River of Glass by Jaden Terrell Page B

sugar, even the little monkey she had doted on as a child. Everyone and everything she’d ever loved. She opened her heart to them and poured that love out through her eyes. As if it were for him, for him alone.
    It was beyond belief that she should feel these things for him, after all he’d done, after all he’d allowed to be done to her. Beyond belief that she would want to be his woman. But she did want it, more than anything, because to be his was not to be theirs. To be his was to be safe from the man with the manticore tattoo.
    “You think you’re special?” He propped himself up on one elbow, studying her face. “Is that it?”
    “I want to be your woman,” she said softly. “That’s all. You said I made you happy. Why should you share with strangers? With him? ”
    He rolled onto his back, covered his eyes with his forearm. “You have to be punished. You know that. Karlo is waiting.”
    Her breath caught, but her voice, when she spoke, was strong. “I know. But after.”
    She laid a gentle hand on his chest. No lower. If she reached beneath the sheets, he would know she was trying to control him.
    “If you live,” he said at last. There was something in his voice, a sadness that chilled her bones and froze the smile on her face. “If you live, then maybe.”

14
    T here was a missed call from Beatrice on my cell phone. I called her back from the Silverado, and she answered in a voice as warm and sweet as fresh-baked blackberry cobbler. “Got something for you, darlin’. How do you want it?”
    “Can you fax it to my office?”
    “It’ll be there in five. Just don’t forget about the meatloaf.”
    We stopped at the office to pick up the fax. Seven pages, small print. It would take days to get through it. I faxed a copy to Jay’s home computer so he and Eric could narrow the field and pass the likely prospects on to me.
    The new-message light on the answering machine was flashing. While Khanh stood in the doorway shifting from foot to foot, I punched the Play button. A man’s thin voice stammered a story about a cheating spouse. I could have used the money, but the resignation on Khanh’s face made me hesitate.
    My father had failed her. Hell, life had failed her. Not wanting to be one more letdown on a long list of letdowns, I suppressed a sigh and called back to refer him to another agency.
    Khanh gave me a tentative smile. “You good man. What now? Make more plan?”
    “I don’t know enough to make a plan,” I said. “All I know to do is cast a wide net and hope we catch something.”
    I stopped at the ATM and took out three hundred dollars in twenties. Then, with Khanh at my heels, I spent the afternoon questioning hookers, pimps, and self-styled businessmen on the wrong side of the law. Some I’d met when I was in vice, and some I’d cultivated after I went private.
    The message I left was always the same: An Amerasian guy and the man in this picture kidnapped the girl in this other picture. Help us find her, and we’ll make it worth your while.
    It was another cool, wet week, and we spent the better part of it dripping our way from one informant to the next. I bought Khanh an umbrella, and when the rain slanted in from the sides, found her a plastic poncho. Titans blue, with the team logo on the front. I exchanged my father’s leather jacket for an Australian stockman’s duster and a waterproof Outback hat with a broad brim. We made two more visits to the ATM, spreading around a chunk of my diminishing savings, twenty dollars at a time.
    No one knew the man with the manticore tattoo. Their denials were sincere. No shifting gazes, no nervous tics. He might have been a manticore himself, more myth than man.
    I asked about Helix too, with better luck. He had a reputation as a player, strictly minor league until about six months ago, when he’d stashed two high-end call girls in an uptown penthouse. He still kept his third-string girls in a cheap rent-by-the-month hotel, but he’d