Sin on the Strip (5 page)

“Bobby said I could push all the buttons myself today.”

“Wow, moving up in the business. You do a good job and I'll give you a raise.”

He, as expected, blushed. God love him, he was too cute for words. It warmed her heart to know he was her employee. Others may not approve of where he worked, but one thing remained true. His world had opened up and earning money went a long way to boost his confidence. Jason had dreams like everyone else. Being challenged should only be a jumpable hurdle.

“Okay, get to the booth before Bobby comes looking for you.”

Nodding, he said, “Ronnie's up next. I gotta hurry.” Off he went, two of Maggie's strides not coming close to matching one of his.

Hearing the soft drumming music signaling Rhonda's act, Maggie picked up her pace and made her way across the carpeted floor. She shut her office door with a regretful slam.

She didn't watch the girls perform, having sat in on their rehearsals only for camaraderie. Their naked bodies never bothered her, but seeing them dance was a whole different ball game. She'd done that once, back when she used to bartend in the club and it was all she could do not to rip the dancer off the stage and douse every gawking male with ice water. Thank heaven the bar didn't provide a clear view. Those long shifts would have been torture.

She slid the chair Mr. Beck had vacated away from her desk. Involuntarily, her hand swept across the neck rest. A faint, sweet aroma lingered in the room. Chocolate.

They said chocolate released the same endorphins as sex. Thank God she'd discovered running and didn't require either. If she'd had to choose, she'd take a couple of extra pounds over the complications of sleeping with a man. Besides, this club, these women, fulfilled her like no man could. The reality of it was she needed her girls more than they claimed to need her.

Five years ago, when everything changed, she'd needed to come up with a new way to reach out. She'd never allowed the threats uttered out of desperation to prevent her from doing her job. Even breaking her hand while chasing down a young offender hadn't stopped her from going to work. Maybe she'd been naïve. But having the respect of the neighborhoods she'd visit went a long way in ensuring everyone watched out for her. She was often all that stood between them and jail. After Desilva, she couldn't do it anymore. The idea of wondering who lurked around the corner to this day paralyzed her, even in the security of her office.

She was letting those people down, and while her generous inheritance from her grandmother wasn't the only solution, it had gone a long way in allowing her to feel useful again. She used it to set up the scholarship fund. Money might not buy happiness, but it bought these girls hope, and perhaps freedom, if they were willing to help themselves. She'd given up a lot, forgone what little relationship she had left with her father. Was it worth it? Walking away from a job she loved, as a front line counselor, broke her heart. But in this club she could stay involved, and the girls who needed her support were at her doorstep. Screw Beck and anyone else who couldn't see past the choices her dancers made. They were theirs to make.

Frowning, she recalled her threat, blurted out of aggravation, her mouth once again getting the best of her. She'd made many connections over the years. Some were on the force, some off. Very off. If she'd wanted to do her job right, she'd needed eyes everywhere to protect the women and the runaways she worked with. Her sources were good at ferreting out information, but tracking a killer was probably better left to the police. Maggie didn't need to get burned again. One thing was certain; Beck hadn't been entirely forthcoming. Years of dealing with runners and drug addicts had taught her to sniff out a liar.

As Maggie sat down, the phone rang. She glanced at the call display. Shannon.

She picked up. “Hello, Shannon. Yes, Shannon. I'm fine, Shannon.”

Inseparable since they were kids, at sixteen they'd made their escape from Tweedsmuir, their hometown. Shannon had been Clyde to her Bonnie. Funny how life turned out. Her best friend, the town hooligan, was now a lawyer.

“How are you doing? Really.”

Maggie couldn't help it. Tears burned her eyes and her heart clenched as she flashed on a vivid visual of what was left of Heather, her lifeless body lying on that cold slab.

“Hanging in there. It's tough,” she admitted because she knew that Shannon would be able to see right through her lies.

“I'm so, so sorry, sweetie.”

“Yeah. Me too. Tell me something good. How's the new place?”

“Great. Food and liquor costs are in line and sales are up.” As hard as Shannon tried, her New England accent always managed to cling to a word or two.

“Thanks for taking care of that. I don't think I could have concentrated enough to be of any use to Tessa.”

One of Maggie's graduates, Tessa had moved to Reno to run the latest restaurant Maggie and her friends had opened.

“Not a problem. She told me to tell you she has a new recruit. She'll send you everything you need a few weeks before this girl gets out of rehab. She'd keep her in Reno, except she thinks it's best to get Annie far away from her ex-pimp.”

“I'll get everything ready here. So Tessa wants her working in a restaurant?”

“Apparently Annie doesn't have much experience with anything. She can host while she goes to school. So what are you doing?”

“Sitting down.”

“Smartass.”

Maggie laughed. “I'm in my office. Hiding.” Shannon knew what it meant when she hid.

“Oh, been there long? You haven't been shut up in that cubicle all day, have you?” Shannon scolded.

Her office was hardly a cubicle, but it lacked a window; Shannon considered it a dungeon. “No, I just sat down. There's a private investigator helping the police. He was here earlier with some questions.”

“What kind of questions?” she asked. “He's not bothering you, is he? You tell him your friend's a kickass lawyer who's going to kick his scrawny ass if he so much as looks at you the wrong way.”

Scrawny? Hardly. “Oh, that would look real professional. Would you be using stiletto pumps or those strappy green sparkles you like to wear?”

“I'd put on a pair of army boots to protect you.”

Lord love her, she would too. “Of that I have no doubt.” Maggie swept her hand across the cool, chocolate-brown desk mat. “Don't worry, I handled him. He's looking for you, wants to talk to the owner.”

A loud groan came over the receiver. “You didn't let your moral sensibilities overrule self-preservation and tell him, did you?”

Considering Shannon never went to church, her version of moral sensibilities and Maggie's were often, though not always, very different. It was one of the reasons Shannon made a fantastic attorney.

“Of course not.”

“Good. We are not breaking any laws. Don't go all Mother friggin' Teresa on me.”

“Hey, I can be bad.”

“Yes, but when you're doing bad, it's for the greater good. So guess what? Doesn't count,” Shannon said, accentuating the Ts.

Maggie wasn't Mother Teresa. She had her flaws like everyone else. And she doubted the holy nun had ever watched women shake their ta-tas. “You're not very nice.”

“They don't pay me to be nice.” Shannon laughed. “Hey,” she said, turning serious, “you made all the arrangements? Do you need any help? I'm almost done here.”

Shannon, of course, referred to the funeral. Maggie's throat tightened. “No thanks, I've done everything. I hired this amazing tenor. I bought Heather a plot, open to the sky. I had a little trouble with the headstone.” Maggie's breath caught and she had to gather her composure before she continued. “Rhonda helped. It's a fairy, her wings fanned out, to protect her.”

“Has the date been set?”

“No.” Maggie swallowed hard, clutching the pen on her desk. “They haven't released the body yet.”

“I figured it would take at least a week. If there's anything you need, you know who to call. I sent you a text earlier, but you didn't answer.”

“Sorry, I haven't checked any of my texts. I need a new phone. It keeps freezing up.”

After Shannon criticized her choice in cellphones, they said good-bye.

What was becoming of her life? At thirty, several years older than Heather, if she needed a reminder that life was short, this was it. But it didn't stop her urge to hide under a rock every time she considered returning to the work she'd loved. No matter how hard she tried to tell herself it was over, that she'd survived and he'd gone to jail, the piece of her psyche that was still held hostage on that dock refused to listen. Unfortunately, with each passing week, listening grew harder. All these years and still, a war raged inside her. Her inadequacies made her leave the people she'd been working with behind. Some had gone to jail, others lost their children. She was not only a coward, but a failure. Maybe what she needed was to actually get back on the streets, the old bicycle/horse thing.

Shannon would kill her. Alice and Wendy, the other half of their quartet, would have her for lunch. In college, Wendy had considered Maggie naïve enough to require a babysitter at parties. At the time it had irked her; now she knew Wendy's protective streak came from a good place. She was no longer that innocent freshman, but she liked that her friends still had her back.

She thought about picking up the phone and calling her mom. But what would she say? Her mother didn't approve of her lifestyle any more than her father did. Of course, they differed on the why of it. Her mom feared for Maggie's safety; her father, his reputation.

Maggie couldn't remember the last conversation she'd had with the man, but she was certain it hadn't ended well. They never did. She'd be able to come up with a couple of choice words to describe her dad's behavior. Her mom, however, had taught her never to take the Lord's name in vain, and while she didn't have anything against the occasional swear word, cursing was something she made an effort not to do.

With Rhonda's hard-rock music ending, Maggie had twenty minutes to check on her staff before Crystal's number was cued. A Polish immigrant, she'd come to the proverbial land of milk and honey and found poverty, hunger and the streets eager to claim the young beauty. This was Crystal's last week at the club. After graduation, her teacher had offered her a position at his wife's French restaurant. She'd be one of three sous chefs. An amazing opportunity, but Maggie would miss her. Such was Maggie's job—her life. Sometimes she had to say good-bye to them.

The phone rang again. Wendy. Line two rang before Maggie picked up. Alice. She smiled. It was good to have friends. Even if they were overprotective.

 

After grabbing Ms. Anderson's file from the passenger seat, Christian headed into the police station for his meeting with Horace Cooper. The lieutenant wasn't keen on Christian checking into his friend, but Cooper needed to get over it. No stone left unturned and all that bull.

He'd had a short conversation on the phone with Ms. Joyce last night, which corroborated Ms. Anderson's story. It would seem she trusted her friend implicitly. He'd asked her why she'd bought the club and wasn't shocked when she told him it was none of his business. Her curtness did leave him curious, however. Why the secret?

At the station, he held the glass door open for the two officers emerging. They nodded their thanks, and he nodded in return before passing through himself. He'd heard them mention the Cantina and, taking a quick glance at his watch, realized he'd missed lunch again.

He climbed the short flight of steel stairs and worked his way past a clutter of desks, wading through pulled out chairs to reach the lieutenant's back office. Rapping on the glass door with his knuckle, he waited. Through the blind-drawn window, Cooper waved him in as he continued his phone conversation.

“Yeah, yeah, feed me more excuses and traffic duty will look good compared to what I have in store for you two. Just get it done.” He slammed the phone down, making his teacup rattle in its saucer.

Christian raised an eyebrow at the dainty English China. Lavender flowers and gold rim didn't suit the guy's Kojak exterior.

“What?” Cooper took a loud sip. “Haven't you heard? Coffee's bad for you.”

Apparently he was none too pleased about it. “Yes, sir. I'm just surprised you're listening.” Christian grinned.

“Yeah, well, Maggie's a persistent little thing,” he said, followed by, “Damn blood pressure,” muttered under his breath.

Maggie Anderson. Would wonders never cease?

Was being friendly with the cops part of her act? After reading the file, and he had to be honest with himself, after talking to her, he found it hard to believe she was less than genuine with her good intentions. To top it off, Blake and Cooper weren't stupid men. The lieutenant had thirty years of service under his straining belt and Blake—hell—Blake had all but lived undercover in the seedy world of prostitution and drugs for ten. Hard to believe that with all that experience he was mistaken.

“What's that?” Horace pointed to the envelope in Christian's hand.

Christian shook out the contents into his other hand and grabbed a seat, slinging his ankle across his knee. The new file Blake had procured did have some interesting information, just not enough, like why Ms. Anderson had chosen to run a strip club. “I was wondering what a well-known TV evangelist's daughter is doing running strip clubs. What would her Daddy say?”

C
ooper pushed his girly teacup aside. “That's hardly any of your business, now, is it?”

Ignoring the lieutenant's dismissive tone, Christian continued. “Rumor has it the overzealous preacher is writing another bestseller. Do you think he'll dedicate it to his wayward daughter? That's it, isn't it? Why she changed her name? Maggie Anderson doesn't exist. Maggie Hopewell runs Heart's Desire.”

Reverend James Hopewell was a religious figure on the national stage. He had risen to prominence over the last five years; transforming his small New England congregation into a major televangelism phenomenon through his astute use of television, talk radio, and the Internet.

Preachy sermons weren't Christian's cup of tea, so he didn't know all there was to know about James Hopewell, but Christian didn't recall him ever acknowledging a daughter. Only his wife was ever photographed by his side.

“She's tight-lipped about her family, and I'd have to find a reason to throw your sorry ass in jail if you opened your big mouth. That topic is off limits. From you and the press. Get my meaning?”

If his meaning was any louder or clearer, Christian would need earplugs.

“What else does your fancy file say?” he asked, moving the discussion to another topic.

Secret number one, Christian thought—and how far would she go to keep it? “She graduated UCLA on scholarship, majored in women and family studies. Moved to Vegas nine years ago and has been running Heart's Desire for five, and the one in Reno . . .” He glanced down at his file, “the one in Reno, two. She spends most of her time here. Anyone who has ever danced for her is her biggest fan. I'm looking for what it doesn't say.” He sat back in his chair, tented his fingers, and waiting patiently for Cooper's reply.

Many employers were good to work for—his was a pain in the ass—but this went beyond a chummy working relationship. Her doormen, bartenders and especially her dancers painted her as saintly. Saintly, for God's sake. He was missing something.

The strippers he'd known over the years, the ones who hadn't been pimped out by their employers, never credited their bosses with saving their lives. What the hell was she doing that earned her their devoted admiration? Sure, Daddy was a preacher, and maybe some of his holy reputation had rubbed off on his daughter, but bottom line, she ran a strip club.

“Look, I get the lead,” Cooper said, not answering Christian's question. “But these women run on a circuit. The club has ten,” he paused, “nine who work only for Maggie. The rest do a few months at each joint, then move on. Fresh blood, fresh cash. Hell, some have agents. The victims had several venues in common.”

“Heather Mackenzie didn't.”

“The tub in the room was empty,” Cooper pointed out.

Christian shrugged. “He emptied it.”

“Why?” he asked. “He never did before.”

“Water drains. Who knows? That's where she was found, after being drowned, and more important, your autopsy report confirmed the slashes at the back of her neck, just like the others. It's the same guy, Cooper, and you know it.”

There was a long pause before he said, “I've doubled the patrol on the club,” confirming he agreed with Christian. “I already called Reno. They're doing the same.”

“Good.” Christian nodded. “Is there something else going on here?” It was a fantastic break. Cooper should have been keyed up. The feds certainly were.

After a pensive moment, the lieutenant answered. “I don't like the idea of someone targeting Maggie. I want to catch this guy, but I hope like hell everyone is wrong.”

Guess he couldn't fault the guy his concern. He and Ms. Anderson were friends. Christian would do the same in Cooper's place. “As far as anyone can tell, he's not targeting her, but the club.”

“Maggie is the club.”

“First, it was the feds' decision to keep her out. I only happened to agree with them. And what do you mean, she's the club?”

“You should know. From what I hear, you two are a lot alike.” At Christian's stunned silence, Cooper added, “You're not the only one with fancy files.” He grinned. “What Maggie does, it's more than a job to her,” he explained. “Sound familiar?”

“I'm paid a whack of money to take my job very seriously,” he said. That wasn't unethical, nor was it his motivation.

“I'm sure you are, but like Maggie, you don't do what you do for the money.”

He didn't, but she did. “She runs a lucrative strip club.”

“Your family runs one of the largest shipping lines in the country out of New Orleans.”

“Wow, you really did go snooping.”

“You have friends,” he indicated Christian with an outstretched hand, then himself, “I have friends.”

His family history wasn't a secret. He was just surprised Cooper felt the need to go looking. “Can we get back on topic?”

“Fine. The feds will eventually go public, and I don't want Maggie hearing it from them. We go way back and let's say she's done more favors for this department than I can count. She should be kept in the loop.”

“The feds are waiting, and until then, leaks are a detriment to their case. Exactly, what kind of favors do you mean?”

“I guess there were things that swanky company of yours didn't tell you. Good, at least I know my department is on top of something.” Cooper pointed a finger at him. “Understand this doesn't leave my office. If this leaks, who knows what more shit will fly her way.” He waited for Christian to nod and continued. “Maggie sometimes hears . . . information. Intel that only someone in her position could have, so she understands secrecy.”

“Are you telling me she is some kind of informant? Why would you put her at risk like that?” Was Cooper crazy? This woman had no formal training.

“She never gave me a choice,” he grumbled and scrubbed the back of his head. A soft rasp followed. “Damn, I'm not used to shaving it every day.”

There was more to this than phone calls to her pals in the police department, but Cooper continued before he could ask.

“She sees and hears things the department can't. If we let her know what's going on, she'll have a better idea of what to listen for. And if we don't—”

“She'll be a hell of a lot safer. This is a serial killer, a sick bastard targeting women who work at Heart's Desire. Not some junkie selling to her dancers.” What the hell was wrong with this man? Okay, he'd be honest with himself. Last week, before he'd met the woman, he might have gone along with this. But not now. She might be super smart, but if she poked a hornets' nest, she'd get stung.

“Yeah, well, things don't always work like that with Maggie.”

“What are you saying?”

“That I'd rather have some measure of control over
Maggie's
snooping. Don't underestimate her, Beck. Those girls are her top priority. She'll do anything for them,” Cooper said, more to himself than Christian.

The man was worried about her and for some reason that set off all kinds of alarms in Christian's head. “So she cares about her business.” Blake was right. She was a good businesswoman.

“She doesn't do it for the money,” he said as if Christian should know that.

“Then why does she?” he asked, not believing the lieutenant. He might never find the answer to his sister's death, but one thing was certain: Maggie ran a club that was a death card to anyone who worked there. No one could convince him otherwise.

“She's a very private person, and I'm not about to explain her motives for doing what she does. She keeps a low profile, yes, mostly because of her father. But the reality of it is that how she runs that club has nothing to do with this investigation, or you. All of her dancers are clean and they stay clean. Most of her steady crew returns to school, and they stick around because of the support she gives them. She never gives herself enough credit. Heather Mackenzie was attending college because of Maggie.”

“I read your report. Her car and knapsack were found on campus.” A true tragedy. The young woman had had a bright future ahead of her. “What about the rest?” Christian leaned against Cooper's door, crossed his arms, not giving a damn if he sounded snide.

“She can't help them all, can she?” Cooper said in her defense. “Many strippers like their work.”

Far away from her tempting legs and innocent eyes, Christian could keep a clear head where Ms. Anderson was concerned. Stepping forward, he placed his hands on the desk and leaned in. “So what? All the money she makes goes to charity?” He cut Cooper off when he opened his mouth to respond. “She's paid real well, drives sweet wheels and lives in a luxury adobe in the hills of Summerlin.” She helped out the department. Big deal. The lieutenant couldn't dispute the fact she made money off these women.

Cooper opened his mouth again as Christian held up a firm hand. “No, let me guess. She pays her taxes.”

“Yes, she does.”

Christian groaned. There was only one person who could help him figure this out—Ms. Anderson.

 

Ten days after her murder, Heather was laid to rest, far from the slums she'd left behind in Detroit. Along with her three closest friends, Maggie sat in the back of the limo as they made the trip back to her home. Heather had come into this world unwanted, unloved and neglected. Maggie had made certain she hadn't left the same way. The service had been beautiful. Not a dry eye had remained in the church. Not a dry eye, except for Maggie's.

Determination had set in. Tears wouldn't bring Heather back, or ensure the safety of the other women. No, only one thing would do that. Justice. She wanted the bastard caught.

“Maggie, you okay?” Wendy's question broke into her thoughts.

“I'm fine.”

“Liar,” Wendy said, drumming a haughty French manicure over her bare knee. “You're far too quiet.”

When the girls objected to Maggie's hardball rules, it wasn't her father who Maggie was reminded of, but Wendy Marie Harper. Though more subtle than Shannon, you didn't want to piss her off. Wendy would smile and cajole people into doing her bidding, managing to persuade several lucrative companies to switch to her accounting firm, but she didn't take any bull.

Maggie opened her mouth to defend her pensive mood when Shannon, psychic that she was, interjected.

“You hear from that detective again?” She poked Maggie's ribs with her elbow.

“Not since last week,” she replied, rubbing the healing cut on her hand.

“Good. Maybe he'll do whatever he was paid for and leave you alone.”

“Somehow I doubt I've seen the last of him.” Sanctimonious ass. Who was he to judge? She'd had enough self-righteous sermons to last a lifetime.

The limo turned into Summerlin Estates. She'd built her adobe home in the Ridge's mountain range, as close to seclusion as she could get without driving more than thirty minutes to work. But that hadn't been the deciding factor. She'd wanted to be near the girls' apartments, just in case.

A few minutes into the gated community, the cars pulled up to the ten-foot wrought iron fence that cosseted her home. Maggie reached into her black leather bag and grabbed the remote to key the code and open the gates.

Inside, Lizzy greeted her at the door. “How did it go?”

“It was a lovely service,” Maggie said. “Everything ready inside?” She wrapped her arm around the petite redhead.

“Of course. You hired the best caterer in town.”

“Without a doubt.” She hugged her tighter. At least in Lizzy she'd succeeded. The Canadian immigrant was one of Maggie's proudest success stories.

“Cut it out,” Alice said from behind her. “It'll go to her head.”

The fourth musketeer of the group of friends, Alice McAllister lived to torment the caterer.

Lizzy had left Heart's Desire four years ago. She'd graduated culinary school and with Alice's restaurant connections, started her own company.

“Hey.” Alice caught up to them. “Lizzy, did you make those pater-fors?”

“Petits fours,” Lizzy corrected.

“Whatever, don't get snooty,” Alice teased.

Alice's idea of class was drinking beer from a glass instead of the longneck. She and Maggie met while bartending in Vegas and although her friend had hung up her spurs to become one of the top restaurant designers on the West coast, she was a Texas girl right down to the cowboy hat tattooed on her hip.

“Does
she
have to be here?” Lizzy asked.

“Afraid so,” Maggie replied sympathetically.

The two women were constantly at each other's throats. With no siblings of her own, Alice had jumped at the chance to help Lizzy. Now, she considered it her duty to make sure Lizzy didn't screw up. She'd succeeded, because there was a one-year waiting list to have the Canadian cater their function.

Maggie listened to their playful banter, grateful for the distraction. She hadn't slept in days and having to say good-bye to Heather, irritability loomed over her. She looked forward to a full day off tomorrow.

As staff members filtered in, Maggie overheard their exchange of memorable stories about Heather. Snagging a pair of sunglasses from the hall table, she snuck out to the patio. She wanted to share their fond memories, but regardless of what everyone said, a part of her couldn't help but feel responsible. Maybe it
was
displaced guilt, her inability to return to the cases, the people she'd left behind. Or maybe it was because she'd promised Heather a brighter future.