The Taken

a distinct lack of respect for women. Not a great attribute in someone who holds authority over a bunch of female minors the system doesn’t know how to help and barely wants to acknowledge.”

“Think he’s abusing that authority?”

“I’d bet the paper on it.”

Kit’s adrenaline kicked in again. With fear, yes. But there was also fury building inside of her. This man had killed Nic. She knew it. But he also abused his power over kids who were already hurting and lost and vulnerable. She knew that, too. And now he was after her.

And Kit was going to prove it all.

“So what do you have that I can follow?”

“Bridget Moore. She’s twenty-seven years old, but was only nineteen the first time Schmidt busted her. She’s been through the system four times since then, the last just eighteen months ago, again by Schmidt.”

“Bookended her career?”

“Probably scared her straight.”

He’d scare me, Kit thought, remembering the way he’d barreled her way. For comfort, she looked over at Grif. He glowered at her. Comforted, she smiled.

“Wanna take a guess as to where her last bust went down?”

“The Wayfarer Motel,” Kit said, already connecting the dots. Same place Nic had died. “I’m on her.”

“Contact info is in a separate file, also in your inbox.”

“Think Moore knows who’s pulling Schmidt’s strings?”

“If she does, she’s keeping her mouth shut, but she’s been on the streets a long time. Working girls talk to each other. It keeps them alive. Just don’t give away that you’re sniffing around Schmidt in advance. Instinct tells me that would have her rabbiting before you can look her in the eye.”

I’m surprised she hasn’t already, Kit thought, and she got an unbidden flash-the memory of his fist flying her way in the dark. The hard fingers pawing at her robe and skin before that. And Grif intercepting it all.

“Is Bogart still with you?” asked Marin, reading her mind.

“Yes.”

“Let me talk to him.”

Kit held out the phone to Grif, who eyed it warily, but eventually put it to his ear and grunted a few times before handing it back. “What’d she say?”

“Be careful.”

Kit lifted a brow. Marin had said more than that, but she could guess the rest. Shoving her hands into her pockets, she looked up at Grif. “I meant what I said before. Evie’s lucky to have someone like you fighting for her after all these years. All these girls out here…” She shook her head. “No one’s fighting for them.”

“You are.”

That almost brought a smile. “So are you.”

“I’m just working a case.”

“Don’t give me that, Griffin Shaw,” she said, jerking her head toward her car. “I’m on to you.”

He opened the passenger door. “Are you?”

“Yes. You’re cranky… but kinda sweet.”

He stopped dead and leveled her with a stare over the hood. “Like bitterroot.”

“You’re sweet,” Kit practically sang. She hopped in, and waited until he’d done the same to look over at him. “And I bet you already have a plan for trapping Schmidt.”

“Sure.” He ignored the seat belt.

“See.” She turned to him. “What is it?”

Grif smiled sweetly. “I’m going to use you as bait.”

Chapter Eleven

All Grif wanted was a drink. The headache that’d been dogging him was regaining force, despite the shut-eye he’d managed to squeeze in once he finally convinced Tony to let Kit into the fishbowl. Though that had been another headache altogether.

“C’mon, Tony. She won’t break nothing but your heart,” he said, edging in and putting out the dogs himself. Tony protested, and Kit took it as a compliment, both of which caused Grif to shake his head as he made for his room. The last thing he heard before slamming the bedroom door was her blue-jay voice asking her reluctant host for Internet access.

Of course, he knew why his headache wouldn’t abate. Ol’ Kitty-cat had gut-punched him with the news that he was the prime suspect in Evie’s death. As if anyone who knew him, or them, could think such a thing. At least now he knew why Tony initially asked if he was there to kill him, and why he seemed unsure of Grif still.

Five hours later, zipping down Charleston in Kit’s foreign tin can, Grif had figured a few other things out. Whoever had offed him in the bungalow all those years ago had immediately moved his body and set him up… though knowing that didn’t make it any more palatable. He was still dead. So was dear Evie. No wonder Grif’s soul couldn’t move on. No wonder his head pounded like the ocean crested inside of it.

It was only when Kit sighed next to him that he realized she’d silenced the car. Lifting his head, he caught her gazing at a pink neon sign, her face turned up so that her profile damn near glowed. His breath caught, and another pulsing began inside of him, this one lower.

I promise to protect you, he thought, as if speaking aloud. He watched her chest rise and fall with the breath she was entitled to because she was good and innocent and in his charge.

I won’t allow another woman to die because of me.

It was as if she heard him. Slowly, she turned her head, and the warmth in her eyes was like a spotlight, centered on thoughts so deep and feelings so acute that Grif could almost feel them.

“Frankie’s Tiki Room,” Kit said solemnly. “The only twenty-four-hour tiki bar in the country.”

Grif sighed.

“Nic’s favorite bar.”

Grif canvassed the parking lot for danger, though he relaxed his guard as soon as they entered the bar. The whole joint has been marinated in 120-proof rum.

Lighted blowfish and miniature tiki huts were pinned to a ceiling covered in fishing nets, with a poker-playing tiki god positioned dead-center of the entrance. The bar was directly across from that, wall-to-wall bottles broken up only by a screen at either end, currently showing what looked like old black-and-white Hawaiian porn. To get there, though, you had to cross an expanse of walls made of woven grass mats, bamboo spears, and carved tiki masks. The ceiling was black lava. The music was James Bond.

This was where they were going to celebrate a dead girl’s life?

“Kitty!” A high-pitched voice reached out from the crowded room to grab Kit’s attention. She waved back, and set off in that direction. Edging cautiously around the tiki god, Grif shot the statue and its base of faux flame an uncertain look, and followed Kit to the bamboo bar. Waiting for him was a coterie of women so brightly dressed and painted that they looked like exotic birds tucked into the tropical environment. Grif had to clench his teeth against the racket of their chirping voices until the greetings were over.

“Girls,” Kit said, when the ruckus had died down. “This is Griffin Shaw. Grif, this is Fleur Fontaine, Lil DeVille, Merrily Monroe, and the knocked-up one is Charis.”

Charis gave a little wave, then pointed at a car seat next to her. “This one is mine, too. But I figured out how it’s done now, so there won’t be a third.”

Kit put her arm around Charis’s shoulders and squeezed encouragingly, then turned to Grif. “Along with Nicole Nouveau-whom you knew as Nicole Rockwell-we are the Pretty Kitty Posse.”

The five women beamed. The miniature one in the safety seat-outfitted in a black dress dotted with white skulls-gurgled. Grif frowned. “Don’t any of you have normal names?”

“Just Kit-Kat,” said Lil, flicking a hand Kit’s way before straightening the collar on her blue-and-white sailor’s dress.

“Only because I have to play it straight for the byline,” Kit said, wrinkling her nose like that was a bad thing. It