by Lucy Farago
“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.
“Someday, bitch, someday you and I will finish this.”
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.
Miss Emmy turned in her seat. The elderly woman gave Maggie a wide grin, her white teeth a stark contrast to her dark skin. “Where’ve you been, child? It’s been weeks since you’ve made it to services.” A bony finger scolded.
Maggie leaned in so the ninety-year-old could hear. “I know. I’m bad. Do you forgive me?” She placed a hand on the woman’s wrinkled arm.
“’Tisn’t my place to forgive.” She frowned. “Now shush, I can’t hear a thing.” Miss Emmy spun around and turned up the volume of her hearing aid with a finger.
It had taken months to convince the senior congregation member to use the device. Born and raised as a proud southerner, Miss Emmy had moved in with her sister when her husband had passed. Not until Maggie reminded her vanity was a sin did the woman relent and make the purchase.
Now and then heads turned to smile a greeting in between their chants of hallelujahs and amens. Maggie nodded and halfheartedly returned their smiles. In here she managed to grapple with her demons and on occasion come out with a little more courage.
Somewhere inside her was the strength to push past the memories, the fears, the regrets. Over the years, she’d had knives pulled on her, been threatened with guns and had been in too many car chases to count, but none of it had seemed real. She’d never thought twice about the consequences of snatching a girl from her pimp or wrestling a strung-out kid into rehab. Not until that day in the loading dock had her own mortality hit
her square in the jaw, leaving a permanent bruise, a daily reminder that she wasn’t Wonder Woman.
When she moved to Vegas, she’d learned bad things happen, and that which doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. In here, these people, these followers, believed there was good in bad. But where was the good in a thirteen-year-old girl being raped and left dead beside a Dumpster, or in the deaths of two women trying to better themselves? And hadn’t her faith gotten her in trouble at that warehouse?
“Yours is not to reason why, Maggie. Yours is to follow.” Her father’s insistent voice broke through the harmonious offering of “Amazing Grace.” So much for finding peace.
Forty-five fruitless minutes later, she waited until the final blessings and whispered good-bye to Miss Emmy. She opened the door and with a hand on the old brass latch, looked behind her, drawing comfort from the aroma of old pine and melting wax candles.
The small church was nothing to speak of. No marble statues, no crosses made of silver or gold. There was no fancy organ or grand altar. No expensive microphone to carry the minister’s voice. No, the glory of this house of worship lay in its simplicity, its purity, its honesty. If life were only this effortless, this easy.
As she admired the humility of her surroundings, a sweet aroma crept into her nose, one she knew didn’t belong to the old church. She turned. Beck’s muscular frame blocked the doorway.
Chapter Ten
“Are you following me?” Maggie asked, not at all certain how
Ashe felt about that.
“No, Officer Stinson is. He just told me where to find you.”
He’d altered his clothes, thrown a blue blazer over the white shirt.
She wanted to hate him, but what good would that do? The murders weren’t his fault. They were hers. The most she could do was muster resentment, and even that was buried beneath her self-loathing.
Unable to subdue the conflicting emotions rolling around in her head, she tried to push him away. “Peachy for you. Now would you mind backing off?”
He didn’t move, simply looked over her shoulder into the old church.
Their morning lounge by the pool had further tanned his already golden skin. Wetting his lips, he met her eyes. As angry as she was at herself, she couldn’t stop her stomach from taking flight. It was exasperating.
With both hands, she pushed at his chest, and still, he didn’t budge. Behind her, the members of the congregation had risen and were leaving their pews. Soon they’d be blocking traffic.
“Move, Mr. Beck, before they pile into us.”
He held the door open, wrapped his free arm around her waist and moved her out of the way. Her back facing the church façade, he pressed her against him. “There.”
“Oh, much better,” she said, dropping her hands. Not wanting to make a scene, she smiled and gritted her teeth. “Let go.”
“Who’s your gentlemen friend?” Miss Emmy asked as she hobbled through the old doors.
He replied for her. “Christian Beck, ma’am.” He smiled at Maggie and held out his hand to the old woman.
Maggie cringed. He kept his arm around her waist but had to turn to greet Miss Emmy.
“My, Maggie never mentioned she had a beau, and such a handsome one to boot.”
“He’s—” Maggie choked on her words.
“You flatter me, ma’am,” he said in that liquid southern drawl that even Miss Emmy didn’t seem immune to.
“A southern boy.” She beamed. “Good. I’d hate to see Maggie with a damn Yank.”
“Miss Emmy,” Maggie chastised, “didn’t you just come from church?”
“You hush, girl, respect your elders. I know what’s best for you, and it ain’t no Yankee with his hoity-toity know it all—”
“Miss Emmy.” An oversized, cherubic-looking woman waved her plump arm from the curb, trying to get Miss Emmy’s attention.
Maggie squinted and realized it was Pearl, the older woman’s niece.
“I’ve brought the car around,” she hollered. “Hi, Maggie. Send her over, will ya? I’ve dinner to get ready.”
“Dang, child,” Miss Emmy muttered, waving back to signal she’d heard. “Thinks I can’t hear.”
Maggie jumped at the distraction and tried to push Beck away with her hand. His grip tightened, encasing her in a wall of muscle. The elderly woman returned her attention to them, and now Maggie was stuck with her palm against his chest. She could feel and hear him withhold his laughter.
“My, don’t y’all make a lovely couple. You take good care of our Maggie, ya hear?”
“Don’t you fret.” He kissed Maggie on her forehead.
Maggie ground her teeth together. Her love for this old woman stopped her from hurting him. Twice now, he’d been saved. Third time was the charm, right? Or was that three strikes he was out? A small part of her gleefully anticipated throwing him that last ball.
“I’ll take good care of her, Miss Emmy.” Beck winked at the woman, and Maggie could have sworn she saw crimson sweep across Miss Emmy’s dark cheeks.
“Not as good as I’ll take care of you, darling.” Maggie said under her breath, smiling sweetly.
At last alone on the church steps, she made to stomp his foot, but the jerk was faster. Jumping back, he snagged her wrist and dragged her past the large, black wood and glass case the minister used to advertise weekly services and events. “Now, now, is that any way to treat your beau?” He kept going until they reached the side of the old building, away from prying eyes.
“You are not my beau.” Maggie groaned. “Boyfriend,” she corrected.
“You could have told her that, but you didn’t.”
“She’s ninety, and rarely will she let me disagree with her. Don’t get any ideas. I didn’t feel like arguing. I’ve had a rough day,” she muttered, unable to control a shiver. A rough day was running out of gas, or having to cover a no-show at the club, no milk for your tea or mayo for your sandwich. A rough day didn’t begin to describe the way her morning had gone.
He cupped her face. “I’m sorry.”
Looking into his amazing eyes, Maggie wished he had something to truly regret, some reason for her to push away from him. She resisted the urge to close her eyes and enjoy the feel of his warm palms against her cheeks, to take the comfort he so readily offered. She wanted to blame him for Sonya’s death, had blamed him. But he hadn’t killed her; someone else had killed her because of Maggie’s clubs. How ironic: The refuge she had created to keep herself safe had become a death trap for the other women who worked there. She wanted to smash something.
“Maggie, we should talk.”
“What about?” she snapped, hating herself for wanting to lean into his strength.
He ignored her temper. “The clubs, your dad, Sonya—”
“I don’t know what I can tell you.” She tried to stop her voice from cracking, but failed. “She was going to school, and … and she didn’t deserve to die.” And my place got her killed. She lowered her voice as the reverend came out of the church and headed toward his car. Thankfully, he didn’t notice them.
“You didn’t let me finish.” His fingers slipped to the nape of her neck. It made it very hard to think, but not hard to remember.
They’d kissed. His lips had touched hers. She steered her mind away from the warm man bearing down on her and focused on the solid wall behind her back. It didn’t help; the wall in front was harder.
Beck lowered one hand to her waist. His thumb glided under her shirt and long fingers spread across the waistband of her jeans. Her entire body tingled from his soft touch.
“I’m sorry I broke into Horace’s office.” She wasn’t really. She’d do whatever was needed to help these women.
“No, you’re not.” He grinned.
“Well, it’s hard to think when you’re being manhandled, Mr. Beck,” she said, incensed that the smug jerk thought he knew her so well.
He blew out an exasperated breath and stepped back to lean on the sign. “I thought we had
a deal, you and I?”
“We’re not friends, Mr. Beck.”
“You kissed me.”
Her mouth gaped. “You kissed me.”
“No, I told you I was going to kiss you.” He leaned toward her. “You jumped the gun when I was counting down—I only got to six.”
She couldn’t argue there. It didn’t mean she wanted him that close again. “You lied to me.” Maggie pressed against the wall of the church, her hands clasped behind her back.
“I’ve never lied to you.”
“A lie of omission, Mr. Beck.” It was childish to keep calling him that, but right now, she didn’t care.
“Fair enough. But while we’re on this topic, maybe there’s something you’re not telling me.”
“You’re right.”
“I am?”
“Uh-huh. You’re a jerk.”
Christian scrubbed his hand over his forehead. She was one of the most exasperating women he’d ever crossed paths with and considering the cases his boss had assigned him, that was saying a lot. “Why are you so defensive?”
“Why are you following me?”
“Truth? I was worried after the episode in the elevator. It’s not every day you stumble onto a murder scene,” he said.
She shrugged, dropping her gaze to the ground.
Not wanting to embarrass her, he let it slide. “Besides,” Christian crossed his arms, wanting to lock them around her again, “you must have questions?”
“Are you going to be honest with me this time?” She pushed off the wall and headed to the now empty parking lot.
“I’ve never been anything but.” He followed. He never actually lied to her.
Her wry snort said she didn’t believe him. “Maggie.”
She spun around and huffed, “What?”
“Where are we going?”
“Home. Follow or not. Your choice.” She got into her jeep and never looked back.
