Sleepless in Las Vegas. Colleen Collins

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СКАЧАТЬ click. “Need to take my dog to the vet hospital.”

      “Saw the firefighters bring him around. Glad the tyke’s okay.” He followed Drake as he walked to the driver’s door. “You’re a private investigator, correct?”

      “Yes.”

      “Then you understand the importance of my asking questions right now.”

      “I understand.” He yanked open the door. With any crime, the faster you gathered data, the faster you were on the trail. “But as I said, I’m on my way to the hospital.”

      “Was anyone else in your house when you left tonight?”

      “I already told dispatch there was no one.”

      “Did you accidentally leave the stove on? Any faulty electrical apparatus that you were aware of?”

      Drake climbed in, slammed the door and glared at him through the open window. “Tony—that’s your name, right?—I promise to cooperate with your investigation, but now is not the time.” He held out his hand. “Give me your card, I’ll call you.”

      Tony handed over a card. “Are you aware of anyone who might wish to harm you?”

      “No.”

      After checking Hearsay one more time, he shoved the key into the ignition. As Drake drove off, he heard Tony yell something about calling tomorrow.

      Heading down the road, he called the vet hospital and made arrangements for Hearsay’s emergency care. Afterward, one hand resting on his dog, reassured by the steady rise and fall of his pet’s chest, he thought about the lie he had told to the arson investigator. No, he didn’t know anyone who wished to harm him.

      It wasn’t so much that Yuri wanted to harm him—more like he wanted to leave his calling card, a violent, fiery one meant to intimidate. Which told him the Russian knew Drake had been tailing him.

      How? He had taken extra care to park his pickup in secluded areas, always used covert and long-range cameras. In the nearly six years he’d been a P.I., only once had he been caught surveilling someone, but not because he got sloppy. In that case, his client, during a phone call yelling match with his almost ex-wife, had informed her he’d hired a P.I. to surveil her that very day. After that, Drake had never shared his investigation schedule with clients.

      No, Yuri must have heard from one of the employees at Topaz that Drake was sniffing around the club, asking too many questions. If Yuri had nothing to hide, he wouldn’t have cared.

      But his savage reaction showed the depth of his paranoia. He was afraid Drake might have documented something incriminating. Something the police would find of interest.

      Drake had a good idea what had happened tonight. Before setting the fire, Yuri, and probably one or two of his boys, had ransacked the office, snatching cameras, the laptop, recorders. Hearsay, hackles bristling, had barked at the intruders. But it hadn’t taken long for the dog’s street smarts to kick in, sense that retreat meant survival, so he’d withdrawn to his spot under the kitchen table.

      The men hadn’t bothered with the dog after that—they had work to do.

      Yuri and his stupid cretins. No concept that images could be saved in places other than physical devices. Idiots probably thought “the cloud” was something in the sky, not a remote storage option.

      After gathering equipment, they’d drenched his office in gasoline. Considering how rapidly the fire spread through that part of the house, they must have also splashed gasoline down the hall and into the bedroom, too. Then torched the place.

      With the dog still inside.

      His fingers dug into the steering wheel. That son of a bitch would pay dearly for what he did tonight. And Drake would do it personally, not hand over the meting of justice to some arson investigator.

      Sure, he could have leaked Yuri’s name to Tony Cordova, who would have tracked the bastard down tonight for an interview. The Russian would have had an alibi, of course, along with a string of witnesses who’d back up his story. Plus, with Drake siccing government dogs on him, Yuri would go into hiding, and Drake’s personal investigation would grind to a halt. Any hopes of digging for more dirt, or ever getting back the ring, would be crushed.

      Then there was Brax.

      His brother felt above the law, but arson? He wasn’t that dirty. But if Drake offered up Yuri to arson investigators, trails could lead to his brother. And if they didn’t, Yuri would ensure sure they did.

      A form materialized in Drake’s mind. That woman. Who Dat. Had she been a player in this arson? Paid to keep Drake busy, give Yuri and his goons time to do their job? His gut said yes. Just like the Mississippi River that ran through her city of New Orleans, she was twisting, swift and treacherous.

      She had never been to Dino’s, a dive bar in a lousy neighborhood, yet she showed up tonight, out of the blue. Made a straight line for him, too, and even after he’d shunned her, she didn’t budge. Stayed perched on that stool like some kind of tufted bird of prey, waiting for an opportunity to sink in her talons.

      He’d walked out of that bar knowing she was trouble, but had given in to the night, the heat.

      He clenched his teeth. And for those few hot, heady minutes, his home had been destroyed. Hearsay nearly killed.

      Just as Yuri would pay for what he had done tonight, so would she.

      By morning, he would know her name, age, address, where she hung out, where she worked. And he would pay her a visit.

      The kind of visit a person remembered for the rest of her life.

      * * *

      AT TEN-FORTY, Val walked through the door of her second cousins’ Char and Del Jackson’s home, carrying a paper bag from Aloha Kitchen.

      Their home was a hodgepodge of secondhand furniture, along with some everyday objects Char, with Del’s handyman help, had remade into furnishings. Stacked crates had become a bookcase in the living room, and a polished wooden wire spool now served as a small table on the patio. Val’s favorite was an old trunk they had recycled into a wine rack. “It’s not about what God took away,” Char liked to say, “but what we do with what’s left.”

      To Val, that said everything about their being survivors of Katrina. Char and Del had visited her and Nanny, Del’s cousin, several times when Val was a child, but they had lost touch over the years. Right before Katrina, they had moved to Gulfport, Mississippi, an area also ravaged during the storm, during which they’d lost their home along with Del’s job as a truck driver.

      Six years and a relocation later, they owned the Gumbo Stop, which they’d grown from a concession trailer to a store that offered creole cuisine in boil-in-a-bag portions. After locating Val, they’d asked her to come to Las Vegas to live with them and their daughter, twenty-one-year-old Jasmyn.

      Who was curled up on the couch in her pink capri pajamas, patterned with the word Paris in a flowery script along with miniature Eiffel Towers. She called them her Je rêve—French for “I dream”—jammies because her overriding desire was to live in Paris. Her parents accepted their daughter’s dream to live in the romantic city, but weren’t so thrilled about her wanting to work there as СКАЧАТЬ