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They both hung up, and he considered. He could find Blake. He’d be an old man now, ancient. Not much to live for, after spending most of his life in prison. He’d exacted his revenge, and Rick didn’t think he’d spend a lot of time trying to get out of town or hide. And this was Rick’s city, now.
Detective Hardin hadn’t arrested Blake yet because she was building her case, searching for evidence, obtaining warrants. Rick had every confidence that she’d do her job to the utmost of her ability and that through her, justice would be served.
In this case, he wasn’t interested in waiting.
After killing Arturo and replacing him as master of Denver, Rick had transformed the lair. The parlor was now an office, with functional sofas and a coffee table, and a desk and bookshelves for work. He paced around the desk and considered. Blake would have a parole officer who would know where he was. The man might even be living in some kind of halfway house for ex-cons. After so long in prison, it was doubtful he had any family or friends left. He had no place else to go. And if he was right about Blake’s state of mind, the man wouldn’t even be hiding.
He flipped through a ledger and found a name, recently entered. A woman who’d run a prostitution ring in the seventies—with blackmail on the side. She’d served her time, she knew the system, and she owed him a favor.
“Hello, Carol. It’s Rick. I need to know who the parole officer is for a recently released felon.”
NIGHT FELL, AND RICK WOKE.
Helen had turned over on her side and curled up, pressing against him, her hands on his arm. She looked sweet and vulnerable.
He leaned over and breathed against her ear. “Wake up, Helen.”
Her eyes opened. Pulling away from him, she sat up, looking dazed, as if trying to remember where she was and how she’d gotten here. Her clothes were hanging off her, loose, and her hair was in tangles.
“You all right?” he asked.
She glared. “Did you put something in my drink?”
“No.”
She looked herself over, retrieving her clothes, fastening buttons, and running fingers through her hair. Wryly, she said, “You never even took your trousers off, did you?”
He answered her smile. “Never mind. As long as you’re all right.”
“Yeah, I’m fine. More than fine. You’re something else, Rick, you know that?”
“There’s a washroom across the hall.”
“What time is it?”
“Nightfall,” he said. “I’m about to head to Murray’s to see if Blake shows up. You should stay here.”
She closed up at the mention of Blake, slouching and hugging herself. He smoothed her hair back and left a gentle kiss on her forehead.
“I’ll be safe here?” she asked.
“Yes. I promise.”
“What happens if Blake does show up? What can you possibly do? Rick, if he hurts you because of me—”
“It’ll be fine, Helen.”
He washed up, found a clean shirt, ran a comb through his hair, and left the lair.
Blake did, in fact, show up at the bar that night. Rick kept his place behind the taps and watched him scan the room before choosing a seat near the bar.
“Bourbon,” he muttered. Rick poured and pushed the tumbler over.
Scowling, Blake drained the liquor in one go. After some time, when it was clear Helen wasn’t going to appear, he set his stare on Rick, who didn’t have any trouble pretending not to notice. Leaning on his elbow, Blake pushed back his jacket to show off his gun in its shoulder holster.
“So. Did she ever show up?” the man said.
“Who? The girl?”
