Chapter Thirteen
Kit couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept so poorly. She’d drifted off around three-thirty, when it became clear that Grif, for whatever reason, wasn’t coming home. She’d woken to the sounds of her paperwork on the Marielitos tumbling to the floor, around five. Unable to fall back asleep, she decamped to the living room, where she settled in to work through the sunrise. Having dozed, she was startled to awareness by the thump of the paper on her doorstep just before six, and had been awake ever since.
At least it was Sunday, she thought, sipping her first cup of coffee. She was curled up on her modular velvet sofa, wearing a white cotton nightgown identical to the one Audrey Hepburn wore in Roman Holiday, with a steaming mug at her side and chenille throw over her knees. The paper lay in front of her, and her computer hummed on her lap. She kept her eyes glued to it even when she heard the door open . . . even as the alarm she knew was set remained silent. She looked up only when Grif remained at her periphery, lingering uncertainly in the foyer.
“You finally made it home.” She winced inwardly, hoping she didn’t sound like a nag. Or worse, needy.
But Grif only inclined his head. “I had some things I needed to work out.”
And he couldn’t be in two places at once, Kit thought, looking away.
“I’m sorry, Kit.” When she still said nothing, he lifted his fedora, ran a hand over his head, and sighed. “My head is . . . screwy.”
“I . . .” She wanted to say “I understand,” or “It’s okay,” or “It doesn’t matter,” as she always had before, but none of that was true. He’d left her alone to wonder and worry while he was out chasing memories of another woman, and they both knew it.
“I know,” Kit finally said.
Edging over, he sat on the sofa beside her, elbows on his knees as he toyed with his stingy brim. “The hat works.”
Despite the lingering low-grade tension, a smile slipped onto Kit’s lips. “It beeped?”
“And how.”
Now a true grin bloomed. So she had been with him, then. In a way. “You wore it.”
“I wore it,” he confirmed, edging closer so that their hips touched. He tilted his head, eyes meeting hers. “And found my way back.”
He leaned over and kissed her then, and the tension she carried all through the long night slid from her shoulders. It wasn’t a kiss you gave to someone in second place. It wasn’t flavored with distraction or misplaced emotion. His mouth claimed hers like he was taking ownership, and making up for the empty night. His lips firmed like she was his hunger, then softened like she was also his need. It was the way Kit longed, always, to be kissed. By the time he pulled away, her hair was mussed, her vision blurred, and her loneliness almost forgotten.
Almost.
“How are you, doll?” he said, with that low scratch of a voice.
Kit’s heart skipped in double beat. She loved it when he called her that. And she wasn’t going to squander this moment—hers—by dwelling on worry. Sure, the night had been long. But Kit was ever looking forward. It was morning now, and Grif was back, with fingertips entwined in her hair as he nestled in tight to her side. This was real. Not the brittle, buried past. Not another woman’s ghost.
“The story ran,” she said, thinking business might steady them both. She pointed to the coffee table, where the morning edition of the Las Vegas Tribune lay flat. “Marin agreed to put a rush on it after I swore on my life to dig up more on the Kolyadenkos.”
“Probably that of your firstborn, too,” Grif muttered, reaching for the paper. He began skimming the article, but quickly looked up. “It’s her byline.”
“Really?”
He held the paper out so she could see Marin’s name printed there.
“Hmm. Must have been the autocorrect on her computer. She proofed it before sending it to print.” Kit waved the inaccuracy away. “Anyway, I don’t care who gets credit for breaking the story. As long as all our resources are marshaled to solve the damned thing.”
Grif continued reading, then stilled. “You mentioned the Russian mob by name? Jeez, Kit.” He looked up at her. “That’s a good way to get killed.”
Kit huffed, and lifted her mug. “Maybe in the fifties. These days it’s a good way to let them know we’re onto them, and get them to stop distributing this crap. Besides, I didn’t mention them by name. It’s a direct quote from ‘a source close to the investigation.’ They said it, not me.”
Grif just frowned, then nodded at her printouts. “And what’s that?”
“Just some additional leads my girls gave me on the Naked City population. Did you know that historically it’s been largely comprised of Cubans? More notably, it’s been home to a boatload of Marielitos. Literally.”
Kit filled him in quickly on the history of the Mariel boatlifts, and the influx of immigrants fleeing Cuba, stigmatized by Fidel Castro’s inclusion of the island’s criminals and mental-asylum population. All had occurred after Grif’s death in 1960.
Then she leaned over and pulled out a sheet of paper buried under the others. “Our friend Marco Baptista is second-generation Cuban-American, and direct descendant of one of those Marielitos. He also has a rather impressive prison record, though it pales in comparison to his father’s rap sheet. But, more important, I discovered there’s been a recent turf war in Naked City between two rival gangs, allegedly in pursuit of control of the local meth market. Care to take a guess as to which individuals control those two gangs?”
“Kolyadenko and Baptista.” Grif looked impressed. “You’ve been busy.”
I’ve been jittery. I’ve been worried. I’ve missed the hell out of you.
Making sure her hand was steady, Kit lifted her coffee mug and said, “And I’m not done. Baptista mentioned a woman, a looker who dresses in wigs and tight clothing. If my hunch is right, and the Russians are targeting addicts in Baptista’s neighborhood, I think they’re using this woman to do it.”
She pulled up an image that’d been minimized on her computer, revealing a stunning blonde with a cascade of curls framing glossy red lips, cold blue eyes rimmed in smoky hues, and a creamy heart-shaped face that dipped at cheek and chin in slanting angles. Diamonds the size of thumbnails winked at her ears, while lace curled delicately along her long, slim throat.
“Yulyia Kolyadenko.” Grif recognized Sergei’s wife from the photo Marin had printed out. He looked at Kit.
Kit set down her mug, then angled toward him. “Tell me if this plays with you, or if I need more coffee, but what if the Russians are trying to pick off their Cuban rivals by targeting their kids and families? Fleur and Lil were telling me just last night how closely knit the Hispanic community is. Generations often live with generations.”
“As we saw with Baptista and his grandmother.” Frowning, Grif glanced again at Yulyia’s image. “And you think this is how they’re doing it? Sending in . . . teasers? Then letting the addiction spread?”
Kit pulled her knees up tight and nodded. “Like a virus. Once begun, it’s practically unstoppable.”
“Maybe.” Grif began to nod. “Because they can’t get clean due to the withdrawals, yet they can’t live long if they don’t get clean.”
“Nothing clean about this drug,” Kit agreed, glad to see he wasn’t dismissing it outright. Feeling steadier, she cleared her throat. “And what about you? How’d you spend your night?”
“Not shooting lighter fluid and drain cleaner into my veins.”
“That’s a relief,” she replied, keeping it light.
“Not flirting with a bunch of greasers at a burlesque club, either.”
Kit stilled at that before she caught the twinkle in his eye. “That would be a different cause for worry,” she replied, voice steady as she shoved the memory of Dennis’s unexpected flirtation out of her mind. “But you saw Ray DiMartino again?”
Grif nodded, his frown returned. “He had nothing. Said his father’s old files were clean, probably picked through both before and after the FBI moved in. Claimed there wasn’t even anything on Mary Margaret’s case, or the work I did on it.”
“And Sal DiMartino’s second wife, Barbara?” Kit asked, because that’s what Grif was really after.
He shook his head. “Ray doesn’t know where she is. Doesn’t want to find out, either.”
“I’m sorry, Grif,” Kit said, and sighed. She’d like nothing better than for him to get a handle on his past, just as she had with her parents. After all, that’s what the living did.
Grif shrugged. “It’s okay. He gave me another lead. Al Zicaro.”
Squinting, Kit searched her memory. “I know that name.”
“You should. He once worked at your paper.”
Kit snapped her fingers. “Old loony Uncle Al!”
Grif lifted an eyebrow.
“Pet name around the paper,” Kit explained quickly. “He was always seeing, or inventing, some conspiracy theory about the local mob. My aunt said he was as nutty as they came.”
“Doesn’t make me hopeful about getting any good juice outta him,” Grif muttered.
“Where is he?”
“The Sunset Retirement Community,” Grif confirmed.
“Hmm.” Kit settled against the sofa. “Sadly, I’ve never met my loony uncle.”
Grif tilted his head. “You’d go with me?”
“Of course. I love a good conspiracy theory. They always contain at least one or two kernels of truth. According to my dad, Zicaro had a pack-rat memory. Ask him the right question, and we might actually get the answers we need.”
And then Grif could bury them along with the memory of his death, his first life, and—yeah—his first wife.
“Thanks, Kitty-Cat.” And Grif said it so softly that Kit knew he was aware of what he’d cost her last night. It was still there, between them, but maybe if she left it unvoiced, it, too, could get tucked away.
“But talking to DiMartino couldn’t have taken up your whole night,” she said instead.
He reached for Kit’s mug and sipped. “Mary Margaret is out early.”
Kit held out a hand and he passed the coffee back. “Then we should visit her, too.”
Grif’s expression went wide at that, like he was opening to her, and there was wonder in his eyes. The look should have comforted her . . . and would have, moments earlier. Instead, for some reason, it made her want to pick up her coffee mug and smash it against the wall.
So, when her phone buzzed, she took the opportunity to gain a little distance, and reached for it, causing Grif’s outstretched hand to fall away.
Kit put down the mug, then smiled, reading the text. “It’s Dennis.”
“And?” Grif said, sidling up beside her.
Kit put a hand on his chest, preventing him from drawing in closer, though his gaze remained fixed on her lips. “One of the kids from Naked City survived, Grif.”
His eyes opened wide.
“Jeannie Holmes,” she said. “And her mother has given us permission to go see her.”
“Right now?”
Kit shook her head. “Not until ten.”
“Good.” He relaxed again. “Because I can think of a better use of our time just now.”
And wasn’t now all they really had? The past was gone, Kit thought, as Grif’s arms came about her. The future unknowable. And possibility lay between them like a pair of dice waiting to be tossed. Kit didn’t know if Zicaro or Mary Margaret, or even the elusive Barbara DiMartino, had the answers that would forever put Grif’s mind, and Evelyn Shaw’s ghost, to rest.
But right now Grif was leaning Kit back, looking at her like she was a natural wonder, and making her want to open as well. It was a good emotion, and it was what she’d really been waiting for throughout the night.
“It’s nice to have you home, baby,” she whispered into his mouth.
Grif slipped one strong knee between her thighs. “I’m not quite home yet.”
So Kit arched up to him, and showed him the way.