The Lost by Vicki Pettersson Page A

you,” she said quickly, tucking the phone between chin and shoulder so she could shakily light a cigarette. Her hands were almost steady. “You specifically at a crime scene.”
    â€œCall O’Connell,” he said, and Kit heard bedcovers rustling as he rolled over. “You can trust him to do the job.”
    Kit was as trusting of the law as anyone who reported events on both sides of it, but that wasn’t the point. “I need someone who is going to care as deeply as I do.”
    Even over the phone, he saw right through her. “You mean who will listen to your opinion and feed you information in return.”
    â€œNo reason we can’t turn this investigation into a two-way street,” she said lightly, and inhaled.
    â€œInvestigation?” Now he was awake. The covers rustled again as he shifted in bed, and Kit briefly found herself wondering if anyone was lying next to him. “What makes you think—”
    â€œYou’ll want to bring the CIS unit, too,” she said, cutting him off.
    â€œDammit.” A pause, and the silence made her wince. “Are you okay?”
    She warmed at the question, the way it was asked, and answered affirmative before giving him the address. Dennis hung up without a good-bye, but Kit smiled anyway. He’d moved to town a handful of years ago from Southern Cal, another locale with a strong rockabilly contingent, and as theirs was a small subculture, they’d met within weeks. They bonded over a common love of beach bands and car parks. Dennis was a cop, but more than that, he was a true friend. He’d come.
    â€œI don’t think I’ve ever seen you looking so slapdash” were his first words to her, and she pushed herself from the side of her Duetto as he stepped from his unmarked car.
    Glancing down, Kit made a face. Her shoes and bag were all right—hard to screw that up when all you had in your closet was vintage perfection—but the capris and sweater set were boring at best, and she was barefaced, hair untidily pinned. “I was in a hurry.”
    Dennis frowned. Everyone in the scene knew how fastidious Kit was about her appearance. “Tell me,” he said, as he made to sit next to her.
    Kit jerked her head at the foreclosed home’s open door. “See for yourself.”
    After that he was too busy to talk at all.
    As hoped, Dennis gave instructions to the beat cops that he’d be doing the interviewing, so they left Kit alone while they secured the crime scene and started the door-to-doors. Kit propped herself on the hood of her car to observe the comings and goings, and to eavesdrop on the officers’ conversation while she waited. She wasn’t given this leeway because of him, or because she was a witness, or because she was a reporter.
    Kit’s father had been a cop, killed in the line of duty. The circumstances surrounding Martin Craig’s death were every cop’s unspoken fear: an anonymous call, a botched robbery, a masked thief who simply didn’t like men in blue. It also remained unsolved.
    â€œWhat the hell was that?”
    Kit jumped as Grif materialized behind her in that way he had, as if dropped like a star from the heavens themselves. He could reappear on the Surface any time he chose after returning from a Take—whether it was one second after he’d left, an hour, or a week—as long as it was in the future. He’d clearly chosen this point in time because the cops would be too busy to question his appearance . . . and wouldn’t even know he’d been here earlier.
    Kit took in his clenched jaw, stony gaze, and hard frown, and pushed to her feet. “I’ve been waiting to ask you the same thing.”
    He came around the car to stand with her, toe to toe, which wasn’t as romantic as it sounded. “You snuck out while I was sleeping.”
    â€œI knew you wouldn’t sleep for long. And I left you Jeap’s