Dark Rivers of the Heart

Studying the photo, Roy wondered how young Spencer Grant had been when he'd suffered such a grievous wound. Just a boy, apparently. "The poor kid," he said.
        "The poor, poor kid with a face as damaged as that?
        What psychological burdens does he carry?"
        Frowning, Wertz said, "I thought this was a bad guy, mixed up in terrorism somehow?"
        "Even bad guys," Roy said patiently, "deserve compassion. This man has suffered. You can see that. I need to get my hands on him, yes, and be sure that society's safe from him-but he still deserves to be treated with compassion, with as much mercy as possible."
        Davis and Wertz stared uncomprehendingly.
        But Nella Shire said, "You're a nice man, Roy."
        Roy shrugged.
        "-LNo," she said, "you really are. It makes me feel good to know there are men like you in law enforcement."
        The heat of a blush rose in Roy's face. "Well, thank you, that's very kind, but there's nothing special about me."
        Because Nella was clearly not a lesbian, even though she was as much as fifteen years older than he, Roy wished that at least one feature about her was as attractive as Melissa Wicklun's exquisite mouth. But her hair was too frizzy and too orange. Her eyes were too cold a blue, her nose and chin too pointed, her lips too severe. Her body was reasonably well proportioned but not exceptional in any regard.
        "Well," Roy said with a sigh, "I'd better Pay a visit to this Mr. Grant, ask him what he was doing in Santa Monica last night."
        Sitting at the computer in his Malibu cabin but prowling deep into the Nevada Gaming Commission in Carson City, Spencer searched the file of current casino-worker permits by asking to be 'yen the names of all card dealers who were female, between the ages of twenty-eight and thirty, five feet four inches tall, one hundred ten to one hundred twenty pounds, with brown hair and brown eyes. Those were sufficient parameters to result in a comparatively small number of candidates-just fourteen. He directed the computer to print the list of names in alphabetical order.
        He started at the top of the printout and summoned the file on Janet Francine Arbonhall. The first page of the electronic dossier that appeared on the screen featured her basic physical description, the date on which her work permit had been approved, and a full-face photograph.
        She looked nothing like Valerie, so Spencer exited her file without reading it.
        He called up another file: Theresa Elisabeth Dunbury. Not her.
        Bianca Marie Haguerro. Not her, either. (' orrine Sense Huddleston. No.
        Laura Linsey Langston. No.
        Rachael Sarah Marks. Nothing like Valerie.
        Jacqueline Ethel Mung. Seven down and seven to go.
        Hannah May Rainey. On the screen, Valerie Ann Keene appeared, her hair dime the way she had worn it at The Red Door, lovely but unsmiling.
        Spencer ordered a complete printout of Hannah May Rainey's file, which was only three pages long. He read it end to end while the woman continued to stare at him from the computer.
        Under the Rainey name, she had worked for over four months of the previous year as a blackjack dealer in the casino of the Mirage Hotel in Las Vegas. Her last day on the job had been November 26, not quite two and a half months ago, and according to the casino manager's report to the commission, she had quit without notice.
        Thewhoever "they" might be-must have tracked her down on the twenty-sixth of November, and she must have eluded them as they were reaching out for her, just as she eluded them in Santa Monica.
        In a corner of the parking garage beneath the agency's building in downtown Los Angeles, Roy Miro had a final word with the three agents who would accompany him to Spencer Grant's house and take the man into custody. Because their agency did not officially exist, the word "custody" was being stretched beyond its usual definition; "kidnapping" was a more accurate description of their intentions.
        Roy had no problem with either term. Morality was relative, and nothing done in the service of correct ideals could be a crime.
        They were all carrying Drug Enforcement Agency credentials, so Grant would believe that he was being taken to a federal facility to be questioned-and that upon arrival there, he would be permitted to call an attorney. Actually, he was more likely to see