while watching the bar door to make sure Paul-or someone-didn’t return. She’d even caught him studying her face a couple of times, like she was some sort of riddle he was trying to figure out. When she asked him what he was thinking, though, he just shook his head and turned away.
She was getting to know him, Kit realized, as they set off from Tony’s to follow their sole lead. Grif only spoke when he had something definitive to say, then used as few words as possible to do so. She couldn’t say she liked his taciturn nature, but she appreciated his directness. It was much more refreshing than, say, the way Paul had once used countless words to camouflage his lies.
And, of course, the way Grif had watched after Charis’s baby had been sweet, talking with the little girl as if discussing something important. There was just something about big, gruff guys with tiny, vulnerable babies that was so life-affirming and reassuring. So she sighed, smiling slightly at the road as she drove, while Grif continued being a grump beside her.
“You always this happy when investigating murder?”
“I don’t always investigate murder,” she said, reason enough to be happy. Yet he wouldn’t want to hear that her mood also had to do with him. With all the questions still swirling around his sudden appearance in her life, even Kit wasn’t sure how she felt about it. But it didn’t stop her from being comforted by the very same.
“Bridget Moore,” Kit said, clearing her mind and pulling out her smart phone. “Her first arrest was for solicitation, at nineteen, almost a decade ago. She may have some underage arrests, but we’ll never know. Juvie files are sealed, but this one says she was born and raised in Vegas. No listing for a Bridget Moore that matches her age, though.”
“So she changed her name?”
Kit shrugged. “And opened the nail salon where we’re headed, a year ago. Incidentally, it was an all-cash purchase. Probably her savings.”
“Tired of running from Lance Schmidt?”
“Tired of trading her body for that money,” Kit guessed. “Else why not head out to Nye County to escape Schmidt’s reach and work her trade legally?”
Grif jerked his head. “The legal brothels won’t take you if they know you’ve been working the street. She’s got a record. Does she have a boyfriend? Husband?”
“Unknown on the first. Nothing recorded on the second.”
Grif made a noise in the back of his throat. “So maybe she found one and he wanted her straight.”
“Or she wanted to be straight for him.” Kit sighed. “Wouldn’t that be nice?”
Grif huffed again, disbelief evident in the sound, his slump, his lidded gaze.
“Everyone deserves a fresh start,” Kit said, answering his unspoken skepticism.
“I don’t think it works that way, Kit.”
And he looked so sad when he said it that Kit almost ran a red light.
They drove the rest of the way in silence. It was ten in the morning, and the streets were steady with local traffic, the tourists confined to the Strip and the airport and the downtown buffets as if held there by an invisible lasso. The street where Moore’s shop was located held only a sprinkling of pedestrians, and a roofed bus stop where a man was currently having a conversation with a pigeon. Grif eyed them both warily as Kit pulled into the lot. One car, a late-model Toyota, sat alone.
“Staying or coming?” she asked, turning off the car as Grif continued to stare at the man at the bus stop.
“Coming.” Yet even before the sole woman inside caught sight of Grif, her glance toward the door was wary. She’d been disinfecting tools, drying them and laying them neatly across a folded towel on the counter. She was dressed in tight jeans and a UNLV sweatshirt, but even its size couldn’t disguise a bosom that’d probably paid dividends in her previous profession.
Kit’s gaze skittered over the bleached hair and dark roots. What a shame. Kit could’ve told her that red lips and dark brows covered a multitude of sins. Then she chided herself. Shadows lay like tiny horseshoes beneath the woman’s eyes, and her shoulders were already slumped. Though Kit and she were near the same age, this woman clearly had worries that went beyond the cosmetic.
“Bridget Moore?” Kit asked.
“Appointment only,” the woman said in a heavy smoker’s voice. But Kit had seen the welcome for walk-ins printed on the door.
“We’re looking for Ms. Bridget Moore. Is that you?”
“Let me clarify.
“I’m happy to make one, but I was hoping just to talk. My name is Kit Craig.”
Moore cocked a hand on her hip. “I know who you are.”
“How?” Grif interrupted.
Bridget’s wariness turned to contempt as her gaze landed on Grif. “I read her paper.”
Kit shot Grif a warning look. Angering a source was no way to advance a case, and as a prostitute, Moore likely had less respect for men-and reporters-than the average
Kit took a step forward, regaining Moore’s attention. “So you know why I’m here?”
Bridget considered her for a long moment before looking away. “No.”
“My colleague, Nicole Rockwell-” Kit shook her head. “My best friend was murdered three nights ago. She was meeting with someone at the Wayfarer Motel.”
Bridget just stared.
“I was hoping you could tell me a little about the place. The way it works. The girls. The clients.”
“I don’t hang out at the Wayfarer.”
Grif rejoined Kit’s side. “But you did a year ago.”
“That’s in the past.” She jerked her head to the door. “And I want to keep it that way. Understand?”
Angling herself so she was blocking Bridget’s view of Grif, Kit pulled the list from her handbag. “Bridget, please. I have a list of names here. Most of them are local businessmen, politicians with good reason not to be linked to the Wayfarer-”
“So don’t link ’em.”
“If you could look-”
But she cut Kit off with a brisk shake of her head. “I don’t exactly run with the political crowd.”
“Well, could you tell me if you’ve ever seen any of the men listed here at the Wayfarer?”
“No.”
And that, Kit thought with narrowed eye, was one of her least favorite words. Inhaling deeply, she made a show of looking around, crossing to run a finger over one of the nail stations. “Nice place you have here.”
“It’s a business,” Bridget retorted, not about to be appeased. She cast a snarling look at Grif. “A
Kit smiled. “Clearly. And I could really use a manicure.”
“Really?” Bridget asked, crossing her arms.
“What?” Grif asked, crossing his.
“I have a Valentine’s Day fund-raiser to attend this weekend. Oh, and the most gorgeous vintage cupcake dress. Red crinoline beneath gold satin. Bought it at an estate sale for twenty dollars, an original Suzy Perette. The woman had no idea what a find it was.”
Both Grif and Bridget stared.
“Candy-apple-red fingernails would compliment it perfectly.”
“Can I talk to you,” Grif said, pulling her toward the door. With his back to Bridget, he whispered, “What are you doing?”
“Being charming. You might try it sometime.”
“You’re getting your nails done.”
“That, too.”
“I don’t get you! You’re this hotshot reporter but you’re willing to stop the presses just to pretty-up? After you already stopped the investigation to do your hair?”
Kit tilted her head. “You really think I’m a hotshot?”
“Kit!” Lifting his hat, Grif raked a hand through his hair. “What about saving the world?”
“Oh, Grif.” Kit blew out a breath. “Can’t you see you’re scaring her?”
