Deep breath. Deep breath. I tarried. I stopped and smelled the roses, but they had no scent. Finally, I stepped into to the kitchen.
Wright was staring at Anarchy as if a gauntlet had been thrown.
Anarchy’s lips were sealed in a thin line and his eyes were as cold, and hard, and flinty as Clint Eastwood’s.
Daddy looked as if he was fighting a grin.
Combustive, with a near overwhelming scent of testosterone. That I could smell.
“Your friend, Mr. Jon—”
“Detective Jones.” Anarchy’s voice was a blade cutting through all pretense.
“Detective Jones,” Wright corrected with a twisted smile that told me he’d made the mistake on purpose. “He was telling me you had some excitement here last night.”
“That’s one way to put it.” Excitement wasn’t the word I’d use to describe seeing a man gunned down in my driveway.
“A man was murdered?”
“Yes.” I searched the counter for my coffee mug, my free hand reflexively clutching an imaginary handle. My other hand held Wright’s bouquet. The roses were wrapped in crinkly plastic—most likely purchased from the hotel gift shop.
“You saw the murder happen?” There was sympathy in Wright’s voice.
“Yes.” Where the heck was my mug?
Anarchy poured a fresh cup of coffee, brought it to me, and took the flowers from my hand.
“Thank you.” Two words completely inadequate for the depth of my gratitude.
Now Wright’s eyes narrowed. He smoothed his red cashmere scarf over the lapel of his camel hair coat, sprinkling raindrops onto the kitchen floor, and jerked his chin toward Bruce’s bouquet. “Pretty. Where are the flowers I sent you?”
“The living room. Thank you, again. They really are lovely.”
“Not nearly as lovely as the woman I sent them to.”
What was that sound? Was Anarchy grinding his teeth?
I painted on the brightest smile I could muster. “Wright and I met on Friday night. We had dinner with Bill and Libba at the Alameda.”
“Yes,” said Anarchy. “He told me.”
“Best blind date I’ve ever been on.” Wright beamed at the room at large.
The sound again. Anarchy was definitely grinding his teeth.
It hadn’t been a date. Not really. Except for the part about drinks. And dinner. And two couples.
“I learned so much about commercial real estate.” Surely Anarchy would understand how incredibly bored I’d been.
“You’re a developer?” asked Daddy.
“I am.”
“What are you in town for?” Daddy was being polite. That or he was trying to defuse the tension that pulsed in my kitchen like the beat of a kettle drum.
“Downtown development.” Again Wright smoothed his lapels.
“The new convention hotel?”
Wright answered with a nod and a satisfied smile. “Exactly.”
“Are they going to get that thing up before the Republican convention next year?”
Wright’s smile faltered. “We’re trying.” He glanced around my kitchen—at the copper pots hanging from a rack in the ceiling, at cooling plates of eggs, at the paintings on the wall. “Are those your paintings, Ellison?”
“They are.”
“You’re talented. Very.” He sounded almost surprised.
“Thank you.” My voice might have been a tad dry. The man had offered to buy paintings sight unseen. One would think he would have at least asked if they were any good before saying he’d cover the walls of his new hotel with them. I shifted my gaze to the three plates of food. “And thank you for stopping by.”
Not a subtle hint.
“Libba said you have a daughter. I’d love to meet her.”
“She’s not here.” And, for a half-second, much as I wanted her home, I was glad she was away.
“Oh?”
“She spent the night with a friend.”
“So she missed all the excitement.” There was that word again. “It’s hard to keep track of teenagers these days.”
“Do you have children?” Daddy asked.
“No.” Wright shook his head as if his lack of children was the single biggest regret of his life. “I just think it must be hard being a parent. Especially to a teenager. There are so many temptations out there. So many ways to fall off the straight and narrow.”
Anarchy’s brows, which had been drawn together rose slightly. “Grace is a great kid. She’s got her head on straight.”
“Do you know her well?” There was a challenge in Wright’s question.
“Yes.”
Wright’s face tightened. Anarchy’s one-word answer hadn’t pleased him. “She can’t be as pretty as her mother.”
“Prettier,” I said. And smarter. And braver.
“Not possible.” Wright’s dazzling smile was back in force. He looked around the kitchen as if he was just realizing Anarchy was cooking breakfast. “I won’t keep you.”
“Thank you for the flowers.” I nodded toward the bouquet Anarchy had abandoned on the counter. “All of them.”
“You’re welcome. I don’t suppose you’d like to have dinner with me tonight?”
There was that grinding noise again.
I didn’t dare look at Anarchy. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”
“Another time.” Wright’s devil-may-care tone made it sound as if I’d be willing to go out with him on a different night. “I can see myself out.” With one last dazzling smile, he leaned forward, brushed an unexpected kiss across my cheek, and pushed through the kitchen door.
A charged silence followed him. A silence that lasted an eternity (fifteen seconds).
Finally, I whispered, “Is he gone?”
“I’ll check.” Daddy pushed through the kitchen door. Either my father had adopted a significantly more helpful attitude than he’d ever exhibited before, or he wanted to escape the arcs of electricity zapping from Anarchy’s narrowed eyes.
I clutched my coffee cup. Tightly. I swallowed.
Brnng, brnng.
Saved by the bell.
I grabbed the receiver. “Hello.”
“Mrs. Russell? This is Donna calling. Would you please let Grace know she forgot her sweater?”
Grace forgot her sweater? That couldn’t be right. Grace was still at Donna’s house. “Grace isn’t there?”
“No, she left a little while ago.”
The cold rain pelting the windows was warmer than the blood in my veins. “She left?”
“Yes, ma’am. With a friend named Jane.”
Eighteen
Walls were made for sliding—down, down, down to a heap on the floor. I took full advantage and did just that. I blame my knees. They’d disappeared and left me with Jell-O.
“Ellison?” Anarchy’s voice was insistent. “Ellison?”
I clutched the phone and stared at my non-working knees. Donna was wrong. She had to be wrong.
Anarchy pried the phone from my stiff fingers. “Hello, this is Detective Jones, with whom am I speaking?”
He listened for a few seconds, the expression on his face as cold as the blood in my veins. “May I please speak with your mother?” Another pause. “Thank you.”
He crouched next to me, somehow inserted his arm between my back and the wall, and hauled me off the floor.
With Anarchy supporting me, I staggered to the island, and collapsed on a stool.
He spoke into the phone. “Mrs. Hess, Detective Jones on the line. Am I to understand that Grace Russell left your house?”
Again he listened.
“We’ll be there in ten minutes.”
Daddy walked into the kitchen as Anarchy hung up the phone. He took one look at my face and asked, “What’s happened? Are you all
right?”
“Grace—” my throat closed, tightened by unspeakable fear.
“Grace left the Hess’s house and we don’t know where she is,” Anarchy explained.
“She’ll be home soon,” said Daddy.
Tears spilled over the rims of my eyes. “There were—” telling Daddy about the threats was an impossibility.
“There were threats.” Good thing Anarchy could finish my sentence.
Daddy’s brows drew together. “What kind of threats?”
A sob escaped my throat. When I’d thought Grace was safe, facing the myriad problems in front of me seemed doable—especially with Anarchy beside me. Now that she was missing, fear and horror and panic clawed for supremacy in my chest. I could think of nothing but her. I shook my head unable to speak.
“Things no parent wants to hear,” said Anarchy.
I bit the knuckle of my thumb. Hard enough to hurt. Hard enough to draw blood.
Now Daddy looked worried. “What can I do?” He was letting Anarchy take charge?
“Stay here in case Grace shows up,” said Anarchy. “Ellison and I are going to the Hess’s.”
Somehow I made it from the kitchen to the passenger seat of Anarchy’s car (hard to do with knees made of Jell-O).
Anarchy turned the key in the ignition. “Address?”
“What?”
“What’s the address? Where are we going?”
Coming up with an actual address was an impossibility. My brain, filled as it was with awful images and numbing fear, refused to fetch details. “Turn left at the corner.”
Anarchy drove as if the streets were dry. Houses and trees and sodden leaves blurred past the windows.
“Right at the stop sign.”
He turned without coming to a full stop and the rear of the car fishtailed. “We’ll find her.” His tone left no room for doubt. “I promise, Ellison. We’ll find Grace.”
We had to.
Despite the heat blasting from the vents, I shivered. And shivered.
Anarchy reached across the seat and took my hand. “We’ll find her.”
If he said it often enough, it had to be true. I nodded, again unable to speak, my voice held hostage by horrific what-ifs. I wanted to scream and rail and beat against the windows of the car. Not my daughter. Not heroin. Not men. Not that. Had Leesa’s mother felt this way? Had Jane’s? Of course they had. In that moment, I understood desperation. There was nothing—nothing—I wouldn’t do to get Grace back.
More houses whizzed by.
Anarchy slowed for another stop sign.
“Straight through here then the third house on the left.” My voice didn’t belong to me. It quavered like an old woman’s—one beaten down by hardship and sadness and unrelenting terror.
Anarchy pulled into the drive and together we ran to the front door.
India was waiting for us.
She hugged me. “Ellison, I’m so sorry. I had no idea Grace left. Not until I spoke with Detective Jones.” She ushered us inside. “Coffee. Do you need coffee?”
Like I needed my heart and lungs. Like I needed my daughter. I shook my head. My throat was too tight to swallow even a sip.
“Who picked up Grace?” Anarchy wore his cop-face. All business. Not a shred of warmth in his expression. For once, I was glad to see it.
India turned and called, “Donna.”
A pale-faced Donna appeared. Tears stood in her eyes and her chin quivered. “I thought it was okay. Mom didn’t tell us there was a problem.” She sent a reproachful glance in India’s direction. “If I’d known Grace was in trouble I wouldn’t have let her leave.”
Anarchy’s hand closed around my elbow, keeping me steady, keeping me on my feet.
“It’s true. I didn’t tell the girls about your call, Ellison. I thought it best that you, not I, tell Grace what was happening.”
I didn’t blame her.
Blame didn’t matter. Not now. The only thing that mattered was Grace. Where was she? The question reverberated through my body but my voice-box rebelled.
It was Anarchy who said, “Tell us about the girl who picked her up. Where did they go?”
“She was just a girl. Grace knew her. She called her Jane.”
Where did they go? My mouth opened and closed and I squeaked.
Anarchy glanced at me then asked, “What kind of car was she driving?”
“Light blue.”
There were probably a hundred thousand light blue cars in metropolitan area.
“Make? Model? License plate number?” Anarchy’s no-nonsense tone made Donna blink. Multiple times.
She shook her head. “I don’t know much about cars. I don’t pay attention to them. I do remember the license plate was red with white letters and numbers.”
A Kansas plate?
Anarchy leaned forward. “You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
Not Missouri. Missouri plates were white with black letters and numbers. Living near the state line as we did, we saw an equal number of both.
“Anything else? Do you remember any of the letters or numbers?”
“J and A.”
“That’s it?”
“I only remember those because the girl said her name was Jane and I thought it was cool that the first two letters of her plates matched her name.”
“How many doors did the car have?” Now Anarchy’s tone was patient.
We didn’t need patience. We needed urgency. Jane could have already delivered Grace to one of those awful bars.
“Two doors.” Donna rubbed her chin and closed her eyes. “I think. Maybe four.”
I pressed the back of my hand against my mouth, stifling a scream.
“Did she say where she was going?”
“I’m not sure. I think I heard Jane say something about home and a grandmother.”
“My mother?” My voice creaked like the third step on the backstairs—the one Grace avoided when she was late for curfew. She had to be all right. Had. To. Be.
“We should check your parents’ house.” said Anarchy.
“I can’t imagine why they’d go there.”
“Jane’s grandmother?”
Jane’s grandmother. Who knew it was possible for my stomach to sink even lower? “We don’t know who—” my voice died as a tiny sliver of mental acuity slipped past the wall of terror in my mind—the woman who’d sent me looking for Jane in the first place. What if she’d lied? What if there was no restless spirit begging for my help? What if there was just a desperate grandmother? One who’d do anything to rescue her granddaughter? I cleared my throat. “Madame Reyna’s. We should go there.” My voice was strong and sure.
Anarchy’s brows rose. “Why?”
“I have a feeling.” More than a feeling. Certainty blossomed within me. Madame Reyna and Jane were related by blood. And the men Jane had been involved with had threatened her grandmother if she dared go home. But now, she had no place left to run. I rushed toward the door, toward the car, toward Prairie Village and Madame Reyna’s little ranch house.
“Ellison.” India’s voice slowed my steps. “Please keep us informed.”
“I will.” I looked over my shoulder and attempted a smile (a smile that felt like a grimace). “I promise.” Jane and Grace were at Madame Reyna’s. They were. They had to be. I’d be calling with good news in no time.
Anarchy clutched the wheel as we drove. Ten and two. I clutched my hands together and prayed.
He parked at the curb in front of the house. “I don’t suppose you’d wait in the car.”
I snorted and opened the car door.
We hurried up the short front walk, the rain dampening our hair, and, for me, sneaking past the collar of my trench coat.
The front door stood ajar.
Anarchy rea
ched inside his coat and pulled out a gun. He looked at me, his face serious as death. “You won’t go back to the car?”
“No.” Not now. Not when Grace might be inside. Might need me.
“Then stay here.” His tone brooked no arguments.
I nodded and pulled the collar of my trench tighter around my neck.
“I mean it, Ellison. Stay. Here. Do not set foot in this house until I tell you it’s clear.”
“Okay.”
“Promise.”
“I promise.”
He gave me a look that said he didn’t quite believe me. A look that said if I broke my promise, there would be hell to pay.
I gave him a look that said I wouldn’t move a muscle. I blinked back raindrops. Mascara ran down my cheeks. I was sure of it. “I won’t move.”
Giving me one last cop-like stare, Anarchy used the tip of his gun to push on the door. It swung open and he stepped inside.
The temptation to follow him was overwhelming. Grace might be in there.
But, if Anarchy needed to use his gun to save her, I might get in the way. I wiped my mascara-blackened cheeks and waited.
Not patiently.
I leaned over Madame Reyna’s neatly trimmed hedge and peeked through the rain-streaked windows into the living room.
Madame Reyna’s gold brocade living room set had been upended, the macramé hangings ripped from the walls, and her crystal ball lay in pieces on the shag rug.
Oh dear Lord.
I straightened and stuck my head through the front door. “Anarchy!”
“Stay outside, Ellison.” His voice carried from the back of the house.
No one was home. Worse than that, someone had destroyed what home there was. I couldn’t wait. I lifted a sodden loafer. I had to find Grace. Now.
Wham!
My bum hitting the concrete reverberated up my spine.
And the man on top of me didn’t seem to appreciate that I’d broken his fall. He struggled—violently—to free himself from the tangle of our limbs.
I gasped for air and my lungs filled with the scents of wet wool and tobacco.
“Son of a bitch.” He was almost free.
I grabbed the front of his sweater and held onto the wool as if Grace’s life depended on it. “Anarchy!” My voice echoed in the damp air.
SHADOW DANCING Page 19