Killing Bliss (14 page)

"That's a lot of money."

He looked at her crotch, made a loud smacking kiss. "If your boyfriend, Gus, wants me to stop dreamin' about
that
every night, he'll pay."

"You know, after you, Bliss, I could never look at another man without remembering how truly tiny your penis was. Smallest one I've ever seen. And I've seen a lot."

"Bitch."

"Now I'm going into that fancy hotel—with its nice secure rooms—and take a bath, wash you away. Then I'll make some calls. Gus isn't easy to find. It'll take a while." She spun on her heel.

"Don't you want to know where to find me?"

She gave him a filthy look. "You want your money, you'll stay right where you are. Chasing my tail—like always." With that, she walked away and didn't look back.

"How long?" he yelled out the window.

She kept on walking.

Bliss slammed his palm against the steering wheel—pissed off, hard as a rail, and pulsing with excitement. He needed to figure things out. Half a mil. Shit. Hell, he should have said a million. Still, this was turning out better than he planned.

Through the windshield, he watched Beauty go into the hotel, say something to the doorman, and slip him some cash. He checked his watch, almost four p.m.

He turned the key in the ignition, slammed the car into gear, and headed out of the parking lot.

The way he figured it, while she took her bath and made her calls, he'd make one of his own. This thing was taking longer than he thought. He needed a few bucks to tide him over.

Thank God for Grover. No half million there, but a convenient piggy bank all the same.

Chapter 9

Grover parked his car on the street and walked up the driveway to Susan Moore's posh house, his hands sweating, his nerves jumping.

In his job, most of his days were spent visiting rat holes on the lower south side where his kids lived—off and on—with parents who couldn't see past the whiskey level in the bottle on the kitchen table, or the needle full of poison they planned to ram into their arms.

Grover hated them all. Useless junkies. The world would do itself a favor if it tossed them, and their addictions, behind a chain-link fence. Let them rot there with a mountain of heroin or crack just out of reach as added torture. Maybe that way they'd quit ruining their kids' lives and self-destruct.

Like he should have...

Again he looked at the beautiful home, the wealth and safety it represented.

If he hadn't placed Josh Moore with Belle that day, the boy would have grown up here, been loved and cared for, had nothing but the best.

Grover's chest deflated, and he stifled the urge to turn tail and run. Like it or not, he was no better than the junkie parents he reviled. His sin was no lighter than theirs, because as he'd learned to his unending sorrow, there was no addiction baser than the passions of love.

He rang the doorbell, heard the rich chime of the bell inside the house. He swallowed the nerves tingling in his throat and pulled in his gut. Much as he enjoyed this beautiful home and the woman in it, he didn't want to be here, start the pretense all over again, but he had to keep his eye on things, especially Harding. If he connected with Bliss...

He swallowed again when he remembered the message on his business voicemail.

"Hey, Wayne. Guess who? I'm out—but I'm guessing Sandra already told you that bit of news." He chuckled, sounded pleased with the threat his call to Sandra implied. "But I'm short on cash, so I'd appreciate you floating me a loan. Right now I'm checking up on a mutual friend of ours, which puts me on the road for a time, but I'll call to set something up. Western Union maybe." Then a pause, the prod of a white hot poker. "Had a nice chat with the little woman, by the way. Didn't quite get to going over old times, but there's always next time. And the job, Grover, how's the job going? Talk to you soon, buddy."

He'd expected the call, the reference to his work, had even got some cash together for his blood money, but the "mutual friend" reference troubled him. He hoped it didn't mean what he thought it did.

Between hearing Bliss on his voicemail and being unable to reach Cade Harding, Grover was wrecked. Bliss was trouble enough, but Harding, with his probing eyes and endless questions, was a dangerously loose cannon. Who knew what he'd turn up?

Which was why he was here, he reminded himself, to get a line on that cannon, and get what information he could. No way would Harding find anything incriminating in the files he'd given him, and thank God Bliss had skipped before Cade could talk to him, but it made sense, considering what was at stake, to be extra careful.

Stan opened the door, his smile warm and immediate. "Grover, how are you? Come in, come in. Susan and I were about to have lunch. You can join us. She'll be so pleased to see you."

"I don't want to intrude." Lunch. His stomach leaped at the thought of food. Sandra had given him half a grapefruit and black coffee, and he hadn't had time to so much as grab a donut since. He'd been too busy tearing a malnourished four-year-old from the arms of her crackhead mother.

Stan stepped aside, waved him in. "No intrusion at all. And your timing is perfect. We've had some good news."

"Good news?" His every nerve jumping to alert, he stepped into the entry.

"Very good news. At least we think so." He gestured to the hall, which Wayne knew led to the kitchen.

Years ago, he'd spent many hours at this house, consoling Susan, offering his help. His endless, soothing lies. They'd become friends. And knowing her stubborn dedication to finding her grandson, he'd made sure to nurture that friendship, dropping in occasionally to touch base, keep abreast of things. Wayne followed Stan through the short hall. "You're sure my timing isn't inconvenient," he said.

"Not at all. You know you're welcome in this house anytime. God knows, Susan is grateful for all you tried to do."

"Unsuccessfully," he muttered, as always uncomfortable with Susan's gratitude, his endless duplicity. He hated to think about what he done, what he hadn't done, and what fate had befallen Susan's grandson because of it.

"You worked harder to find that boy than any detective in Seattle." He put a hand on Grover's shoulder. "Now, come and eat with us. If our gratitude isn't enough, maybe I can tempt you further by telling you Susan has made a pasta salad big enough for a not-so-small army. And... a peach pie."

Grover rubbed his belly. "That's the closer, Stan. Lead on."

Stan chuckled, and Grover followed him down the hall to find Susan in the kitchen. It always surprised him that, with her money, she did her own cooking. Years ago, he'd remarked on it, and she'd told him the kitchen was the only place she relaxed—there and with her tiny roses. One winter, she'd given him a rosebush to take home to Sandra, its pink buds just breaking into flower.

For the rest of the evening, he'd answered questions about Susan Moore: how much money did she have, how old was she, was he having an affair with her. When she was done with the questions, she took scissors to the vibrant little bush and cut it to bits. Then she'd turned on him. He'd never taken her a gift since. Too risky.

"Wayne, what a pleasant surprise," Susan said when she spotted him. She came to him and hugged him hard, the dish towel in her hand swinging across his back. "It's been too long."

It had been too long since he'd been warmed by a woman, taken in the comfort of their soft, magical bodies. He returned the hug, drew her affection in deep where he could savor it later, then let go. He held her from him. "You're looking wonderful. This man treating you right?" he said, forcing a smile and glancing at Stan, who loomed over them like a giant oak.

"Yes, he's treating me fine." She smiled, wiped her hands on the dish towel, and set it on the counter. "Sit down, both of you," she commanded, gesturing at the table. "I'll get the sandwiches and salad."

When they were all seated, she said, "Has Stan told you?"

"He mentioned some good news." Afraid Susan's good news would ruin his appetite, he took a bite of his sandwich—simple ham and cheese, loaded with mayo, perfect.

"We've heard from Cade," she said.

The bread lodged in his throat, and he took a swig of water, shifted back in his chair. "Where is Cade? I've called him a couple of times to see how he's doing and don't get either an answer or voice-mail."

She rolled her eyes. "Doesn't have voicemail, or a cell phone. The man's a Luddite."

Stan laughed, dug for more salad. "Hardly. He simply likes to control who he talks to and when. Nothing wrong with that."

"Anyway"—she waved a hand—"it doesn't matter what he is or what he does. He's found one of the girls."

Grover's heart seized up and his breath ballooned in his throat. A faint layer of sweat oozed out of the pores on his forehead. He dabbed at it with his napkin. "Which one? And where is she?" He knew he'd asked the question too quickly, too panicky. He had to cool down.

But Christ, finding one of the kids from that night was his worst fear in living color.

Wayne's brain, already fevered by Bliss's message, couldn't process it. He prayed his anxiety passed as pleased excitement.

"That's just it. He won't tell us. He says he wants to be absolutely sure before he does anything. Apparently he's afraid Stan and I, if we knew too much, would scare her off." She sniffed, looked angry, but it didn't last long. "Can you believe it, Wayne? After all this time, a chance, a real chance to find out about Josh." She stopped. "I should be there. I really should. If I could talk to her, woman to woman, I know it would help—that she'd help."

Grover reached across the table and took her hand. "This is wonderful news, Susan, but Cade's right. It's best you sit back and let him finish the job. If he wants more time, give it to him, because if he's gone this far, this fast, the man knows what he's doing."
Damn him to hell.

"I second that." Stan tossed his napkin on the table. "But the PI in me is damned keen to hear how he pulled it off."

"Me, too. I put years in looking for those kids, and it was as if they'd all disappeared down a rabbit hole." He covered the lie with a shake of his head and forced the fear down, tried to get himself into a more useful frame of mind. "Did he at least say how he found her?"

"Not really," Susan said. "I know he was starting to interview everyone associated with the case, but in the end he said it was mostly 'dumb luck.'"

Grover took another bite of his sandwich, gave himself something to chew on, so he wouldn't be expected to speak and would have time to think. His terror mounted. Dumb luck wasn't easy to duplicate—and luck of any kind in his life had always been in short supply.

Stan added, "Dumb luck, my butt. I know he talked to some people. My guess is he found something in those early interviews that no one else did. Hate to admit it, but maybe there is something to that profiling stuff after all."

Wayne nodded. "Must be." He wiped his mouth with his napkin, reached across and patted Susan's hand. "And I hope for your sake it leads to something concrete, and soon."

"Cade said he needed a few days," she said. "So we've no choice but to wait."

A few days...

"Good idea, I think," Wayne said. "Like I said, give the man some time." He looked at his watch, got to his feet. "I didn't realize it was so late. I've got a foster parent review in less than an hour." He bent and kissed Susan on the cheek. "I really am pleased for you." He wagged a finger and gave her a mock frown. "But you will call me, keep me informed of any new developments, won't you?"

"You know I will, Wayne. The minute I hear anything." She stood and faced him, her expression grave. "And even if what we learn about what happened to Josh isn't... what we want to hear, at least we'll have the truth. The whole truth."

The whole truth...

Wayne didn't want to think about what that would do to him, to Sandra. To his work.

His thoughts were a random, insane mess until well after he'd cleared Susan's elegant circular driveway, but in the end only one thing made any kind of sense. Odds were Bliss and Harding were onto the same girl, that "mutual friend," Bliss had bragged about on the phone.