I had to grin at the bastardization of the Bogart quote, but I also knew I had to give him an answer. Another lie. And though that reality hadn’t bothered me at all just a short while ago, now it made my stomach twist.

“A friend told me that Destiny’s a good place to wait tables. Good tips. Good management. Decent customers.”

“And?” he asked as I moved off him to curl up on the couch beside him.

“And when I arrived in Chicago, it turns out she doesn’t work here anymore. I tried to track her down, but nobody’s heard from her. I’m worried.” And that, at least, was the truth.

“What’s her name?”

“Amy. Amy Dawson, but she may not have used her real name.”

He nodded pensively. “Early twenties? Blond? Tattoo of a daisy?”

A ribbon of jealousy curled through me. “On her ass. Yes.”

“She turned in her costume and moved on.”

“Costume?”

“School girl uniform,” he said. “A bit clichéd, I’ll grant you. But very popular with the clientele.”

“I’ll bet. So she got a new job. Where?”

“Vegas, I think. But I don’t know for certain. I was her employer, not her parent.”

“What about lover?” I asked.

He looked at me for a moment, and I swear he could see the jealousy brewing in my eyes. Then he shook his head. “No. She had a bit of a crush. Made a move once, but I deflected it.”

“Blond, pretty, ass nice enough to take a peek at now and then. Why’d you turn her down?”

His brow rose ever so slightly. “For one thing, I don’t date the employees. Did that once, a long time ago, and realized it’s not good for business or my sanity. For another, she was too young. I like my women to have at least a few years of drinking age under their belt. Seasons the palate.” He cast a long, slow look over me. “Makes things more interesting.”

“Oh. All right, then.” I cleared my throat. “Anyway, that’s how I ended up at Destiny. And now I want to find Amy.”

“I believe you.”

“Why wouldn’t you?”

His laugh was low and humorless. “So many reasons. Mostly, I don’t trust easily, and yet despite everything I find myself wanting to trust you. It’s a bit unsettling.”

“Despite everything?”

He reached over and stroked my cheek, effectively deflecting the question. “It’s possible she left a forwarding address when she moved. She would have been paid in full, so we didn’t have to mail a check. But we try to get addresses for tax purposes. In this kind of business we rarely have a current one, but I can check for you.”

“I’d appreciate it,” I said as he adjusted his slacks, then stood and fastened his belt.

As he walked to the filing cabinet, I retrieved my panties and put them on, then followed him. He opened the D-F cabinet, which made me smile, then pulled out a file on Amy Dawson.

He flipped it open, scanned it, then handed it to me.

There wasn’t much. In addition to the usual things like phone number and social security number, the employee form listed Candy’s address in Indiana as her permanent address and a local address that had been crossed out with red pen. In the margin, someone had written, “Vegas” along with a date two weeks prior.

I looked at Tyler. “Guess you were right.”

“But you’re still not satisfied.”

“She’s not here. All that means is I need to keep looking. I need an address,” I continued. “I’ll do an Internet search on Amy Dawsons in the Vegas area and start looking there, but those are going to primarily be Amy Dawsons with traditional phone service, and my Amy wouldn’t bother with anything but her cell phone.”

“Which she isn’t answering.”

“Thus the worry,” I agreed. “She could have lost it. Run out of money to pay for it. Have run off to Mexico with a hot guy and is ignoring it. But …” I trailed off with a shrug.

“Have you talked to her old landlord?”

“No,” I admitted. “Amy is a text and email kind of girl. She never got around to sending her friends an actual mailing address.” I sighed. “And tracking her isn’t easy. She didn’t subscribe to magazines, doesn’t have health insurance. She doesn’t own a car.”

“Easy for a girl like that to fall off the grid.”

“Very,” I said. I started to once again ask for a job at Destiny—I wanted to get to know the girls who had been Amy’s friends—but Tyler spoke first.

“Well, come on, then,” he said. “Let’s go take a look at her old apartment.”

Chapter Seven

Her apartment was just a few blocks away, and Red—who must have picked Tyler up three seconds after he dropped me off—drove us there.

It was just past eleven at night now, but that didn’t give Tyler pause. The apartment was a crappy converted house, in which the original foyer had been converted to a lobby of sorts. At the end of the foyer, a new wall had been installed, and beside the single door was a small, yellow buzzer beside a speaker.

Tyler push the button. Waited. Pushed it again.

“What the fucking hell,” crackled a voice. “It’s the fucking middle of the fucking night.”

“Has Amy Dawson’s room been rented?”

“You interested?” The voice was now much more conciliatory.

“Possibly.”

The speaker went from static to dead. A moment later, the door opened and an old man with eyebrows that resembled caterpillars opened the door. He wore a ratty flannel bathrobe and gestured us inside.

“First floor. Back here.” He led us back, opened the door.

The room was about as depressing as I’d ever seen. Not much more than a converted closet with no windows. “Cheapest unit we got,” the old man said.

“Did she tell you she was moving?” I asked. “Leave a forwarding?”

“No forwarding. Just said she’d got a job in Vegas.”

I looked around. There was nothing in the place, not even debris. “You clean?”

“Nah, she did. Wanted her deposit back. Gave it to her, too, so don’t start giving me shit.”

I stared him down. “I wouldn’t dream of it.” I met Tyler’s eyes. “So she packed up, cleaned up, and hit the road. But she didn’t tell you where?” I asked the old man. “Did she take a taxi to the bus station? Rent a car?”

“No idea. ’Cept someone was driving her. Saw that much at least.”

“Who?”

“Saw the car, not the driver.” He glanced into the room. “You’re not really interested, are you?”

“Sorry,” Tyler said, then handed him a twenty. “Sorry for waking you.”

“Someone went to Vegas with her,” I said. “Or at least drove her to the bus stop. The girls at Destiny might know who.”

“They might,” he said as we walked back to where Red stood holding the door open. “But we’ll talk about it later. That’s enough for one night.”

He was right, I thought, as I slid into the back seat beside him. My worry for Amy was fast fading, but as I shifted in my seat to look at Tyler, I couldn’t help but think of Kevin’s allegations—that these guys were into all sorts of shit. And, for better or for worse, I wanted to know if it was true.

We drove in silence for a while—Tyler received some texts that he needed to answer, and I took the opportunity to email Candy and tell her that it was looking more and more like Amy was alive and well and kicking up her heels in Vegas. Then I used the browser on my phone to start searching for Amy Dawsons in the Vegas area. There weren’t many, and I’d start making calls in the morning.

When we finally reached the part of Chicago I recognized—down by the Magnificent Mile—I tucked my phone away and frowned at the scenery. “We’re going the wrong direction,” I said.

Tyler put his phone down and followed my gaze. “No,” he said. “We’re not.”

“This is the way to Pilson?” I asked, mentioning my neighborhood.

“It’s one way,” he said. “But we’re not going to your apartment.”

I raised a brow. “No? What happened to telling Red my address. Me being ready tomorrow. All that big production about putting me in the back of this car?”