Sin on the Strip (29 page)

“Fancy,” he said, motioning her toward it with that damn gun. “Turn it on.”

Keep stalling
. “The controls are in the ornate box on the bookshelf beside it.”

“Get them.”

Doing as he asked, she risked a peak at Shannon. Her eyes fluttered open and their eyes met.

Slowly, she opened the box and drew out the remote control. She turned and passed it to him, not caring that her hand trembled. Better he think her weak. Better he didn't suspect a gun was at her back.

He declined the remote. “You do it.”

Again she turned and made her way to the console. There she opened the doors, stepped back and pushed the power button. Being on satellite it took several seconds to kick in, but she hadn't needed to change channels. Taking up almost all of the fifty-two–inch screen was Jason's face.

Wright listened, eyes bulging, as the reporter repeated what they'd been saying all afternoon. Jason Teel had been arrested and charged for the killing of at least two women in Vegas and assaulting another.

Maggie tuned out the rest, kept her focus on Wright. She watched closely for a reaction she could use to her advantage, hoping for all she was worth that he didn't fly off the handle and kill her and Shannon right then and there.

Her entire body recoiled at the loud pop and sound of breaking glass. Something sizzled then tendrils of smoke snaked through the broken picture frame, the smell of burning wires filling the room.

She drew a shuddering breath. Better the big screen than her or Shannon.

“What did he go and do that for? Ah, Jason,” he said, as if his son were in the room. “All I wanted was for him to get my dad's chain back.” He pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead. “They're so fucking stupid,” he screamed.

The chain. Jason had gone after Rhonda for the chain, but why did he slash her neck?

The chain that was in her front pocket. For whatever reason it was important to this bastard.

“All right. No time to play. Damn shame. I was looking forward to it. Let's get this over with. I need to get to Jason. Her?” he aimed his gun at Shannon, whose panicked gaze shot to Maggie. “Or you? Which one first?”

She had to get to her gun. But if she made a play for it here, he might very well shoot Shannon before Maggie had a chance to pull it out of her pants.

She took a chance, had to for Shannon's sake. “The chain,” she started, “the cross that Jason wore.”

He swung the gun at Maggie, his eyes narrowed. “What about it?”

At least she'd succeeded in drawing his attention. Now she had to keep it.

“Jason lost it at the club. Rhonda found it.”

“I shouldn't have lost my temper with him. He . . . he doesn't know better, but he knew what it meant to me.”

“It's important?” she said, confirming what she'd been hoping for.

“Do you know where it is?” he asked. “Hand it over and maybe I'll kill you first, so you won't have to watch what I do to your friend.”

Maggie bit back the caustic reply on her tongue. Her bullet in his head would do just fine. The slimy piece of . . . “I have it. The nurse at the hospital gave it to me.”

“Give it to me, and I promise to kill you quick.”

Asshole
. “It's in my bedroom,” she offered, and added “in my safe,” just in case he considered killing her then retrieving his precious chain.

He glanced down at Shannon, who was shaking her head. Before Maggie could react, the bastard hit Shannon, snapping her neck back. Maggie lunged forward, so focused on her friend, she didn't see him move until it was too late. His backhand stung Maggie's face.

“Not a good idea,” he said. “Now, lead the way. You're friend isn't going anywhere.”

 

Her tongue swept to the corner of her mouth and she tasted blood. Seething, she steadied her breath and straightened her shoulders. She'd be no good to either of them if she didn't stay in control. She took one last look at her best friend, trying to convey in a few short seconds how much she meant to her. Hoping she'd get the chance to tell Shannon she loved her, Maggie turned and, with Wright at her heels, headed for her bedroom. What she would do when she got there she wasn't sure, but she only needed him to be distracted for a few seconds, the few seconds that separated herself and Shannon from death.

“Why is the chain so important to you?” Maybe, just maybe he'd give her something she could use.

“It's the only thing I have left of my father. He wore it all his life. He said it would protect him, he said, from the evil in this world.”

How ironic. “You gave it to Jason.”

“I wanted him . . . I wanted him to know I loved him. We hadn't seen each other since he was ten. He barely remembered me, thanks to that bitch. She was always sick, too sick to look after me.”

“Jason,” Maggie corrected, pushing the handle on her bedroom door, the metal cold against her hand.

“What?” he snapped.

She turned, needing her back to face away from him and considered when to go for her gun.

“You said, ‘. . . look after me.' You meant Jason.”

“Who else? Where's the chain?” he said impatiently.

“In my closet.”

“Go get it.”

“Jason's mom was sick?” she asked, taking a few steps backward before doing as she was told.

He snorted. “Sick in the head maybe. Nah, but she tried to keep him from me. He was the only family I had left after my dad,” his words began to trail. “After she died, h–h–he got sick. It was her fault,” he said with enough venom to make Maggie shiver.

“She was always sick, always needed taking care of. I tried to help. I did. She was too sick. Too sick,” he repeated, talking to himself more than Maggie. Wright was off in his own demented little world. Was it too much to hope he'd stay there?

Before entering her closet, she stuck a thumb in her front pocket, hoping he wouldn't notice. He didn't say anything. Inside, she flipped on the many pot lights and knelt in front of her safe. Slipping her hand inside her jeans, she felt the cross and snagged it. She then dialed the combination, opened the heavy steel door with her right hand and pretended to pull the chain out with her left. She turned on one knee and dangled it from her fingers. The overhead lights caught in the gold and the small body of Christ embellishing the cross glittered. His eyes widened and he smiled, reaching for it as Maggie slid her hand under Beck's shirt.

Finger on the trigger, she whipped out the gun.
May God forgive me
. She shot Wright.

He stumbled, falling out of her closet and into her bedroom.

She stood and followed, her knees threatening to give way. Not now, she thought, not now. The familiar adrenaline rush made her hand shake. Wright hadn't fallen. He was staring at her, eyes wide with disbelief, his chest stained red. Grimacing, he held his gun up. He fired and missed, then fell forward with the sound of a third shot. The hole in the back of his head oozed blood onto the white carpet. A scream lodged in Maggie's throat, her mouth open but silent, the sight of his shattered skull gruesome. She couldn't breathe.

“Maggie!” Beck rushed into the room, a gun in his hand. “Are you all right?” he demanded, scanning for injuries. He spotted her lip. “He hurt you,” he said, a cold rage darkening his eyes.

Her gaze darted from Beck to the dead man. The dead man was bleeding all over the carpet, gray matter spilling from his head. She ran to her bathroom, emptying her stomach into the toilet.

When she was done, her entire body trembled as reality set in.

“Better?” Beck stood in the doorway.

She nodded, still unable to speak, but at least able to draw breath into her lungs.

“Can I hold you?” he asked, his words heavy with emotion.

“I—shot—him,” she said, her words catching.

“You did good, Maggie.”

“He . . . he killed all those women. Not Jason. Not Jason.” She shook her head. “He did.”

“I know, Maggie. I know,” he pleaded, opening his arms.

She stumbled into his embrace, not once feeling the coward for it.

“Oh my God,” her head shot up, “Shannon.”

“We've got her,” Horace answered from the bedroom.

Still holding her, Beck turned them sideways. Two SWAT officers entered behind Horace.

“Thank God,” she whispered, letting her head fall onto Beck's shoulder and closing her eyes.

In the background, she heard movement as more people entered the room. A radio squawked as messages were relayed and a male voice asked for an ambulance. For a brief second she thought that ambulance was for her. Then she remembered she'd shot a man. Something that she hadn't been able to do five years ago. Desilva had struck her face so many times, she hadn't been able to see out of one eye. And yet, after they'd struggled, she'd reached his gun first—but she hadn't pulled the trigger.

He'd threatened to rape her after he'd done the same to the twenty other women he'd been holding for transportation. Then he'd killed those two women, and promised to kill Maggie too. Still she couldn't pull the trigger. Why? What was different now?

“Maggie, darlin', let me see if you're all right.”

“No, I'm good,” she said, hanging onto to him for dear life.

He chuckled. “I didn't ask you if you were good,” he said, using the words she'd once used on him.

Easing her hold, she drew back and gave him a shaky smile. “You think you're funny?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Asshole.” She attempted a smile, but threatening tears made her press her lips together.

“Let's get out of Cooper's way,” he suggested and kissed her forehead, his warm lips comforting.

On the way out she glanced over her shoulder. Jason's father lay sprawled on her bedroom floor and she was thankful her stomach was empty. Horace met them in the hallway and let her know Shannon was on her way to the hospital to get checked out.

 

Outside, Beck retrieved a patio chair and made her sit while he grabbed one for himself.

With strong hands, he pulled her face to his and kissed her. Lifting his lips from her mouth, he rested his forehead on hers. “I should have gotten here sooner.”

“As long as you came.” In the end, that's all that really mattered.

If she hadn't been so hell-bent on proving her father wrong, maybe she wouldn't have been so against asking for help. She only wished she'd learned that lesson years earlier. She couldn't discount the successes she'd had with her dancers, but still, knives in her face aside, she missed her street kids. One slimy bastard had taken that from her. And she'd allowed it.

Horace had known the truth, had even suggested counseling. Maggie had stubbornly refused. How do you confide that you wished you'd killed a man, dreamt you had the courage to pull the trigger and end a life, no matter how richly deserved? Some might have turned the other cheek. She wanted revenge. Now the sleaze she'd put in prison had gone after her dancers.

A
s Christian waited for Ryan to answer his call, he watched the paramedics examine a very disoriented Maggie. He couldn't help but smile. Stubbornly, she batted at their hands when they tried to put antiseptic on her cut lip.

Cooper and his men were in the house gathering evidence and disposing of the pile of shit in Maggie's bedroom. They'd gotten word Jason would be remanded into the custody of the house director. He'd finally talked, confirming what Maggie had told them. After borrowing the group home's car, he went looking for his father's chain. Over the years, caregivers had tried to teach him how to drive and had given up when they realized Jason wasn't up to the task.

Unfortunately, some of what they'd taught him stuck, but agitated, he'd gotten the pedals and gears mixed up, putting the car into reverse when he meant to go forward. When questioned about the slashes to Rhonda's neck, he'd explained how his father had done it to protect a girl from demons. Jason had wanted the same for Rhonda. Afraid of being punished, he'd hidden in the group home's garden shed, where the police found him.

Finally, Ryan decided to answer his phone. “Sheppard.”

“Hey, I need favor,” he said.

“What else is new?”

He ignored the sarcasm. “One of Juan Desilva's sons died last March. Any way of finding out if it was a hit?”

“What are you thinking?”

“I think the diamonds found with Desilva five years ago were Sorrentino's, and knowing that garbage, he'd want restitution. Maybe the kid decided to take over Daddy's business. Only he wasn't doing such a good job. Wright told Maggie that Desilva blamed her for his son's death. Desilva wasn't there to protect his kid. Instead of blaming himself, he went after Maggie. His son's death coincides with Sorrentino visiting the jail, and shortly after that Wright was released and went after his first victim.”

“I'll see what Monty can find out.”

“Thanks.”

“No problem. And Christian . . .”

“Yes?”

“I assume you'll be taking some time off?”

He glanced back at Maggie. She flinched as a cotton swab touched her lip. Christian winced in response. Unsure how to answer Ryan he said, “I'll call you.”

Christian met Maggie's eyes. He wanted nothing more than to hold her and kiss her senseless. She'd held her own with a psychotic bastard and won. Torn between loving her and wanting to strangle her, he had to admire her determination. If she ever did it again, he'd lock her in her bedroom and never let her out.

Cleared by the paramedics, they headed to the hospital to see Shannon. In the car, he told her how the FBI would reopen the file on Claire. “Forensics has come a long way, and with any luck they'll get a DNA match from the evidence recovered at the scene.” He didn't need proof, he knew the bastard whose head he'd just blown off had killed his sister.

“Maybe this will offer your mother some peace,” she said.

He doubted this would save his mother, but at the very least, it might give her closure. Something that, until Maggie, he hadn't much cared about.

After depositing Shannon at her loft with Wendy and Alice, Christian took Maggie to the Bellagio and hired a crew to clean up her place once the cops finished.

“You don't have to do this,” she said, complaining about the luxurious suite.

Art deco décor wasn't really his thing, but he knew that the way she stood in front of the floor to ceiling window, admiring the Vegas strip, he'd made the right choice.

“It could be a few days before the police release your house,” he said, wrapping her in the safety of his arms. “You like the lights, don't you?”

She sighed and leaned her weight into him. “Some people think they're gaudy. Me, I don't know, it's like on the brightly lit streets, nothing bad can happen.” She gave a self-deprecating laugh. “My own nightlight. Odd, isn't it?”

“Not so much.” He'd wondered why she'd tried so hard to maintain the tough façade. A surplus of balls could get a person killed—came close to killing her. So to say he was relieved by her admission was an understatement.

Moving her hair to one side, he kissed her neck, grateful to feel her pulse under his lips. She shivered. He wanted more. But the day had done him in. When he believed Maggie would be the killer's next victim, the kid who'd listened to his mother's sobbing, who regretted not ratting out his sister, had come back in spades. So he knew he didn't have the mental strength to simply stop at a kiss. He needed Maggie too much. “Get out of these clothes,” he told her.

Her hands tightened around his biceps. “Beck?”

“Shower,” he cleared his throat, as if that would be enough to tame his raging hard-on. “You've got blood on your, and umm, my shirt?” He led her through the bedroom and into the vestibule separating the two bathrooms.

“Sorry,” she said, following. “I had to wear something baggy to hide my gun.”

“Gun?” he all but shouted. “You went in there with your own gun? Damn. I thought . . .” he dragged his fingers through his hair. “I don't know what I thought.”

She looked at him as if he'd just said the dumbest thing in the world. “How else was I going to get Shannon out?”

“Oh, I don't know, calling Cooper, or hey, how about this—me? Ever think of that?” Sarcasm was going to get him nowhere, but damn, she had to learn to activate her brain before her heart.

“There was no time. Besides, I sent you a text.”

He shook his head. “I didn't get any text.”

“Yes—I—uh—I know. It didn't deliver.” She shrugged apologetically. “I need a new phone.”

“You need more than a new phone.”

“Are you going to lecture me?” she asked, more curious than mad.

“I might.” He hadn't when she'd gone after Hannah because he'd understood Maggie's motives, but this wasn't the same. He knew how frantic she'd been. Hell, he couldn't blame her. But if there'd ever been a time to wait for him or the police, this was it.

“What I did is no different from what you do.”

Was she really going to compare what he did to that insane stunt she just pulled? “I'm trained. You?”

She headed for the bathroom then turned, hands on her hips. “He had Shannon.” Like that was enough of an excuse.

“We'd have figured something out.”

“He told me to come alone, and I left you a note,” she countered.

“Yeah,” he scoffed “the only smart thing you did.”

“Better than nothing,” she threw back, slamming the door and, with a soft click, locked it.

If he slept with her again it would complicate things, but even pissed off, when he heard the spray of water hit flesh—hers—he wanted to break the door off its hinges and join her. She was already under his skin. Anymore and he'd be making a fool of himself, professing his love and devotion like some lovesick teenager. They weren't kids. Then again, maybe he was being too cynical . . . or too ridiculously hopeful. Trouble followed her like a dog to country ham.

Needing his own cold shower, he walked into his own bathroom, stripped and let water rain over him. Remembering the first time he touched Maggie's naked body, he turned the water to cold and tried to drown his desire.

A short time later, she, in a fluffy hotel bathrobe, hair combed but wet, he, with a towel wrapped around his waist, emerged at the same time. Exchanging wry glances, she went into the living room.

“You know there's another robe in there.” She pointed behind him, her gaze darting from the knot in his towel to the bathroom and back to him.

“I'm not a robe kind of guy.” Too bad she wasn't sitting, because she'd be crossing those sexy legs of hers. “How was your shower?” He'd known how his was—lonely.

Sitting, she lifted her feet and balled her knees into her arms. “I had some time to think.”

Was that a good or bad thing? “And?”

She met his eyes. “Do you think Desilva knew Wright was a serial killer?”

“I think the bastard lucked out. Wright would have kept killing regardless of Juan Desilva. You were just a convenient means to an end, and a lucrative one.”

“That doesn't change the fact that those women died because of me. And I hired Jason. I thought I was doing him a favor. And here I thought I knew people.”

He sat beside her, considered wrapping his arms around her but figured he needed to get this out first. “I don't think you got the kid wrong. Cooper said he was scared shitless. Looks like his father put him in your club to keep tabs on your dancers and to get a list of your employees. Complicated stereo equipment isn't Jason's only forte. He admitted borrowing your computer. Wright used Jason's friendship with your dancers to lure them. He had no idea what his father was doing.”

“He
hurt
Rhonda,” she said.

And Maggie. “That was an accident. It traumatized him speechless.”

“Is he going to be all right?”

“Can't help but care, can you?”

“Like you said, he had no clue what his father was up to.” She fell silent, thinking. And Christian could tell that more than Jason was on her mind.

“What is it, Maggie?”

Her eyes closed, and for a long-drawn-out minute he thought she wouldn't answer.

Then she met his worried gaze. “I know Wright would have found other victims to kill. I get that. I do. But,” she added, “if I'd had the courage to shoot Desilva five years ago, this horrible chain of events wouldn't have played out. I wouldn't have bought Heart's Desire and I'd have kept counseling on the streets, instead of hiding behind the club.”

“Wright was killing women long before you—. Wait. What? You own the club?” he asked, too stunned to say anything smarter. “How did that get past me?”

“I'm clever,” she offered tentatively. “It was Shannon,” she admitted. “I lent her the money on paper, and she,” Maggie used air quotes, “purchased the club. You have to know what you're doing to trace it back to me. Shannon knew how to hide my name. I couldn't risk anyone finding out that Reverend Hopewell's daughter owns a strip club. My friends thought if I let the women come to me, then I would still feel like I was doing something.” She paused, swallowing hard. “After the run-in with Desilva, I'd have panic attacks every time I went to work. After I couldn't pull the trigger and shoot the bastard.”

“Come here.” Unwrapping her arms from around her knees, he pulled her legs across his lap, cuddling her close to him. “I saw the file. It gave me PTSD just reading it.”

“Horace made me see a therapist, but counselors don't make good patients. Once I got a handle on the nightmares, I stopped going.”

He wished she hadn't, but it was her call. If it had been him, he doubted anyone could get his ass on a couch. “But you were left with the panic attacks?”

“The panic attacks, no way to reach out to the cases I'd left behind, and a very angry father.”

Enjoying the feel of her face, her breath as she spoke against his naked chest, he rubbed her arm. “Is that when you and he parted ways?”

“He tried to convince me to find another way. Not that he liked what I did in the first place. But by then I'd gotten to know the women in the club. My grandmother's money could help them. There was so much of it. I don't put them through medical school because most of my girls don't have the educational background. So their class schedules allow them to work part-time. At the club or somewhere else, I insist on it. The ride can't be totally free, or it means nothing. I send anyone who needs rehab out of state, so they can be somewhat anonymous. When they're ready, they decide the next step. Some, like Heather, stay, the rest I see from time to time, like my caterer, or they work at another of our businesses.”

Her fingers traced the ridges across his abdomen as she began to relax. He felt a twinge of guilt, because if she looked down, their conversation would be over. But for the first time, he truly understood why she worked in the club. “Desilva. It's why you asked how I felt about shooting someone. Maybe why you were so determined to take on Wright?”

“Maybe. I think I'd have gone after him no matter what. He had Shannon. But a part of me had to prove something to myself.”

How he wished she didn't have that need. “And did you?”

“My therapist said I could take one of two paths. I could let my fears control me, let them consume me, or I could take back control. I couldn't go back to work, so I guess my staying connected to the group home was my way of taking some control. Now I know it wasn't. But after today, I can put Juan Desilva behind me.”

“Good. But you know you do a lot of good at the club. You don't need to be on the streets.”

She was silent.

“Maggie?” If she hadn't hung up her wings, they were going to have a serious talk. “Are you thinking about going back to counseling?” Please someone tell him she wasn't, she wasn't making butting heads with pimps a daily event. How long before no one made it in time to save her ass? If he'd lost her to her own brash reactions . . . well, had she learned to think before reacting? Look where it had gotten his sister, mother, the women he'd been paid to bail out, Samantha Wiseman. Maggie couldn't end up like them. It would destroy him.

“I'm considering it,” she said.

He pushed her down on the couch and trapped her beneath his body as if somehow that would protect her. Her warm hands splayed over his bare chest. He wanted to strip her naked, make love to her until she couldn't stand and then demand she go help the Girl Scouts. “You're going to get yourself killed,” he growled.