Sin on the Strip (2 page)

The woman glanced around as if unaware they'd left the building. Color slowly swept into a complexion his grandmother would have called peaches and cream. “Like fine antique porcelain,” she'd have said, and for the first time in his life, he understood what she'd meant.

Raising a hand to her brow, she shielded her eyes from the blinding sun and squinted in his direction. After several seconds, he realized he was staring, something Grandmother would have frowned on. Damn,
this
was Maggie Anderson? Christian had expected a middle-aged, bottle-bleached blonde with too much lip liner and implants. Not Pollyanna in heels. But he'd hardly call her a friend of the deceased. She was one in a long line of people who made money off these women.

Shit, something wasn't right. The few women he'd known who'd survived to manage a strip joint had been ex-strippers. What the hell was her story?

Cooper finished the introductions. “This is Christian Beck, an acquaintance of the department.”

“Ma'am.” Christian offered his hand. She hesitated a moment before taking it. She had a firm grip for a woman. Her nails were manicured and polished clear. They weren't the gaudy talons he'd imagined. He mentally kicked himself for making a rookie mistake—never fall victim to the expected. “I'd like to ask you some questions, if you don't mind?” He kept his tone even, friendly.

“Are you a detective?” she asked.

“No, ma'am, private investigator.” The muscles in his back twitched, his shirt beginning to cling to his damp spine. Noticing she still blocked her face from the sun, he said, “Why don't we go somewhere else, less bright?” Marring that delicate skin with a sunburn would be a sin.

“I don't talk to PIs.” She glared at Cooper, a spark of panic in her eyes. “Horace?”

“I won't keep you long,” Christian offered, curious what had made her suddenly nervous. Like it or not, he needed her cooperation to find the missing pieces. Regardless of what the feds thought, this
was
the killer he'd spent his screwed-up childhood wishing dead, and most of his career trying to make sure that happened. Yes, twenty-five years was a long time, and professionally he had to admit there was a slight chance he was wrong. But his gut told him the MOs were too alike to be coincidental. Something had put this scum on hiatus, but he was back.

“Don't worry,” the lieutenant replied, squeezing her hand. “It's not what you think.”

What exactly had gotten her panties all knotted up?

“He works for ICU,” explained Cooper. “Look, let's all go to the coffee shop down the street.”

The public knew Ryan Sheppard's Investigative Collection Unit as an elite organization for hire for those with money. Sheppard's private investigators were some of the best in the country, if not the world. The public also knew Sheppard as an entrepreneur and playboy jet setter. What they didn't know could fill a wing in the New York Public Library.

She didn't look happy but walked with Cooper to her car.

“Well, well,” he muttered. Why did it surprise him to find out Pollyanna drove an Alfa Romeo Deutto? It seemed running a strip club paid well. Was there more behind Ms. Anderson and Heart's Desire than a run-of-the-mill club? Glancing over at the sweet red sports car, he figured much, much more.

 

Maggie clutched the steering wheel, her heart at last beating an even cadence. Why would a private investigator want to talk to her?

Horace knew investigators made her nervous. She should have asked more questions, instead of freaking out. Who hired him? Did he know who she was? Her attention had to stay focused on Heather's death and her responsibility to the other women. His snooping was an unwelcome distraction.

The first to arrive at the coffee shop, she waited for Horace. Mr. Beck had caught the red light, so time was short. “Talk. Who is this guy?”

“I don't have all the details, but the captain believes he can be a benefit to this case. As long as he doesn't break the law, I have to play nice,” he said, gritting his teeth. “Besides,” he admitted, “ICU is a top-notch agency with offices all over the world. They've been able to do what others couldn't.”

She guessed they were too expensive for Joe Shmoe. “That means someone who wanted her cheating husband followed, taped and put on television wouldn't hire them?”

“Right,” he said, failing to hide a grin. “As far as I know, your father doesn't figure into this. I'll let Beck explain the rest. Let's go inside.”

So no one was using her to get to her father? Tarnishing his reputation would be big news that would sell a lot of papers. And ruin all her efforts at the club. She'd be a magnet for wannabe starlets, women who would use the publicity Heart's Desire would draw to get their names in the paper, not girls who needed her help.

Through the large store window, she saw the PI park his Nissan Maxima. Horace showed her to an oversized armchair in a secluded corner, then headed for the front counter. Mr. Beck strode in just as Horace passed her the paper coffee cup, one she almost dropped when she got her first good look at the man.

At the coroner's office, the sun had all but blinded her. She'd seen the tall silhouette of an athletic man. Her fried, overloaded brain hadn't registered how attractive he really was. His expensive suit and the way it draped his leanly muscled body said he worked out. But the surfer-boy tan and an unshaven face contradicted the straight-laced façade. Wavy hair the color of melted chocolate tapered down his neck and over the collar of a white shirt. Most of the men she'd hired in the club had had their noses broken at one time or another. She liked that. It made them look tougher, meaner, better to toss someone out for not following her rules. But this guy's was straight, fitting perfectly with his knee-knocking, dark brown eyes. That, however, didn't make him look any less dangerous. There was an edge to him, like looking at a shiny, new butcher's knife, knowing if you didn't handle it right, it would slice you.

If this were a bar, her girlfriends would be vying for a piece of him, betting on who got to kiss those Brad Pitt lips first. But this wasn't a bar. Hotness aside, his don't-screw-with-me expression, played up by frowning dark eyebrows, screamed trouble. Maggie tried not to squirm under the narrow-eyed intensity of his gaze.

“Sit, Mr. Beck.” Horace motioned to a chair on the left of Maggie, placing the coffee he'd sprung for on the small table between them.

As Mr. Beck set the manila envelope he'd been holding on the table, she got a whiff of something sweet. Chocolate? She sniffed to be sure, but the scent had faded. Maggie tipped her head in his direction. He returned her perusal, making her cross her legs to avoid fidgeting.

Okay, if, and that was an
if
she wasn't a hundred percent willing to part with, but
if
he wasn't out to ruin her father, what did he want? “So, how are you involved in this case?” Having had some time to think about it, she added, “Who hired a private investigator? Heather was killed last night, and she didn't have family.” None who'd want to find her.

The two men regarded each other as if they knew something she didn't and were reluctant to let her in on the secret. She didn't like it.

“Ms. Anderson, I work for a company called ICU—”

“Yes, I know.”

“Patience, Ms. Anderson.” He reached for the envelope, pulled out a newspaper clipping and handed it to her.

Not appreciating his tone, she snatched the article out of his hand and read. The police didn't have many clues and were asking for assistance in the strangulation of a twenty-year-old woman found nude in the bathroom of a motel. They suspected prostitution, but couldn't confirm it. Not much else was written.

She hadn't caught this piece in the paper. Reading these kinds of stories grew increasingly more disturbing. Still, it wasn't like her to have missed it. As hard as it was to swallow, if a girl was killed on the streets, Maggie wanted to know the circumstances. Knowledge was power, power the women could take back. She also kept her eyes and ears open for reports about missing runaways or news such as this. Then she reread the article, noticing it was dated six weeks ago from a Sacramento newspaper.

Deep furrows etched Horace's forehead, his lips drawn in a tight line. It didn't take long to make the connection. “This case and Heather's. . . they're related?”

Horace shrugged. “The department, the FBI, and Mr. Beck here all believe so.”

It appeared drugs, abuse, and desperation weren't enough hurdles for these girls. A murderer had to be added to the bullshit life dealt them?

Two girls, one murderer?

“M
aggie, you okay?” Lieutenant Cooper touched her arm. Christian watched them carefully. Just what kind of connection did the lieutenant and the lady have?

She handed the article back to Christian and crossed her legs and arms with an uneasy sigh. “Please tell me what's going on.”

He chose his next words carefully, revealing only what she needed to know, what was useful for him to get her on board. “The other victim was Sammy Wise, but she was born Samantha Wiseman.” He waited for a moment to see if she'd recognize the name of her former employee. She didn't. “Mr. Wiseman hired me to find his runaway daughter.”

Her eyes widened as she angled in her chair to face him. She leaned in, one delicate hand clutching his armrest, the other draped over her knee.

“She was a runaway?”

Her visceral response threw him. “Yes.” Why did she care if the girl had been a runaway?

“How do you know? I mean, what ties these—” Taking a moment, she noticed where her hand had shot to. She released her grip on his chair and sat back. “How are these cases related? The other girl was killed in Sacramento. Serial killers don't travel, do they?” She glanced at a stone-faced Cooper, waiting for an answer.

Cooper opened his mouth, but Christian cut him off before the lieutenant did exactly what the feds had asked him not to do, and maybe ruined his chance to catch this bastard. “The women were found in a bathtub. That's the connection.” It was the truth, just not all of it. They'd been raped, marked, and then drowned. Just like his sister.

Regardless of her less than ethical way of making a living, the woman exuded class. From her small pearl earrings to her stylish clothes and expensive shoes, Maggie Anderson knew how to present herself. Not exactly the gruff, cigar-smoking slimes he'd worked with in the past. But that didn't mean he could trust her. She wasn't exactly a femme fatale, but he'd bet his boss's Beamer that Lizzie Borden's parents never saw the ax coming.

After some consideration, her frown lessened, only to reemerge. She focused on Christian, and for a moment he lost himself in the undertow of her blue eyes. Damn, had he thought she was pretty? She was beautiful. What the hell was she doing working in a strip club?

“You were hired to find the girl, but she was killed. Not to be harsh, but that would end your involvement on the case,” she said, putting him on the defensive.

If she meant that he'd screwed up, he didn't appreciate the reminder. “I wasn't given much to go on; an old picture and her name, one she changed often. She had a habit of never staying in the same town for long. When I was hired, she'd been missing four years. Now her father wants his daughter's murderer caught.” And dealt with.

Whatever had occurred between father and daughter, it had been enough for Samantha Wiseman to take off at sixteen, just like Christian's sister. It's what prompted him to take the case. He'd gotten close a couple of times, but suspected she knew Daddy was looking for her and, well, she didn't want to be found. Usually Christian went after women who desperately wanted the opposite.

“Fine,” she said, when plainly it wasn't. “What makes you think,” she cleared her throat, “that one guy did this? And how can I help? I didn't know the other victim.”

She was lying. But for now, he had to consider how much he dared trust her with. “There are similarities, though nothing is certain.” And in case she was going to persist, he added, “That's all you need to know.”

She narrowed her gaze and the first impression he'd had of her, the “girl you brought home to mother,” was eaten alive. This was a woman who took no shit, a viper who just might suck you dry and not in a pleasant sort of way. Harsh? Maybe, but she ran a strip club, not a Girl Scout troop.

“Beck,” the lieutenant warned, “I wouldn't—”

“Heather was my friend. If you're keeping something from me, something vital—” She stood and loomed over him. “You'll regret it.”

“Okay,” Cooper intervened. “End of interview.”

 

Christian was still shaking his head as he searched for a parking spot at La Vida Towers. He had to give it to her—the woman had guts. And a part of him, the part he'd never admit to anyone, let alone one of the female persuasion, hated that in a woman. He liked women who could take care of themselves. He did. In fact, he preferred the independent type, for professional and selfish reasons. But the two women who had mattered most to him, his sister and his mother, both bullheaded, both gutsy, had left him. One was in a catatonic state at Brookhaven, the other, raped and left for dead, the police convinced she'd been turning tricks to feed herself. And then, of course, there were the women he'd been hired to find. So yeah, he had an aversion to women who thought themselves fearless. Young women like Samantha Wiseman.

Sheppard had put him on the Wiseman case as a favor to Christian. Who would have thought he'd still be on it, a year after her death? He hadn't exactly lied to Ms. Anderson. Samantha Wiseman was a victim linked to his serial killer. After twenty-five years of nothing, this killer had struck again, and she'd had the misfortune of being the first to renew his killing spree. However, the article he'd shown Ms. Anderson wasn't about Ms. Wiseman, but the sixth victim.

He tore off the noose cutting into his windpipe and tossed it on the passenger seat, then got out of the car. The Vegas office was one of the company's most lucrative divisions and had recently moved to this new three-story building. Even before entering, one couldn't help but notice Sheppard's unique tastes. The man had a talent for spending money . . . and making it.

Tall windows of bronze-colored glass spanned the height of the building, blinding you. Inside, you'd think you'd taken a wrong turn and walked into the tropical indoor garden at the Mirage rather than a detective agency. The over-the-top entrance had a dual purpose. It set the agency apart from those that handled less affluent clients, and it masked the covert office and labs two stories below.

The lobby housed a twenty-foot waterfall that cascaded into a pool, complete with water lilies, frogs and turtles. Knowing Sheppard, Christian wouldn't be surprised to find an alligator swimming below. His boss kept three at his home in New Orleans.

Though it was cooler inside, Christian was glad he'd stripped off the tie.

He headed toward the elevator. Then, rolling his shoulders, he decided on the stairs. The flight had been uncomfortable and Sheppard's call had cut Christian's trip to the gym. He wanted a workout and a nap. While used to little or no sleep, he'd been up since 2:00
AM
, New York time. He needed to let off steam and then crash.

In front of Blake's office, a slender blonde typed away at her desk. He hid a smile. Leave it to his friend to hire a knockout. “Hello. I'm here to see Mr. Ramsay.”

She stopped working and looked up. The conservative gray suit she wore did little to hide a very well-endowed chest. Didn't do a thing for him. He preferred legs, and the last great pair of legs he'd seen had threatened to tear him a new one.

Shrewd green eyes politely assessed him. “Are you Mr. Beck?”

“Yes.”

“Go ahead. He's expecting you.”

Not bothering to knock, he walked into the office. “Blake?”

The stern Scot behind the mahogany desk raised an eyebrow. “Here I thought Southerners were polite. Could you at least knock?”

Christian turned, went back out the door and knocked, twice.

“Come in.”

This time he made sure to exaggerate his step over the royal threshold. “Get over yourself, you stupid fuck.”

“Astounding, maybe. Mind-blowing, definitely. Stupid? Hardly.” Blake rose from behind his desk. Coming around, he slapped Christian on the arm, then gave him an eye-bulging bear hug that lifted him clear off the floor.

“Ah, real professional,” Christian managed to choke out.

Blake released him and clapped his shoulder. “How's New York?” he asked, taking a seat on the edge of his desk.

“Boring without you,” he said rubbing his chest. “Come to think of it, though, there are a lot more single women.” He eyed his friend's hair. “Guess you're still doing undercover?”

Blake ran a hand through thick, almost platinum waves. “What makes you say that?”

“The hair.” Christian chuckled. “You colored it.”

“Shut yer yap. Had to, new assignment. Sometimes I could kill Sheppard,” he said, his teeth clenched. “It's like he never forgets.”

Christian waited for him to continue, eager to hear what embarrassing undercover shit Sheppard was subjecting Blake to and more than happy it wasn't him.

“I'm not saying a word. Ye're going to laugh.”

“I'm already laughing.” Christian could barely contain himself, and the surly expression on his friend's face wasn't helping matters.

Early in their careers with the FBI, he and Blake had done undercover work that no self-respecting agent would ever have willingly agreed to. It was how they'd met. Not one of Christian's finest moments, but together they'd put a stop to a human trafficking operation. He'd have sold his soul to shut the flesh peddlers down. That case had drawn the attention of Ryan Sheppard.

“So,” Christian snorted. “Are you going to tell me?” he managed to ask, his stomach muscles contracting with restrained laughter.

“No.” End of discussion.

Blake leaned back over his desk, opened a drawer and pulled out a large manila envelope. He motioned for Christian to have a seat in the leather wingback behind him and handed him the envelope. “Why so interested in the Anderson woman? Is she a suspect?”

“Not unless she's working with someone else. The victims have all been raped. I may not care for the woman, but my gut tells me she doesn't fit the profile.”

“And you still thinking this is the same guy that killed your sister?”

“You too?” He could sort of understand the feds. They'd considered connecting the files, but the cold cases Christian had brought them were just that, too cold and too poorly investigated to be of any help now.

“Nah,” Blake assured him. “Your instincts pulled my arse out of the fire on more than one occasion. If your Spidey senses are telling you this guy has crawled out of whatever hole he was hiding in to kill again, I believe you.”

Blake always had his back, and for that Christian was grateful. His friend had saved his “arse” too. “The feds have connected six victims, now seven with Heather Mackenzie. He rapes them, then drowns them in a bathtub.” Just like his sister, “The slashes he leaves on their necks are done post-mortem. If I'm right, more can be tracked.”

Blake crossed his arms, lifting one eyebrow. “Care to share?”

“Girls like this disappear, no one reports them gone, no one misses them.” Except for his client, the only people to come forward and claim the bodies had been crack-head drug buddies or roommates wanting their piece of the rent. “Shannon Joyce, the listed owner of Heart's Desire. She's the connection, or at least the clubs are. All six worked there at one time or another. That includes Samantha Wiseman. They did a stint and moved on, only to end up dead sometime later. There were other clubs in common with the other victims—except Heather Mackenzie. She hadn't worked for anyone else. And this is the first victim who was still working at this club.

“I've got a team working on it, and by now the feds have pulled the employee files from the club. We'll see who of Ms. Joyce's former employees have gone missing.”

“Damn. I take it you haven't said anything to Maggie?”

“Maggie? On a first name basis, are we?”
What was up with that?

Blake grabbed a seat behind his desk. “I've met clients at her place. You know, kept up the pretense of being a posh investigator. Her clubs are classy, her patrons some wealthy men.”

“But she's not the owner.”

“Read the file. Miss Anderson has been given complete control, including the one in Reno. The clubs are clean, no backroom prostitution, not even where it's legal.”

“You make her sound like a pillar of the community. Hell, Blake, it's a strip club.” Years of being waist deep in the sex trade had taught Christian one thing. Status quo was never status quo. Shit always went from bad to worse. “Nine out of ten times you find drugs, or worse. Ms. Anderson is simply really good at hiding it. She must have some sweet deal.” Why else would Pollyanna run a strip club?

Users like her had gotten his sister killed. He'd been ten when they got the news, remembered it like yesterday. His mother's scream haunted him to this day. She'd blamed herself, and rightfully so. It was the only thing he and the woman still shared, that blame, that God-awful blame.

He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the beginnings of another tension headache creep its way into his skull and behind his eyes. “Damn migraines. Do you have an aspirin?”

“I sent Elaine out for a bottle when I got your call.” Blake opened his bottom drawer and pulled out one of those pliable stress-balls and a couple of aspirin that he passed to Christian. With his free hand, he poured a glass of ice water from the pitcher on the desk and slid it toward him.

“Look, mate, Maggie's not what you think. If anyone so much as touches one of her dancers, their arse is hauled to the curb, no questions asked.”

That didn't mean she was on the up and up. “You said so yourself: The clubs are a huge success. Why?”

“She caters mostly to wealthy businessmen, those who can afford expensive drinks. She charges a cover but offers a discount for members. It may not be the Playboy club, but it comes close. There's a conference room on the second floor for meetings, and then they can come down for some lunchtime entertainment. Those who need to can tell their wives they're conducting business. But most of her clients don't pander to their significant others. And the joint is classy.”