Strip Search (39 page)

Another look at the card indicated the firm specialized in electronic security and services related to electronic commerce. Huh?

At the moment, Mr. Secretive-Gabriel-Sullivan-Whatever-His-Name-Was smelled like a rat. This card definitely meant something. Had he been hiding more than a bad medical past and a failed marriage? Or, God, had he made all that up?

She was going to find out. Right now.

Scowling, Nicki tore into the briefcase. Another zippered pocket produced a pad of legal paper with a local phone number, no name. A bad feeling brewing in her gut, she wrote the number down on a separate piece of paper and tore it out of the pad. Then she moved onto the final pocket of the briefcase.

Ripping it open with all the finesse of a kid with a stack of Christmas presents, Nicki plunged a hand in. Papers, file folders, a calculator. She yanked them all out.

The calculator turned out to be a handheld device she didn't recognize. Blackberry, it said. Damn! It was probably loaded with information, but she really didn't know how to use it any more than she did the laptop. She set it aside and turned her attention to the papers. A computer printed receipt from the Bellagio hotel for nearly two thousand dollars, charged to Mark
Sullivan.
The last day of his stay coincided with his move here.

Nicki turned her attention to three file folders next. The first had the name of her bank on its tab and contained the last year's statements. Some entries were highlighted in yellow. She frowned. Why were these here and not in the office ? He was a chief financial investigator, and having her stuff all in his briefcase, unbeknownst to her, was like being ... investigated.

The next folder had the words
Real Estate
written in bold block writing on the tab. It contained a list of addresses, dates, and dollar amounts, none of which meant a thing to Nicki. Shrugging, she set that aside.

The third folder had nothing written on the tab. She flipped it open to find a cover letter from a private investigator here in Vegas. The phone number at the top matched the phone number she'd lifted from Mark's legal pad. Why would Mark have hired a PI here in town?

Scowl deepening, she scanned the letter.

The name didn't ring a bell. Again, Nicki felt as if she was groping in the dark. The subject? Inconclusive as to the subject's involvement? What the hell ... ?

Flipping the cover letter aside, Nicki felt as if she was prepared to see anything--information about her uncle, who the authorities wanted to label Mafia because he was all Italian all the time. Or one of her dancers, incriminating pictures maybe. Who knew? The last thing she expected to see was her very own birth certificate, school records, documents showing the club's establishment, copies of her father's will, deeds to a house her father had left her and Lucia together on the shore in Atlantic City. Scanning the attached report, Nicki saw the investigator had delved into her childhood, social and dating history--the works.

She
was the subject?

The last page Mark had clearly ripped from the legal pad. It was filled with his notes.

He'd written something today? When? After nailing her? Nicki could picture it now, him crawling out of the sheets that were still hot from their friction and writing down his suspicions that she... what? Clearly, he thought she did something for money that involved Blade in order to buy her uncle out of the club. She'd bet her one and only Prada purse that whatever Mark thought she'd done, it was illegal.

Unbelievable.

Pain sliced her brain, while fury diced her stomach. How
dare
he deceive her! How
dare
he become an employee and her lover for the exclusive purpose of investigating her! She'd meant nothing to him, she'd bet. Nothing! While she'd given him... her heart, her soul. Thrown away two years of carefully preserved celibacy and dedication to Girls' Night Out to be with him. Hell, she would have given him the rest of her life if he'd been interested in it.

Nicki knew she should probably be surprised by this revelation. But she couldn't exactly muster shock. Mark had been conflicted since the day she'd invited him into her bed. Well, this explained why.

Cursing, Nicki glanced down at the paper in her hand and the phone number written on it. It matched the number of the private investigator. One mystery solved. Just one more mystery remained: How long would it take to get him out of her hair? Out of her life? Out of her heart?

Nicki crumpled the paper in her fist. Oh, never mind taking the coward's way out. Forget leaving the bastard a note telling him to get lost both personally and professionally. The son of a bitch! She couldn't wait to tell him herself.

W
ith a little finesse and a little luck, Mark picked the lock on Nicki's apartment door. He didn't dare return to his apartment for her keys and risk waking her, not until he had some answers or lack thereof. If no evidence to convict or clear her materialized during this search... well, he'd think about that later.

But he had to believe that somewhere around here something that would fill in the missing pieces of the puzzle existed.

The door unlocked with a soft click, and Mark pushed it open to reveal a dark room, vaguely shadowed by Vegas's lights streaming in through the open blinds.

What will you do with the information you find here? a
voice inside him asked.
What if you learn she's guilty?
If that was the case, Mark saw prison time in her future. He ignored the anguish that clenched his gut at the thought. What
if you learn she's innocent?
Apologize, he supposed. Beyond that, he didn't know.

Stepping into the gray room and shutting the door behind him in near silence, Mark fished his keychain from his pocket. Thank goodness for the small attached flashlight he usually carried. He couldn't risk turning on lights, just in case. Nicki couldn't know he'd been here ... looking at whatever she might be hiding from him.

A quick search of the drawers in her kitchen revealed the fact she was no Julia Childs. Lacking much in the way of equipment, it was clear Nicki chose to spend her time engaged in activities other than preparing foods to please her palette. But he also found no personal papers in the drawers, just a stack of take-out menus, some dry cleaning receipts, a gift certificate to a local spa, and Zack's cell phone number.

Cursing softly, Mark retreated from the kitchen and stepped into the living room. Nowhere here to hide anything, really. He searched under the furniture, inside the sofa cushions, peeked into the entertainment center. Nada.

Which left only her bedroom and bathroom. And he'd at least conducted a cursory search of Nicki's dresser and closet the night he'd tied her to her bed and loved her until they were both exhausted--something he'd kill to do again. Gritting his teeth, Mark forced his mind back on task.

Hope bit into his gut as he made his way down the hall. A scented air freshener with a nightlight was plugged into the outlet in the hall. Using the faint light to help him guide his way to the end of the corridor and into the bedroom, Mark entered the nearly pitch-black room and paused.

Something wasn't right. Little hairs stood up on his arms. His insides prickled with alarm. Heartbeat roaring in his head, Mark listened. He couldn't hear anyone moving or breathing.

But a gut feeling told him he wasn't alone.

No one appeared to be in the bed or in the corners, though it was too dark to tell for sure. Nothing rustled. Nothing looked out of place, but he knew...

Acting purely on instinct, Mark ducked. A split-second later a flash and a blast exploded in the little bedroom. He heard the bullet whiz over his head and bury itself in the wall above his right ear.

"Die, bitch!" rasped a gravelly voice to his left.

Mark's blood ran cold. Someone was in Nicki's apartment, waiting to kill her. And if he hadn't left her sleeping in his bed, she might be dead right now.

Knowing the would-be assassin couldn't see any better than he could, Mark used the only element of surprise he had--he flashed the concentrated beam of light from his small flashlight right in the asshole's face.

Crouching in the closet, the man, clad entirely in black, tried to shield the slits of his eyes visible through the ski mask. Fury burst through Mark, hot, lethal. Who the hell would be in Nicki's apartment, shouting at her to die?

He dropped the light to the floor and jumped at the assailant, smashing the scumbag's smaller body against the back wall of the closet. Clothing fell on top of them. A high-heeled shoe dug into Mark's arm as he struggled to subdue the thug under him.

"What the fuck!" the other man shouted. "Who are you? Get off me, man!"

Ignoring him, Mark concentrated on pinning the asshole to the floor. He seized the smaller man's wrists and slammed it against the carpet until the assailant released his death-grip on the gun. The light Mark had dropped earlier now illuminated the fact the scumbag's sleeve had ridden up the length of his arm, revealing a heavy, angry set of needle tracks.

Mark grabbed the gun and pointed it at the man's temple, then ripped off the ski mask with his other hand. The pale, bony face below belonged to a stranger. His gaze seemed to bounce all around, like the slight tremor of an earthquake's aftershock. Mark smelled the odor of the man's fearful sweat.

Great. Someone really, really into meth. He could tell by looking. Unpredictable bastards.

"Who are you?" Mark barked. "Why are you here?"

"Fuck off. I'm not saying a word." The man's voice quivered.

"Silence makes me nervous. My finger might twitch." Mark prodded the barrel of the gun into the man's temple.

"Okay. Chill, dude." His face, surrounded by a mop of mussed, greasy dark hair, looked even paler. Little pale scars

littered his skin where he's spent time peeling off imaginary bugs. "I didn't do anything. I didn't even take anything."

"You came to rob this place? How the hell did you get in?" Mark growled.

"No. I wasn't planning to rob her. The dude who hired me left a door open and gave me directions."

A stab of suspicion needled Mark's gut. "Hired you? Who? To do what?"

"Some guy with dark hair. I don't have a name. Someone who hires me to do a job doesn't exactly give me all their personal info."

Dark hair? Blade. Was Mr. Mafia retaliating against Nicki for cutting him out of their money-laundering deal? Or had she been innocent all along? Of course, that assumed the twitchy criminal below him was telling the truth. "What kind of job?"

The stale-smelling assailant started to tremble even more. "I was supposed to, you know ... bump her. Make it look like a home invasion gone bad."

Fury didn't just ignite at his words, they erupted like a spewing volcano. He'd known Blade was dangerous and an asshole. He'd suspected the guy was a killer, too. This just proved it.

"Kill her? You were going to kill Nicki?" Mark struggled not to choke his words.

"Just doing my job," his voice bobbled. "Look, man, I need the money. If I didn't do it, he'd just hire someone else. He said he'd been trying for a while to get the bitch out of the way."

Trying for a while?
How? She hadn't been mugged. Or attacked outside the building. No one else had snuck in. No one had shot at her or kidnapped her.

But Blade lived right here under the club's roof and had plenty of time, opportunity, and motive to try to take Nicki out. And maybe he'd been more subtle previously. What about the "loose" stage light nearly falling on Nicki's head? The gas leak that would have killed her if Mark hadn't arrived in time? Previously, he'd wondered if those two events were connected. Now their significance slid into place like pieces from some sickening puzzle.

Some of her "accidents" had been planned. By Bocelli. And now, she was in danger.

Blade was trying so hard to kill Nicki and make it look like anything but an outright murder. It seemed unlikely Blade would go to that much trouble for revenge. No, he wanted Nicki out of the way. Hadn't Tiffany's contact, no doubt Blade himself, told Tiff that he'd have control of the money pipeline by this summer? Maybe that meant getting Nicki, the business owner, out of the way first. And if that was the case ...