It was the way Kit longed, always, to be kissed. By the time he pulled away, her hair was mussed, her vision blurred, and her loneliness almost forgotten.
Almost.
“How are you, doll?” he said, with that low scratch of a voice.
Kit’s heart skipped in double beat. She loved it when he called her that. And she wasn’t going to squander this moment—hers—by dwelling on worry. Sure, the night had been long. But Kit was ever looking forward. It was morning now, and Grif was back, with fingertips entwined in her hair as he nestled in tight to her side. This was real. Not the brittle, buried past. Not another woman’s ghost.
“The story ran,” she said, thinking business might steady them both. She pointed to the coffee table, where the morning edition of the Las Vegas Tribune lay flat. “Marin agreed to put a rush on it after I swore on my life to dig up more on the Kolyadenkos.”
“Probably that of your firstborn, too,” Grif muttered, reaching for the paper. He began skimming the article, but quickly looked up. “It’s her byline.”
“Really?”
He held the paper out so she could see Marin’s name printed there.
“Hmm. Must have been the autocorrect on her computer. She proofed it before sending it to print.” Kit waved the inaccuracy away. “Anyway, I don’t care who gets credit for breaking the story. As long as all our resources are marshaled to solve the damned thing.”
Grif continued reading, then stilled. “You mentioned the Russian mob by name? Jeez, Kit.” He looked up at her. “That’s a good way to get killed.”
Kit huffed, and lifted her mug. “Maybe in the fifties. These days it’s a good way to let them know we’re onto them, and get them to stop distributing this crap. Besides, I didn’t mention them by name. It’s a direct quote from ‘a source close to the investigation.’ They said it, not me.”
Grif just frowned, then nodded at her printouts. “And what’s that?”
“Just some additional leads my girls gave me on the Naked City population. Did you know that historically it’s been largely comprised of Cubans? More notably, it’s been home to a boatload of Marielitos. Literally.”
Kit filled him in quickly on the history of the Mariel boatlifts, and the influx of immigrants fleeing Cuba, stigmatized by Fidel Castro’s inclusion of the island’s criminals and mental-asylum population. All had occurred after Grif’s death in 1960.
Then she leaned over and pulled out a sheet of paper buried under the others. “Our friend Marco Baptista is second-generation Cuban-American, and direct descendant of one of those Marielitos. He also has a rather impressive prison record, though it pales in comparison to his father’s rap sheet. But, more important, I discovered there’s been a recent turf war in Naked City between two rival gangs, allegedly in pursuit of control of the local meth market. Care to take a guess as to which individuals control those two gangs?”
“Kolyadenko and Baptista.” Grif looked impressed. “You’ve been busy.”
I’ve been jittery. I’ve been worried. I’ve missed the hell out of you.
Making sure her hand was steady, Kit lifted her coffee mug and said, “And I’m not done. Baptista mentioned a woman, a looker who dresses in wigs and tight clothing. If my hunch is right, and the Russians are targeting addicts in Baptista’s neighborhood, I think they’re using this woman to do it.”
She pulled up an image that’d been minimized on her computer, revealing a stunning blonde with a cascade of curls framing glossy red lips, cold blue eyes rimmed in smoky hues, and a creamy heart-shaped face that dipped at cheek and chin in slanting angles. Diamonds the size of thumbnails winked at her ears, while lace curled delicately along her long, slim throat.
“Yulyia Kolyadenko.” Grif recognized Sergei’s wife from the photo Marin had printed out. He looked at Kit.
Kit set down her mug, then angled toward him. “Tell me if this plays with you, or if I need more coffee, but what if the Russians are trying to pick off their Cuban rivals by targeting their kids and families? Fleur and Lil were telling me just last night how closely knit the Hispanic community is. Generations often live with generations.”
“As we saw with Baptista and his grandmother.” Frowning, Grif glanced again at Yulyia’s image. “And you think this is how they’re doing it? Sending in . . . teasers? Then letting the addiction spread?”
Kit pulled her knees up tight and nodded. “Like a virus. Once begun, it’s practically unstoppable.”
“Maybe.” Grif began to nod.