Nightwalker

That was when the huge man plowed into her.

Huge. Bodyguard huge. He was bald and built like a wall of solid rock. His eyes were hazel and streaked with red.

“Hey!” Coot yelled indignantly.

It didn’t stop the man, who hit her so hard that he knocked her flat onto the craps table, then fell on top of her.

She was pinned, and when she tried to budge his weight, she couldn’t. She started to ask the onlookers for assistance, but her words were cut short by someone’s shrill, hysterical scream.

And then she felt the blood trickling down on her as she struggled under the man’s weight.

His dead weight…

His glazed and frozen eyes stared at her, and then his mouth moved.

He spoke one word.

“Indigo.”

And then his lips stopped moving and something, some light, went out in his eyes.

She tried to twist out from beneath him, and that was when she saw the knife sticking out of his back, saw the blood, and began to scream herself.

Dillon Wolf heard the screams just seconds after he had stepped into the special “high-roller” section of the casino. He spun around, returning at a breakneck speed, and arrived back at the craps table just as casino security descended on it. He saw the beautiful redhead he’d staked earlier, desperately trying to push the weight of the huge man off her, and he saw the man’s face almost as quickly.

Tanner Green. Hell.

He’d spent most of the night keeping track of who was coming and going, trying to get a handle on who was frequenting the new casino, and the last damn thing he’d imagined was Green turning up dead. The man was a pro. Had been a pro. Not only that, before rejoining the world, he’d worked as a mercenary; there was no way in hell he should have been taken by surprise by anyone. But a knife in the back? That pretty much screamed surprise.

The fact that the police would want the body left in situ didn’t prevent him from diving in to help the redhead free herself as quickly as possible.

“Hey, hey!” one of the security officers said, hurrying forward, but he ignored the man.

“Thank you,” the redhead whispered as he shifted her free of the corpse and she managed to get back on her feet. For a moment, though, her eyes were on his. Huge. A deep, radiant blue, like a cloudless sky. Those eyes had first met his just a few minutes earlier as she rolled the dice. Now he also noticed that she smelled good, not to mention that she felt good against him.

As soon as he saw that she was steady, he delved into his pocket for his ID, presenting it to the security officer.

“Dillon Wolf, licensed P.I.,” he said. “Have the police been called?”

“The 911 has gone in, they’ll be here momentarily,” the security officer said. Two of the men accompanying him had already begun to form an invisible ring around the craps table; two more were hurrying over to bar the door.

“Oh God, I have to get out of here. I have to get out of here!” a woman cried hysterically.

“Calm down,” Dillon said, his voice taking on a deep authoritative pitch. He had long ago learned that people didn’t obey high voices in an emergency; they only became more hysterical.

The redhead was silent, but he saw that she was shivering. Something in her eyes told him that she knew she was going to be there for a long time, the center of a murder investigation. She was stunning, absolutely stunning, and something about her intrigued him. Las Vegas was full of gorgeous women, of course—showgirls, waitresses, actresses, singers—but she seemed different somehow.

When he’d first noticed her, those eyes of hers had been…haunted. Not as if she was afraid of losing a dream, certainly not as if she was afraid of simply losing…money, but as if she was terrified of losing something far more precious. As if the roll of the dice could cost her her very soul.

He gave himself a mental shake. He had other things to think about here. Not only was there a dead man lying on the craps table, but that dead man was Tanner Green.

A man came striding onto the scene. A big guy with an attitude. Jerry Cheever, Las Vegas homicide. Dillon was pretty sure that Cheever resented him, but Cheever knew the lay of the land. He might despise Dillon on every level, but he’d been told by his bosses that Dillon was to be granted free rein. Cheever liked his paycheck and his position, so he obeyed, but he also liked to take credit for things that went well, and he knew Dillon had a talent for seeing an investigation through, and he wasn’t above taking advantage of that fact.

Especially because he simply wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer.

“No one move!” Cheever bellowed. “And I mean no one!”

He took note of the blood seeping into the green felt tabletop and soaking the multicolored chips.

“Wolf,” he said curtly, acknowledging Dillon’s presence. His eyes settled on the redhead as he asked Dillon, “What happened?”

“I wasn’t here. I ran over when I heard the screaming,” Dillon said.

Jerry Cheever turned to the redhead.

“What happened?” he demanded curtly.

“I was leaving the table. This man came over and…and fell on me,” she said.

“Do you know him?” Cheever demanded.

“I’ve never seen him before,” she said.

“You’re sure?” Cheever pressed.

“Absolutely sure,” she said with confidence. She was still trembling slightly. Not surprising, Dillon thought, given that she was wearing the dead man’s blood.

“Are you hurt?” he asked her quietly.

She shook her head.

Cheever took in the corpse. “Christ! It’s Tanner Green.” He glared at Dillon again. “Aren’t you two working for—”

“Yes,” Dillon said curtly.

“But you weren’t together?”

“No.”

“Lieutenant Cheever, the M.E. is here,” a newly arrived police officer informed him.

“Give him room. No one gets out those doors, do you hear?” Cheever said.

A murmur arose from the crowd, but Cheever wasn’t disturbed. “Give your payouts, close your tables,” he commanded the casino employees, then turned to his fellow officers. “I want men posted at all the doors. No one leaves here without presenting ID and a valid local address, and not until they’ve been questioned. Are we understood?”

Another swell of protest emanated from the crowd, but no one moved. Not even the casino employees. “Payouts. Now. I want the tables closed up. I want some order here,” Cheever announced.

At last things began to happen. The M.E.—it was Doug Tarleton, a decent guy and an expert in his field, Dillon thought—was sliding his gloved hands over the dead man’s face, closing the staring eyes.

“Lord!” Tarleton said, startled. “It’s Tanner Green.”

“Yes,” Dillon said simply.

Cheever turned to the redhead. “And you are…?”

“Jessy Sparhawk,” she said quietly.

“Exactly what happened?” he asked.

She arched a brow but answered levelly. “I was leaving the table. I don’t know where this man came from. He fell on me and knocked me onto the table. I was trapped under him until he—” she pointed at Dillon “—got me out. And that’s all I know.”

“So you don’t know him?”

“No,” she said firmly.

Cheever’s officers were good, and the floor had quietly filled with them.

Dillon knew there were men already stationed at the doors, and he knew that the others would soon begin questioning the hundreds of people who had been in the casino. Crime-scene tape was already being stretched around the table.

Cheever suddenly stared at Jessy Sparhawk again. “The surveillance cameras will have picked up everything, you know.”

“I told you exactly what happened,” she said, adding, “And I had nothing to do with it.”

“Lieutenant Cheever,” Dillon said, taking a step forward, “Miss Sparhawk is a victim here, and undoubtedly pretty damn uncomfortable right now.”

“That man is uncomfortable,” Cheever said irritably, pointing to Tanner Green.

“No,” Dr. Tarleton said. “That man isn’t feeling a thing. He’s dead. Knife wound to the back, short-hilted, long-bladed weapon, which is why no one noticed it—that, and the fact that they were all staring at the tables.”

“You’re sure on the weapon?” Cheever asked.

Tarleton cleared his throat and looked daggers at the detective. He wasn’t fond of Cheever. “Oh, yeah. I’m sure. It’s still sticking out of his back.”

“Shouldn’t there be a blood trail to show where he was stabbed?” Cheever asked, frowning.

“There might be a few specks somewhere. The knife acted like a cork,” Doug explained patiently. “When Tanner fell, the knife was knocked aside and the blood began to gush. That’s why Miss Sparhawk is covered in it.”

“Bring in the crime unit—I want fingerprints ASAP,” Cheever said huffily. He was embarrassed, Dillon knew, that he hadn’t figured out that the knife would have kept the blood from flowing. “All right, get everyone cleared out of here, and let the crime unit have the area from the door to the table.” He glared at Dillon suspiciously. “You, too, Wolf. Let the crime-scene team get in here, and let Tarleton do his job.”

Dillon stuck like glue to Jessy Sparhawk, who didn’t protest when he led her away. He gave his own name, credentials and address to one of the officers, and watched as Jessy did the same. He noted that her address was in Henderson, a suburb just outside the city, and her occupation was entertainer. She was working at the newly opened Big Easy—casino. When a uniformed officer came over to interrogate her, she answered his questions calmly, even though she was still trembling.

No wonder. She was still bathed in the dead man’s blood.

“Hey! How long are we going to be kept here?” a florid man in a plaid jacket shouted angrily.

“Until the lieutenant says you can go,” one of the officers said.

Jessy Sparhawk looked at her watch and bit her lower lip.

“Are you late for work?” Wolf asked her.

She shook her head. “No, it’s Timothy…. I didn’t expect to be away from him this long,” she murmured.

“Your…son?” he asked. She couldn’t possibly have a kid over ten, and she didn’t look like the kind who would leave a child at home alone while she went out and gambled.

She shook her head. “Timothy’s my grandfather.”

“I see. Give me a minute.”

He strode across the room, to where Lieutenant Cheever was bullying a couple of the players who had been by the door when Green had entered. “Excuse me, Lieutenant,” he said politely.

Cheever stared at him and controlled his hostility. “What?”

“The woman who was caught under the corpse, Jessy Sparhawk. She’s miserable. Why not have a heart?” Dillon asked, as if there had never been the least animosity between them. “Let her go home and get cleaned up.”

Cheever frowned and pointed at Dillon. “I need to talk to you.”

“At your convenience. But let her go home. I can see that you’ve started releasing people once you’ve questioned them.”

For a moment Cheever appeared to be almost human. He shook his head in frustration. “I’m trying to prevent an all-out riot here and not let a murderer slip through my fingers,” he said.

“From what I understand, Green entered the casino, staggered through the crowd and crashed down dead on top of Ms. Sparhawk,” Dillon said. “It’s probable that he was stabbed outside the casino. Even a bunch of hard-core gamblers would probably notice someone going after someone else with a knife that big.”

“So you say. He was a bodyguard for Emil Landon, wasn’t he? Just like you.”

“I’m not a bodyguard. Landon is convinced that someone is trying to kill him. I’m supposed to be finding out who. I just took the case, and I wasn’t pals with Tanner Green. I knew him, yes, but that was it.”

“So where the hell were you, if you weren’t at the table?”

“I’d been playing at the table, but I had just wandered into the high-stakes area over there,” Dillon said, pointing toward the far left.

“Oh?” Cheever said, his eyes narrowing. His tone and his look clearly asked, What were you doing in the high-stakes area?

“I was checking out what players are in Vegas right now,” Dillon said. “Like I said, I just accepted Emil Landon’s offer. This morning, in fact. Plus, I was nowhere near the front door. And he was stabbed outside. I’d bet ten years that the crime-scene team will find specks of blood somewhere along the way.”

Cheever stared at him, knowing he was right.

“The girl obviously didn’t kill him,” Dillon said flatly. “And she takes care of her grandfather. You need to let her get home.”

“Lieutenant?” an officer said, approaching Cheever quickly through the crowd. “The security tapes are ready.”

Cheever started to move.

“Lieutenant?” Dillon said, calling him back.

“All right, take her home. But you—I want you in my office tomorrow morning, eight o’clock sharp.”

“I’ll be there,” Dillon assured him. “Emil Landon will want to know everything possible about this.”

“And he will—when I have something to share.”

“He’ll want me to see those tapes.”

“I don’t like repeating myself, Wolf, so I’ll only say this once. I know you know someone who knows the damn governor, but you’ll still wait until I’ve seen those tapes myself. Tomorrow morning, eight sharp.”

“Right,” Dillon said, turning away. More and more people were being released. Some, Dillon thought, would be heading on to other casinos, irritated that a man’s death 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 all she had to do was listen to Timothy’s stories—and see that he didn’t set the house on fire because he was convinced he needed another log for his grandfather’s sweat-lodge fire.

Sandra’s alarmed stare brought an apologetic smile to Jessy’s face. “I’m so sorry, it’s just that—”

She didn’t finish, because just then a loud gasp came from her right, where the family room abutted a courtyard. “Mom! Mom! It’s Jessy—she’s on TV! A man was murdered!”

Sandra stared at Jessy, who grimaced and went running past her to reach the family room, where Reggie was draped over the big comfortable sofa, staring at the television. She gasped again when Jessy walked in.

Jessy stared at the television. She’d been so focused on getting home that she hadn’t noticed the news cameras out front when she and Dillon Wolf had finally escaped the casino, but there she was. She hadn’t realized that she had actually been hanging on his arm.

“You were involved in a murder?” Sandra asked.

“Forget that. Who the hell’s the hottie?” Reggie demanded. Tall and slim, she had her mother’s green, dark-lashed eyes and a perfect heart-shaped face. Despite her beauty and her age, though, she was basically a nice kid, and Jessy was always pleased when she came over to help Sandra with Timothy.

“Murder?” Sandra repeated.

At that moment, Timothy emerged from his bedroom. He was wearing jeans and a plaid shirt that was on backward. Despite that, he maintained his dignity as he straightened regally and said, “Murder? Yes, it was murder. They can bury my heart at Wounded Knee for a fact, because the slaughter of the American Indian remains one of the greatest tragedies and injustices of our nation’s history.”

“Don’t worry. The Native Americans are taking a just revenge. It’s called bingo, and it’s wonderful. They make money, and no one dies,” Sandra said, placating him gently.

Jessy walked over to give him a hug, but he only stared at her. His eyes, light blue and misted like fog at the coming of day, were blank at first. Then they registered that she was in front of him. “Granddaughter. You’re home. And you’re safe.”

She was startled to feel him trembling as he hugged her. She looked over his shoulder, frowning questioningly at Sandra.

“This just came on,” Reggie said quietly.

“You were in danger,” Timothy said. “They told me so.”

“Who told you so?” Jessy asked.

“The ghost riders. Their ghosts came and told me that I needed to be strong, that you were in danger, and that I need to defend you,” he said earnestly.

“I’m all right. Honestly,” Jessy said, really worried now. Ghosts? This was new. “Timothy—”

“I miss my bed,” he said.

“Tim, you have a bed here,” she told him.

He smiled at her, his eyes misty again. “Yes, and I’m grateful. But it’s not my bed. I should be in my own place, where you come to visit me.”

“You’re going back tomorrow, Timothy. It’s going to be fine,” she said.

Sandra was staring at her, arching a brow. Her silent look said quite clearly, It’s wrong to lie to him. Where can you get that kind of money?

“Come on, Timothy, let me get you to bed,” Jessy told him, ignoring her friend’s silent admonition.

His shoulders straightened, and he was entirely lucid. “I can take myself to bed, Jessy girl.” He turned to face Sandra and Reggie. “Thank you, ladies, for the lovely dinner, and for listening to an old man tell even older tales. Good night.”

Reggie hurried over to give him a hug, and Sandra gave him a kiss on the cheek. He turned and headed back to his room. Jessy didn’t want him to see her checking up on him, so she kept an eye on him from where she was and promised herself that she would look in on him later.