0758215630 (R) (17 page)

Five minutes later, luscious dark coffee in hand, she dialed Hot and High.

Ten minutes after that, her hand shaking, tears making black rivers of her mascara, she got it together enough to call Tommy.

Joe paid the cabby, joined April on the sidewalk, and looked up through the staggering August heat at the University Medical Center. Rusty Black was on the second floor, ICU.

Joe hoped to hell this visit was worth it, that they could get some kind of confirmation of what Cornie found in her mother’s things, and that April was right about Rusty “knowing everything.” He also wanted to hear back from Kit on the picture he’d taken from Worth’s apartment. If it did tie in with the postcard the kid had found, they’d at least have a direction to go in.

If Rusty Black could fill them in on the details of Phyllis’s love life—which he was beginning to think should be in the
Guinness Book of World Records
—and they could tie
that
into the card, things would be even better.

They were heading to the main entrance when April’s cell phone rang. She answered it and stopped so abruptly, he was two steps ahead of her before he noticed.

“When?” she said, shoving her hair behind her ear the way she always did when she was tense. “She was getting better. She was going to be okay. What happened?”

Whatever she was hearing, it wasn’t good. She looked like death. Joe waited, watched as she gave her full attention to the caller, her eyes widening before welling with tears. “Tommy, I’m so sorry.”

Finally, she nodded, her expression vacant, and said, “No. Leave that to me, I’ll tell her.” She clicked off the phone. When she lifted her gaze to his, her face was ashen. “Rusty’s dead.”

Joe put his hand on the back of his neck, shook his head. “Jesus,” he said. When he looked at her again, saw how wobbly she was, he took her arm and led her to a bench near the hospital entrance. “Sit,” he said—the single word a flashback to when she’d walked into his office just days ago. “Can I get you something? Water?”

“No. Thanks.”

“You sure you’re okay?”

She shook her head. “No. I’m not okay. Rusty was my friend. She was Phylly and Cornie’s friend. She was tough, smart, fun, and”—she swallowed—“she had the biggest heart in Vegas. I owe her. We all owe her.”

Still sitting on the bench, she looked around vacantly, a thousand expressions crossing her face at once, from confusion to sadness, grief to frustration—then tears. Tears that quickly gave way to anger. “But the last thing she’d want us to do is get weepy and useless.” She took in a breath, got to her feet. “We have to get back to the Sandstone. Tommy wants to talk to us, says it’s important, and I”—she took another, even deeper breath—“have to tell Cornie about Rusty.” She looked at her watch, her expression distracted, unfocused. “Raina’s dad will be dropping her off any time now and I want to be there.” She paused. “What happened to Rusty—it’s going to scare her.”

“She’s already scared. She’s just too stubborn to show it.”
Like you.

“But this . . .” She looked up at the hospital where the woman they’d intended to see now lay covered by a white sheet. “I’m not sure she can cope. Her mother running off . . . Now Rusty dying. It’s a lot for her to handle. And Phylly will be devastated.”

Joe was having a bit of
handling
problems himself. Not that he cared about Phyllis Worth. She’d saved April, but all in all, that seemed to be about it in the righteous department. He was having a hard time drumming up sympathy for a woman who left a friend to take the blows meant for her, running off to some guy rather than stay and face whatever music needed to be faced—and a mother who had no trouble leaving her young daughter alone and scared shitless.

Joe didn’t like cowards—and Phyllis Worth had all the hallmarks of one, a selfish one at that. In the end it was all about what was easiest for her. The world according to Phyllis Worth. April said he had issues. Not a chance. He didn’t know his father, and he didn’t know his mother, but he’d discovered there was something a lot worse—like finding out one of those missing parental units made your stomach turn. “The kid will handle it, because she doesn’t have a choice.” The words came out harder than he intended.

“Like you did.” Her look was blade sharp.

“Leave it alone, April.”

She didn’t. She went on. “I understand your feelings. At least I’m trying to, but you have to get it through that thick head of yours that Cornie and I love Phylly. She’s not perfect—who the hell is—but she did right by me and right by Cornie.”

Joe thought the last was debatable, but he wasn’t in the mood for a verbal war. “Fair enough,” he said. “Now let’s go.” He’d let the subject of Phyllis Worth drop; it was the best he could do. “I’ll get us a cab.” When he started his turn, she grabbed his arm, just as she had that day in his office when he booted her out.

“We need to talk,” she said.

“We talked last night.”

“I talked, you listened. Then we slept together and the talking stopped.”

“Yeah, I remember that part.” He slanted her a gaze, and she looked away briefly. For such a frank, strong, and sexually assertive woman
—Thank God
—she did have her bashful moments.

He saw a cab heading their way and lifted his hand. She grabbed his arm, pulled it down, and gave him one of her mulish looks. She had degrees of them, he’d noticed. This one hit pretty high on the scale. “I thought you wanted to be there for the kid,” he said.

“Damn it, her name is Cornelia,
Joseph
,” she said. “Or better yet, Cornie. I thought you at least had that figured out. She’s your sister, and no matter how many times you call her ‘the kid’ that isn’t going to change.” She still held his hand, but softened her voice to say, “She didn’t have anything to do with what Phylly did to you. She wasn’t there—in case you haven’t registered that pertinent fact.” She met his eyes, her face stern, but her tone was soft when she added, “Don’t you think it’s time you quit being such a horse’s ass? About Cornie—and about your mother?”

He liked her hand in his, but he didn’t like what she said—too damn right and logical. At least about the kid.

She cocked her head, one side of her hair shimmering gold under the brilliant sun, and waited for him to answer. Something in her face said this was a pass or fail question.

What Joe wanted was to reset the clock to pre-shower time and pick up where he and April left off—which had nothing to do with anybody’s mother. “Let’s just find the woman,” he said, “and worry about the horse’s ass part later.”

She looked at him a long time. “Don’t think I won’t hold you to that.”

Her cell phone rang again. She covered one ear and turned away from the traffic—and him. Two seconds later, she snapped her phone closed and looked up at him.

“Get the cab, Joe. Phylly just called Tommy.”

Chapter 17

Tommy was waiting for April and Joe in the 24/7 Bar at the Sandstone. Despite the early hour, he was nursing a drink, and even in the perpetual dimness of the bar, he looked angry and pale. He stood when they reached the table, and April wrapped her arms around him. “I’m so sorry, Tommy. We all loved her so much.”

He gave her a brief tight hug but immediately straightened away from her. Like his sister, he wasn’t much for sentimentality. “Yeah. Well, somebody sure as hell didn’t.”

“Do the police have anything . . . say anything?”

His sneer was slight, but his meaning was clear when he shook his head. “No. Just that it looks like whoever shot her the first time went back last night to finish the job.” He stopped, took a breath. “Used a fucking pillow.”

His words stunned her. She froze, couldn’t think. “I didn’t know. I thought . . .”

Tommy went on. “Don’t know how the bastard got in. Fucking security. Damned joke.” Tommy had a coffee in front of him. He lifted his cup and took a drink, the cup quaking in his grip.

April’s heart iced in her chest. Cold-blooded murder. A pillow held to Rusty’s beautiful face until her lungs screamed for air, until her generous heart stopped its beating. “Oh, my God.” Her eyes flooded with tears. Joe picked up a white cocktail napkin from the table and handed it to her.

“Seems like God was otherwise occupied last night,” Tommy said, looking away for a moment and swallowing hard.

“Tommy, I—” She had no idea what she was going to say, and was glad when he cut her off with a shake of his head.

“It’s okay.” He coughed and rolled his head, an obvious effort to leave the emotional part of this meeting behind.

Tommy Black was in his early fifties, a slight man with a thin face and graying hair above his temples, good-looking in a slick Las Vegas way. His claim to fame was a computer for a brain, an invisible set of X-ray eyes that could spot a bad play at a table in the next town, and some supposed heavyweight connections here and in Los Angeles, that everyone who knew Tommy thought were more boast than beef. Add to that he had a soft spot for Phylly that went way back and got softer with every “no” she said to him. April had asked Phylly once, why she didn’t take Tommy up on his offer, and Phylly said, “I love the guy, all right, but the thing is he doesn’t need it. He loves himself enough for both of us.” But despite his amorous intentions and Phylly’s lack of them, they were friends, Rusty their bond.
Rusty . . .
April took a deep breath and wiped away her tears with the napkin Joe had given her.

He put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed. Oh, how she wanted his arms around her, but now wasn’t the time or place.

Tommy coughed a couple of times, as if to clear his throat. “Like I said, I’ve got to go—meeting the cops at the hospital—so I don’t have a lot of time.” Tommy looked at Joe, raised a “who’s-he?” brow in April’s direction.

“This is Joe Worth,” she said, hesitated, then added, “Phylly’s son.” Weird how saying it aloud made her feel as if she were whistle-blowing a state secret.

“Yeah?” He studied Joe, his eyebrows raised. “Didn’t know she had a son.”

“Not surprised,” Joe said.

“You look like her some. Around the eyes.”

Joe said nothing.

“You helping to look for her?” he asked.

“Yes,” Joe said, adding as if to forestall further questioning, “I’m sorry about your sister. That’s rough—and damned ugly.”

Tommy nodded, his face grim. “It’ll be someone else’s
ugly,
real soon. I’ve already made the calls. Important people. Whoever killed my sister is going to pay. Big time.” Even in grief, Tommy puffed up.

April knew he was referring to the so-called mysterious sources he was always going on about. But as there was nothing to be said in reply to his threat, idle or otherwise, both she and Joe let it pass. “You said you heard from Phylly,” she said, thinking it best for Tommy if she led the conversation away from Rusty.

He nodded. “Sit down.” He gestured at the chairs around the table. They all sat, and he pulled one of his business cards from his pocket. “She must have had her radar on or something, because she called the business, looking for Rusty, less than five minutes after I’d told Leanne about Rusty’s passing.”

To April the word “passing” jarred, much too serene to describe what happened to Rusty. The word made it sound as if she’d died quietly and at peace instead of screaming for a last breath while her murderer held a pillow to her face. April shuddered.

Tommy went on, “When Leanne filled her in, Phylly called me. Crying about being sorry, going on about how it was all her fault. No idea what she was talking about. But this is where she called from, said something about getting on a ferry.” He passed the card across the table and flipped it over. There was a telephone number and an address on the back. “That was maybe an hour ago tops. I had one of the security guys run a check on the number. It’s a payphone in a place called West Vancouver. In British Columbia. Very ritzy, he says.” He looked at April. “The place mean anything to you?”

“No.” She shook her head, studied the number as if it were a sonar blip. It remained meaningless.

Joe looked at the card and frowned, but said nothing.

“So . . .” Tommy drawled, leaning back in his chair. “My sister gets herself killed because some creep is after Phylly. That right?” He looked mean and angry.

April didn’t know what to say, wasn’t sure of her truths. “It’s a possibility, Tommy. We don’t know for sure.”

“I’m thinking we do know,” he said. “According to Phylly, the creep’s name is Henry Castor.” He looked at her hard, searching for confirmation.

She shook her head. “I’ve never heard of him.”

“What about Allan? Victor Allan?”

April’s mind numbed, and the hair on her arms stood straight and icy, as if chilled by a sudden wind. She couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe.

Victor Allan
 . . .

She knew the name all right—he was the man who the black-eyed man had taken her to for shipment. She hadn’t heard the name aloud for over twenty years. Back then, Phylly said it was a game and they both had to play. They’d pretend the bad man didn’t exist, that he’d never been real—and the first one to ever speak his name again would lose the game. Phylly had given her a big hug, told her if she played the game good enough, she’d make “nasty, mean old Victor go so far a
w
ay he’d never come back.” Then, Phylly told her, she’d never have to be afraid again.

April had played the game with a vengeance since she was nine years old. And while she’d never forgotten the black-eyed man, she’d pushed Victor Allan—and his camera and ugly instructions—out of her universe.

Pretend he doesn’t exist. . .

“You okay?” Joe whispered from beside her, his deep voice laced with curiosity and concern.

She blinked, swallowed, and looked at him. He was blurred around the edges. She blinked again. “Yes . . . yes, I’m fine.” She shifted her hazy gaze to Tommy. “Where did you get that name?”

“Phylly said Castor worked for Allan,” Tommy said eying her closely. “I take it you know this Victor guy. So who the hell is he?”

“Yes, I . . . know him. From a long time ago. He was a—”
What was he?
She couldn’t think, her mind blocking the reloading of the nightmare, the blanks, surges, and confusion of it—the terror. A chill shimmied up her neck, and she barely suppressed a shudder. Who was Victor Allan?