Four

The next morning, Aggie returned to the library without me. I lounged on the family room couch with my feet on the coffee table. I sipped coffee, half-reviewed Anne Smith’s logistics report, and half-watched The Today Show. Barbara Walters ought not wear beige against the beige background of the set. It washed her out terribly.

“Ellison?” Mother’s voice carried from somewhere in my house.

Oh dear Lord. What necessitated a trip to my house? Mother usually called.

Max whined softly.

“Some guard dog, you are,” I whispered before I sat up straight, put my feet on the floor, and called, “In here!”

A few seconds later, Mother appeared. She’d fully recovered from finding the ashes in her closet. Her hair was its usual perfect helmet and she wore her favorite pearl pin on the collar of a navy wool dress. A mink coat was folded over her arm.

“You look nice.” More polite than what are you doing here? I stood. “Would you like some coffee?”

“Please.”

I led her into the kitchen, poured her a cup of Mr. Coffee’s perfect brew, and refilled my own cup. “Cream?

“How fresh is it?”

“Aggie bought it yesterday morning,” I lied.

With a regal nod, she assented to the addition of cream to her coffee. “Where is Aggie?”

“At the library, looking at obituaries.”

Mother looked less pleased with this news than she should have. “Why?”

“To see if she can identify the ashes.”

“I can tell you who’s died.”

“Suppose you don’t know the person in the closet?”

“You mean a stranger? In my house?” She sounded horrified.

“Maybe. Or it could be Evan Holmes.”

Mother tilted her head as if I’d given her something new to consider.

“Perhaps it’s Myra Ollinger.”

Mother’s expression clouded. “I certainly hope not. I never liked her. I’d hate to think she’s was freeloading at my house.”

“Freeloading?” If it was Myra, she’d hardly been taking advantage of the meal plan.

“Taking up valuable shelf space.”

“Ah.”

“Don’t be smart, Ellison. It doesn’t suit you.”

I wiped all expression off my face. “Aggie may come home with some additional possibilities.”

Mother sniffed. The sniff said quite clearly that she hoped for better options than Myra Ollinger.

“I have a question for you.”

Mother took a small sip of coffee. “Oh?”

“How did Patrick Conover die?”

She muttered something into her coffee mug. Mother never muttered.

“Pardon me?

She looked up and her eyes narrowed, daring me to argue. “I said there’s one body you didn’t find.”

“What? He was murdered?”

“Patrick Conover was shot. You were so busy interfering in the Harney murder investigation, you missed it.”

“Who killed him?”

“The murderer was never caught.” Her eyes narrowed to slits. “Don’t be getting any ideas about investigating. Patrick Conover’s death is none of your business.”

“Agreed.”

There was a time when I capitulated to all of Mother’s demands. That time had passed and she’d become accustomed to arguments. She looked almost surprised that I’d agreed without a single objection.

“What’s on your agenda for the day?” Mother eyed my jeans and turtleneck with distaste. Mother did not own a pair of jeans.

“I’m reviewing all the committee reports for the grand opening.”

She gifted me a small smile. Chairing grand opening galas was on her list of approved activities. “You inherited quite a committee.”

Because I’d come late to the game, the committee chairmen had already been in place. “They’re trying hard. Except for Joyce Petteway. If that woman doesn’t make a decision about the food soon, we may be eating Chinese take-out.”

Mother rubbed her chin. This was her milieu—difficult committee members and the need to create an event so memorable that people talked about it for years. “You decide the menu and tell her what it is.”

“I don’t want to step on toes.”

“Joyce will dither until she’s given you gray hair. That woman can’t make a decision to save her life. If you don’t choose something, we’ll be eating egg rolls.”

I nodded. “I’ll call the caterer and have him send over the proposed menus.”

Mother looked properly gratified. I’d agreed with her twice in one morning.

“Where are you off to today?” I asked.

“Bridge.” She put her coffee cup down on the counter and looked at her watch. “I ought to be going.”

That was it? She hadn’t driven out of her way just to ask about ashes. She could have called for that. Mother’s unannounced trips to my house usually meant the sky was falling. “Is everything all right?”

“Fine,” she said quickly. “Everything is fine. Aside from the ashes, I mean.”

I didn’t believe her. “You’re sure?”

“Of course I’m sure,” she snapped. “Everything is fine. I have to go.” With that she swung her coat around her shoulders and marched down the front hall. A few seconds later I heard the front door open and close.

I looked over at Mr. Coffee. He sat on the counter—reliable, dependable, perfect in every way. He had no comment on Mother’s strange behavior.

“Whatever it is,” I told him, “everything is not fine.”

Brnnng, brnnng.

Aggie was at the library and Grace was at school. That left me to answer the phone. “Hello.”

“Ellison! You know that favor you owe me?”

Did I owe Libba a favor? “What do you want?”

“Are you free on Friday night?”

I didn’t need Madame Reyna to see where this was going. “No.”

“Of course, you are.”

“I just said I wasn’t.”

“You only said that because you’re worried I’m asking you to join Bill and me on a double date.” Bill was the latest man in Libba’s life. On the surface, he seemed almost perfect. A transplant from Charleston, South Carolina, he had courtly manners, gainful employment, and no wife. But Libba’s track record with picking men suggested there was a problem—a big one—somewhere.

“So you’re not calling to ask me on a double date?”

“What if I am? You’re not seeing anyone. You need to get out there.”

“I have plans.”

“The Rockford Files and Police Story don’t count as plans, Ellison.”

As if I’d watch Police Story. I needed no reminders of Anarchy Jones. “You’re wrong.”

“Fine. You’re watching the ABC Friday night movie. Sitting in front of a television is not the same thing as having plans.”

“Bad things happen when we double date.”

“You’re exaggerating.”

I wasn’t.

“Bill’s friend will be staying in the Presidential Suite at the Alameda. He’s invited us up for drinks then dinner at the rooftop restaurant.”

It sounded safe enough, but I knew better. “No.”

“Don’t say no. Think about it and call me later.”

“Hmph.”

“Also, Madame Reyna called me. I know you think she’s a terrible fraud but she insists someone named Leslie wants to talk to you.”

There’s a ride at Worlds of Fun, the local amusement park, called the Finnish Fling. One stepped inside a barrel and the barrel spun. Spun so fast that when the floor dropped, the riders stayed plastered to the wall. I rode it one time. Grace insisted. My stomach dropped with the floor and the sensation of being out of step with time and space and gravity left me ill for hours. I felt that way now. “She what?”

“I know, I know. I’m sorry I dragged you over there. I told her you didn’t know anyone named Leslie.” Libba paused. “You don’t, do you?”

I opened and closed my mouth but no words came out. No breath came out. There was a strange buzzing in my head—like a swarm of bees only louder.

Ding dong.

I managed a breath. “Libba, someone’s at the door. I’ll have to call you back.”

“Promise me you’ll think about Friday night?”

“I promise.” Anything to get her off the phone. I waited for the buzzing to subside then made my way to the front door with Max at my heels.

Ding dong.

Sheesh. “Coming,” I called.

I opened the door and found Detective Anarchy Jones on the other side.

The sudden drop of my stomach made my experience on the Finnish Fling feel like a cakewalk. I stood there, gaping, silent, stunned.

Max, the traitor, pushed past me and rubbed his head against Anarchy’s corduroy pants.

I didn’t move.

“May I come in?” Anarchy asked.

Still mute, I stepped away from the door, allowing him into my home. I took a deep breath and my stomach returned to the general area of my midriff where it fluttered with nerves. I closed the door behind him.

We stood in the foyer. Saying nothing. Looking at anything but each other. I cheated a peek and saw his gaze fixed on the painting hung above the bombe chest. I quickly (before-I-was-caught quickly) returned my gaze to the Oriental beneath my feet. Was that medallion a true Wedgwood blue or was there too much cobalt? Careful study was required.

Anarchy cleared his throat. “I’m here about the girl.” He sounded cop-like. Professional.

Of course he did. It wasn’t as if the problem between us would simply disappear. Especially when we hadn’t spoken in months.

“We identified her,” he continued.

“Oh?” One word—all I could manage.

“Her name wasn’t Leslie Smith.”

I looked up from the carpet and sought his face.

“Her name was Leesa Lisowski.”

“Lisowski?”

The corner of his mouth quirked for a half-second—no more—then his lips settled back into that unforgiving hard line. “Lisowski. I’d like to hear exactly what you told Detective Peters.”

Looking at the distant expression on Anarchy’s lean face—all harsh planes and remote valleys—and the coldness in his eyes cured the flutters in my stomach. Instead of fluttering, the flutters drooped in a dejected, hang-dog manner. “Let’s sit in the kitchen.” At least there, I’d be close to Mr. Coffee.

Anarchy followed me into the kitchen.

Max followed Anarchy.

And Max’s stubby tail wagged ten miles a minute. As if he’d missed Anarchy. As if he was happy to see him. As if now was a chance to set things right.

“Coffee?” I asked.

“No, thank you.”

I poured myself the biggest cup I could find, added cream, sat on one of the stools at the island, and told him everything I’d told Detective Peters.

“Was Leesa on drugs when you saw her?” he asked.

Drugs? I closed my eyes and thought. For the life of me, I couldn’t remember if her pupils had been tiny pinpricks or dilated or normal. “I didn’t notice anything off.” I stared into my coffee mug. My problems suddenly seemed much smaller. “Have you found her family?” Her poor parents. What they must be going through.

“She was a runaway from Chicago.”

“Chicago? What was she doing in Kansas City?”

Anarchy glanced at Mr. Coffee. “I’ve changed my mind. May I have a cup?”

I took a mug out of the cupboard and filled it. “Black?”

He nodded. “Thanks.”

I handed him the mug and our fingers brushed against each other. Electricity jolted through me. I know he felt it too because he jerked backward. Away. From me. Sloshed coffee on the counter.

“I’ll get a towel.” I turned my back on him and wiped away an unexpected and unwelcome tear.

“Ellison—” his voice sounded less cop-like. More human.

I couldn’t do this. Could not. If Anarchy, the man not the cop, walked out the door again, I might break. I yanked an unsuspecting tea towel off the oven handle and mopped up the small puddle of coffee without looking at him. “What was she doing in Kansas City?”

For a moment I didn’t think he’d answer.

“She worked as a prostitute. We identified her from the prints we have on file.

A prostitute? My mind rejected the idea. I dared a glance his way. “That can’t be right. She was too young.”

He was back in cop-mode. The thin line of his lips hardened.

“How does that happen? How does a child end up working the streets?”

His gaze shifted away from me. “The usual way.”

“I’m not familiar with the usual way.”

“You don’t want to be familiar.” His voice sounded bleak.

“I do.”

Somehow, the thin line of his lips thinned even more.

“I want to know,” I insisted.

“Think about a girl with an unhappy home-life. For whatever reason, she feels isolated or alone. Along comes a man who says he cares about her. The life he tells her about is happy and filled with love. She goes with him and she’s caught. Or perhaps things are so bad at home, she runs away. She’s alone and she meets a man who says he’ll take care of her.” He glanced down at the floor. “In cities like New York and Los Angeles, men hang out at bus stops, waiting for runaways.”

I waited for more.

“The girl has no one but him. He gives her drugs and liquor and the illusion that someone cares. Then he puts her to work.”

“Why doesn’t she leave? Run away?”

“Usually, she’s hooked on drugs. And if she’s not, she’s been told her family will be hurt if she runs.”

“So the girls are prisoners?” I’d never heard anything so awful. “That’s what happened to Leslie—Leesa? Exactly how old was she?”

“Fifteen.”

I closed my eyes. The coffee in my stomach churned. Fifteen. A year younger than Grace. That child had been in terrible trouble and I’d failed to guess. Failed to help. I lowered my head to my hands. “Leesa wasn’t visiting her boyfriend.”

“No.” Anarchy sounded almost sympathetic.

“A client?”

“Most likely. He did something that scared her and she ran.”

“And I hit her.” Hit her and failed her.

The weight of Anarchy’s hand rested on my shoulder. “You gave her the coat off your back.”

“I should have insisted on taking her home.”

“Leesa didn’t have a home. Not in the way you understand the word. She’d been on the streets for two years.”

Two years. Since she was thirteen. Tears leaked through the trap of my eyelids. “I could have helped.”

“No.”

I lifted my head. Opened my eyes. “If I can’t help, who can?”

“These are dangerous people.”

I shrugged.

“The girls—” he looked away from me. Shifted his gaze to Mr. Coffee. “They need more than a warm meal and a cup of coffee.

In my experience, there are few situations not improved by the addition of a perfectly brewed cup of coffee. “So what happens to them? They’re written off?”

He removed his hand. “There are programs.”

I turned and looked at him. “Programs?” The word had a ladies-doing-good sound to it. But in Kansas City, ladies supported the arts and the children’s hospital. They joined the Junior League. They gave tours at the museum. They hosted garden tours and teas and galas to raise money for worthy causes. Programs for child prostitutes never crossed their minds.

“I can get you some information.”

“Please do.”

Max nudged Anarchy with his nose.

“What does he want?”

“He wants you to scratch behind his ears.”

Max nudged again.

“He won’t stop till you do what he wants.”

Anarchy crouched on the floor and used both hands to scratch behind the gray silk of Max’s ears. “Will you take me to exactly where you hit her?”

“Of course. Now?”

“Please.”

Max groaned and leaned his head into Anarchy’s right hand.

“I’ll get my coat.” The words stopped me. The coat I’d normally wear over jeans I’d given to Leslie—Leesa—and she’d died wearing it.

Anarchy gave Max a final scratch and stood. “Not everyone would do this.”

“Do what?”

“Help with the investigation of a prostitute’s death.”

“Don’t call her that.” My voice was sharp. “She was a girl. A child. I have no idea what awful choices landed her in the mess she was in, but she didn’t deserve the life she had.” I paused for breath. “Or the death.”

“I’ve missed you.” Anarchy’s words were so out of context I wasn’t sure I’d heard him right. I stared at him. My jaw might have dropped. Just a little.

He looked the same. Same coffee-brown eyes—now with a hint of warmth in their depths. Same lips—no longer pressed into a thin line.

Warmth trickled from my head to my toes. Oh dear Lord. What kind of person was I? Not a good one. No good person could be so easily distracted by a thaw in Anarchy’s chilliness.

He stepped closer to me. Close enough for the scent of his aftershave to tickle my nose.

“You care about people.” He brushed my cheek with the back of his hand. Barely. Just enough to send every nerve ending in my body into a tizzy. “I care about right and wrong. The law. You care about people.”

Max yawned. We were boring him.

“I—I missed you, too.” There. I’d said it. Admitted it. To him. To myself.

The air was charged with possibility—with magic. I rested my fingers against his chest. Was his heart thudding as hard as mine?

Brnng, brnng.

“You could ignore it,” Anarchy suggested, his voice suddenly rough.

I could. I wanted to. But there was something extra shrill, extra insistent about the phone’s ring.

Brnng, brnng.

Dammit.

I stepped away from Anarchy and picked up the receiver. “Hello.”

“Ellison.” Mother did not sound pleased. “What is that detective doing at your house?”