On the Hunt

by Teyla Branton

  Except imprints never revealed anything more, so my mind already contained every bit of information. I wasn’t hiding anything.

  “How are you feeling?” Jake came around the couch and settled beside me, holding me close. His lips met mine. “Wonderful. Thanks.”

  “Anytime.” He kissed me again and for a while I forgot what I’d been thinking about.

  Not until I’d said good night to Jake and was lying in my own warm bed half asleep did I finally realize what I’d missed.

  Shannon’s intuition was better than good because I had learned something I hadn’t shared from Dennis’s imprint on the pen. That little sliver of something more in his reaction to seeing Russo. I hadn’t been able to identify it then because of the overwhelming fear, but I could identify it now.

  The drawback was that to learn the meaning of it, I’d have to see Mr. Russo myself.

  Worse, I’d have to touch his stuff.

  Chapter 7

  I blocked Edward Hodges’s blow and countered it with a roundhouse to his shoulder that I pretended didn’t strain my still-tender ribs. He spun out of the way but not fast enough to completely avoid my kick.

  “Nice,” Steve said as Edward rubbed his shoulder, only partially covered by his sparring chest guard.

  I inclined my head in acknowledgment at my instructor’s words. Steve was never effusive with his praise. One word from him went a long way toward buoying my confidence.

  “Lucky shot,” Edward said. “Let’s do it again.” He was half a foot taller than I was and outweighed me by sixty pounds. He hated losing.

  I didn’t want to because not only was Edward mean and vindictive, but his dark blond hair was greasy, and I was beginning to think he showered only once a week—on Sundays. Since our semiprivate taekwondo lessons were on Saturday mornings, that was saying quite a bit about his odor.

  “She got you fair and square, and you know it,” said Andrea Mathews, the third student in our class. “Besides, she has to get to work. But I’ll take you on.”

  I knew Edward regretted his rash challenge now because none of us were as fast as Andrea. She made even Steve appear slow at times. Despite her strength and ability to crush her opponents, her face, framed by long golden hair, was deceptively beautiful and feminine. Edward and I were fortunate that Steve stressed defense far more than attacking or she’d have pulverized both of us today.

  I’d signed up for lessons the day after leaving the hospital, but even these intense, three-hour sessions that were designed to move us along at a fast pace hadn’t yet caught us up to Andrea’s level. I was feeling more confident each week, however. I’d taken lessons as a teen, and the moves were coming back to me, especially now that my body was mostly healed.

  I bowed to Andrea. She gave me a smile and winked, after making sure Edward wasn’t looking.

  “Fine. I’ll take you on, but I need a drink first.” Edward stalked off like a lion searching for weaker prey. Part of his problem was that he had a lot of natural talent and strength, unlike some who had to work for it. Namely me. And work I did. Hard. After the commune incident, I wanted to be able to protect myself.

  “See you Thursday,” I said to Steve and Andrea as I left the studio. That was the night we attended regular lessons with the other adult students. I also went on Tuesdays, though it was teen night, because I wanted the extra practice, and it reminded me of my previous foray into the martial arts. Besides, teens were more unpredictable than adults, which added to my sparring repertoire.

  I’d chosen this studio partly because Shannon had recommended Steve and partly because the adult class was on Thursday nights, the same night Jake was in school, and I was the tiniest bit worried he wouldn’t approve. I hadn’t actually told him about my new hobby until last week, and he’d been all for it. I guess seeing me used as a punching bag at the commune had convinced him more than anything I could say that self-defense classes were necessary.

  Or maybe he liked dating a woman who wore a dobok.

  Smiling to myself, I headed for the locker room, another reason I’d chosen this studio. After my three-hour power lesson, I could shower and head right for work on Saturday mornings.

  Except today I didn’t plan to go to work. As long as Jake and our two employees had shown up, I’d take a little detour before going in.

  First, I needed to call Paige because my search for Nic Russo with the missing half finger hadn’t gone as well as I’d hoped. On the Internet that morning I’d found Nicholas Russo’s name in connection with an import company, a string of restaurants, and a construction company that was building a slew of new office buildings, but I had no idea where Russo himself might be at that moment or if any of the listed addresses were valid. Paige might give me the information I was searching for and save me the legwork.

  “Hi, Autumn,” she chirped, obviously happy to hear from me. “Good morning.”

  “Morning.” I dabbed on a bit of base over the green bruise still covering my cheek, happy to see that it was almost invisible. “So did you guys talk to Russo yet?”

  “Shannon’s over there now.”

  “Not you?”

  “It’s my mother’s birthday, and I’m driving to her place.”

  I pulled out the addresses I’d scribbled down at my house that morning since the only printer I owned was at my antiques shop. “I noticed Russo’s into quite a bit—restaurants, importing, land development, construction.”

  “You left out exporting, retail, and politics—though the candidate he’s backing does seem to be on the level. Simeon, Gideon & Associates was permitted to tell us that they are representing him on some real estate deals. No specifics, just general real estate for developing.”

  “Is Shannon interviewing him at a construction site? I mean, if it ends up that he has any connection to organized crime, isn’t that rather stupid?”

  Paige laughed. “He’d be touched at your concern.”

  “I’m sure he’d return the observation if I was the one chasing Mr. Russo to some deep hole in the ground.”

  “We don’t have any proof Russo’s connected with anything illegal, much less the murder Dennis witnessed, but Shannon’s meeting him at one of Russo’s restaurants, if you must know.”

  I snorted. “Italian, I bet.”

  “Actually, Chinese. But why all the questions?” Her voice showed amusement. “Either you’re developing a thing for Shannon, or you want to do some investigating on your own.”

  “Hey, it was my case first. Shannon should have asked me to go along with him to see the guy.” Russo had been linked to two Chinese restaurants, so I still didn’t have a solid destination.

  “He’ll call you in if he needs you to read something.”

  “Maybe, but probably too late to help Dennis. Shannon doesn’t like what I do. You know that as well as I do.” I knew most people would feel as he did, but that didn’t stop me from holding his attitude against him.

  We were both quiet for a moment. “Okay, look, go do your sleuthing,” she said, “but promise me you won’t do anything rash and that you’ll call me or Shannon if you find anything interesting.”

  “I promise. Don’t I always?” As far as she knew, that was true, though I had held back a few things, like the key to a cellar at the commune. If I hadn’t, I might never have found the woman hidden there. “So if I were to feel like Chinese for breakfast,” I added, “would I head to downtown Portland or up the Pacific Highway to Vancouver?”

  “The Pacific Highway is nice this time of morning.”

  “Thanks. I owe you.”

  “The way I figure it, I owe you. You should have seen my last review. My closed cases are up 10 percent.”

  Up 10 percent? I considered this as I finished getting ready. Even on good days I had ambivalent feelings about my strange gift, but with Paige’s help, I had done some good no one could argue with, not even me.

  Next I called my shop to make sure Thera and Randa had everything under control. They were
accustomed to my coming in later some Saturdays when there was a particularly promising estate sale, so they didn’t think anything of my absence. I tried to be there for the afternoons, though, because Saturdays were usually busy.

  “Should I get Jake for you?” Thera asked.

  “No need. But tell him I’ll be in later.”

  “Will do.”

  My hair was still damp as I left the studio and headed north on Pacific Highway. It was only twenty minutes to Vancouver, Washington, but I allotted an hour to find the place with my great sense of direction. I should have borrowed Tawnia’s GPS.

  Hopefully, Shannon would be gone when I arrived because he’d be angry at my interference. Not that his anger would bother me. I didn’t answer to him—especially when I knew his objection was mostly because I’d been hurt before under his watch. Must be tough being a man who felt he had to protect everyone.

  I ended up getting off the freeway at East Mill Plain Boulevard and backtracking down Washington to Eighth Street. I drove around searching for the right location and finally stopped to ask a passerby, who pointed to the other side of the street. I thanked him somewhat sheepishly.

  The commercial area around the restaurant teemed with life, though the place itself was not yet open. In the parking lot behind the restaurant, two black sedans sat in the otherwise empty lot— one an expensive new Lexus, the other older and with a few dings but still a BMW. There was no sign of Shannon’s white Mustang. That meant either I’d taken a long time finding the restaurant, or Russo had nothing to add to the investigation. The third option was that Shannon was losing his touch and simply hadn’t found enough to extend his visit with Russo.

  I voted for the third option because I’d felt Dennis’s imprint on the pen. Fear, yes, even terror, but what I’d remembered last night was even more important. There had been also the tiniest rush of warmth in Dennis’s heart, and a touch of relief that I couldn’t decipher or reconcile with his terror. I could only come to the conclusion that not only did Dennis know the man but seeing him had evoked something pleasant in his past, though whether it was the man himself or what he represented, I couldn’t say because Dennis didn’t know how to feel about it. Not black and white as I’d first thought but laced with a tiny swirl of gray.

  I thought of Sophie and the new car that had shown up in her driveway. Where would Dennis get that kind of money? How did it tie into that long-ago murder? I’d have to get over there and talk to her sometime today. There might even be imprints on the car, though not if it was as new as Tawnia described. I wondered if someone had checked the trunk for bodies. Or made sure the car wasn’t rigged to blow.

  Ridiculous. Maybe I should throw out my television altogether. Besides, Shannon knew how to do his job.

  All these thoughts were not bringing me any closer to the truth, so I slipped from my Toyota and strode toward the back door of the restaurant. I hoped the door was open after Shannon’s visit and that Nicholas Russo was still there, or I’d have to catch up with him someplace else, which I wasn’t anxious to do.

  Being closed, the restaurant had no customers at the moment, but that also meant no potential witnesses. At least there were no open holes in the parking lot that might be perfect for hiding a body—not that I suspected I was in any real danger. Paige knew where I was, and she wouldn’t have given me the information if she thought I’d get into trouble. Aside from that, Mr. Russo was connected with a respected Portland law firm, and he had a reputation to uphold. I simply wanted to ask him a few questions. He could always refuse.

  As I hoped, the shiny doorknob on the newly painted door turned under my fingers. I’d contemplated knocking but figured Mr. Russo wasn’t the type to answer doors. Then again, who knew how many thugs he had with him. Surely they did far more for him than open doors.

  Don’t think about it, I told myself.

  I eased the door open and slid inside a small room. On the right wall were a dozen or more wooden cupboards with locks, probably their version of employee cubbies. Two couches and a table filled up most of the available space, but the room didn’t look dingy or crowded like the break rooms at the few restaurants where I’d worked in my youth.

  The break room opened up into a spacious kitchen with gleaming pans and utensils hanging from the ceiling. Stainless steel shelves, refrigerators, and sinks lined the walls. In the middle was a massive stove top and several ovens. Everything was perfectly organized, including the huge mounds of freshly washed vegetables that two Asian men, a young one and an older one, were deftly chopping with gleaming knives.

  I stopped moving forward and began sliding toward a door on my right. Too late, the men saw me. The older man spoke in what I assumed was Chinese, and the younger man addressed me. “May we help you?”

  “I’m here to see Mr. Russo,” I said.

  The young man said something to which the older man replied. Back and forth they went, seemingly too many words crammed into those few seconds. Finally, the young man said. “You have an appointment?”

  “Of course. And a friend of mine was just here. A police officer?”

  Again the torrent of words and the exchange of significant looks before the young one motioned to another door on the other side of the room. “Mr. Russo’s office is there.” He nodded to me and resumed chopping. The older man didn’t follow suit, and I could feel his eyes digging into my back as my bare feet crossed the clean floor.

  The door opened into a narrow hall with several doors, but I knew which one was Russo’s office because it was open and I could hear voices. American voices with no trace of accents. I slipped my antique rings from my fingers and shoved them into my jeans before I tapped on the open door. The well-oiled door swung wide with my knock, and the voices immediately ceased.

  “Uh, hi,” I said, faking a brightness I didn’t feel.

  A big man, wearing a navy blazer, sat behind the oak desk, and another one sprawled on a chair in front of it, obviously comfortable in his worn jeans and T-shirt. A third man with a shaved head stood casually near the window but snapped to attention at my appearance, his hand going for what I supposed was a weapon in a waist holster under his jacket.

  For the first time I seriously considered the advantage of carrying a gun—not that I would ever be able to touch it again if I used it even once in a crisis. The imprints remaining would make that impossible, and I’d be out a lot of money unless I could find something besides time that removed imprints. From searching for antiques, I’d learned there weren’t enough lifetimes to get rid of some imprints.

  I lifted both hands chest high to show I wasn’t a danger. “Sorry to interrupt. I tried to knock, and the door just opened. I need to speak with Nicholas Russo. I can wait out in the hall until you finish, if that would be okay.” I clamped my mouth shut, stemming my nervous impulse to babble.

  “I’m Nic Russo.” The man behind the desk waved at the guy near the window, who relaxed and didn’t bring out his gun after all, though I sensed he was more than willing to do so if I provoked him. Not that I’d be much of a challenge to his boss. Russo wasn’t fat, but he had serious bulk that was much larger than portrayed in Dennis’s imprint. The imprint hadn’t shown his elegance and charisma, either, which surprised me since I’d begun thinking of Russo as an ugly thug from a mafia film. Not exactly an attractive man, yet his air of power and confidence made him compelling. He invited trust, but I wasn’t falling for it. Not until I read his imprints.

  I lowered my hands. “I’m Autumn Rain. I need to talk to you about something very important. It won’t take long.”

  The man in front of the desk had turned and was looking at me with interest, grinning like a man with a secret. His blond hair and tanned face seemed familiar, but I couldn’t place him. He hadn’t been in any of Dennis’s imprints, that much I was sure. He was as scrawny as I was, and I thought I could take him in a fair fight, if I had to. Maybe.

  “Alone, if possible,” I added. I didn’t want an audience, and the sc
rawny man’s grin made me more nervous than the other man’s hidden weapon.

  Nic Russo arched a well-shaped brow. “What about?” He was younger than I’d expected—probably in his early thirties, only a few years older than Dennis himself.

  “My friend’s missing husband. I need to ask you a few questions.” I dared move forward a few feet. The room seemed to have been made from two smaller ones, and at the other end a second door leading into the hallway was partially covered by an oak filing cabinet.

  “The police were already here,” Russo said. “I answered all their questions.”

  “I’m not with the police. I have different questions.”

  A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I’m afraid I’m really busy. Some other time maybe?”

  “No.” The firmness in my tone surprised both of us. The guy in front of the desk grinned wider, while the man at the window made a display of pulling back his jacket to reveal his gun.

  “I don’t know anything about the man or his disappearance,” Russo said.

  “Dennis recognized you,” I countered, “and it scared him to death, but he was also just a tiny bit content to see you. I want to know why.”

  Russo’s eyes narrowed, and he stared at me for a full ten seconds before speaking. “You can go, Ace. We’ll talk later.” Russo’s eyes didn’t leave my face as he spoke.

  “Righto.” The man in front of the desk stood and started for the door. He winked at me as he passed, but I pretended not to notice. Where did I know him from, anyway?

  “Charlie, wait in the hall,” Russo added.

  Without a sound the man by the window obeyed, shutting the door behind him. I didn’t know whether to be glad or afraid now that I was alone with the man who had evoked so much terror in Dennis’s heart.