“The day I see you wearing something you didn’t buy at Wal-Mart . . . then you can mock me. You couldn’t pay a woman to screw you, much less get her to give it up for free,” he shot back the barb with the good-naturedness I’d gotten used to from him. Switching to a much soberer mode, he massaged the back of his neck and straightened in his chair. “We’d better get down to business, Stefan.” That was my cue. I slid an envelope plump with cash across the table and watched it disappear like a rabbit in a hat. But while the payment-up-front process was familiar, Saul calling me by my real name was not. As his work was only slightly more legal than mine, he gave his clients nicknames. That meant if he was in public with them or someone of a federal nature was listening in, the client’s identity was protected.
He usually called me Smirnoff. Russian vodka. Big leap, but I didn’t care. With Saul’s lethal verbal jabs, I was only grateful he hadn’t gone with Rasputin. The most infamous death in history: poisoned, shot, beaten, stabbed, his dick cut off, and then what was left of him heaved into an icy Russian river. Good luck couldn’t go with a nickname like that, and I needed all the luck I could get.
“Give,” I said impassively.
Saul and I weren’t friends. I wasn’t sure either of us was equipped emotionally in that department, but we did have a mutual respect for each other. It tended to be oiled by my money and his skill, but it was there regardless. In the past it had him making a gruff attempt to ease the blow when he came up empty. This time he didn’t make an effort. This time, for the very first time, he didn’t have to.
“Don’t get your hopes up.” The hazel eyes were grim, but the finger he tapped repeatedly against the table gave away his excitement. “But I think I might have found something.”
Under the right circumstances a moment can last forever. This was that moment. There was an eternity of clinking glasses, midday chatter, and the soft strumming of a sidewalk musician lounging against the patio rail. I was a fly stuck in an empanada-and-paella-scented amber. Not twelve hours ago I’d seen death come and go, barely missing me in the process. It had been more than a hiccup in my routine; I had the bloodshot eyes to prove it. But this . . . This staggered me. This rocked me at every level in a way nothing else could.
“What?” The word fell between us, hoarse and choked. Clearing my throat, I went on flatly. “What did you find?”
Did you ever hope for something so fiercely, with such devotion, that when you closed your eyes you could all but feel it in the palm of your hand? I never had. That was the kind of faith usually only children possessed. I’d lost my childhood the second I’d lost Lukas. And it had been me—only me. Losing my brother had been a responsibility I’d never shirked, not even to myself. So, as a sinner did penance, I looked for him; I always would.
But not for one moment did I imagine I would find him.
Searching for Lukas had kept my mind occupied. It kept me from thinking of things that couldn’t be changed, past and present. Now my excuse might disappear. It had my fingers tightening on the water glass, the rough cut-diamond pattern pressing into my flesh. Hope was a four-letter word all right; the most profane I’d ever heard.
I’m not sure what it was that Saul caught a glimpse of in my eyes, but he seemed relieved that our food arrived so promptly. Sizzling portobello mushroom fajitas were slid in front of him, and I didn’t have a clue as to what I was given. I didn’t remember what I’d ordered, and I didn’t bother to look. “Tell me. What did you find?” I repeated.
Saul picked up a fork and speared a mushroom. “Fungus o’ the day as ordered,” he said with a faint grin as he began to assemble his fajita. Taking a bite, he chewed, then swallowed before exhaling. “Okay, this is the drill. Since you hired me three years ago, I’ve done a bit of subcontracting in addition to my own investigating. It wasn’t much, but I paid some people to keep an eye out for a teenager who matches your brother’s description. I plugged his picture into my own age progression program. It beats the feds’ any day of the week. Pumped out some prints and gave the info to the guys. Normally I wouldn’t have bothered going that route on a case as old as this one. Spotting a kid after ten years, it just ain’t gonna happen. But Lukas with his different-colored eyes could be the exception to that rule. So I said what the hell.”
“Who are these people? The ones who look?”
“Could be anybody.” He shrugged. “Anybody I find reliable. Best ones are women who work in the mall. They have the eyes of eagles and the boredom of the ages driving them. The second best are people working at the schools or hospitals. Most kids go through there one way or the other when it comes to my business.” He didn’t have to elaborate; I understood all too clearly the hospital reference. Tilting his head slightly, he said honestly, “It was a long shot, Smirnoff, you know? I had no idea it might turn anything up. Chances are if Lukas is still alive, he’d be far from his original abduction site.” He drained his glass, eyes gleaming with the thrill of the chase. “One big-ass long shot that just might have paid off.”