Sleepless in Las Vegas. Colleen Collins

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СКАЧАТЬ largest tacky emporium, but it had been one of his favorite hangouts as a kid.

      He remembered a long-ago birthday gift, a dice clock, he’d bought for his dad there. Each hour had glued-on dice, their dots representing that number. “Snake eyes” for two o’clock, “little Joe” for four, “six five, no jive” for eleven. Over his mom’s protests, his dad had proudly hung it in the living room, over the TV. After a while, he and his dad started telling time by dice slang. “Billy’s coming over at Nina from Pasadena” meant Billy would arrive at nine. “He wants you to call at puppy paws” meant call him at ten.

      Years later, after the old man died, Drake asked for the clock, but his mom refused, playing on dice slang by answering, “Six five, no jive.”

      His dad would have gotten a kick out of that.

      He blinked at the streams of red lights ahead, swallowed feelings he didn’t want to recognize.

      Damn it to hell. He wished he had never met Val, if that was even her name. Wished he’d never heard about those damn pulsations. Like his dad would send such a message through a total stranger, especially one dressed as though she shopped at Army Surplus for Hookers.

      Whatever her scheme, he was one up on it. When she pulled out her cell, he’d memorized the caller ID. He’d run it through some proprietary databases and by the time his head hit the pillow he’d know more about Miss Who Dat than her own mama ever did.

      The phone vibrated against his thigh. He checked the caller ID. Las Vegas area code, but he didn’t recognize the number. Without moving the phone, he punched Answer, then Speaker.

      “Morgan Investigations,” he answered, raising his voice to be heard.

      “Drake Morgan?” A woman’s voice.

      “Yes.”

      “Sir, I’m a dispatcher, Clark County emergency call center, and are you the Drake Morgan who resides at...”

      As the dispatcher recited his address, the hairs bristled on the back of his neck. “That’s correct.”

      “I don’t want to alarm you, but I need to advise that your home is being worked on by several Clark County fire units—”

      “Are you saying...my house is on fire?”

      “Yes, sir—”

      Adrenaline jacked his pulse. “I’m on my way.”

      “The firefighters are doing their best, and what they need most is for you to remain calm when you arrive—”

      “My dog is inside!”

      “Anyone else?”

      “No.” He gripped the wheel with shaking hands. “My dog likes to sleep under the kitchen table!”

      Spring Mountain Road, the main artery to his street, was ahead. As he shifted to check traffic, the phone slipped and clattered onto the floorboard.

      “Look under the kitchen table!” he yelled, flipping the turn signal. “I’m on my way there!”

      Pumping the horn, he shot through an opening in traffic, straight through to the far lane. A horn blasted. He jerked the wheel left, barely missing an Audi wagon, before he wrestled a turn onto Spring Mountain.

      “Check the kitchen,” he shouted again, jamming his foot on the gas pedal, “under the table!”

      * * *

      TEN OR SO minutes later—although it felt like hours, a lifetime—he slammed the pickup to a stop across the street from his house, his stomach lurching as he saw the gray-white smoke billowing to the sky, its core pulsing orange and red. Monstrous flames shot twenty, thirty feet from the roof. The wooden structure resembled an oversize pile of kindling.

      Jumping out, he jogged across the street and around one of several fire trucks. Three or four police officers stood on the periphery of the property, keeping neighbors at bay. Several firefighters handled a hose, pointing its gushing stream of water at the flames. Others worked another hose, aimed at the roof of the neighboring house.

      He headed up the driveway.

      “Hey, buddy, you can’t go in there!”

      “Chuck, stop that guy!”

      A firefighter, his mask pulled off his face, blocked Drake’s path.

      “My dog’s in there, damn it!” He tried to shove past, eyeing the crackling flames that licked at the side of the house. His office.

      “Stop!” A second firefighter, his face gleaming with sweat, grabbed Drake’s arm. “Calm down or I’ll call those cops over to drag your butt to jail.”

      The heat radiating off the fire was intense. Sucking in a breath that tasted like soot, Drake glanced at the name on the firefighter’s helmet. “Captain Dietrich, I’m Drake Morgan and I live here. My dog’s inside.”

      “I know. Heard it from dispatch.” He looked over his shoulder and yelled, “I said, step on it!” Turning to Drake, he continued, “Sorry, but I can’t have you doing something stupid like trying to go inside. We got enough on our hands fighting the fire, looking for the dog. Can’t be trying to save you, too.”

      “I won’t fight you.” Drake swiped at his brow. “My dog—”

      “Two guys made an attempt to go inside, but I had to pull them back after a wall collapsed.”

      His heart jammed in his throat. “Where?”

      Dietrich jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “East side of house. Looked like an office. According to neighbors, that’s where the house first exploded in flames. Did you store flammable chemicals, other petroleum distillates, there or anywhere else?”

      “Absolutely not.” A small relief sifted through Drake’s fear. The office was the farthest from the kitchen. “I think my dog is in the kitchen.”

      “Where is it?”

      “Back northwest corner.”

      Dietrich stared at the front door, smoke swirling out the opening.

      “It’s a clear shot,” Drake said, “thirty feet diagonal, from the door. Table is against the west wall. Hearsay—that’s his name—likes to lie under it.”

      Dietrich pointed at Chuck. “Got that? Back northwest corner? Look under kitchen table for the dog. You and Ross are going in.”

      Chuck pulled up his mask as Dietrich strode to a truck, gesturing and talking to several firefighters.

      Drake watched Chuck and Ross, air tanks strapped to their backs, enter and disappear into the smoke.

      “Hang in there, buddy,” he said under his breath, “they’re almost there.”

      When the mutt—who looked to be part whippet, part retriever—showed up at Drake’s house a year ago, he’d ignored it, figuring it would meander back СКАЧАТЬ