CHAPTER FIVE
AT EIGHT-TWENTY the next morning, Val pulled into the parking lot at Diamond Investigations. The office didn’t open for forty minutes, but she wanted a chance to talk to Jayne as soon as she arrived, which was usually a few minutes before nine.
Stepping out of the air-conditioned Honda felt as if somebody had opened an oven door in her face. When the monsoons finally rolled in, the moist winds and thunderstorms would bring lower temperatures. Meanwhile, Las Vegas baked.
After flipping on the office lights and setting a bag containing a warm cinnamon roll from Marie’s Gourmet Bakery on her desk, she checked herself out in the bathroom mirror.
This morning, she’d woken Jasmyn and told her about her plan to confess the honey trap to Jayne. “Cuz,” Jasmyn said sleepily, “you need to wear somethin’ to say grace over.”
Jaz helped her pick out what to wear, a vintage black crepe dress with a delicate white lace bow, swearing it gave Val a “demure innocence.” She wouldn’t go that far, but nevertheless played on the theme by pulling up her dark hair in a sleek, tasteful topknot and paring down her makeup to mascara and peach lip gloss.
After tucking a stray hair into the topknot, she went about her morning office tasks. First thing each morning, she fed the fish. Sprinkling vitamin-enriched brine shrimp into the tank, she watched a bright blue-and-yellow angelfish disappear into a dark crevice of a miniature castle. The first week Val was here, Jayne had explained how angelfish needed to hide or they stressed too much. A few fish nibbled at the fare, but as always Mr. Blue-and-Yellow lurked in the shadows of his castle.
“You always do it your way, on your terms,” Val murmured.
She headed to the kitchenette nestled in an alcove next to the grandfather clock. In addition to a sink, the closet-size space housed an antique chest of drawers on which sat a coffeepot, cups and a wicker basket filled with packets of sugar, powdered creamer and spoons.
After starting the coffeemaker, she sat at her desk and checked emails. She deleted a spam message and responded to an inquiry—stating that Diamond Investigations was not accepting any new cases.
She paused, staring out the window. Any minute Jayne’s Miata would pull in beside Val’s rental car.
Scents of warm dough and cinnamon wafted from the pastry bag, but her stomach was like a big knot—no way could she eat. Listening to the coffeemaker burble and hiss, she busied herself by rearranging items on her desk. After stacking the notepads, making a pile of paper clips and tossing a couple of dried-out ballpoint pens, she stared at the grandfather clock.
Eight forty-six.
The front door clicked open.
Val jumped a little, knocking over the cup of pens. They clattered across her desk. She fumbled to pick them up with trembling fingers, listening to the soft click of her boss’s sensible heels crossing the floor.
They stopped in front of her desk.
Val looked up, the knot in her stomach tightening. She hadn’t seen the Miata pull up, but there it was, parked beside her Honda. And here Jayne was.
She wore a taupe linen blazer over an off-white shell top and…jeans? Her boss never wore jeans. Maybe that was a good thing. Meant she was relaxed, comfortable…ready to hear bad news.
“Good morning, Val.”
“Mornin’, ma’am—Jayne.”
On second look, she realized her boss’s eyes were slightly swollen. Had she been crying? Maybe this wasn’t the time to spring bad news.
“No calls have come in yet this morning,” Val said, doing her best to sound nonchalant, professional.
“Good. I had hoped my calendar was clear this morning because…” Jayne offered a tight smile. “I have something important to discuss with you.”
Val’s heart pounded like a tribal tom-tom. Did her boss already know about the honey trap? How could she? Didn’t matter. Val needed to seize the moment and explain, now.
As she opened her mouth, a thump-heavy tune blasted from a car on Garces Avenue. The women stared at each other as a loud, gravelly male voice rapped about pimps, gangstas and blunts for breakfast.
The tune faded as the vehicle continued down the street. The hum of the fish tank and the air conditioner again filled the room.
“You were starting to say?” Jayne asked.
Val eased her shoulders back, took a deep breath…and jumped as the phone on her desk jangled.
They both looked at the caller ID.
“Local number,” Jayne said. “Might be that private investigator I spoke with this morning, but I need to discuss the situation with you first. Take a message,” she said, walking away, “then come to my office.”
Val picked up the receiver, wondering why Jayne had met with another P.I. Was it there that she’d cried? What could have affected tough, no-nonsense Jayne so deeply?
“Diamond Investigations,” she answered.
“Is this a, uh, private-investigations agency?”
No, it’s a jewelry inspection plant. “Yes.”
“I think my apartment is bugged. When I walk over to a certain wall, I hear this pinging sound…”
As the guy rattled on about suspecting that somebody, like maybe his landlord, was planting listening devices in his apartment, Val waited for him to pause so she could give the not-accepting-new-cases spiel. But he was on a roll, rambling on about beeps on his phone, a funny hole next to a ceiling light where somebody might have planted a camera…
Just as she was wondering how many a‘s were in the word paranoia, the front door clicked open.
She looked up and nearly dropped the receiver.
Sunlight etched the dark silhouette that blocked the doorway. She couldn’t see the man’s features, but she recognized the bulk of his shoulders and his slouched, wary stance.
Drake.
How did he know she worked here?
“…and sometimes at night, there’s this squeaky noise in the kitchen,” the guy on the phone rambled on. “It almost sounds like tiny little fingernails scratching. What should I do?”
“Call an exterminator.” She watched Drake step inside and close the door, his eyes never leaving hers. He looked about as happy as a homicide detective arriving at a crime scene.
“I’m serious,” the guy said, his voice rising, “this is freaking scary!”
“Tell me about it.” She hung up.
As he walked toward her, her insides whirled like seagulls circling before a storm.
He wore the same crisp white shirt as last night, although it no longer looked crisp or white. Like his pants, it was wrinkled and creased with dirt. As he drew closer, she saw shadows under his eyes, a slash of grime on his chin, a ragged tear in his shirt.
He stopped, the muscles bunching in his jaw. His eyes were dull, flat. Not even a glimmer of the passion they’d shared last night. He towered over her desk like a vengeful, brooding Heathcliff, his appearance ragged and dirty as though he had walked through hell itself to get here.
Considering he reeked of smoke, maybe he had.
She swallowed almost convulsively as thoughts zigzagged through her mind. Had he followed her last night, this morning? Was he here to report that she’d played a honey trap? But the questions didn’t stack up. Something else had obviously happened, some ordeal that had nothing to do with her.
Be cool. Think.
They hadn’t ended on bad terms last night. In fact, they had ended on hot, excellent terms. A full-body clutch, a kiss in the works. If her phone hadn’t rung, the next moment would have been one smoldering, memorable lip meltdown.
Which meant…maybe he didn’t recognize her.
Compared to her sexpot look last night, today she could pass for a prison matron. Didn’t explain why he was here, but life was full of crazy coincidences.
“May I help you, sir?” She tried to flatten her speech to mask her New Orleans accent.
He gave her a look that made her insides shrivel. “I’m here to see Jayne,” he said in a low, rumbling tone.
/> “I’ll check if she’s available.”
But he was already heading to her boss’s office.
Despite her banging knees, she managed to stand. “You can’t go in there—”
“Like hell.”
The door shut behind him with a solid thud.
* * *
TEN MINUTES LATER, which felt like several lifetimes to Val, Jayne’s office door yawned open. The older woman stepped outside, a strained look on her face.
“I don’t want any walk-ins during our meeting,” she said, “so please lock the door, then come directly in here.” She retraced her steps.
Val stood, her heart racing, regretting last night as she had never regretted anything in her life. If only she had obeyed Jayne’s rule, if only she hadn’t been so greedy to take the cash, if only…
Her body felt drained of life force, yet somehow she managed to walk to the front door. She had hoped her new look had fooled him, but so much for that la-la dream. Now she seemed doubly dumb, first for conducting the honey trap, second for pretending she didn’t know the subject of the honey trap.
No, there was a third dumb move. She should have confessed to Jayne the instant she walked in. Spilled her guts, laid it all out, talked right through the rap music, the jangling phone. Now it appeared as though Val had been trying to hide her double-dealing.
After locking the door, she walked into Jayne’s inner sanctum. The room had always unnerved Val because it felt oddly remote. She had always chalked up her reaction to the cool, off-white walls and sparse decor consisting of a modern, glass-topped desk, two metal guest chairs and several silver-gray filing cabinets. The only real color was the soft jade-and-rose area rug and a painting of the San Francisco skyline, its heavens a mix of vibrant golds and blues.
Jayne sat behind her desk, fiddling with a fountain pen, turning it over and over like a slow-motion propeller blade. Drake leaned against the far wall, his arms folded imposingly across his chest, glowering at Val as though she were a bug he wanted to quash.
She stopped near a chair, but didn’t sit. Seemed more respectful to stand. Overhead, a ceiling fan quietly thumped, measuring out the painful moments.
For an unguarded moment, she returned Drake’s granite-hard stare. Damn, even the presidents on Mount Rushmore gave back warmer looks. Her gaze dropped to his downturned, sullen mouth and its sensuously curved bottom lip, and for a surreal instant, she remembered his large hands kneading her, his hot whispers turning her insides molten.
She jerked her gaze to the rug. Here she was, her job on the chopping block, and she was getting all romance-cover steamy over a man who looked as though he’d rather throttle her than straddle her.
“Val,” Jayne said ominously. She set aside her pen and folded her hands. “I have heard some rather disturbing news. It seems that you conducted a honey trap yesterday evening. Is that true?”
“Yes.” Val forced herself to stand straight.
“In doing so, you violated agency policy.”
She nodded, her eyes stinging with emotion.
“You also damaged my trust in you.”
That hurt the most. “I’m sorry,” she said, fighting to speak above a whisper, “what I did was wrong.”
Jayne’s frosty eyes assessed her. “I have known Mr. Morgan for several years. He is one of the more highly respected private investigators in Las Vegas.”
He was a private investigator?
“Drake,” Jayne continued, “has other, far more serious allegations, which we will discuss later. Meanwhile, tell me in your own words what happened last night. And Val,” she added, a hardness creeping into her tone, “do not cloud my office with useless, petty defenses.”
The last words hurt, but even more upsetting was that Drake had far more serious allegations. When had a lousy flirting job, some inappropriate body maneuvers and a not-quite-there kiss become offenses?
“Yes, I conducted a honey trap last night. But that was all I did, Jayne, I promise you.”
“And he was the subject.”
“Yes.”
Jayne leaned forward. “Yesterday, minutes before I exited the office, you and I discussed in detail why this agency never undertakes such cases. Had you accepted the case at that time?”
“No.”
“When did you?”
“Yesterday around—” she recalled the metallic chimes of the grandfather clock “—four p.m.”
Jayne nodded brusquely. “Call-in?”
“Walk-in.”
Jayne cast a look at Drake, then returned to Val. “You are not licensed to conduct investigations, which in Nevada, at the very minimum, constitutes a misdemeanor.”
“I know.”
“You should,” Jayne snapped, “because we have discussed it often enough.” Her eyes remained glued to Val’s. “Did you previously know this client?”
“No.”
Jayne blew out an exasperated breath. “For God’s sake, Val, why did you do this?”
“Because…” This was the hard part. Admitting her penny-grasping, self-serving reasons. “She paid in cash and I wanted to get my car fixed.” She heaved a sigh. “And put some money aside for my own place. I was just plain brainless and greedy. I’m sorry, Jayne. I…would like a second chance. I will never do something dumb-ass like this again, I promise you.”
That wasn’t the speech she had planned, but considering a glob of sweat was rolling down her back, and trying to stand tall was giving her a bad case of tight neck, it was the best she could do.
Jayne was so quiet, Val mentally steeled herself for the termination speech.
“Oh, Val,” she finally said, the angry look on her face crumbling into sadness, “sometimes you remind me…” After a small shake of her head, she lifted her chin. “Mr. Morgan was the victim of a violent crime last night, and he would like to query you.”
“A violent crime?” He looked a mess, but she hadn’t realized the severity of what he had gone through. “Mercy, what happened?”
He didn’t answer. Just stayed leaning against the wall, watching her through slitted eyes.
“Who hired you?” he growled.
“She said her name was Marta.”
“Last name?”
“Didn’t give one. She said she didn’t want to divulge too much personal information. That she had her pride.”
“You accepted that?”
Val shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “She was embarrassed that her fiance, who she said was you, was cheating on her, said it was painful enough to hire a stranger to find out the truth, and that someday—you know, in the future—she didn’t want me to know her sad, humiliating secret if I ever were to chance upon her name or see her in public.”
His dark eyebrows pressed together. “She said all that?”
“I’m paraphrasing.”
“Private investigators deal in facts, not paraphrasing.” He looked at Jayne. “Her accent is also a detriment. She could never work undercover.”
The bastard. Trashing her ability to be a private investigator!
“Not fair,” she blurted. “You have no right—”
“Val,” Jayne said, “please answer his questions without commentary.”
Seeing the do-as-I-say look on her boss’s face, Val clamped her lips shut.
Maybe he wasn’t playing fair, but Jayne was trying. Val could tell she was listening, trying to understand what happened. If Jayne had blindly believed everything Drake said, she would have fired Val by now.
Take her lead. Stay grounded, don’t rush forward.
“She identified me as her fiance,” Drake said to Val.
“Yes.”
“I’m not.”
She gave a noncommittal shrug.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“The way you carried on last night, sucking my fingers, laying a track of kisses all along my inner arm…other things…I had a hard time believing you belonged to anybody else.”
“That
’s enough,” Drake barked.
“You asked the question,” Jayne murmured, a smile playing on her lips.
His scowl deepened. “Did she tell you my name?”
“Just your first name.”
“Because she had her pride?” When Val nodded, he peeled himself off the wall and took a step toward her. “And you bought that bunch of crap?”
“Didn’t know it was crap at the time, but yes.”
“What else did she tell you?”
Mercy, he was relentless. “That friends of hers said you were cheating on her, and she wanted to know if that was true.”
He was walking toward her, closing the space between them.
“Their names?”
“She didn’t say.”
“Did you see the car she drove?”
She thought back to sitting at the desk, facing Marta. “No.”
“You didn’t look?”
He was crowding her, intimidating her, but no way would she budge. She inched up her face, her nose nearly touching his shirt that reeked of smoke.
She inhaled a sharp breath. “No.”
“I take it she paid you in cash.”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
She was glad he blocked her view of Jayne. “Two thousand.”
He shoved his face closer. “Had you ever spoken to Marta before?”
“No.”
“Ever seen her before? Around your home, this agency, anywhere else?”
“No, never.” Val eased back a step, needing some distance from his intensity.
“She has a Russian accent?”
How did he know? “Yes, a thick one.”
“Anything else unusual about her?”
“She…wore designer clothes, although they could have been rip-offs.” She wanted to sit down, but the last thing she wanted to give him was a psychological advantage. “Her perfume smelled like strawberries. And she wore a large diamond ring.”
He flinched, almost imperceptibly, but this close, Val caught it.
“Where did she tell you I would be?”
“At Topaz, the strip club, probably around eight or eight-thirty.”
“And you surveilled me there?”
Val nodded. “Didn’t see your truck, so I drove around the block and found it parked at the appliance store.”
Sleepless in Las Vegas Page 7