Sin on the Strip (26 page)

 

Though reluctant to let her go, an hour after Maggie's body had relaxed with sleep, he slid out of bed and called his boss.

“Anything new?” Sheppard asked.

“Major. He attacked another girl and royally fucked up. He left her alive.” Christian couldn't contain his excitement. He'd toned it down for Maggie, wouldn't have to for Ryan.

“Well, you've been served a sweet break.”

“Maybe. Look, would you mind doing a background check on her father's agent? I'm taking Maggie back to the hospital first thing and hopefully the victim can identify her assailant.”

“Maggie?” he asked, not even attempting to hide his amusement.

“Shut up, Ryan. And you knew all along she was some kind of guardian angel. Don't feed me any of your bullshit. Why the hell didn't you ante up? It could have saved me some time.”

“I haven't a clue what you're talking about.”

“You damn liar. No way you didn't. There's nothing you don't know.” Christian walked the length of the glass ceiling-to-floor wall of Shannon's loft and returned to begin again. “Admit it,” he demanded. “You knew
before
you sent me to Vegas.”

After a long, silent pause Ryan confessed, “Yes.”

“You prick. What the fuck did you go and do that for?” Christian ran his fingers through his hair. His boss was a son of a bitch.

During the long silence, Christian watched the first morning rays begin to glow behind the Wynn hotel, a fifty-floor behemoth beginning to awaken.

“You said it yourself,” his boss began, “ ‘some kind of guardian angel.' I checked out Ms. Anderson when you first suggested the possible link was the club. I knew eventually you'd end up in Vegas. You threatened to quit if your next case involved anything remotely resembling a damsel in distress.”

“She wasn't exactly a damsel in distress, and you of all people know this case is too important to me.”

“Sure, but I know Samantha Wiseman's death hit home. I know you tell yourself it wasn't your fault, just as I know you don't believe it. You're burning out, Christian. I figured you'd be in a better frame of mind not knowing Ms. Anderson's track record. She's not in the habit of shying away from danger. Come on, admit it. You saw her as a challenge, not another life you were responsible for.”

“When did you become my shrink?”

“I'm your friend,” Ryan offered.

“This is crap,” Christian growled.

“How are your headaches, Christian?”

Rubbing the ache needling his neck, he wouldn't admit anything to his boss, wouldn't give him the satisfaction. “I need to borrow Dozier,” he said, ending the discussion.

“I think he's in Dallas. I'll fly him in.”

“You don't want to know why?” One of their finest bodyguards, no one got past the former linebacker.

“I assume it's for Maggie. You think he'll come after her, whether her father is the target or not?”

The post-mortem pictures he'd seen of the victims shot through his mind, like a photographer snapping his roll. One after another, each girl's ashen complexion and bloodied body zinged past his vision. No way was that going to be Maggie. “Rhonda, the woman attacked tonight, was found a few blocks from this apartment. He's been following Maggie.”

“Anything you need. You'll have Dozier by early afternoon.”

If he could, he'd build an army of linebackers around her, but he doubted she'd agree.

“While I have you on the phone, Christian, I'll save Monty a call. You were right. Desilva is on Sorrentino's payroll. He found the offshore accounts. Monty thanks you for the tip. How did you know where to look?”

“Something I discovered the first time I busted him. I guess he never bothered to change them.”

“Probably didn't see the need. This, however, doesn't connect him to the killings.”

No, it didn't and maybe it was nothing. Then again, Sorrentino had no qualms about brutalizing women. It was the timeline that was chafing Christian's ass.

After hanging up and mentally exhausted, he crawled back into bed with Maggie, content to watch her sleep and promising himself she wouldn't end up like his sister. When she was safe and his sister's killer disposed of, then he'd deal with his feelings for Maggie.

Not long after, the alarm on his cell hummed. Maggie's eyes opened. Happy to see those amazing baby blues, he kissed her softly. The sweet smile faded from her lips as she came fully awake.

“Hospital,” she said, her voice groggy.

“I'll make us coffee, you shower.”

She surprised him with another morning kiss, and without a single word she rose and headed for the bathroom. He waited until he heard the shower and went downstairs to make the coffee, telling himself joining her would not be a good idea.

Fifteen minutes later, Christian met Maggie on the stairs and handed her a cup of hot coffee, then softy kissed the purple bruise beneath her eye. She thanked him with another kiss and with that warm gesture of familiarity, Christian headed for the bathroom. She was getting under his skin and he liked it.

Showers, coffee and kisses took all of thirty minutes, then they were out the door and in his car.

He glanced over to see Maggie's fingers torturing a button on the gray cardigan she'd thrown over a white tank. The tough, solid woman who ran the club wasn't the one sitting next to him. For a split second he wondered if Ryan had been right. Would he have walked away knowing Maggie liked to put herself in danger? The idea that she might have been doing this on her own disturbed the crap out of him.

“Maggie, you all right? I mean I know she's your friend, but is there something you're not telling me?”

That strained look on her face vanished, but she continued to twist the button on her sweater.

“No,” she said coolly.

“No, you're not all right or no, there's something you're not telling me,” he said, attempting to infuse humor into their conversation.

“Neither.”

“Are you going to get really annoyed with me if I tell you I don't believe you?”

“I'm sorry. I must be tired,” she said, her words muffled.

“What is it? You have to know by now there's nothing you can't tell me.”

She turned sideways in her seat. “What if you're right? What if the person who attacked Rhonda and killed my girls has something against me or my father? How do I make up for something like that?”

“First off, it's not your place to atone for someone else's sin. Secondly, I would think you'd be holding me responsible for Rhonda's injuries.”

“You?”

“If I'd told you about that case, then she wouldn't have had any reason to come to the loft. Better still, why don't we blame Rhonda for being in such a hurry to spread gossip?”

She clucked her tongue and faced straight. “I know what you're doing.”

“Good, then maybe we can stop the blame game?”

“Asshole.”

“I guess it's better than being called sanctimonious.”

“If the shoe fits.”

She was right, so he left it alone. “Look, that woman doesn't strike me as the type to point fingers where they don't belong. She's no nonsense. Wasn't she nursing a sick dad?”

“He was an alcoholic,” she corrected. “Not a mean drunk, just a helpless one. Rhonda started stripping to help pay the bills, then later rehab and a hospital. She was weeks away from graduating college when she had to quit.”

“I remember now. She was a sweet kid, but if you made her mad . . .”

“That hasn't changed,” Maggie added, her eyes glassing.

“She's a fighter.”

“What is it that makes some people stronger and others,” she paused, “fragile?”

“Avoidance?” he suggested.

“What are they avoiding?”

“It's normal to deny some part of whatever traumatic event hurt you, but to heal you have to face it. Because if it doesn't make you stronger, it
will
kill you. My mother's in an institution, heavily sedated. She shut out the rest of the family. Never admitted what she'd done, simply cut us off. She carried the guilt like a punishment and it did her in, not to mention the repercussions on my family.”

“And to you, before you knew the truth.”

“I went out of my way to try to make up for it, but it never made a difference. She still locked us all out.”

“How unfair,” Maggie said, “to both of you.”

“Both of us?”

“She didn't know it would turn out the way it did. And was too blinded by shame to see what she was doing to her little boy. Beck, if she'd thought to hold you responsible, then she'd have been terrified her daughter was on the streets. Nothing would have stopped her from letting your sister come home. So how her daughter escaped her room was
never
on her mind.”

Caught off guard, an angry honk told him the light had changed green. Blinking hard, he accelerated, waving an apology to the man behind. How had she taken something that had haunted him for years and given it a perspective he never considered?

Maggie touched his arm, gentle eyes focused on him. “An innocent little brother helped his sister, and she never came home. Then when his mother withdrew, he saw it as her pointing the finger. There's only one person responsible,” she said answering her own question. “It's neither your mother, nor you.”

He couldn't afford to give this any more thought. Maggie was right, however, one person was responsible, and if it was the last thing he did, Christian would wipe the streets clean of this murdering bastard. Stopping the car at the hospital, he cranked the door handle and got out, another migraine pounding at his temples.

He stuck his head back in the car, ready to use the ammunition she'd just given him. “You just keep reminding yourself of that, Maggie. There is only one person to blame.”

O
n their way to Rhonda's room, Maggie stopped dead in her tracks. Jack, her bartender was coming down the corridor.

“Hi, Mags,” he said, his gaze dropping to the floor. “I tried to visit Rhonda, but the cops wouldn't let me in. They seemed really bothered that I knew. Mr. Beck.” He nodded a greeting.

“How did you find out?” Beck asked, the odd tone of suspicion catching Maggie's attention.

Jack jammed his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. He shot Maggie a nervous glance. “The police questioned Debbie. She's been staying with Rhonda until her apartment is ready,” he said. “I—I spent the night with Deb. She was upset, Maggie. Honest, nothing happened. She needed someone, so she called me. I swear nothing happened,” he repeated. “I left her sleeping. I thought I'd get some good news for her this morning, but they won't tell me a thing.”

Debbie was a smart girl, and Jack a decent guy. Rules were rules and she'd have to fire his butt if Debbie had been a dancer, but she wasn't. Serving tables in front of boyfriends was one thing, stripping another. Maggie didn't want the dancers to deal with angry lovers. “That's fine, Jack, but remind her, the police don't want Rhonda's attack broadcast. Please, keep this to yourselves. I'll call when I have news.”

“They don't want the killer knowing she's alive, do they?”

“Very shrewd of you, Jack,” Beck said, sarcasm undeniable.

Jack had twenty pounds on Beck, but it was the bartender Maggie worried about. “That's right. I know I can trust your discretion. Rhonda's life and who knows who else's could be in danger.”

“Don't worry, Mags,” he assured her. “We'll stay quiet.”

She waited for her bartender to be out of earshot. “What was that all about?” Why had he been so rude?

“What's he doing here at eight in the morning?”

“He probably wanted to get here before Debbie woke up. She'd have been working last night and if the police had shown up after her shift, she'd be exhausted and would have slept in. I've suspected for a while that those two have had a thing going on and were too nervous to tell me.”

“Why would that be?”

“My no-touch rule applies to staff as well. Jack figured the rule applied to him and Debbie.”

“So you think he came here out of concern for his new girlfriend?”

“You suspect Jack? No way, he hovers over the dancers more than the bouncers.”

“Hovers how?”

Maggie stopped walking. “No, he's . . .” Could he be some kind of sick killer? Could she have inadvertently allowed a psychotic murderer into her club? No way. Her instincts were never wrong. Instinct had told her to stay out of that warehouse, had told her going after Hannah was trouble. She'd chosen to ignore what her gut told her. What was a bruised face, even a scarred psyche compared to the lives of others? “Look,” she said, “I know people. He's a good guy.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“I'm not wrong about people. I make all kinds of stupid mistakes, but I know people. Jack isn't a killer.”

“Really?” he asked, that sarcastic tone returning.

“I believe you're a good guy.”

That shut him up. Pulling her into his arms, he kissed her. Tender but possessive, Maggie knew she was right about Beck. He was a good guy. And Jack was no killer. No one could hide evil like that.

Breaking the kiss, he took her hand and led the way to Rhonda's room. Over his shoulder, he smiled. Although she couldn't pinpoint when it had happened, she knew it had. She'd fallen in love with him.

Beck was everything she was not. They shared the need for retribution. But unlike her, he went after what he craved. She instead refused to acknowledge what had almost happened to her. Now it was eating her alive, clawing its way to the surface and dragging Maggie down into the grave in which she'd tried to bury the whole terrible ordeal.

Regret had become a daily part of her life. Maybe if she'd been able to defend herself . . . maybe if she'd shot the bastard with his gun, this ugly fear of what lay around the corner wouldn't haunt her. She glanced at the man standing beside her. Weren't they a pair, wearing their regrets like a second skin? Only how many lives had been saved because of Beck's regrets?

Outside the intensive care unit, two officers stood guard. Neither recognized Maggie, so they waited for Horace's go-ahead before they allowed them to enter.

“Excuse me.”

Maggie turned to the see a petite nurse walking toward them.

“Are you Maggie? Lieutenant Cooper said you're the next of kin for my patient?”

Rhonda had an aunt in Connecticut but the two didn't talk. “I guess I would be.”

“Then I'll give this to you.” She handed her a small plastic baggie holding a gold chain and cross. “The police have her clothes, but I thought you might like to have this for safekeeping.” She pushed a pair of orange-framed glasses, almost matching the color of her hair, up the bridge of her nose.

“Thank you, but are you sure it's hers?” she asked, not recalling Rhonda owning a gold cross.

“Well, it was in a deep, zippered pocket of her pants. The police don't see how else it would have gotten there. It's been photographed and dusted for fingerprints. They cleared it for me to give to you.”

Tucking the small bag in her front pocket, she thanked her again.

Unfortunately the visit with Rhonda did little to assuage Maggie's worry. Rhonda had yet to wake up.

 

On their way back to the apartment, Maggie's mother called for a lunch date, her father having gone off to a book signing. Maggie considered turning her down, but knowing her mother would think it odd, she agreed to meet.

She called the club, when what she wanted to do was run over there. She spoke to each staff member on duty, leaving strict instructions that no one was to go anywhere alone. If the women couldn't travel in pairs then they were to stay home with the doors locked. She had her manager account for the whereabouts of anyone not in the club and told him to relay the same message. She changed into clothes appropriate for lunch with her mother, and called her friends. There'd been no indication they were next on the killer's list, but she made them promise to be careful.

Beck drove Maggie to the Bellagio after introducing her to Dozier, then left to return to the hospital in hopes of Rhonda waking up. Looking over her shoulder at the man assigned to watch her, Maggie wondered who'd be stupid enough to confront him. Close to seven feet of solid muscle, she doubted the offensive line of any football team could get past him.

She found her mother waiting for her at a corner table by the window. Maggie sat across from her as Dozier took a table with a clear view of the door and Maggie. Exchanging pleasantries until the waiter arrived, they ordered salads. The conversation stagnated with small talk about Tweedsmuir, the new sofa, and the fundraiser her mother was working on for breast cancer awareness.

She watched as her mother plucked at the delicate leaves of the mixed green salad with her fork. “Mom, don't you like the salad? I can have the waiter bring you something else.”

She half-smiled. “No, dear, it's fine.” She set the fork down and squeezed Maggie's hand, then straightened. “I'm worried about you. You're pale.”

“So you abused that poor salad because I'm pale?”

“Maggie,” her mother scolded, “no jokes.”

“I'm fine,” Maggie replied with all the confidence she didn't have.

“Yes, you're so fine you have dark circles under your eyes.”

“I didn't get much sleep last night,” she admitted.

Her mother raised an eyebrow. “You're a grown woman, but I'm still your mother.”

Maggie grabbed the napkin her mother was brutalizing and tossed it out of her reach. She and her mom shared nervous habits. Maggie fidgeted from the waist down, her mother the opposite. Finally understanding, Maggie couldn't help but laugh. The idea that her mother believed she'd been up having sex all night was awkward to say the least.

“This isn't funny, Maggie.”

Maggie cleared her throat. Well, it was a little funny. “Let's change the subject.”

“Please,” her mother replied, and was that a smile twitching the corner of her lips?

Dang, things had changed. “Why don't you tell me what's up with you and dad?”

Her mother straightened again. “Are you referring to his . . . attentive behavior?”

No, she was referring to the one-eighty personality switch, but okay, sure why not. “Yes.”

“Well, as his change affects you, it's only right you should know. We went to a counselor.”

Maggie all but choked on her saliva. Had her mother not said it so calmly, Maggie might have considered calling her out on it. “Seriously? What, a marriage counselor?”

“Not so much marriage as a life counselor.”

“
Life
counselor? My father, the holier-than-thou preacher of the East, went to a life counselor. I'm sorry, mother, but that's a little hard to swallow.”

“How about, I threatened to divorce him if he didn't?”

Maggie knew she should close her gaping mouth, but one, her all-knowing father had agreed to counseling, and two, he'd done it under threat from her sweet, demure mother.

“Wow, there's a few girls at the club I could use your help with. If you can get Mr. I'm-never-wrong into counseling, maybe you can persuade my tougher cases to consider school.”

“Your father isn't the brute you make him out to be. All right, he's an ambitious man, but he loves you. He means well.”

“He meant to control me to ensure his reputation,” Maggie corrected, not skipping a beat.

“No,” her mother replied just as adamantly. “It only seemed that way. Your father has difficulty articulating his affection. You might think his followers get all his love, but you're wrong. Your grandparents came from modest means and they believed providing a roof over their children's heads and food on the table was enough to express their love. They were cold, Maggie. They didn't mean to be, but their main concern was that their children never know poverty, saving every penny they earned, wasting not one cent.”

Maggie wouldn't know, having never met them.

“So right or wrong, your father resorts to other means of expressing his feelings. Sometimes he fails miserably. Instead of saying, ‘Maggie, don't move to Las Vegas, it's too far,' he said, ‘It's a town of sin inappropriate for a preacher's daughter.' Instead of saying, ‘I'll sleep better at night if you attend an all-girls college and I won't have to worry about men crawling all over my baby girl,' he arranged for you to go to Holyoke.”

“Did you learn all of this in counseling?” Maggie asked, instantly regretting at how rude she'd just been to her mom.

“Yes,” she replied, obviously proud of the progress she'd made. “Maggie, come to the book signing. Let him show you how much he loves you.”

It was true that actions spoke louder than words and a rush of affection for her father washed over Maggie, but she couldn't allow his sudden urgency to make amends ruin everything she did at the club or open her parents to scandal—and the killer. It wasn't right. If her father truly wanted to be back in her life, then they'd have to find another way. Or wait.

“You know, the two of you are not so different.”

Maggie laughed, drawing the attention of the couple seated beside them. “Insulting me will get you nowhere.”

“Laugh all you want, but you're both headstrong. You get ideas in your heads and heaven help anyone who gets in the way.”

Didn't that just make her squirm.

While the waiter cleared their plates, Maggie regarded her mother. She was glad her parents had rediscovered themselves. She was happy they were happy. Even if it was without her.

Exchanging one last hug, they arranged to meet after dinner and said their good-byes. On her way to meet Beck, Maggie spotted the defensive lineman he'd brought in. He'd give her doormen a run for their money.

Standing in the lobby, she looked up to admire the Dale Chihuly masterpiece of hand-blown glass flowers, marveling at the expense gone into creating this grand hotel. Money made money. That much was true, and this hotel made lots of it. Money could be the root of all evil, was often the root of all evil. Hadn't her mother turned her back on wealth? What would she say if she knew her heritage had built Maggie's home? And Heart's Desire was bought with that heritage.

Having refused any financial aid after college, she'd made a promise to her grandmother to live well. The grand lady adamantly professed that having money wasn't a crime, but you had to take the responsibility that went with it seriously. Maggie's father had come from a modest background and he hadn't appreciated her grandmother Lily's spending habits. Philanthropic projects meant nothing if you didn't lead by example. They'd never agreed and eventually couldn't stand the sight of one another. Over the years, her father had adjusted to his wealth, but palatial homes and Bentleys weren't part of her parent's portfolio. They were middle class all the way.

Maggie put a call in to Beck, eager to see him.

“Are you done?” he asked, not waiting for her hello.

“Yup, where are you?”

“At the hospital. Rhonda's awake.”

Maggie's heart jumped. “I'll catch a cab.”

“No, you won't. Dozier will drive you home. Don't come near the hospital.”