The Taken

Kit knew. She’d seen him pounce.

And that’s really why she agreed to help him. She’d never partnered with anyone but Nic before, and that only because their skills were complimentary, not competing. Kit was something of a lone wolf herself. Yet it seemed apropos to take on a partner who was not only investigating Nic’s death, but who had prevented her own. Because even through the drugged haze of fear, shock, and pain, she’d seen her death coming. It’d looked like all the pain she’d ever felt had taken form to rise up against her, as tangible as a tsunami.

And then, because of Griffin Shaw, it was gone.

It was enough to have her overlook the way he’d put out his cigarette in her vintage Zeisel vase, and had obviously been pawing through her things while she slept. And if there was still an unknown element to him- including his mysterious entry into her house and life-well, Kit liked a good mystery as well as anyone.

She was also damned fine at her job. She’d find out everything there was to know about Griffin Shaw. In time.

But first, she thought, hand whipping her glossy wooden steering wheel to the left, who the hell killed my girl?

“Who the hell taught you to drive?” Grif asked, bracing against the door.

“My dad. Parked his car on an unpaved stretch of desert when I was twelve and made me go backwards. I had to perfect it before I was ever allowed to go forward.”

“He drive one of these foreign tin cans, too?”

“It was a patrol car,” Kit said, smiling slightly. She was used to the scorn from her friends. They all bought American, drove American, bled American. It was her one deviation from her rockabilly lifestyle-forgoing the old Fords and Chevys for this tight, sweet Italian ride. That stubbornness was a trait she’d inherited from her mother, who’d willingly conformed to the things that defined her-cop’s wife, professional mother-in all ways but one.

Shirley Wilson-Craig had refused to be domesticated. She’d cook, but only dishes made with fresh market ingredients, most of which took all day. She tidied, but hired someone else to clean. And she’d schedule playdates so Kit would never want for friends, but would never dress down for them, and never, ever carpool.

“Life should be lived as art,” she often told Kit, her ubiquitous cigarette dangling from its gold holder. “Everything has its place. Let in only those things that are greatly desired, no more and no less. That’s how to make sense of the world, and the only real way to achieve happiness.”

Once, over a dinner of lobster salad and roasted lamb, Shirley had reported to Kit and her father that she’d been asked to leave a PTA meeting for wondering aloud why business couldn’t be carried out over a two-martini lunch… or at least something more civilized than stale cardboard cookies. Yet she was smiling as she refilled her blue-collar husband’s champagne glass, and the look said, I may put myself in this box, but God help the person who tries to force me into it.

And Kit would never forget the way her father had wrapped his giant hand around that fragile glass and smiled back.

That inherited stubbornness was why Kit worked at her family’s newspaper, but, despite Marin’s prodding, refused to run it. Ditto the foreign car. She was a newswoman, and rockabilly to the core, but it was those years of formal family dinners with an aristocratic mother, and a father who reveled in his wife’s quirkiness, that really defined her. They might be gone, but she was not.

“Besides,” Kit told Grif now, “this fine automobile is a classic.”

“It’s Italian.”

Kit looked over, impressed, then registered his frown. “You’re cranky.”

He snorted and gazed out the window.

“And tortured, if I’m not mistaken,” she added, using the directness she’d gotten from her father.

Another grunt.

“You torture yourself,” she ventured, shooting him a look from the corner of her eye.

The next grunt meant that was true enough.

“You should let it go,” Kit said, and still thinking of her parents, added with a laugh, “Let someone else torture you for a while.”

His dark brow lifted beneath the brim of his hat. “You applying for the job?”

“Depends on the benefits package,” she shot back, playing along. “But I think I could manage it.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’d be great at it.”

She smiled, choosing to take it as a compliment. The lightness was a welcome distraction. “Well, it’ll have to wait. We’re here.”

Pulling through the newspaper’s gated entry, she gave the guard a wave on the way to her regular spot, then took a deep breath as she stepped from the car. The sky was a careless blue, too warm to be dead winter, though lacking the ripeness of full spring. Cool and dry, but still as parched and unsatisfying as a broken sauna.

Heading to the giant brick building’s side entrance, Kit gave thanks that she was still around to see it. Too late, she caught Grif’s frown, and gave him an apologetic smile. “I’m not really in the habit of waiting for others.”

And she led him into the printing rooms where the giant machines were heated but silent. She loved the sound of production and the scent of ink, and inhaled deeply, thankful again that she was here today. Looking around, she thought about all of this going away, of the Internet turning the traditional press into an archaic technology. It was enough to make her wish she was a Luddite. Unfortunately, she depended too much on the exact same technology to do her job. Lose her smart phone and she might as well lose her soul.

Kit punched the call button on the elevator, saw the cab was stuck somewhere near the seventh floor, and headed instead for the stairs. It was only three flights up. She had a body. It worked. So she would climb.

They emerged from the stairwell directly into the press room, Grif huffing behind her.

“Does every damned thing in this place have to make noise?” Grif mumbled as they wound their way through tottering cubicles.

“Never thought much about it before,” Kit said, though he was right; phones rang, computers beeped, Internet radio streamed from multiple sources, and a bank of televisions stared down at “reporters’ row” like a general looming over his troops. She shrugged out of her dress jacket, careful not to bend the scalloped collar as she hung it on the vintage coat rack just inside her office. Whirling without stopping, she jerked her head at Grif. “My aunt has the motherboard in her office.”

She waved at the few reporters-Chuck in sports and Sarah in editorial-who were in this early on a Saturday, but kept a brisk pace as she headed toward Marin’s office. When she got there, she pulled up short. “You’re here.”

“Never left,” replied Marin, eyes glued to her computer screen. “And before you start nagging me, I took my pills, had a sandwich delivered, and catnapped on the floor. Who’s that?”

“Griffin Shaw.” Kit shot Grif an apologetic look and said, “He saved my life.”

Marin’s head shot up at that.

“And before you start nagging me, look at this.” She tossed her notebook in front of Marin, who immediately flipped to the last page. Her aunt might be controlling and stubborn, but she knew what to focus on, and when, and immediately zeroed in on the circled name.

“Same list I’ve been working on all night… though I haven’t looked up that one.”

“Who’ve you vetted?”

Tossing the notebook down, her aunt leaned back in her leather chair. “Mark Morrison, the D.A. who thinks you should vote for him just because he doesn’t wear high heels. Saul Turrets, the up-and- coming Republican who shot himself in the foot by supporting green causes. Caleb Chambers, poster boy for Mormons ’R’ Us aka ‘We’re just like you… but with five brides to each brother.’ ”

“Be fair. Chambers only has one wife.”

“That we know of.”

Kit shook her head. That was Marin. Always caustic. Always suspicious.

“He’s alibied anyway,” Kit said. “Paul was at his fund-raiser that night.”

“Another one?” Marin rolled her eyes. “Sonja doesn’t even note them in the social blotter anymore.”

“Dozens of parties a year, yet everyone still wants to go,” Kit pointed out, then looked at her vibrating phone. “Speak of the devil…”

“Who, Chambers?” Marin sat a bit straighter. Sure, she’d take shots at the man, but he was a local shot- maker.

“No. Paul.”