Sin on the Strip (17 page)

“You and I see it that way. Knowing her, she saw it differently. It doesn't matter. What matters is that we find her. Remember the white Durango.”

Christian gripped his phone. “Yes,” he said warily.

“Heather Mackenzie's car keys were found by her car, specks of white paint embedded in the metal, barely noticeable. The paint is from a 2003 white Durango. Nothing is certain, but I reread the coroner's report. The girl had bruises on the inside of several fingers of her right hand. Like she'd been holding keys and someone had squeezed her fingers to get her to drop them. Young girl, parking lot. She'd readied herself for an attack, with the only thing she had. In the struggle, maybe she scratched his car?”

“Maybe.” Either way, Christian wasn't taking any chances. If the bastard was going after Maggie, well, then that was another reason to kill him.

M
aggie sat quietly as Shannon laid into her, going so far as to bully her into compliance. It had been a year since her last one, but the repetitive lecture had grown so familiar with Maggie, she'd learned to tune it out to keep her sanity. Her friend was right. When Shannon finally took a deep breath and stopped pacing, Maggie smiled and patted the couch beside her. “Done?”

“Not even close.” She glowered.

The bright morning sun streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the loft made it, thankfully, difficult to see the ferocious scowl that always accompanied Shannon's lectures. If Maggie didn't know the hard-nosed woman loved her, she'd have been scared. Lucky for Maggie, Shannon's barnyard bark was all bluster.

“The whole reason behind the club,” Shannon ranted, refusing to sit, “was to keep your sorry butt out of danger, and off the streets.
You
,” she wagged a finger at Maggie, “if you need to fulfill this savior complex, do it in the club. Look at your face. Have you lost your mind? Have you? Really? Tell me, because I think maybe we should just buy your casket now. I don't think I'll have the courage to do it afterward.”

Maggie flinched at the harsh words. “Sorry,” was all she managed to say.

“Yeah, yeah,” Shannon grumbled. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?” she repeated, resuming her pacing and long-winded scolding.

Not wanting to think about what it could have cost her to go after Hannah, Maggie ignored Shannon and glanced around her friend's loft. Everything was so pristine you were afraid to enter the industrial-style living space lest your breath soil anything. The entire unit had an eclectic flavor, but sitting on this stiff, contemporary white sofa, you'd never know the rest of the place was cozy. The hard lines of the room were representative of Shannon's work persona—don't-mess-with-me lawyer—and right now a very irate friend.

Maggie had come here to relax, but should have known this was coming. Would Shannon even notice if she got up and went into the kitchen? Unlike the living room, the Connecticut kitchen was a Martha Stewart knockoff. To the untrained eye, Shannon was a gourmet chef. A closer look would reveal that the appliances, expect for the blender, had never been used. This was Shannon's wannabe persona, the one she never gave time to.

“You done with the lecture?”

As if remembering Maggie was in the room, Shannon finally shut up. “Let's just say I'm postponing the remainder.”

Again, she patted the couch beside her and this time her best friend took the seat with a loud huff.

“Mags, I don't know what I'd do if I lost you. You're all I have.”

“That's not true. There's Alice and Wendy.”

She nodded. “Yes, but they're not you.” Shannon eyes glassed over, breaking Maggie's heart.

“Don't cry. I'm fine, only a few bruises.”

“And the next time?”

Maggie turned her head, unable to reply.

“You promised—no more streets. Focus on the ones that come to you.”

“She's a kid.” The guilt that had made itself a home in Maggie's psyche waved hello. “You can't save them all.”

She'd told herself that a hundred times. Then she'd be walking down the street and spot a runaway. The well-worn clothes were often a good indication, but the expression worn like battered armor was the dead giveaway. Inside their streetwise façade, buried so deep sometimes, they themselves didn't recognize it for what it was—fear. And they didn't have a club to hide in.

“Why would you dump the cops?” Shannon's reenergized ranting cut into Maggie's thoughts. “There's a killer on the loose tracking your dancers. I still can't believe it.”

Neither did Maggie. Truthfully, and she'd never admit it to another living soul, part of her, a big part, welcomed the police protection. But her parents were coming. “How do I explain a plainclothes police officer following me around if my parents see him? Chances are slim, but it's a chance I'm not willing to take. If the media sees him with me and spots the guard, then what?”

They'd be gone in a few days. Now all she had to do was stay clear of the club, and Beck. Exactly which one would be hardest to do, she wasn't sure.

“Okay, enough lectures. How did your meeting go with Mr. Beck?”

“Good. I mean fine, better than expected.”

“Oh?” Shannon's lawyer eyebrow went up. “Do tell.”

“Don't,” Maggie scolded, deciding she didn't have the energy to tell Shannon about last night. “I just meant that we developed an understanding. He knows who my father is and what I do at the club.”

And regardless of how they'd left things, she believed he understood her, the part she'd shown him anyway. But what had happened between them couldn't happen again. As Shannon said, there was a killer stalking her dancers, and her parents were distraction enough.

Shannon looked more concerned than surprised. “I knew it was only a matter of time. That company he works for has a reputation for not fooling around.”

“He's promised not to go public. I believe him.”

“And after this is over?”

Over? “When they catch this monster, Beck gets a new case and moves on.” On to a new case, and out of her life.

“You don't seem happy about that?”

Maggie knew better than to try and lie to Shannon. So she didn't. “Two of the women who worked for me are dead. And I don't know how many more he'll kill before he's caught.” The idea that he would kill again made her sick. “Do you honestly expect me to be happy about anything right now?”

“Okay, I'll give you that,” she said, thankfully accepting Maggie's explanation. “So, how can I help with your parents?”

“Mom said Dad wants to make peace. For her sake, I'm going to listen to what he has to say, but I need a place to stay. Wanna trade? If my name gets linked to these murders and reporters find out where I live . . . well I don't want my parents anywhere near there. The manager of Heart's Desire can't be linked to them.”

“Hey, I get it. So, I get your place, hot tub, pool and all?”

“Yup. But last time I saw my parents, they showed up a day early. So we have to do this today. Just in case.”

Shannon grinned.

There was no need to swap keys since they both had each other's. Thankfully, Shannon's apartment building was tighter than Fort Knox. Maggie would still be safe.

Her father had to make an appearance in Sacramento on Monday, so it would only be for a few days. Leave it to her mom to think that all the bad blood between Maggie and her father could be purged in two days. “So tell me, what do you mean ICU has a reputation?”

 

Christian wasn't certain what, if anything, he'd get out of the loser and maybe he was simply hoping to discover more about Maggie, but one thing was certain, if Juan Desilva was a free man, Maggie would be in deep, deep shit.

He'd read the report, knew she'd ended his operation and, most important to the scumbag in front him, she'd put him behind bars. Smuggling, kidnapping, first-degree murder and rape were but a few of the charges keeping Desilva off the streets and, thank fucking God, away from Maggie.

Cooper had called him early this morning, but by then Christian had already tracked Maggie to Shannon Joyce's loft. He didn't know why she was there, but he was grateful. That complex was obviously very secure. You had to pass two security gates, one at the driveway into the complex, and one inside before you were permitted to park your car. At the front doors, two security guards would toss your ass out if you weren't on the list. When Maggie's girlfriend had ignored Christian's persistent phone calls, he'd paid her a visit and now he was on that list. To be safe, he'd positioned his man to watch the place, freeing Christian to search out another piece to the puzzle.

Fuckers like this were the reason Christian joined the agency, and then why he signed on with Sheppard. One had given him the satisfaction of taking slime off the streets, the other justice.

The con leaned back in his chair, an elbow slung casually over the armrest. From the size of his guns, Desilva had made use of the five years he'd served and taken advantage of the exercise yard. His bald head, tattooed markings from neck down to who knew where, his lizard grin and vulture-like eyes would have scared off most women. So why hadn't it done a number on Maggie? She hadn't fled from this mother—she'd gone toe to toe. She needed a serious talking to.

“What is it exactly you think I'm going to tell you?” Desilva said.

It wasn't what he said, but how he it said it that made Christian's jaw clench.

“I'm serving life. Do you expect me to celebrate?”

The calm with which he spoke raised the hair on the back of Christian's neck.

“Miss Anderson isn't one of my favorite people, but as you can see,” he motioned with his hand, indicating the small visitation room the prison had graciously offered, “there isn't much I can do about it.”

Christian opened the file the warden had supplied and skimmed over the names of visitors who'd dropped by to say hello to the shit-for-brains seated in front of him. Soon he'd have everything from their social security numbers to how many times a day everyone on this list took a crap. However, one name in particular stood out. He'd never forget it, because he'd put the bastard in jail himself.

“Wow,” he said, staring down at the paper in his hand. “Where does the time go? It feels like only yesterday when we slammed the cuffs around Sorrentino's wrists. Time must fly when scum are paying for their crime. And lookie what a pal he is. He's come to visit three times. Once last March.” He looked up at Desilva in time to see a beady eye twitch. “You must have been high on his priority list for him to putter on over here the day he got sprung.” He returned his attention to the names and continued. “Once to wish you Merry Christmas and again last month.”

“We go way back,” Desilva offered, a little too casually for Christian to believe the two men were mere friends.

Sorrentino was bigger than Desilva, with ties to the Bravata, the Russian mob, people with long memories if you pissed them off. “Must be way, way back for him to take time away from business,” and by business he meant smuggling and human trafficking, “to see you.”

Desilva shrugged. “Like I said, we go way back.”

Maggie had not only put a stop to Desilva's human trafficking, but the cops had also found a small fortune in diamonds. He'd be willing to bet Desilva had planned on doing what Christian had put Sorrentino away for. Diamonds didn't X-ray, diamonds didn't sound alarms in airports and there were plenty of cavities inside the human body to stash stones. And with those women scared for their lives, Desilva had had plenty of options. He'd also be willing to bet said stones didn't belong to Desilva.

So Christian let him drop the subject. He'd get no definitive answer, and ICU's database would tell him what he needed to know. Had Maggie gotten herself involved with the Russian mob? If so, why had they waited this long to exact revenge? He didn't like ruling out the possibility that same man was responsible for killing his sister, but he couldn't let his need for revenge blind him to new possibilities.

He flipped over the list of names and quickly scanned the next sheet. The yard wasn't the only thing Desilva had taken advantage of. “Looks like you have a thing for computers. You've logged more hours than any other inmate.”

“You got to keep the mind,” he pointed to his head then opened his arms, puffing out his chest “and the body active. Or they'll wither and die. I have no intention of dying.”

“You're in here for life,” Christian enjoyed pointing out.

“Doesn't mean it has to be an unproductive one. Now can we get on with this? I have a
New York Times
bestseller calling my name.”

Desilva made his skin crawl, and his gun finger itch.

“It must be hard, watching your empire go on without you. All that money and you can't spend it.” Christian wanted to piss him off, get him angry enough to loosen his tongue. Desilva wasn't the brightest candle on the cake.

He only smiled. “My sons will come of age soon. All is not wasted. They'll learn from my mistake,” he said, lingering on
mistake
.

Desilva had three sons, but March of last year the eldest had died under suspicious circumstances. “The two you have left?”

A muscle twitched in Desilva's jaw. Christian had cracked his veneer.

“If we're through?” The felon stood. “Say hello to Miss Anderson, and tell her I'm glad she didn't have the balls to pull that trigger.”