Loose and Easy (17 page)

“So what’s Bleak want with Esme?” Dax continued. “Insurance?”

Kevin shook his head. “I don’t know. My friend says Bleak is done with Alden. He’s got some kind of important deal he’s working, and I don’t know, maybe he wants to impress somebody.”

“Impress how?”

“I don’t know.” Harrell shrugged. “But Bleak’s a big deal. He runs a lot of girls, and guys know to come to him if they want something special.” He shrugged again. “Esme always had a lot of class, and my buddy told him, told Bleak, that Alden’s daughter was really hot, like maybe she’d be worth something on the side. So maybe Bleak thinks he can get something for her.”

Sure. Maybe Bleak was thinking something like that.

Maybe Bleak was in more trouble than Dax had originally thought. Maybe Dovey was in way more trouble than that even.

And maybe Uncle Burt had better skip the next family get-together, because it was going to be a long, long time before Dax would trust himself in the same room with Easy’s dad.

“Whatever,” he said, coming back around the desk and leaning against it with his hip. He wanted to be eye to eye with old Kevin for a minute. “Right now, I’m more interested in you and me, Kevin. Are we square on Esme? You and me?” He didn’t want there to be any doubts in Harrell’s mind about appropriate distances and things like that. “You know she should never see your face again. If you see her, you go the other way. Okay? Are we square?”

“Yeah.” The guy was nodding his head. “We’re square. But, like, what’s your name, dude?”

Dude?

Kevin Harrell was sitting there in handcuffs with blood running down his face onto his shirt, and he was calling Dax dude?

Oh, yeah, Dax bet the guy had been a real hit in prison.

“Well,
dude,
I’ve got a lot of names.” None of which he planned on telling Kevin Harrell, but what stopped him was the sound of people coming up the stairs—more than one person, maybe three, maybe four, which was more business than B and B Investigations had attracted in months.

He pushed off the desk and headed for the door.

“Stay put,” he said to Harrell, drawing his Springfield 1911 and holding it in a low ready position. Keeping the gun cocked, locked, and loaded was his standard operating procedure. It never varied. Flipping off the safety was an automatic part of his draw.

Through the unfrosted part of the glass on the door, he identified three people coming down the hall. Two men and a woman, with one of the men dressed in a police uniform.

He smoothly reholstered his weapon, concealing it underneath his jacket, and glanced back at Harrell. That wasn’t going to look good to the cops, a guy handcuffed and bleeding.

“Get in the bathroom,” he said, pointing to the open door at the far end of the office. “Get in there and stay quiet. It’s the cops.”

He didn’t have to say cops twice to get the guy moving. Dax didn’t care how many times Kevin had called his parole officer, the guy didn’t want to be face-to-face with the police.

“Uncuff me,” he pleaded on his way across the office, sounding appropriately desperate. The guy was in a tight spot for sure. “Come on.”

Dax shook his head. He stayed cuffed. Dax did follow the guy over and close the bathroom door once he was inside. He didn’t turn on the bathroom light, though. Harrell could tough it out in the dark.

CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE

Loretta was glad she’d come. Tramping around the ratty old Faber Building looking for a “cute little blond hooker”—the parking valet’s description, not hers—was just her cup of tea when she was two hours into overtime she wasn’t ever going to see on a check.

Weisman, the uniformed policeman carrying the signal receiver, stopped in front of the last door in the hall: B & B INVESTIGATIONS, ROBERT BAINBRIDGE, PROP.

That was good news, and Loretta’s mood actually perked up a bit. Robert Bainbridge had always had a solid reputation in town. As a former detective with the police department, admittedly about fifty years ago, he’d been a real go-to guy for the department well up to when she’d been a rookie and just starting out.

But fast on the heels of her good thoughts about Bainbridge came the memory of the most recent time she’d seen the name B & B Investigations and the current facts of the business’s situation. It had been on a long sheet of names attached to a vice case, next to the name of a man who didn’t have a solid reputation, Burt Alden.

Her mood dipped.

Oh, hell. She didn’t like it, this new turn. It could be indicative of a serious complication. Mr. Alden had gambling problems, which inevitably created other problems for him. She knew he was in to Franklin Bleak for more money than he could raise in a year, and she knew Bleak was calling in his debts faster than lemmings disappeared into the sea, which is apparently what had happened to a few of Bleak’s customers over the last couple of weeks—they’d disappeared.

“Did you get the warrant, Connor?” she asked. “We’re not exactly on a mission of mercy here.”

“We’re covered, Lieutenant.”

“Good.”

“Weisman, you’re sure this is the place?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She turned to Connor then and gestured at the door. “Detective?”

The door was opened on Connor’s first knock, and for a couple of seconds, all Loretta could do was stand there and think
sonuvabitch.

For one second, maybe two, that was the only thought she had—
sonuvabitch.

The next thought came straight out of her mouth.

“Mr. Killian.” It wasn’t a question. She knew exactly who had opened the door. It sure as hell wasn’t whom she’d expected, not in her wildest dreams, but she knew who he was—in her line of work, it paid to know guys like him, Daniel Axel Killian, Dax Killian.

She’d be damned.

“Lieutenant Bradley.” He smiled, and Loretta had to fight the cheap-ass thrill that went through her. She not only knew who he was, she knew what he’d done, but really, she was too old to be getting cheap-ass thrills off big bad boys just because they were big and bad. “It’s good to see you.”

She just bet, but she kept it to herself.

“I heard you turned out okay,” she said, taking his hand when he held it out. “That the U.S. Army found a use for you.”

“Yes, ma’am, they sure did.” His grin broadened, and so did that cheap-ass thrill running through her.

Get a grip, Loretta, old girl,
she told herself, ending the handshake.

“I’ve got a warrant to search this office, Mr. Killian,” she said, gesturing at Weisman. “If you’ve got a cell phone, we’d sure like to see it.”

“And I’d sure like to see your warrant.” A reasonable request, and one she was happy to grant. She’d have been disappointed if he hadn’t asked.

“Detective?” she said, holding out her hand.

For the record, Daniel Axel Killian had gray eyes and dark hair. For the record, he was five feet eleven inches and a hundred and ninety pounds of rock-solid Denver boy done good. For the record, his sideburns were a little long and the rest of his hair a little short, and for the record, he hadn’t shaved this morning. On him, the light shadow of stubble looked damned good—and that was for the record.

Connor produced the document, putting it in her hand, all signed and sealed, and she handed it to Killian.

He looked it over, then stepped aside, letting them in.

“Would you mind showing me your cell phone, Mr. Killian?”

He pulled it out of his pocket, handing it over to her, and in turn, she handed it to Weisman.

“Do you live around here, Mr. Killian?” Surely, she would have known if Dax Killian had moved back into her neck of the woods. Surely, somebody would have told her, somebody like General Buck Grant. Buck wouldn’t have let that slip by her.

“No, ma’am,” he said, walking over and turning on the lamp sitting on a desk next to the filing cabinets. “I’m visiting.”

“From?” The added light was only somewhat helpful. It didn’t really help the place look any better.

“Seattle, ma’am.”

Weisman stepped forward and handed the phone back. “This isn’t the one we’re looking for, Lieutenant.”

The officer walked further into the office, turning the receiver from side to side.

“GPS emergency signal?” Dax Killian asked, slipping his phone back in his pocket.

“Yes, sir.” She looked around the office. “Has anyone else been up here in the office tonight?”

“Not that I’ve seen.”

“And why are you here?” Everything looked fine, for a dump, but she wouldn’t have expected better considering who was running the business now.

“Burt Alden is my uncle. He offered to let me use the office.”

“For?” Burt Alden and Dax Killian related? Talk about a swan getting in with the odd ducks. She wouldn’t have guessed it, not in a million years.

“To work in while I’m in town.”

“And you’re working on a Friday night?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Good enough. She was working, too.

Dax Killian—she hadn’t kept track of every kid she’d ever directed into the armed forces. She hadn’t actually kept track of him, but a few years ago, a story had drifted back to Denver, of this guy from Colorado, a shadow soldier. There’d only been the one story, and never another, and no name attached to the story she’d heard, but for some reason she’d thought of him. Even at his worst, as a teenager running wild on her streets, he’d had a way of keeping to himself, of running under the radar, and those kind of skills had fit the deed in the story.

She’d long since discovered the truth, compliments of Buck Grant—and looking at Dax now, she was even more intrigued to know the story was his.

And he was back in her city, in what she considered an unusual situation. She sure as hell didn’t think he’d cut “Nazi hero” into the old German, no more so than she thought Johnny Ramos had done the deed, though Skeeter hadn’t been able to verify Ramos’s current whereabouts, not since he’d left the Blue Iguana, which was practically across the street from the Oxford.

Regardless, she still didn’t think Johnny had cut up the old German—but somebody had, and Dax Killian was standing in the place where the clues had led.

“I’m looking for a blonde,” she said, putting a little of the story on the line, to see if he bit. “A hooker who cut up one of her clients with a knife over at the Oxford Hotel earlier this evening.”

Something flickered in Mr. Killian’s eyes, but Loretta couldn’t get a reading on it, which was unusual. Reading people was her job.

“Kind of a cult thing, we think. Do you know what a kanji is, Mr. Killian?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Well, that’s what this woman cut into this German guy over at the Oxford, a kanji and a swastika. Sliced it right into the old guy’s skin, across his back. Not deep enough to kill him, maybe not even deep enough to leave a scar, but sure as hell deep enough to disturb me.”

Something definitely went across Killian’s face that time, and she knew exactly what it had been—a flash of alarm.

Interesting.

“Would you know anything about something like that, Mr. Killian?”

“No, ma’am.”

Loretta didn’t mind when people lied to her. She usually learned more from their lies than she ever did from their plain, unvarnished truths.

“I do have one lead. Detective Ford?” She held out her hand again, and Connor gave her the drawing of Johnny Ramos. “This man was seen going into the German guy’s room at the Oxford, at about the time the attack took place. Have you seen him around the neighborhood at all tonight?”

She handed the drawing over, and watched Killian give it a quick once-over. In less than a couple of seconds, he was handing it back.

“No, ma’am. I haven’t seen him.”

“His name is Johnny Ramos. Have you heard of him?”

“No, ma’am.”

Dax Killian was a pretty good liar, but he was still a liar. He was probably pretty good at evading surveillance, too, but he’d just bought himself a night’s worth of it.

“Lieutenant?” Weisman said, standing outside a door in the corner of the office. “I think I’ve found our phone in there.”

“Open her up.” She didn’t ask permission. She didn’t need to ask permission.

Weisman opened the door and turned on the light. It was a bathroom with a wide-open, floor-to-ceiling, double-hung window. She walked over and leaned a little ways out the window, far enough to see the street two floors below.

It had been a night of open windows.

“Is it in there, Weisman?” she asked, looking back at the officer kneeling on the floor next to a tote bag.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said.

“What’s that bag made out of?”

“Looks like vinyl to me, Lieutenant.”

“Vinyl,” she said. “Let’s get it back to the precinct without contaminating it, Weisman. I bet we can lift at least one good set of prints off it, and probably another real good set off the phone. What do you think, Detective Ford?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Connor said. “At least one good set off each.”

“Good.” She turned back to Dax Killian. “The phone in the bag belongs to that blond hooker I’m looking for, a dominatrix, maybe one with a knife. If she comes back here, looking for it, you watch yourself, and I’d appreciate it if you’d give me a call.” She handed him one of her cards.

“Yes, ma’am.” Without a second’s hesitation, he took her card and slipped it in his pocket.

“And if you see this Johnny Ramos guy, I’d appreciate it if you’d give me a call.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

And if Dax Killian gave her a call any time in the next forty years, she’d eat Weisman’s hat.

Sonuvabitch
—that was the only thought Dax had, watching Lieutenant Loretta Bradley and her boys exiting the office.
Sonuvabitch.

He closed the door behind them, threw the lock, and pulled his cell phone out of his pocket.

“Come on, Easy, baby.” He speed-dialed the bad girl and put the phone to his ear. “Answer.”

Geezus.
Erich Warner was in Denver, and he’d brought his favorite witch with him, the blade queen of Bangkok, coming straight out of Tokyo: Shoko. One name, innumerable knives.

A kanji and a swastika? Shoko had practically patented the design. She’d sure as hell perfected it on half a dozen people that he knew about, and who the hell knew how many more that he didn’t know about.

He strode into the bathroom and leaned partway out the window, scanning the sidewalks and the street. Kevin Harrell had made a helluva jump for a guy in handcuffs. Dax was amazed he wasn’t splatted all over the sidewalk below the window.

But he wasn’t. Oh, hell, no. He was off and running somewhere, and if the cops didn’t pick him up, somebody from Bleak’s outfit probably would, not that Harrell mattered anymore. Dax had gotten what he needed out of the guy.

When Easy’s voice mail picked up, he left a very succinct message. “Warner in town. Shoko with him, fully loaded. Stay out of Denver. Stick to Ramos like glue, and call me. I’ll meet you.”

Geezus.
He looked at his watch. Five o’clock was looking a helluva long way away.

He dialed Burt, ready to read him the riot act if he answered. But Uncle Burt didn’t answer, so he left another very succinct message. “If you’re not at Bleak’s warehouse when I get there at five
A.M
., I’m going to come looking for you, Uncle Burt, and you ain’t gonna be happy when I find you.
Don’t
disappoint me.”

It was a threat, yes, but it was also the truth. The plan had been to leave good old Uncle Burt out of the deal, keep the fat out of the fire and that sort of thing, but Dax had changed his mind. The fat was going in feetfirst. Uncle Burt, God help him, was going to be his backup on the deal. It was Easy he was kicking off the team. He didn’t want her within a mile of Franklin Bleak. Even with Lucky Lindsey Larson in his arsenal of tricks, he didn’t want the bad girl anywhere in Bleak’s sight.

She was already in enough trouble.

And now Shoko.
Christ.

Easy had a cool head on her shoulders, one of the coolest, but the Bangkok bitch had hurt her, marked her for life, and Dax knew the bad girl still had nightmares about it—which really pissed him off. He’d been waiting a long time to get Shoko in his sights, but it wasn’t going to happen tonight. Even more than the Bleak deal, he still owed Warner, and more than the debt was the prize Warner had offered, the little something. The German had information Dax wanted, the kind of information that was going to have him doing just about anything Erich Warner asked, short of treason, a designation that could get damned slippery, depending on how much the information proved to be worth on the E-ring in the Pentagon.

Closing the bathroom window, he wondered how in the hell he and Easy were going to talk their way out of this once the cops lifted her prints off the phone she’d used to set up her contact with the parking valet. A lot of people could place her at the Oxford at the right time for an assault with a deadly weapon charge at the very least, including Johnny Ramos.

Yeah, that guy. The one whose picture Lieutenant Loretta was flashing around. He had to be trouble, and yet Dax’s directive stood—he wanted Easy sticking to the guy like a hot lamination. Dom Ramos had been a punk, but he’d been a punk Dax had liked, a straightforward guy, no bullshit.

He reached in his back pocket and pulled out the angel picture postcard. It was an invitation for a showing at an art gallery over on Seventeenth, the Toussi Gallery next to the Oxford Hotel, and it had Ramos’s name on it. No address, just the guy’s name where the address would be, along with the note written in a loopy female hand Dax took the time to decipher this time—“Come be the star that you are, sweetie. Love, Nikki.”