The Given (10 page)

“Well, I knew that,” Barbara snapped, splashing gin. “But no way is Shaw still alive. No way in hell.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I spit on his corpse myself.”

And she threw back her head and laughed like it was the funniest thing she'd ever said or heard. Laughed like it fed her soul. The sound sawed through the air, and Kit realized she was wrong. This woman wasn't just bitter. She was vile.

“But now you're digging up really old corpses,” Barbara said, flaring her eyes. “And you don't want to do that. Trust me, the boys may not run this town anymore, but they still guard their secrets carefully.”

Kit couldn't help herself. She was shaking so badly, and she wanted to shake Barbara, too. “But this was no secret. We already know you hated him.”

“We?”

“Grif and me,” Kit said, because they were still united in this at least. A broken heart was one thing; darkness and cruelty and obsession that fed on itself for decades was quite another.

Barbara leaned incrementally closer, her gaze running over Kit's face like darting fish. Finally her nostrils flared and she pulled back, giving Kit a brand-new head-to-toe appraisal. She took her time studying Kit's vintage swing coat and scarf. She traced the outline of her cat's-eye glasses with cold regard, upper lip curling as she took in the matching black eyeliner. She tried on another laugh, but this one didn't flow as freely. “Why, you got that sheen in your eyes, my girl.”

“What sheen?”

“That hazy-dazy look of love. Don't tell me . . . you and
Shaw
?”

Kit's mouth firmed into a thin line, saying nothing. Barbara was picturing Grif near the same age as her, an octogenarian battling gout and the ability to stand to his full height. Yet Grif was eternally thirty-three, stronger than this woman could ever imagine, and with wings that rose well above any doorframe to boot.

He also wouldn't stop until his murderer and his wife were found, though she didn't tell Barbara that. “He just wants to find Evie Shaw. Truthfully? He wants nothing to do with you.”

And neither did Kit. Not anymore. This woman's mind was as toxic as stagnant water. No matter what information might be stewing inside of it, the attached lethal tongue could only spread disease.

“Why?” Barbara finally asked.

“Why what?” Kit replied coolly.

“Why does he want to find Evelyn?”

Because he needed closure, but Kit wasn't going to give Barbara any ammo for that shotgun mouth. So she just shrugged.

“And why do you?” Barbara said, flashing her a knowing look.

Kit flinched before she could stop herself, but it was plain to them both. She wanted to see how she fared against the infamous Evelyn Shaw.

“We just want to know who killed him . . .” She blushed, correcting herself when Barbara's eyes narrowed. “Who
tried
to kill him—them both—fifty years ago.”

Barbara huffed and shook her head, so that her hair spread in a cloud. “What does it matter? It was a long time ago.”

“It always matters!” Kit slammed her palm on the table, causing her drink to topple, and they both jumped. She rarely lost her temper, not in public, not with informants, but this woman's sewer brain and toxic-waste mouth made
her
feel dirty. “Those two people were driven apart because of what happened that night and there's been a lot of pain as a result. Grif lost . . . years of his memory and life, most of which he'll never get back.”

“Most?” Barbara said, voice oily with interest.

“He remembers
her,
” Kit said, because as much as it pained her to say it, Grif and Evie's relationship seemed to affect Barbara even more adversely. Kit couldn't help but rub a little salt into that old wound. “So despite your wishes, your words, and someone's terrible actions long ago, they
are
both alive today, and he means to find her. And I'm going to help.”But Barbara was staring off into the distance. “What words?”

“Huh?” Kit paused as she reached for her bag.

“What
words
?” Impatient, she waved her cigarette holder at Kit. Kit dodged, but Barbara didn't notice that, either. “What wishes are you talking about? What words?”

Kit tilted her head. “You reportedly told one of my sources that you hated Griffin and Evelyn Shaw. You said, and I quote, ‘The past doesn't matter, and they mattered even less. Both Shaws got what was coming to them.' ”

Barbara stared at Kit for a long moment. “And you're sure it's really him? That he's still alive?”

“Yes.”

Barbara huffed. “Then I guess I was wrong about that.”

Shocked silence wrapped around Kit, a blanket of burrs and thorns. She shouldn't say anything, it would only put the power back into Barbara's hands, but she couldn't help it. How could
anyone
hate Griffin Shaw that much? “Why do you hate them so much?”

Barbara put on an innocent mien that almost worked, due to her age and sex combined. The sharpened gaze, though, kept the innocence from truly reaching her eyes. “I don't know. I'm old, honey. I can't remember shit.”

Disgusted, Kit threw down her business card and enough money for the drinks. “Call me if you ever really want to talk.”

But she wouldn't hold her breath.

“Hey. Hey!” Kit didn't stop at first. She didn't want to watch this woman's painted mouth curving up to tell more lies. “You sure it's him? Shaw?”

Hand on hip, Kit turned. “Dead sure.”

Barbara tilted her head. “And he's still sweet on Evie?”

Kit forced a shrug. “He's been searching for her for fifty years.”

Barbara's whole face seemed to turn inward at that, and she shuddered down to the base of her spine. But then she remembered Kit standing there, and instead of giving an admiring nod, she shook her head. “Some P.I.”

Kit couldn't stand it anymore. She whirled and left Barbara there, a small woman in a red velvet booth contemplating a love that was epic and enduring and true . . . and one she'd clearly never known in the entire length and breadth of her mean and bitter life.

Y
ou did something to her,” Kit told Grif as they sailed from the casino's parking garage back onto Vegas's main drag. Kit had actually allowed Grif to take the wheel of her beloved Duetto, a testament to how much she trusted him . . . and to how much vodka she'd downed due to nervousness and shock. Besides, she was still working through her thoughts on Grif's abrupt return to her life. It seemed like a magic trick to her. There, gone, then back again.
Poof.

“Hand to God,” Grif said, lifting his palms to the sky, and Kit pointed, directing them back to the steering wheel. “I never met any Barbara McCoy.”

“Her name used to be Barbara DiMartino.”

Grif jerked his head. “Sal was married to a woman named Theresa when I was alive. Barbara came . . . after.”

No she hadn't, Kit thought, turning away, watching as the neon glare of the Strip was snuffed out in her rearview mirror. Barbara had married the old mobster only months after Theresa's death, and Kit would bet the car she was sitting in that Barbara had been lurking around before then. “What if she was part of the reason you were killed? After all,
someone
spread the rumor that you hurt”—
raped
—“the twelve-year-old niece of a mobster.”

They'd discovered that nugget of information last summer. It was a ludicrous lie . . . but one that'd gotten him killed.

Grif hummed, considering it. “I only worked that one case for the DiMartinos. Beyond returning little Mary Margaret unharmed, and getting dry-gulched for the effort, I had no dealings with that family whatsoever.”

Kit said nothing, because she hadn't been there . . . but she did know women. She could read them inside and out, and Barbara had all the markings of one who'd been scorned. A woman didn't hate a man in the way she hated Grif unless he'd all but crushed her.

There was more to consider, more to ask, but it was late, and Kit was exhausted. Grif was, too. She saw it in the slump of his wide shoulders, and the circles stamped beneath his eyes, though she could tell from his frown that he was still stewing over Barbara. That's why she was surprised when he asked, “We going home?”

Silence swelled in the car.

He'd said it without thinking, his tired brain lagging behind his mouth. Kit ignored the slip, knowing that if they were going to work together there were bound to be others—
home
and
honey
and
Kitty-Cat
—all the things that had once marked him as hers, and vice versa. Swallowing hard, she told herself she'd take them as they came. She'd also protect herself this time, and surround herself with people and places that did the same . . . but for Kit that meant home. She nodded, and silence reigned from there on out.

Kit lived in Paradise Palms, a mid-century neighborhood in the middle of Las Vegas, and situated behind the city's oldest existing mall, the Boulevard. Though Paradise Palms had few rivals for its retro-style homes and spacious streets, it was no longer the crown jewel of the Las Vegas Valley. The brick facades were crumbling at the edges, and the once sweeping lawns were dustier as the desert attempted to reclaim its territory. Its central location also made it a favorite of both gang and police patrols.

Yet the function and form of the neighborhood was solid, hearkening back to a simpler time. Butterfly rooftops, sleek lines, and large glass panes—Kit could practically see the mid-century scrawl of the signage that had once flanked the neighborhood's entry.
THE
FUTURE
IS
NOW
,
TOMORROW
HAS
ARRIVED
.

The phone rang just as they pulled into the restored carport.

“Oh, yeah.” Grif dug it from his pocket. “I grabbed your phone before leaving Barbara's.”

Kit just looked at it. Then she lifted her identical one from the center console. “Mine.”

“Then whose—?”

Gasping, Kit lunged for the device but fumbled it, so it fell in the footwell. By the time Grif located it again, the ring had gone silent. “Shit!”

She snatched Barbara's phone from his hands and lifted it so she could see the lighted screen. She pushed a series of buttons, then sighed. “It's password-protected. We'll have to wait until someone—”

And the phone rang again. Kit answered before she could even think what she was doing. There was a moment of silence after she put the phone to her ear, when Grif and she both held their breaths, and Kit was trying to work out how the irascible Barbara McCoy would answer the call. She finally answered with a terse, “What?”

Silence, and Kit's eyes flashed on Grif's. She'd blown it.

“Hello?” came the tentative response.
Male,
Kit mouthed to Grif.

“Yeah?” Kit said immediately, pitching her voice lower than her normal tone. Grif shot her a dead-eyed stare, as if to say, That's
what she sounded like?
Kit just shrugged.

“Is it done?”

Kit just bit her lip. Barbara was dead, though, so something had definitely been “done.”

“Barbara, I asked if it was done. It's been crickets over here. I'm going crazy.”

“Uh-huh,” Kit said, wordlessly trying to draw more out of the caller.

But apparently Barbara hadn't been a reticent woman. A long silence passed, then the man's voice dropped low as well. “Who is this?”

Slapping a hand to her forehead, Kit tried to think fast, but the line went dead before she opened her mouth, and her answer swerved into a growl. Squinting at the phone, she began pushing more buttons.

“What are you doing?” Grif asked.

“Working the home button before the screen times out. She's got it set so you can't get into this thing after you hang up, but once a call is answered you can work the functions.” The first thing Kit did was remove the password protection. Then she clicked over to the contacts. It was growing chilly in the car, but both the cold and her fatigue were well-forgotten. “Still carry your Moleskine with you?”

Grif pulled the notebook from his inner suit pocket.

“Okay, we're going to write down every number in her contacts just in case we can't get into this thing again, starting with our mysterious caller.” There was no name displayed on the incoming screen, just an uppercase X, but Kit rattled it off anyway, then did the same with the rest. Grif scribbled fast, but was barely keeping up until she paused. “How the hell did Loony Uncle Al get in Barbara McCoy's address book?”

Grif's pencil fell still. “That's what she named her contact?”

“Nope. But that was his pet name around the paper back when he was chasing bylines.” She flashed Grif the screen long enough to show the name, and this time Grif jolted in his seat.

“Al Zicaro,” he said, suddenly wide-eyed as well. He circled the name and number after writing them down on his pad. “How does Barbara know that old newshound?”

Zicaro had worked at Kit's paper in the sixties and seventies, even though any mid-century bookie worth his salt would've laid odds on Zicaro getting rubbed out before Grif. The man had covered the crime beat, and was a thorn in the side of the boys, including and
especially
the DiMartinos. Kit had combed through the archives and knew he'd even tried to intimate that Grif was made after he'd brought back Sal DiMartino's niece, but it wasn't anything that would stick. Especially once Grif disappeared shortly after.

“God knows he was around,” Kit said now. “And he certainly had his hands in the DiMartinos' affairs.”

But why keep up with Barbara after all this time? The boys' time in this valley had long passed.