Killing Bliss (4 page)

The thrift shop cartons were his killing field. Dana's things.

She'd been gone for months, but her clothes, hanging in the closet, still carried her scent. Dust grayed the garment shoulders like cremation ash. He'd let it lie, breathing it in as he crammed everything she'd owned into cardboard boxes, scrawling "THRIFT" across them with a harsh felt pen.

He wanted them gone.

He wanted her back.

He put a forearm over his eyes to shut out the early sun blasting through the window, but it wasn't the sun making his eyes water.

Redge wandered in and nuzzled his other hand, the one hanging corpselike off the edge of the bed. When Redge licked his palm and whimpered, Cade turned on his side to look at him.

"Life's a bitch, Redgie boy. For the last month or so, I've been making it. There were at least a couple of hours a day when I didn't think of her. But now"—he waved at the boxes—"I feel like... Hell, I don't know what I feel like."

He closed his eyes against the goddamn tears. Who the hell said men don't cry? After Dana died, he'd wept an ocean, and here he was starting all over again.

Shit.

Redge whimpered again, and Cade swung his feet to the floor, sitting a moment on the edge of the bed before getting to his feet.

"Come on, boy, you can give me a hand with these boxes. The truck will be here in an hour, and Dana would hate it if we weren't ready for it." He smiled and roughed up the dog's neck, his reward a wildly wagging tail.

"That's the spirit." He hefted the first box. "And when this is done, we'll head for Seattle, settle in to the new place. Get started on that new life I've been promising you."

But first I have a debt to pay and a missing boy to track down. Everything's changed and nothing has changed.

* * *

By eight that night, Cade's condo possessed a semblance of order, and he and Redge were on their new deck looking down into the bustle of Seattle's crowded streets, Cade with a cold beer in his hand, Redge with a bone the size of a brick between his teeth.

"So, what do you think?" Cade asked Redge, gesturing with his beer to the city skyline. "This acceptable?"

Redge glanced up from his bone and offered up two tail thumps. Cade took it as a yes.

He turned from the view and walked the few steps to his new desk. Over the next couple of years, what he did at this desk would make or break him. The advance on his first book wasn't the greatest, but with that, some okay royalties, and his savings, he had enough to live on for at least two years.

After that it was up to Zero, his crime-fighting street kid, to put food on the table.

He couldn't wait to start making it happen. What with closing out the house, organizing the last of his classes and files, he hadn't written a word in weeks.

A stack of paper sat on his desk—notes, manila folders with elastic bands around them, and a box of newspaper clippings. Stan Brenton was nothing if not thorough.

He took a swig of beer and frowned.

Damn it, he resented the hell out of having to deal with Susan's problem, but as she'd not hesitated to point out, he owed her. Or his mother owed her. Same difference. And no doubt that sixty-five grand had put more than one slice of bread on his table through the years.

Yeah, he owed her, all right. Another swig of beer and he sat down, shuffled the mess on his desk.

He'd planned to begin with Bliss himself, get a firsthand account of what happened that night, but according to his parole officer, the guy was already AWOL. He'd been released from the State Correctional Institute at Smithfield in Pennsylvania just days ago, but chances were he was already out of the state.

Cade needed a new place to start.

He opened one of the files Stan had given him to the first page and ran his index finger down the list of names, the key players in the long-past tragedy.

Gus Vanelleto, seventeen, the boy Bliss accused of shooting his mother.

Dianna Lintz, sixteen, aka "Beauty," the daughter of a south Seattle prostitute who'd been running with Vanelleto for over a year before the murder.

Addilene Wartenski, aka "the Wart," a thirteen-year-old runaway. Mother dead, father unknown.

God only knew what names they were using now.

Under the heading "Department of Social and Health Services (DSHS)," he stopped his finger on the name Wayne Grover, the social worker of record at the time for the three foster kids in the house that night—and the guy who'd placed Josh there the day of the murders.

He read Stan's notes on Grover: "Very cooperative. Still feels responsible for what happened to Josh. Still checks in with Susan regularly. Only on the job a couple of years or so before this happened. Helpful guy. Will give you a good overview."

"Okay, Grover," he muttered. "You've drawn the lucky number."

* * *

Frank Bliss walked out of the classy San Francisco menswear store a new man. Hugo Boss did that for a guy, and it helped that his waist was two inches smaller than when he went into the joint.

He settled his Ray-Bans and lifted his face to the late morning sun. Not too hot, but seriously bright. Man, he loved California. When this shit was over, he might settle down here.

Spotting a phone booth, he headed for it, then pulled a piece of paper from his jacket pocket. It hadn't taken more than ten minutes to get this number. Now, if she'd oblige by being home, he'd get things started. Couldn't wait.

He dialed.

"Hello."

The voice was low and velvety, exactly as he remembered. His heart raced at the sound of it and damned if his mouth wasn't dry. "Is this Fallon West?"

"Yes."

"My name is Ches McQuade. I'm in town for the next few days, and if you have some time available, I'd like to meet you."

"Meet me, Mr. McQuade?" There was a smile in her voice. "Now why would you want to do that?"

Her low tone and the hint of a tease rumbled around his groin and stiffened his cock. "Because I've heard you're beautiful, you keep good company, and I need an... escort. For a couple of days." He was pleased with his cool. Hell, he was as good as he ever was. And what hooker would turn down a two-day gig?

"And you think it's that easy?"

"No." He lowered his voice, enjoying himself. "From what I'm told, there's nothing easy about you. Which is why I'm intrigued."

She laughed. "Good answer," she said then added, "Are you local, Mr. McQuade?"

"No, I'm here on business, from Pennsylvania. And it's Ches. Short for Cheswin. As you can guess, my mother didn't like me very much." Which was the first truth out of his mouth.

She laughed again, smooth as silk panties. "I take it you have references?"

"I do. When can we meet to make the necessary arrangements? "

He heard paper rustle. "Where are you staying?"

"The Calista." He was shooting the last of his wad doing it, but a guy had to make the right impression.

"Very nice. It has a wonderful bar. How about tomorrow? Say six-thirty?"

Damn, he'd hoped for tonight. He choked back his irritation, his impatience. "Perfect. I'll look forward to it."

"And, Ches"—her tone firmed up, all business now—"be prepared to talk about those references of yours. I'm a cautious woman."

Not cautious enough, Beauty baby.
He grinned and hung up.

* * *

Fallon West clicked off the phone, tapped a scarlet-tipped fingernail on the display screen of the pearl-gray receiver, and glanced at the clock. Almost noon. Indecision—and unexpected guilt—rattled around in her blond head before colliding with a growing clump of pure fear.

The fear had nothing to do with the jerk she'd just spoken to. Nothing to fear there except the depressing truth that business was booming, which meant an unending supply of men with needy dipsticks on the other end of her phone.

No, the fear was wrapped around Burke Holland—the very rich Burke Holland. He should have called by now. Two days it had been since she heard from him.
Two days.

She told herself not to panic.

He hadn't called, so it was business as usual, and that meant Ches McQuade, but not tonight. Tonight was her night off. Nothing changed that. All she'd do for Ches was decide what to wear.

She headed for her closet, scanned the over-full but orderly racks without enthusiasm. The thought of having to stroke another paying customer's bloated ego for two freakin' days made her bones ache with weariness. She hoped he was at least decent to look at and not some tired old paper-clip salesman from Podunk, and he'd sure as hell better make it worth her while.

If Burke had called, she'd have blown this Pennsylvania john off without a thought.

The sick truth was, if Burke didn't come through with the marriage proposal, she'd be servicing fuck-jocks into the next millennium.

She thought about calling him, but knew it would be a mistake, a sign of anxiety, and she'd slit her wrists before she admitted to desperation.

Burke Holland, age sixty-nine, rich as goddamn Croesus—whoever the hell he was—was her goldplated passport out of The Trade. She was thirty-one and she'd seen enough dicks at full attention to last her lifetime.

One thing was certain, if good old Burke did come through on the marriage deal he'd been hinting at—for damn near four years now—her first act as a bride would be to dump his goddamn Viagra down the toilet.

One night of bliss to cement the relationship was all he'd get from her.

In the meantime, it was back to business and deciding what to wear for Ches Whoever from Pennsylvania. She rifled the white section of her closet.

"Hey, missy."

Beauty turned, hanger in hand. "Hey, Lisa, what's happening?" She opened a lingerie drawer, poked around. "I hope I didn't leave too much of a mess for you."

"You always leave a mess." The young girl chided with a smile, showing a broken tooth, a gift from her pimp.

Lisa was sixteen and the best in a string of girls Beauty had taken in over the past few years. Beauty liked having her around and, temporarily at least, off the street. Lisa was talking about going back to school, and Beauty was toying with the idea of helping her, making their living arrangement permanent.

No one knew better than Beauty what happened to girls taken in by sadistic jerks who used them as walking profit centers. She was no do-gooder, but it didn't cost her much to give the girls a break—a few bucks earned standing on their feet instead of lying on their backs—and she welcomed the help. Other than with her working clothes—those she organized with the precision of a SWAT team leader—she was a born slob, a fact Lisa reminded her of regularly.

"A call came for you this morning when you were getting your hair done," Lisa said.

Beauty stopped the lingerie search and looked at her. "You didn't tell me."

"You weren't here to tell, and I had a counselor meeting, so I left the message on the hall table." She held out a yellow sticky note and made a tight face. "Are you mad?"

"You know I don't get mad." She took the note, smiled away her nerves. "I get even."

"Yeah, right," Lisa scoffed, unconcerned. "Want some coffee?"

"Love some." Another of Lisa's talents: she made great coffee.

Lisa looked at the brimming closet and offered up a prayerful sigh. "Jesus. Whoever said sex doesn't pay?"

"Nobody. Sex pays just fine. Trouble is there's all those icky customers to deal with. The overhead"—she lightly rapped her skull—"is too damn high."

Lisa nodded, obviously remembering one or two "icky" customers of her own. "At least your customers are high-class."

"A high-class dick is still a dick," she reminded her.

Lisa laughed. "You gonna marry that guy?" She gestured with her chin toward the note.

"See Fallon run—to the altar in a New York minute." She wiggled a brow. "Now, how about that coffee?" She took another glance at the note. "And maybe a movie later?"

"Cool."

When Lisa left, Beauty walked to the window of her condo. The day was clear, and the sun entered the sixteenth floor unobstructed. The message was from Burke all right, and the news wasn't good. He was going out of town to visit his grandchildren in Montana. He'd call when he got back, he said, and make it up to her, buy her something pretty.

"Shit." She crumpled the note, seriously frustrated.

She went back to the closet. Burke might not be a sure thing, but Ches McQuade was, so she'd best get her act together.

"Shit," she said again, softer this time, and leaned her forehead against the door jamb. She wondered how many more McQuades she could handle before she split into a zillion ruined pieces.

If that "something pretty" Burke mentioned wasn't a diamond the size of the Astrodome, she'd... she'd...

Hell, she had no idea what she'd do.

* * *

Cade's call to Wayne Grover paid off, and Stan Brenton's assessment of the man was right-on. He was affable and accommodating, and they agreed to meet for lunch at a seafood place near Pike's Market.