Cry No More by Linda Howard Page A

‘Diaz,’ they’re talking about the killer. I’m not surprised his name surfaced when you asked questions, but I’m damn glad you won’t have to deal with him.”
    She would gladly deal with Satan himself if it would help her find Justin. “All I want is information,” she said, rubbing her forehead. “I don’t even care about justice anymore. I just want to ask some questions. If you do find a Diaz who might have been involved ten years ago, can you get word to him that I won’t turn him in, that I just want to talk?” That was a lie. Regardless of what the one-eyed man’s name was, she wanted to kill him. After she talked to him, of course. But she would do whatever she had to do, and if letting him walk was necessary, she’d let him walk. She would hate it, but she’d do it.
    “I can give it a shot, but don’t get your hopes up. And do me a favor.”
    “If I can.”
    “Go through me if you need to contact anyone, or find out anything. It’s too dangerous for you to be going after these guys yourself. It would be better to keep your name out of it entirely, so you aren’t on their radar.”
    “My name isn’t in the phone book. The address on my business cards is Finders’ address.”
    “That helps, but it wouldn’t hurt to put another layer of protection between you and them. I know how to deal with them.”
    “But isn’t that putting you in danger? I’ve built a reputation through Finders for years now that all we’re interested in is recovery of people, not in police work, so why would they trust you more than they would me?”
    “Because of some people I know,” he said flatly. His voice softened. “Let me help, Milla. Let me do this.”
    Instinct told her not to take his offer, that doing so would allow him to get closer to her than she knew was smart. He wasn’t couching his offer in personal terms, but the tone of his voice was very personal. On the other hand, he was an asset she could use; he’d found out more about Diaz—assuming they were talking about the same man—in one night than she had in two years.
    “All right,” she said, letting her reluctance show. “But I don’t like it.”
    “I can tell.” There was a smile in his voice now that he had gotten his way. “Trust me, it’s the smart thing to do.”
    “I know it’s smart for me; I just hope it isn’t a bad move for you. I can’t thank you enough for going to all this trouble—”
    “Sure you can. If you’re in town tomorrow night, have dinner with me.”
    “No,” she said firmly. “The reason I gave you last night still stands.”
    “Ah well, it was worth a try.” He smoothly changed subjects. “When is your flight to Dallas?”
    “Two something.”
    “Are you coming back tonight?”
    “No, I’ll stay the night and catch the first flight out tomorrow morning.”
    “Take care, then, and I’ll talk to you when you get back.”
    “I will. And thank you. Oh—” she said, abruptly thinking of something. “Did you find out Diaz’s first name? The assassin Diaz, that is. We can use that to sort out all these rumors we hear, and discard the ones pertaining to him.”
    “No, I didn’t get his first name,” he said, but there was the tiniest hesitation that again made her think he knew more than he was telling.
    Since he was going out of his way to help her, though, she wasn’t about to give him grief about his overprotectiveness. She thanked him again, said good-bye, and began preparing for her trip to Dallas.
    She had laundry to do, bills to write checks for, some light housekeeping; outside of laundry, dust was her biggest cleaning problem. But she liked her house to look nice and smell nice, so she made the effort. Every week she freshened the potpourri she had in each room, so whenever she came home she was greeted by a wonderful scent. Sometimes that was the only comfort she could find.
    By nine-thirty, her last load of laundry was in the clothes dryer. She put stamps on the envelopes she