Sleepless in Las Vegas

by Colleen Collins

  He wondered if it had been Jayne’s partner’s former desk at her law practice.

  Somebody had been in here polishing, based on the scent of lemon oil and the high gloss of the wood. A desktop computer sat on top, ready to go.

  Against the wall were wooden bookcases, also polished. No books, though. Probably moved so the polish didn’t stain the bindings. The scuffed hardwood floor had been vacuumed. Next to the computer were a stack of yellow legal pads, a jar of pens and a small box of paper clips.

  He was mentally scolding Jayne for playing housekeeper last night, time better spent on packing and resting for her trip, when he saw what lay in the corner.

  A new doggie bed. And on it, a big pink ball.

  A fissure deep inside him opened up.

  Since the fire, some force had kept him moving forward, through the terror, around the obstacles. Despite how much there was to do, and how much had been left undone, he kept progressing, kept advancing like some kind of android whose mechanical reflexes had taken over.

  It wasn’t about his being patient or accepting. He couldn’t claim those traits. It was about his standing up to pain. He was good at that. Proved his strength. He could take a punch and hardly flinch. Face death and negotiate covenants.

  Brush up against love and not get touched.

  He walked over and picked up the pink ball. It felt soft yet firm, its color vibrant like life itself.

  Until this moment, he hadn’t really understood that standing up to his own pain was not about being strong, but self-indulgent. If all you saw was your suffering, your back was turned to others’ hardships.

  He set the ball on the doggie bed, wishing he had looked into his father’s eyes and told him he loved him.

  After a quick check of the rest of the bungalow, Drake headed down the narrow hallway to a wooden door, bolted, that led into Diamond Investigations. He wondered if it was bolted shut on the other side, too, but guessed not. When Jayne lived here, she would have wanted the final say on whether or not that door was open. This had been her private world, the one she protected above all else.

  * * *

  THE GRANDFATHER CLOCK was on its twelfth chime as Val headed into the kitchenette. She pulled a large paper bag out of the minifridge, which she had purchased on the way into work this morning with her ill-gotten honey-trap proceeds. She had hoped if she did something nice for the office maybe she wouldn’t feel so bad about breaking her word to Jayne. The fridge cost eighty-nine dollars, a good deal, but it hadn’t done what it was supposed to do—though it was cold inside, she still felt guilty.

  Sitting at her desk, she opened the paper bag that Char had packed for her this morning. Inside was a blackened-chicken po’boy, a container of corn maque choux, the Cajun version of creamed corn, another container of green gumbo and a fat wedge of bread pudding.

  “Made it for you, sugar,” she’d said, handing Val the bag, “‘cause today you need a little extra lovin’.”

  Char had made the thousand-hundred calorie lunch because Jasmyn told her about Jayne’s cancer diagnosis, and that Val was winging it until her boss’s return. All of that Val had said Jaz could share.

  But no, Jasmyn, on a roll, had continued to run off at the mouth to her mama about how Val had dressed like a hooker to seduce some strange man in a sleazy parking lot, only to learn later he was a private eye who blamed her for burning his house, and that although Jayne talked him out of pressing criminal charges, he was now Val’s temporary boss, and neither he nor Val was very happy about it.

  After Jasmyn apologized for “maybe sharing a tad too much with Mama,” she’d insisted Val wear something other than one of her little black dresses—“Dawlin’, yesterday you needed grace. Today you need a miracle”—and loaned her a vintage bluish-purple lace dress, so sheer Val had to borrow a slip to wear underneath.

  She was getting ready to take her first bite of the chicken po’boy when something moved into her peripheral vision. Something large and dark and…

  She emitted a raspy shriek, more air than voice.

  “Sorry,” Drake said, his voice rumbling from deep in his chest, “didn’t mean to scare you.”

  Gone was the retro suit. Today he wore jeans and an orangey polo shirt, the kind of casual clothes men wore all the time, but she doubted other men filled them this well.

  She peered up at his face, wondering what looked different. Ah, he’d shaved. With his stubble gone, she saw the tan on his face better. Saw his lips better, too. Wondered when they pulled back into a smile, did his teeth look startlingly white against his brown skin?

  Like she’d ever see that. Smiling and Drake were like drinking alcohol and walking stairs—they didn’t mix.

  He gently touched her shoulder. “Your sandwich.”

  She looked down, surprised to see she’d squeezed it so hard, pieces of tomato and chicken were erupting out of the top.

  “Lord have mercy,” she muttered. She shoved the entire mess into the paper bag, then looked at him and smiled sweetly. “It’s too hot to eat a blackened-chicken po’boy anyway.”

  “But it’s cool in here.”

  She realized he hadn’t moved his hand, which still lay on her shoulder. “Uh-huh.”

  “Well, maybe it’s for the best, because I had something else in mind for us to do over the next hour.”

  In her mind’s eye, she could see that large, strong hand, those long fingers with their roughened pads. Didn’t need to imagine the heat of his grip because she could feel his warmth through the thin fabric of her dress, its burn penetrating her skin, searing a path down to that secret place that yearned to continue what they’d started the other night.

  “Afterward, I’ll buy you lunch,” he continued, his voice low and gruff.

  His voice seemed to enter her body, too, like ripples of heat that burned her blood, set fire to her body. Dizzily, she wondered if her dress had melted underneath his grip and his fingers now touched her bare skin.

  The hardness in his eyes had faded, their color shifting from granite to silver, glistening with a sensual invitation. For a light-headed moment she swore, no, she knew, he was thinking exactly what she was. She felt transfixed, unsettled, hungry, with a longing so raw she ached.

  Her knees shaking, she managed to stand, slowly, her gaze raking up his muscled chest, past the bulk of his shoulders, until she locked on his mouth. She yearned to kiss those firm, sensual lips…explore that mouth with hers…

  Rising, she parted her lips. Ready. So ready.

  She waited…but instead of a kiss, Drake started talking…about trash.

  “…and since you’re too dressed up to crawl into a Dumpster, I’ll do it,” he said, “but I’ll need you on watch outside. If you see anyone checking out what we’re doing, you’ll alert me.”

  Val rocked back onto her heels. “Dumpster?”

  “Right. There’s one behind Topaz. Pickup is early Monday morning. As today’s Friday, the heavy partying will start midafternoon, and Vegas strip clubs are notoriously packed over the weekends, so this is the best time for us to conduct the trash hit.”

  “Trash hit?” She didn’t like how that sounded.

  “Jayne ever discuss those with you?”

  “No.” She felt like a fool, thinking she’d clued into his steamy intentions when all along he was talking about…Dumpsters and trash?

  How pathetic could she be? This topped her high school prom, when her friend Tommy had never showed. Sure, they were just pals, neither remotely interested in a girlfriend-boyfriend thing, but that hadn’t lessened the sting of sitting next to the front door for two hours, wearing a prom dress her nanny had spent the past week sewing, her hair teased into a pouf, sparkling with little rhinestone butterflies that had taken her neighbor Cissy, a first-year cosmetology student, two hours to get just right.

  Tommy had told her the next day he thought she had been joking when she’d suggested they be prom dates. He’d felt so bad that he made her dress up all over again, r
hinestone butterflies and all, and took her out to dinner at Arnaud’s, a swanky restaurant in the French Quarter.

  She doubted Drake would ever feel bad about what had just happened. Hell, she doubted he even knew what had just happened.

  “…searching garbage for evidence,” he was explaining, all serious and professional, “for things like receipts, personal letters, credit card statements. Trash hits are a rich source for mining details about people’s lives and assets.”

  “We’re pulling garbage out of a bin,” she said slowly, “a big, nasty, tractor-size garbage can…all those smells…all those flies…” Lord, flies were probably just the tip of the insect world festering in one of those monster trash bins.

  He retrieved his phone from his pocket. “Val, sometimes you need to see the forest, not the trees. Is your smartphone charged?”

  “I’d hardly compare a forest to rubbish,” she mumbled, pawing through her purse. She pulled out her phone and checked its battery. “Eighty percent.”

  “That’ll do.”

  “What are you hoping to find in the trash?”

  “A certain type of cigarette. It’ll be partially smoked, of course, but its look is distinctive. I’ll describe it to you on the drive over.”

  “So we’re looking for a cigarette butt, which could be an inch long, two if we’re lucky, in a city garbage can that holds gallons and gallons of squishy, smelly, disease-infested filth.”

  “That pretty much sums it up.” He tapped some keys on his phone, absorbed in his task.

  She sucked in a breath and eased it out nice and slow, idly wondering if she should have gone to beauty school instead.

  “And…why do you want this cigarette butt?”

  “I think its smoker is the arsonist. I want to run it for DNA, then check the results against any DNA the arson investigator might find at my old place.”

  She frowned. “Why not give the cigarette to this arson investigator and let him run all the DNA tests?”

  He zeroed his shiny gray eyes on her. “It’s a long story, but in a nutshell, if I give him too much information too soon, things could backfire.” He slipped his phone back into his pocket. “Know how to take photos with your phone?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good. We’ll take your car.”

  “What? No! It’s a rental! It’ll smell like a dump, and I’ll have to pay an outrageous cleaning fee when I return the car.”

  “Val,” he said, leveling her a look, “you’re making a big to-do over nothing. This is an investigation, not a princess picnic. Anyway, I’m the one getting dirty—you and your pretty dress will stay in the car. We’ll lay plastic bags on the backseat to protect it, although what I pull out will likely be in plastic trash bags, too. As to the smell, we’ll put the AC on and open the back windows. Drive that way for a couple of days, and no one will ever know the Honda went undercover as a trash truck.”

  Princess picnic? You and your pretty dress? She managed to suppress a snort of derision, one she would have given full vent to if she wasn’t determined to show Sam Spade she had what it took to be a private investigator, too.

  She flashed him her hundred-dollar smile, full of confidence and false bravado. The one that said she was a P.I. in the making, a woman unafraid to tackle the job, even if it meant rolling in other people’s filth. Although she’d only be on sentry duty today and he’d be jumping into the stinking muck.

  A thought that gave her no small thrill of satisfaction.

  “I’m in.” She rolled back her shoulders. “I presume we’ll be driving the trash here to look through it?”

  “Right. We’ll lay it on the driveway outside my office. Easier to sift through it, and the fence blocks prying eyes.”

  “No need to buy me lunch afterward.” Although I can’t think of anything more appetizing than quaffing a to-go burger while sniffing refuse. “I’d prefer to start digging through that trash.”

  Ignoring his surprised look, she grabbed her purse and headed for the door, ready for her first trash hit.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THIRTY OR SO minutes later, Val pulled the Honda over in the alley behind Topaz, leaving enough room for other cars to pass. They were about fifteen feet from the Dumpster—far enough away so they didn’t appear to be parking next to it, but close enough for Drake to get there in five or six strides.

  On the way, they had purchased some plastic sandwich baggies, latex gloves and a box of plastic garbage bags, several of which they’d laid across the seat.

  Drake, sitting in the passenger seat, stuffed a plastic bag in one of his pockets, then looked around.

  “Alley doesn’t get a lot of traffic, fortunately. Remember, if you see someone watching us, tap the horn once. When the person leaves, tap it again and I’ll come out.”

  “The Dumpster belongs to Topaz…wouldn’t entering it be trespassing? Isn’t that a felony?”

  “Only if we kill someone in the process.”

  Her eyes grew huge, filled with anxiousness. Impulsively, he reached out and cupped her cheek.

  “That was a joke,” he whispered, trying not to think how incredibly soft her skin was.

  But how he felt at the moment—protective, attracted—was anything but a joke. Of all times to feel drawn to her, this wasn’t it. He never lost focus on a job, yet around Val he was constantly fighting himself to stay in control, keep his thoughts in check. Constantly trying to figure her out, too.

  Her hair alone was a mystery. The first night she’d worn that silver-tinted wig, yesterday it had been a dark knot streaked with purple, but today he finally got to see her natural hair. Not that there was anything real about those dark violet streaks, but he liked how it hung sleek and loose, framing her face, complementing those warm eyes.

  She smiled feebly. “Guess I momentarily lost my sense of humor.”

  He reluctantly dropped his hand and picked up one of the latex gloves.

  “For trash hits,” he said, slipping on the glove, “I prefer mitts made of a sturdier material, like leather, because broken glass can easily pierce latex, but I’d only attract attention wearing heavy gloves at high noon in August, so…”

  “Be careful,” she whispered.

  Just a few words of care, and he felt as if he’d spent his life alone before Val—not in regards to his family, but in relationships with other women. Obviously he hadn’t been alone in those liaisons, but he realized how he’d remained solitary, cut off.

  He’d tried to be that way with Val, too, but he was losing ground. And he liked it.

  An old car rumbled past, its engine making a chunk-a-chunk sound as it labored down the alley.

  “Listen,” Drake said, snapping on the other glove, “after I get out, stay put, keep the motor running. If someone approaches the car…”

  “I say I got lost, stopped to check directions on my smartphone.”

  After a last look around, he slipped out the door, shutting it behind him with a soft click.

  * * *

  VAL WATCHED DRAKE in the rearview mirror as he strode to the battered green metal bin. After a nonchalant look around, as though he was out for a casual stroll, he paused in front of it, pushed back the lid and in one swift movement hoisted himself up and over into the bin.

  Her heart pounding, she blew out a pent-up breath, feeling as though she was the one who had just climbed into that Dumpster in broad daylight. She darted a look around. Didn’t see anyone except for a kid toward the end of the alley, riding a bicycle. To her right, a row of fence blocked people’s view of the alley. To her left was Topaz’s large asphalt parking lot, with only a few parked vehicles clustered around a stand of palm trees.

  So far, so good.

  She looked at the rearview mirror, willing Drake to find a cigarette soon. Lord, it had to be like an incubator in that metal trash can.

  She thought about another heat. She could still feel his warm fingers on her face where he’d touched her. The way he’d cradled her cheek, his t
ouch so gentle, it had taken every ounce of her willpower not to do something dumb. Like turn her head slightly and nuzzle her cheek against his fingers.

  Why couldn’t she act cool and refined? Like the actress Angelina Jolie or…well, Angelina Jolie. Okay, that set the cool bar way too high. Forget being cool. She’d settle for being refreshingly uncomplicated, which sounded great, but she had no idea what it was.

  The kid on the bike rode closer, so close she could see the blue and yellow stripes on his shirt, the superhero on his bicycle helmet. Seeing Val sitting in the car, he started riding in circles, watching her watching him.

  She’d read once that most P.I.s got burned, or noticed, on surveillances by children playing around their vehicles. The kids would notice someone sitting alone in the car or van and they’d tell their parents, who would either approach the private investigator, demanding to know what he or she was doing in their neighborhood, or they’d call the cops, who’d arrive with sirens blaring and lights flashing. Either way, the P.I.‘s cover was blown and the surveillance ruined.

  She tapped the horn, lightly, one time.

  The kid halted. Setting one foot on the ground, he kept his hands on the handlebars and stared at her.

  Oh, this was going well. You’d think a kid had better things to do than stare at a lady sitting in a car in an alley. Must be a really bored kid. Meanwhile, Drake was broiling in that Dumpster.

  She opened the driver’s door and stepped outside, wincing at the blinding sunlight.

  “Hey,” she said, raising her voice, “I’m an undercover police officer and…some bad guys are on the loose in this alley. You must leave. Now.”

  “Undercover cops don’t drive Hondas.”

  What a smart-ass. “In my top-secret division, they do. If you don’t leave now…I’ll call backup and they’ll arrest you.”