Sin on the Strip (13 page)

“Her friend has. Wendy Harper hired Nick Corfu.”

Christian remembered Maggie's phone call from the other day.
Thanks, Nick. Call me when you reach Vegas.
“What for?”

“To track down a deadbeat who'd snatched his kid. The police couldn't find him. So these women decided to take matters into their own hands. Shannon Joyce signed the check.”

He wanted to smile, but was still too pissed to go that far. But he had to hand it to the four musketeers. “Is that it?”

“For now. If I get more, I'll call you. Look, Christian, we've been friends a long time. I know why you took this case and how professional you've been about it.”

“But?”

“But, is Miss Anderson . . .”

“What—” Christian lowered his voice as an officer approached his desk to use the phone. “What about her?”

“You're getting personally involved.”

“What role are you playing now, father or shrink? You don't know shit.”

Sheppard grunted. “Really? It's always been Miss Wilson, Miss Horee, Mrs. Fretos, even Miss Wiseman. The women you've been assigned were always kept at arm's length.”

“Get to the point, Ryan,” agitation getting the better of him.

“When did she become Maggie?”

 

Christian had ignored Sheppard's accusation; largely because he couldn't refute it, but also because he didn't want to think about it. Hadn't he thought the same thing himself?

But now he had more important things to do. He returned to Cooper's office.

“Maggie and I go back over eight years. She's quite a woman,” the warmth in Cooper's voice and his respect for her was indisputable. “Maggie and her don't-fuck-with-us posse came to Vegas for a vacation. Maggie ended up working in one of the local bars for the summer.”

The lieutenant's tone sobered and he explained an incident with a runaway Maggie had found. Reminded of his sister, Christian felt a cold chill run over him.

Many people thought they could handle a dead body until they came face to face with one. Make it a dead kid and it's a whole different kind of hell.

Cooper stirred the coffee in front of him, tossing the plastic stir stick into the trash. “She worked at the shelters for a while, the drug rehab centers. She has this natural talent for getting people to listen to her. Shit, she was young,” he said, regretfully. “When Maggie puts her mind to something . . .”

“You couldn't stop her if you tried?” Christian had seen that side of her. She and his sister seemed to share that annoying quality. He'd admired Claire for knowing what she wanted and letting nothing get in her way. It didn't surprise him that Cooper couldn't control Maggie. No one had been able to control his sister either.

“Something like that. She went as far as drawing out pimps scrounging the streets for fresh, naïve girls too scared to call home and too hungry to say no. She gave us little choice. With or without our help, she pretended to work the streets, kept her ears and eyes open, and earned the trust of the local prostitutes, and the contempt of many pimps and drug dealers. She got herself in whole lot of trouble. Luckily, I managed to find her before finding her wouldn't have done her any good.” He took a sip of coffee and released a contented sigh. “Almost forgot how much I love the brew.”

So Cooper had saved Maggie's life. How different would Christian's life be had his father found Claire in time? “Are we talking about her and Juan Desilva?”

“Should it surprise me you managed to get into closed police files?”

As Cooper wasn't really looking for an answer, Christian let the question go. “We'll get back to whatever possessed her to do something so dangerous later, but right now, could Desilva have something to do with these killings?” He didn't think so, but he needed to ask.

“He's behind bars. And he's the sick kind. He'd want to be there in person. He was none too happy with Maggie. She cost him money, lots of it. No one else would target Maggie. She's dealt with plenty of losers, but none of them big time enough to pull this off.”

“The feds think her father is the target, not Maggie.” And while Cooper had no ill will toward the Reverend, if they were right and Christian wrong, then he'd rather entertain the possibility this was tied to religion, than the alternative. True enough, the killer might go after Hopewell, but Ryan had assured him he wouldn't get close enough. Maggie, Christian would take care of.

“You know, if the feds find out you have a mole . . .” Cooper warned.

“And for Maggie's sake, you're not going to tell them, are you?” His boss would have his ass and Christian didn't want to give him any reason to chew it out.

“What do I care if they have a leak? But I'll tell what I do care about. I care about Maggie. So I have to ask. What's the deal with her?”

“O
kay, Shannon, go to court. How about we meet tomorrow, say lunch?” Maggie sat on her couch, the phone between her shoulder and ear, her hands busy with the laces on her running shoes.

“Sure, no problem. I'll be done with this by then.”

“Great.” Her phone rang. “Hang on, I have a call on the land line.”

“It's all right. I'll let you go. See you at noon.”

“Sure.” She hung up and answered the second call.

“Maggie, we have a problem. She's on the run.”

Maggie didn't need to be told who was on the run. Hannah. Why couldn't she wrap her head around the one condition the courts had ordered?

Hannah had a knack for smelling authority. She'd lived on the streets for a year before she'd been arrested her first time. Her mother had kicked her out when she was twelve. That's when Hannah had met her pimp, Devan. The police busted her and the court was going to send her to a juvenile detention center. Seeing the money Hannah was making, her mother had eagerly offered to take her back.

“What is it you want me to do?” Maggie asked. She'd been working with Chelsea House for the last six months as a favor to the director, but even then it had been in-house only.

“Find her.”

Maggie cleared her throat, trying to fake out her body from the panic attack already thumping her heart into overdrive. She stood and rolled her shoulders. It did nothing. She forced slow breaths silently into her mouth.

“She's been spotted around Harry's Bar, but every time I send someone out there she disappears. Harry doesn't know my new workers so he's not talking either. The kid trusts you. She told her therapist she'd be better off on the streets than cooped up in a house with rules no one gave a shit about. She doesn't mean it. Her so-called mother paid her a visit yesterday. Would you like to bet that waste of human skin was missing her cash cow? It's six o'clock. You have a two-hour window.” Rita, the director of Chelsea House, sounded panicked. “After that I have no choice but to report her. She has a meeting with her probation officer tonight.”

“Maybe that would be for the best.” She remembered Horace pointing out that secure custody would at least keep her off the streets. In some instances it was the right solution. But she knew in Hannah's case it might do more harm than good. It killed Maggie not to help, just as she was afraid it would kill her if she did.

“You don't mean that. All the work we did,
you
did, could unravel.”

“I haven't been on the streets in years,” she reasoned, never having told Rita the real reason she'd quit working for the county.

“It's like riding a bicycle. Please, Maggie, she might come out of hiding if she sees you.”

Runaways usually ran to familiar ground, regardless of the danger. If they'd been on the street too long, they chose to fight the evils they knew rather than battle the ones out of their control. An illusion they created for self-preservation, no matter how harmful.

“Harry's Bar?” she heard herself ask.

Harry, an ex-Marine and owner of the neighborhood bar, charged ten dollars for anyone who wanted to grab a mattress in the apartment above his place. He kept drunks from driving home, and he kept Maggie informed.

“Right. You know he has this code about ratting the kids out, but if she's there he might tell you.”

Riding a bicycle, right? Or was this some kind of penance? She only hoped Hannah hadn't called her ex-pimp. The fine for trafficking minors ranged from one to five hundred thousand dollars. Such a large fine plus seizure of all property might scare some pimps—but not this one. “What are the odds she called Devan?”

“Unfortunately, knowing her mother, Empire State Building high.”

If she wanted to find Hannah, it had to be before Devan had a chance to drive the sixty miles out of Vegas from his cathouse to pick her up. “If he gets to her first, we'll lose her. I'll call you when I know anything.”

Twenty minutes later and six blocks east of the old strip, Maggie parked down the street from the pub. This time she'd spotted the off icer tailing her. A serial killer was targeting women who danced at Heart's Desire. Maggie wasn't a dancer, but she did work at the club. Knowing there'd been someone following her was a little disconcerting, until she remembered that.

When Maggie explained Hannah's situation to the officer following her, he was sympathetic. It had taken some doing, but she managed to convince him to stay out of the way and out of sight.

Waldo, a street saxophone player named for his red and white striped T-shirt, stood on the corner, instrument case open for money. Upon seeing her, he stopped his sultry jazz tune. “Hey Mags, long time no see. You scoping out the redhead?”

“Yeah, you know her?” she asked, forgetting Waldo saw and remembered everything.

“Aren't they getting tired of running that one down?”

“Waldo, I have to get to her before Devan does, so if you've seen her . . .”

“Devan, huh? He should be behind bars. She's upstairs. Harry told her to go back, but she'd have none of it. She'd take off every time someone came by to look for her.”

“Thanks.” Harry's place was fashioned like an old Irish pub, a square bar dead center. A little too early for the bar crowd, only a few of the regulars sat on the wooden stools listening to one of Harry's Marine stories while he poured a draft into a large frosted mug.

When he saw her, he motioned upstairs with his thumb. “It's been a while, doll. Good to see ya.”

She nodded and forced herself to unclench her jaw. “Nice to see you too, and thanks.” Maggie headed for the back staircase, and took the steps two at a time. She liked Harry, but right now she wanted out of this bar before her brain fully registered what she was doing here.

Floorboards creaked as Maggie made her way down the dank, narrow hallway to the back corner. She made herself move, shook out her fists, drawing a resounding breath. She regretted the latter. As she passed a grungy bathroom in need of repair, the stench of urine was overwhelming. Some things never changed. The room on the left was men only, and inside a junkie in a sweatshirt and tattered jeans who'd seen better days grimaced as he shot up. As long as they kept to themselves, Harry kept his baseball bat under the bar. From the apartment on the third floor, rusty bed hinges complained as Willow, the prostitute who rented the place, was working.

When she opened the battered oak door to the room on the right, a scrawny kid flew into Maggie's arms, knocking her back a pace.

“I'm sorry.” Golden eyes that had seen far too much for their young years, pleaded with her. “Take me back.” The explicit sounds of two people going at it carried through the air grates. Hannah's arms tightened around Maggie's waist. “I don't wanna end up like her. Maggie, please, I'm sorry. Devan's coming.”

“Hannah—” Maggie stopped, deciding now was not the time to explain dumb moves. “When did you call him?”

Hannah chewed her bottom lip. “An hour ago.”

“Shit, come on.” She grabbed the girl's wrist. “If we're lucky, he hit traffic.”

As they passed a window in the hall, through filthy glass and ragged curtains, Maggie saw the white Caddy parked on the street. She spun Hannah around. “Fire escape!”

From the fire escape at the far end of the building, they'd be able to take the back alleyway and sneak around to Maggie's jeep across the street. As she struggled to control her trembling hands and open the painted-over window, she tossed Hannah her purse. “Find the mace.”

Adrenaline pumping, she shoved the girl out first and followed her onto the rickety iron platform. She unhooked the latch for the retractable stairs. Nothing. After two panicked kicks, they clattered to the ground below. From the hallway, heavy footsteps pounded the floorboards. Luckily, Devan rocked the scale at three hundred pounds and he'd be hard pressed to make it onto the old ladder, let alone out the window. Rust scraped Maggie's sweaty palms as she climbed down each rung, careful not to slip and hit Hannah. Rallying her courage, she ignored the nauseating fear. Overhead, Devan's angry warning bellowed, jarring Maggie. Her head snapped up.

“If you know what's good for you . . . fuck.” His shoulders jammed in the window frame and he had to wiggle free. He snarled and ducked back inside.

Jumping off the last few steps, they ran for the alley entrance. They just about made it. One of Devan's goons came around the corner, blocking their escape. The rapper wannabe grinned a diamond-crusted grill for teeth. Long, beaded dreadlocks clicked as he shook his head from side to side.

Show no fear, show no fear, show no fear
. Reacting on instinct, Maggie shoved Hannah behind her, taking the mace from the girl's hand.

Trapped, their only means of escape was through this buffoon. Her eyes shot back to the ladder. Clutching the small can, she debated telling Hannah to climb, but uncertain if more men were waiting, she reconsidered. Long minutes later, Devan waddled around his man.

“Mags. I see you found Hannah for me. Thanks.”

“Funny, fat man, but Hannah's coming with me.” Show fear and the lion would eat you.

He smirked and tipped his head as far as his fat, pasty neck would allow. “You the funny one. The girl is mine.”

“Maggie?” Hannah's panicked voice broke from behind her.

The girl's fear matched Maggie's. “She's fourteen and on probation. If she misses her check in tonight, they'll come looking for her, and you.”

She could practically see the dust rolling off the block some might call a brain as he considered his options. The one thing he did understand was money. Young prostitutes were cash cows, as long as he didn't get caught. Then the police could confiscate everything to cover the hefty fine. Maggie prayed Hannah wasn't worth the risk.

He flicked his fat arm for Hannah to go. “Shit, girl, you more trouble than you worth.”

Guard still in place, Maggie backed Hannah out of the alleyway. With an unreadable expression, Devan let her go. As Maggie passed his goon, the dirtbag snagged her arm. “Run, Hannah!”

The girl hesitated. Maggie's heart dropped.

“Run,” Maggie screamed, just as Devan's meaty fist struck her cheek. Her teeth rattled as white pain lanced the side of her face and she fell, her head hitting the hard ground. The mace, her only defense, slipped from her fingers, a red haze stinging Maggie's right eye.

 

“Look, let's lay it on the line.” Cooper leaned forward onto his desk. “Stay above the law, and technically, I can't stop you from doing your job, unless you get in the way of mine. Sheppard seems to know the captain real well. Had to or no way would the big man have given me the okay to watch Maggie and her girls. And I'll take any help I can get.”

Christian never asked Sheppard what the favor was or how it was owed. It wasn't his business. Honestly he never gave a shit, as long as it moved his cases along.

Cooper pointed a finger at Christian. “That girl is like a daughter to me. You went from, let's say, having a low regard about her, to what?”

“That's between the lady and me.” He didn't kiss and tell.

“I knew it,” Cooper accused. “Stay away from her.”

He understood the man's concern, didn't mean he had to like it. “You're not her daddy.”

“I'm the closest thing she's had in years. So if you think I'm going to stand by while you play games with her, you have another think coming.”

Normally, he'd tell him to go fuck himself, but the two were close and he wouldn't disrespect their relationship. “I care about what happens to her.” Beyond that, he wasn't sure. “I promise. I won't do anything to hurt her.”

“See that you don't.”

The two men were staring at each other, when a lanky officer interrupted their little tête-à-tête with a knock. Curious as to the file in the officer's hand, Christian re-took a seat, crossing ankle over thigh.

Clean shaven, sharp haircut and polished buttons set him apart from the other officers. A new cadet. “Sir, I have the coroner's report.”

“Leave it,” Cooper instructed.

“Yes, sir,” he said, dropping the report on Cooper's desk.

“Thank you, Thomas.”

The lieutenant didn't move, but managed a disturbing grin.

“You can go, Thomas.” Cooper motioned toward the door.

“Oh. Oh, yes, sir.” He turned and ran into the half-opened door, which he promptly apologized to before darting out, red-faced.

“Were we ever that . . . that . . . ?”

Christian grunted, grateful for the change of topic. “I was never a dopy, ass-kissing rookie.”

“Guess not. I heard about your final case with the agency,” Cooper snickered. “Way to go, Beck. I hear they still talk about . . . your performance.”

Christian shot him a dirty look. The man's snorts only got louder, until finally the dam broke and he started laughing. “Are you just about done?”

Cooper cleared his throat. “I guess being a pretty boy has its advantages with the feds as well.”

Having heard it all before, Christian waited patiently for Cooper to contain his mirth. It didn't bother him. He'd done what was needed to shut the bastards down.

Christian glanced at his watch and Cooper finally wiped away the last of his tears. But apparently he hadn't had enough.

“You know, my wife might appreciate a few of those moves.”

Christian glanced pointedly at Cooper's potbelly. “I doubt it. Talk to me after you cut down on the donuts. They're worse for you than coffee.”