Sleepless in Las Vegas (7 page)

“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 home. Instead it hung out in his yard like a lonesome guy in a bar who had nowhere to go after last call.

The next day, he’d grudgingly put out a bowl of water, some leftover meat loaf. It was cool enough in April that he didn’t worry about the mutt hanging around outside, figuring he’d soon go back to wherever he belonged.

Within the week, Drake was lugging home dog food. Mutt sniffed it, turned away. Wanted meat loaf.

Drake’s gut clenched as a front window exploded, glass shattering. Gray smoke streamed out the window, curling furiously over the roof as flames lashed through the opening.

He tried to still his thoughts, told himself that the worst of the fire was in his bedroom and office, was traveling only now into the living room…hadn’t yet reached the kitchen.

“Mr. Morgan?”

He turned. An elderly woman, who he vaguely recalled lived several houses down, stood hunched in her chenille robe.

“I’m so sorry.” In the flickering light of the fire, her milky blue eyes brimmed with emotion. She clutched his hand and squeezed it. “Oh, your sweet little dog…”

He couldn’t deal with this.

Clamping his mouth shut, he looked at the fiery hell, grinding his teeth until his jaw ached, willing God or whoever was in charge to hear him out.
Take it all. Destroy everything I own. But please, spare one small heart…

In the doorway, a form materialized in the whirling smoke. A firefighter emerged, cradling a limp form in his arms.

CHAPTER FOUR

A
S
THE
FIREFIGHTER
laid the limp dog onto a cleared area of the yard, Dietrich ran over, carrying an oxygen tank.

Drake stumbled forward and dropped to his knees next to Hearsay. The dog lay on his side, unmoving, eyes closed.

Tugging off his own mask, Chuck knelt across from Drake. Dietrich, positioned at the dog’s head, strapped a small plastic mask over the dog’s muzzle.

Dietrich jabbed his chin at Chuck. “Turn it up.”

Chuck adjusted the nozzle on the tank, then pressed two fingers against the dog’s throat. He held it there, a studious look on his sweat-slicked face, before giving his head a small shake.

The two firefighters exchanged a look.

Which Drake caught. His insides constricted into a tight ball of hurt and rage.

He refused to believe it.

Not
his
dog. Not Hearsay.

He would find the bastard who did this, make him pay. After Drake was through with him, he would wish he had died a slow, agonizing death in this fire instead.

The crackling of the flames, movements of people and machinery, even the fierce heat shrank into the background as Drake stroked Hearsay, still soft and warm, willing his life force to not seep away.

Please. Spare him.

“Come on, buddy,” he whispered, his voice strained, “you can make it.”

Dietrich, his face grim, peered intently into the dog’s face.

Chuck lightly shook the dog’s shoulder. “Stay with us, boy.”

Drake ran his hand down the dog’s side, stopping when his fingers grazed stiff, charred hair.

“Looks to be only the fur,” Dietrich said, “nothing deeper. Bigger problem is how much smoke this little guy took in.” He lightly brushed some soot from Hearsay’s nostrils.

“I heard whimpering as I approached the kitchen,” Chuck said. “He hasn’t been out long.”

Drake leaned closer. “Stay,” he whispered hoarsely, every fiber of his being commanding it to be so. He swiped at the tears coursing down his face, not giving a damn who saw. “I need you, buddy.”

A crackling crash. On the west side of the house, flames blew out the shattered kitchen window.

“Got a pulse,” Chuck said.

Drake stared at the dog’s chest, catching an almost imperceptible movement. “He’s breathing!”

The men stared at another rise and fall of the chest…and another…

“Keep at it, boy,” Dietrich coached, “you’re almost there.”

Three grown men on their knees cried and whooped as Hearsay’s eyelids fluttered opened.

Dietrich grinned at the dog, his teeth white in a face streaked with soot. “You’re one tough bastard, Hearsay.”

Blinking, the dog looked around, his gaze settling on Drake.

In that moment, he met God.

“Welcome back, buddy,” he murmured.

After a few minutes, Chuck slipped the oxygen mask over the dog’s head. “There’s an all-night emergency vet hospital near here—”

“I know where it is.” Drake stroked Hearsay’s head.

“Take him there right now, have him checked over. He’s alert, breathing on his own, but the little guy took in a lot of smoke. He’s gonna need medicine to prevent lung issues later.”

“I will.” He looked over at Dietrich, who had moved away and was yammering orders to several firefighters. “I never got to thank him.”

“Captain lost his own dog a few months ago,” Chuck said. “Saving yours helped him, you know? Helped all of us. It’s an honor to save a life.” He put his hands underneath the dog. “Let’s get him up.”

Together, they lifted the dog.

Cradling Hearsay in his arms, Drake walked down the driveway. As he passed through clusters of neighbors, people touched his back, murmured words of encouragement. He held Hearsay close, knowing there were difficult, frustrating days ahead, but at the moment, nothing mattered but the life in his arms.

At the pickup, he opened the passenger door. Cuddling Hearsay close in one arm, he lifted the jacket lying neatly on the seat with his free hand. Then paused. The vinyl seating was old, ripped. A jacket would provide some cushioning.

Carefully, he laid Hearsay on the jacket, which still carried lingering scents of his dad’s Old Spice cologne and love of cigars. His old man would have approved. He liked the material things like anybody else, but nothing—not even a jacket that had cost him a month’s pay—was more important than family.

“Mr. Morgan?”

He double-checked to make sure Hearsay was comfortable, then turned. A streetlight highlighted a stocky man dressed in pants and a sports shirt.

“I’m Tony Cordova, arson investigator for this district.”

Drake guessed his raspy voice was from years of smoking, inhaling smoke or both.

“Like to ask you some questions,” Tony said.

“Later.” He carefully closed the passenger door, which shut with a solid 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.

* * *

A
T
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.