Prologue
Faith Ashburn emphasized her deep-set brown eyes with a coat of thick black liner and then took a step away from the mirror to see the full effect of the makeup she’d caked onto her pale skin. The haunted eyes that stared back at her were the only part of the face she recognized.
Her irises mirrored the way she felt. Lost. Trapped in a nightmare. The anxiety so intense the lining of her stomach seemed to be on fire.
But she’d go back out there tonight, into the smoke and groping, the stares that crawled across her skin like hairy spiders. She’d smile and endure the depravity—praying, always praying for some crumb of information that would lead her to her son.
Cornell was eighteen now. Physically, he was a man. Mentally and emotionally, he was a kid, at least he was in her mind. A trusting, naive boy who needed his mother and his meds.
Faith’s bare feet sank into the thick mauve carpet as she stepped back into her bedroom and tugged on her patterned panty hose. Then she pulled the low-cut, trampy black dress from the closet and stepped into it.
The fabric stretched over her bare breasts as she slid the spaghetti straps over her narrow shoulders. Her nipples were covered, but there was enough cleavage showing to suggest that she’d have no qualms about revealing everything if the offer appealed to her.
Reaching to the top shelf of her closet, she chose the bright red stiletto heels. They never failed to garner the instant attention of men high on booze, drugs and the stench of overripe sex.
Struck by a burst of vertigo, Faith held on to the bedpost until the dizziness passed. Then she tucked a lipstick, her car keys and some mad money into the small sequined handbag that already held her licensed pistol.
Stopping off in the kitchen, she poured two fingers of cheap whiskey into a glass. She swished the amber liquid around in her mouth, gargled and then spit it down the drain. Holding the glass over the sink, she ran one finger around the edges to collect the remaining liquor. She dotted it at her pulse points like expensive perfume.
Her muscles clenched. Her lungs clogged. She took a deep breath and walked out the door, carefully locking it behind her.
Six months of going unofficially undercover into the seediest areas of Dallas. Six months of questioning every drug addict and pervert that might have come in contact with Cornell, based on nothing but the one shrapnel of evidence the police had provided her.
Six months of crying herself to sleep when she came home as lost, confused and desperate as before.
God, please let tonight be different.
* * *
“ANOTHER BACKSTREET HOMICIDE, another trip to see Georgio. I’m beginning to think he gives a discount to killers. A lap dance from one of his girls when a body shows up at the morgue without identification.”
“And the victims get younger and younger.” Travis Dalton followed his partner, Reno, as they walked through a side door of the sleaziest strip joint in the most dangerous part of Dallas. Georgio reigned as king here, providing the local sex and drug addicts with everything they needed to feed their cravings.
Yet the rotten bastard always came out on top. His rule of threats and intimidation eliminated any chance of getting one of his patrons to testify against him. Not that they would have had a shred of credibility if they had.
A rap song blared from the sound system as a couple of seminude women with surgery-enhanced butts and breasts made love to skinny poles. Two others gyrated around the rim of the stage, collecting bills in their G-strings.
A familiar waitress whose name Travis couldn’t remember sashayed up to him. “Business or pleasure, copper boy?”
“What do you think?”
“Business, but a girl can hope. Are you looking for Georgio?”
“For starters.”
“Is it about that boy who got shot up in Oak Cliff last night?”
Now she had Travis’s full attention. “What do you know about that?”
“Nothing, I just figured that’s what brought you here.”
Travis had a hunch she knew more than she was admitting. He was about to question her further when he noticed a woman at the bar trying to peel a man’s grip from her right wrist.
“Let go of me,” she said, her voice rising above the din.
The man held tight while his free hand groped her breast. “I just want to be friends.”
“You’re hurting me.”
Travis stormed to the bar. “You heard the woman. Move on, buddy.”
“Why don’t you mind your own business?”
“I am.” He pulled the ID from the breast pocket of his blue pullover. “Dallas Police. Back off or I snap a nice metal bracelet on your wrist and haul you down to central lockup.”
A thin stream of spittle made its way down the man’s whiskered chin as his hands fell to his sides. Wiping it away with his shirtsleeve, he slid off the barstool and stumbled backward.
“She’s the one you should be arresting. She came on to me,” he slurred.
Travis studied the woman and decided the drunk could be right. She was flaunting the trappings of a hooker, right down to a sexy pair of heels that made her shapely legs appear a mile long.
But one look into her haunted eyes and Travis doubted she was looking to make a fast buck on her back. She had a delicate, fragile quality about her that suggested she’d be more at home in a convent than here shoving off drunks. Even the exaggerated makeup couldn’t hide her innocence.
If he had to guess, he’d say she was here trying to get even with some jerk who had cheated on her. That didn’t make it any less dangerous for her to be in this hellhole.
“Party’s over, lady. I’m calling for a squad car to take you home.”
“I have a car.”
