark roots. What a shame. Kit could’ve told her that red lips and dark brows covered a multitude of sins. Then she chided herself. Shadows lay like tiny horseshoes beneath the woman’s eyes, and her shoulders were already slumped. Though Kit and she were near the same age, this woman clearly had worries that went beyond the cosmetic.

  “Bridget Moore?” Kit asked.

  “Appointment only,” the woman said in a heavy smoker’s voice. But Kit had seen the welcome for walk-ins printed on the door.

  “We’re looking for Ms. Bridget Moore. Is that you?”

  “Let me clarify. I only see new clients by appointment.”

  “I’m happy to make one, but I was hoping just to talk. My name is Kit Craig.”

  Moore cocked a hand on her hip. “I know who you are.”

  “How?” Grif interrupted.

  Bridget’s wariness turned to contempt as her gaze landed on Grif. “I read her paper.”

  Kit shot Grif a warning look. Angering a source was no way to advance a case, and as a prostitute, Moore likely had less respect for men—and reporters—than the average CSI-loving couch potato. It would be hard to do what she did, or used to do, and not be changed by it.

  Kit took a step forward, regaining Moore’s attention. “So you know why I’m here?”

  Bridget considered her for a long moment before looking away. “No.”

  “My colleague, Nicole Rockwell—” Kit shook her head. “My best friend was murdered three nights ago. She was meeting with someone at the Wayfarer Motel.”

  Bridget just stared.

  “I was hoping you could tell me a little about the place. The way it works. The girls. The clients.”

  “I don’t hang out at the Wayfarer.”

  Grif rejoined Kit’s side. “But you did a year ago.”

  “That’s in the past.” She jerked her head to the door. “And I want to keep it that way. Understand?”

  Angling herself so she was blocking Bridget’s view of Grif, Kit pulled the list from her handbag. “Bridget, please. I have a list of names here. Most of them are local businessmen, politicians with good reason not to be linked to the Wayfarer—”

  “So don’t link ’em.”

  “If you could look—”

  But she cut Kit off with a brisk shake of her head. “I don’t exactly run with the political crowd.”

  “Well, could you tell me if you’ve ever seen any of the men listed here at the Wayfarer?”

  “No.”

  And that, Kit thought with narrowed eye, was one of her least favorite words. Inhaling deeply, she made a show of looking around, crossing to run a finger over one of the nail stations. “Nice place you have here.”

  “It’s a business,” Bridget retorted, not about to be appeased. She cast a snarling look at Grif. “A legitimate one.”

  Kit smiled. “Clearly. And I could really use a manicure.”

  “Really?” Bridget asked, crossing her arms.

  “What?” Grif asked, crossing his.

  “I have a Valentine’s Day fund-raiser to attend this weekend. Oh, and the most gorgeous vintage cupcake dress. Red crinoline beneath gold satin. Bought it at an estate sale for twenty dollars, an original Suzy Perette. The woman had no idea what a find it was.”

  Both Grif and Bridget stared.

  “Candy-apple-red fingernails would compliment it perfectly.”

  “Can I talk to you,” Grif said, pulling her toward the door. With his back to Bridget, he whispered, “What are you doing?”

  “Being charming. You might try it sometime.”

  “You’re getting your nails done.”

  “That, too.”

  “I don’t get you! You’re this hotshot reporter but you’re willing to stop the pr
esses just to pretty-up? After you already stopped the investigation to do your hair?”

  Kit tilted her head. “You really think I’m a hotshot?”

  “Kit!” Lifting his hat, Grif raked a hand through his hair. “What about saving the world?”

  “Oh, Grif.” Kit blew out a breath. “Can’t you see you’re scaring her?”

  “Wha . . . I didn’t do anything!”

  “Besides, the world’s a better place when it’s pretty. Now take my phone,” she said, handing it to him. “Go download an app, and kill a pig with a bird or something.”

  “Kill a pig with a . . . ?” But he never finished the sentence. Instead he shook his head and left without another word.

  “Sorry about him,” Kit said, whirling to Bridget when the door had shut behind him. “He’s very intense. Tries to hide his soft side.”

  Bridget just motioned to the nail station farthest from the door.

  “I really do like your place,” Kit said brightly, as she sat. Bridget looked at her sharply, relaxing when she saw Kit was sincere.

  “Bought it with all my own money. And, yeah, I paid in cash.”

  “Wise,” Kit said lightly.

  Pulling in tight across from her, Bridget picked up one of Kit’s hands. She gave her a hard double-take when she saw they were perfectly manicured, then shrugged and picked up a nail file. A client was a client. “When I’m able, I’m gonna expand to the empty space next door. Add beauticians. Someone who can do facials.”

  “Sounds real nice.”

  Bridget nodded, not looking at Kit again until she’d placed that hand to soak, and picked up the other. “Look, I read about your friend in the paper. I’m real sorry. But I ain’t been to that shitbox motel since I was busted. I’m clean. I washed my hands of all that shit.”

  “So you didn’t contact Nic?”

  “Nope. Don’t know who might have, either. I don’t run with those girls anymore. They can’t be trusted. Most will sell you to the devil as soon as they feel the flame.”

  Kit lifted her eyes from her hands. “What about Lance Schmidt?”

  Bridget didn’t look up, didn’t hesitate as she removed Kit’s old color, but her fingertips tightened over Kit’s. “Who?”

  “C’mon, Bridget,” Kit said softly. “The cop who busted you at the Wayfarer . . . and back when you were nineteen.”

  Bridget did look at her now, and naked fear warred with anger in the gaze. “I make a point of staying out of Detective Schmidt’s way.”

  “Is he dirty?”

  Bridget kept filing.

  “Does he blackmail the girls?” Kit persisted. “Make them do things for him in return for not busting them?”

  “I know nothing about him,” Bridget said stubbornly, buffing harder, then added quickly, “Except that he’s mean.”

  “Mean enough to kill?”

  “Mean enough that you don’t want to find out,” Bridget warned. Her tone also said she wasn’t going to risk her own skin—and salon, livelihood, life—to help Kit pursue that mad dog. Kit considered telling Bridget about Schmidt’s attack on her, but decided it probably wouldn’t help. Scared and jaded, she’d likely think Kit naive for not expecting it.

  Besides, she might be lying. As Marin said, he’d bookended her career, and could be holding something over her still. He could have used her to contact Nic. She might have him on the phone as soon as Kit left the salon. So as Bridget cleaned and trimmed, Kit tried to think of another angle.

  But Bridget surprised her by raising her own question. “That charity ball you’re going to this weekend. That wouldn’t happen to be the Caleb Chambers event, would it?”

  Kit tilted her head. “Why?”

  Bridget shrugged, but the movement was stiff. “Is he on that list of yours?”

  “Chambers?” Kit nodded. “At the bottom, though. Alibied for the night in question.”

  And yet, she suddenly realized, his name kept coming up again and again.

  “Makes sense. He’s a bottom-feeder.”

  Kit leaned forward on her elbows, staring closely at Bridget, now studiously looking down. A former prostitute who claimed no ties to the political crowd thought the most powerful of them was scum? “Look, if you can tell me anything about Chambers, about what happens at the Wayfarer, anything at all, I’d be grateful.”

  Bridget’s mouth firmed into a thin line. “I can’t.”

  “Not even anonymously? Off the record?”

  Huffing, she shook her head. “Who’d believe me?”

  “I would,” Kit said sincerely.

  “I know. I’ve heard you protect your sources. You got a good rep on the street.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  Bridget stilled and looked at her. “No one even believes you.”

  Kit drew back but realized Bridget was right. Marin was helping, but Marin was blood, and always on her side. But Paul had dismissed her claims outright. Even Dennis hadn’t yet returned the calls she’d put in to the police station, though maybe he would have if she’d told him her suspicions regarding Schmidt. She’d have to talk to Grif about that later, but for now nobody was asking questions about what happened at the Wayfarer. Nobody but Grif.

  “You know,” Bridget said, seeing from Kit’s silence that she finally understood, “I worked at another salon when I first got my cosmetology license. On the Strip, catering to bachelorette parties and all the bored wives of men who come here to gamble. It was real pricey, real exclusive . . .”

  Kit ventured a guess. “Fifth Avenue?”

  “You’ve been there?”

  She nodded. “My girlfriends sprang for it when I got married.”

  “How’d you like it?”

  “The manicure lasted nearly as long as my marriage.”

  That garnered a wry smile. “Well, I saw a lot of women come through those doors, some splurging like you, though most were simply wealthy. They wanted perfect nails to match their perfect husbands and perfect children and cars and homes.

  “Thing is, once I started filing away?” Bridget shook her head. “The truth came up quicker than tequila on an empty stomach. Husbands were straying, the women were in denial, all the old clichés and a few new ones as well. But as they talked, and I filed and listened, they all had one thing in common. See, fake nails—acrylics, overlays, gels, tips—all they do is mask imperfection. There’s always something else going on underneath a perfect, pristine, glossy facade.”

  She wasn’t talking about nails. “And what’s that?”

  “Rot,” Bridget said shortly. “I scrape under a nail and I pull out dirt. I pull off an overlay and I smell urine. It’s the rot of their lives seeping into their nailbeds, you see? They can fix their hair and paint their nails and run on a treadmill until they’re anorexia’s poster child, but they can’t fix their lives . . . lives of rotting perfection.”

  Kit frowned. “Just because you’re rich doesn’t mean you’re bad, or not deserving of good things.”

  Bridget shook her head. “I know that. I’m just saying that when something looks perfect, all you have to do is dig down a couple of layers. That’s where to find the truth.”

  A smile began to grow over Kit’s face. So Chambers wasn’t the perfect businessman. The perfect family man. The perfect Mormon. Pursing her lips, she thought about prodding for more, but if Bridget had wanted to speak openly, she would have. Instead, Kit tilted her head. “So why’d you leave Fifth Avenue?”

  The woman smiled tightly, pausing as she pulled the brush from the nail polish. “It seems someone dug down a couple of layers on me as well. Decided that my past made me unfit to render services to such perfect people.”

  “I’m sorry,” Kit said, meaning it, and understood better why it was so important that Bridget work for herself. And why she was so unwilling to talk about Schmidt. After all, who else had the power and authority and motivation to reveal such information to her employers?

  “And I’m really sorry about your friend.
” Bridget’s fingers tightened on hers again, but this time it was a consoling squeeze. “I’m sorry I can’t help you either.”

  Kit smiled at her, then looked down at her right hand. “These look beautiful.”

  “Hope your boyfriend thinks so, too.”

  Kit realized she meant Grif. “Oh, no. It’s not like that.”

  “With that type?” Bridget scoffed and started on the left hand. “It’s always like that.”

  “Type?”

  Glancing up, Bridget laughed at Kit’s perplexed expression. “Take it from a pro. You know a man by his thrust, and that one’s got it.”

  “I generally get to know the man before I get to know his thrust.”

  Unoffended, Bridget just snorted, and started cleaning up. “Not physically. I’m talking about a man’s drive. Plenty of men are good at acquiring money and cars and things, but only a few have real forward motion. You know. Thrust.”

  Kit pursed her lips. Paul was certainly driven, but compared to Grif, and Kit had certainly been doing so the night before, Paul had the thrust of a Schwinn. She huffed, surprised she’d realized it only now. “You are so right.”

  “ ’Course I am,” Bridget scoffed. “And you can lay odds that a man who’s driven in his life’s pursuits—whatever they are—will be equally driven when it comes to you.” Stilling suddenly, she looked up from her work. “You can lose yourself to a man like that.”

  Kit swallowed hard, and thought of all the questions that remained about Griffin Shaw. She thought of the way her pulse throbbed harder, thicker, around him, too. The way her gut had kicked when she thought he’d been injured. The way it warmed when he’d stood up to Paul.

  But the idea of losing herself entirely in another person? Sure, that idea spoke to the romantic in her. But so far it’d done so in a language she didn’t know.

  “Anyway,” Bridget went on. “This case you and your girlfriend cracked open? It’s all about ambition gone sour. Sex isn’t about power or money.”

  “No. It’s about love.”

  “No, it’s about sex.” Bridget laughed wryly, and pushed her hair back from her face. “Sex drives us, love or no love. Power or no power. Money or no money. It’s the most powerful drug in the world. Some pay for it. Some die for it.”