Sleepless in Las Vegas

by Colleen Collins

  Drake and Braxton were identical twins.

  The realization left her numb all over, as though she’d been packed in ice cubes. No wonder he wore a different style of clothes, a different cologne, although it would have been damn helpful if they didn’t both wear buzz cuts.

  Hot indignation started to thaw the numbness. Would it have been so difficult for Drake to say something, give her a freaking clue that he and his brother were mirror images? Of course, because of the cold war going on at his mother’s home, there hadn’t been any discussion of Braxton…or photos of the two brothers together. Still, it would have been nice to have been given a heads-up that a carbon copy of him was running around Vegas.

  When he chuckled under his breath, giving her a sly, gotcha look, her response was immediate and instinctual.

  She slapped him.

  As he reared back, his hand on his cheek, she turned to leave.

  He grabbed her arm. “Not so fast, Val,” he snarled. “Somebody wants to talk to you.”

  * * *

  A FEW MINUTES later, she entered a back office, situated behind another office whose door opened into the bar. The room was chilly and smelled like aftershave and cigarettes. Mostly cigarettes.

  Unlike the flashy interior of the adjacent strip club, the room was cheap, drab. A folding table sat in the middle of the room with a few unmatched folding chairs clustered around it. In the corner was a dented metal filing cabinet. The dingy yellow walls were marred with dirt marks, their only adornment a taped-up posted of a blonde, silicon-enhanced stripper, signed, To Yuri, You’re the best, Cindy Sparxx.

  The floor safe was the only expensive item in the room. Large, black, with a shiny spin dial and locking wheel. The top surface served as an informal bar with several bottles of Russian vodka and red plastic tumblers.

  Yuri and another man, who was counting stacks of bills, sat at the table, a tumbler in front of each of them. A yellowish cigarette burned in an ashtray filled with ash and butts.

  Yuri wore a silk shirt, the top button undone. Strands of gold chains hung around his neck. The other man wore a dark blue gym suit, a chunky gold bracelet and a butterfly bandage across the bridge of his nose. In the center of the table was a white device, the size of a paperback novel, with buttons and a speaker.

  Yuri looked up and smiled, one of those smiles that had teeth but no warmth.

  “Hello, Val, nice to meet you.” He extended his hand across the table.

  She noticed a jagged cut on the back of his hand. From a nail on Drake’s back gate? Her throat was so tight she couldn’t speak, so she said nothing and shook his hand, trying not to cringe at the touch of his weak, moist fingers.

  “Sit.” He gestured to a folding chair across from him. Braxton took the chair next to her. “This my friend Vadim,” he said, gesturing to the man next to him.

  Vadim shot her a dark look, went back to counting money.

  She sat absolutely still, trying to feign calm, but her insides had constricted to the size of a pea. On the negative side, she was sitting in a back room with the Russian Mafia, who knew she’d lied and conspired against them. On the positive side, the door had been left open, with men and women milling about in the next room, apparently employees, and she still had possession of her purse and phone. And her life.

  Yuri gave a lazy wave at her hair. “Blue spots.”

  Purple highlights, actually, but only a woman with a serious death wish would correct him. “Yes.”

  He looked at Braxton’s head. “And you, today with stubble.”

  “Told you it was a good idea to cut my hair short like Drake’s,” Braxton said. “She thought I was my brother, asked why I hadn’t returned her messages. Just as we thought, our little P.I. is tight with him.”

  Our little P.I. What an asshole.

  “You try to get tight, too, Brax?” Yuri asked, patting his own cheek. Pointing at Braxton’s face, he said something in Russian to the bald man, and the two of them laughed.

  She glanced at Braxton’s profile. The imprint of her hand could still be seen on his reddened cheek.

  “Val, you seem like smart girl,” Yuri said, zeroing in on her with his beady dark eyes. The kind you looked into, but nothing looked back. “But…how you say…green as snoop.”

  “Inexperienced,” Braxton offered.

  “Yes,” Yuri said, nodding vigorously, “inexperienced. Which very good for me. You do honey trap. And you visit me today.” He tapped his stubby fingers on the tabletop. “I have very excellent offer for you. But before discussion, you want something to say?”

  She was so scared, the back of her legs were sweating. For the girl who used to not think twice about charging into the mist, she wanted nothing more than to stand at these crossroads, center herself and not do anything foolish. If there was ever a time to stop and smell the reality, this was it.

  She eased in a slow breath, ready to say what any rational woman would under these circumstances.

  “I’d like a shot of vodka.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  AFTER A THIRD shot, and repeating an enthusiastic “Kahrs!” which Val hoped meant “cheers!” in Russian, and not “to your short life,” it was fast becoming like old home week in the Russian mafia back office.

  Yuri told stories about living in Russia, how his gold jewelry was worth “Zouzands of Ue-Es dolarz” and how Americans ruined chicken Kiev. “It too dry,” he bellowed, gesturing broadly with a cigarette in his hand. “Butter must splatter shirt when you stick in knife!”

  She smiled and nodded, thinking it sounded more like a crime scene than a dish.

  All the while the other Russian, his bald head shiny under the fluorescent lights, never stopped counting money, occasionally pausing to jot down a number. Braxton sat quietly next to her, passed on the vodka, suggesting American words when Yuri got stumped. In the next room, a staticky radio played “Waking Up in Vegas” by Katy Perry.

  Yuri sloshed more vodka into his tumbler, then pressed a button on the white device, which emitted a sound like rushing air.

  How handy, a white-noise machine. Its frequencies masked sounds in its vicinity, so apparently Yuri turned it on when he didn’t want people outside the office listening in on his conversations.

  “Now, my Val, we get serious.” He lit another cigarette.

  A jolt of horror surged through her. She clutched her trembling hands together in her lap, out of Yuri’s sight. Katy Perry wailed about putting your money where your mouth is.

  “Where is Drake?” he asked, blowing out a stream of smoke.

  She could lie, but what if he already knew the answer and this was a trick question? Then she remembered Drake’s comment. He likes those in-your-face types.

  She gave him her best tough-girl look. “What’s it worth to you?”

  After an uncomfortable stare-down, during which Val decided she was on her way to being the next splattering chicken Kiev, he thumped his hand hard on the table, threw back his head and let go with a guffaw.

  Braxton quietly sat next to her, fussing with a gold cuff link. The money counter kept flipping bills and taking notes. Katy Perry was almost finished waking up in Vegas.

  Yuri, his face flushed, gave her an approving look. “I like your style.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Why spend months, years being snoop intern with bad pay, bad hours?” He gave a dramatic shrug, as though it was incomprehensible that anyone could be so dumb as to pursue such a dead-end career. “When instead, you work for me and I pay…” He held up three fingers. “Three times your salary.”

  “But Yuri, it is advantageous for me to remain a private eye because I have access to databases and court records, which you don’t.”

  Picking up the vodka bottle, he looked at Braxton. “Advan…”

  “Advantageous. Helpful.”

  “And instead of a salary,” she continued, “I’d like Drake’s family ring and first choice on other loot you gather from tourists vacationing in La
s Vegas.”

  His eyes narrowing, he set down the bottle hard. “How you know about ring?”

  “Jayne Diamond, my boss, told me,” she lied. “She and Drake have been friends for years.”

  Yuri took a sip, swallowed, a thoughtful look on his face. “Yes, Jayne Diamond. Big casinos use her as gatekeeper for granting big-dollar credit lines.” He stubbed out his cigarette. “My first job for you. Give me some of her big-money clients’ information.”

  Jayne sometimes conducted exhaustive asset checks on high rollers for casino credit departments, in the course of which she accrued wealthy people’s confidential data—Social Security numbers, bank account information, stock and real-estate holdings. Confidential financial information that a criminal could use to electronically steal their wealth. Looked like Yuri was keen to commit some white-collar electronic fraud.

  Exactly the kind of dirt Drake wanted on the Russian.

  If only if there was a way to surreptitiously turn on the recorder app on her phone. She listened to the continuous sound of rushing air from the device that Yuri had turned on. Wouldn’t matter if she tried to record their conversation, the white noise would block out their voices.

  If she wanted to help Drake, she had only one option.

  “Yes,” she said, trying to sound delighted with the prospect, “I would love to work for you, Yuri.”

  * * *

  AFTER THE MEETING, she headed to the valet and waited for her car. She’d quaffed two shots of vodka with Yuri but had faked indulging in the third, so she had a light buzz, nothing more.

  The temperatures were cooling and the air thickening with humidity thanks to the incoming storm clouds. While waiting for the valet to deliver her car, she texted and called Drake. No response.

  If Yuri was inside Body Double, Drake had to be safe. That’s all that mattered. Probably busy checking out places Marta had visited. If he was interviewing someone, he couldn’t stop to answer her call.

  But she’d feel so much better hearing his voice.

  Cranking up the air-conditioning, she drove through Theo’s Burgers, got a diet cola and chili-cheese fries. Driving home, she tried calling Drake again. No answer.

  Okay, now she was concerned. The guy lived and died by his smartphone, so he should have called or texted her back by now. Something was wrong. She needed to find him.

  Turning around, she headed back to Diamond Investigations.

  There, she drove around the back lot, checked if his pickup was in the fenced-off parking space. It wasn’t. She parked in the front lot, went inside and headed to the connecting door and knocked. Knocked again. Even though his pickup wasn’t here, didn’t hurt to check if he was inside his office. She retrieved the spare back office key from her desk and checked out his man cave. No Drake.

  Before leaving Diamond Investigations, she called Dorothy Morgan. Not wanting to alarm her, she said Drake had asked Val to call and check how the new surveillance cameras were working. Fine? Good. Had he already called to ask? Val’s spirits plunged when Dorothy said she’d last talked to him yesterday evening.

  There was only one more place she knew to check: Li’l Bit’s. Even if Drake wasn’t there, she could ask his friend if he’d heard from him lately.

  She didn’t know Li’l Bit’s real name, so she ran an online search on the nickname, found a comment Li’l Bit had left at a Marijuana for the People website that included his email address, nathan@boss_services. She ran that through a property database and learned Li’l Bit, aka Nathan Davidovitch, lived in apartment 3B at the Willow Creek Apartments.

  As she walked across the lot to her Toyota, the clouds began spitting rain.

  * * *

  AT FOUR-THIRTY, she knocked on the door marked 3B. Fat gray clouds now hovered over the city, obliterating the sun. The air had cooled to an almost comfortable temperature, which in Vegas meant it was no longer three-digit heat. After her adrenaline-pumping meeting with Yuri and the hyperanxiety of looking for Drake, her energy had taken a sharp spiral downward. Maybe she should’ve skipped the chili-cheese fries.

  She heard Hearsay bark on the other side of the door.

  “Who is it?” asked a sleepy-sounding male voice.

  “I’m looking for Drake.”

  Hearsay barked again. “Don’t know a Drake, man.”

  She reread the number on the door—3B. Definitely the right place. “Are you Li’l Bit?”

  “No.”

  She thought back to the email address. “Nathan Davidovitch? Of Boss Services?”

  “You need a process server?”

  Oh, for heaven’s sake. This was Li’l, or Nathan, who owned Boss Services. That was Hearsay barking behind the door. Why was he lying about not knowing Drake? Took her all of a second to understand the reason. Being a good friend to Drake, Li’l Bit was protecting him from Yuri’s Mafia types.

  “Nathan, I’m Drake’s friend. We work together. I need to find him. I’m worried. He could be in danger. Please, open up.”

  Another pause. “What’s his nickname?”

  She frowned. “He never told me his nickname. But I know his mother’s name is Dorothy, and his grandmother’s is…” Shit, she forgot. “Well, she’s Grams. And his dog’s name is Hearsay.”

  Who woofed. Followed by a “Dude, chill.” Then, “You know Yuri?”

  “Yes! Not that I want to know him, but unfortunately I do.”

  Silence. “Drake doesn’t live here, man.”

  She glared at the door. Her adrenaline slump was on the rebound, spiking high and fast.

  She was beginning to wonder if Drake was inside and in trouble. Maybe Hearsay’s barks were alerting her that something was wrong.

  “If you don’t open up right now…” She looked around, spied the potted plant. “I’m going to pick up this plant in its heavy-lookin’ clay pot and throw it through your damn window.”

  “Lady, you and your negative energy need to leave, man.”

  One more man and she’d lose it. Hell, why wait. She was ready to lose it now. In fact, she deserved to lose it. As her beloved Saints said, and if they hadn’t, they should’ve, Go big or go home.

  “No, me and my negative energy have had one hell of an extremely trying day, and we’ve decided nobody, and I do mean nobody, is gonna stand in our way, so I suggest you step back from your window ‘cause, man, the glass is gonna fly!”

  As she bent over to lift the clay pot, which in fact was extraordinarily heavy, too heavy to back up her glass-flying speech, she heard a click and the slithery slide of a lock.

  The door opened, and a paunchy guy wearing a pair of cutoff jeans and a T-shirt with the word Abide in big red letters about the color of his eyes, stared at her. He reeked of buttered popcorn and beer.

  Hearsay scampered onto the porch, his tail wagging. She reached down, petted his head, then pushed past Li’l Bit into the living room. On the TV, a young David Bowie with bright orange hair was walking through some kind of space-age desert.

  Li’l Bit followed her, dragging his hand through a mass of tangled hair. “This is a private residence, man.”

  She heard a loud clunk, followed by an expletive, from down the hallway. A not-so-subtle panic crossed Li’l Bit’s face.

  “What’s back there?” She glanced down at Hearsay, who looked overly alert, as though saying, “You need to check it out, now.” Or maybe she was projecting her thoughts onto the dog, but it was a good idea anyway.

  Drake was missing, nobody seemed to know where he was, he obviously lived in this very apartment and Li’l Bit was one odd, zoned-out strangeoid who was definitely hiding something.

  No guts, no glory.

  She speed walked toward the hall. Hearsay yapped, scampering along with her.

  “Dude,” he yelled, “I’m going to call the police!”

  She broke into a jog, catching scents of incense and marijuana. Passing the bathroom, she glanced inside. A bag of weed in the sink, towels all over the floor, tapestry-print shower curt
ain. She headed for the closed door at the end of the hall.

  Li’l Bit, heaving breaths, passed her, blocking the door with his body. “Look, man…” He waved his hands in the air as though dispersing her angry aura. “You need to go away now.”

  “Is Drake in there?”

  “Not really. The cops…they’ll arrest you on…first-degree trespass.”

  Not really? What, just some of his body parts were in there? Although her heart was doing its best to rip free from her chest, and her brain was preparing to burn graphic images into her cortex that would haunt her the rest of her life, there was no way she wasn’t going in.

  “If you don’t open that door,” she snarled, “they’re also going to arrest me for attempted homicide.”

  Mumbling something about Mercury in retrograde, he opened the door and quickly stepped out of her way.

  But she didn’t enter. Instead, she looked inside the room, frozen at the sight.

  Drake, reading a magazine, lounged on a bed covered in a fluffy, purple-paisley bedspread. He wore earbuds whose wire connected to the smartphone he held, his head bobbing to whatever he was listening to. The room was a hodgepodge of tie-dye, books, an orange vinyl bean bag chair, a poster of a clipper ship titled “Where’s Our Wooden Ships?” and macrame curtains threaded with feathers and beads. Except for the bed, it looked like the inside of a hippie van following a Grateful Dead tour.

  Hearsay plopped down on the floor at the foot of the bed, and chewed on a rawhide bone lying there.

  As she stepped into the room, Drake looked up, a surprised look on his face. Setting aside the magazine, he pulled out the earbuds and flashed a lazy, sexy smile, his eyes grazing her body. He wore a polo shirt and jeans she’d seen him wear before, but his hair was longer and stylishly textured.

  She stopped at the foot of the bed, stupefied. “What happened to your hair?”

  One side of his mouth lifted in a cocky grin. “What’s wrong, doll, did I put on too much gel?”

  He sounded like Drake, but the smarmy come-on wasn’t him. Plus, Drake had never called her doll. And she seriously doubted Drake had ever touched a bottle of gel, much less used it.