The Taken

by Vicki Pettersson

  Grif looked over, actually considered the question, and by the time his attention returned to Kit, she was moving away.

  “Go find your friend,” Kit called back, waving him away. “I’ve got to see this up close.”

  So while Kit sat front and center, by all appearances trading critiques with a group of college boys at a nearby table, Grif was escorted to an elevated booth at the back of the room. It was flanked by an in-house phone and a small console bearing video images of the adjoining rooms. He was offered a drink, which he accepted, and two lap dances, which he did not, then made to wait another ten minutes before the club’s owner joined him.

  In the meantime, he watched the dancer Kit was currently applauding. The woman was certainly flexible, Grif thought, tilting his head the way Kit had until the woman flipped back to her feet. And he supposed she was strong as well. Hard to tell with gals, though. They mostly held their strength inside, like a coiled spring. His Evie had been like that. He’d once watched, shocked, as she hauled off and clocked a man she thought had patted her behind. Grif wouldn’t have thought her capable of it, but that night, when she rose above him in bed like a smooth hot wave, he made a point of testing the muscles beneath her sweet skin. The strength he found there heightened his climax in a way he hadn’t known possible.

  He couldn’t imagine Kit popping someone like that. Not because she wasn’t strong, though he didn’t think she’d ever really tested it before, but because in the past few days she’d shown him a different type of resilience. A spirit that refused to be crushed. A heart that seemed to expand when, by all reasonable accounts, it should contract. Even in the parking lot outside, standing toe to toe with him, she had squared up and told him what was what. It was remarkable, damned feminine . . . and uniquely Kit.

  Realizing he was smiling, Grif averted his gaze from Kit—currently waving bills at the stage—and immediately spotted the man beelining his way from the other side of the crowded room. Ray DiMartino looked uncannily like his mobster father, though if Grif remembered correctly, it was Theresa DiMartino’s sculpted nose and pointed jaw that made the kid not unhandsome now.

  And not a kid, either, Grif reminded himself, doing the math. The last time he’d seen Ray, the kid had been a hair under eight years old, but he was fifty-seven now, and the tousled-haired boy was nowhere to be seen. Still, his bloodshot eyes momentarily lit up when he saw Grif—no doubt thinking there was a striking resemblance to the man he thought was Grif’s grandfather—and the dimples the kid had sported at seven flashed against thick stubble as they shook hands.

  “Thanks for meeting with me,” Grif said, as Ray slid into the booth. Ray lifted a finger, earning a nod from the waitress, and settled back with a contented sigh.

  “Well, a call from Tony Prima was enough to pique my interest. The guy isn’t exactly known for his social skills, know what I mean?” He laughed, a throaty growl that also reminded Grif of Ray’s dad. That man had been a bull, and though there were obvious similarities, the son had a hunched look. This DiMartino had been castrated before he’d even grown horns. “But once he said Griffin Shaw wanted to see me, hey. It was a no-brainer.”

  Waiting until the waitress had put down their beers and left, Grif lifted his with both hands and inclined his head. “Thank you.”

  “Yeah, well your grandpops was real good to me,” Ray said. “The other guys always treated me like some sort of pet, but Shaw took time for me, you know? I remember wishing for a while that he was my real pop, or at least a wise guy, you know? I didn’t know he had a kid, though. You look just like him, man.”

  Grif cleared his throat, and changed the subject. “So how’s your aunt Mary?”

  Ray’s brows lifted in surprise, before his expression softened. “Of course your grandpop woulda told you about her. My family was out of their mind about her, you know, the way she just disappeared. But he brought her back. She’s still nutso if you ask me, but every family has their oddballs.”

  “Well, life didn’t lean easy on her,” Grif said, remembering how mentally frail the girl had been. “Even when she was young. She’d have to work real hard not to look over her shoulder after being kidnapped like that.”

  “He tell you all that?” Ray gave him a sidelong look, then turned to watch the girl writhing center-stage, gaze distant, eyes narrowed against the strobing lights. “Well, a lot of the girls here are the same way. Broken homes, abusive fathers. It don’t take a genius to see how they’d start to think this,” he motioned at his flesh, “is their only worth. They’re lucky they have me, actually.”

  Grif raised a brow.

  “I look after them,” Ray explained. “They come to me if some punk’s pounding on them, you know, if they need a place to stay.” Ray pursed his lips, beetle brows drawing low. “Never really thought about it before, but I guess that’s because of what happened to Mary. Your grandpop protected her; she was lucky. A lot of these girls don’t have any luck in ’em.”

  Grif looked at the girls in question, thought of the ones he’d seen at Chambers’s place, and couldn’t argue that.

  Lifting his bottle, Ray waved it in Grif’s direction. “You know, Mary still talks about your grandpop. Says he was one of the finest men she ever met. Between you and me, I think she took to him like a baby chick seeing the first being around. Get the feeling she’s been looking for one like him ever since, too. But . . . you know.”

  Grif shook his head. “Know what?”

  “What everyone else said about him.”

  “No. I don’t.”

  Ray took a long pull on his beer before answering. “It’s just that your grandpop was married. Once. Obviously before your grandmother.” He glanced over to see if Grif did know, saw his face carefully devoid of expression, and leaned close. “Evelyn Shaw. She died. Was murdered, actually.”

  “I did know that.” When Ray only continued staring, Grif stared back. “And he didn’t do it.”

  Ray either caught the hardness to Grif’s voice, or spotted the expression that shifted over his face, and pulled back. “Of course not, man. Not Shaw. I mean, they did speculate about him for a bit. You know, she was last seen alive with him. And he did go missing the same night of her death—”

  “He didn’t do it.”

  Ray stared out over the room, nodding. “Yeah, it was a long time ago, right? A different life for everyone. I mean, my old man would have a heart attack if he saw me now. A DiMartino running a skin joint instead of the numbers. But you do what you can, right?” He glanced at Grif like he was looking for approval, then frowned, as if realizing it. Shrugging, he held up his hand for another beer. “Anyway, from what I heard, that Evelyn Shaw had it coming.”

  “Who told you that?” Grif said carefully.

  “No one told me shit. I was just a kid. Seen and not heard. Those were the rules in my house. But,” and Ray leaned closer, licking his lips, “I heard my pop talking about the case a few years later. Mention murder and what kid’s not going to listen, right? So I snuck into the living room where I could hear him and my stepmom arguing.”

  “Your stepmom?”

  “My mom died in sixty-one. Not too long after your grandpop . . . disappeared.”

  “I’m sorry,” Grif said, though his fists were now bunched beneath the table. With a deep breath, he forced them to relax.

  “Me, too. Barbara—Pop’s new wife?—was a real bitch. Moved in quick, and tried to get Pop to ship me off to boarding school. As if Italians ever really let their kids go.” Shaking his head, he made a face. “No love lost between her and me, tell you that much.”

  “So what’d they say about Evie?”

  “Evie? Oh, you mean Evelyn Shaw.” Ray nodded as the waitress sat down his extra beer. “Barbara said that both Shaws got exactly what was coming to them, and that if my pop was a real man, he’d make sure history didn’t repeat itself.”

  Grif jerked a shoulder. “What does that mean?”

  “You know women,” Ray said dismissi
vely. “Always shooting off for no reason, using words like weapons. Besides, it was like the pot calling the kettle black, if you know what I mean. Barbara wasn’t no angel.”

  “But she knew them? Evie and . . . my granddad?”

  Ray shrugged. “Guess so. Town was smaller back then, though. Everybody knew everybody.”

  Grif pursed his lips. “Think she’d talk to me?”

  Ray scoffed. “If you can find her. She moved to Cali right after my pop passed. Sat me down for one lame conversation about a mobster’s life and how dangerous it was, then looked me square and said the apple didn’t fall far from the tree, whatever that means. Point is, she couldn’t get out of Vegas fast enough . . . though she had time to take all the furniture and Pop’s savings with her. Believe that shit?”

  “Think she’d remember anything at all about that time?”

  Ray smirked. “She don’t even remember my name.”

  Grif leaned close to the other man, and stayed there until Ray’s eyes had fully focused on his. “I’m trying to clear Griffin Shaw’s name here. I want to set things right for him and for his first wife, Evie.”

  “Righting old wrongs? Watching out for the ladies? Guess that apple didn’t fall far from the tree, either.” He laughed, but stopped abruptly when Grif didn’t join him. “What does it matter anymore, Shaw? It was fifty years ago. Town has changed since then. The world has changed. And everybody’s forgotten that business with Evelyn and Griffin Shaw.”

  Now Ray looked exactly like his old man. Defiant. A tad angry. And ready for a fight.

  Grif stiffened then, very slowly, leaned forward. “It matters because he mattered,” he said, holding Ray’s gaze. “And so did Evie. And so did your dad, who might have been made, yeah, but he was one of the true architects of this city. The whole shining thing sits perched on his bones, but people don’t remember that, either.”

  Ray listened, rapt.

  “From the way my granddad talked about old man DiMartino, your stepmom was dead wrong. He was gristle and bone and unyielding firepower, and he was bound to his own moral laws. My granddad respected that. Sal DiMartino was a formidable man.”

  Grif leaned back, and Ray remained silent for a long time. Watching with disinterest as the woman on the center stage tucked loose bills into her panties, Grif waited.

  “Last I heard, Barbara remarried,” Ray finally said. “Who knows, she may have remarried again after that. She might even be dead. She never contacted me after she left.”

  Grif had to fight not to drop his head. It’d been the first decent lead he’d had, even if it concerned a woman he didn’t know, and who thought he and Evie deserved to die.

  “But listen, I still have some of Pop’s old stuff. His files. His Rolodex.” Ray glanced over, nodding once. “I’ll look through it. Let you know if I come across anything that might help.”

  It was the best Grif could hope for. “Thanks.”

  “Hey, no problem. My pop liked Shaw, too.” Ray blew out a hard breath. “Besides, it might be nice to revisit the past for a bit. The present is wearing on me.”

  Looking back over the room, thinking back over the night, Grif felt the same way.

  “Excuse me.”

  Grif turned to find Kit staring at them both, frowning. He wondered just how long she’d been standing there.

  “And yet the present is looking better all the time.” Ray straightened, throwing an arm over the back of the booth as he turned toward Kit. “Here for a job, beautiful? We normally audition in the afternoons, but I could make an exception for you.”

  “She’s with me,” Grif said coolly.

  “Oh. Sorry, man. No offense.” But the smile he flashed Grif was damned offensive.

  “Aw, you’re so sweet,” Kit said, grinning so sincerely that Grif wasn’t sure she didn’t mean it. “And I’d love to talk to you at some point about incorporating more sensuality into your repertoire of acts—”

  Ray’s face scrunched. “Wha—?”

  “But right now I seem to have a bit of an emergency.” She held her cell phone out to Grif, revealing a text displaying 911, followed by an address. “It’s from Paul, but when I tried calling him back, there was no answer.”

  “2856 Mockingbird Place. Where’s that?”

  Kit shrugged. “Let me MapQuest it.”

  “You trust him enough to just show up to an address he texts you?”

  “I wouldn’t trust him with my pet goldfish,” Kit replied, studying her phone. “But he would never hurt me, and I know I’ll be able to get him to tell me more if I can just get him alone. I always have.”

  Grif’s jaw clenched as he thought about that, but Ray’s sudden exclamation had them both glancing over.

  “What was that address?” he asked, leaning forward over the table. Kit held her phone out, just as the crossroads popped onscreen. Whistling lowly, he leaned back and shook his head. “That’s one of Caleb Chambers’ properties. Talk about a dangerous man.”

  “That little ol’ Mormon businessman?” Kit leaned close, forearms on the table, face open, inquiring. Beautiful. “How so?”

  Ray didn’t answer right off, clearly distracted by her nearness, as well as the heat and scent Grif was picking up even from the other side. Funny how quickly he’d grown used to it. Less funny that he wanted to knock Ray from between them just for the thoughts he knew were playing in his mind.

  Ray, unaware of all this, leaned on the table, too. “It’s different from my pop’s day, you know? Not that anyone went around saying they were made, but no one had to. If you didn’t want an ice pick in the ear, then you shouldn’t mess with the guy holding it, know what I mean?”

  “Words to live by,” Kit said, nodding.

  “Right?” Ray said, missing the ironic note to her tone. “But Chambers ain’t like that. No, that man is stealth. He would never bother with me, of course. My family’s history keeps me well clean of his lily-whites. But the white-collars in this town? They gotta watch out. And after he’s moved on to someone else? They still gotta watch out.”

  “So maybe Paul is tired of watching out,” Grif said. “What is this property?”

  “Officially? A horse farm. One of the biggest ranches in southern Nevada.”

  “Settebello,” Kit said, nodding now. “I know it. But that’s not one of Chambers’s places. I’ve covered stories there before. It’s a city-funded ranch. It gives disadvantaged children the chance to play cowboy.”

  “Right,” said Ray. “Officially.”

  Kit straightened, frowning like someone had just told her there was no Santa Claus. “And unofficially?”

  Leaning back, Ray crossed his arms over his chest, his face as grim as his father’s had ever been. “That’s something you should ask your friend Paul.”

  Kit drove quickly, her silence a testament to her nerves, though her hands were steady enough. They couldn’t be sure there was a problem yet. There’d been no follow-up to the text, but that wasn’t unusual for Paul. Their conversations were usually one-sided.

  So why had her heart sunk into her gut when she’d gotten his text in the middle of that tasteless club? And why was it still caught there now?

  “You sure you trust Paul?” Grif asked again, out of the blue.

  “Yes,” Kit said, grateful for the distraction from her own thoughts. “I mean no . . . but he’d never put me in danger, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  Not physically anyway.

  To distract herself from that thought, she asked, “So what was all that about?”

  “You mean Ray DiMartino?”

  She nodded.

  “Ever hear of the Desert Dukes Gang?”

  “Sure.” No one could truly call themselves a lifelong Las Vegan and not know someone who knew someone who knew where the bodies were buried. Most rumors led back to the Dukes . . . and most weren’t rumors. “They haven’t held any sort of power in this town in a long time, though.”

  Not since Howard Hughes overtook the S
trip. Corporations turned a light on every shady place after that, and the town was different for it. Better, most argued . . . but those generally weren’t lifelong Las Vegans, either.

  But Grif knew his local history. “They ran the city back in the 1960s. Tony started working for the family when he was only seventeen. That means his loyalty is endless and his memory is even longer. He told me Ray’s father knew for a fact that one Griffin Shaw was killed on the same day as Evelyn Shaw.”

  “There are no official reports of that,” Kit said tightly, turning onto the long street that led to Settebello. She’d checked after he claimed he’d been killed in 1960.

  “Exactly,” Grif said, like that meant something.

  “And how did you say you knew the family again?”

  “I brought back their little girl, Mary Margaret. That’d be Ray’s aunt. They thought she’d been snatched, and accusations were flying between them and their rivals from New York. Bullets were about to follow.” He looked out the window like he was really remembering it. “Turns out, she fell under the spell of some early New Ager with a funny accent. Australian or something like that. Ran away to a compound with no indoor plumbing but a lot of vegetable gardens. I brought her home.”

  Kit didn’t feel the need to lash out this time. Instead, she wanted to cry. He really believed this—she saw it in his eyes—which meant he really believed he was an angel, too. Swallowing hard, she said, “And you’re wondering if Sal DiMartino had you rubbed out despite what you did for his niece?”

  “Tony’s words do make a man wonder. Besides, power and money have always ruled this town, and gratitude only runs skin deep. They could have easily allied themselves with someone more powerful than the lone wolf who’d found their little girl.”

  Kit bit her lip, and fought back tears. Dangerous had been bad enough. Now she’d have to tell Fleur that Grif was crazy. Blowing out a breath, Kit decided to play along. “So why don’t you ask her?”