Sin on the Strip

by Lucy Farago

  And there it was, that cold, hard stare. She said nothing.

  “Do you have a number where I can reach Ms. Joyce? An address in Reno?”

  He might have been reading too much into it, but he could have sworn he’d seen a flash of fear cross her face before frustration took over.

  She hesitated, then opened her top drawer, pulling out a business card. “Shannon keeps an apartment there.” She handed him the card. “Louise is the receptionist at her law office here in Vegas if you can’t reach her by cell. You know Shannon is a lawyer?”

  “Yes, I’ve been told. Thank you.” That was another thing. Why would a snazzy lawyer own a strip club? He nodded. “I’ll have more questions for you later, if you don’t mind?”

  “You know where to find me.” She graced him with a sardonic grin.

  Oh, he’d hit a nerve all right, although she was doing her damnedest to conceal how upset she was. Slapping the armrests with his hands, Christian stood. He’d ticked her off. They were even. She hid something behind that polished veneer.

  Maggie escorted Mr. Chocolate to the front entrance and reached for the door handle, but her doorman, Joe, intervened.

  “Let me,” he offered, looking down at her bandaged hand.

  She gave Joe an appreciative smile, not missing the stern nod Mr. Beck gave him as he walked through the door. Did he dislike everyone who worked here, or were his judgmental opinions reserved for her? Well, at least her father would have company. A father she now suspected Mr. Beck knew about. What she was going to do about it, she didn’t know.

  “I’ll be in touch.” Giving her what she supposed was his best southern smile, and it was a hot one, he left. Mr. Pickle-up-the-butt made a stunning hunk. Shame about his affliction with deli products.

  Watching him get into his car, Maggie tried to control the panic doing laps in her stomach. Perhaps his analogy to Bible camp had simply been a jab at the club, not her? And if not, why hadn’t he just come out and asked her? What, if any, game was he playing?

  She grunted, assuring herself he was just an ass, and headed back inside. No way would he not have thrown her father in her face. Just what was the PI not telling her?

  “You okay, Maggie?” Vinnie glared in the direction Beck had taken. He looked like he wanted to throttle a certain southerner.

  “Sure.” She sighed. “All good.”

  Christian Beck wouldn’t get under her skin. There were enough creepy crawlies burrowing there. As she reentered the darkened club, she bumped into Jason. She smiled up at the gentle giant who, as per his way, blushed. The kid, or more correctly, the man, went pink faced anytime she or any other female so much as looked at him.

  “Hello, Jason.”

  “Hello, Maggie,” he answered, his deep voice and handicap making him sound like he spoke to her from the other end of a long tunnel.

  When she’d considered hiring him, she’d called the group home where he lived and discovered that, although his intelligence was that of a ten-year-old, he functioned well. Having overheard the music spill onto the streets, Jason had wandered inside the club, ignorant of where his feet had taken him. It had taken Jake several glasses of water to calm the flustered man. She’d never seen anyone’s eyes dart so fast in someone’s sockets as he strived to look anywhere but at the half-naked women who’d come out to see what the fuss was about. It brought a smile to Maggie’s face every time she saw Jason, a man who preferred his women clothed. With a deep appreciation, albeit over the top, for music, he made the perfect candidate to help her DJ. When her staff was dressed, he treated them like queens, and when they weren’t, he avoided any and all contact. The fact that he was sweet as pie hadn’t hurt either.

  “Are you starting your shift?” she asked.

  His smile brightened, flashing his new blue braces and playing with the gold around his neck. “My dad just dropped me off. See what he gave me.” He reached into his T-shirt and pulled out a tiny gold cross.

  “Nice,” she said, having given up her own cross when she’d come to Vegas, not wanting religion to come between her and the street kids she’d worked with. But … his dad? She was certain the home had told her Jason was as an orphan. Then again, she’d caught him twisting the truth on more than one occasion. Nothing major or worth talking to him about, just odd stuff, like the expensive lunch he had. Or the one time he’d come in recounting all the funny people he’d met on the bus, when clearly she’d seen him get out of a car.

  “Bobby said I could push all the buttons myself today.”

  “Wow, moving up in the business. You do a good job and I’ll give you a raise.”

  He, as expected, blushed. God love him, he was too cute for words. It warmed her heart to know he was her employee. Others may not approve of where he worked, but one thing remained true. His world had opened up and earning money went a long way to boost his confidence. Jason had dreams like everyone else. Being challenged should only be a jumpable hurdle.

  “Okay, get to the booth before Bobby comes looking for you.”

  Nodding, he said, “Ronnie’s up next. I gotta hurry.” Off he went, two of Maggie’s strides not coming close to matching one of his.

  Hearing the soft drumming music signaling Rhonda’s act, Maggie picked up her pace and made her way across the carpeted floor. She shut her office door with a regretful slam.

  She didn’t watch the girls perform, having sat in on their rehearsals only for camaraderie. Their naked bodies never bothered her, but seeing them dance was a whole different ball game. She’d done that once, back when she used to bartend in the club and it was all she could do not to rip the dancer off the stage and douse every gawking male with ice water. Thank heaven the bar didn’t provide a clear view. Those long shifts would have been torture.

  She slid the chair Mr. Beck had vacated away from her desk. Involuntarily, her hand swept across the neck rest. A faint, sweet aroma lingered in the room. Chocolate.

  They said chocolate released the same endorphins as sex. Thank God she’d discovered running and didn’t require either. If she’d had to choose, she’d take a couple of extra pounds over the complications of sleeping with a man. Besides, this club, these women, fulfilled her like no man could. The reality of it was she needed her girls more than they claimed to need her.

  Five years ago, when everything changed, she’d needed to come up with a new way to reach out. She’d never allowed the threats uttered out of desperation to prevent her from doing her job. Even breaking her hand while chasing down a young offender hadn’t stopped her from going to work. Maybe she’d been naïve. But having the respect of the neighborhoods she’d visit went a long way in ensuring everyone watched out for her. She was often all that stood between them and jail. After Desilva, she couldn’t do it anymore. The idea of wondering who lurked around the corner to this day paralyzed her, even in the security of her office.

  She was letting those people down, and while her generous inheritance from her grandmother wasn’t the only solution, it had gone a long way in allowing her to feel useful again. She used it to set up the scholarship fund. Money might not buy happiness, but it bought these girls hope, and perhaps freedom, if they were willing to help themselves. She’d given up a lot, forgone what little relationship she had left with her father. Was it worth it? Walking away from a job she loved, as a front line counselor, broke her heart. But in this club she could stay involved, and the girls who needed her support were at her doorstep. Screw Beck and anyone else who couldn’t see past the choices her dancers made. They were theirs to make.

  Frowning, she recalled her threat, blurted out of aggravation, her mouth once again getting the best of her. She’d made many connections over the years. Some were on the force, some off. Very off. If she’d wanted to do her job right, she’d needed eyes everywhere to protect the women and the runaways she worked with. Her sources were good at ferreting out information, but tracking a killer was probably better left to the police. Maggie didn’t need to get burned again
. One thing was certain; Beck hadn’t been entirely forthcoming. Years of dealing with runners and drug addicts had taught her to sniff out a liar.

  As Maggie sat down, the phone rang. She glanced at the call display. Shannon.

  She picked up. “Hello, Shannon. Yes, Shannon. I’m fine, Shannon.”

  Inseparable since they were kids, at sixteen they’d made their escape from Tweedsmuir, their hometown. Shannon had been Clyde to her Bonnie. Funny how life turned out. Her best friend, the town hooligan, was now a lawyer.

  “How are you doing? Really.”

  Maggie couldn’t help it. Tears burned her eyes and her heart clenched as she flashed on a vivid visual of what was left of Heather, her lifeless body lying on that cold slab.

  “Hanging in there. It’s tough,” she admitted because she knew that Shannon would be able to see right through her lies.

  “I’m so, so sorry, sweetie.”

  “Yeah. Me too. Tell me something good. How’s the new place?”

  “Great. Food and liquor costs are in line and sales are up.” As hard as Shannon tried, her New England accent always managed to cling to a word or two.

  “Thanks for taking care of that. I don’t think I could have concentrated enough to be of any use to Tessa.”

  One of Maggie’s graduates, Tessa had moved to Reno to run the latest restaurant Maggie and her friends had opened.

  “Not a problem. She told me to tell you she has a new recruit. She’ll send you everything you need a few weeks before this girl gets out of rehab. She’d keep her in Reno, except she thinks it’s best to get Annie far away from her ex-pimp.”

  “I’ll get everything ready here. So Tessa wants her working in a restaurant?”

  “Apparently Annie doesn’t have much experience with anything. She can host while she goes to school. So what are you doing?”

  “Sitting down.”

  “Smartass.”

  Maggie laughed. “I’m in my office. Hiding.” Shannon knew what it meant when she hid.

  “Oh, been there long? You haven’t been shut up in that cubicle all day, have you?” Shannon scolded.

  Her office was hardly a cubicle, but it lacked a window; Shannon considered it a dungeon. “No, I just sat down. There’s a private investigator helping the police. He was here earlier with some questions.”

  “What kind of questions?” she asked. “He’s not bothering you, is he? You tell him your friend’s a kickass lawyer who’s going to kick his scrawny ass if he so much as looks at you the wrong way.”

  Scrawny? Hardly. “Oh, that would look real professional. Would you be using stiletto pumps or those strappy green sparkles you like to wear?”

  “I’d put on a pair of army boots to protect you.”

  Lord love her, she would too. “Of that I have no doubt.” Maggie swept her hand across the cool, chocolate-brown desk mat. “Don’t worry, I handled him. He’s looking for you, wants to talk to the owner.”

  A loud groan came over the receiver. “You didn’t let your moral sensibilities overrule self-preservation and tell him, did you?”

  Considering Shannon never went to church, her version of moral sensibilities and Maggie’s were often, though not always, very different. It was one of the reasons Shannon made a fantastic attorney.

  “Of course not.”

  “Good. We are not breaking any laws. Don’t go all Mother friggin’ Teresa on me.”

  “Hey, I can be bad.”

  “Yes, but when you’re doing bad, it’s for the greater good. So guess what? Doesn’t count,” Shannon said, accentuating the Ts.

  Maggie wasn’t Mother Teresa. She had her flaws like everyone else. And she doubted the holy nun had ever watched women shake their ta-tas. “You’re not very nice.”

  “They don’t pay me to be nice.” Shannon laughed. “Hey,” she said, turning serious, “you made all the arrangements? Do you need any help? I’m almost done here.”

  Shannon, of course, referred to the funeral. Maggie’s throat tightened. “No thanks, I’ve done everything. I hired this amazing tenor. I bought Heather a plot, open to the sky. I had a little trouble with the headstone.” Maggie’s breath caught and she had to gather her composure before she continued. “Rhonda helped. It’s a fairy, her wings fanned out, to protect her.”

  “Has the date been set?”

  “No.” Maggie swallowed hard, clutching the pen on her desk. “They haven’t released the body yet.”

  “I figured it would take at least a week. If there’s anything you need, you know who to call. I sent you a text earlier, but you didn’t answer.”

  “Sorry, I haven’t checked any of my texts. I need a new phone. It keeps freezing up.”

  After Shannon criticized her choice in cellphones, they said good-bye.

  What was becoming of her life? At thirty, several years older than Heather, if she needed a reminder that life was short, this was it. But it didn’t stop her urge to hide under a rock every time she considered returning to the work she’d loved. No matter how hard she tried to tell herself it was over, that she’d survived and he’d gone to jail, the piece of her psyche that was still held hostage on that dock refused to listen. Unfortunately, with each passing week, listening grew harder. All these years and still, a war raged inside her. Her inadequacies made her leave the people she’d been working with behind. Some had gone to jail, others lost their children. She was not only a coward, but a failure. Maybe what she needed was to actually get back on the streets, the old bicycle/horse thing.

  Shannon would kill her. Alice and Wendy, the other half of their quartet, would have her for lunch. In college, Wendy had considered Maggie naïve enough to require a babysitter at parties. At the time it had irked her; now she knew Wendy’s protective streak came from a good place. She was no longer that innocent freshman, but she liked that her friends still had her back.

  She thought about picking up the phone and calling her mom. But what would she say? Her mother didn’t approve of her lifestyle any more than her father did. Of course, they differed on the why of it. Her mom feared for Maggie’s safety; her father, his reputation.

  Maggie couldn’t remember the last conversation she’d had with the man, but she was certain it hadn’t ended well. They never did. She’d be able to come up with a couple of choice words to describe her dad’s behavior. Her mom, however, had taught her never to take the Lord’s name in vain, and while she didn’t have anything against the occasional swear word, cursing was something she made an effort not to do.

  With Rhonda’s hard-rock music ending, Maggie had twenty minutes to check on her staff before Crystal’s number was cued. A Polish immigrant, she’d come to the proverbial land of milk and honey and found poverty, hunger and the streets eager to claim the young beauty. This was Crystal’s last week at the club. After graduation, her teacher had offered her a position at his wife’s French restaurant. She’d be one of three sous chefs. An amazing opportunity, but Maggie would miss her. Such was Maggie’s job—her life. Sometimes she had to say good-bye to them.

  The phone rang again. Wendy. Line two rang before Maggie picked up. Alice. She smiled. It was good to have friends. Even if they were overprotective.

  After grabbing Ms. Anderson’s file from the passenger seat, Christian headed into the police station for his meeting with Horace Cooper. The lieutenant wasn’t keen on Christian checking into his friend, but Cooper needed to get over it. No stone left unturned and all that bull.

  He’d had a short conversation on the phone with Ms. Joyce last night, which corroborated Ms. Anderson’s story. It would seem she trusted her friend implicitly. He’d asked her why she’d bought the club and wasn’t shocked when she told him it was none of his business. Her curtness did leave him curious, however. Why the secret?

  At the station, he held the glass door open for the two officers emerging. They nodded their thanks, and he nodded in return before passing through himself. He’d heard them mention the Cantina and, taking a quick glance a
t his watch, realized he’d missed lunch again.

  He climbed the short flight of steel stairs and worked his way past a clutter of desks, wading through pulled out chairs to reach the lieutenant’s back office. Rapping on the glass door with his knuckle, he waited. Through the blind-drawn window, Cooper waved him in as he continued his phone conversation.

  “Yeah, yeah, feed me more excuses and traffic duty will look good compared to what I have in store for you two. Just get it done.” He slammed the phone down, making his teacup rattle in its saucer.

  Christian raised an eyebrow at the dainty English China. Lavender flowers and gold rim didn’t suit the guy’s Kojak exterior.

  “What?” Cooper took a loud sip. “Haven’t you heard? Coffee’s bad for you.”

  Apparently he was none too pleased about it. “Yes, sir. I’m just surprised you’re listening.” Christian grinned.

  “Yeah, well, Maggie’s a persistent little thing,” he said, followed by, “Damn blood pressure,” muttered under his breath.

  Maggie Anderson. Would wonders never cease?

  Was being friendly with the cops part of her act? After reading the file, and he had to be honest with himself, after talking to her, he found it hard to believe she was less than genuine with her good intentions. To top it off, Blake and Cooper weren’t stupid men. The lieutenant had thirty years of service under his straining belt and Blake—hell—Blake had all but lived undercover in the seedy world of prostitution and drugs for ten. Hard to believe that with all that experience he was mistaken.

  “What’s that?” Horace pointed to the envelope in Christian’s hand.

  Christian shook out the contents into his other hand and grabbed a seat, slinging his ankle across his knee. The new file Blake had procured did have some interesting information, just not enough, like why Ms. Anderson had chosen to run a strip club. “I was wondering what a well-known TV evangelist’s daughter is doing running strip clubs. What would her Daddy say?”

  Chapter Five

  Cooper pushed his girly teacup aside. “That’s hardly any of your business, now, is it?”