LITMIR.BIZ

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had ruined their evening. Others were guests at the Sun, and some of them would be heading up to their rooms, shaken by tonight’s events.

      Tanner Green had been no angel. He was known around Vegas. He had a record. And no matter what Cheever did that night, the killer was long gone. Even Cheever himself had to know that. He was just covering his ass, going through the motions.

      Cheever suddenly called his name again. “Wolf!”

      Dillon paused and waited.

      “I mean it. Eight o’clock.”

      Dillon tried not to laugh. Cheever always liked having the last word. It gave him a feeling of control.

      Dillon turned again and made his way back around the closed-off gaming tables. Dr. Tarleton was still standing by the body with a member of the forensics unit, looking for trace evidence. Dillon paused for a moment, waiting. Watching.

      Feeling the room.

      But nothing came to him. He paused for a moment longer, then proceeded to the area where Jessy Sparhawk was waiting. He pulled out his investigator’s license again, in case the officers on crowd control didn’t know him. “Ms. Sparhawk has been cleared,” he said quietly to the one standing with his arms crossed over his chest, blocking the exit.

      The man nodded, recognizing Dillon and barely glancing at his ID.

      Dillon took Jessy’s arm and led her out the door. She didn’t protest; she readily hurried along at his side.

      Once out the door—where police cars were as thick now as ants on a hill at the grand entryway—she let out a sigh of relief. “Thanks. Thanks so much. A P.I., huh? Well, I’m glad you’re friends with that lieutenant.”

      “Not exactly friends,” Dillon murmured.

      They kept walking until they reached Las Vegas Boulevard, where another crowd had gathered on the sidewalk, everyone staring at the action and speculating.

      When his cell phone started to ring, he wasn’t surprised. In fact, he was surprised it hadn’t done so earlier.

      “Excuse me,” he said to Jessy, then answered the phone. “Wolf.”

      Emil Landon’s voice came through clearly, and hard with agitation. “I’ve just heard Tanner Green is dead. Dead. Murdered. Knifed in the back.”

      “Yes, I was in the casino when it happened.”

      “Did you see—”

      “No. I didn’t even know he’d come in.”

      “You should have known, damn you.”

      “Excuse me?”

      “I need to see you. Now.”

      “As soon as possible.”

      “He was a bodyguard on my payroll. And he’s dead. I want to see you now.”

      “As soon as possible,” Dillon repeated steadily.

      “I can fire you, Wolf.”

      “Feel free.”

      Immediately Landon backed down. “Just get here as soon as you can. I told you I was in danger.”

      Dillon closed his phone. Jessy was looking away, courteously pretending she hadn’t been privy to his conversation. “I’m sorry. You must be busy, and I have to get home.”

      “Where’s your car, then? I’ll walk you to it.”

      “I didn’t drive tonight,” she said. She flushed. “I had a business appointment, and I thought I might be stopping somewhere on the way home, so I decided not to drive. I, uh, I don’t drink and drive.”

      “I didn’t see you drinking.”

      “I wasn’t, but I might have been. Long story. Anyway, I’m sorry, but I really do have to get home now.”

      “I’ll take you. My car is just down the Strip.”

      “No, no, really. I’m in a hurry, and it’s easier just to hail a cab. But thank you. Thank you so much.”

      What the hell could he do? Insist? He didn’t have the right.

      “You could be in danger,” he said. What a crock.

      She smiled, knowing it was a line.

      “Thanks. I’ll be okay.”

      He kept his gaze locked on the crystalline blue of her eyes as he reached into his pocket for his card. “Please, call me if you need anything.”

      She smiled without glancing at it. “Wolf. Ute?” she asked. “Local tribe? Distant tribe? Hell, Erie? Cherokee? Apache?”

      He grinned. “Paiute,” he informed her, then offered her an awkward grin. “All right, so…Sparhawk? Ute, Apache, Nez Perce—stage name?”

      “Lakota Sioux, my great-great-grandfather. I’m a real all-American mix,” she replied, sounding amused. They stared at each other for another moment. Then she awkwardly took a step away. “I really have to go. Thank you again.” She hesitated. “You knew him?”

      He nodded.

      “I’m sorry.”

      “I’m always sorry if a man is dead. But he wasn’t a close friend.”

      “Oh.”

      He frowned. “You didn’t cash in your chips, did you? No time, I guess. I forgot about them in the mass confusion.”

      She shook her head. “So did I. I have them, though. I can cash them tomorrow.”

      “Those chips represent a lot of money. You could be mugged,” he told her.

      She laughed. “A cabdriver isn’t going to know about my chips,” she assured him. “I’m okay, honestly. I’m a big girl. I grew up out here. I carry pepper spray. I’ll be all right. I promise.”

      He saw a taxi. He wondered about the grandfather she had mentioned. Was he ill and waiting for her?

      Dillon stepped out to the curb and whistled, flagging down the approaching cab. He saw her into it and waved goodbye. There was nothing else to do.

      He frowned, watching the cab as it pulled away. There was a strange shadow next to her, almost as if there was a second person in the seat beside her.

      His muscles knotted with tension. The cab passed under a streetlight, and he could see that there was only one person in the backseat. She was alone.

      So why was he still so uneasy? he wondered as he watched the cab disappear down the street.

      2

      She should have driven herself, but she’d known that she was likely to have a bad time out at the home, and that she might stop to have a few drinks on her way home, try to console herself with a pity party and take a little time figuring out her life.

      The cab seemed very slow.

      She was tense with anxiety by the time the driver pulled up in front of her home in Henderson, and she nearly fell over her own feet in her hurry to get out and reach the house.

      “Sandra?” She was calling her friend’s name even as she turned the key in the lock. As the door opened, Sandra heard her and came rushing from the back of the house to meet her at the front door.

      She was a pretty woman in her mid-thirties and had once been a showgirl, but now she wrote novels for young adults, having found a way to mine her own youthful angst for profit. She also had a sixteen-year-old daughter, born when she was very young herself, and Reggie gave her an even greater insight into the teenage mind.

      Sandra Nelson was a good friend. Many people would have shied away from watching Timothy when he was visiting Jessy and she had to go out. Not Sandra. She considered it an easy gig and said

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