Vicki Pettersson - The Given

She thought about the case Grif had gotten involved in back in 1960, the kidnapping that’d had him working for the valley’s reigning kingpin of the day. The DiMartinos believed Griffin Shaw had helped the Salernos kidnap little Mary Margaret from her front yard. They were also told by an unidentified source that he sexually assaulted the twelve-year-old before returning her to her uncle. Forget that Grif would never even contemplate such a thing, which Mary Margaret had confirmed last summer; Kit knew he was beyond reproach.

“So who hated you enough to spread a rumor that got you killed?” she murmured, though one person already came to mind: Barbara. “New question, then . . . why?”

The shower snapped off in the adjacent room, stilling Kit as she thumbed through a second stack of papers. Ray would have to dry off. She still had time. She didn’t know exactly what his reaction would be upon finding her in his office, though he’d acted friendly enough the few times they’d met. Based on those encounters, there’d be no reason for him to object to speaking with her. He hadn’t known she was a reporter the first time, and after that he hadn’t seemed to care.

“So then why do you have this on your desk?” Kit pulled a news clipping from the bottom of the stack, yellowed and torn at the edges. Squinting, she scanned the headline, dated fourteen years earlier. OFFICER KILLED IN BOTCHED CONVENIENCE STORE ROBBERY.

It was the article that ran the day after her father’s death, too soon to identify him by name.

“ ‘The veteran officer, killed in the line of duty . . .’ ” she read aloud, just as the adjacent door swung open. She looked up and caught a still-sopping Ray glaring at her. He had a white towel draped low around his hips and a scowl on his face. She spotted a bank of security screens over his left shoulder, and her own image, snooping behind his desk and holding the news clipping of her father’s death, sat dead center.

“What the hell is going on?” said Ray, baring teeth.

“Funny,” Kit answered, steadied by the weight of the gun in her pocket and the growing fury in her own heart. “I was just going to ask you the same thing.”

The tiki lounge was Grif’s idea. It had bamboo walls that muted sound, an island god guarding the front door, and was dark enough to remain discreet despite all of that. Frankie’s Tiki Room was also a sort of home-away-from-home for the rockabilly crowd, marrying South Seas nostalgia with the mid-century aesthetic to create an escape from the brazen glitz of modern Las Vegas. It was the perfect place for two men to come back around from their drugged stupor, yet still remain a little disoriented.

The last time Grif had been here was with Kit. She wore a Hawaiian dress with flowers in her hair, and though his suit and fedora had been remarked upon, the glances he got had been more covetous than wondering. He lost count of the number of times he’d been complimented on his straight-razored pomp. Grif smiled, remembering that they drank rum until sunrise, then went home and made love until sunset.

But now it was a late Monday afternoon and the crowd at Frankie’s was thin, with only three men taking up real estate at the bar, none speaking and none interested when Grif and Dennis walked in and settled two groggy men into the far corner of the room.

“I gotta finish changing,” Dennis said, nodding at his uniform. He’d removed the shirt, but the utility belt would eventually attract attention from the bar.

“I’ll work on these guys.”

“Think they’ll talk to you?”

“I got ways to make ’em talk.”

“How Perry Mason of you,” Dennis said, but there was no censure in his voice. Dennis, too, was rockabilly to the core. “You sounded just like Raymond Burr.”

Grif rolled his eyes but put a hand on Dennis’s arm before he could leave. “Check the scanners again for word about the old man, too, will ya?”

Worry clouded Dennis’s brow. “I’ll work on getting the hotel’s surveillance videos, too. We can piece together their exit from the casino, maybe get a license plate, but it’ll take time.” He jerked his head at the two semiconscious men. “This is our best bet to get Zicaro back quickly.”

Grif nodded and turned back around, and a moment later a giant swath of light cut across the floor as Dennis exited. Then the darkness settled in again. By that time, the bartender had arrived with the three tiki mugs they’d asked for when they’d arrived. Grif had pushed two square tables tight to the two men’s bellies to keep them from falling over. The larger one, Larry, was propped between the wall and Eric, making a run at Grif near impossible.

The bartender eyeballed Eric, who had drool pooling at one corner of his mouth, as he set the drinks in front of them.

“Bachelor party,” Grif said, before he could ask.

Straightening, the bartender placed his hands on his hips. “Who’s the unlucky man?”

“The little one.”

The bartender nodded at Eric and gripped the ends of the towel he’d flung around his neck. “You the DD?”

No one who actually knew Grif and his penchant for getting lost would appoint him designated driver, but he just nodded. “And the best man.”

“Well, best man, just make sure they don’t puke in here. You have no idea how hard that shit is to get out of bamboo.” And he walked away.

Grif had just finished handcuffing each man’s right wrist to the table legs—and “blessing” their drinks—when Larry said, “Whas-ha-ma-ha-sha?”

His eyes were watery and fixed on a space between Grif’s eyes and hairline, and his breath punctuated his words in all the wrong places. He tried again. “You . . . dead . . . guys.”

Grif yawned. Been there, done that. “I got some questions for you.”

Eric’s head whipped up suddenly, and he laughed so hard that he hit the back of his head against the wall when he snorted.

“We know who you are,” Grif continued, tossing their wallets, emptied of IDs, atop the table. “And the police know it by now, too. So I’m going to ask you some questions and . . .”

And Larry—mouth wide, head back—had fallen asleep again. Leaning forward, Grif slapped him once on each cheek. Eric gasped and reached out to stop him, but froze when the table he was cuffed to jerked in front of him. Grif slapped him anyway.

“Now that I have your attention . . . where did Justin take Al Zicaro?”

The two men just stared, but at least Eric had stopped laughing.

“How ’bout this, then . . . who killed Barbara DiMartino?”

Now they both looked away.

Grif sighed and nodded at the tiki mugs in front of them. “Take a sip. Each of you.”

They didn’t move.

“I’m not asking.”

Larry tried to meet Grif’s stare at that, but his eyes were still pinballing, and his chin still wobbled. He finally slumped and lifted the dark mug with his free hand. Hesitant at first, he drank deeply once he realized there was only rum inside. Seeing it, Eric followed suit and both men looked more relaxed when they sat their mugs back down.

“Now,” Grif said quietly, staring down at Larry’s mug. “Who killed Barbara?”

The sound of splintering wood ruptured the air as the tiki mugs stretched. The carved, gaping mouths widened as if giving a great yawn, and then the two mugs began yammering in unison.

“Who cares? She was a bitch of the first degree. I’m just surprised it didn’t happen sooner.”

“Yeah. Whoever it was, they have my regards.”

“Oh, shit,” Eric said, using his real voice. And then he passed out.

“You pussy!” Larry jolted as his mug voiced his thoughts, and watched wide-eyed as it swiveled toward Eric’s mug, sloshing rum. But Eric’s mug had fallen still. With him out cold, it was just a normal tiki mug.