by Nora Roberts
“The victim was Thea’s snitch,” Boyd reminded Colt. “If she wants the case—”
“And I do.”
“Then it’s hers.”
To buy himself time, Colt reached for another slice of pizza. He was going to have to do something he hated, something that stuck in his craw like bad beef jerky. He was going to have to ask for help. And to get it he was going to have to share what he knew.
“It took me two days to track down Billings and get him to agree to talk to me.” It had also cost him two hundred in bribes to clear the path, but he wasn’t one to count the cost until the final tally. “He was nervous, didn’t really want to talk unless he had his police contact with him. So I made it worth his while.”
He glanced back at Althea. The lady was wiped out, he realized. The fatigue was hard to spot, but it was there—in the slight drooping of her eyelids, the faint shadows under them.
“I’m sorry you lost him, but I don’t think your being there would have changed anything.”
“We won’t know that, will we?” She wouldn’t let the regret color her voice, or her judgment. “Why did you go to so much trouble to contact Bill?”
“He used to have a girl working for him. Jade. Probably her street name.”
Althea let her mind click back, nodded. “Yeah. Little blonde, baby face. She took a couple of busts for solicitation. I’ll have to check, but I don’t think she’s worked the stroll for four or five weeks.”
“That’d be about right.” Colt rose to fill his cup with more of the sludge from the automatic brewer. “It would have been about that long ago that Billings got her a job. In the movies.” If he was going to drink poison, he’d take it like a man, without any cream or sugar to cut the bite. Sipping, he turned back. “I ain’t talking Hollywood. This was the down-and-dirty stuff, for private viewers who have the taste and the money to buy thrills. Videotapes for hard-core connoisseurs.” He shrugged and sat again. “Can’t say it bothers me any, if we’re talking about consenting adults. Though I prefer my sex in the flesh.”
“But we’re not talking about you, Mr. Nightshade.”
“Oh, you don’t have to call me mister, Lieutenant. Seems cold, when we’re discussing such warm topics.” Smiling, he leaned back. He had yet to ruffle her feathers, and for reasons he wasn’t going to take the time to explore, he wanted to ruffle them good and proper. “Well, as it happens, something spooked Jade and she lit out. I’m not one to think a hooker’s got a heart of gold, but this one at least had a conscience. She sent off a letter to a Mr. and Mrs. Frank Cook.” He shifted his gaze to Boyd. “Frank and Marleen Cook.”
“Marleen?” Boyd’s brows shot up. “Marleen and Frank?”
“The same.” Colt’s smile was wry. “More old friends, Lieutenant. As it happens, I was what you might call intimate friends with Mrs. Cook about a million years ago. Being a woman of sound judgment, she married Frank, settled down in Albuquerque and had herself a couple of beautiful kids.”
Althea shifted, crossed her legs with a rustle of silk. The silver dangling over his shirt was a Saint Christopher medal, she noted. The patron saint of travelers. She wondered if Mr. Nightshade felt the need for spiritual protection.
“I assume this is leading somewhere other than down memory lane?”
“Oh, it’s leading right back to your professional front door, Lieutenant. I just prefer the circular route now and then.” He took out a cigar, running it through his long fingers before reaching for his lighter. “About a month ago, Marleen’s oldest girl—that’s Elizabeth. You ever meet Liz, Boyd?”
Boyd shook his head. He didn’t like where this was heading. Not one bit. “Not since she was in diapers. What is she, twelve?”
“Thirteen. Just.” Colt flicked his lighter on, sucked his cigar to life. Though he knew, all too well, that the tang of smoke wouldn’t cloud the bitter taste in his throat. “Pretty as a picture, like her mama. Got Marleen’s hair-trigger temper, too. There was some trouble at home, the kind I imagine most families have some time or other. But Liz got her back up and took off.”
“She ran away?” Althea understood the runaway’s mind well. Too well.
“Tossed a few things in her backpack and took off. Needless to say, Marleen and Frank have been living in hell the past few weeks. They contacted the police, but the official route wasn’t getting them very far.” He blew out smoke. “No offense. Ten days ago they called me.”
“Why?” Althea asked.
“Told you. We’re friends.”
“Do you usually track down pimps and dodge bullets for friends?”
She had a way with sarcasm, all right, Colt mused. It was one more weapon in the arsenal. “I do favors for people.”
“Are you a licensed investigator?”
Pursing his lips, Colt studied the tip of his cigar. “I’m not big on licenses. I put out some feelers, had a little luck tracing her north. Then the Cooks got Jade’s letter.” Clamping his cigar between his teeth, he drew a folded sheet of floral stationery from his inside jacket pocket. “Save time if you read it yourself,” he said, and passed it to Boyd. Althea rose, going behind Boyd’s back, laying a hand on his shoulder as she read with him.
It was a curiously intimate and yet asexual gesture. One, Colt decided, that spoke of friendship and trust.
The handwriting was as girlishly fussy as the paper. But the content, Althea noted, had nothing to do with flowers and ribbons and childhood fancies.
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Cook,
I met Liz in Denver. She is a nice kid. I know she is really sorry she ran away and would come back now if she could. I would help her out, but I got to get out of town. Liz is in trouble. I would go to the cops, but I’m scared and I don’t think they listen to someone like me. She is not cut out for the life, but they won’t let her go. She is young and so pretty, and they are making lots of money from the movies I think. I have been in the life for five years, but some of the stuff they want us to do for the camera gives me the creeps. I think they killed one of the girls, so I am getting out before they kill me. Liz gave me your address and asked me to write and say she was sorry. She’s real scared and I hope you find her okay.
Jade
P.S. They have a place up in the mountains where they do the movies. And there is an apartment on Second Avenue.
Boyd didn’t give the letter back, but laid it on his desk. He had a daughter of his own. He thought of Allison, sweet, feisty and six, and had to swallow a hot ball of sick rage.
“You could have come to me with this. You should have come to me.”
“I’m used to working alone.” Colt drew on his cigar again before tamping it out. “In any case, I intended to come to you after I put a few things together. I got the name of Jade’s pimp, and I wanted to shake him down.”
“And now he’s dead.” Althea’s voice was flat as she turned to stare out of Boyd’s window.
“Yeah.” Colt studied her profile. It wasn’t just anger he felt from her. There was a lot more mixed up with it. “Word must have gotten back that I was looking for him, and that he was willing to talk to me. Leads me to think that we’re dealing with well-connected slime, and slime that doesn’t blink at murder.”
“This is a police matter, Colt,” Boyd said quietly.
“No argument.” Ready to deal, he spread his hands. “It’s also a personal matter. I’m going to keep digging, Fletch. There’s no law against it. I’m the Cooks’ representative—their lawyer, if we need a handle.”
“Is that what you are?” Her emotions under control again, Althea turned back to him. “A lawyer?”
“When it suits me. I don’t want to interfere with your investigation,” he said to Boyd. “I want the kid back—safely back—with Marleen and Frank. I’ll cooperate completely. Anything I know, you’ll know. But it has to be quid pro quo. Give me a cop to work with on this, Boyd.” He smiled a little—just a quirk at the corner of his mouth, as if he were amused at himself. “And you of all people
know how much I hate asking for an official partner on a job. But it’s Liz that matters, all that matters. You know I’m good.” He leaned forward. “You know I won’t back off. Let me have your best man, and let’s get these bastards.”
Boyd pressed his fingers to his tired eyes. He could, of course, order Colt to back off. And he’d be wasting his breath. He could refuse to cooperate, could refuse to share any information the department unearthed. And Colt would work around him. Yes, he knew Colt was good, and he had some idea of the kind of work he’d done while in the military.
It would hardly be the first time Boyd Fletcher had bent the rules. His decision made, he gestured toward Althea.
“She’s my best man.”
Chapter 2
If a man had to have a partner, she might as well be easy on the eyes. In any case, Colt didn’t intend to work with Althea so much as through her. She would be his conduit to the official end of the investigation. He’d keep his word—he always did, except when he didn’t—and feed her whatever information he gleaned. Not that he expected her to do much with it.
There were only a handful of cops Colt respected, with Boyd topping the list. As far as Lieutenant Grayson was concerned, Colt figured she’d be decorative, marginally helpful and little else.
The badge, the bod and the sarcasm would probably be useful when it came to interviewing any possible connections.
At least he’d had a decent night’s sleep—all six hours of it. He hadn’t protested when Boyd insisted he check out of his hotel and check into the Fletcher household for the duration of his stay. Colt liked families—other people’s, in any case—and he’d been curious about Boyd’s wife.
He’d missed their wedding. Though he wasn’t particularly fond of the spit and polish ceremonies called for, he would have gone. But it was a long way from Beirut to Denver, and he’d been busy with terrorists at the time.
He was delighted with Cilla. The woman hadn’t turned a hair at having her husband bring home a strange man at 2:00 a.m. Bundled in a terry-cloth robe, she’d offered him the guest room, with the suggestion that if he wanted to sleep in he should put the pillow over his head. The kids apparently rose at seven to get ready for school.
He’d slept like a rock, and when he’d awakened to the sounds of shouts and clomping feet, he’d taken his hostess’s advice and had caught another hour of sleep with his head buried.
Now, fortified by an excellent breakfast and three cups of first-class coffee prepared by the Fletchers’ housekeeper, he was ready to roll.
His agreement with Boyd made the precinct house his first stop. He’d check in with Althea, grill her on any associates of Billings’s, then go his own way.
It seemed to him that his old friend ran a tight ship. There was the usual din of ringing phones, clattering keyboards and raised voices inside the station. There were the usual scents of coffee, industrial-strength cleaners and sweaty bodies. But there was also an underlying sense of organization and purpose.
The desk sergeant had Colt’s name, and he handed him a visitor’s badge and directed him to Althea’s office. Past the bull pen, and two doors down a narrow corridor he found her door. It was shut, so he rapped once before pushing it open. He knew she was there before he saw her. He scented her, as a wolf scents his mate. Or his prey.
Gone were the bold silks, but she still looked more the fashion plate than the cop. The tailored slacks and jacket in smoke gray did nothing to suggest masculinity. Nor did he think she chose to deny her sex, for she’d accented the suit with a soft pink blouse and a star-shaped jeweled lapel pin. Her mass of hair had been trained back in some complicated braid that left her face softly framed. Two heavy twists of gold glinted at her ears.
The result was as neat as any maiden aunt could want, and still had the knockout punch of frosted sex.
A lesser man might have licked his lips.
“Grayson.”
“Nightshade.” She gestured toward a chair. “Have a seat.”
There was only one to spare, straight-backed and wood. Colt turned it around and straddled it. As he did, he noted that her office was less than half the size of Boyd’s, and ruthlessly organized. File drawers were neatly closed, papers properly stacked, pencils sharpened to lethal points. There was a plant on one of the rear corners of the desk that he was sure was meticulously watered. There were no pictures of family or friends. The only spot of color in the small, windowless room was a painting, an abstract in vivid blues, greens and reds. Slashes of colors that clashed and warred, rather than melded.
Some instinct told him it suited her down to the ground.
“So.” He folded his arms over the back of the chair and leaned forward. “You run the shooter’s car through Motor Vehicles?”
“Didn’t have to. It was on this morning’s hot sheet.” She took her copy and offered it. “Reported stolen at eleven o’clock last night. Owners had been out for dinner, came out of the restaurant and found the car gone. Dr. and Dr. Wilmer, a couple of dentists celebrating their fifth anniversary. Looks like they’re clean.”
“Probably.” He tossed the sheet back onto her desk. He hadn’t really believed he’d find a connection through the car. “Don’t guess it’s turned up?”
“Not yet. I’ve got Jade’s rap sheet, if you’re interested.” After replacing the hot sheet in its proper place, she picked up a file. “Janice Willowby. Age twenty-two. Couple of busts for solicitation—a few charges as a juvie for more of the same. One possession arrest, also as a juvenile, when she got rousted with a couple of joints in her purse. Went through the social services route, a halfway house, counseling, then turned twenty-one and went back on the streets.”
It wasn’t a new story. “Have we got any family? She might head home.”
“A mother in Kansas City—or she was in Kansas City as of eighteen months ago. I’m trying to track her down.”
“You’ve been busy.”
“Not all of us start our day at—” she looked down at her watch “—ten.”
“I do better at night, Lieutenant.” He took out a cigar.
Althea eyed it, shook her head. “Not in here, pal.”
Agreeably Colt tapped the cigar back into his pocket. “Who did Billings trust, other than you?”
“I don’t know that he trusted anybody.” But it hurt, because she knew he had trusted somebody. He’d trusted her, and somehow she’d missed a step. And now he was dead. “We had an arrangement. I gave him money, he gave me information.”
“What kind?”
“With Wild Bill, it came in a variety pack. He had his fingers in a lot of pies. Little pies, mostly.” She shifted some papers on her desk, tapping the edges neatly together. “He was strictly small-time, but he had big ears, knew how to fade into the background so you forgot he was around. People talked around him, because he looked like his brain would fit in a teacup. But he was smart.” Her voice changed, tipping Colt off to something she had yet to admit even to herself. She was grieving. “Smart enough to keep from crossing the line that would send him up to hard time. Smart enough to keep from stepping on the wrong toes. Until last night.”
“I didn’t make any secret of the fact I was looking for him, and for information he could give me. But I sure as hell didn’t want him dead.”
“I’m not blaming you.”
“No?”
“No.” She pushed away from the desk far enough to allow her to swivel the chair around and face him. “People like Bill, no matter how smart, have short life expectancies. If he’d have been able to contact me, I might have met him at the same spot you did, with the same results.” She’d thought that through, carefully, ruthlessly. “I might not like your style, Nightshade, but I’m not pinning this on you.”
She sat very still, he noted, no gestures, no shrugs, no restless tapping. Like the painting on the wall behind her, she communicated vibrant passion without movement.
“And just what is my style, Lieutenant?”
�
�You’re a renegade. The kind who doesn’t just refuse to play by the rules, but rejoices in breaking them.” Her eyes stayed level with his, and were cool as lake water. He wondered what it would take to warm them up. “You start things, but you don’t always finish them. Maybe that means you bore easily, or you just run out of energy. Either way, it doesn’t say much about your dependability.”
Her rundown of his personality annoyed him, but when he spoke again, his slow southwestern drawl was amused. “You figured all that out since last night?”
“I ran a make on you. The prep school where you hung out with Boyd surprised me.” Her lips curved, but the eyes had yet to warm. “You don’t look like the preppie type.”
“My parents thought it would tame me.” He grinned. “Guess not.”
“Neither did Harvard, where you got your law degree—which you haven’t put to much use. Parts of your military career were classified, but all in all, I got the picture.” There was a dish of sugared almonds on her desk. Althea leaned over and, after careful deliberation, chose the one she wanted. “I don’t work with someone I don’t know.”
“Me either. So why don’t you fill me in on Althea Grayson?”
“I’m the cop,” she said simply. “And you’re not. I assume you have a recent picture of Elizabeth Cook?”
“Yeah, I got one.” But he didn’t reach for it. He didn’t have to take this kind of bull from some glamour-puss with a badge. “Tell me, Lieutenant, just who jammed a stick up your—”
The phone cut him off, which, considering the flash in Althea’s eye, might have been for the best. At least he knew how to defrost those eyes now.
“Grayson.” She waited a beat, then jotted something down on a pad. “Notify Forensics. I’m on my way.” She rose, tucking the pad into a snakeskin purse. “We found the car.” She was frowning when she slung the bag over her shoulder. “Since Boyd wants you in, you can come along for the ride—as an observer only. Got it?”
“Oh, yeah. I got it fine.”
He followed her out, then quickly moved up so that they walked side by side. The woman had the best rear view this side of the Mississippi, and Colt didn’t care to be distracted.
“I didn’t have much time to play catch-up with Boyd last night,” he began. “I wondered how it was that you’re on such … easy terms with your captain.”
She was walking down the stairs to the garage, and she stopped, turned, aimed one razor-sharp glance.
“What?” he demanded as she assessed him silently.
“I’m trying to decide if you’re insulting me and Boyd—in which case I’d have to hurt you—or if you simply phrased your question badly.”
He lifted a brow. “Try the second choice.”
“All right.” She continued down. “We were partners for over seven years.” She reached the bottom of the steps and turned sharply to the right. The flat heels of her suede half boots clicked busily on the concrete. “When you trust someone with your life on a day-to-day basis, you’d better be on easy terms.”
“Then he made captain.”
“That’s right.” After taking out her keys, she unlocked her car. “Sorry, but the passenger seat’s stuck all the way forward. I haven’t had time to take it in and get it fixed.”
Colt looked down at the spiffy sports car with some regret. A sexy car, sure, but with the seat in that position, he was going to have to fold himself up like an accordion and sit with his chin on his knees. “And you don’t have a problem with that—Boyd’s being captain?”
Althea slid in gracefully, smirking a bit as Colt grunted and arranged himself beside her. “No. Am I ambitious? Yes. Do I resent having the best cop I ever worked with as my superior? No. Do I expect to make captain myself within another five years? You bet your butt.” She pushed mirrored aviator sunglasses over her eyes. “Fasten your seat belt, Nightshade.” With that, she peeled out, shooting up the ramp of the garage and out onto the street.
He had to admire her driving. He had no choice, since she was behind the wheel and his life was in her hands. Easy terms? he wondered. Yeah, right. “So, you and Boyd are friends.”
“That’s right. Why?”
“I just wanted to establish that it wasn’t all good-looking men of a certain age who put your back up.” He grinned at her as she downshifted around a corner. “I like knowing it’s just me. Makes me feel kind of special, you know?”
She smiled then and shot him what could have been a friendly look. It certainly was no more than friendly, and it really shouldn’t have had his heart doing a slow roll in his chest. “I wouldn’t say you put my back up, Nightshade. I just don’t trust hotdoggers. But since we’re both after the same thing here, and since Boyd’s a pal on both sides, we can try to get along.”
“Sounds reasonable. We’ve got the job and Boyd in common. Maybe we can find a couple of other things.” Her radio was turned down low. Colt flicked the volume up and nodded approval at the slow, pulse-pumping blues. “There, that’s one more thing. How do you feel about Mexican food?”
“I like my chili hot and my margaritas cold.”
“Progress.” He tried to shift in his seat, rapped his knee on the dash, and swore. “If we’re going to do any more driving together, we take my four-wheel.”
“We’ll discuss it.” She turned the music down again when she heard the police radio squawk to life.
“All units in the vicinity of Sheridan and Jewell, 511 in progress.”
Althea swore as the dispatcher continued to call for assistance. “That’s only a block down.” She turned left and aimed a quick, dubious look at Colt. “Shots fired,” she told him. “Police business, got it?”