That line, so old and hackneyed, had me snorting into my ice water. “Yeah, you’re a real beast, Skoczinsky. A walking cologne commercial, tackled by women wherever your ass goes.”
“The day I see you wearing something you didn’t buy at Wal-Mart . . . then you can mock me. You couldn’t pay a woman to screw you, much less get her to give it up for free,” he shot back the barb with the good-naturedness I’d gotten used to from him. Switching to a much soberer mode, he massaged the back of his neck and straightened in his chair. “We’d better get down to business, Stefan.” That was my cue. I slid an envelope plump with cash across the table and watched it disappear like a rabbit in a hat. But while the payment-up-front process was familiar, Saul calling me by my real name was not. As his work was only slightly more legal than mine, he gave his clients nicknames. That meant if he was in public with them or someone of a federal nature was listening in, the client’s identity was protected.
He usually called me Smirnoff. Russian vodka. Big leap, but I didn’t care. With Saul’s lethal verbal jabs, I was only grateful he hadn’t gone with Rasputin. The most infamous death in history: poisoned, shot, beaten, stabbed, his dick cut off, and then what was left of him heaved into an icy Russian river. Good luck couldn’t go with a nickname like that, and I needed all the luck I could get.
“Give,” I said impassively.
Saul and I weren’t friends. I wasn’t sure either of us was equipped emotionally in that department, but we did have a mutual respect for each other. It tended to be oiled by my money and his skill, but it was there regardless. In the past it had him making a gruff attempt to ease the blow when he came up empty. This time he didn’t make an effort. This time, for the very first time, he didn’t have to.
“Don’t get your hopes up.” The hazel eyes were grim, but the finger he tapped repeatedly against the table gave away his excitement. “But I think I might have found something.”
Under the right circumstances a moment can last forever. This was that moment. There was an eternity of clinking glasses, midday chatter, and the soft strumming of a sidewalk musician lounging against the patio rail. I was a fly stuck in an empanada-and-paella-scented amber. Not twelve hours ago I’d seen death come and go, barely missing me in the process. It had been more than a hiccup in my routine; I had the bloodshot eyes to prove it. But this . . . This staggered me. This rocked me at every level in a way nothing else could.
“What?” The word fell between us, hoarse and choked. Clearing my throat, I went on flatly. “What did you find?”
Did you ever hope for something so fiercely, with such devotion, that when you closed your eyes you could all but feel it in the palm of your hand? I never had. That was the kind of faith usually only children possessed. I’d lost my childhood the second I’d lost Lukas. And it had been me—only me. Losing my brother had been a responsibility I’d never shirked, not even to myself. So, as a sinner did penance, I looked for him; I always would.
But not for one moment did I imagine I would find him.
Searching for Lukas had kept my mind occupied. It kept me from thinking of things that couldn’t be changed, past and present. Now my excuse might disappear. It had my fingers tightening on the water glass, the rough cut-diamond pattern pressing into my flesh. Hope was a four-letter word all right; the most profane I’d ever heard.
I’m not sure what it was that Saul caught a glimpse of in my eyes, but he seemed relieved that our food arrived so promptly. Sizzling portobello mushroom fajitas were slid in front of him, and I didn’t have a clue as to what I was given. I didn’t remember what I’d ordered, and I didn’t bother to look. “Tell me. What did you find?” I repeated.
Saul picked up a fork and speared a mushroom. “Fungus o’ the day as ordered,” he said with a faint grin as he began to assemble his fajita. Taking a bite, he chewed, then swallowed before exhaling. “Okay, this is the drill. Since you hired me three years ago, I’ve done a bit of subcontracting in addition to my own investigating. It wasn’t much, but I paid some people to keep an eye out for a teenager who matches your brother’s description. I plugged his picture into my own age progression program. It beats the feds’ any day of the week. Pumped out some prints and gave the info to the guys. Normally I wouldn’t have bothered going that route on a case as old as this one. Spotting a kid after ten years, it just ain’t gonna happen. But Lukas with his different-colored eyes could be the exception to that rule. So I said what the hell.”
“Who are these people? The ones who look?”
“Could be anybody.” He shrugged. “Anybody I find reliable. Best ones are women who work in the mall. They have the eyes of eagles and the boredom of the ages driving them. The second best are people working at the schools or hospitals. Most kids go through there one way or the other when it comes to my business.” He didn’t have to elaborate; I understood all too clearly the hospital reference. Tilting his head slightly, he said honestly, “It was a long shot, Smirnoff, you know? I had no idea it might turn anything up. Chances are if Lukas is still alive, he’d be far from his original abduction site.” He drained his glass, eyes gleaming with the thrill of the chase. “One big-ass long shot that just might have paid off.”
I liked Skoczinsky well enough, I did. I didn’t have any particular urge to do the man harm . . . not until now. Right then I could’ve cheerfully pounded his head to a bloody pulp against the table without an ounce of remorse. Narrowing my eyes silently, I waited. It was something I was good at by now. The poker face I wore came with long years of practice, but card games had little to do with it.
Regardless, Saul seemed to take the hint. Uneasily, he shifted a bit in the chair. “One of the girls in the International Mall spotted someone yesterday who looked like the picture—not exactly, but close enough. One green eye, one blue. Hair was brown, not blond, but that wouldn’t be unusual. A lot of blonds get darker hair as they age. Kid looked about sixteen or seventeen, as Lukas would be. Paloma’s young, nineteen, but smarter than most anyone has a right to be. I trust in her. If she says he matched our specs, then he did.”
I was stunned, literally. A hammer slamming between my eyes wouldn’t have produced a much different reaction. A mall—he’d been in a mall. How could that be? It was as if the Holy Grail had shown up in a crane-operated arcade machine, surrounded by stuffed animals with the mechanical claw poised right above it. I simply couldn’t wrap my mind around it.
“In fact,” he continued, “I trust her enough to have followed him. She called me and I was there in fifteen. I picked them up before they hit the parking lot.”
“Them?” I was surprised my vocal cords were still working. For that matter I was surprised any of me was still working.
“It looked like he was on some sort of field trip.” He frowned, striking his fork lightly against the edge of his plate. “Some sort.” I could tell something had puzzled him as he’d watched the group. Before I could ask what, he elaborated. “There were fifteen of them—quiet, well behaved. Weirdly so. Not at all like normal kids turned loose in a mall. I thought private school maybe, something parochial with those ruler-wielding nuns.” Shaking his head, he instantly refuted his own theory. “But that wasn’t it. Their teachers weren’t nuns, that’s for damn sure. Not unless they were drill sergeants on their days off. These guys looked like guards. Yeah, sure, they were wearing typical teacher crap. Polyester blazers, cheap button downs, bad shoes. But it was just a look. Whatever link they have to the educational system is damn slim at best. Most of them looked like you.” He grimaced and added, “Sorry, minus the polyester of course.”
“Thugs, in other words.” With a shrug, I cut off whatever else he was going to say. That was just Saul, thinking the fashion commentary was more of an insult than comparing me to a chainik, a professional bully. I knew what I was. It would be rather futile to get pissed off when someone pointed it out. Plus, Saul was more than on the shady side himself when it came to “physical persuasion.” He simply concealed his a little better than I did. Maybe it was all about fashion sense. “Where’d they go?”