Davis fidgeted, fingers pulling at the seams of his blue jeans. There were fading bruises on his knuckles, and she focused on them for a second before flicking her attention back to his shadowed face.
"I believe she's missing," he said. "I believe somebody took her and made her get that money. I want you to help me find her."
She sat back, considering him, Welton Brown's card cool between her fingers. Omar was still lounging in the corner, looking as if he was paying no attention, but intent on every movement.
Something was bothering her, but she couldn't put her finger on it. As she thought it over, trying to run it down, her cell phone rang.
"Excuse me," she said, and stood up to walk to a far corner, her back to Davis. Omar would be watching. Not much risk involved.
"Yo." Jazz. "Leonard Davis has two complaints against him for spousal abuse. KCPD has been to his house plenty of times. Sounds like a lively place."
"Have you talked to your friend Detective Brown recently?"
"Welton? No. Why?"
"This guy's carrying his card."
"Probably filed a missing persons on his wife. Ten to one, he's buried her in the backyard. Thinks he's clever. Brown may be using us to keep him busy while he does a murder investigation. That would be his style."
"I don't appreciate having my time wasted."
"Think of it as becoming a cog in the great wheel of justice."
Lucia said something pithy in Spanish, which was a waste, since Jazz hardly spoke a word. "So why would this guy engage with us, especially for money?"
"Makes him look honest when they dig his wife up from the melon patch."
Lucia turned slightly and glanced over her shoulder. Davis was leaning back now, straightening his baseball cap with his right hand.
And something clicked. Something she was sure Welton Brown must have noticed, as well.
"Keep digging," she told Jazz. "I don't mean in the melon patch."
"Funny."
She ended the call and walked back, slid into the seat and gave him a cool, professional smile.
"How'd you get the bruise on your hand, Mr. Davis?" she asked. He looked down and instinctively turned it palm upward, hiding the damage. "It looks like you got it about the time your wife dropped out of sight."
He didn't glance up at her. She saw the tension in him and felt a sudden shift in the room, as if gravity had subtly altered.
"I got into a fight," he answered.
"Let me put this to you as strongly as I can, Mr. Davis," Lucia said. She deliberately dropped her voice, slowed it, held his eyes with her own. "If you hurt your wife and she is in hiding, I will not track her down for you. Do you understand me?"
"I got into a fight at work. Look, it didn't have anything to do with Susannah, I'd never do anything to hurt her."
She could feel something weighing her down now, a conviction that was drawn from a thousand hints. The way his eyes cut away at the last second. The bruises. The too-direct stare during a denial. Tiny facial tics as he tried to fake sincerity.
She cut him off. "Our rates are a thousand dollars a day."
Davis sat back, mouth open, and then did that lightning-quick shift of his eyes again. "I see. So it's all about the money, right?"
"We work for a living, yes."
"If I give you the money, you'll find Susannah?"
Not, she noticed, save her. Not find out what happened to her. Just, simply, find.
She smiled thinly and stood up, settling her purse over her shoulder. "Not for any amount, Mr. Davis," she said. "Because I don't believe you. Either you've killed your wife or you'd badly like to finish what you started. Either way, we're not interested in helping you."
She expected him to grab, because—if she was right— that would be his automatic response. And he did. His hand shot out and closed on her arm. Squeezed—not with crushing force, because he was aware of Omar, who was straightening up behind her, and the security guards behind the desk. But with enough strength to send a hot jolt of agony up through her shoulder.
She didn't let it affect her cool, professional mask. "You'll want to take your hand off of me now, Mr. Davis," she said. "Before something unfortunate happens."
"I said I need your help!" He didn't sound helpless; he sounded angry. She understood that anger could be a correct response, especially when a loved one was missing. But his anger was off-key. Narcissistic.
"Yes," she agreed, and pulled her arm free. "You did. Now I'd advise you to go look for an attorney."
Seen up close, those eyes were probably his greatest asset. The kind of little-boy eyes that lulled women into trusting, into believing his apologies, into letting down their guard.
His eyes lied better than the rest of him.
He stepped back. "You've got the wrong idea about me."
"Maybe so. And if that's the case, then I will be sincerely sorry. But I can't take the chance."
She nodded to Omar, and walked away to the security desk. The two guards looked attentive.
"Escort him out," she said. "He doesn't come back inside."
"Yes, ma'am."
In the elevator, Omar didn't say a word, but he was watching her with interest. She felt tired. Achy. Wanted to collapse back into her warm, soft bed and sleep for days.
"What?" she asked.
He shrugged as he pushed the button for the parking garage. "Kinda hard on the guy."
"He's had numerous abuse complaints."
"Doesn't mean she's not missing."
"It might mean that she's missing on purpose, and the last thing she needs is us bringing this guy to her doorstep."
"Sometimes I think you don't like people very much," he said.
"People, meaning men?"
Another shrug.
"I like men just fine," she said. "I just like them better when they're not lying their asses off to me."
Omar's dimples flashed as he smiled. "You don't get a lot of dates, huh?"
"Not second ones."
The door creaked open at the well-lit parking level, and Omar went out first, presenting an unmissable target should anyone be taking aim. He didn't even think about doing it. It was his job. She admired that, even while she couldn't quite understand the mentality behind it.
"Clear," he said, after scanning the area. She stepped out from behind him, and they walked quickly toward the SUV.
She had no warning, but suddenly she felt a powerful shove to the left, felt the world tilt, and landed hard on her side. She rolled instinctively, holding her head up to keep from hitting the concrete floor, and landed next to a fat gray pillar. She hadn't thought about drawing her gun, but it was out, both hands bracing it in textbook firing position.
"Easy," Omar was saying. He was still standing out in the open, having executed his first priority—moving her out of the line of fire. He was holding up both empty hands and trying to look as inoffensive as possible, which was odd behavior for any bodyguard, but Omar in particular. Lucia edged forward and peered around the barrier, hunting a target.
A woman was standing in front of him. Thin, fragile, with short dark hair and ivory-pale skin that showed off a lurid array of bruises. Half her face was swollen almost beyond recognition.
She had a gun trained on Omar.
"Easy," he said again, and held his hands higher when she flinched. "Nobody's here to hurt you."
"I need your help," she blurted. There were tears running from her eyes, streaking silver down her face. She slurred her words, thanks to a badly swollen lip. "Please."