The Taken

Chapter Twelve

Kit slept like her life depended on it. Even in the home of a former mobster, or perhaps because of it, she fell into a dream state that was a black hole for her thoughts and emotions. Nothing existed for twelve straight hours, and she actually awoke refreshed, and feeling for the first time since Nic’s death like it was okay to be breathing.

Maybe that was because Nic had visited her in her dreams, saying she knew Kit would find out who did this to her, and that she really was in a better place.

“Nothing made in China,” she told Kit, in a pretend whisper, then straightened with a smile. “Not here. Not in the Everlast.”

Shaking her head at her own imagination, Kit took a long shower, dressed carefully in a gray pencil skirt and white blouse, and backcombed the hell out of her hair. By the time she sat down to a hearty breakfast of toast and eggs with Grif and Tony, she felt settled if not totally herself.

But Grif was obviously preoccupied. He kept touching his head like it was tender or he was worried or he’d forgotten something. He snapped at her when she asked if he was okay, and refused to answer when she asked what they were going to do next. The only thing that kept him from sullying her fragile good mood was recalling the way he looked the night before, hanging with her friends, listening attentively as they spoke of Nic’s life, and all the while watching the bar door to make sure Paul-or someone-didn’t return. She’d even caught him studying her face a couple of times, like she was some sort of riddle he was trying to figure out. When she asked him what he was thinking, though, he just shook his head and turned away.

She was getting to know him, Kit realized, as they set off from Tony’s to follow their sole lead. Grif only spoke when he had something definitive to say, then used as few words as possible to do so. She couldn’t say she liked his taciturn nature, but she appreciated his directness. It was much more refreshing than, say, the way Paul had once used countless words to camouflage his lies.

And, of course, the way Grif had watched after Charis’s baby had been sweet, talking with the little girl as if discussing something important. There was just something about big, gruff guys with tiny, vulnerable babies that was so life-affirming and reassuring. So she sighed, smiling slightly at the road as she drove, while Grif continued being a grump beside her.

“You always this happy when investigating murder?”

“I don’t always investigate murder,” she said, reason enough to be happy. Yet he wouldn’t want to hear that her mood also had to do with him. With all the questions still swirling around his sudden appearance in her life, even Kit wasn’t sure how she felt about it. But it didn’t stop her from being comforted by the very same.

“Bridget Moore,” Kit said, clearing her mind and pulling out her smart phone. “Her first arrest was for solicitation, at nineteen, almost a decade ago. She may have some underage arrests, but we’ll never know. Juvie files are sealed, but this one says she was born and raised in Vegas. No listing for a Bridget Moore that matches her age, though.”

“So she changed her name?”

Kit shrugged. “And opened the nail salon where we’re headed, a year ago. Incidentally, it was an all-cash purchase. Probably her savings.”

“Tired of running from Lance Schmidt?”

“Tired of trading her body for that money,” Kit guessed. “Else why not head out to Nye County to escape Schmidt’s reach and work her trade legally?”

Grif jerked his head. “The legal brothels won’t take you if they know you’ve been working the street. She’s got a record. Does she have a boyfriend? Husband?”

“Unknown on the first. Nothing recorded on the second.”

Grif made a noise in the back of his throat. “So maybe she found one and he wanted her straight.”

“Or she wanted to be straight for him.” Kit sighed. “Wouldn’t that be nice?”

Grif huffed again, disbelief evident in the sound, his slump, his lidded gaze.

“Everyone deserves a fresh start,” Kit said, answering his unspoken skepticism.

“I don’t think it works that way, Kit.”

And he looked so sad when he said it that Kit almost ran a red light.

They drove the rest of the way in silence. It was ten in the morning, and the streets were steady with local traffic, the tourists confined to the Strip and the airport and the downtown buffets as if held there by an invisible lasso. The street where Moore’s shop was located held only a sprinkling of pedestrians, and a roofed bus stop where a man was currently having a conversation with a pigeon. Grif eyed them both warily as Kit pulled into the lot. One car, a late-model Toyota, sat alone.

“Staying or coming?” she asked, turning off the car as Grif continued to stare at the man at the bus stop.

“Coming.” Yet even before the sole woman inside caught sight of Grif, her glance toward the door was wary. She’d been disinfecting tools, drying them and laying them neatly across a folded towel on the counter. She was dressed in tight jeans and a UNLV sweatshirt, but even its size couldn’t disguise a bosom that’d probably paid dividends in her previous profession.

Kit’s gaze skittered over the bleached hair and dark roots. What a shame. Kit could’ve told her that red lips and dark brows covered a multitude of sins. Then she chided herself. Shadows lay like tiny horseshoes beneath the woman’s eyes, and her shoulders were already slumped. Though Kit and she were near the same age, this woman clearly had worries that went beyond the cosmetic.

“Bridget Moore?” Kit asked.

“Appointment only,” the woman said in a heavy smoker’s voice. But Kit had seen the welcome for walk-ins printed on the door.

“We’re looking for Ms. Bridget Moore. Is that you?”

“Let me clarify. I only see new clients by appointment.”

“I’m happy to make one, but I was hoping just to talk. My name is Kit Craig.”

Moore cocked a hand on her hip. “I know who you are.”

“How?” Grif interrupted.

Bridget’s wariness turned to contempt as her gaze landed on Grif. “I read her paper.”

Kit shot Grif a warning look. Angering a source was no way to advance a case, and as a prostitute, Moore likely had less respect for men-and reporters-than the average CSI-loving couch potato. It would be hard to do what she did, or used to do, and not be changed by it.

Kit took a step forward, regaining Moore’s attention. “So you know why I’m here?”

Bridget considered her for a long moment before looking away. “No.”

“My colleague, Nicole Rockwell-” Kit shook her head. “My best friend was murdered three nights ago. She was meeting with someone at the Wayfarer Motel.”

Bridget just stared.

“I was hoping you could tell me a little about the place. The way it works. The girls. The clients.”

“I don’t hang out at the Wayfarer.”

Grif rejoined Kit’s side. “But you did a year ago.”

“That’s in the past.” She jerked her head to the door. “And I want to keep it that way. Understand?”

Angling herself so she was blocking Bridget’s view of Grif, Kit pulled the list from her handbag. “Bridget, please. I have a list of names here. Most of them are local businessmen, politicians with good reason not to be linked to the Wayfarer-”

“So don’t link ’em.”

“If you could look-”

But she cut Kit off with a brisk shake of her head. “I don’t exactly run with the political crowd.”

“Well, could you tell me if you’ve ever seen any of the men listed here at the Wayfarer?”

“No.”

And that, Kit thought with narrowed eye, was one of her least favorite words. Inhaling deeply, she made a show of looking around, crossing to run a finger over one of the nail stations. “Nice place you have here.”

“It’s a business,” Bridget retorted, not about to be appeased. She cast a snarling look at Grif. “A legitimate one.”

Kit smiled. “Clearly. And I could really use a manicure.”

“Really?” Bridget asked, crossing her arms.

“What?” Grif asked, crossing his.

“I have a Valentine’s Day fund-raiser to attend this weekend. Oh, and the most gorgeous vintage cupcake dress. Red crinoline beneath gold satin. Bought it at an estate sale for twenty dollars, an original Suzy Perette. The woman had no idea what a find it was.”

Both Grif and Bridget stared.

“Candy-apple-red fingernails would compliment it perfectly.”

“Can I talk to you,” Grif said, pulling her toward the door. With his back to Bridget, he whispered, “What are you doing?”

“Being charming. You might try it sometime.”

“You’re getting your nails done.”

“That, too.”

“I don’t get you! You’re this hotshot reporter but you’re willing to stop the presses just to pretty-up? After you already stopped the investigation to do your hair?”

Kit tilted her head. “You really think I’m a hotshot?”

“Kit!” Lifting his hat, Grif raked a hand through his hair. “What about saving the world?”

“Oh, Grif.” Kit blew out a breath. “Can’t you see you’re scaring her?”

“Wha… I didn’t do anything!”

“Besides, the world’s a better place when it’s pretty. Now take my phone,” she said, handing it to him. “Go download an app, and kill a pig with a bird or something.”

“Kill a pig with a…?” But he never finished the sentence. Instead he shook his head and left without another word.

“Sorry about him,” Kit said, whirling to Bridget when the door had shut behind him. “He’s very intense. Tries to hide his soft side.”

Bridget just motioned to the nail station farthest from the door.

“I really do like your place,” Kit said brightly, as she sat. Bridget looked at her sharply, relaxing when she saw Kit was sincere.

“Bought it with all my own money. And, yeah, I paid in cash.”

“Wise,” Kit said lightly.

Pulling in tight across from her, Bridget picked up one of Kit’s hands. She gave her a hard double-take when she saw they were perfectly manicured, then shrugged and picked up a nail file. A client was a client. “When I’m able, I’m gonna expand to the empty space next door. Add beauticians. Someone who can do facials.”

“Sounds real nice.”

Bridget nodded, not looking at Kit again until she’d placed that hand to soak, and picked up the other. “Look, I read about your friend in the paper. I’m real sorry. But I ain’t been to that shitbox motel since I was busted. I’m clean. I washed my hands of all that shit.”

“So you didn’t contact Nic?”

“Nope. Don’t know who might have, either. I don’t run with those girls anymore. They can’t be trusted. Most will sell you to the devil as soon as they feel the flame.”

Kit lifted her eyes from her hands. “What about Lance Schmidt?”

Bridget didn’t look up, didn’t hesitate as she removed Kit’s old color, but her fingertips tightened over Kit’s. “Who?”

“C’mon, Bridget,” Kit said softly. “The cop who busted you at the Wayfarer… and back when you were nineteen.”

Bridget did look at her now, and naked fear warred with anger in the gaze. “I make a point of staying out of Detective Schmidt’s way.”

“Is he dirty?”

Bridget kept filing.

“Does he blackmail the girls?” Kit persisted. “Make them do things for him in return for not busting them?”

“I know nothing about him,” Bridget said stubbornly, buffing harder, then added quickly, “Except that he’s mean.”

“Mean enough to kill?”

“Mean enough that you don’t want to find out,” Bridget warned. Her tone also said she wasn’t going to risk her own skin-and salon, livelihood, life-to help Kit pursue that mad dog. Kit considered telling Bridget about Schmidt’s attack on her, but decided it probably wouldn’t help. Scared and jaded, she’d likely think Kit naive for not expecting it.

Besides, she might be lying. As Marin said, he’d bookended her career, and could be holding something over her still. He could have used her to contact Nic. She might have him on the phone as soon as Kit left the salon. So as Bridget cleaned and trimmed, Kit tried to think of another angle.

But Bridget surprised her by raising her own question. “That charity ball you’re going to this weekend. That wouldn’t happen to be the Caleb Chambers event, would it?”

Kit tilted her head. “Why?”

Bridget shrugged, but the movement was stiff. “Is he on that list of yours?”

“Chambers?” Kit nodded. “At the bottom, though. Alibied for the night in question.”

And yet, she suddenly realized, his name kept coming up again and again.

“Makes sense. He’s a bottom-feeder.”

Kit leaned forward on her elbows, staring closely at Bridget, now studiously looking down. A former prostitute who claimed no ties to the political crowd thought the most powerful of them was scum? “Look, if you can tell me anything about Chambers, about what happens at the Wayfarer, anything at all, I’d be grateful.”

Bridget’s mouth firmed into a thin line. “I can’t.”

“Not even anonymously? Off the record?”

Huffing, she shook her head. “Who’d believe me?”

“I would,” Kit said sincerely.

“I know. I’ve heard you protect your sources. You got a good rep on the street.”

“So what’s the problem?”

Bridget stilled and looked at her. “No one even believes you.”

Kit drew back but realized Bridget was right. Marin was helping, but Marin was blood, and always on her side. But Paul had dismissed her claims outright. Even Dennis hadn’t yet returned the calls she’d put in to the police station, though maybe he would have if she’d told him her suspicions regarding Schmidt. She’d have to talk to Grif about that later, but for now nobody was asking questions about what happened at the Wayfarer. Nobody but Grif.

“You know,” Bridget said, seeing from Kit’s silence that she finally understood, “I worked at another salon when I first got my cosmetology license. On the Strip, catering to bachelorette parties and all the bored wives of men who come here to gamble. It was real pricey, real exclusive…”

Kit ventured a guess. “Fifth Avenue?”

“You’ve been there?”

She nodded. “My girlfriends sprang for it when I got married.”

“How’d you like it?”

“The manicure lasted nearly as long as my marriage.”

That garnered a wry smile. “Well, I saw a lot of women come through those doors, some splurging like you, though most were simply wealthy. They wanted perfect nails to match their perfect husbands and perfect children and cars and homes.

“Thing is, once I started filing away?” Bridget shook her head. “The truth came up quicker than tequila on an empty stomach. Husbands were straying, the women were in denial, all the old clichés and a few new ones as well. But as they talked, and I filed and listened, they all had one thing in common. See, fake nails-acrylics, overlays, gels, tips-all they do is mask imperfection. There’s always something else going on underneath a perfect, pristine, glossy facade.”

She wasn’t talking about nails. “And what’s that?”

“Rot,” Bridget said shortly. “I scrape under a nail and I pull out dirt. I pull off an overlay and I smell urine. It’s the rot of their lives seeping into their nailbeds, you see? They can fix their hair and paint their nails and run on a treadmill until they’re anorexia’s poster child, but they can’t fix their lives… lives of rotting perfection.”

Kit frowned. “Just because you’re rich doesn’t mean you’re bad, or not deserving of good things.”

Bridget shook her head. “I know that. I’m just saying that when something looks perfect, all you have to do is dig down a couple of layers. That’s where to find the truth.”

A smile began to grow over Kit’s face. So Chambers wasn’t the perfect businessman. The perfect family man. The perfect Mormon. Pursing her lips, she thought about prodding for more, but if Bridget had wanted to speak openly, she would have. Instead, Kit tilted her head. “So why’d you leave Fifth Avenue?”

The woman smiled tightly, pausing as she pulled the brush from the nail polish. “It seems someone dug down a couple of layers on me as well. Decided that my past made me unfit to render services to such perfect people.”

“I’m sorry,” Kit said, meaning it, and understood better why it was so important that Bridget work for herself. And why she was so unwilling to talk about Schmidt. After all, who else had the power and authority and motivation to reveal such information to her employers?

“And I’m really sorry about your friend.” Bridget’s fingers tightened on hers again, but this time it was a consoling squeeze. “I’m sorry I can’t help you either.”

Kit smiled at her, then looked down at her right hand. “These look beautiful.”

“Hope your boyfriend thinks so, too.”

Kit realized she meant Grif. “Oh, no. It’s not like that.”

“With that type?” Bridget scoffed and started on the left hand. “It’s always like that.”

“Type?”

Glancing up, Bridget laughed at Kit’s perplexed expression. “Take it from a pro. You know a man by his thrust, and that one’s got it.”

“I generally get to know the man before I get to know his thrust.”

Unoffended, Bridget just snorted, and started cleaning up. “Not physically. I’m talking about a man’s drive. Plenty of men are good at acquiring money and cars and things, but only a few have real forward motion. You know. Thrust.”

Kit pursed her lips. Paul was certainly driven, but compared to Grif, and Kit had certainly been doing so the night before, Paul had the thrust of a Schwinn. She huffed, surprised she’d realized it only now. “You are so right.”

“ ’Course I am,” Bridget scoffed. “And you can lay odds that a man who’s driven in his life’s pursuits-whatever they are-will be equally driven when it comes to you.” Stilling suddenly, she looked up from her work. “You can lose yourself to a man like that.”

Kit swallowed hard, and thought of all the questions that remained about Griffin Shaw. She thought of the way her pulse throbbed harder, thicker, around him, too. The way her gut had kicked when she thought he’d been injured. The way it warmed when he’d stood up to Paul.

But the idea of losing herself entirely in another person? Sure, that idea spoke to the romantic in her. But so far it’d done so in a language she didn’t know.

“Anyway,” Bridget went on. “This case you and your girlfriend cracked open? It’s all about ambition gone sour. Sex isn’t about power or money.”

“No. It’s about love.”

“No, it’s about sex.” Bridget laughed wryly, and pushed her hair back from her face. “Sex drives us, love or no love. Power or no power. Money or no money. It’s the most powerful drug in the world. Some pay for it. Some die for it.”

“And others kill for it.”

Bridget held the questioning gaze for a moment, then jerked her head down at Kit’s nails. “I’d let them sit for a bit to make sure you don’t smudge. Or maybe let your man drive.”

Kit didn’t correct her this time. She’d been warming to the idea of Grif anyway, backing up to it like it was a cold night and he was a flame. Sex did make people do strange things. But Kit would be careful not to do anything too strange-or so she told herself. “Thanks for your time, Bridget.”

They settled up, but Kit paused with her hand on the door. “What you were talking about earlier,” she said, frowning. “Maybe that’s what everyone is really after. Not just sex, but a passion and thrust and a love for life that’s, I don’t know, almost desperate.”

“Maybe.”

“You think that kind of passion is meant for everyone?”

Now Bridget did look at her like she was foolish. But she also looked wistful. “Ideally.”

But they weren’t in an ideal world. And it was too bad, Kit thought, exiting the shop. Bridget might have talked to her if they were. Kit might have been able to trust her. And neither of them would have to fear a man with a whole different sort of thrust-corrupted, soured, rotting… and seemingly unstoppable.

She expected Grif to grill her as soon as she was back in the car, or at least chastise her again for getting a manicure while on the job, but he only tossed the phone in her lap and shifted to face her. “Tony called. Guess which little birdie finally flew his coop?”

“No way,” Kit said, eyes grown wide. She’d had a long conversation with the old man that morning, encouraging him, aptly, to spread his wings. It just seemed sad to waste what time he had left on this earth hiding from what was both possible and inevitable: death. What kind of life was that, anyway?

“Look, if I can walk around with a killer following me now,” she’d said to him, “why can’t you go out there after forty years?”

Tony gave her his death stare. “Have you ever had a bomb go off beneath the car you were supposed to be driving?”

“No. Have you ever been attacked by two men in your own bedroom?”

“Three. And more than once.”

Kit frowned. “Oh.”

Yet he’d done it. He’d left his safe house for the first time in decades and Kit liked to think something she’d said had contributed to that. “So where is he?”

“A coffee shop down on Western Avenue, one he used to frequent when he was still made. He wants us to meet him there. Have a celebratory ninety-nine-cent special.”

Kit knew exactly where it was, in the old industrial area now littered with auto shops, XXX movie houses, and a scattering of taco carts. It was closely watched by Metro, carefully ignored by the tourist bureau, and loyally frequented by old-timers despite the unchanging menu and dated decor. Maybe even because of it. One half-expected Lefty Rosenthal to suddenly saunter through the wooden door, and it was one reason Kit and her friends loved the place.

“So is she holding back?” Grif finally asked.

“Who, Bridget Moore?” She nodded at his sound of assent. “Of course.”

“Think she was the contact who lured Nicole to the Wayfarer?”

“I don’t know.” Frowning, Kit turned the possibility over in her mind. “I think it’s time to bring Dennis in. I think he can help.”

“I told you. No cops.”

“I trust him.”

“No.”

Kit tried on Tony’s death stare. When Grif only blinked, she filed his definitive “no” under “maybe” and let her expression clear. “Well, either way, I like her.”

Grif looked at her. “Even though she might be hiding something that can help you solve Nicole’s death?”

“Yes.”

“But… aren’t you angry?”

“Nah. Who’s to say that I wouldn’t do the same? Besides, much of the world’s problems could be solved if we were all just gentler with each other.”

She’d also run into too many reluctant sources to let them get to her now. Sometimes they came around on their own. More often they got tired of her nagging and just fessed up. It was rare that her ability to circle a source and dive back in from another direction didn’t create some fissure of opportunity she could crack.

So she’d do so again in this case. Maybe not until Saturday, when she’d hit the Chambers benefit-with beautiful nails and a fantastic dress-but for now she’d fortify herself with a veggie omelet, limitless coffee, and-most important-hope.

“Do you always have to see the best in everyone?” Grif said out of nowhere, watching her face with something close to a wince.

“Yes.” She swung into the triangle-shaped lot in front of the hash house.

“Why?”

Turning off the car, she almost laughed at his bemused expression. “You should just be thankful I do, otherwise I’d be obsessing over your presence in my bedroom on a night someone tried to murder me-”

Grif sighed dramatically. “Not that again.”

“-instead of thanking you for your help in the days since,” she finished, and that shut him up. Kit smiled. “I am thankful, Grif.”

He looked away. “I know.”

“I’m also still a bit obsessive.”

He sighed again, this time resigned. “I know that, too.”

Letting it go for now, Kit climbed from the car. “You know, I could ask the same of you. Do you always have to see the worst in people?”

“Yes.” And before she could ask why, he jerked his head at the coffee shop. “Case in point.”

Kit spotted Tony’s head rising like a plucked chicken to peer at them through the window. She frowned at Grif over the hood. “If you don’t see the best in him, then why are you staying with him?”

He seared her with a look as he slammed the car door shut. “ ’Cause we’re friends.”

And he strode across the lot in that smooth, dangerous gait.

A man with thrust.

Shaking her head, she followed him in.

Tony was seated in a wooden booth lined with lumpy red cushions, perched at a table that looked like it’d been lacquered in lieu of cleaning. Hunched over a plate of pasta the size of his head, surrounded by a half-dozen other dishes, he glanced up, eyes gleaming. “You gotta try the ziti!”

Kit smiled as she slid into the seat across from him. “It’s good to see you out, Tony. How does it feel?”

“I forgot what it was like. So many scents, so many noises.” He jerked his head, and Kit saw a waitress coming their way with a coffee pot. “What do you think of her?”

“Long in the tooth,” Grif muttered, before the mugs were dropped down in front of them. Kit elbowed him in the stomach.

Tony grinned up at the waitress as she refilled his cup, then leaned forward when she left. “Ah, but she’s got all her own teeth. I like that. Here. Try the meatballs. And these pancakes. They’re amazing. I tell you, you can’t get this delivered.”

Grif held up his hand, but Kit dug into the pasta. It really was good. Tony wiggled his brows when she sighed, which made her laugh again. How could Grif not like this guy?

“You’re being rude,” she told him, and both men stared. “You are. This is a celebration. Tony’s first day back in the real world. Here. Eat some ziti.”

She held the fork up to his mouth. Grif pursed his lips and glared.

Tony laughed. “You’re not going to sway that stubborn old coot with macaroni. If he’s determined to be moody, he’s gonna be moody.”

“You should talk,” Grif shot back.

“Respect your elders,” Kit hissed so that Tony couldn’t hear. She smiled over at him apologetically, and ate the bite Grif had rejected. “His loss.”

“ ’At’s all right. Grif and I go way back. Fifty years, give or take.” He squinted in Grif’s direction. “That about right, Shaw?”

“That’s right, Tony,” he said, but gave Kit a knowing look. Dementia. She frowned sympathetically, and felt her appetite take a slight dive.

Tony dug around his plate, still talking. “Yep, I used to look up to ol’ Grif here. He knew when to hedge and when to move the line back. ’Course, he was working a legal trade… and had that stunner of a wife to keep him in line.”

Kit’s stomach sank further, and she swallowed hard.

“Tony,” Grif said lowly.

“What?” Tony looked up, catching the look on his friend’s face. “Oh. Sorry, Grif.”

There was silence that felt like it would fill the hour, then Tony tapped at the corners of his mouth with his napkin. “Listen, I been asking around for you. Got out the old Rolodex. Used the old number. Actually got ahold of the kid.”

“What kid?” Kit glanced up, blinking. “What number?”

Tony looked at Grif, and raised his brows.

Grif gave a short nod. “It’s okay. You can talk in front of her.”

Tony nodded and resumed eating. “Ray DiMartino. He’s fifty-seven now, not really a kid anymore I guess, but I’ll always see him running the dice in the back of his dad’s liquor store.”

“How… endearing,” Kit said.

Tony chuckled. “Anyway, he owns the old place on Industrial, though they ain’t running booze no more.”

“What is it?” Grif asked.

“Ever hear of Masquerade?”

“The strip club?” Kit asked.

“Gentlemen’s club,” Tony corrected, causing Kit to scoff. He pointed his fork at her. “Sorry, missy, but you can’t change a man’s predilections. It’s simple human nature.”

Kit waved her perfectly manicured hand in the air. “I don’t care about that. There’s just no, I don’t know, life to it. No story to unfold with the dance, no suggestion of magic to come. No nuance to make a boy dream of more. Just body parts swinging around in your face.” She shuddered.

So did Tony. “Your point?”

“You should see a neo-burlesque show if you want to see something truly sexy. There’s drama, there’s kitsch. Winks and nods. It’s not just titillating, it’s full of life. It’s fun.”

Tony shook his head. “See what I been missing? Neo-burlesque. Everything old is new again.” He dug back into his ziti. “Anyway, the kid remembers you. Said you used to throw him a few bills when he was cleaned out.”

Kit drew back. How was that possible if Grif wasn’t from here, and was over twenty years younger than the man in question? She wondered again about Tony’s dementia, but her phone buzzed with a text before she could follow the thought.

Meanwhile, Tony kept eating, kept talking. “He’s grateful for the work you did on behalf of his family and his aunt Mary Margaret, and said you’re welcome to meet him at the club. Any night but Monday. That’s his night off.”

“Thanks, Tony.”

Tony shrugged. “Hey, we’re friends, right?”

“That’s right.”

Chewing, the old man nodded for a bit, then stilled. “I gotta take a leak. Don’t touch my chow.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Grif waited until the old man had slid from the booth, then turned to Kit. “What just happened?”

Distracted, Kit pulled her gaze from the window, and focused on him. “Sorry. I wasn’t listening. What?”

“Not with Tony. With you.” Grif almost looked angry as he studied her face. “One minute you’re eating like a starved horse and talking sex with a man three times your age. The next you’re staring out the window as if you’re the one stepping out for the first time in thirty years. Who was on the phone?”

Kit blew out a breath, surprised. She should have known he’d been paying attention. “It was just a text from Paul. Tickets for the benefit are waiting in my mailbox. He thought it best to just drop them off as he didn’t have time to meet in person.”

Grif studied her carefully, then finally said, “Why do you do that?”

She stopped rubbing her eyes. “What?”

“Give that knucklehead your softest emotion, then let him load it up and fire it back at you.” He shook his head, disgusted. “You always look war-torn when you come off a conversation with Pretty Paul.”

She didn’t chide him for the nickname. “I feel it, too,” she admitted, and frowned. Was that the first time she’d said it out loud? Sighing, she leaned her head back, then rolled it toward him. “What about you. Tony mentioned a wife?”

Even now, at the last word, Kit’s throat tried to close up. Of course he would have a woman. Probably more than one, looking like that-walking with thrust, taking up all that room. He didn’t wear a ring, but many men didn’t. Maybe it was because of his job. She’d read enough detective novels. Letting clients and suspects know you had family could be dangerous. Of course, he might not have worn one for the same reason Paul hadn’t. The thought depressed her.

“I’m married to my work these days.”

The words lifted her spirits, but the regret shadowing them did not.

“There’s more to life than that,” Kit said softly.

“That right, Kitty-Kat?”

The way he said it made her heart skip faster, and blood flooded the rest of her pulse points. The mild crush she was nursing over this severe man unfurled, blooming until her breath literally caught in her chest. And when he laid one wide hand over hers, she trembled. Having first seen his hands bunched into fists, flailing on her behalf, she didn’t know what was more shocking-the unexpected gentleness of his roughened palms or the pooled warmth as they slid down her fingers, cocooning her knuckles, heating her skin.

“Remember how you said we should all be more gentle with each other?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe you should start with yourself.”

Kit frowned.

And then Tony was back.

And then, regrettably, Grif’s touch was gone.