Savage Nights Read online

  "Okay, I agree. But you withheld that!" Colgrave had turned cold. Whatever inroads Brant had made due to the animosity Zimmerman apparently felt for them had suddenly closed.

  "All right, guilty. I should have mentioned it immediately. Really, it's why we're here. But I didn't expect Zimmerman to be such an asshole, and I needed to see if you were cut from the same cloth."

  "So now you think I'm not? What's to keep me from tossing you into a cell for obstructing?"

  Brant smiled. "I haven't obstructed anything. Yet. No crime, remember." His bitterness was tangible.

  "Yeah, okay." Colgrave sighed again. "If you give me the gun, it might have prints."

  "Sure, I thought of that. But they'll be smudged. We fought for the gun, and then I held it." He let that sit for a second. "Maybe the rounds can be dusted." She nodded. "But I wasn't gonna carry the damn thing into a cop-shop. How was I supposed to know whether there'd be a metal detector?"

  "There is," she said, smiling tightly. "You just didn't see it. We'd have had your ass in a cell real fast if you'd tried it."

  "Okay, send somebody down to the car with me to get it. Then I'm taking Ralph home and I have some inquiries to make."

  "This is now police business, Mr. Brant. You have to stay out of it." She had Zimmerman's phone in her hand. "Right?"

  "Oh, yeah," he said, as she asked for a uniform to escort them out.

  He took one last look at her while she spoke into the receiver. "Talk to you later, Colgrave."

  She covered the phone with a shapely hand. "Later, Brant."

  Her lips curled into another smile.

  At least she could smile.

  SIX

  After dropping off Ralph at his rathole apartment, Brant felt the usual gnawing hunger that followed a sleepless night. This particular sleepless night had become one of those he would carry forever stitched into his nightmare memories. His brain had begun to feel like a mound of cotton, his thoughts like dangling fibers.

  Damn it, Kit's in trouble and all I can do is watch myself turn into my brother.

  The thought did not make his stomach feel better. He aimed his car for one of the several south-side, Albanian-owned diners he frequented. Fifteen minutes later, he was its only customer. An old Army joke said you should eat when you could, because you never knew when you might be able to eat again. The tea was hot and strong, Sheila the waitress flirted with him as usual, as much as one could after a long graveyard shift — even patting her hair a little to appear less haggard — and the three eggs over-medium, American fries and sausage on the side, and buttered English muffin stuck to his ribs well enough to obliterate part of the gnawing.

  The physical part, at least.

  What now? Whose door to approach next?

  There would be no ransom demands. The thought played on Repeat through his mind.

  Brant shoveled the food, further depressed by the diner's limp Christmas decorations and the several obviously stressed truckers and lonely night people who joined him for slow-motion breakfast.

  His mind raced as he chewed. Kit's situation, whatever it was, could only deteriorate. If he'd been watching it progress on news reports, he knew damn well he would already have drawn the conclusion that she was dead, raped and killed by some freak and dumped (perhaps dismembered) into a Dumpster. He remembered one such case only a couple years before. Jealous, lusting neighbor. Innocent young woman. A romantic approach gone horribly wrong, a rape, a murder, desperate attempt to cover up the crime, sensational television and newspaper coverage. A black hole for the families involved, one they could never resolve, or fill back up with pleasant, happy memories.

  No ransom demands.

  What did it mean?

  By the time he was done eating, the food had soured in his belly. He felt the familiar twitch in his chest and wondered how long — how long before he learned what was behind it. Indigestion, reflux, heart attack? He smiled at the waitress, left too big a tip, and walked out to the rapidly filling lot and pulled his coat tighter against the sudden chill.

  In his car, he drove aimlessly, mulling his options. Some thoughts of which he wasn't particularly fond had begun to swirl in his addled mind.

  He needed time, time to think and plan, but how much time did he have? Kit's time was running out. Was it too late?

  No.

  He felt the certainty, just as he had felt a connection with Kit earlier, back in her apartment. He wasn't sure what the connection was or how accurate, or even whether he was projecting his desire to connect with her and making the thoughts fit his wishes...

  Brant banged the steering wheel, as if it could help.

  It didn't.

  A muffled buzzing from inside his jacket startled him.

  He plucked out his ringing cell. He hated the blasted things, but they were helpful. If only he could figure out what most people talked about while spending half their day grafted to their phones. "Yeah?"

  "Colgrave, Brant. Just wanted you to know I went over there and tried to interview this Irina chick of yours, but I guess I missed her. Early riser. Her neighbor said she'd be at school all day. Final exams and some sort of campus job. I'll check on her later, okay?"

  "You're taking this seriously, right?"

  "To be honest, Zim's skeptical. You're not one of his favorite people. Or favorite families, even, after he met your brother."

  "Yeah, well, Zimmerman's no great example of a human himself."

  "There we agree," she said. "I'm waiting on a lab report on the Glock, but I'm not hopeful. The exterior is smudged, and the rounds look wiped." She sighed. "Look, I'm heading over to canvass the mall and I've got a couple uniforms to help. It's the last rush to Christmas, so they're opening early today. Talk to you later. Don't do anything to make this uglier. I have a terrible feeling it's about to get messy. I just hope your niece isn't in ... the worst kind of trouble."

  "Yeah," he said, but she had already clicked off.

  His decision was made for him, just that simple.

  Almost before he'd even thought about it, he swung over onto Prospect, a busy East-side thoroughfare lined with expensive apartments, high-rise condominiums, and remodeled turn of the century mansions, and headed for the girls' apartment. Again.

  Minutes later he stood knocking on Kit and Irina's door. The lobby door had stood ajar again. No sounds in the hall or from within. After a quick glance around, he pulled a thin leather case from his hip pocket and set to work. A minute and ten seconds later he heard the tell-tale snap-click of the cylinders and pushed his way in.

  He closed the Eye of Horus door and stood silently, ears attuned to each sound. He heard the ping of water in the old-fashioned coiled heaters, he heard steps on the ceiling from the floor above. A steady drip came from the kitchen faucet. But otherwise the apartment was still.

  Brant followed his instincts.

  Irina had not wanted him near her room, therefore her room was first.

  The cheap mauve and violet Nagel prints vied for pink wall space with several Monet and Van Gogh art museum posters. Wasting no time, he checked her desk, where several computer disk and CD files were full to bursting. The PC itself was powered on but dark — he flicked the space bar and the desktop appeared with several blank windows. From what he could gather, she was running some kind of webcam software. The webcam itself stood atop the CPU tower, aimed into the center of the room rather than at the chair. Brant checked a drawer underneath and found two digital still cameras packed nicely as if for extended storage. Below that, a fairly new Sony compact digital videocam rested beside a long row of mini-DV tapes, all unmarked. He closed the drawer.

  Brant turned toward the bed. It was king-size and made up to military specs, its corners creased. One nightstand held only a lamp and an incense burner. The other nightstand, however, made him pause. The top drawer held a selection of a half-dozen dildos of varying size and color, lined up like weapons in an armory. A box of batteries sat hidden behind them. No chance of runnin
g out of juice in the heat of the moment. The rubber and plastic phalluses, some realistic and others stylized, gleamed as if ready for action. Irina was a beautiful young woman — why wouldn't she be fully aware of her sexuality? Would he find the same selection in Kit's room? Brant wasn't sure where to let his thoughts lead, so he closed the drawer carefully and checked through the rest of Irina's things. Frilly lingerie and sexy evening wear dominated her closet and bureau. There were practical clothes, too, but not as many. A bureau top full of cosmetics rounded out his picture of a young manhunter, the diametrical opposite of his niece.

  How did the two get along?

  For that matter, did they get along?

  If Irina had a Day Planner or PDA, it was with her. Ditto an old-fashioned address book. He wouldn't mess with her computer, as it would be too easy to spot.

  He slid open drawers throughout the flat and found little clutter. What clutter he saw, he immediately assigned to Kit. It was almost as if Irina's presence here was gossamer and lace, somehow intangible. Her sexuality seemed about to overwhelm the apartment's atmosphere, but hardly anything else made any impact. The movies on the DVD rack bore the stamp of Kit's tastes: Harold and Maude, The Graduate, The Wild Bunch, a Spaghetti Western multi-pack, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, some classic Cold War era thrillers. Heavy leanings into films of the 1970s, more than half counter-culture or subversive in nature. The Candidate, The Getaway, Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia. Not typical picks for a teenage girl.

  Kit was no typical teenager. A wave of almost fatherly fear washed over Brant. He'd introduced most of these to her, and she'd gone out and bought them. She was the daughter he'd never had.

  The sudden thought of losing her — having lost her — brought on a kind of mental and emotional paralysis.

  Brant looked at his watch. He was surprised to see he'd been in the apartment almost two hours. Time had changed its boundaries, becoming elastic in both directions. It seemed only minutes ago he had heard about Kit's disappearance, and now it was almost a half day later and nothing had substantially changed. He poked around some more, in the hall closet and pantry and in the spare bedroom. One or both of the girls had outfitted the smaller room with a recumbent bike, a high-tech treadmill, and a shiny rowing machine. Had to have been Irina, considering her figure, as Kit was naturally lanky but tended to scoff at those self-involved tanning and exercise obsessed. Which put her at odds with most of her peers — and she knew it. Brant headed for the door and was about to turn off the light when something in the corner caught his attention. Almost hidden behind the treadmill, threads of hanging silver and black were enough out of place to bear a second look. Up close it was a chain and pulley arrangement screwed into a ceiling joist. A cluster of five thin chains held a flaccid leather and vinyl sling shaped like a flexible child's swing with added arm and leg Velcro bands. It didn't take much imagination to picture its use. He flicked off the light and closed the door.

  He surveyed the rooms one last time, trying to draw conclusions. A major difference between Kit and Irina was that Kit's things displayed sentimental urges despite her outward cynicism. She nested amongst toys and stuffed animals and knickknacks she'd received from her uncle Rich and, to a lesser extent, from other relatives including her father. They cocooned her corner of the world — on a shelf here, on her desk, on a shelf there — as an indication of her origins, her roots. Snapshots printed off her digital camera littered her bureau mirror and the small cork tackboard taped over her desk — happy teenagers she knew and loved, friends (a couple of them candidates for subversive communist/socialist groups, to be sure, or retro-beatniks — that was Kit all the way, as counter-culture as a normal-looking kid could get who had been raised in the 21st Century), and one of her uncle. He stared at it intensely. Irina, on the other hand, had no such collection in evidence. She had accumulated framed prints and clothing, techno-gadgets and school supplies, but showed not a single indication of where she came from. Maybe a tough childhood in a foreign country, maybe a parentless home, maybe a turbulent environment. No personal touches anywhere, except the highly personal gadgets hidden in her nightstand drawer.

  Brant left the apartment, locking the door and standing in the hallway, listening.

  Down below, the main door opened with a crash and quick, angry steps made a beeline up the staircase.

  He knew it was Irina. Maybe the musk preceded her. Maybe it was the irritated sound of her footsteps. Maybe both.

  Someone had rattled her cage, and he hoped he'd been the one. There was something screwy in the way she had handled Kit's disappearance. The wait, then the call to Ralph, then lying about calling the police, and then not allowing Brant run of the house. Now he knew why she didn't want him snooping in her room or even the workout room, but there was more. The armed goon. She was part of it, up to her lovely neck.

  But Brant had no idea what it was. And he wasn't sure he could get it out of her without affecting Kit, if she had been kidnapped.

  Kidnapping didn't seem likely. No demands had been made, and Ralph had no money he could tap into. Brant flashed on an image of Kit, murdered. A cover-up then. But he knew, again just knew, that Kit was alive. Somehow, Kit was telling him she was. If only he could get her to tell him where she was.

  He leaned on the railing and waited for Irina.

  There was nowhere else to go — this was the highest floor, and he didn't want her to know he had broken into her place.

  Their place. Kit was still alive.

  She had to be.

  As Irina's head appeared at the midway landing, he shuffled his feet and intentionally made the floorboards creak. Her head snapped upwards, a look of fear etched momentarily on her model's features. When her eyes focused and recognized Brant, the look turned to one of anger and disgust.

  "Nice to see you, too," he muttered.

  She'd probably seen Colgrave's people or heard the cops were looking for her and blamed him and Ralph. Maybe Sergeant Colgrave herself had already found her and read her the riot act for keeping quiet about the snatch, if that was what it was. At this point, Irina was the only one in a position to say what it was, and she obviously wanted to be coy. But that wouldn't work with Colgrave and Zimmerman for long.

  "What do you want?" She halted midway up the last flight.

  He looked down at her from his perch. In the dim light, she was still beautiful — flawless, really — but appeared much older and not childlike at all. Not that she ever had, but he had automatically categorized her as Kit's equal in age and experience. Now he could see that something had scarred her, something in her life haunted her, and he wondered if what had happened to Kit reminded her of herself, of if she'd somehow caused it, or if she simply blamed herself for it.

  Irina looked from him to the portion of the door she could see from the stairs, and back. Measuring the possibility he had been inside. He could sense her thoughts, or he thought he could, and he wondered what she was hiding — other than her proclivity for sex.

  "Make yourself at home," she said. Sarcasm edged her accent.

  "I couldn't, but I can now. I just need to ask you some questions."

  "You're not a police! They have just spent an hour asking me questions, interrupting my final exam and embarrassing me in front of fifty people who already think they are better than me. What do you want?"

  He grinned. Sergeant Colgrave didn't mess around. He'd sensed that about her.

  "Look, you were the one there when Kit disappeared. I don't think she just decided to run away. Can I come in and talk about it?"

  She stared at him, then tossed her hair and started to climb the rest of the stairs. "Fine." She sighed. "But not long. I have another final exam in an hour and then I have to get back to my job. All right?"

  "All right," he agreed, letting her by to open the door. Her strong, musky scent permeated the air. He felt a stirring. It had been too long since —

  Jesus, she's a kid.

  Yeah, a kid with a sex-s
wing and a gun rack full of dildos.

  Nevertheless.

  The Eye of Horus stared at him with disapproval as he followed her into where he'd just been.

  "I don't have enough time to make coffee," she said, waving him onto the couch.

  "That's okay, I'm not a coffee drinker. Irina — may I call you Irina? — why did you wait so long to call the cops?"

  Her eyes held his for a moment then looked away. "I was... scared. I didn't know where to turn."

  "Why?"

  "I have good reason."

  "The man with the gun?"

  She pressed her lips together as if to keep from crying. Nodded.

  "You know him?"

  "No."

  "You just said—"

  "I don't know him, but I see him around. I think he has been watching this place. Us." Her breathing quickened. "I have been afraid for over a month that something would happen, but I did not know what. I thought — I thought he was following me. I was afraid, and I am still afraid. I don't know what happened to Kit, but I'm afraid!"

  Her voice had risen and her breathing continued to quicken. Her chest heaved and she seemed about to faint.

  "Let me get you some water," he mumbled. She waved in the direction of the kitchen, and he went in search of a glass. When he returned with some tap water, Irina was sprawled out on the couch.

  Brant was sure she had undone the upper three buttons of her blouse, giving him an intriguing glimpse at the top of her cleavage.

  Brant took the bait.

  She smiled. "Thank you," she said. She took the water from him. When she put the glass up to her lips and tilted it, she smiled slightly and imprinted the rim with violet, sipping daintily. "My hero."

  Brant wanted to chuckle at her ham-fisted attempt to seduce a man almost three times her age.

  Shit, he thought, it's working. Animal magnetism of the worst cliché kind.

  "What about this guy who's stalking you. Did you go to the police about him?"