Sleepless in Las Vegas (14 page)

Val had taped a note on the front door of the agency that they were working an off-site case, and left her cell phone number to call.

Drake had moved his pickup a few feet away in the main parking lot. They had covered a portion of the concrete driveway with flattened plastic bags on which they’d laid out the trash. The smell permeated the air, but thanks to occasional gusts of wind it wasn’t as horrific as Val thought it might be. They both wore latex gloves, although Drake insisted they first sift through the debris with sticks, which he’d broken off a nearby mesquite tree.

“If my cousin Char saw all these glass bottles, she’d have a conniption,” Val muttered, pushing aside a beer bottle with her stick.

“What’s that mean?” He swatted at a buzzing fly.

“Means she’d be angry, because she’s
really
into recycling.”

“You sure have a vocabulary all your own. What’s this?” He leaned down and picked up the butt of a cigarette. “Not his brand. Plus there’s lipstick on it.” He tossed it back.

She looked at him, his polo shirt spotted with sweat, his face flushed from the heat. Probably not the best time to ask, but this had been bothering her ever since he said it, and he’d made a reference to it, so…

“About my vocabulary… Why’d you tell Jayne my accent prevented me from doing undercover work?”

He straightened, scrubbed his hand over his hair. “I believe I said your accent was a
detriment
to your working undercover. Probably should’ve kept my mouth shut…but it’s the truth. Especially in this town, your manner of speaking marks you. A distinct accent, or any distinct trait or style, can endanger a P.I. while working undercover.”

“I can suppress my accent.” She swatted at a fly.

“You’ve already tried that, remember? But I still heard it.”

She nudged aside some crumbled paper with her stick. “Maybe I can work with a voice coach or something. Learn how to get rid of it.” It might about break her heart to cut any part of New Orleans from her person, even temporarily, but the goal that kept her going now was to become a private investigator. And if that meant no more New Orleans phrases or drawl, then so be it.

* * *

D
RAKE
WATCHED
HER
, all feminine and delicate in that lacy dress, her cheeks pink from the heat, dutifully poking at trash. Val hadn’t complained once about working this trash hit since they’d exchanged a few words on the topic before leaving the office earlier. Since then, she’d been a champ—not even making a single comment about the foul smell in the car as they drove here.

But learning how to get rid of her accent? Until she’d said that, Drake hadn’t fully realized how much she wanted to be a P.I.—so much so she was willing to cut out parts of herself that were distinctly her own. He loved this work, too, but not enough to make a permanent identity change. If a person started letting go of pieces of themselves for anything—a job, a relationship—they could end up with nothing.

Besides, he’d miss that molasses-thick accent if it went away. That voice, its tone and cadence, were uniquely her. Both strong and soft. Thorny and charming. A woman who could infuriate him one moment and entice him the next.

“Never get rid of it,” he said gently, “just don’t accept undercover cases.”

She tilted her head and squinted at him. “Sounds like…you think I could cut it as a P.I.”

“With training, yes. In fact, a very good one.”

She gave him a smile so sweet it nearly broke his heart. “I do believe, Drake Morgan, that you are the toughest, but the best, mentor an intern could ever want.”

For a moment he didn’t smell the rubbish, didn’t hear the irritating buzz of flies, couldn’t feel the sizzling summer temperatures. All he knew standing there, looking at Val, was that life was sweet. That a tender, playful glance could make his heart beat faster. That a few appreciative words made him feel like a superhero.

That he felt happy in a way he hadn’t been in a long, long time.

“Thank you, Val. I—” His phone vibrated in his pocket. Making a hold-on gesture, he answered it.

“Morgan here.”

“Drake,” his mother said in a shaky voice, “your friend just called, told me about the fire.” She choked back a sob. “Oh, my God, are you all right? And dear Hearsay…please don’t tell me—”

“Hearsay and I are both fine, Mom, please don’t worry. I dropped by yesterday to tell you, but you were gone. Didn’t want to wake Grams. I asked Li’l Bit to not mention this until I had a chance to—”

“Li’l Bit? Oh, no, dear. It was Yuri. Said you asked him to call—”

“I’ll be right there,” he snapped. “Don’t open your door unless you know it’s me.”

Shoving the phone into his pocket, he glanced at the mess laid out on the plastic.

“Gotta go,” he grumbled, “but I don’t want to leave this out here unattended.” He glanced through the leaves at the patches of blue sky. “At least there’s no incoming clouds, but with monsoon season, rains could come in unexpectedly and wash out any evidence—”

“Drake, you’re worried about your mama, so go. I can finish this.”

“But it’s a lot of work.”

“Like I won’t let you forget that you owe me one?”

He tossed aside his stick and peeled off his gloves. “You’re wonderful.”

“I know.”

* * *

S
TANDING
AT
THE
edge of the strewn-out mess of garbage, catching the scents of stale booze, Clorox and something putrid she didn’t
even
want to think about, Val reminded herself that when people wanted something powerfully enough in life, they had to be willing to slog through the good, the bad and the muck to earn it.

For the next fifteen or so minutes, she poked the stick at the crud, occasionally wishing she’d chosen something different to wear—like a body bag—for her first trash hit. She flipped over a dried-out, sour-smelling milk carton…and froze.

There lay a yellowish, half-smoked cigarette.

Blinking back tears of joy, she half hopped, half ran to the box of plastic sandwich bags they’d left on Drake’s porch, tugged one loose, then shimmied a little dance on the way back. Heat, what heat? She was so pumped with victory, she could do the Macarena.

Stopped next to the cigarette butt, she carefully picked it up with her latex-gloved fingers, dropped it into the bag, sealed it and placed it in her dress pocket for safekeeping.

Then she sent Drake a text message.

Found the cig. Now you owe me two.

Grinning, she remembered Jaz’s words from this morning when she’d picked out this dress for Val to wear.
Today you need a miracle.

From here on out, Val would be wearing this dress to every trash hit.

* * *

A
SHORT
WHILE
after leaving Diamond Investigations, Drake sat at a red light on Buffalo Drive, his elbow resting out the open window. The heat was savage, even in the shade.

“You bastard,” he snarled toward the cell phone resting on his thigh.

“Hello to you, too, bro,” said Braxton.

“Why the hell haven’t you called me back?”

“I answered this one.”

“Because I spoofed your damn work number.” In the next lane sat a convertible with a thirtysomething blonde, her hair pulled back in a clip. She tapped her bloodred nails on the steering wheel.

“Don’t spoof me again.”

“Don’t avoid me.”

The blonde looked over. The oversize sunglasses gave her a buglike appearance.

“So what is it?” Braxton asked.

“What else?” Bug-blonde pursed her slick red lips and blew him a kiss. “Yuri.”

His brother snorted a laugh. “You think I’m the Yuri hotline or something?”

“Yes.” The light flipped to green. He stepped on the gas.

“I don’t keep tabs on the guy,” Braxton said.

“He’s your business associate.”

“With a long arm. Sometimes we go for days, weeks without talking.”

“Don’t give me that crap. Heard from a good source that his car is in the Topaz lot most nights recently. Same time your car is. You two sit at different ends of the strip club, pretending not to know each other?”

“Drake, I’m a
manager
there, not some good-time guy stuffing bills in G-strings. I’m on the run from the second I walk in that place to the moment I leave, and between then, I’m on call.”

“Not for me.”

“Back to that?”

“No, back to poor you being overworked. So busy you can be in the same club with your boss yet never cross paths.”

“He’s not my boss, he’s my
associate.
You don’t seem to understand how slammed I am with work…”

The convertible was pacing him in the next lane, the blonde shooting him looks over the top of her bug sunglasses.

“…I’m there for any problem that arises,” Braxton yammered on, “breaking up fights to making sure no underage bozo sneaks in and screws up our cabaret license…”

As Drake turned onto Alta Street, the blonde gave a theatrical pout and twiddled her fingers in a goodbye wave.

There was a time when he would have noted the license plate and traced it to a name and phone number. Given her a call in a day or two, suggesting they meet for a drink. But the only thought he had about Blondie was she needed to keep her eyes on the road or she’d end up in a fender bender.

“…and when I have spare time,” Braxton said, “I actually might get to sit in my office and catch up on paperwork.”

“Thanks for the job description. Now let’s talk about Yuri.”

Braxton blew out an exasperated breath. “You’re as stiff-necked and hard-assed as always.”

“Yeah, but I’m cute.”

After a beat, Braxton snorted a laugh. “Still got that old man buzz cut?”

“Yeah, just like my buddy David Beckham. Chicks dig the geriatric look.”

“On you, Drake, they’d dig the Homer Simpson look.”

Drake had to smile. When they were kids, they’d liked to play who could make the other crack up first. Braxton liked to kid around a lot, but Drake usually got the winning zinger.

He missed their old camaraderie. They used to laugh and talk, be each other’s sounding board, often finish each other’s sentences. He wished they could put this bullshit behind them and be close again. They’d already lost Dad, and their mom and Grams were getting older…one day, they’d be the only two left of their family.

“Still cook a lot?” Drake asked.

“Maybe once a month I get crazy in the kitchen.”

Braxton had been a pudgy kid who liked comic books, Lego and cooking. Especially cooking. While Drake liked to hang in the garage when their dad tinkered with the family car, Brax would be in the kitchen crafting a recipe. Some experiments were disastrous, like the peanut-butter enchiladas, but others, like the glazed doughnut cake, became neighborhood hits. Everyone thought he’d become a chef or own a restaurant.

He had been much closer to their mom growing up, probably from all the hours he racked up in the kitchen. Which made Braxton and their mother’s breach all the more uncomfortable now.

“Look,” Braxton said, “I’m being square with you. I have no idea what’s going on with Yuri. Those nights you see his car…he’s not always inside Topaz. I know because employees mention seeing his Benz outside, so I walk around the club, looking for him, but the man isn’t around.”

“Why would he leave his car there?”

“How should I know? Jeez, Drake, you’re like some kind of robo-cop P.I.”

Drake got a gut feeling he knew part of the answer. Yuri was leaving his Benz there to throw off Drake. Which only affirmed his suspicion that Yuri was up to no good. Drake wanted to know what that was.

“Why the fixation on Yuri?”

“He torched my place.”

“Shit, Drake, don’t joke like that.”

“I’m not joking.”

“Torched as in…arson? That rental house?”

“Yes, arson. And yes, a rental. Like you own that fancy playboy pad.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Don’t play dumb, Brax. I’ve checked the assessor’s records. That luxury condo you call home is under the trust name Dusha. Did you know that means
soul
in Russian?”

His brother didn’t say anything. Of course not. Why own up to being a lackey?

“Dusha also owns ninety-five percent of Topaz,” Drake continued, “while you own five. Bet if I checked whose name is on the registration for that pretty Porsche, I’d find more Russian soul.”

“For your information, what’s on paper doesn’t tell the whole story, so let’s can the jabs and get back to you. How much of your place burned?”

Drake turned on Aragon, the street on which they grew up. Except for the repaved road and the second-floor addition to the Parkers’ former house, the neighborhood was the same. Single-family ranch-style homes, gravel-rock yards, fat-trunked palm trees. In his mind’s eye, he could see himself and Brax walking to school, kicking rocks, swapping items in their lunches.

He didn’t want to jab anymore, either.

“Most of it. When I can get back inside, I’ll know if anything’s salvageable.”

“Arson investigators on it?”

“Yeah.”

“Didn’t see it on the news, had no idea.” Braxton paused. “Your dog…”

“They got him out in time.”

“I’m really sorry, Drake. What can I do to help?”

“Give me information.”

“You’re certain Yuri did it?”

How much did his brother talk to Yuri, really? More than he was letting on, Drake guessed. He needed to watch how much he said, but at the same time feed enough to Brax so he understood the urgency of the situation.

“I believe Yuri did it, yes,” he finally answered, “or instructed others to do it.”

He pulled up to the curb outside their old house.

“I’m at Mom and Dad’s.” He cut the ignition and sat there, staring out the dirty windshield at their old home. In the front yard, the desert willow was covered with purple trumpet-shaped flowers. He and his dad had planted it a long time ago as a surprise for his mom on Mother’s Day.

“Mom and Grams know about the fire?”