Sin on the Strip (27 page)

“What happened? Is she all right? Why can't I see her?”

“She's been sedated. Maggie, she identified her assailant.”

“I
t's for her own good,” Christian told himself after he hung up with Maggie. She shouldn't be anywhere near the hospital or the station. The feds had made an arrest and press swarmed both buildings. She wasn't thinking clearly and would later regret seeing her face plastered all over the morning paper or evening news.

When she cooled off she'd see reason. He hoped. Who'd have thought the preacher's daughter could swear like a hornet-stung lunatic? To be safe, he told Dozier to sit on her for another hour, keep her in the apartment and away from cameras. She'd thank Christian later.

For now, he prowled outside the interrogation room, the feds having banned any nonessential personnel from going within ten feet of Jason Teel. Although it's what he would've done, he didn't like it.

Christian's phone finally vibrated.

“Talk to me,” he said, impatient for answers.

“Jason Teel, born February 19, 1980,” Monty said. “Makes him—”

“Thirty-five.” Five months older than Christian. This wasn't making sense.

Caleb “Monty” McEwan had worked for Ryan before he could walk and learned to hack into computers before he gave up his sippy cup. Seldom if ever was his information wrong.

“What else?”

“He's been working for Ms. Anderson for a little over a year, but it doesn't look like he needs the cash. I haven't traced the funds yet, but he's got a hefty bank account. He lives in a privately funded group home for challenged individuals. You have to have money, or come from it, to afford this place. Trouble is, his mother died in '90 and what little she'd saved went to her aunt to help support Jason when he was living with her. No birth certificate yet, so I don't know who the father was, but he's marked as deceased. Teel has no record, no history of violence and that house keeps tight files. So other than his obsession with music, he's a model resident.”

“There has to be something,” Christian muttered, trying to keep his voice low so as not to draw attention.

“Hang on. I have another computer squawking at me.”

An agent came out of the interrogation room, head shaking. He was met by yet another black blazer—Riley, if Christian remembered correctly. They'd graduated from the academy the same year but had gone their separate ways in the agency, Riley specializing in homicide. He was good, but if Christian's memory served him right, Riley was the ambitious sort, always bucking for a promotion. Maybe enough to overlook details?

“Beck? You still there?”

“Go ahead, Monty.”

“They requested an old file. Wait, it's just loading. It's the guy's mother, Vicky Teel.”

Christian heard the sounds of computer keys clacking away as Monty fed it questions he wanted answered. He never asked Monty how or where he got his intel, mostly because Christian didn't care and partly because it was disconcerting to think the guy could tell you what color of boxers covered your ass that day.

“She had a record, busted for possession of heroin, twice. '78 and '80. Looks like Jason's problems started before he was born. Shit.” More clacking. “You're not going to like this. It shoots your theory all to hell.”

“Monty,” he warned.

“Her death was considered suspicious, and then ruled out. Drug overdose leading to an accidental drowning. Beck, man, her body was discovered in the bathtub, and guess who the lucky person was to find her?”

“Jason.”

“A ten-year-old comes across his dead mother. That might do a serious number on a kid already loaded down. Aren't kids born with his problems prone to violent tendencies?”

“Some, but like you said, he hasn't displayed any of them.” He'd met the man, the day of Heather Mackenzie 's funeral. It was hard to think of that eager-to-please giant as a murderer. “Wanna bet the feds think he's mimicking his mother's death?”

“Sure, but why? Why kill the dancers?”

“When exactly did she die?” Christian asked, trying to make some sense of it.

“Hang on.” The sound of more quick key slaps came over the line. “June sixteenth. Mean anything?”

“Claire died in August.” He looked up in time to see Cooper come out of the interrogation viewing room. Christian caught the barely perceptible nod and eye movement. “Monty, I gotta go. Keep digging. Something's not right.”

“Beck, I don't need to tell you the odds aren't good, two guys opting to kill in this way—the bathtub, the slashes—but it's not impossible.”

Yeah, what were the odds? “Keep looking and see if there are crime scene photos of the mother,” he ordered and hung up. Careful to avoid the feds, he made his way to Cooper's office.

Something wasn't right. Maggie expressed no concern over this guy, which meant she hadn't perceived him as a threat. She'd have noticed any odd behavior toward her dancers and, handicapped or not, she'd have fired him. Zero tolerance meant zero tolerance, enough that her bartender and waitress had tried to keep their budding relationship a secret. And even that she'd noticed.

“Well?” he asked, shutting Cooper's door behind him.

“His name is Jason Teel—”

Christian stopped him. “Let me help you out,” he said then filled him in on what Monty had already told him.

“How did you know the feds . . .” Cooper held up a hand. “Never mind. I don't want to know.”

“Tell me what I don't know.”

“The kid, sorry . . . it's hard to think of him as an adult. Jason has the mentality of a ten-year-old. He's so fucking scared he's not talking. Just keeps rocking back and forth, eyes clamped tight. It's like he's trying to shut them out. They called the director of the home where Jason lives, hoping he'll get through to him. If you ask me, and I know you're not going to like this, Maggie should be the one talking to him.”

“No. No way. No how.”

“Beck, I've seen her with him.”

So had he. “No.” That's all she needed, to talk to a man she'd brought into the club, the man who may have killed her dancers. “Let the director try.”

Christian regarded Cooper, looking more rumpled than he'd ever seen him. There was a nervous edge to the way he rubbed his neck, grimacing. “You don't believe it either, do you?”

He knew his reasons. There was no way Jason Teel had killed Claire—he had only been ten years old at the time. But he had other reasons for believing they had the wrong man.

“He likes her,” Cooper said. “That's what doesn't make sense. That guy is like a puppy. Maggie adores him. She has good instincts. It's what made her a great counselor. This is going to kill her.”

“We need to talk to Rhonda.”

“Agreed. I have a man waiting at the hospital.”

“She's positive Teel attacked her.”

Cooper nodded. “She was on her way to Shannon's, heard someone behind her and turned to see Jason. He was extremely agitated and told her she had to go with him because he wanted it back, and when she refused, he got aggressive, started dragging her toward a car. She said that in itself was odd. Jason doesn't have a driver's license.”

“He doesn't drive? Then how the hell do the feds explain the victims in the other cities?”

“The group home the kid lives in takes them on excursions every month. They can put him in the vicinity of every victim.”

“Vicinity?

“The home keeps tight log books. They're putting together a list of everywhere they've been.”

“It could be coincidental.”

“Maybe. The feds confirmed he'd driven the group home's car. His prints were all over it and they're sure the blood found on the rear bumper is going to be Rhonda's.”

The hope that had ignited fizzled out. It's not that he wanted the feds to be wrong, but that he needed them to be right, beyond a shadow of a doubt. Right now, he had his doubts.

“What did he want back from Rhonda?”

“At the time, she didn't know. But she remembered finding his gold cross in the DJ booth. She'd left a message for Jason, telling him she had it. She said she'd shoved it in her pocket and would have returned it to him that night, but she had to see Maggie first. That's when Rhonda's blood pressure started to go wonky. She managed to tell us she freed herself from Jason's grip but hadn't made it more than a block when she heard squealing tires. She looked behind her just in time to see Jason's back tires coming toward her. That was the last thing she remembered before the doctor came in and sedated her. She was rushed back to surgery with more internal bleeding.”

“She'll be out of commission for a few hours. Damn.” He plopped himself down in a chair, lack of sleep starting to catch up with him. “Can I get a coffee?”

Cooper didn't answer, opened his office door and hollered for two coffees.

“Coming over to the dark side?” Cooper smirked.

Christian looked over his shoulder, in the direction of the interrogation room where they held Jason Teel. “I'm already there.” If the feds were right, Christian had been planning to obliterate a severely handicapped man. Is that what was bothering him? Ethics aside, he didn't think so.

 

Maggie paced the loft, no longer wanting to strangle a certain southerner, wound too tight to sit and wait for news. Grudgingly, she admitted Beck had been right in telling—forcing—her to stay put. She'd made the mistake of flipping on the television. The sight of all those reporters swarming her club made her dizzy and sick to her stomach. So far, her name hadn't been mentioned and maybe it wouldn't be. On paper, she was the club manager, nothing more and of no real importance to Heart's Desire.

All that took a backseat to her dancers, the media blitz hurting them more than her. If she'd been seen entering the club and the connection made to her father, the press would never leave and draw further attention to the women who didn't want attention drawn to them, women who'd come to her from other states.

She'd called to warn the women to leave through the backdoor and avoid the photographers, but Beck had beaten her to it. Her manager had locked the doors when the women were safely out and on their way home, escorted by her doormen. She'd talked to Wendy and Alice after they'd generously insisted on going to the hospital. Rhonda was safely out of surgery, all bleeding stopped. Thank God.

She considered telling her parents, but since her father had adamantly refused to know anything about the club, he had no clue as to its name. There, at least, she'd been granted a reprieve. Morning was good enough to let them in on the upheaval of her so-called life for the past month.

All she had left to do was stop thinking of the many ways she wanted to see Jason pay.

She quit asking why two hours ago. She'd racked her brain and found no reason that would incite Jason to kill. Could she have been that blind? Had she been away from the streets for too long? Where had her warning bells gone?

Maggie went into the kitchen and poured herself a cup of coffee. Milk in hand, she caught her eyes reflected back at her from within the black liquid. She dumped the coffee down the drain. She couldn't do this, couldn't blame herself. She tried to remember the day Jason had walked into her club. Had there been something off about him then? Had he chosen her club for a reason?

She headed back to the living room and picked up the plastic bag that held the gold cross the hospital had given her. Staring at it, she threw herself on the couch and winced at the blunt contact of her butt against the hard cushion. Groaning, she stood, at last recognizing the chain. This was Jason's. How had Rhonda ended up with it? With so many unanswered questions, Maggie's head began to pound. She went over to the phone and willed it to ring. Why hadn't Beck called her? How long did it take to interrogate someone? She almost wished she hadn't told Dozier to go home. At least then she'd have someone to bitch at.

As if someone had heard her prayers, the phone rang. She stuffed the chain into her jean pockets just as she caught her own number on the caller ID.

“Don't worry, Shannon, I'm fine,” she answered.

“Maggie.” Shannon sounded panicked, scared.

Maggie's heart quickened with the familiar rush of adrenaline when one of her girls was in trouble, a warning something was wrong. “What is it?”

“I-I need you. He—”

“Nice try.” In the background an angry male voice cut her friend off.

A grunt of pain carried over the receiver. Someone had struck her. Then a loud clang shot through Maggie's ear as Shannon must have dropped the phone. “Shannon! Shannon!”

“Let me go,” Shannon screamed. It was followed by the sound of flesh hitting flesh. Maggie flinched, her fingers tightening their hold on the phone.

“Hello, Maggie,” he shouted having not picked up the receiver, his words coming in short breaths. Maggie strained to hear him say, “Come . . . alone . . . or she . . . dies.” Then nothing except a dial tone drilling into her ear.

Dropping the phone, Maggie put her hands on her knees and forced air into her lungs, forced herself to think. The incessant tone of the fallen phone mocked her futile attempt to make sense of everything. She grabbed it and yanked the cord out of the wall, taking drywall with the plug. Her panic eased and anger took hold of her as she threw the phone across the room, shattering the base and electronic gizmos all over the floor. Who? How had he gotten into her house? He wanted Maggie.

Then it all fell into place. The police had the wrong man.

This
was
a vendetta against her. Women were dying because of her and if she didn't act fast, her best friend would be next.