Killing Bliss (13 page)

It looked as if she weren't the only one not sleeping tonight.

* * *

Cade worked until six o'clock, showered, and headed for Lynden. He ate breakfast at a bright, surprisingly busy diner for such an early hour, and to kill more time, and give his and Redge's legs a stretch, he walked the small town's main street. If he were in tourist mode instead of edgy mode, he'd have spent more time enjoying the Dutch-themed farming town.

But edgy won out, and he stopped at a gas station pay phone.

Susan picked up on the third ring. "Hello?"

"Susan, it's Cade."

Briefly, without embellishment or specifics, he told her about finding one of the girls.

"Which one?" she asked, her voice sharp with excitement.

"Right now, I'd rather not say. There's always the chance I'm wrong." He doubted it, but he still needed more time—and less Susan dogging his every move.

She ignored his evasion. "I can't believe it. After all this time, finally a break." She sounded as rocked as he'd been yesterday, when he'd first looked into Wartenski's crystal blue—very wary—eyes. "Where exactly are you?" she asked.

He imagined her reaching for a pen, jotting down the address, her and Stan jumping into that big Mercedes of hers, and arriving within hours. Screwing everything. "I'd rather not say that, either."

The line went quiet a moment. "In other words, keep your distance, Susan Moore, or you'll mess things up?"

"In a word, yes." He was damn sure Susan not getting what she wanted, when she wanted, was a unique experience for her. "For now I want you—and Stan—to leave it to me. Finding the girl was more dumb luck than anything else, and if she gets suspicious, that luck will run out. She'll be gone, and anything she knows about Josh will go with her. In a few days, when I know more, I'll call."

Silence bled down the line, then a deep inhalation. "Very well. I'll leave it in your hands—for now. You've got your few days. But I'd like a daily report—and your cell number."

"Don't have one, but I said I'd call and I will. Not every day, but often enough to keep you in the loop."

He was about to hang up when he heard, "Cade."

"Uh-huh."

"Find Josh. Please find Josh." Every trace of demand had left her voice.

"I'll do my best." He put the old black receiver in its metal cradle, left his hand on it—not sure his best was good enough.

* * *

When he got back to Star Lake, it was close to ten. He spotted Addy rolling a wheelbarrow of dirt toward Cabin Five. He watched her for a time—the deftness of her movements, her intense concentration, the easy strength in her slim body.

Yesterday, after his initial shock at finding her, he'd been surprised at how pretty she was, how different from the tight-lipped, sullen young girl in the DSHS photo. He'd started out looking for a girl—her image strong in his mind—and he'd found a woman, an attractive woman with a direct gaze and a strong handshake. Both of which caught him off guard, as an investigator—and as a man.

Curious feeling... dozens of women must have crossed his path since Dana died, and he hadn't looked at any of them twice.

But he was looking at Addilene Wartenski now and liking what he saw—a hell of a lot more than he should, given what he was here to do, which was get to know her, figure her out, and gain her trust. Whatever it took to find a missing boy.

He got out of his truck and opened the back door to let Redge out He immediately ran to visit Addy, and Cade followed him. Thank God for dogs. They made one hell of an icebreaker.

"That"—he gestured at the overloaded barrow—"looks like a good alternative to the gym."

She grunted in response, tipped the wheelbarrow, and shook the last of the soil onto the pile. That done, she wiped her forehead with the back of her hand, which gave him a good look at a strong, finely muscled, tanned arm. She didn't waste any time picking up the shovel and digging into the hill of dirt. "You were up and out early," she said, not looking at him. "Lots of energy for a man whose light was on all night."

"You have a curfew around here?"

"No. I don't sleep much. And I like to keep an eye on the place. We've had occasional trouble with town kids coming through." She stopped long enough to point toward the dock. "They like midnight canoe rides."

He followed her gesture and looked out over the jewel-like lake, its surface silvered under the autumn sun, its dock home to a dozen or so canoes and rowboats. "So do I, with the right person." It occurred to him that Dana would love this place.

When he looked back, Addy was leaning on her shovel, studying him. "And who would that be? Your wife, girlfriend, or what's that other term, 'significant other'?"

He let the wife reference drift through him, and the usual void opened up. He forced himself up and out of the emptiness. It was easier than usual, and he wasn't sure how he felt about that. "At the moment, none of the above," he said, adding, "the only 'significant' woman in my life right now is standing in front of me." He looked toward the lake. "You interested in a canoe ride?"

She didn't blink. "Are you... flirting with me?" She looked at him as if he were six years old and had said his first curse word.

"Taking a stab at it." He rubbed his chin as he felt a grin take shape on his mouth, not the usual good-for-all-occasions twist, but a real smile.

"You're wasting your time. I'm unflirtable," she said matter-of-factly and went back to work, spreading a shovelful of dirt as if it were a tablespoon of cereal.

"There are men who'd take that as a challenge."

She looked up sharply, warily. "Are you one of them?"

"How about I leave you wondering about that and go back to work?" He glanced down. Redge was scraping lightly at the soil, preparing himself for a deeper, more serious excavation. "Before my dog destroys all sign of your work in progress."

He collared the dog and headed for his cabin.

"Mr. Harding?"

He turned back. "Obviously when it comes to flirting, I forgot rule number one—get on a first-name basis. The name's Cade, remember?"

She nodded but looked uncomfortable. "Cade, what do you do, exactly?"

"I thought I mentioned it. I write."

"Yes, but what do you write?"

"Right now? A series. What they call young adult. Targeted to teens, mostly."

She frowned. "You write teenage stuff?"

She didn't look impressed, and he didn't expect her to be. He wasn't so sure he was, either. "I wrote a book about a character called Zero a couple of years back, a street kid turned crime buster. It worked, and the publisher wants more."

Her frown turned skeptical. "What do you know about kids, especially ones who spend time on the streets?"

"I write fiction. I don't have to know. I make it up as I go along." Old joke, but usually enough to satisfy a nonwriter's curiosity, and he had no idea how she'd react to the rest of his resume. He'd have to think about that. "And the streets hold a lot of stories, especially for kids. And a fascination."

She cupped her hands over the top of the shovel, rested her chin on it, and looked thoughtful. "You make it sound easy. But I think it would be hard to make a book sound... true enough for kids. They can spot bu—what isn't real from a mile off."

"You're right, which is why I avoid the B.S. Talk about life on the streets as it really is, hard and dangerous."
As you very well know.

Her lip twisted upward into the slightest of sneers. "And this Zero character of yours comes along to save the day for all those dumb street kids?"

"Street kids aren't dumb—at least not many of them. Most of them wouldn't be on the walk if someone threw them a lifeline. They're more confused than anything. All those surging hormones, alien feelings, peer pressures. Maybe some bad breaks tossed in the mix. Add to that a lot of them got the booby prize in the parent contest." He stopped, knew he sounded too much like the prof he once was. Hell, next thing you know he'd be citing stats. "It's tough being a kid. Always has been. Even harder now, I think."

She'd had those blue crystal eyes of hers locked to his like twin lasers, her expression growing more intense as he spoke. "You like kids, don't you?" Her words were shaded with amazement.

"Yeah, I do. Especially teens. They're fun, wide open to life, and they all think they're going to live forever. What's not to like?"

Her expression still thoughtful, a smile briefly softened her sober expression. "You must write very good books, Cade Harding."

He walked the few steps back to where she stood. Time to change the subject, time to remember why he was here, time for him to stop talking and her to start. When he got closer, she straightened. "And you've given me a compliment, Addy Michaels. And I, being a male who comes with the standard, overly developed ego, officially take it as a return flirt." He lowered his head until their eyes met. "So how about one of those midnight boat rides the local teens are so keen on? I'll bore you with my literary aspirations—the amazing adventures of Zero Nash—and you can tell me all about you."

She went stone still. "There's noth—"

"Nothing to tell? Definitely a cliché. And definitely not allowed."

She took a step back. "You're weird."

"But in a good way?" He lifted a brow.

"I'm not sure yet."

"If you let me buy you dinner, you can get 'sure.'"

"I don't go out for dinner." She started to dig.

"But you do eat."

"Straight out of the microwave, every third Thursday in May." She kept on digging. "You could try again then."

As brush-offs went, it left him little recourse. Addy Michaels, aka the Wart, intended to keep to herself.

He did have one ace up his sleeve though, and tonight he'd pull it out.

* * *

Bliss watched Beauty pull up to the parking area for registration at the best hotel in Sacramento, get out of her red Lexus, and walk in. A few minutes after that, a bellman came out with her keys, opened her trunk, and took out her baggage.

He guessed she'd tired of the roach motel circuit.

When the bellman disappeared inside, bags in hand, Beauty came out. She covered her eyes to look into the setting sun and scanned the street both ways. He hunkered down in his seat, but not far enough that he couldn't see her say something to the doorman before crossing the check-in lanes and heading to—

What the hell...

He dropped below sightline.

The next thing he knew, she was knocking on his window.

Fuck.
She'd made him. Found him cowering in his cheap rental car like some kind of two-bit Peeping Tom.

She rapped again. Bliss gathered up some brain cells—and some cool—and hit the down button. She put both hands on the door.

"Don't even think of getting out." She pointed toward the doorman, who was standing by a marble pillar watching them closely. "I told him you were an ex-boyfriend, that you were stalking me, and that if you got out of the car, he was to call the police immediately." She tilted her head. "You got that?"

He laughed. "The cops don't bother me, baby, but they'll sure as hell bother you." And send him back to prison for more years than he cared to count for skipping the state while under parole, but no need to tell her that.

"Yeah, well, if the cops don't bother you, you sick creep, this damn well should." She turned sideways, slid a compact piece out of her tote. Pearl handle and all, a nice little girly gun. Making it no less lethal.

"Now that's cute. You planning to gun me down while that guy in the long coat over there"—he lifted his chin toward the hotel entrance, the watching doorman—"plays witness and takes notes?"

"No. As a matter of fact, I want you alive, Bliss. Very much alive. What I'm doing is taking control of the game. And this," she lifted the gun slightly, "is my good luck charm. You? You lay a hand on me and I'll blow your dick off—piece by piece."

"Oh, I'm so scared." He really didn't like the look in her eyes. "And, baby? This isn't all about that honey-dipped pussy of yours, it's about money. Remember." He lifted his hand, rubbed his thumb and index finger together. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the doorman straighten. He pulled his hand back, gripped the lower part of the steering wheel.

"You'll get your money." She stood now, took a step back from the window, fixed her eyes on him. "Gus is bringing it. I told him we needed a quarter of a million dollars and you'd be out of our lives for good. Matter of fact, we'll throw in an airline ticket—to Antarctica."

Vanelleto. He was right, she did get in touch with him. Fantastic. He tried to stem the rush of adrenaline. "Vanelleto giving me money? Gotta love that." He shook his head and smiled. "Bastard would rather put a bullet in my head."

"Who the hell wouldn't?" She gave him a cold smile.

"But now that I think about it, moving doesn't come cheap." He met her gaze, his own as cool as he could make it. If Vanelleto offered a quarter of a million, there was probably plenty left in the strongbox. "A half mil, in cash, and I'm history."