Smokescreen Read online

  She bet he had the camera again.

  “Ladies,” she murmured, excusing herself. “I think I see a live one.”

  They might have contested her claim—traffic had been light this evening—but she was already sauntering down the cracked sidewalk, expertly avoiding the rough spots in footwear that appeared to include three-inch heels but in truth consisted of worn running shoes.

  He greeted her with resignation, tucking the camera into the roomy, sagging pockets of the sweatshirt.

  “Why, honey,” she said, stopping to cock one hip and rest her hand on it. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you weren’t glad to see me.”

  “Sorry.” He shrugged. “I’m busy.”

  She made a show of looking up and down the street, and then up and down his body. “You don’t look busy.” Another slow assessment, this time obviously tipping her head to get a better look at his behind. “You look like fun.”

  He hesitated—and just like the evening before, he narrowed his eyes slightly, taking the moment to look at her, really look at her. She astonished herself by blushing, relieved that he wouldn’t see it. And she tipped her head to put her eyes in deeper night shadow, all too aware that they were the one thing she’d never been able to change. Her eyes were always Sam’s eyes, honey-brown and dark-lashed. Not waiting for his response, she lowered her voice. “If you’re not buying, bud, best you move on. My man is in that house,” she nodded at the refuge, “and if he sees you out here with that camera, he’ll bust it—and then he’ll bust your ass.”

  “So I’ve been told.” He didn’t look like he doubted her. He looked as though it didn’t matter enough to deter him from finding the one he’d lost. His attention went inward…it went sad. Thinking of her. Ex-girl-friend, ex-wife? Odd. Usually the look was anger. Frustration. Not sadness.

  Sam reminded herself that someone had run from this man, or he wouldn’t be looking. “You’ve got a bad case of not listening.”

  “Yes.” His gaze sharpened, returned to her. That same dark gray…giving her that same certainty from the night before, that he could see right through her to Sam I Am. But she held fast against the suddenly rapid beating of her heart, and released her breath in surreptitious relief when he gave an abrupt shake of his head. “No, I guess I don’t.”

  “You better,” she advised him. A battered van turned onto the street…the refuge vehicle, an old plumber’s van with the fading logo still splashed across the sides and a convenient paucity of windows. She circled him, pulling out the stops on her strutty walk, tossing back her hair…and coming to a stop in just the right spot to block his view of the van when it stopped. “You really better.”

  Gently but firmly, he put his hands on her shoulders and moved her aside. “I’ve got someone I need to talk to—”

  “You don’t belong here!” She put herself right back in his path and went so far as to shove his chest. Hard muscle under that sweatshirt; she’d have to hustle in an entirely different way if he got rough with her—and she fully expected that he was capable and inclined.

  “Easy.” He backed off with his hands raised in placation, contrasting with the annoyance on his face. “This is none of your—”

  She heard the van door opening. Knew a shrouded woman would be headed for the house, under escort by the Captain.

  She shoved him again.

  “Hey!” He spoke more sharply this time—and this time she figured she’d see his temper; she braced herself.

  Angry voices rang out from across the street. From the very whorehouse with which she’d been threatening him, except that neither of them needed that confrontation—not when she wasn’t really one of the house girls, and yet she was here working house turf. He jerked in response, as quick as Sam to see the figure emerging from the whorehouse. When he reached for her she felt a flash of irritation—now she was going to have to deal with both of them—but something in his face made her hesitate to reach for the pepper spray waiting in her outlandishly pink little purse, and this time when he put his hands on her shoulders, he moved her aside just enough so the next step put him directly between Sam and the approaching threat.

  Chivalry. Imagine that. Totally unexpected from any man who’d driven a woman underground, but chivalry nonetheless.

  Totally in her way.

  “Go.” She dropped her voice low, injecting intensity and even a little pleading, and this time when she pushed him—from behind—it was more of a request. “Please. I can handle this. It’ll be easier for both of us.”

  His long, searching look made his reaction plain enough. And leave you here with him?

  “I can handle this—if you’re not here to piss him off. Don’t make it any harder.” He wouldn’t know she didn’t belong here—wouldn’t know she’d be in more trouble than he if they faced the man together. “Will you just get the hell out of here?”

  His expression changed, the meaning clear enough as he glanced at the van—at his chance to confront the Captain. I don’t want to, but I will. You owe me.

  Actually, she very much thought it was the other way around. But there would be no telling him such a thing. As he turned, jogging away at a pace that made his retreat perfectly clear to anyone watching, Sam discovered the house “agent” much closer than she realized, coming fast with long, powerful strides. The man in charge. He focused on her, his frowning anger making it perfectly clear he’d recognized her as an interloper.

  Sam muttered the baddest of words and managed to stay frozen on the spot like a rabbit in shock, drawing him in.

  “Who the hell—” he started, close enough to reach for her—and doing it.

  Sam darted around the thick elm on the sidewalk subway and went unseen as it stood between them in the darkness, running back up the sidewalk. Fifteen feet away from him she stopped short, standing silent, breathing shallowly in spite of the sudden burst of activity.

  He did what they always did. He stormed around the tree not once but twice. He searched up and down the street, muted fury hardening his already hard features and the mercury streetlight harsh against his anger-flushed skin. Sam outwaited him, knowing herself safe as long as she made no noise that might send him bumbling right into her. Inevitably, he cursed under his breath; just as inevitably, he shouted out threats. “Stay away from here! Unless you work under me, you don’t work here at all!”

  Sam knew well enough that he meant the statement literally.

  And, thinking of the look in her persistent interloper’s eyes as he made that forced, reluctant decision to retreat, she knew well enough he’d be back.

  There in the ragged light of the streetlamp, going unseen as the pimp stalked down the street to harass the hookers about bringing in more tricks, it took her a moment to realize she was smiling.

  He’d been chased off again, dammit. Different woman, same game. You don’t belong here.

  Of course, they’d both been right. He didn’t belong in that neighborhood—but he still intended to go back. He couldn’t—and wouldn’t—fake an attempt to blend in; he was who he was. But he understood the need for discretion. It was why he’d brought the camera—so he could take the pictures and run. It was why he’d left when he’d inevitably drawn attention.

  Though tonight…he wasn’t so sure he’d done the right thing. He shouldn’t have left the hooker to deal with her pimp, not even if she so emphatically thought it was best that way. And if he’d stayed, he might have been able to grab a moment with the woman who ran the underground—and to get the information he needed. Right now, she was his only chance. He’d have convinced her, whatever it took.

  But instead he’d walked away—no, run away—leaving the Captain, leaving the hooker to face her fate.

  But that didn’t mean he wasn’t going back.

  In fact, he’d only retreated so far as this little late-night diner, a charming place just the other side of whatever invisible line turned one neighborhood respectable and another not worthy of sidewalks. He’d gotten eno
ugh pictures so he didn’t mind the chance to look them over—time-stamped digital pictures to show him who spent time on the street, the ebb and flow of the activity in the houses…things he hadn’t had a chance to take in because he’d opted for snapping the pictures rather than lingering.

  No lingering because he’d never been good at playing games and taking on roles and telling little white lies. Jethro Sheridan was WYSIWYG…what you see is what you get. Generally, the WYSIWYG worked for him. People knew what to expect from him; they could depend on him.

  It had taken him far too long to learn that he couldn’t count on the same. When he assumed the truth from the people in his life, they didn’t have to work terribly hard to hide their lies. Mariska and her casual flings and her financial scheming…he’d been lucky he hadn’t lost the silkscreen shop, though he’d lost his heart and a certain amount of innocence. And now Lizbet…she’d lied to him. She’d run, leaving him behind.

  He wasn’t about to take it quietly. He’d find her, whatever it took. Starting with this refuge. And starting with these pictures.

  He propped the camera on the table beside his coffee—hot, black and straight, steaming hard enough to tickle his nose—and flicked on the display. In spite of adjustments for the low light, he expected the pictures to be dark; it was one reason he’d taken so many. But just maybe he’d gotten photos of someone who’d been hanging around both nights, someone he could question. That is, someone he could question without any ensuing mayhem. If he had to, he’d buy a hooker’s time. Maybe that woman from tonight. Skinny, drug-damaged…but quick enough of wit. Unlike his first informant, a mentally challenged young woman with a sweet and far-too-trusting nature. He’d found her hanging around outside a battered woman’s shelter, and a few moments of discussion revealed that she, too, had hidden in the underground. Except she’d gone in at the urging of friends who’d been too optimistic about her ability to adapt, and she’d soon found her way back to her comfort zone on the streets. But “I don’t see Bobby anymore,” she’d told him, very wisely. And then she’d been glad to talk about the Captain, who’d been so nice to her. What a nice lady. And did you know she was an ex-cop?

  He hadn’t. He hadn’t known much at all, except that Lizbet had gone to a shelter, and that before the night was over she’d disappeared. He’d gone for her right away, and he’d still been too late.

  And now…now he needed that someone to talk to next. He cycled quickly through the pictures, looking for the hooker—he’d become very good at taking waist-shot photos. He didn’t think she even suspected he’d gotten a picture of her, when in fact he had several.

  Except he didn’t.

  He cycled through the photos more carefully, picking out the houses, following his own recorded progress down the street. There, a spot between buildings across the street from the shelter—he thought he might be able to return and watch things from there, maybe even find another chance to talk to the Captain. There, the streetwalkers, gathered near the corner, the angle a little awkward from that distance—what Hollywood would call creative cinematography but was really only badly framed. There, hooker headquarters—“Holy prostitution!” Robin would say to Batman, profoundly contradictory as usual.

  And here. Right here, he should have pictures of the bony little hooker dressed in skin and heels. Standing up to him, warning him off…getting in his way. So getting in his way. Keeping him from Lizbet.

  Instead he looked into the shadowed glare of an entirely different woman. Black turtleneck curving around a torso toned but not too thin. Jeans riding low on hips with the kind of flare that would catch his eye over and over again. Her feet weren’t in the picture but he would bet on something sensible, something very far from heels. Her shaggy hair caught the mercury streetlight in an inhuman color that spoke of copper coloring, and it tried to obscure a strongly heart-shaped face. A frowning face. The face of someone talking to Jethro.

  Except he hadn’t spoken to her. He hadn’t seen her. And it’s not as if he was trying to remember last year. This had happened within the hour.

  The next picture—there she was again. Turning to look across the street, the light catching her eye. They couldn’t be quite that color—not as they looked under the streetlight—but he’d bet they had the same odd sense of glow-from-within.

  “Holy who-the-hell-are-you?” he muttered at the camera image, staring at it a moment longer. He took a fortifying sip of surprisingly good coffee and set the mug back without looking. After a moment of frown, he cycled quickly through the rest of the night’s pictures. No sign of the hooker. But…didn’t that woman look familiar…?

  With deft movements, he pulled out the camera’s memory card and replaced it with the one he’d filled the previous evening. Again he followed his progress down the street—a shorter journey, photo-wise, because it’d been his first pass through and he’d been moving a little too fast, a little too worried about being spotted…knowing he stuck out like a sore thumb and didn’t have the nature to do otherwise. And at the end the attitudinal young woman had come gliding up on her skateboard to chase him off.

  The display on the back of his camera wasn’t huge. Generous, yes. Good enough, yes. But not huge. So he hesitated when he found the skateboarder, recognizing the clothes, the stance, the attitude. Not so sure of himself when he looked at the woman herself. Disbelieving what he thought he saw, wishing he had a better shot. Maybe when he got home, he could put it up on his computer and manipulate it in Photoshop.

  Because he thought it was the same woman. The same shaggy, coppery hair. The distinctive little notch in her chin. The same emphasis of expression. The light caught those same eyes, fired from within.

  But he distinctly remembered a nose ring. He remembered that the boarder had been young, still growing into herself and all soft around the edges. And the hooker—thin as a rail, bony and used up.

  This woman was neither. Vibrant and determined and self-confident as opposed to arrogant….

  Too bad she hadn’t actually ever been there.

  Digital cameras don’t lie, Jethro.

  Or so he’d believed. Now he wasn’t so certain. Nor could he imagine who would go to the trouble of deleting specific photos and replacing them with ringers. It seemed far too subtle for an underground organization, not to mention pointless.

  Unless the point was to convince Jethro he was crazy. Okay, that could work. He was already half-crazy with Lizbet’s disappearance.

  Crazy enough to go back there tonight and get another photo of that hooker. Crazy enough to hide out in that little niche revealed by his photos this evening. Just crazy enough to watch that street for another chance at the Captain—hookers, skateboarders and big angry pimps notwithstanding.

  Chapter 2

  Sam couldn’t believe her eyes. She, who spent all her time feeding illusion to the rest of the world, and secure in her quiet knowledge of what was and what wasn’t, stared at the dark figure crouched in the dirty little not-even-an-alley where half the street girls took their quickies and couldn’t believe what she saw.

  She tried closing her eyes, squinching them shut hard, and then looking again.

  Nope. He was still there. Persistent in his stupidity. She didn’t know whether to admire him or go give him a good kick. It was hard to think of him as someone who’d driven a woman into hiding, in spite of his current oblivious persistence. She kept remembering the way he’d put himself between her and the danger from the hookers’ “agent.” She’d just pushed him to the limit and she’d been expecting a blow, not a noble gesture. Contradictory, for sure.

  Oh. My. God. He couldn’t be leaving that scant safety for another less-than-stealthy approach of the house, could he? Not really. Sam closed her eyes, pinched the bridge of her nose, and muttered an especially foul string of words reserved for moments like this. Whatever his motivations, he risked the security of the underground railroad every time he drew attention to it.

  Which would be every time he showed h
is face.

  Oh, look. How inconspicuous was that, crouching at the back bumper of an old van? She frowned at the van a moment—it wasn’t one she’d recognized, and though she had the plate memorized to give to her P.I. boss if it became necessary, she already knew it didn’t belong here. The vehicles that parked here regularly, she knew. The ones she didn’t know—customers of this sort or that—never hung around long enough to become noteworthy.

  Please don’t tell me he’s going to take pictures from there.

  She should have let him get into trouble with the pimp earlier in the evening. They didn’t need him here, not when they had the infamous ex-husband spreading threats and intimidation so indiscriminately that he actually had a chance of locating the refuge. This man wasn’t the ex’s style in thugs, but he could still inadvertently put this place on Scalpucci’s radar.

  Oh, things just kept getting better. The Captain’s sturdy silhouette appeared in the first-floor window. She’d spotted the interloper. No doubt she’d seen him earlier, too—once the local pimp had joined in the party, no doubt everyone on the block had seen them. Any moment the Captain would be out to deal with Sam’s oblivious if chivalrous interloper, filling her own reputation as a bad-ass lady cop who’d retired young with the cloud of controversy over her head. Excessive force, intimidation, planting evidence…

  None of that was true, but it helped to set the scene. And it spoke of the woman’s dedication to her refuge. Sam’s interloper didn’t have a clue what would soon be headed his way. But it was Sam’s job to spare the Captain this kind of confrontation, especially when she already had her hands full. Sam’s job—her personal commitment—was to keep the impending moment from happening.

  Sam made herself unnoticed—an instant of concentration, a twinge of feeling from deep inside to tell her she’d done it right—and went to intervene. The Captain still lingered at the door and if Sam moved fast enough, she could head off the whole mess.