Sin on the Strip (11 page)

Miss Emmy turned in her seat. The elderly woman gave Maggie a wide grin, her white teeth a stark contrast to her dark skin. “Where've you been, child? It's been weeks since you've made it to services.” A bony finger scolded.

Maggie leaned in so the ninety-year-old could hear. “I know. I'm bad. Do you forgive me?” She placed a hand on the woman's wrinkled arm.

“'Tisn't my place to forgive.” She frowned. “Now shush, I can't hear a thing.” Miss Emmy spun around and turned up the volume of her hearing aid with a finger.

It had taken months to convince the senior congregation member to use the device. Born and raised as a proud southerner, Miss Emmy had moved in with her sister when her husband had passed. Not until Maggie reminded her vanity was a sin did the woman relent and make the purchase.

Now and then heads turned to smile a greeting in between their chants of hallelujahs and amens. Maggie nodded and halfheartedly returned their smiles. In here she managed to grapple with her demons and on occasion come out with a little more courage.

Somewhere inside her was the strength to push past the memories, the fears, the regrets. Over the years, she'd had knives pulled on her, been threatened with guns and had been in too many car chases to count, but none of it had seemed real. She'd never thought twice about the consequences of snatching a girl from her pimp or wrestling a strung-out kid into rehab. Not until that day in the loading dock had her own mortality hit her square in the jaw, leaving a permanent bruise, a daily reminder that she wasn't Wonder Woman.

When she moved to Vegas, she'd learned bad things happen, and that which doesn't kill you makes you stronger. In here, these people, these followers, believed there was good in bad. But where was the good in a thirteen-year-old girl being raped and left dead beside a Dumpster, or in the deaths of two women trying to better themselves? And hadn't her faith gotten her in trouble at that warehouse?

“Yours is not to reason why, Maggie. Yours is to follow.” Her father's insistent voice broke through the harmonious offering of “Amazing Grace.”
So much for finding peace
.

Forty-five fruitless minutes later, she waited until the final blessings and whispered good-bye to Miss Emmy. She opened the door and with a hand on the old brass latch, looked behind her, drawing comfort from the aroma of old pine and melting wax candles.

The small church was nothing to speak of. No marble statues, no crosses made of silver or gold. There was no fancy organ or grand altar. No expensive microphone to carry the minister's voice. No, the glory of this house of worship lay in its simplicity, its purity, its honesty. If life were only this effortless, this easy.

As she admired the humility of her surroundings, a sweet aroma crept into her nose, one she knew didn't belong to the old church. She turned. Beck's muscular frame blocked the doorway.

“A
re you following me?” Maggie asked, not at all certain how

Ashe felt about that.

“No, Officer Stinson is. He just told me where to find you.”

He'd altered his clothes, thrown a blue blazer over the white shirt.

She wanted to hate him, but what good would that do? The murders weren't his fault. They were hers. The most she could do was muster resentment, and even that was buried beneath her self-loathing.

Unable to subdue the conflicting emotions rolling around in her head, she tried to push him away. “Peachy for you. Now would you mind backing off?”

He didn't move, simply looked over her shoulder into the old church.

Their morning lounge by the pool had further tanned his already golden skin. Wetting his lips, he met her eyes. As angry as she was at herself, she couldn't stop her stomach from taking flight. It was exasperating.

With both hands, she pushed at his chest, and still, he didn't budge. Behind her, the members of the congregation had risen and were leaving their pews. Soon they'd be blocking traffic.

“Move, Mr. Beck, before they pile into us.”

He held the door open, wrapped his free arm around her waist and moved her out of the way. Her back facing the church façade, he pressed her against him. “There.”

“Oh, much better,” she said, dropping her hands. Not wanting to make a scene, she smiled and gritted her teeth. “Let go.”

“Who's your gentlemen friend?” Miss Emmy asked as she hobbled through the old doors.

He replied for her. “Christian Beck, ma'am.” He smiled at Maggie and held out his hand to the old woman.

Maggie cringed. He kept his arm around her waist but had to turn to greet Miss Emmy.

“My, Maggie never mentioned she had a beau, and such a handsome one to boot.”

“He's—” Maggie choked on her words.

“You flatter me, ma'am,” he said in that liquid southern drawl that even Miss Emmy didn't seem immune to.

“A southern boy.” She beamed. “Good. I'd hate to see Maggie with a damn Yank.”

“Miss Emmy,” Maggie chastised, “didn't you just come from church?”

“You hush, girl, respect your elders. I know what's best for you, and it ain't no Yankee with his hoity-toity know it all—”

“Miss Emmy.” An oversized, cherubic-looking woman waved her plump arm from the curb, trying to get Miss Emmy's attention.

Maggie squinted and realized it was Pearl, the older woman's niece.

“I've brought the car around,” she hollered. “Hi, Maggie. Send her over, will ya? I've dinner to get ready.”

“Dang, child,” Miss Emmy muttered, waving back to signal she'd heard. “Thinks I can't hear.”

Maggie jumped at the distraction and tried to push Beck away with her hand. His grip tightened, encasing her in a wall of muscle. The elderly woman returned her attention to them, and now Maggie was stuck with her palm against his chest. She could feel and hear him withhold his laughter.

“My, don't y'all make a lovely couple. You take good care of our Maggie, ya hear?”

“Don't you fret.” He kissed Maggie on her forehead.

Maggie ground her teeth together. Her love for this old woman stopped her from hurting him. Twice now, he'd been saved. Third time was the charm, right? Or was that three strikes he was out? A small part of her gleefully anticipated throwing him that last ball.

“I'll take good care of her, Miss Emmy.” Beck winked at the woman, and Maggie could have sworn she saw crimson sweep across Miss Emmy's dark cheeks.

“Not as good as I'll take care of you, darling.” Maggie said under her breath, smiling sweetly.

At last alone on the church steps, she made to stomp his foot, but the jerk was faster. Jumping back, he snagged her wrist and dragged her past the large, black wood and glass case the minister used to advertise weekly services and events. “Now, now, is that any way to treat your beau?” He kept going until they reached the side of the old building, away from prying eyes.

“You are not my beau.” Maggie groaned. “Boyfriend,” she corrected.

“You could have told her that, but you didn't.”

“She's ninety, and rarely will she let me disagree with her. Don't get any ideas. I didn't feel like arguing. I've had a rough day,” she muttered, unable to control a shiver. A rough day was running out of gas, or having to cover a no-show at the club, no milk for your tea or mayo for your sandwich. A rough day didn't begin to describe the way her morning had gone.

He cupped her face. “I'm sorry.”

Looking into his amazing eyes, Maggie wished he had something to truly regret, some reason for her to push away from him. She resisted the urge to close her eyes and enjoy the feel of his warm palms against her cheeks, to take the comfort he so readily offered. She wanted to blame him for Sonya's death, had blamed him. But he hadn't killed her; someone else had killed her because of Maggie's clubs. How ironic: The refuge she had created to keep herself safe had become a death trap for the other women who worked there. She wanted to smash something.

“Maggie, we should talk.”

“What about?” she snapped, hating herself for wanting to lean into his strength.

He ignored her temper. “The clubs, your dad, Sonya—”

“I don't know what I can tell you.” She tried to stop her voice from cracking, but failed. “She was going to school, and . . . and she didn't deserve to die.”
And my place got her killed
. She lowered her voice as the reverend came out of the church and headed toward his car. Thankfully, he didn't notice them.

“You didn't let me finish.” His fingers slipped to the nape of her neck. It made it very hard to think, but not hard to remember.

They'd kissed. His lips had touched hers. She steered her mind away from the warm man bearing down on her and focused on the solid wall behind her back. It didn't help; the wall in front was harder.

Beck lowered one hand to her waist. His thumb glided under her shirt and long fingers spread across the waistband of her jeans. Her entire body tingled from his soft touch.

“I'm sorry I broke into Horace's office.” She wasn't really. She'd do whatever was needed to help these women.

“No, you're not.” He grinned.

“Well, it's hard to think when you're being manhandled, Mr. Beck,” she said, incensed that the smug jerk thought he knew her so well.

He blew out an exasperated breath and stepped back to lean on the sign. “I thought we had a deal, you and I?”

“We're not friends,
Mr. Beck
.”

“You kissed me.”

Her mouth gaped. “
You
kissed
me
.”

“No, I told you I was going to kiss you.” He leaned toward her. “You jumped the gun when I was counting down—I only got to six.”

She couldn't argue there. It didn't mean she wanted him that close again. “You lied to me.” Maggie pressed against the wall of the church, her hands clasped behind her back.

“I've never lied to you.”

“A lie of omission, Mr. Beck.” It was childish to keep calling him that, but right now, she didn't care.

“Fair enough. But while we're on this topic, maybe there's something you're not telling me.”

“You're right.”

“I am?”

“Uh-huh. You're a jerk.”

Christian scrubbed his hand over his forehead. She was one of the most exasperating women he'd ever crossed paths with and considering the cases his boss had assigned him, that was saying a lot. “Why are you so defensive?”

“Why are you following me?”

“Truth? I was worried after the episode in the elevator. It's not every day you stumble onto a murder scene,” he said.

She shrugged, dropping her gaze to the ground.

Not wanting to embarrass her, he let it slide. “Besides,” Christian crossed his arms, wanting to lock them around her again, “you must have questions?”

“Are you going to be honest with me this time?” She pushed off the wall and headed to the now empty parking lot.

“I've never been anything but.” He followed. He never actually lied to her.

Her wry snort said she didn't believe him. “Maggie.”

She spun around and huffed, “What?”

“Where are we going?”

“Home. Follow or not. Your choice.” She got into her jeep and never looked back.

Had he called her exasperating? What an understatement. God help the man who ever got involved with her.

Christian jogged to his car, not wanting to lose her in dinner rush hour. A white Durango pulled up behind her as, thankfully, she hit a red light at the corner. He outmaneuvered the persistent SUV and scooted in between them. Twice Christian had to run a yellow to keep up with her. He knew where she lived and didn't need to tag so close, but he'd promised Cooper to stay with her until he could place an officer outside her place.

At her home, the wrought iron gates ushered them in then closed behind them. She got out of the car first. Not waiting, she left the front door open. Inside, he followed the sound of keys being dropped on a counter. It led him to the kitchen.

“Water?” she asked from behind a wide stainless fridge door.

“Sure, thanks.”

Kicking the door shut with her foot she handed him an Evian and opened hers.

“It's starting to become our thing, water,” he said hoping to lighten the mood.

She nodded to the sink. “That spout is turbo. Don't make me use it on you.”

He laughed at the threat. “Don't tempt me. Your shirt is thin.”

“Teenager.” She sighed. “Come on.” She led him into the living room.

Though amazed she still had any sense of humor left, he had to wonder why she wasn't royally pissed at him. “You're not mad at me?” He didn't want to admit he'd been wrong, uncertain he had been.

“There are far too many other things in this world to be angry with. Why waste my time on you?”

He didn't much care for the comment, but at least he hadn't taken too many steps backward. Deny it all she wants, she liked him or otherwise she wouldn't have kissed him. This was not the type of woman who randomly kissed men. He was glad. He shouldn't be, but he was.

Passing a closet, she tossed her shoes off with a loud thump and slammed the doors closed. Hands still on the knobs, she stared at the shuttered doors. “So? What questions are you willing to answer?”

Her cell interrupted his answer. Her purse sat on a mission-style console beside the closet. Reaching inside, she pulled out her phone. “Hello.” She listened then said, “I'm fine, Alice, but I can't talk now. I promise to call you later.” A pause, then she repeated, “I promise,” and hung up.

Maggie headed into her living room where she threw herself on the couch, bouncing onto the oversized pillows. In the process, her phone fell and landed by his feet, spinning like a top.

“Ask me anything you want,” he said, reaching for the dropped phone. Perhaps her questions would give him his answers.

Maggie didn't reply. Distracted, she was staring out onto the patio as if something had caught her attention.

“Maggie?” He took off his blazer, slung it over the couch's armrest and sat beside her at safe distance.

“Those other women, where did they live?” Her gaze remained fixated on the patio doors.

“All over California. Samantha Wiseman was killed in San Francisco. Others haven't been ruled out.” His sister among them.

Maggie squeezed her eyes shut. “How do you know, really know, it's the same man?”

Christian hesitated. Maggie had a keen intellect, and for a preacher's daughter, she had an uncanny street sense. Knowing what he knew of her, she would no doubt pursue this on her own, or seek the aid of Lieutenant Cooper, who now would tell her everything. That would be the best-case scenario; the worst, her snooping might get her killed, and he couldn't allow that to happen.

“In every case, the victims were found in a bathtub, some with water, one without. All the women were marked with some kind of blade. It resembles two intersecting lines. And . . .” He hesitated, gauging her reaction to what he'd just told her, but she didn't move and the expression on her face never wavered.

He continued. “All the victims had been raped.”

She flinched. “All?” Maggie blinked. Her breath shuddered.

“All. It hasn't been confirmed with the latest . . . Sonya, but the police are predicting they'll find evidence to corroborate the assumption.”

“Oh,” she whispered. “Oh, I see. Oh,” she repeated, her voice strained.

In his hand, her phone vibrated with an incoming text. He considered ignoring it, but in case it concerned the club he'd only tick her off. “Maggie, someone is texting you.”

She let her head fall back on the couch. “Would you mind reading it?”

“Sure.” He wasn't comfortable reading her messages, but this much he could do. He glanced down at the call display. “It's from Wendy. Maybe you should read it.” Her friend had an odd sense of humor.

She closed her eyes. “No, go ahead,” she said sounding tired.

He scratched his neck. “She just wants to know if you and,” he cleared his throat “the hottie PI had . . . uh . . . carnal relations.”

Maggie groaned and fell forward, her forehead on her knees. “She didn't say it like that, did she?”