Smokescreen Read Free Page B

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 hardto 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 nightwas 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