Royal Flush (29 page)

No one had noticed, everyone transfixed by the commanding water show and numbed by the raucous climax of the chorus, but I managed to whirl partway and kick Mike gently in the leg. It was a lighter kick than I'd wanted, but it was enough to rouse him, and, when he recognized what was happening, he sprang to life. His first move was to go after my attacker's face, and I could feel the indecision in the struggle behind me as the man considered whether to let me go and defend himself or whether to shoot me first. He didn't have time to make that decision, though, because Mike was all over him. At first it increased the pressure on my neck, making me gasp for air, but within moments I could feel the weakness in his hands, the giving up, and I seized the opportunity to pry those giant paws off of me.

It was enough to allow me a deep breath, and it gave me space, space I used for leverage to plant an elbow in his ribs. Mike had already dislodged the gun, and I pounced on it and shoved it in my handbag. The two men were struggling now, and, with the fountain show finished, a crowd began forming, making a hesitant circle of space around them. The light wasn't very good, but I could tell the man had broken his nose, probably from trying to crash his truck into my car earlier that morning.

Mike's expression was all business, and he let the other guy wear himself out in a few fruitless efforts to take him down. The crowd, most of them half-drunk, began rooting for Mike, who was a much more charismatic warrior than the dark-haired thug and a much better hand-to-hand fighter than I would have expected. I was considering whipping out the guy's gun and turning it on him, but with so many people around that could have been too dangerous. And it didn't seem as if Mike needed the help.

After another minute of jostling, Mike positioned himself near the railing, almost daring the other guy to charge him. He obliged. Mike was slow to respond, though, and he took a hit to the jaw after whiffing in his own effort. But the momentum of the charge had carried the man into Mike, and Mike recovered enough to grab him by the waist and heft him partway into the air. Mike then began an awkward spin and finally hurled the guy over the railing and into the man-made lake, giving rise to a splash worthy of the fountain show itself. Some in the crowd applauded, but most were sporting the same kind of
did-I-just-see-that
looks on their faces that I'm sure I had.

Mike looked embarrassed more than anything else, and he joined a few more people peering over the railing to watch the man struggle to get out of the lake. It looked to be only a few feet deep, but apparently it was slippery enough on the bottom that the guy was making an even bigger fool of himself trying to get out. I answered my buzzing phone. Before the officer could get out a sentence, I interrupted and told him to send a squad to the Strip to pick up the guy in the lake. He told me not to move, and so I waited there with Mike and a dozen other people who didn't quite know what to make of the scene.

Five minutes later, three squad cars arrived, their lights flashing and sirens blaring. A plainclothes detective bolted out of the passenger seat of the first car.

He made a beeline for me. "You McShane?" There was nothing pleasant about his demeanor.

"Yeah. Did Detective Weakland get hold of you?" I asked.

He snorted. "No, but he got ahold of my boss's boss. We really need to bring you downtown."

I nodded, resigned to an evening of bad police coffee and uncomfortable office chairs. I looked over at the lake, where three officers were struggling to lift my nemesis out of the water. He wasn't going quietly into the night.

When they finally had him on dry land, he was spitting out water and writhing around under the weight of three officers.

The detective sighed. "Sometimes these guys need a little more persuasion to play nicely." He motioned to one of the other officers, who brought over a Taser.

"Hold his leg still," the detective said.

"Can I do it?" I asked.

The detective rolled his eyes. "What do
you
think?"

Mike elbowed me. He was cracking up.

One of the officers held the guy's leg still, and the detective went in and held the Taser against his leg for a full second, producing a scream and a distinct burning aroma in the air.

"Never tased a wet guy before," the detective mused, holding his nose.

After a second application of the Taser, the cops were finally able to cuff the guy behind his back. They led him into the back of the third police car, its lights still flashing. He was still soaking wet, his thick black hair drenched and matted against his face. He looked out the window at me, muttering something inaudible. I blew him a kiss.

The detective showed me into the first car, where I sat in the back seat and waited while the detective filled out some paperwork at the scene. Mike was still standing near the railing, arms folded across his chest, talking to a couple of drunk twenty-something girls who had watched the whole thing play out.
Good for him
, I thought. But then my womanly instincts kicked in, and I found myself feeling a tiny bit jealous of the attention he was getting. The light from the casinos was reflecting off his muscular forearms, and he towered above the girls, a model of sculpted manhood. As I saw him through the girls' eyes, I realized I had been taking him for granted.
Huh.

 The cops had me in and out in less than three hours, which I considered a minor victory. They had managed to get Detective Weakland on the speakerphone from his hospital bed, and he was able to fill in the blanks, especially from the LAPD end of things. It turned out that the entire Weston money and political machine had been turned not just on me but on the Department, a fact that explained why they'd stopped returning my calls and reassigned Weakland. Weakland's theory was that the whole family knew Caroline had poisoned Melanie, and they weren't willing to lose both of their daughters, so they fought to protect Caroline despite her awful crime. And that meant sending their best goon to try to take me out. And Weakland, too.

They were convinced they had a rock-solid case. Caroline had all but confessed to me in front of Mike and Dyson, and she broke down under police questioning before her family's lawyer got wind of what was going on. Her confession was airtight. The guy who attacked me, whose name I never got, was going to be rung up for attempted murder. After an exhaustive search, Officer Listecki had turned up security camera footage in the business park showing his truck chasing me down and ramming into me. There was no way he would beat that charge.

As for Kent, they were able to connect him with Jojia's identity theft ring, which proved to be bigger than anyone could have imagined. But he was small potatoes, and they were planning to use him as a witness against her in her upcoming trial. He would probably do a little time, which might scare him straight and end his habit of preying upon women who were taken in by his charms. All in all, it was a good result.

*   *   *

Too much police department coffee had me stirring in bed, my mind whirring with the entire day's events. I hadn't gotten to sleep until after three o'clock, and now it was only a few minutes past five. After tossing around for twenty minutes, I gave up on the idea of more sleep, attractive though it was. I found my robe and cinched it up tight, finding my way to my balcony to watch the sun rise. Slumped in my favorite lounge chair, I nodded off for a half hour or so, and when I awoke I could see the tiny rays of pink light creeping across the desert sky, welcoming the Monday morning, as though nothing unusual had happened the day before, as though today would be just another day. Knowing otherwise, I smiled to myself.

Eggs, cheese, toast, coffee. These were the main thoughts coursing through my sleep-deprived mind as I gazed out at the Strip and the beautiful sky behind.
Screw the sunrise, I need food,
I thought, turning away from the view. I muddled my way back through my dark apartment and found what I needed in the fridge. Then I began to whip up an omelet. I had just poured the eggs into the frying pan when I was startled by a strong arm wrapping itself around my waist.

I shuddered at first, still edgy, but then I let the arm pull me close and enjoyed the warmth of the body behind me and the stubble on the face that had begun pressing into my neck. His lips teased my ear, and his left hand began exploring the front of my body.

"Why don't you come back to bed first," he whispered in my ear.

By way of answering him, I turned around and let my robe drop to the floor, pressing my naked self against him. He responded immediately, grabbing me by the thighs and lifting me up. With my arms tight around his neck and shoulders, he carried me back to the bedroom and pressed me onto the bed.

This time, there was no hesitation, no consideration for what
I
wanted or needed, and that was just fine by me, and in a strange way it was exactly what I
did
need—to be
needed
, an object of pure desire and animalistic impulse, without all the complications and niceties and the awkwardness that went with it. The next ten minutes were a blur, a wonderful blur, as I held on and moved against him and with him, and somehow the fire had arisen in me, much quicker than usual, and together we gasped for air and pressed against each other in a way neither of us knew was possible.

We were silent for another minute as we caught our breaths, our bodies still mingled together. And then he sniffed at the air.

"You smell something burning?" he whispered.

"Oh,
crap
!"

* * * * *

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* * * * *

Stephanie Caffrey grew up in Wisconsin and has lived in Chicago, Washington, D.C., and London. Although she has traveled the world, her heart belongs to the thumping, degenerate pulse of a city that is Las Vegas. Having stayed at (or passed out in) nearly every casino-hotel on the Strip, she is recognized as an expert on all-things-Vegas, including where to find the best poker rooms, the most decadent foie gras-topped hamburger, and the most effective cure for a tequila-induced hangover. For a brief period in her early twenties, she may or may not have been a topless dancer. A constitutional lawyer by day, she is married with a young son, who will not be allowed to visit Las Vegas until he's forty.

* * * * *

Raven McShane Mysteries
:

Diva Las Vegas

Vegas Stripped

Royal Flush

* * * * *

If you enjoyed this Raven McShane Mystery, check out this sneak peek of another funny, romantic mystery from
Gemma Halliday Publishing
:

MOTION FOR MALICE

by

KELLY REY

CHAPTER ONE

Some people are as subtle as spoiled milk and about as pleasant. Dorcas Beeber was one of those people. One and a quarter, if you counted her killer Bossi-Poo, Chandler. Both of them showed up at my desk at the law firm formerly known as Parker, Dennis & Heath before the untimely expiration of Heath, early on an overcast Thursday morning in January. Dorcas's husband Weaver trailed behind like a wisp of smoke. The office policy was no animals allowed, but Dorcas made her own rules, and Chandler had no respect for authority. He yapped nonstop from his Gucci carrier, sounding madder by the minute, probably because the other Bossi-Poos made fun of his little velvet sweater on the way over. Weaver stood off to the side, a trim, tidy, bright little man in his plaid cardigan and khakis, his hair short and neat, his nails clipped and clean.

Dorcas glared down at me through contact lenses the startling color of tiger's eyes. Nothing about Dorcas was subtle. She was in your face in every way. Rings on nearly every finger, big, chunky necklace, broad neon peach headband. She had acres of overly tanned skin draped over large bones. And she was holding a crystal ball.

Some people might have wondered what a crystal ball was doing in a law office. I wasn't one of them. I'd worked at the newly rebirthed Parker, Dennis long enough to expect anything. In fact, I was surprised the crystal ball hadn't shown up sooner. We could have used it. The place had been going downhill since one of its founding partners, Doug Heath, had joined the bar association in the great beyond six months earlier. The problem wasn't necessarily that Doug had died. The problem was that his lowbrow but successful advertising spots had died along with him, and now that his files were lurching to a close without being replaced by new ones, the firm was running out of money. Which meant it took every flea-riddled stray dog of a case that wandered in off the street.

With a sigh, I turned away from the plaintiff's request for admissions I'd been typing for the firm's associate, Wally Randall. Requests for admissions were part of the legal discovery process that began after the filing of a complaint, where the plaintiff tried to get the defendant to admit to such incriminating statements as
The defendant was born on or about October 1, 1960,
which invariably would be denied in the defendant's Response. It seemed like a waste of printer toner to me, but then I had to have something to do between breakfast and dinner.

I smiled at Weaver, frowned at Chandler, and looked at Dorcas.

She plunked the crystal ball down on my desk. "I want to see Howard."

"He's unavailable," I said, which is what I always said when Dorcas showed up. No one was available when Dorcas showed up. Including Dorcas. As far as I could tell, she spent her days drifting in the middle distance of consciousness with her crystals, visions, and Chandler to keep her company. "Wally's here if you want to see him," I added. I tried to push the crystal ball aside, off of my papers, but it refused to move.