by EC Sheedy
He heard paper rustle. "Where are you staying?"
"The Calista." He was shooting the last of his wad doing it, but a guy had to make the right impression.
"Very nice. It has a wonderful bar. How about tomorrow? Say six-thirty?"
Damn, he'd hoped for tonight. He choked back his irritation, his impatience. "Perfect. I'll look forward to it."
"And, Ches"—her tone firmed up, all business now—"be prepared to talk about those references of yours. I'm a cautious woman."
Not cautious enough, Beauty baby. He grinned and hung up.
* * *
Fallon West clicked off the phone, tapped a scarlet-tipped fingernail on the display screen of the pearl-gray receiver, and glanced at the clock. Almost noon. Indecision—and unexpected guilt—rattled around in her blond head before colliding with a growing clump of pure fear.
The fear had nothing to do with the jerk she'd just spoken to. Nothing to fear there except the depressing truth that business was booming, which meant an unending supply of men with needy dipsticks on the other end of her phone.
No, the fear was wrapped around Burke Holland—the very rich Burke Holland. He should have called by now. Two days it had been since she heard from him. Two days.
She told herself not to panic.
He hadn't called, so it was business as usual, and that meant Ches McQuade, but not tonight. Tonight was her night off. Nothing changed that. All she'd do for Ches was decide what to wear.
She headed for her closet, scanned the over-full but orderly racks without enthusiasm. The thought of having to stroke another paying customer's bloated ego for two freakin' days made her bones ache with weariness. She hoped he was at least decent to look at and not some tired old paper-clip salesman from Podunk, and he'd sure as hell better make it worth her while.
If Burke had called, she'd have blown this Pennsylvania john off without a thought.
The sick truth was, if Burke didn't come through with the marriage proposal, she'd be servicing fuck-jocks into the next millennium.
She thought about calling him, but knew it would be a mistake, a sign of anxiety, and she'd slit her wrists before she admitted to desperation.
Burke Holland, age sixty-nine, rich as goddamn Croesus—whoever the hell he was—was her goldplated passport out of The Trade. She was thirty-one and she'd seen enough dicks at full attention to last her lifetime.
One thing was certain, if good old Burke did come through on the marriage deal he'd been hinting at—for damn near four years now—her first act as a bride would be to dump his goddamn Viagra down the toilet.
One night of bliss to cement the relationship was all he'd get from her.
In the meantime, it was back to business and deciding what to wear for Ches Whoever from Pennsylvania. She rifled the white section of her closet.
"Hey, missy."
Beauty turned, hanger in hand. "Hey, Lisa, what's happening?" She opened a lingerie drawer, poked around. "I hope I didn't leave too much of a mess for you."
"You always leave a mess." The young girl chided with a smile, showing a broken tooth, a gift from her pimp.
Lisa was sixteen and the best in a string of girls Beauty had taken in over the past few years. Beauty liked having her around and, temporarily at least, off the street. Lisa was talking about going back to school, and Beauty was toying with the idea of helping her, making their living arrangement permanent.
No one knew better than Beauty what happened to girls taken in by sadistic jerks who used them as walking profit centers. She was no do-gooder, but it didn't cost her much to give the girls a break—a few bucks earned standing on their feet instead of lying on their backs—and she welcomed the help. Other than with her working clothes—those she organized with the precision of a SWAT team leader—she was a born slob, a fact Lisa reminded her of regularly.
"A call came for you this morning when you were getting your hair done," Lisa said.
Beauty stopped the lingerie search and looked at her. "You didn't tell me."
"You weren't here to tell, and I had a counselor meeting, so I left the message on the hall table." She held out a yellow sticky note and made a tight face. "Are you mad?"
"You know I don't get mad." She took the note, smiled away her nerves. "I get even."
"Yeah, right," Lisa scoffed, unconcerned. "Want some coffee?"
"Love some." Another of Lisa's talents: she made great coffee.
Lisa looked at the brimming closet and offered up a prayerful sigh. "Jesus. Whoever said sex doesn't pay?"
"Nobody. Sex pays just fine. Trouble is there's all those icky customers to deal with. The overhead"—she lightly rapped her skull—"is too damn high."
Lisa nodded, obviously remembering one or two "icky" customers of her own. "At least your customers are high-class."
"A high-class dick is still a dick," she reminded her.
Lisa laughed. "You gonna marry that guy?" She gestured with her chin toward the note.
"See Fallon run—to the altar in a New York minute." She wiggled a brow. "Now, how about that coffee?" She took another glance at the note. "And maybe a movie later?"
"Cool."
When Lisa left, Beauty walked to the window of her condo. The day was clear, and the sun entered the sixteenth floor unobstructed. The message was from Burke all right, and the news wasn't good. He was going out of town to visit his grandchildren in Montana. He'd call when he got back, he said, and make it up to her, buy her something pretty.
"Shit." She crumpled the note, seriously frustrated.
She went back to the closet. Burke might not be a sure thing, but Ches McQuade was, so she'd best get her act together.
"Shit," she said again, softer this time, and leaned her forehead against the door jamb. She wondered how many more McQuades she could handle before she split into a zillion ruined pieces.
If that "something pretty" Burke mentioned wasn't a diamond the size of the Astrodome, she'd... she'd...
Hell, she had no idea what she'd do.
* * *
Cade's call to Wayne Grover paid off, and Stan Brenton's assessment of the man was right-on. He was affable and accommodating, and they agreed to meet for lunch at a seafood place near Pike's Market.
Cade arrived first, Grover a few minutes later, looking rushed and complete with the stock sorry-I'm-late intro.
When they'd taken their seats, Cade prodded himself to record his first impressions, something he'd learned never to disregard. Update, perhaps. Disregard, no.
Wayne Grover was maybe five-ten, overweight in a soft-bellied kind of way, and pale. Not an outdoorsman, and not a workout king, Cade concluded. He was balding, but probably by most accounts a reasonably attractive male. Eyes blue, mouth narrow, jaw soft. Eye contact direct, expression open, handshake firm. Clothes? Exactly what you'd expect a government employee to wear, but these days seldom did: a suit, neat, clean, and not expensive. Overall? Basically one of those harassed-looking everyman types indistinguishable in a crowd. Late forties according to Stan, but he looked older, exhausted.
"I appreciate your coming on such short notice," Cade said as the waiter filled their water glasses.
Grover pulled his chair closer to the table, laced his fingers and locked his hands, leaving them to rest on the table. "Anytime anyone wants to do anything about the Bliss murder and that child's disappearance, I'll be there. I think about Josh Moore all the time. If I hadn't—"
"You couldn't have known. No one could."
He sighed. "That's what I keep telling myself," he said, adding, "Still no luck finding Bliss?"
"No. I talked to his parole officer again, and it looks as if he's skipped. There's already a warrant out on him."
"Not surprised. All looks and no brains, that boy. The other one, Brett, he was okay, but Frank..." He shook his head. "Anyway, I've brought the files on the kids. Thought they might help." He patted the briefcase he'd put on the chair next to him.
Cade arched a brow, surpris
ed.
"Yes, I know I'm not supposed to, but Stan filled me in. I know your credentials, Harding, and I know how important this is to Susan—who I consider a friend, by the way—so..." He patted his case again. "Here they are."
Cade gestured toward the briefcase. "That could cost you your job. Those are state documents."
"Yes, but as I see it, the state missed the boat on this one," he said. "As did the police. They all gave up on Josh much too soon." He sat back in his chair, looked tired. "That said, after all these years I'm not sure anything I can say, or give you, will be much help."
"Everything will help. Thanks." But Cade knew Bliss was the real key, that not talking to the main witness was going to cost him. Time, if nothing else. Chances were Grover's ancient files would be interesting but not much else. Still, they were a place to start.
Grover studied him avidly. "Do you have an angle?"
"If you call starting at the beginning an angle, yes."
"And your definition of the beginning is?"
"The kids, Dianna Lintz, Addilene Wartenski, and Gus Vanelleto." He paused. "And whatever you can tell me about the missing Bliss."
"I can't help you much there. Not the brightest kid on the block, as I recall, but other than doing the usual teenage stuff, worrying his mother by driving too fast and drinking a bit too much, pretty much okay." He scratched his chin. "I was surprised he ended up in so much trouble. Mother's death probably." He looked into the distance, shook his head. "What he saw that night, I can't imagine."
"How old was he at the time?"
"Sixteen."
"How much do you remember about the others?"
"Everything. They were picked up on University Avenue, generally called The Ave. Back then, the street was pretty rough. Drug dealers. Prostitutes. Drunks. The usual suspects. It's cleaned up quite a bit now, but then? A real bad-news kind of place." He picked up his water glass and took a drink. "The three of them were living in some kind of squat house with a bunch of other kids, but they stuck to each other as if they'd been joined at birth." He stopped. "So I bent the rules and put them where they'd be together, the Bliss place. As it turned out, that was a big mistake." He inhaled deeply, ran an index finger along his eyebrow, the gesture frustrated, nervous.
Cade took advantage of the pause to ask, "You were their caseworker, before and after the murder?"
"The girls, yes. Vanelleto didn't have a caseworker, because he wasn't in the system and never had been. I kind of inherited him along with the girls when they were picked up," he said. "The three of them were only supposed to be with Belle Bliss a few days. She was a widow, always good about taking kids in on an emergency basis. I thought it would give me a chance to sort things out."
"Sort things out?"
"For the girls, it meant getting in touch with their existing foster parents, trying to get them back there. With the boy, I was starting from scratch, trying to locate his parents or relatives. If none of that worked, given the kids' ages, they'd probably end up in a group home." He looked away, his expression grim. "Where they'd take off from, so we could start all over again."
"Fun job." Cade said, knowing it was anything but. In his opinion, people working on the front line with lost, confused, and lonely kids deserved medals of valor, and Grover obviously cared about his job. He must—he'd been doing it for over twenty years.
"Yes." He smiled slightly, and Cade realized it was the first one he'd seen on the man's face since he'd taken his seat. "But with those three," Grover went on, "things happened so fast I didn't get a chance to do anything. If only I'd moved those kids..." He let the sentence fade out, as if too weary to finish it.
The waiter interrupted to take their order.
When that was done, and before Cade managed his next question, Grover asked, "Are you open to a suggestion?"
"Absolutely."
"Why don't you read the files? Everything is a copy, so you have all the time in the world. And when you're done, give me a call. I'll be happy to fill in any blanks."
"Sounds good." Cade nodded, then leveled his gaze to meet Grover's. "But I'd still appreciate you giving me a thumbnail on the kids."
"Sure." He paused as if to gather his thoughts. "Dianna Lintz was a looker, a teenage Lolita. She'd run away from her mother, a low-rent prostitute on the south side, a couple of years earlier. Addilene Wartenski was the youngest, thirteen at the time of the murder, and an orphan. She'd been living with an aunt, described by her as Mrs. Clean on supercharge"—he half-smiled again—"I've never forgotten that. The aunt was a bit strange, but seemed okay, but no way would Addy stay there—"
"Addy?"
"Or Wart, which was what her friends called her. Dianna was known as Beauty."
"Beauty and the Wart," he repeated. "Has a ring to it. Did the boy have a nickname?"
"No. He was just Gus." He laced his fingers together again in that tight knot he'd made earlier. "Anyway, when Addilene was picked up with Gus and Dianna that last time, the aunt wanted no part of her. That was fine with Addy who said if I sent her back there, she'd be out the back door before the front was closed. Tough little nut, that one. Had the mouth of a merchant sailor and a will as hard as the sidewalk she slept on. But a good kid, I thought. I liked her." He frowned. "Shows you how wrong a person can be."
"And Gus. What about him?"
Grover's mouth tightened. "Bad news. Very bad news." He appeared to chew on his thoughts a bit. "Street-smart and also, according to what I found out from other kids who knew him, a kid who knew how to work people to get what he wanted.
"From what I learned, he'd been living on sidewalks forever. One of the patrolmen on The Ave told me he was pimping for the two girls, although neither of the girls would admit to it, of course. Street loyalty? Fear? I don't know, but I do know Vanelleto had a reputation for a TNT temper with anyone who crossed him. Funny thing was he had no juvenile record." Grover lifted a shoulder. "No records at all, in fact When I confronted him about it, tried to uncover some background on him, he laughed, said the spaceship that dropped him off didn't go in for record keeping."
Cade tilted his head. Interesting. "Go on."
"He made a habit of changing his name, and he kept his mouth shut. If he did have living parents, he made sure DSHS never found them. I've met a lot of kids in my time, but I've never met one as... disengaged as Gus Vanelleto. That boy could have survived on the top of Everest wearing shorts and a muscle shirt. Cold, sure of himself, and leather-tough." Tired, tight lines furrowed around Grover's mouth. "It was Vanelleto's prints they found in Josh's blood on the kitchen counter and on his crib. But I guess you know that."
Cold sliced along Cade's spine. "No. I didn't." He worked to hide his irritation that neither Stan nor Susan had bothered to give him this vital piece of information. Probably because they knew damn well if Cade started believing the child was dead, he'd be less aggressive in his investigation. Damn.
"I know Susan won't let go, and I admire her for that, but"—Grover lowered his chin, massaged it—"I hate thinking about that blood. What it might mean." He seemed to drift away, blinked a couple of times as if to bring himself back, then he interlaced his fingers, meshed them so tight that his knuckles whitened. The guy was way overdue for stress leave.
Not that Cade wasn't feeling stress of his own. They should have told him about the blood, the fingerprints.
Angry or not, Cade had to ask the six-million-dollar question of the only man, other than Bliss, who had personal knowledge of the three teenagers. He raised his voice a notch to snag Grover's obviously wandering attention. "Given what you know, Grover, do you think those kids were capable of murder, of kidnapping—possibly killing—a child?"
"Vanelleto, definitely."
"And the girls?"
He met Cade's gaze, his expression gloomy, beaten, as if in surrender after a long, losing battle with the uglier side of human nature. "That boy owned those girls, Harding. He was their version of God. They'd have done anything h
e told them to do, and smiled while they did it."
"Anything?" Cade tilted his head, a thousand hideous images marching through it. "Even murder?"
"Even murder." Grover confirmed.
Chapter 4
Frank Bliss sat at the back of the bar, the corner dark and secluded, the table lit by a single candle in a red votive holder.
He'd downed one Jack Daniel's but was nursing the second. No way did he intend to have blurred vision when Beauty walked into his line of sight. He was revved, his blood coursing through his veins like a rain-high river over a weak dam. He wondered if she'd recognize him right away or if it would take a while.
What if she didn't recognize him at all? Jesus, that would be fun. He'd play her long enough to get her pants off—like he had years before. Fifteen years ago...
When I'd loved her, like the skinny-butted fool I was. When I'd have done anything for her, and all she ever did was laugh at me.
She wouldn't laugh now. He smoothed his hair back, irritated when his hand shook.
He looked up and saw her standing at the entrance to the bar. When she glanced around the room, obviously looking for someone, a waiter stopped and pointed to Frank; she started toward him.
Frank didn't want the moment to end. He wanted to rerun it in slow motion forever.
She looked like a goddamn goddess, even better than the Beauty he remembered. Way better. A mile-high kind of better. He took a drink to calm down. Shit, he was hard as a prison bar. He shifted back until his face was in shadow.
"Ches?" She stood over him now, smiling.
"Yes." He stood, careful to stay out of the light. "And you must be Fallon West." He gave her a slow once-over, figured she'd expect that. "You're more beautiful than I was told." His knees might be shaking, but he sounded cool enough. Nothing mattered more to him right now than keeping his cool, which made him a fuckin' idiot for wanting to impress her—when the past was just a memory away.
She tilted her head, glanced at the empty seat beside him. "May I sit down?"
"Of course." He pulled the chair out for her, and she sat, stowing a large tote beside her chair. Dressed in white, her long pale-blond hair coiled at the back of her head, she looked more like an angel than a high-class hooker.