Sin on the Strip (10 page)

Her eyes shut to the soft swoosh of doors closing. Through the honeybees nesting in her ears, she heard, “Breathe, Maggie, deep, slow breaths.” He grew more insistent, but her body refused to listen, her legs and feet numb.

Sonya's open eyes, the whites laced with broken blood vessels, penetrated the blackness. Then another face, one far younger, too young. Thankfully the image faded as her vision narrowed to a smaller and smaller tunnel, and then at last: nothing.

 

The next thing she knew, Beck brushed his knuckles against her jaw. “You scared me. You passed out.”

Maggie looked away, unable to bear the misplaced sympathy in his eyes. It belonged to Sonya's parents. Long eternal seconds ticked by before, ashamed, she attempted to stand. He took her hands and helped her to her feet. She couldn't have been out for more than a few seconds—they were still in the elevator. She decided not to ask.

In the lobby, he escorted her to a wingback leather chair in the reception area. To her left, toward the slot machines, a group of elderly tourists clapped as one of them hit a jackpot. The deafening bells and whistles sounded as they cheered their friend's success.

Beck crouched in front of her, his hand on her knee. “Stay here,” he instructed. “I'll finish upstairs and when I come down, we'll talk. Okay? I'll answer any questions you have then.” He waited for a response.

She stared at him. Exactly what was he prepared to answer? And why did she have the feeling she wasn't going to like what he had to say? “Sure,” she said, agreeing only to be rid of him.

“Can I get you anything before I leave? Water?” He gave her a reassuring smile. “I'll have someone sit with you.”

Maggie forced herself to reply, tamping down her growing anger. “No, thank you. I'll be fine.” God help him and Horace if they had kept something from her that could have protected Sonya, if they'd cost another girl her life.

He rubbed her knee and glanced around the lobby. Returning his attention to her, he nodded. “Okay. I'll be back soon.” Beck stood. Never taking his eyes off her, he stroked her cheek.

His caress brought back the memory of their morning together, of the kiss they'd shared. But reality had set in. A cold, hard tidal wave struck her world. Trust him? What a fool she'd been. She forced herself to half-smile in return and waited as he got back on the elevator, not for one minute believing him sincere.

The moment the metal doors closed, she was on her feet. Still dizzy, she managed to skirt the officers at the front and search out Carlo. Seeing her, he smiled and pitched the keys, indicating he was backed up and couldn't talk. Perfect. She doubted she could unclench her jaw long enough to thank him.

Maggie forced herself to put aside all thoughts of Sonya—the sweetest girl she'd ever worked with, her cup always half full, never half empty. She deserved proper grieving, but right now answers were crucial. If Beck and the police were holding back, then more of her girls were in danger. Three girls were murdered—two danced for her. The police had a serious serial killer on their hands.

 

She couldn't afford to be pulled over for speeding, nor could she chance Beck and Horace returning to the station before she'd had a chance to do some snooping. Taking the risk, she pressed down on the accelerator. She passed a silver sedan as a white SUV scooted close behind her car. She held her breath. Had an undercover traffic cop just nailed her? Several seconds later, she relaxed when the police sedan passed without lighting up his red and blue beacons. Distracted by the tailgating SUV, she almost missed her exit and had to quickly veer right; the SUV kept going.

She parked in the visitor's lot, summoned her courage, and headed inside. The police station was quiet.
Good
. On her way over she'd planned what she was going to say.

She smiled her sweet Sunday best. “Hi, Bill.”

“Hello, Maggie. Did you find the lieutenant?”

“No.” She took a hard swallow, sinking one foot closer to damnation. All worth it, she thought. Anything to protect her girls.

“I couldn't get near him, some kind of . . . murder, I think. Do you mind if I wait for him inside?” Maggie looked over at the almost empty coffee rotting away on the burner in the corridor behind Bill. “I'll even make a fresh pot.” She nodded to the coffeemaker. “I know where Horace keeps the good stuff.” She wagged her brows.

“I knew there was a reason I liked you.”

“Here I thought it was my charm.” She smiled. She could hate herself later. This needed to be done. An adrenaline rush, the good kind, the kind she hadn't felt in years, spurred her on.

Horace kept the specialty beans hidden in his office. Like she didn't know he cheated.

Two deputies sat in the squad room. One tipped his chin hello, the other too busy typing on his keyboard. She grabbed the coffee pot from the counter and dumped the black syrup into the sink beside it, scrunching her nose at the pungent aroma. After pouring fresh water into the machine, she made her way to Horace's office. Maggie opened the top drawer to the metal filing cabinet and pulled out the coffee. She poured the beans and pushed grind. Snubbing any guilt she may have felt, Maggie eyed his desk. Beneath a mound of folders, a file with her name in bold black letters caught her attention.

First thing first, she grabbed the ground coffee and headed back to the coffeemaker, fit in a filter and dumped the ground beans inside. She pressed the ON button and called out to Bill. “Coffee is set. Can I wait for Horace in his office?”

Bill quirked his mouth to the side, then nodded.

When she was sure no one was watching, she half closed the office door and opened the file. On Beck's company letterhead the contents of her life were laid out, and her father's. But nothing he hadn't confessed to. Thank God.

Beneath the file was another. Inside, an autopsy report with data she didn't understand, and Heather Mackenzie's name written on top. She skimmed through the indistinguishable information, blood type, and what she assumed was a blood tox. Time of death and liver temperature laid out Heather's final moments. She eased her hold on the file and turned the page to a DNA report listing the findings of the semen found. Heather had been with a man? The next page detailed chemical jargon detailing some kind of water test. She wished she'd paid better attention in chemistry class. Reaching out to flip the page, she stopped. The paper beneath was glossy; a picture.

Maggie wasn't sure she could handle the sight of Heather's lifeless body, but the need to be informed urged her forward. Relief washed over her when it turned to be a photo of Heather's neck with an odd incision at the base of her skull.

Maggie's stomach warned her to slap the file shut. What did all this mean? Heather didn't have a boyfriend. She'd been too busy finishing off her degree to date. She slumped into Horace's well-worn leather chair. Had Heather been raped? When the police caught this bastard, she'd tear his heart out.

Inside Heather's file was another manila envelope. She bit into her lower lip. Too late to turn back now, she spilled its contents. On top of what she knew were pictures was a list of dates, seven to be exact, scattered throughout the last year.

Her heart dropped a beat.

Seven girls, seven slayings, seven lives lost to the same killer. Samantha Wiseman led the list. That asshole had lied to her again. Why? And Horace? Beck may have had his own screwed up reasons, but Horace? If she'd known this she would have had a better idea of what to listen for.

She stared at the pile of papers beneath the one she'd read. Curiosity should be a measure of human frailty. It killed the cat, for heaven's sake. She turned the page and whimpered, her hand covering her mouth.

“Maggie.” The deep voice of her old friend penetrated her living nightmare.

M
aggie's head shot up. Horace stood inside the doorframe, disappointment on his face. She jumped up and grimaced when her knee smacked the desk. The chair skidded to the wall and bounced back, catching her behind her weakened knees. She lurched forward. Her hand hit the file and its contents emptied onto Horace's desk. She covered her mouth as bile threatened to spill. Some with eyes wide open, horror-filled as they glimpsed their final moments—all nude, most bloodied, all ashen skinned. All dead. All these young women, victim to the same man.

She flinched as Horace entered his office. When she skirted around him, he made no attempt to stop her. She stepped backward toward the door.

“Why didn't you tell me about all these other women?” She hated how her voice trembled. “And that Heather had been raped?” She wanted to throw up. What that poor girl must have gone through.

“Maggie, please.” He reached for her. “Don't go.”

She clamped her eyes, shutting out the image of a man she'd once relied on. She pressed the heels of her palms to her forehead. “Why?”

Horace had been like a father to her, the man she'd confided in, the man who never judged her. The man she trusted, her support all these years.

She opened her eyes and inadvertently glanced at the pictures. Jerking her head away, she remembered with grizzly detail the circumstances of their meeting, the runaway girl she'd been trying to help. While sympathetic, Horace's hands had been tied. Two weeks later, she found the teenager dead, left naked in the alley two blocks from the condo Maggie'd leased at the time. The kid had been on her way to find her. That very day, Maggie made a promise to help any runner she could, any kid who'd fled home or an institution. Making Vegas her home, she and Horace had made an alliance in the months that followed and then a friendship forged over years of close calls—Maggie's.

She stared at the man, remembering the day that changed her life. Scared, some beaten, all hungry, Desilva's latest commodities would have been priced out to the highest bidder. She had dialed the police and left the phone on and in her car, allowing Horace time to find her before she could be added to the inventory . . . or sampled by her captor.

This man had saved her life when she herself could not. But to her mind his secrecy had now cost Sonya hers. The same killer had murdered two of her girls. Was this sick bastard targeting dancers? If so, she should have been told. Maybe she could have protected the women better if she'd known all the details.

“Maggie, let me explain.” Horace took a step toward her.

She backed up. “Don't.” He hadn't even trusted her enough to tell her Heather had been raped. That crushed her.

“I couldn't tell you.”

“Why?” Her jaw ached, and she forced herself to unclench it. Like her father, he'd turned his back on her. She spun to flee and slammed into a familiar wall of muscle.

Beck shut the door with his foot.

“Get out of my way,” she said, in no mood for his bull.

“I take it she saw the file,” he said over her head as if she weren't standing right in front of him.

“Yeah, she saw it
all
,” Horace replied, regret in every word. But regret wasn't enough for Maggie.

“Maggie, sit down and we'll explain.” Beck leaned against the door as she dodged around him for the knob.

He wouldn't budge, and although the thought of sending him sprawling to the ground tempted her, she glued her heels to the floor. She didn't know how deep his involvement went, but she'd bet he was up to his rippled abs in it.

Christian couldn't let her leave. She'd seen the bloody file, and he wanted her to understand the reasoning behind not telling her. He spun her, grabbed a chair and plunked her sweet ass into it.

Maggie's hand gripped the armrest in an attempt to rise. “Don't treat me like a criminal.”

Standing behind her, he pressed his hands onto her shoulders. “No? What do you call snooping in the lieutenant's office and sneaking onto a crime scene?”

“I didn't sneak in,” she snapped. “They let me in and I stood in the hall.”

“A lie of omission. Now, sit. We need to talk.”

“Really?” she replied, anger sharpening the edge of her voice. “Now, you want to talk?”

“Maggie . . .” Horace's plea seemed to anger her more. Her beautiful lips pursed into a tight line.

“Let me tell her.” Christian sat in the empty seat beside her as Horace cleaned up the files. “The feds weren't ready to go public with all the details. At the hotel, they told us they'd hold a press conference today.” He turned her chair to face him, scraping the legs over the linoleum and pissing her off even more. “Cooper was under orders not to say anything.”

“You knew,” she said, her eyes accusing.

“I still have contacts in the agency, so yes, I knew.”

“So what, I didn't merit being told? You couldn't have told me someone had murdered seven women?”

“They were afraid of a leak. Even a small one could jeopardize their case.”

“Their case? Or yours?”

“Yeah, mine too. But it wasn't my place to give you details.”

“No,” she said glaring at Cooper. “It was his. You could have told me she'd been raped. You of all people.” Averting Cooper's eyes, as if she'd been the one to betray their friendship, she said, “I shouldn't have broken into your office, but I haven't done anything stupid in a long time. You should have trusted me. Orders or no orders, you know what those women mean to me. I would never do anything to put them in harm's way.” She gave Cooper a hard stare. “How many times have I come through for you?”

“I trust you,” Cooper assured her. “And I guess I used my orders as an excuse, because I do know what these women mean to you. I told myself I was protecting you, and we'd catch the killer before he struck again.”

Hadn't Christian hoped the same?

He wouldn't regret keeping her in the dark. At the time it had been for the good of the case, but whatever these two shared, obviously a much closer relationship than he'd first suspected, he didn't want to be the one to destroy it. He put aside wondering what had brought them together, told himself the man was twice her age—being jealous was completely fucked up—and decided to make this right. For Maggie. “Believe me. It killed him not to tell you.”

“And you? You weren't under orders.” She eyed him with enough venom to make a rattler shrink and slither away. “Heather was family to me. I had the right to know how she died.”

She had a right to know? Maybe, but would it have helped her to know? The sound of his mother's crying haunted Christian. Deserved or not, the noise of her muffled sobs as he curled into a ball in front of her bedroom, his ear pressed to the door, had tortured him for years. His helplessness to do something, anything to comfort her, returned in living color. Then he hadn't known about his mother's failings. Then he was just a kid who blamed himself.

“She was dead. Anything I said to you wouldn't have changed that. And until today, I honestly didn't believe Cooper when he assured me you could be trusted.”

“Another girl is dead. I could have kept a closer eye on them. I could have cautioned them to be on their guard more.” She leaned forward and poked him hard in the chest. “This is your fault.”

“Cooper had police following your employees. We're not sure how she slipped past them.” He wasn't sure why he wanted her to know he was on her side.
Shit
.

“Following?” She turned to Cooper, her brow furrowed. “Horace, me too?”

Cooper nodded. “I tried to keep you, and them, as safe as I could. It wasn't easy, budget cuts and all, but Beck's boss pulled some strings. And the FBI has had a surveillance car outside the clubs.”

Never blinking, her eyes locked on Christian, then back at Cooper. “The white SUV,” she asked, “a cop?”

“SUV? I'm not sure who was assigned to you. Did you catch a license plate?”

“No.” She glared at Christian. “I was too busy trying to beat you two here. Why didn't you tell me this guy killed all these women?”

He leaned back in his chair and considered his motives for not having told her the truth. They'd been sound. “No one wanted the press to find out. The last thing anyone needed was a copycat killer on the loose.”

“Press,” she huffed. “You know who my father is. Any moron could figure out I wouldn't be the one going to the press.” Maggie rose and paced in what little space the office afforded. Then she slumped against the desk. “Oh my God. Two of the victims have been my girls. Is that a coincidence?”

Christian sighed, hating what he was about to do. “Maggie, sit.” He took her arm to guide her, but she shook him off. He guessed he deserved that. “There's more.”

She groaned, the corners of her eyes sagging. “Not a coincidence.”

He reached around her and grabbed his file. The need to protect her from what he was about to show her overwhelmed him, but he had no choice. She was right about one thing. Two of her dancers had died in just over a week. The killer had upped the ante.

He leaned beside her, absurdly relieved when she didn't move. He gave her the list of names. “Recognize any of these?”

She read them. “Should I?”

He didn't understand. “I thought you were close to your dancers?”

“What does that have to do with anything?” She pushed off the desk, shoved the paper at his chest and slid the chair between them.

He held the list out to her. “These girls danced for you. They were your dancers.”

“What?” She snatched the paper back. Her eyes skimmed it again, and after a lengthy pause said, “You don't understand. Hundreds of girls have danced for the clubs. Some stay for months, some weeks, some just days,” she explained. “They move on. Money, the unwanted attention of a customer, even the weather can may make them go to the next gig. My contracts are fair and open to negotiation. It's why Heart's Desire is so popular on the circuit. But except for Heather, and now Sonya, these were not
my
girls. Horace?” She handed the paper to the lieutenant.

“I get it, Mags,” Cooper said, looking over the names.

“I don't. Care to enlighten me?” Christian knew those women danced at Heart's Desire.

“I'll have to check my records” she said, “but only Heather and Sonya were my girls. These others came and went.”

“What the hell's the difference? Christ, dancers, girls, strippers. Potato, potahto.”

“Don't curse!”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Asshole,” she hissed.

“Now, who's cursing?” he rumbled.

“That would still be you, dickhead.”

Something clicked and he remembered his grandmother. Though she was against all profanity, his grandfather's swearing garnered him a scowl. But take the Lord's name in vain, and she'd show him what hell was really like. Despite this heated disagreement, it amused him to think Maggie and his sweet grandmother held a common belief.

“Hey, enough you two. Damn, you'd think you were married.”

Maggie's head snapped toward her friend. “That's not remotely funny.”

Christian ignored Cooper's stupid comment.

His eyes locked on the one picture Cooper had forgotten to pick up, Miss Wiseman's. This is what he needed to concentrate on. This victim, these women, and the murderer who had it in for Maggie's dancers. Not whether Maggie Anderson would enjoy the idea of being his wife.

“Now do you understand the questions I had about the club?”

“This doesn't sound like a psychotic killer. It sounds deliberate.” She glanced over at Cooper, looking to him for answers. Evidently she didn't like what she saw. “No.” The word left her lips in a breathy denial. Her face paled. “No way. Someone is targeting the clubs?
My
clubs?”

That peaches and cream complexion he'd first noticed when they'd met now paled.

 

Maggie hadn't waited for a reply.

If Beck and the police were right, her clubs had attracted a killer. Why? There were many clubs in Vegas. She considered that perhaps she was the problem and not the clubs, but the only cretin who would have a true grudge against her, the one who would find irony in killing women connected to her, was Juan Desilva, and he was locked away. Could he have hired someone? Not his style. He'd want her to know, having said as much as they hauled his sorry carcass off that dock and into the cruiser.
The sick bastard
.

She'd darted out of the police station faster than Horace could maneuver his beer belly around his desk, or Beck the chair she'd slammed into his knees.

Oblivious of her speedometer, Maggie sped out of the police parking lot, watching her mirrors for the possibility of the white SUV tailing her. Next time she'd check the plates. When she didn't see it, Maggie knew where she wanted to be. If she hurried, she'd make it on time.

She'd considered going to Sonya's parents. The police would arrive on their doorstep soon, but family needed time to mourn family, in private.

She found an empty corner spot in the lot and hurried to the front doors. Music spilled over onto the quiet street and she hastened her pace, not wanting to disturb opening greetings. She tugged on the white, paint-chipped door and slipped inside, sneaking into a well-worn pew at the back. Nothing would carry above the sound of the joyous gospel being sung by the congregation.