The Given

CHAPTER EIGHT

They reached a bit of an impasse after that. Grif asked Zicaro what Barbara had wanted to know about him, but Zicaro only shrugged, saying she’d left as soon as she realized he had nothing to tell. And why would he? Grif had been dead for all but one of the past fifty years.

After that, they all agreed they next needed to find out what was on those flash drives. Yet after the standoff at Sunset, Kit no longer felt safe heading home. If Dennis had signed her name in the Sunset guest book, then Justin and company now knew who she was, and likely where she lived.

“What about the paper?” Zicaro said, eyes glinting as he wheeled himself back out to the car. He was practically salivating at the chance to get back into the newsroom, and his craggy face fell a good inch when Kit shook her head.

“I can’t go around Marin. Not on this.” Though it was possible. Ever since Marin’s life had been threatened the previous summer, she had loosened her grip on her reins at the paper. She no longer overnighted in her office, and even took a full day off each week without going in at all. Most would still consider her a workaholic, but Kit had watched her aunt work a seventy-five-hour workweek for years, and the difference was glaring.

Grif finally spoke, saying what she knew he would, even though it was the last thing she wanted to do. “So maybe she could help.”

Of course, she could . . . and she would, too. But it still galled Kit to ask.

Seeing it, Grif put a hand on her shoulder. “Now is not the time for pride.”

No . . . and so they headed directly to her aunt’s town house, located on a west Vegas golf course with sprawling views of the ninth green. Kit didn’t call ahead, and the guard at the gate recognized her, or at least her vintage Duetto, and just waved her in. That’s why her breath caught when Marin answered the door in a silk robe, one far too decadent for the late-afternoon hours. Zicaro whistled softly from his wheelchair, and Grif tilted his head like he’d never seen her before. As for Kit, she blushed the same bright hue as Marin before clearing her throat. “We need help.”

Six months earlier, she’d have thought nothing of showing up on Marin’s doorstep with her former lover and a paranoid senior citizen. They were family, and Marin would know in a glance that Kit was desperate, and that would be enough. Yet an ever-widening wedge had grown between them since Kit discovered that Marin had knowingly withheld information about the murder of Kit’s father. They worked in the same office, they saw each other daily, but conversations were short and never personal.

And now Kit was on her doorstep with another case that could bring harm to them all. She bit her lip, wondering if that was immediately apparent. Probably, from the way Marin’s eyes narrowed as she spotted Grif. She opened the door wide anyway.

“Hello,” said Zicaro, holding out a hand. “I’m—”

“Crazy Uncle Al,” Marin finished shortly, earning a scowl from the old man. Grif flared his eyes at Kit, but she only shrugged. Marin ran the paper like a sea captain facing down the perfect storm. The longitudes and latitudes, and indeed all the workings of the bowl-like valley, were seared in her brain. She knew exactly who Al Zicaro was.

And it was that mental cache of information that Kit needed now.

“The Wilson family archives are infamous,” Zicaro enthused when Kit told him where they were going. “Is it true that she’s ferreted away every story ever brought to her in her whole tenure as editor in chief?”

Not just every story, but every rumor, old wives’ tale, eyewitness account, and bedroom gossip . . . whether it could be substantiated or not. It was a habit she’d learned from her own father, and no matter how great or minute the information, if there was even the hint of truth to it, she squirreled it away. “Some people hoard money or collect tchotchkes,” Kit told Zicaro. “Marin stockpiles information.”

And so focused was Kit on getting that information that it was only after the door had shut behind them, and Kit was leading the way into the familiar living area, that she smelled the vanilla-scented candles burning in the air, accompanied by the remnants of what could only be a late, or very extended, brunch.

“Hello.” The sight of the petite blond woman seated in the corner of Marin’s slipcovered sofa had Kit pulling up short.

“I’m sorry,” she said, turning toward her aunt. “We interrupted your evening. Er, afternoon.”

“You’re not sorry,” Marin replied, sweeping into the room with the wave of her hand, before resecuring the sash at her waist. “Would you like some wine?”

Zicaro, missing the sarcasm in the question, wheeled past Kit to enter the room, heading straight for the dining-room table. “Absolutely.”

“No,” said Kit, putting one hand on his chair and the other on her forehead. “Oh . . . shit.”

Chuckling, the other woman rose from the sofa and offered her hand. “I’m Amelia. It’s good to finally meet you.”

“Kit Craig,” Kit replied, shaking hands.

The lines bracketing Amelia’s eyes deepened with her smile. “I know who you are.”

A sense of sadness swirled in Kit’s gut as she realized she couldn’t say the same. Pulling away from Marin didn’t just mean they were out of touch at work, it meant she was disconnected from the only living family she had left in this world. Strange how sometimes you didn’t notice how much you missed that sort of connection until faced with it again. Blowing out a hard breath, she tried to ward off her sadness by motioning to the others. “This is Griffin Shaw and that’s Al Zicaro.”

Grif shook Amelia’s hand as well, but Zicaro had already made his way to the wine. Apparently they didn’t offer sauce with the meds at Sunset.

Marin just smirked. “So what’s a reporter, a P.I., and a washed-up newshound—”

“Hey!” That finally drew Zicaro’s attention from his wineglass.

“—doing on my doorstep on a Sunday afternoon?”

The uneasiness fell away as Kit explained about Barbara McCoy’s murder, Zicaro’s kidnapping, and the beef that’d chased them from Sunset. Marin was silent throughout the telling, just biting her lip while Amelia stood behind her, head tilted attentively. Kit didn’t worry about her presence. If Marin trusted her, she was worthy of it.

It made Kit’s feud with her aunt, she thought, pointedly ironic.

“Can I see the flash drives?” Marin finally asked.

Zicaro immediately stuck his hands down his pants. When he tried to hand the plastic drives to Marin, she leaned back in her chair and gestured for Amelia to take it.

“Wait a minute . . .” Zicaro drew his arm back.

“Amelia is a computer nut. I can locate information easily enough in the family archives, but if those things are encrypted she’ll be able to crack them well before me. Not to mention flag any unusual files.”

“And why would she?” Grif asked, earning a glare from Kit, even though she was thinking the same thing herself.

“Because I’m happy to help Marin’s beloved niece in any way I can.” Amelia smiled, once again holding out her hand. “And I owe Marin for saving my nonprofit with a particularly timely piece on the city council member who was trying to shut it down.”

Marin scoffed, a sound that meant Amelia owed her nothing. The sound stuttered when her gaze found Kit’s.

You owe me, Kit thought, but said nothing as Amelia gave Marin’s shoulder an encouraging squeeze.

“What else do you know about the men who chased you today?” Marin asked.

“One of the guys’ name is Justin Allen,” Grif put in. “Calls himself ‘Fuck You,’ though.”

“The others were Larry and Eric,” Kit said. “Surnames—and, uh, nicknames—unknown.”

They all looked at Zicaro. The old man shrugged, eyes never leaving his full glass. “I never thought to ask while they were drugging me up to my eyeballs.”

Marin, at her writing desk, was already scribbling the names down. “Of course I’m going to want something in return.”

“The full story, right?” Kit had been anticipating that.

“Hey!” Zicaro was suddenly sitting up in his seat, eyes bulging like an angry bullfrog perched atop the lily pad of Marin’s Persian rug. “I got the disks, it’s my story!”

Marin may have been seated in her living room wearing nothing more than a kimono, but as she shifted her gaze his way, she was every bit the editor in chief. “Why should I give you a byline? Because your crazy-ass rants finally got you locked up?”

“Marin—”

But she held up one finger, silencing Grif. Kit, too, would’ve gone easy on the old guy, but she knew better than to interfere. If Zicaro wanted a byline, he’d have to earn it. Knowing it, he straightened in his seat. “I had to put up with those knuckleheads questioning me day in and day out. It got on my nerves. And the food was crappy there, too.”

Marin just stared.

“It’s bad if my blood-sugar levels get low,” Zicaro told her.

Picking up her own wineglass, Marin shrugged. “Well, my kitchen is closed.”

That was Kit’s opening. “You know what? I’m pretty hungry, too. Let’s go hunt something down while Amelia goes to work on the files, shall we?”

Zicaro sputtered. “But—”

“Thanks again, Marin,” Grif said, moving behind Zicaro, clearly intending to wheel him out forcibly if he had to. Yet all Zicaro did was chug his white wine before warning Amelia not to muck up his damned story.

Zicaro was still ranting as Kit swung onto Sahara Avenue and arrowed past a city block advertised as the world’s largest gift shop. Kit made polite noises as Zicaro continued to huff and puff, but Grif tuned him out, coming around only when struck by a bony elbow or a faceful of wheezing breath. If the old-timer was going to roll with them, he thought, they were going to have to get a bigger car.

But then Kit swerved and even Zicaro fell silent at the sight of a giant golden cow.

“The Golden Steer?” Zicaro asked, and pumped his bony fists at Kit’s answering nod.

Shooting Grif a smile, Kit shrugged. “I think Loony Uncle Al deserves one of the best steaks on earth after his time of enforced confinement. Besides, if the past is intent on rearing its head, we might as well go in for a touch of nostalgia as well.”

“Oh, honey,” Zicaro said before Grif could reply. “I’d kiss you if it weren’t already dangerous enough with you behind that wheel.”

He wiggled, doing a little dance when Grif snorted, though he stopped when Kit exited the car and slammed the door shut, leaving Zicaro to fend for himself.

“Good job, sport,” Grif muttered, and went to wrangle with the wheelchair by himself.

They met up with her again inside the Golden Steer, Las Vegas’s first steakhouse. Built in 1958, the iconic gold steer out front was still hard to miss, though now overshadowed by spearing towers, plummeting roller coasters, and flashing signs. Yet back in Grif’s day, this was the stomping ground of Sinatra, Monroe, the Duke—John Wayne—and every made mobster ever to set foot in the valley. Longhorn steaks at just five bucks a pop, a private dining room, and a hidden exit door just in case the fuzz busted down the front.

The prices had changed in the ensuing years, but the decor had not, and as Grif stared at the mahogany wainscoting and deep velvet wallpaper dotted with landscapes of the Old West, he felt himself being dragged by the collar right back into the past. The burgundy carpeting muffled even Kit’s heels as they sidled into the bar. Tuck-and-roll booths could be seen lining the walls, offering both intimacy and a clear view of the entire dining room. The waitstaff, all male and tuxedoed, looked like they’d been there for almost as long as Grif had been dead.

“My God,” Grif said, turning around. “Some things never change.”

He glanced at Kit, who was watching him carefully. So the old-school atmosphere wasn’t a mistake. It’d get Zicaro talking, yes, but after the events of the past day, and in a world where everything changed too quickly, it was nice to take refuge in a place that had roots.

“Thanks,” he said softly.

“Don’t thank me,” she said, and smiled sweetly. “You’re paying for it.”

The maître d’ approached. “Reservations?”

Grif peeled off a bill that made even this jaded man’s eyes go wide. “Table for three.”

Kit immediately corrected him. “Four, actually,” she said, and gestured back to the entrance. Grif turned just as Dennis Carlisle spotted him, and they both scowled. The intimate dining room no longer seemed as homey.

“What?” Kit said, as Dennis joined them. “You called him when we were out at Sunset.”

“I called the cops.”

“I’m still a cop in my off-hours,” Dennis reminded Grif, his gaze almost shining it was so hard.

“And a friend, remember?” Kit said, voice gone soft. Grif’s eyes flashed between the two of them, though he relaxed a bit when he saw Dennis doing the same with Kit and him.

And Dennis was off duty, his jeans cuffed high, T-shirt sleeves rolled, hair now slicked with enough grease that the candlelit tables might prove a danger. He, too, looked like he’d just walked out of the fifties, though the maître d’ didn’t seem to appreciate it as much.

Dennis caught the look. “I brought a jacket,” he said before the man could speak, and he shrugged into a sports coat while Kit nudged Grif. He sighed, dug into his wallet for another bill, and handed it over.

“This way.” The maître d’ led them to a corner booth where Zicaro shunted aside his wheelchair and squeezed in between Dennis and Kit. Oblivious to the tension at the table, he proceeded to pore over the timeless menu, face stretched in glee. “Look at that! Beef and spuds!”

Grif and Dennis, seated across from each other, propped their menus in front of their faces.

“So,” Grif finally said, eyes trained on his menu. “Still like the beat?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Dennis replied flatly. Kit swallowed, almost audibly, and bent her head over her menu, too. “Every day is different. You never know if you’re going to get a domestic disturbance, a routine traffic stop. An anonymous tip about a dead woman in a high-rise apartment.”

Dropping his menu, Grif speared a look at Kit, and this time Dennis’s gaze, too, stuck.

“It’s Dennis,” she said, with a lift of her slight shoulders, causing Grif to sigh and pinch the bridge of his nose.

“So are you going to tell me about it?” Dennis asked, flicking his napkin to his lap.

“We all are,” Kit said, but didn’t look him in the eye.

Nope, Grif thought, as the waiter poured water and brought bread. They hadn’t been seeing each other. He’d have felt good about that except that his relief came at Dennis’s expense. And what had the poor sap done, really? He’d fallen for Kit, he’d taken a bullet for her and almost died because of it. Nothing Grif wouldn’t have done himself.

Except that he hadn’t.

“And how’s the head?” Grif asked, more softly, jerking his chin at Dennis’s right ear. The hair had grown back in the months since his hospital stay, but a bright red scar still peeked from underneath.

“Pretty good,” Dennis admitted, unconsciously touching the scar. “The doc gave me a clean bill of health. Said it was a miracle I didn’t die.”

Grif nodded. Miracles were commonplace when one was possessed by the Pure. Even if the angel was only using the body to manipulate his environment, and, he thought, looking at Kit, those in it.

“I’m glad, Dennis,” Grif finally said, lowering his menu and nodding once. “Really. You saved Kit’s life, you did it square. It was the bravest damned thing I’ve ever seen.”

And just like that, the tension eased from the room. Dennis’s hunched shoulders dropped, and the hardness left his gaze so that he looked both younger and more himself. Kit let out an audible sigh next to Grif.

“And now that we’ve got that settled,” Kit said, which was clearly what she’d intended all along, “let’s eat.”