by Lucy Farago
Ignoring the lieutenant’s dismissive tone, Christian continued. “Rumor has it the overzealous preacher is writing another bestseller. Do you think he’ll dedicate it to his wayward daughter? That’s it, isn’t it? Why she changed her name? Maggie Anderson doesn’t exist. Maggie Hopewell runs Heart’s Desire.”
Reverend James Hopewell was a religious figure on the national stage. He had risen to prominence over the last five years; transforming his small New England congregation into a major televangelism phenomenon through his astute use of television, talk radio, and the Internet.
Preachy sermons weren’t Christian’s cup of tea, so he didn’t know all there was to know about James Hopewell, but Christian didn’t recall him ever acknowledging a daughter. Only his wife was ever photographed by his side.
“She’s tightlipped about her family, and I’d have to find a reason to throw your sorry ass in jail if you opened your big mouth. That topic is off limits. From you and the press. Get my meaning?”
If his meaning was any louder or clearer, Christian would need earplugs.
“What else does your fancy file say?” he asked, moving the discussion to another topic.
Secret number one, Christian thought—and how far would she go to keep it? “She graduated UCLA on scholarship, majored in women and family studies. Moved to Vegas nine years ago and has been running Heart’s Desire for five, and the one in Reno …” He glanced down at his file, “the one in Reno, two. She spends most of her time here. Anyone who has ever danced for her is her biggest fan. I’m looking for what it doesn’t say.” He sat back in his chair, tented his fingers, and waiting patiently for Cooper’s reply.
Many employers were good to work for—his was a pain in the ass—but this went beyond a chummy working relationship. Her doormen, bartenders and especially her dancers painted her as saintly. Saintly, for God’s sake. He was missing something.
The strippers he’d known over the years, the ones who hadn’t been pimped out by their employers, never credited their bosses with saving their lives. What the hell was she doing that earned her their devoted admiration? Sure, Daddy was a preacher, and maybe some of his holy reputation had rubbed off on his daughter, but bottom line, she ran a strip club.
“Look, I get the lead,” Cooper said, not answering Christian’s question. “But these women run on a circuit. The club has ten,” he paused, “nine who work only for Maggie. The rest do a few months at each joint, then move on. Fresh blood, fresh cash. Hell, some have agents. The victims had several venues in common.”
“Heather Mackenzie didn’t.”
“The tub in the room was empty,” Cooper pointed out.
Christian shrugged. “He emptied it.”
“Why?” he asked. “He never did before.”
“Water drains. Who knows? That’s where she was found, after being drowned, and more important, your autopsy report confirmed the slashes at the back of her neck, just like the others. It’s the same guy, Cooper, and you know it.”
There was a long pause before he said, “I’ve doubled the patrol on the club,” confirming he agreed with Christian. “I already called Reno. They’re doing the same.”
“Good.” Christian nodded. “Is there something else going on here?” It was a fantastic break. Cooper should have been keyed up. The feds certainly were.
After a pensive moment, the lieutenant answered. “I don’t like the idea of someone targeting Maggie. I want to catch this guy, but I hope like hell everyone is wrong.”
Guess he couldn’t fault the guy his concern. He and Ms. Anderson were friends. Christian would do the same in Cooper’s place. “As far as anyone can tell, he’s not targeting her, but the club.”
“Maggie is the club.”
“First, it was the feds’ decision to keep her out. I only happened to agree with them. And what do you mean, she’s the club?”
“You should know. From what I hear, you two are a lot alike.” At Christian’s stunned silence, Cooper added, “You’re not the only one with fancy files.” He grinned. “What Maggie does, it’s more than a job to her,” he explained. “Sound familiar?”
“I’m paid a whack of money to take my job very seriously,” he said. That wasn’t unethical, nor was it his motivation.
“I’m sure you are, but like Maggie, you don’t do what you do for the money.”
He didn’t, but she did. “She runs a lucrative strip club.”
“Your family runs one of the largest shipping lines in the country out of New Orleans.”
“Wow, you really did go snooping.”
“You have friends,” he indicated Christian with an outstretched hand, then himself, “I have friends.”
His family history wasn’t a secret. He was just surprised Cooper felt the need to go looking. “Can we get back on topic?”
“Fine. The feds will eventually go public, and I don’t want Maggie hearing it from them. We go way back and let’s say she’s done more favors for this department than I can count. She should be kept in the loop.”
“The feds are waiting, and until then, leaks are a detriment to their case. Exactly, what kind of favors do you mean?”
“I guess there were things that swanky company of yours didn’t tell you. Good, at least I know my department is on top of something.” Cooper pointed a finger at him. “Understand this doesn’t leave my office. If this leaks, who knows what more shit will fly her way.” He waited for Christian to nod and continued. “Maggie sometimes hears … information. Intel that only someone in her position could have, so she understands secrecy.”
“Are you telling me she is some kind of informant? Why would you put her at risk like that?” Was Cooper crazy? This woman had no formal training.
“She never gave me a choice,” he grumbled and scrubbed the back of his head. A soft rasp followed. “Damn, I’m not used to shaving it every day.”
There was more to this than phone calls to her pals in the police department, but Cooper continued before he could ask.
“She sees and hears things the department can’t. If we let her know what’s going on, she’ll have a better idea of what to listen for. And if we don’t—”
“She’ll be a hell of a lot safer. This is a serial killer, a sick bastard targeting women who work at Heart’s Desire. Not some junkie selling to her dancers.” What the hell was wrong with this man? Okay, he’d be honest with himself. Last week, before he’d met the woman, he might have gone along with this. But not now. She might be super smart, but if she poked a hornets’ nest, she’d get stung.
“Yeah, well, things don’t always work like that with Maggie.”
“What are you saying?”
“That I’d rather have some measure of control over Maggie’s snooping. Don’t underestimate her, Beck. Those girls are her top priority. She’ll do anything for them,” Cooper said, more to himself than Christian.
The man was worried about her and for some reason that set off all kinds of alarms in Christian’s head. “So she cares about her business.” Blake was right. She was a good businesswoman.
“She doesn’t do it for the money,” he said as if Christian should know that.
“Then why does she?” he asked, not believing the lieutenant. He might never find the answer to his sister’s death, but one thing was certain: Maggie ran a club that was a death card to anyone who worked there. No one could convince him otherwise.
“She’s a very private person, and I’m not about to explain her motives for doing what she does. She keeps a low profile, yes, mostly because of her father. But the reality of it is that how she runs that club has nothing to do with this investigation, or you. All of her dancers are clean and they stay clean. Most of her steady crew returns to school, and they stick around because of the support she gives them. She never gives herself enough credit. Heather Mackenzie was attending college because of Maggie.”
“I read your report. Her car and knapsack were found on campus.” A true tragedy. The young woman had ha
d a bright future ahead of her. “What about the rest?” Christian leaned against Cooper’s door, crossed his arms, not giving a damn if he sounded snide.
“She can’t help them all, can she?” Cooper said in her defense. “Many strippers like their work.”
Far away from her tempting legs and innocent eyes, Christian could keep a clear head where Ms. Anderson was concerned. Stepping forward, he placed his hands on the desk and leaned in. “So what? All the money she makes goes to charity?” He cut Cooper off when he opened his mouth to respond. “She’s paid real well, drives sweet wheels and lives in a luxury adobe in the hills of Summerlin.” She helped out the department. Big deal. The lieutenant couldn’t dispute the fact she made money off these women.
Cooper opened his mouth again as Christian held up a firm hand. “No, let me guess. She pays her taxes.”
“Yes, she does.”
Christian groaned. There was only one person who could help him figure this out—Ms. Anderson.
Ten days after her murder, Heather was laid to rest, far from the slums she’d left behind in Detroit. Along with her three closest friends, Maggie sat in the back of the limo as they made the trip back to her home. Heather had come into this world unwanted, unloved and neglected. Maggie had made certain she hadn’t left the same way. The service had been beautiful. Not a dry eye had remained in the church. Not a dry eye, except for Maggie’s.
Determination had set in. Tears wouldn’t bring Heather back, or ensure the safety of the other women. No, only one thing would do that. Justice. She wanted the bastard caught.
“Maggie, you okay?” Wendy’s question broke into her thoughts.
“I’m fine.”
“Liar,” Wendy said, drumming a haughty French manicure over her bare knee. “You’re far too quiet.”
When the girls objected to Maggie’s hardball rules, it wasn’t her father who Maggie was reminded of, but Wendy Marie Harper. Though more subtle than Shannon, you didn’t want to piss her off. Wendy would smile and cajole people into doing her bidding, managing to persuade several lucrative companies to switch to her accounting firm, but she didn’t take any bull.
Maggie opened her mouth to defend her pensive mood when Shannon, psychic that she was, interjected.
“You hear from that detective again?” She poked Maggie’s ribs with her elbow.
“Not since last week,” she replied, rubbing the healing cut on her hand.
“Good. Maybe he’ll do whatever he was paid for and leave you alone.”
“Somehow I doubt I’ve seen the last of him.” Sanctimonious ass. Who was he to judge? She’d had enough self-righteous sermons to last a lifetime.
The limo turned into Summerlin Estates. She’d built her adobe home in the Ridge’s mountain range, as close to seclusion as she could get without driving more than thirty minutes to work. But that hadn’t been the deciding factor. She’d wanted to be near the girls’ apartments, just in case.
A few minutes into the gated community, the cars pulled up to the ten-foot wrought iron fence that cosseted her home. Maggie reached into her black leather bag and grabbed the remote to key the code and open the gates.
Inside, Lizzy greeted her at the door. “How did it go?”
“It was a lovely service,” Maggie said. “Everything ready inside?” She wrapped her arm around the petite redhead.
“Of course. You hired the best caterer in town.”
“Without a doubt.” She hugged her tighter. At least in Lizzy she’d succeeded. The Canadian immigrant was one of Maggie’s proudest success stories.
“Cut it out,” Alice said from behind her. “It’ll go to her head.”
The fourth musketeer of the group of friends, Alice McAllister lived to torment the caterer.
Lizzy had left Heart’s Desire four years ago. She’d graduated culinary school and with Alice’s restaurant connections, started her own company.
“Hey.” Alice caught up to them. “Lizzy, did you make those pater-fors?”
“Petits fours,” Lizzy corrected.
“Whatever, don’t get snooty,” Alice teased.
Alice’s idea of class was drinking beer from a glass instead of the longneck. She and Maggie met while bartending in Vegas and although her friend had hung up her spurs to become one of the top restaurant designers on the West coast, she was a Texas girl right down to the cowboy hat tattooed on her hip.
“Does she have to be here?” Lizzy asked.
“Afraid so,” Maggie replied sympathetically.
The two women were constantly at each other’s throats. With no siblings of her own, Alice had jumped at the chance to help Lizzy. Now, she considered it her duty to make sure Lizzy didn’t screw up. She’d succeeded, because there was a one-year waiting list to have the Canadian cater their function.
Maggie listened to their playful banter, grateful for the distraction. She hadn’t slept in days and having to say good-bye to Heather, irritability loomed over her. She looked forward to a full day off tomorrow.
As staff members filtered in, Maggie overheard their exchange of memorable stories about Heather. Snagging a pair of sunglasses from the hall table, she snuck out to the patio. She wanted to share their fond memories, but regardless of what everyone said, a part of her couldn’t help but feel responsible. Maybe it was displaced guilt, her inability to return to the cases, the people she’d left behind. Or maybe it was because she’d promised Heather a brighter future.
She slipped on the glasses and glanced up at the first sunny sky of May. Was it still cool back home? She wouldn’t know. Her mom hadn’t called in weeks and Maggie had begun to worry, and miss her. Maggie looked forward to their weekly chats, as long as Daddy never came up in conversation.
“Mags,” Wendy called out through the French doors. “There’s someone here to see you,” she sang out. Her friend smiled at whoever waited inside and waved them forward, stepping aside to let them pass.
Mr. Chocolate. Of its own volition, her heart beat faster. She was nervous, that’s all. He’d been snooping around, asking about the club, and about Maggie. She rubbed her sweaty palms against her dark skirt. Forgetting to apply sunscreen this morning, she took a chair under the slated cedar pagoda and motioned for Mr. Beck to follow. He wore a dark charcoal suit, matching tie and crisp white shirt, and over his eyes, a pair of black tinted Ray Ban’s. She smiled as an image of him in her Spider popped into her head. He smiled back, and she found that sexy mouth had her wishing he wasn’t who he was. While she’d consciously nullified her sex life, she couldn’t deny the man was beautiful.
He withdrew his hands from his pockets. “This is the first time I’ve seen you really smile. It suits you,” he said, taking her by surprise.
“Thank you,” she managed, heat awkwardly rushing to her face. “You know this is Heather’s wake?”
“Yes. The funeral was beautiful.”
“You were there?” She’d seen Horace and a few others, but not him.
“I stood in the back.”
“Oh?”
“I didn’t want to intrude,” he explained. “ ‘Amazing Grace’ was my grandmother’s favorite. The tenor you chose was talented.”
Although impressed he’d bothered to attend, she wondered how he knew she’d been the one to hire the tenor. What else had his snooping uncovered? And just how much trouble was he going to stir up?
She looked over to see Jason step outside, a tray of canapés in one hand, napkins in the other.
“Lizzy sent me out,” his voice far too loud. “She said I could help serve while I waited for my ride.” He puffed out his chest. “I set up and she said maybe next time I can help cook.”
“That’s great. Why don’t you let Mr. Beck try one of those? They’re tasty,” she said, returning her attention to Beck. “The caterer is the best this city has to offer.”
He looked like he was going to pass, but one look at Jason and he complied. Not that Jason, now eagerly shoving the tray in Beck’s face, would have taken
no for an answer.
“Thanks,” he said choosing a canapé and taking a bite. “Mmm. Do you know what that sweet-tart flavor I taste is?”
Beck surprised her by asking Jason, who, except for her staff, most ignored. At least the man had one redeeming quality.
“Aged Balsamic vinegar under the goat cheese,” he answered, pride to have pronounced it correctly lighting up a toothy grin. “Did you know they made cheese from goat’s milk?”
“I’ve heard,” Beck replied. “Ever milk a goat?”
“Nah.” Jason laughed. “But the house took us to a farm once. I got to milk a cow,” he beamed.
“Thanks, Jason,” Maggie said, the young man would go on forever if she didn’t stop him. “Why don’t you go back inside and see what else Lizzy has for you to do.”
He nodded enthusiastically and managed to balance the tray and run at the same time. If only more had his heart.
“The chef? Friend of yours?” he asked, polishing off the last bite.
She motioned to the cushioned chair across the table. “She used to work for me.”
“She danced for you?”
“Don’t look so shocked, Mr. Beck. Most strippers don’t dance their entire lives.”
Some were college students just making tuition. Heather Mackenzie didn’t fall into that category. She’d been stripping long before coming to Heart’s Desire.
“Are you here to give condolences, or some other motive?”
“Like I said, I don’t want to intrude. I just wanted you to know I’ll do my part in finding her killer. I’ve come to learn how much these women care about you and you for them.”
“Most of my girls don’t have family. And some that do have broken the ties. So we make our own. Family is important.” Even if not every family member understood that.
“Yes, ma’am, I couldn’t agree more.”
Needing to keep her hands busy, she pulled the sunglasses off her head and did her best to gently set them down on the teak table. Southern slang or not, if he called her ma’am one more time …
“I talked to Ms. Joyce. She confirmed what you told me.”
