“Hannah, please, wait. Please don’t go.” Lilith followed her to the door. “I’m sorry. I love you!”
Chapter 6
THE WORDS she’d been waiting to hear for years came too damn late!
Hannah was off, the hounds of hell on her heels as she flew down the stairs. She’d instigated the fight, but she’d had to know exactly what Lilith thought of her.
And now she knew.
Hannah got in her car and whipped down to Lake Shore Drive where she sped south, top down. And when the cop pulled her over — he’d clocked her at 80 in a 40 mile an hour zone — she turned on the charm.
They parted amiably, he with a comp to get into the club, she without a damn speeding ticket.
Not that she would have cared. She could well afford it. But winning over the cop had illustrated how she could make men do what she wanted.
Not that Lilith believed it. Or approved.
Not that Lilith had told her to either change her way of life or get out, said a little voice inside her mind.
Lilith had tried to keep her from going. Had said she loved her.
The drive home was filled with regret. For the years lost between them. For the anger she felt every time they spoke. But Lilith didn’t have all the answers. Talk about not seeing what was true, Lilith probably didn’t even believe she’d abandoned anyone. She believed what she needed to.
Maybe like she herself did, Hannah admitted.
Luckily, her cell phone was handy, and she’d already entered Lilith’s phone numbers. She whipped it out as she exited the Drive.
But when she hit her speed dial, it wasn’t to call Lilith at home, but to leave a message at Hamilton, Smith and Willis. Lilith’s work phone. Easier to leave a message and have Lilith follow up than to chance being rejected. Maybe given some time to cool off, Lilith would be happy to hear from her.
“Hey, it’s me, Hannah.” She chewed on her lip, then hurried before she got cut off. “I, uh, do want us to be sisters again, even if you don’t approve of me.” Hating that Lilith didn’t approve, Hannah took a big breath. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
By the time she hung up, she was almost home. Assaulted by her old feeling of insecurity, she was also sick to her stomach. What if, in the end, Lilith was disgusted by her and wanted nothing more to do with her. Where would that leave her?
Powerless.
A too awful, too familiar feeling, intensified by the fact that, when she turned down her street, it seemed so very dark. After the sun went down, safety became questionable even here, as it did in all big cities; and tonight she had an unsettled feeling.
All the emotional upheaval was threatening to undo her, she told herself, nothing more.
As she got out of her car, she noticed an urban adventurer sitting on the curb. Layered in fraying, filthy clothes, an elderly woman sat guarding a grocery store cart filled with several black plastic bags.
Hannah remembered what it had been like on the streets. No one should have to live like an animal, picking through other people’s garbage just to get along another day. She furtively slipped her hand into her pocket, drew closer, then made a pretense of picking something up from the ground near the woman’s feet.
Rising, she said, “Excuse me.”
Bleary, vacant eyes looked back.
“You must’ve dropped this.”
The eyes connected with the two C-notes Hannah was holding, lit, then went out. “Not mine.”
“Yeah. Yeah, it is,” Hannah said, finding the woman’s boney hand and pressing the money into it. “Get yourself a room for the night and have a good meal.”
The woman took a closer look at her. “Bless you, girl.”
Moving to her front door, Hannah figured she wasted plenty of money. What did it hurt to help someone else? No skin off her back.
The sense of unease returned, more insistent this time, as she dug through her bag for her key ring. Damn, where the hell was it? She nicked the thing with her fingers and took a deep breath as she grabbed the keys and opened the door. One step inside and she deflated like a burst balloon. Her muscles suddenly felt like rubber as she turned to close the door.
Just as a dark-clothed figure separated itself from the shadows and grabbed her arm and followed her inside.
Before she could see what her assailant looked like, a foul-smelling rag was stuffed in her face. She tried to fight, but her head went light, and then all the fight drained out of her in one big whoosh…
PUCINSKI LED THE WAY into Club Paradise, his new young partner, Frankie DeSalvo, following on his heels.
“I don’t get it,” DeSalvo muttered softly. “Not that I mind checkin’ out the talent on company time. But what the hell are we doin’ here when we got a plant?”
“Putting on a show.” Pucinski gazed around the place in an effort to spot the cop working undercover. “We don’t act like we’re paying attention, the killer smells a rat.”
“You think he’s here now?”
“The killer? Why not?”
He took in every detail of the club, gave the well-dressed patrons a once-over. He could be any one of them in their fine suits and expensive shoes. The ones salivating. The ones watching quietly, their fertile, obscene minds planning overtime. He’d worked the job too many years to think anyone was exempt.
“Classy place,” Frankie muttered, practically in his ear.
“That’s why they call it a gentlemen’s club.”
“How much to join?”
“Keep your eyes in your head and your ears open,” Pucinski ordered, as a man who looked like he was in charge approached them.
“Gentlemen, can I help you?”
Pucinski gave the guy in the flowered shirt and expensive suit the once-over and figured he was in the game. “You the manager?”
“Sal Ruscio.”
“Detective John Pucinski.” He flashed his identification and nodded that DeSalvo should do the same. “And this is Detective Frank DeSalvo. We have some questions concerning The Hunter Case. About the women who were murdered.”
“I’d rather we didn’t talk here. How about the office.” Ruscio stood back and indicated they precede him.
Pucinski didn’t hurry. Let the guy sweat a little. Not that he figured the manager was guilty. At least not of murder. But why should he make anything easy for a well-heeled pimp.
The office was as polished as the interior of the club. Nothing like the cop shop with its municipal green walls, heavy wood furniture and piles of paperwork. Everything was neat. In its place.
Ruscio settled behind the streamlined desk. “Can I offer you gentleman a drink?”
“We’re on duty,” DeSalvo said.
“A soft drink, then? Cappuccino? Designer water?”
“Plain answers would do it for me,” Pucinski said.
“Of course you have my full cooperation.”
“How well did you know Rosie Harriman?”
“Know her?” Ruscio shrugged his wide shoulders. “She was a good employee. Always on time. Gave good service. No complaints.”
