The Lost by Vicki Pettersson Page B

but there was still a handful of customers lined along the scarred bar top. One listlessly plunked quarters into a flattop video poker machine while two others watched a ball game above the bar with the same lackluster enthusiasm. A fourth man simply stared into space, face blank above his half-empty beer glass.
    Choice digs, Grif thought, then returned his gaze to Kit’s ramrod back. Her uncharacteristic cheerlessness matched the mood of the room, but it also confounded him. He still wasn’t quite sure what’d happened in Marin’s office, or what led to their strange conversation in the parking lot afterward.
    Did he dream about her?
    That wasn’t the Kit Craig he was used to. His girl was relentlessly optimistic, dogged, and thick-skinned. Her overflowing confidence, despite any odds, was one of the things he loved about her. And she lived in emotional sunlight. A shadow cast over her? By Evie?
    Hardly.
    But he didn’t need to understand it to see she was truly upset, and the conversation wasn’t over, though he’d have to wait to ask her more. Detective Carlisle was already waiting.
    They crossed the room to the far corner, where Carlisle hovered over a man who wobbled in his seat. There was nothing wrong with the chair, but the man was disheveled, unwashed, and sour-smelling, and currently picking at a wound on his forearm with unswerving fascination. With thin, brittle hair and a pocked face, the man was lean but not fit, long-limbed but lacking strength.
    The most telling thing about him, though, was the solid ring of plasma outlining his body, a bright strip that only Grif could see. Not long, Grif thought, refocusing on the man. Not if he kept up this way.
    The man’s expression didn’t alter when he spotted Kit and Grif standing there, his gaze sliding away after a mere moment, his hands renewing their restless fidgeting.
    â€œThis is Trey Brunk,” Dennis said in a normal tone, though Brunk appeared not to hear. “He’s a heroin user, as he’ll readily tell you, and he has his rages, which is how we had the great fortune to meet. But he’s not so bad.”
    Clearly accustomed to Brunk’s lack of focus, Dennis leaned close, startling the man by putting a hand on his bony shoulder. “Hey, Trey. These are the people I was telling you about. The ones who are trying to help me find out what happened to Jeap.”
    Thin lips pursed tight, Brunk shook his head. “Hell, I know what happened to him. He went floatin’ on a pile of shit. Once you stop caring about the crop, man, you step on the dime.”
    â€œHe means Jeap’s drugs were bad,” Dennis translated. “And that’s what killed him.”
    Grif huffed as the plasma outlining Brunk’s frail body pulsed. This man’s “good” drugs weren’t exactly being kind.
    â€œSo where were you when Jeap took his final trip?” he asked Brunk.
    Brunk held up his hands like he was fending off charges. “Hey, man, I was asleep for most of last week.”
    â€œIncluding yesterday?” Kit asked.
    His head bobbed once. “Asleep,” he said definitively.
    â€œYou sleep a lot, Mr. Brunk?” asked Grif.
    Brunk’s rolling gaze circled back up and almost stuck on Grif’s. His eyes were watery, though. Like the life inside him could pour right out of his sockets. “That’s how I break the cycle,” Brunk said. “I got this theory. Down the dozers and I can sleep through the super flu. Then I don’t got to face the evening. Get it?”
    Grif and Kit both looked to Dennis for translation.
    â€œHe means if he takes enough sleeping pills he won’t have to feel the heroin withdrawals.”
    Which could last a week, Grif thought, remembering Dr. Ott’s words. From the looks of things, Brunk spent every other week sleeping.
    â€œWhy did they call him Jeap?” Kit asked.
    â€œCalled himself that. Short for J.P.,