Mack snorted as they started back downstairs following the mouthwatering smells of dinner. “I believe that’s called addiction.”
Eli winked and shuffled past him into the kitchen to wrap his arms around the waist of his redheaded wife as she set a batch of fresh flour tortillas in the holder and wrapped them with a towel to keep them warm and soft. He whispered in her ear and kissed her neck, earning him a light slap on the wrist and a peck on the cheek before they all moved to the table on the patio.
The balcony off the master bedroom provided the roof to the patio, held up by massive timbers stained the same color of the interior wood, and stucco columns. The timbers were wrapped with white Christmas lights and gave the area a magical glow. The table was gorgeously set with wineglasses for them, a bottle for him, and fanciful plates that matched the decorative pottery in the house.
Mack actually felt a little overwhelmed that they’d gone all out for him. “You guys didn’t have to do all this.”
Bex snorted and walked over to pour herself some wine. “Eh, this is just Thursday, you happened to show up on a good night.”
Eli pulled out her chair before taking a seat himself and gesturing to the open chair. He stage whispered, “Normally, we just eat over the sink with our hands.”
His wife growled and slugged him in the arm before laughing and raising her glass, and they followed suit with their own drinks. “To old friends.”
They clinked their glassware over the salad before digging into their dinner. The conversation started off light, keeping mostly to the salad and the really excellent quality of the wine.
“You didn’t strike me as a wine guy,” Bex noted as she spooned up her fajitas and passed Mack the tortillas.
“I’m not, but I learn things here and there. My older sister recommended this one a couple weeks ago, and I figured ‘what the hell’.” He could have kicked himself for bringing up his family. That was not something he discussed normally, and that list was quite lengthy. He loaded up his plate with a few tortillas and some amazingly aromatic chicken.
“Let her know she has good taste.” Thankfully the conversation dropped in favor of their dinner, which was absolutely spectacular in Mack’s opinion. He didn’t have time to cook often, and when he did, he usually kept to grilling. Bex might be a genius in the kitchen.
“So how’s the transition back to PHX been for you?” Eli asked around a bite of fajita. He nudged a bowl of guacamole with his elbow in Mack’s direction as an offer.
He shrugged and took the hint, spooning the sauce onto his plate. “Hot.” At Bex’s amused snort, he followed up with, “Not too bad. I missed my condo.” It was a damn shame that all he could think of to mention was his house. He needed a diversion, something, anything, to break up the monotony of going in and managing witnesses. Maybe he’d start his weekly Poker Night back up with the guys from the office.
As if he sensed his malaise, Eli prodded, “You still moonlighting as a sniper?”
It was fairly common knowledge that he filled in on the Marshals’ Special Operations Group occasionally when there were threats to witnesses. Though he hadn’t had a chance to go out on an op in a while, he still made it to the monthly trainings in Georgia to stay in practice just in case. “Not as often as I’d like,” he admitted as he pushed his empty plate away. He couldn’t believe he’d demolished all that food, and his stomach agreed.
Eli poured more wine for his wife, who thanked him with a kiss on the cheek. The cuteness bordered on nauseating. “You ever think about doing that fulltime?”
As common as the knowledge of his fluency with firearms was, the reason why wasn’t so. He’d come to the Marshals Service from the Phoenix SWAT team, the circumstances of which topped his internal list of ‘Things Never to See the Light of Day Ever Again’. “And leave the desert permanently?” he joked. “Not likely.” The humor felt forced to him, but he did his best not to let his discomfort show.
“So how’s your new Chief working out?” Bex asked with a knowing smirk.
Mack growled and finished his beer. Chief Deputy Austin Grambling was the gift that kept on giving. It was the worst kept secret ever that this was his third assignment in as many years since his promotion. Probably a combination of his Napoleonic personality, and a management style better befitting Idi Amin than a United States Marshal, but he couldn’t be sure. “He’s… different.” The answer garnered him a couple sympathetic chuckles. His only hope was that this, too, would be a temporary tenure for the man, or else Mack might really look into doing something else with his time. He was saved from having to continue by his phone ringing in his pants.
Bex burst out laughing at his ringer. “A boy band?” She sounded like the words actually hurt her tongue to say.
The boy band in question, singing about some girl they met after school, was the harbinger of his boss, who was approximately the same age as the lead singer and just as inherently annoying. “It’s Grambling,” he grumbled by way of explanation. Though he was technically not on duty since he’d completed his witness transfer, he still felt a bit of obligation to answer the phone since he was still in town, as much as he’d have preferred letting it go to voicemail.
Bex rose and grabbed his empty beer bottle on her way to the kitchen. “Tell him you’re busy getting trashed, then he’ll have to leave you alone.” She returned a moment later with a refill, just as the phone fell quiet.
When it rang again a minute later, Mack figured the decision had been made for him. “Jefferson.”
“Are you still in town?” The younger man sounded harried and pressed for time.
“Why?” As much as Mack normally loathed answering a question with a question, he disliked disclosing that kind of information even more, especially to his boss. His off duty time was his time, dammit.
“I need you at the Bellagio, as soon as you can get there.” No please, no do me a favor, nothing.
“You do know I’m off duty, right?” He knew if he let Grambling encroach on his free time now, the guy would never let him have a moment’s peace again.
“And I don’t care,” his boss answered, confirming his suspicions. “I touch down in ten minutes. I need you there in the next five.” The phone died in his hand, which was just was well, because the look he gave it should have killed it.
“Problems?” Eli pushed his plate away and stood. Looking to his wife he asked, “Flan?”
Bex grabbed his hand with a wink. “Full of questions tonight, huh? Yeah, you’ve been fussing over that flan all day. I can’t wait anymore.”
As much as he would have liked to stay for dessert, he knew there’d be hell to pay if he didn’t show up at the Bellagio as bidden. “Grambling needs me for God knows what.” He rose and dropped his napkin onto his plate. “Dinner was wonderful, thank you both so much for inviting me.”
“Absolutely. You know you’re always welcome when you’re in town.” Bex rose from her place and came around the table, and for a moment, he feared she was going to hug him, but she just slugged him in the shoulder. It was actually preferable.
Eli emerged from the kitchen with a small plastic box in his hands. “Here, flan to take with you. It’s so worth it.”
Mack was touched. It wasn’t often someone went out of their way for him. “Thank you.” He accepted the box and walked to the door with his hosts. “I really do appreciate you having me over.”
Eli shook his hand and opened the heavy front door. “Anytime. We mean that.”
As Mack started his rental, the deep rumble of the engine soothed him. It was going to be a long night; he felt it in his bones, but nothing he couldn’t handle. That much he knew for certain.
* * *
It was like a movie. A loud, vividly colorful movie, with bright lights and sirens, but it didn’t seem real. As Cassie stood out in the back of the hotel next to the Maybach, leaning against her guitar case like it was the only thing holding her up, she watched the proceedings with the detached eye of a movie
reviewer. The uniformed officers milling around, the crime scene tape fluttering in the warm breeze, the slow roll of the coroner’s wagon as it backed in near the main service doors, none of it interested her, because she’d tapped out.
It was unreal, it was beyond her. She’d reached her threshold for coping and dropped over the edge into nothing, a bracing numbness. Trista had tried talking to her, but forming words wasn’t high on Cassie’s list of priorities, so she was left alone, which was as she wanted. Even now, as a man in a suit just a shade older than her own twenty-five years shuffled over to her, a gold badge clipped to his waist and a gun prominently on his hip, she couldn’t be moved to care.
“Miss Witt?” He seemed to have a problem looking directly at her, focusing on the notebook in his hands instead of her face. “I’m Detective Job Redman. Do you feel up to talking to me?”
She snorted, her upbringing in the church finding his first name more than a little comical. “Job, huh?”
His cheeks darkened, stained bright pink and making his boyish face look that much younger. “Yeah,” he rubbed the back of his neck with a rueful grin, “my parents had a sense of humor.”
She knew all about a name fraught with history, much of it negative. “He says to the woman whose parents named her Cassandra.”
He grinned broadly for a moment, looking directly at her for the first time before remembering his surroundings. “Fair enough. Do you feel up to giving me your statement?”
She looked from him to the men huddled around the open back door of the coroner’s van, still no emotion about it, and she feared she may never feel again. “I suppose.”
He followed her line of sight to the van and stepped in front of it, breaking its hold on her mind. “I understand you saw the incident?”
‘The incident’ was a sterile way of saying she saw her manager, a friend who had stepped in when her father had failed her, killed in front of her. It was just as devoid of emotion as everything else, she supposed. “I did.”
He wrote something down. “And the suspect?”
Cassie could feel the detective watching her intently. At his question her mind called the picture to the fore as clearly as if it were him in front of her instead of Detective Redman. “Yeah. He was a white guy, short black hair, very short. Average height, maybe on the thin side, dark eyes…” She lost her voice as the image wavered and all she could see was Clint, on the floor, bleeding out.
“Did you know him?” Her inquisitor shifted from foot to foot. Nice shoes, she noticed. They made him look distinguished.
She shrugged, and her attention wandered over to her assistant, Trista, who was talking to another detective, a man who appeared to be old enough to be both of their fathers. “No. Just met him this afternoon at the party. I don’t know him any more than I know you.”
The detective’s lips twitched at her answer, but he didn’t respond, scribbling in his notepad. “You up to coming to the station and talking to a sketch artist?”
“Of course,” she responded immediately. “The sooner the better. I just can’t imagine why someone would do that to Clint. He’s so sweet, so giving, so…” The tears that had yet to make an appearance queued up in her throat, choking off anything else she might say.
The detective visibly withered at the threat of her tears, but didn’t step back. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
She nodded but didn’t speak. He herded her gently into his unmarked, but painfully obvious police car and, after a word to his partner, took her down to the station to speak to the sketch artist.
Trista arrived a short time later, accompanied by the older detective who was Job’s partner. Job himself stayed with her while she’d spoken to the artist and even commented on her sharp memory as she worked to create the sketch from her mind. It wasn’t difficult, the image of Clint on the ground like a discarded toy with this monster standing over him was branded in her mind, and she would never forget it. Trista held her hand while they waited at the station for the officers to settle on a game plan.
The older detective who’d brought Trista to the station wandered over with another man in a suit. This one was much sharper, in every possible way. Where her detective looked like he might grow into the badge eventually, this one, with a star on his belt, looked like he was cut from glass. Razor creases in his grey slacks, solid burgundy tie against a blinding white shirt, black hair slicked back to perfection, and amber eyes that made him look a bit feline, this guy with the huge gun on his hip looked like he meant nothing but business. He probably had any compassion he may have been born with surgically removed.
The new man strode right over to her and offered his hand, seemingly ignoring the detective to whom she’d been speaking. “Miss Whitfield, I’m Deputy Chief Austin Grambling with the Marshals Service. I’m so sorry for your loss.”
She rose as she looked him over. “Chief Grambling.” His use of her full name, as well as his title, brought her up short. Shaking his hand, Cassie evaluated him, checking for any indication of a reason for his presence. She wasn’t really familiar with the ins and outs of law enforcement, but she was pretty sure murders were a local affair, and the Marshals showing up could only mean bad things.
“I’m told you were performing for the Salazar family before all this unpleasantness transpired.” The way he spoke told her he was well familiar with her benefactor this evening.
“I did.” Cassie couldn’t shake the feeling she probably needed her lawyer present to speak to him. He seemed to regard her as a caged tiger would his daily steak delivery.
“I’d like to talk to you about that, if you don’t mind.”
She got the distinct impression it didn’t even matter if she did mind. “Sure. Do I need to have my lawyer?”
* * *
Every light between Eli and Bex’s house and the Bellagio conspired against him. The smooth ride up to the house was more than compensated by the less than stellar ride back to The Strip. It wasn’t just slow traffic, it was the fact he was going at all. No clue what he was rolling into except that it involved Grambling, and he had no plan. Grambling was horrible to deal with when there was a plan in place, and without a plan, Mack shuddered to think.
Then there was the tiny detail about him being off freakin’ duty, but that was something he and his boss would discuss shortly in person. “If this light ever changes!” he hollered at the last red light with the hotel in sight. Taking a deep breath and flexing his hands on the wheel, he worked hard to dial his rage back to a manageable level as he cruised through the intersection. It wouldn’t do for him to show up foaming at the mouth. Poor form, and all that.
He wheeled the Challenger into the parking lot, past the valets toward the loading docks in the back where all the flashing lights were bouncing off the building and into the night, only to hear his phone chime that he had a text. The sinking feeling that had started when his boss called him at dinner only got worse as he read it. Instead of the hotel, he was now needed at the Vegas PD headquarters, back in the opposite direction. Taking a moment to rest his head on his steering wheel, he left the obvious crime scene for the PD.
When he arrived, he found several members of the media milling around out front, setting up cameras and mics and doing stock scene footage. Media generally didn’t show up unless it was really bad. “Esto va terminar en lágrimas,” Mack muttered as he grabbed his badge and gun and got out of the car.
Chapter 2
Grambling looked up as soon as Mack arrived and moved to intercept him on his way to the bullpen. His boss was short, at least by his standards. He was six feet even, and his boss was nose height. Chief Grambling also bore a striking resemblance to a weasel, both in the face and his overly lithe frame, and Mack knew an ice cube wouldn’t melt in the other man’s mouth.
“What took you so long?” he said by way of greeting.
Mack bit back his first answer about the last minute change of venue and showed his teeth in response instead, mimicking a smile. �
�Traffic was horrible getting out of the titty bar, quite the backup at Amber Sunset’s stage.” Something about the other man, in his suit sharp enough to draw blood, made him want to be as big a prick as possible, just to compensate. Still, Mack loved the way Grambling’s eyes almost bugged out of his head at his comment.
The shorter man strode over to stand right in front of him, well beyond what could be considered polite personal space. “You were at a strip club?” he hissed before he inhaled deeply as if he was trying to detect the presence of glitter. “Have you been drinking?”
For a hot second, he considered saying yes, telling his boss he’d driven across town at his bidding, three sheets to the wind, solely because he was asked to do so, but alas, he wasn’t drunk, and the honorable part of him couldn’t make that lie pass his lips. “A beer. Even you can’t call that compromised.”
Grambling’s eyes narrowed for a moment like he was making a decision and then looked over his shoulder for confirmation. When he looked back at Mack, he sighed and took a step back. “Are you familiar with Cassie Witt?”
Mack felt his eyebrows rocket up his forehead. He’d have to have been living in an underground bunker with no television or radio to not know who she was. Every magazine cover from Cosmo to Maxim to Rolling Stone, commercials, awards shows, Cassie Witt was an entertainment enterprise, not just a singer of questionable talent who sang bubblegum country music. His eyes travelled over his boss’s shoulder to the glut of people congregating on benches in the hallway, and then he saw her.
She appeared, in a word, bulletproof. Surrounded by an impenetrable wall of people, she was a cosseted princess in the tower, who was both strangely inviting yet coldly untouchable with her brassy blonde hair curling from a ponytail down her back and light green eyes like beach glass.
“I know of her.” It was all the answer he felt like he could give without betraying his thoughts.
Bulletproof Princess Page 2