Free The Dead Room by Heather Graham Page B

you?”
    â€œShe thought she might have a job for me.” Didi inhaled on her cigarette, exhaled the smoke, then flicked the butt out the window and looked at him. “She wanted to know if I was seriously—really seriously—ready to change my lifestyle. If I wanted my daughter back bad enough to stay clean. Squeaky clean.”
    â€œAnd what did you tell her?”
    She folded her hands in her lap and looked down at them. “I said yes.”
    He nodded. “But she never came back?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWhen and how did she leave you?”
    â€œA car pulled up, and I could tell she knew the driver. She walked over to it, and it looked like she and the guy—I think it was a guy—it looked like they were kinda arguing. I couldn’t hear what they said, but she looked pissed, you know? Then she waved at me and said she’d get back with me about the job.”
    â€œAnd then she got in the car?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWhat can you tell me about the car?”
    â€œIt was a dark sedan. Black, blue, something like that.”
    â€œBy any wild chance, did you get the plate number?”
    Didi shook her head. “I wasn’t looking. I…I didn’t notice anything more.”
    â€œYou didn’t watch her go, maybe wave as she drove off?”
    â€œNo,” Didi said softly, then looked at him. “Another car showed up. A regular of mine. I knew the guy; knew he was worth money. I forgot all about Genevieve then. I had to. I mean, I seriously would have taken her offer, and I would have stayed clean. But…well, I needed to eat in the meantime.”
    â€œRight,” he murmured.
    He drove her back to the curb where he had found her. After he slid the car into neutral, he pulled out a wad of bills.
    â€œYou don’t owe me,” she said.
    â€œI told you I’d pay you to talk.”
    â€œIt was about Genevieve. You don’t owe me. I really hope that you find her. I pray sometimes that she’s okay.”
    â€œTake the money, have some dinner. Give yourself a break.”
    She paused, looked into eyes, then took the money. “What makes you think I’m not just gonna buy some coke with it?”
    â€œYou might. I hope you don’t.”
    She started to get out of the car. “You know, you’re the only one who asked me that.”
    â€œAsked you what?”
    â€œWhat I said to Genevieve. No one else cared if I meant to clean up or not. That was really nice of you.”
    â€œYou could probably get yourself a real job, with or without Genevieve,” he said.
    â€œYeah? I have great references. ‘John Q. says I’m a great lay,’” she said dryly. She flushed, then dug into her small handbag. She produced a scrap of paper, a receipt from a coffee house, and scratched down a number. “If you think I can help you again, call me.”
    He accepted the paper. “Thank you. Are you sure you don’t remember anything else about the car? Can you take a guess on the color?”
    â€œBlack. I think it was black,” she said. Then she sighed. “I’m just not sure.”
    â€œOkay. Thank you. Really.”
    She touched his face, her eyes soft. “No, thank you, sweetie. You treated me nice. Real nice. And I’m serious. You call me.” She gave him her dry smile once again. “And that wasn’t a come-on. Good night.”
    She hopped out of the car.
    He drove on down the street, past the site of the new dig. At night, it seemed huge, protected behind quickly rigged barbed wire. Hardly aware of what he was doing, he slid into a spot along the curb, stepped out of the car and started walking, making mental notes as he went.
    Eileen Brideswell might just be right. Her niece had been working with prostitutes in the same area where a number of hookers had gone missing. She had been picked up by a dark, probably black, sedan off the street—in that same area.