Weisman, the uniformed policeman carrying the signal receiver, stopped in front of the last door in the halclass="underline" 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.