“For?” Burt Alden and Dax Killian related? Talk about a swan getting in with the odd ducks. She wouldn’t have guessed it, not in a million years.

“To work in while I’m in town.”

“And you’re working on a Friday night?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Good enough. She was working, too.

Dax Killian-she hadn’t kept track of every kid she’d ever directed into the armed forces. She hadn’t actually kept track of him, but a few years ago, a story had drifted back to Denver, of this guy from Colorado, a shadow soldier. There’d only been the one story, and never another, and no name attached to the story she’d heard, but for some reason she’d thought of him. Even at his worst, as a teenager running wild on her streets, he’d had a way of keeping to himself, of running under the radar, and those kind of skills had fit the deed in the story.

She’d long since discovered the truth, compliments of Buck Grant-and looking at Dax now, she was even more intrigued to know the story was his.

And he was back in her city, in what she considered an unusual situation. She sure as hell didn’t think he’d cut “Nazi hero” into the old German, no more so than she thought Johnny Ramos had done the deed, though Skeeter hadn’t been able to verify Ramos’s current whereabouts, not since he’d left the Blue Iguana, which was practically across the street from the Oxford.

Regardless, she still didn’t think Johnny had cut up the old German-but somebody had, and Dax Killian was standing in the place where the clues had led.

“I’m looking for a blonde,” she said, putting a little of the story on the line, to see if he bit. “A hooker who cut up one of her clients with a knife over at the Oxford Hotel earlier this evening.”

Something flickered in Mr. Killian’s eyes, but Loretta couldn’t get a reading on it, which was unusual. Reading people was her job.

“Kind of a cult thing, we think. Do you know what a kanji is, Mr. Killian?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Well, that’s what this woman cut into this German guy over at the Oxford, a kanji and a swastika. Sliced it right into the old guy’s skin, across his back. Not deep enough to kill him, maybe not even deep enough to leave a scar, but sure as hell deep enough to disturb me.”

Something definitely went across Killian’s face that time, and she knew exactly what it had been- a flash of alarm.

Interesting.

“Would you know anything about something like that, Mr. Killian?”

“No, ma’am.”

Loretta didn’t mind when people lied to her. She usually learned more from their lies than she ever did from their plain, unvarnished truths.

“I do have one lead. Detective Ford?” She held out her hand again, and Connor gave her the drawing of Johnny Ramos. “This man was seen going into the German guy’s room at the Oxford, at about the time the attack took place. Have you seen him around the neighborhood at all tonight?”

She handed the drawing over, and watched Killian give it a quick once-over. In less than a couple of seconds, he was handing it back.

“No, ma’am. I haven’t seen him.”

“His name is Johnny Ramos. Have you heard of him?”

“No, ma’am.”

Dax Killian was a pretty good liar, but he was still a liar. He was probably pretty good at evading surveillance, too, but he’d just bought himself a night’s worth of it.

“Lieutenant?” Weisman said, standing outside a door in the corner of the office. “I think I’ve found our phone in there.”

“Open her up.” She didn’t ask permission. She didn’t need to ask permission.

Weisman opened the door and turned on the light. It was a bathroom with a wide-open, floor-toceiling, double-hung window. She walked over and leaned a little ways out the window, far enough to see the street two floors below.

It had been a night of open windows.

“Is it in there, Weisman?” she asked, looking back at the officer kneeling on the floor next to a tote bag.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said.

“What’s that bag made out of?”

“Looks like vinyl to me, Lieutenant.”

“Vinyl,” she said. “Let’s get it back to the precinct without contaminating it, Weisman. I bet we can lift at least one good set of prints off it, and probably another real good set off the phone. What do you think, Detective Ford?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Connor said. “At least one good set off each.”

“Good.” She turned back to Dax Killian. “The phone in the bag belongs to that blond hooker I’m looking for, a dominatrix, maybe one with a knife. If she comes back here, looking for it, you watch yourself, and I’d appreciate it if you’d give me a call.” She handed him one of her cards.

“Yes, ma’am.” Without a second’s hesitation, he took her card and slipped it in his pocket.

“And if you see this Johnny Ramos guy, I’d appreciate it if you’d give me a call.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

And if Dax Killian gave her a call any time in the next forty years, she’d eat Weisman’s hat.

Sonuvabitch-that was the only thought Dax had, watching Lieutenant Loretta Bradley and her boys exiting the office. Sonuvabitch.

He closed the door behind them, threw the lock, and pulled his cell phone out of his pocket.

“Come on, Easy, baby.” He speed-dialed the bad girl and put the phone to his ear. “Answer.”

Geezus. Erich Warner was in Denver, and he’d brought his favorite witch with him, the blade queen of Bangkok, coming straight out of Tokyo: Shoko. One name, innumerable knives.

A kanji and a swastika? Shoko had practically patented the design. She’d sure as hell perfected it on half a dozen people that he knew about, and who the hell knew how many more that he didn’t know about.

He strode into the bathroom and leaned partway out the window, scanning the sidewalks and the street. Kevin Harrell had made a helluva jump for a guy in handcuffs. Dax was amazed he wasn’t splatted all over the sidewalk below the window.

But he wasn’t. Oh, hell, no. He was off and running somewhere, and if the cops didn’t pick him up, somebody from Bleak’s outfit probably would, not that Harrell mattered anymore. Dax had gotten what he needed out of the guy.

When Easy’s voice mail picked up, he left a very succinct message. “Warner in town. Shoko with him, fully loaded. Stay out of Denver. Stick to Ramos like glue, and call me. I’ll meet you.”

Geezus. He looked at his watch. Five o’clock was looking a helluva long way away.

He dialed Burt, ready to read him the riot act if he answered. But Uncle Burt didn’t answer, so he left another very succinct message. “If you’re not at Bleak’s warehouse when I get there at five A.M., I’m going to come looking for you, Uncle Burt, and you ain’t gonna be happy when I find you. Don’t disappoint me.”

It was a threat, yes, but it was also the truth. The plan had been to leave good old Uncle Burt out of the deal, keep the fat out of the fire and that sort of thing, but Dax had changed his mind. The fat was going in feetfirst. Uncle Burt, God help him, was going to be his backup on the deal. It was Easy he was kicking off the team. He didn’t want her within a mile of Franklin Bleak. Even with Lucky Lindsey Larson in his arsenal of tricks, he didn’t want the bad girl anywhere in Bleak’s sight.

She was already in enough trouble.

And now Shoko. Christ.

Easy had a cool head on her shoulders, one of the coolest, but the Bangkok bitch had hurt her, marked her for life, and Dax knew the bad girl still had nightmares about it-which really pissed him off. He’d been waiting a long time to get Shoko in his sights, but it wasn’t going to happen tonight. Even more than the Bleak deal, he still owed Warner, and more than the debt was the prize Warner had offered, the little something. The German had information Dax wanted, the kind of information that was going to have him doing just about anything Erich Warner asked, short of treason, a designation that could get damned slippery, depending on how much the information proved to be worth on the E-ring in the Pentagon.