“Yeah, I guess.” Not a big deal. Like she’d stumbled on rotten bananas instead of candid photos of a dead woman. His words left her cold. She zipped the tripod and camera back into their duffle then hung her messenger bag across her body and hoisted the heavy bag in her hand once more. “Thanks again for your time today.”
“My pleasure.” He placed a hand against the small of her back to lead her to the elevators, and hot sparks of awareness zinged out through her bloodstream from the point of contact. She got the distinct impression his words meant more than just their interview, though she couldn’t say exactly why. He handed her a business card with his contact information then pressed the button for her. “Be careful going home.”
“I will, thanks.” She bounced on the balls of her feet to relieve some of her pent-up nervous tension. “And I’ll call you if I need anything else. For the documentary, of course.”
“Of course.” The elevator dinged and he helped her on, then leaned an arm against the door frame, gifting her with another of his rare smiles. “I look forward to talking to you again, Laura Rockford. For the documentary.”
“Of course.”
As she descended back to ground level, Laura slumped against the wall of the elevator and cringed, mortified. She’d flirted with the guy. How lame could she get? She was not a flirter. And Lord knew she had no business even considering a date with Mike McQuade. He was her story. And until said story was done, she couldn’t lose her impartiality.
It would be bad for her career.
It would be bad for her life goals.
But most of all, she feared it would be very, very bad for her jaded, cautious heart.
* * *
Hours later, Mike stood on the balcony of his penthouse and stared at the glittering lights of Vegas below. The interview with Laura Rockford had gotten so far out of control he needed an atlas to show him the way back. No matter how attractive she was, he had no business handing out details about his family like cheap Halloween candy. No matter how easy it was to talk to her. No matter how much they seemed to have in common.
Especially after what had happened with his baby sister.
So what if they both came from big families? Who cared if they both had bossy older brothers who lived to dictate the lives of their siblings, with loving intentions, of course. And what did it matter if they’d both use their smarts to advance their pursuits, no matter the costs.
So many similarities, yet still worlds apart.
God, Blake Rockford’s younger sister. Here, in his penthouse, snooping around in his life. He still remembered that night they’d met. The release party for Vegas Noir. The evening that had changed Mike’s life forever. And not in the way he’d expected.
Someone had died that night too.
An involuntary shiver ran through him, and he turned his back on the dazzling panorama before him.
No. It was best to forget any ideas about Laura Rockford beyond the professional.
He stayed solitary for a reason.
Not to mention she’d lied to him. His background check on her had proved quite enlightening. Turned out she was a features reporter for the Chronicle, not a documentary filmmaker. Made him feel more than justified in installing the tracking software on her phone when she’d been here earlier. All she’d had to do was get within the vicinity of his Wi-Fi network and voila. App installed. Now he could track her movements across all of his network devices—mobile, tablet, laptop. Whenever, wherever. Anytime she accessed the Internet, he could determine her location. Just one more safeguard in his already well-armored life.
His phone beeped, and he pulled it from his pocket, staring down at the screen and snorting. Hello, butterfly, welcome to my web.
Apparently Laura had gone home after their interview, as she’d claimed. Or at least he assumed it was her home, since the address belonged to an upscale downtown apartment complex not far from his own place. He’d run the address to be sure later.
Why had he been so careless, leaving those pictures out for her to find? Then again, he wasn’t used to having people around. Well, anyone other than Ted, who didn’t really count since he was the only person Mike knew who was more secretive than himself. Hell, that guy made him look like a frigging blabbermouth.
And speaking of those photos. He’d fished them from the trash can after Laura had left and locked them up in the safe in his bedroom until he had time to deal with the culprit.
Felicia Gomez.
Another obsessed fangirl he’d met a few years ago at one of the rare gamer conventions he’d actually attended. Even in his carefully planned disguise, she’d recognized him, following him around with her high-pitched, squeaky voice, showing him all of her artwork based on his video games.
Most people considered her a kook, an erratic loony who maybe got a little too lost in the fantasy worlds she loved. But Mike had seen that glint of determination in her eyes, that spark of crazed willfulness that told him she’d do anything to get what she wanted. And what she wanted was Mike to create a game just for her, to make her the star of her own virtual world. A queen of her own make-believe universe.
Her artist’s touch was all over those prints from the kitchen—the bold brushstrokes, the delicate use of color, the slight nod to his original with a few minor tweaks to make it all her own. Not to mention her copyright in the corner and her name stamped on the back. Seems Felicia had gotten bolder since their last run-in, no longer trying to hide her insanity.
His phone beeped once more, and he looked down to see Laura was on the move again. Now at the 1020 Café. He hadn’t been lying when he’d said he was addicted to that place. Their espressos had quickly become his drug of choice. The fact she loved the place too meant she had good taste to go along with her intelligence. Another mark in her pros column.
Then the dot marking her position moved once more, down about a block to the nearby 18B Galleries. The momentary warmth in his chest cooled with dread.
Felicia Gomez had a studio there.
He glanced at his watch. After nine now.
Shit.
Why the hell couldn’t Laura Rockford stay at home and eat ice cream and watch reruns like a normal person?
Reluctantly, he pulled on his hoodie and added a pair of sunglasses despite the late hour and the heat then headed for the door. Given the nature of Felicia’s photos and Laura Rockford’s inclination for meddling, he shuddered to think what might happen if those two connected.
Didn’t matter. He intended to do whatever was in his power to make sure that didn’t happen.
Six
Laura weaved through the nighttime crowds on Main Street, headed for 18B, near the corner of Charleston Avenue. She hadn’t planned on going back out tonight, but once she’d pulled up the website for the artist listed on those photos in Mike’s apartment, she couldn’t resist. From what she’d found during her Internet search, the woman had a studio right here in Las Vegas and one favorite subject matter—Mike McQuade.
What she couldn’t decide until she met the woman in person was whether she was a wickedly devoted fan or psychopathic serial killer. From the graphic depictions in those photos and their eerie resemblance to the crime scene at the El Cortez, Laura tended to lean toward the latter at this point. Now, if she could just convince J.J., her editor at the paper, to let her continue investigating what she knew deep inside would be a big story. Possibly the biggest story to hit the Chronicle’s front page in decades.
And of course, Mike acted like those pictures weren’t any big deal, said he got them all the time, said for her to forget about them. As if. If he received awful stuff like that in his mail routinely and wasn’t bothered by it, then he was either more disturbed than she’d suspected or he and this artist were in cahoots.
Or both.
Neither option helped relieve the niggle of unease that had bored into her belly at first sight of those photos. Half a block from her destination, Laura pulled out her phone and hit the speed dial butt
on for J.J.’s extension. He answered on the second ring.
“This better be good, Rockford. You know my rule about work calls after nine p.m.”
She feigned surprise. “Oh dear, is it that late already?”
“You’ve got thirty seconds, Rockford.”
“Fine.” She sidled around a group of college kids laughing and smoking in the middle of the sidewalk. “Listen, I’m pretty sure I’m sitting on a big lead. Huge. Front-page stuff.”
“Go on.” The sloth-like tone of her editor’s voice said he found the proposition doubtful. “Twenty-five.”
“You know that murder at the El Cortez pool yesterday?”
“Twenty.”
“The one with the woman in vintage clothes. Davis covered it this morning.”
“Fifteen. Barbara Newton. Kids finishing high school in the spring, off to college in the fall. Father died five years ago. Sad and tragic, blah, blah, blah.”
“Your compassion is underwhelming.” Laura stopped outside a gallery on the corner of Main and Charleston. A large graphic, grinning skull had been painted on one side of the building in neon-bright shades of orange, green, and yellow. She double-checked the address to be sure. Yep. This was it. “And it gets better.”
“Five seconds left. Make it good.”
“I think Mike McQuade had something to do with the murder.”
Silence.
Laura held the phone away from her ear and checked to see if she’d lost service. “You still there, J.J.?”
“What makes you think the local tech mogul had anything to do with some woman getting stabbed near Fremont Street?”
“The crime scene. The way everything was staged to look exactly like something in one of his video games. The fact he had pictures from some artist in his kitchen that looked exactly like what I saw near that pool yesterday.”
“Wait a minute. You were in McQuade’s apartment? When?” Her editor’s tone shifted from boredom to intrigue. “The guy’s practically a hermit, from what I hear.”
Laura grinned. “I got skills, what can I say? I spent the afternoon today interviewing him.”
“No shit?” J.J. actually sounded impressed. No easy feat for a guy who’d cut his journalistic teeth on Watergate. “You get anything out of him?”
“Enough to make me think this could be front-page stuff. I’m telling you, J.J., this guy’s hiding something. I feel it in my gut. I’m standing outside the artist’s studio now, about to go in and talk to her regarding those photos I found in Mike’s kitchen.”
“Does he know you found them?”
She swallowed hard. “Yeah. He walked in on me looking at them.”
“What’d he do?”
“Threw them in the trash and told me to forget about them.”
J.J. exhaled loud. “I don’t know, Rockford. McQuade’s got a lot of money and backing in the local community. If you’re wrong about him, this could cost you your job. Mine too, if we’re not careful.”
“I’m always careful, J.J.” She tapped the toe of her sneaker against the pavement. “C’mon. Do I have the green light to go ahead with this investigation or not? Think of the prestige, the awards, the—”
“Lawsuits?” J.J.’s muffled curse echoed through the line. “What about that piece you’ve got due at the end of the week? The one about the old lady turning one hundred and five?”
“I’ll get that done too. Promise.”
Another hesitation.
Laura’s hopes lived and died in those short seconds.
“Fine. Send me what you’ve got and I’ll take a look. But I’m telling you, Rockford.” The warning in his tone sent a fresh wave of adrenaline pumping through her system. “You so much as step a hair over the line on this one and I’ll stick you in the mailroom for the rest of your natural-born life. The only byline you’ll see will be at the grocery store checkout. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.” She couldn’t stop grinning despite the serious task ahead of her. “I’ll email my research right now.”
After ending the call, Laura typed in a quick email to J.J. and attached both the grainy video she’d shot at the El Cortez crime scene plus links to the Internet pages about McQuade and his company and his games, as well as information on the artist she was going to visit now. Once she was finished, she shoved the phone back into her messenger bag, smoothed her hands down the thighs of her jeans, then headed inside the gallery.
What she saw inside took her breath away. From the images on Felicia Gomez’s website, she knew the woman was obsessed with Vegas Noir, but nothing like this. Every single five-by-five image on every single wall was from Mike’s 1940s imaginary universe, all of various crime scenes from the game, including the one she’d visited the day before. People milled about and discussed the artworks like they were looking at still-life veggies and not dead bodies. Except they weren't actual dead bodies. Upon inspection, Laura could tell they were models, posed to look like the scenes from the game dressed in vintage clothing and with antique props. The whole thing was a bit too bizarre and surreal for Laura’s taste.
Somewhat disgusted, she stepped up to the closest image and studied it carefully. A close-up shot of the widow’s body near the pool. The muted grays and blacks of the background only served to highlight the red of her dress, making it seem almost as shocking as the pool of blood beneath the victim’s chest. She leaned in closer and squinted. The blood spread pattern was the same as what she’d witnessed at the El Cortez, but the body’s position was slightly different. At the actual crime scene, the widow’s hands had been loose at her sides, palm open and up as if in supplication. Here, the hands were clasped at her waist. Laura started to take her phone out again. She would need to compare the actual video to be sure, but this looked like a damned close match.
“I’m sorry.” A pretty African-American woman with curly brown hair and light mocha skin stepped in beside her. “No photos, please. There are thumbnails on my website of this collection, though, if you’re interested in buying. I make smaller versions too.”
“Oh.” Laura slid her phone back into her bag and flashed her best engaging smile. Felicia Gomez was younger than she’d expected—maybe mid-twenties—and didn’t seem crazy. Not yet anyway. She played dumb to see what new information she might glean. “Are you the artist?”
“I am.” She extended a hand. Long, slim fingers. Delicate and nimble. The hands of an artist. Or a murderer. “Felicia Gomez.”
“Laura Rockford.” She turned back to the artwork. “You seem pretty inspired by the subject matter.”
“Hell yeah. Vegas Noir is my life.” Felecia’s smile grew a tad wider. “I just love the whole world, the grittiness of it, how real it all seems, the attention to detail. There’s nothing else like it out there.”
“Do you know the creator?”
“Mike McQuade?” Felicia’s smile faltered. “Yeah, I know him.”
“He commissioned these works from you?” Laura glanced sideways at Felicia, trying to gauge her reaction.
“Uh, no. How cool would that be though?” Her expression turned wistful, with just a hint of irritation. “No, I did these on my own. I sent him copies of my work once. But all that got me was a restraining order.”
“Restraining order?” Laura added that information to her growing list of things to ask Troy about on her next trip to the station. “Over some pictures? Seems a bit extreme.”
“It was a big misunderstanding.” Felicia gave a dismissive wave. “No big deal.”
No big deal. That was the second time she’d heard that phrase today, and it didn’t sit any better with her now than it had then. These callous people might not consider the lost life of one woman earthshaking, but Laura wasn’t about to let this victim’s death go unavenged.
Still, she needed more to go on if she was going to turn this into the breaking news phenomenon she’d promised her editor. So she pushed her feelings aside and pressed on for more details. “You’re a superfan of this game then, huh
?”
Felicia chuckled. “Yeah, I guess you could call me that.” She looked Laura up and down. “You ever played?”
“Me? Nah. No time.” Lie.
“You should. Best RPG out there.”
“RPG?”
“Role-playing game. You immerse yourself in the world, become your character. It’s amazing. Like having a whole other second virtual life that no one knows about. You can be anyone. Do anything.”
“Anything, huh?” She glanced between the artwork and Felicia. “Maybe I should try it sometime. What happens, though, when playing in the virtual world isn’t enough anymore?”
“What do you mean?”
“Like your pictures. Seems like maybe you’ve taken this virtual world and brought it into the real one.”
“It happens sometimes.” Felicia nodded. “I admit when I took these shots, I really felt like I’d entered the game, you know? Like I was a part of it all. Even though, technically, some of the characters I portray are men in the game.”
“But you aren’t in Vegas Noir.”
“No.” Felicia tilted her head at Laura. “You’re right. I’m not. No matter how bad I want to be.”
The air practically sizzled with tension as she asked the question that had plagued her since she’d first walked in the door. “Is that why you took it to the next level?”
“I’m sorry?” Felicia took a step back and crossed her arms. “I don’t understand.”
“The murder yesterday. The widow at the El Cortez.”
Another step back. Felicia’s friendly smile dissolved into a frown. “What?”
“A woman was killed yesterday near the pool at the El Cortez Hotel. The crime scene was staged almost exactly like your photo here.”
Felicia’s brown eyes widened. “Oh my God. That’s why you’re here? You think I had something to do with that?” She held up her hands and took another small step away. “Listen, I take the pictures, but I would never, ever kill someone.”
Laura narrowed her gaze, taking note of Felicia’s retreating body position and horrified expression. “Then it looks like there’s an even bigger fan of the game out there than you.”
Fatal Games (The Rockford Security Series Book 2) Page 5
