Hearts in Vegas

“Ah, I see. I would like to speak to Mr. Morgan, please.”

Probably meant his brother, as Braxton had only come on board recently as a security consultant. “Drake is on another call. I can transfer you to his voice mail.”

Adjusting the sleeve of his blue-striped Armani shirt, he frowned at the phone, wondering if he knew how to do that. He tapped a button on the phone console that apparently turned on the speakerphone, because when the caller spoke again, his voice echoed through the outer office.

“Braxton Morgan,” the man clarified. “I wish to speak to Braxton Morgan.”

Brax hesitated. The Russian thing... Nah, he’d let the paranoia pass. Couldn’t afford to turn down an inquiry for his consulting services. He set the handset on the desk and leaned back in the swivel chair. “Speaking.”

“Excellent! My name is Dmitri Romanov, but my friends call me Dima. I am calling on behalf of my community. We would like to retain your services to help us.”

“Which community?”

“The Russian community.”

Which was a large one in Las Vegas, at least three thousand people. Didn’t mean this call had anything to do with Yuri. “The problem?”

“We are concerned about our image and our ability to run legitimate businesses because of recent negative publicity regarding one individual. We want to know where he spends his time in Las Vegas and if he is still conducting criminal activities. His name is Yuri Glaz—”

“You called the wrong guy,” Braxton snapped, wishing he’d listened to his instincts and canned this call. “Got problems with Yuri? Call the cops. Better yet, call the D.A., who I hope skewers that bastard to the wall at his trial next month.”

Drake strode into the room. To the caller, he said, “Give us a minute.”

He tapped the mute button so he could talk to Brax privately. Dressed in dark trousers, a dress shirt and their dad’s tailored gray jacket, Drake rubbed his palm across his forehead. He wore his hair in a buzz cut, which only men with great-looking skulls could get by with, something Braxton learned when he was forced to buzz his hair, too, last August when he and Drake switched places. These days, Braxton’s dark brown hair had grown back and bad in a short faux-hawk cut, which in his humble opinion made him look like Adam Levine.

“Maybe we should hear this guy out,” Drake said.

“Over my dead body.”

“Information is power.”

Brax got the message. By hearing what this Dmitri guy had to say, they’d learn whatever dirt he might have on Yuri. If it was muddy enough, they could pass it on to the D.A. who could sling it at the upcoming trial.

He pressed the speaker button.

“Sorry, Dmitri, for my reaction,” he said, adopting a more professional tone, “although you probably understand why.”

“Certainly, Braxton. I, too, am upset with Yuri’s unscrupulous ways. I am a respected businessman, ready to fund a significant venture, and I do not wish Yuri’s reputation or his current activities to stand in my way. I am prepared to pay you well for your investigative efforts.”

Braxton looked at the north-facing window and the steady stream of cars traveling along Graces Avenue, their hum like white noise. Sometimes there was only one way out of a problem, and that was to go straight through the messy dead center of it.

“I’m interested in the case,” he said, giving his brother a here-we-go look. “Fill me in on the details.”

“As you undoubtedly know all too well, Yuri is currently awaiting trial and under house arrest. An interesting phrase, house arrest, because with a little creativity and a GPS jammer, those ankle bracelets can slip on and off like a cheap bangle. Rumors are Yuri continues to loan-shark through a check-cashing store and fence goods hijacked from trucking companies.” He exhaled heavily as though blowing out smoke from a cigarette. “We want you to investigate these rumors. If true, the community needs to distance themselves from these enterprises and advise the authorities that none of us are involved. If they are false, we can proceed with a clear frame of mind.”

Braxton leaned back in his chair, wondering why the court had thought a bracelet could stop a guy like Yuri. “This will require two investigators, my brother and myself, each at one-hundred-seventy-five an hour, plus expenses.”

Drake cocked a questioning eyebrow. At Morgan-LeRoy, the hourly rate varied depending on the case, but it had never topped $125.

After a beat, Dmitri said, “That is acceptable. Is one-fifty per diem sufficient for expenses?”

“This is Vegas, Dima, not Boise.”

Dmitri chuckled. “Boise, my friend, is poised for a new era of entrepreneurship. Did you know China is establishing a state-of-the-art technology zone south of Boise?”

No, Brax didn’t know. But he was catching on that this Dmitri fellow was knowledgeable, educated and loaded. As in money. Lots of it.

“Three hundred a day for expenses,” Braxton said, making a rolling-dice gesture to his brother, “plus an additional two hundred each for vehicle rentals.”

For the next few moments, he listened to the faint tapping sounds over the speaker, which he guessed was Dmitri adding up numbers on a calculator. Drake leaned against the far wall, his arms crossed, a look somewhere between amusement and incredulity on his face.

Hot dog, he mouthed.

Although the brothers’ relationship had been frosty during the six years Brax had worked for Yuri, these days they shared their old camaraderie. Often they picked up on the other’s thoughts, sometimes even finishing each other’s sentences.

Brax grinned. When he’d accepted his brother and Val’s offer to work as a security consultant at Morgan-LeRoy Investigations, he’d told them his number one goal was to bring in the bucks, so he was always pushing for higher retainers, bigger cases. “I want to be the agency hot dog,” he’d told them.

Like him, Drake and Val were rebuilding their lives. Drake’s home had been destroyed in a fire last summer, and Val, after losing everything in Hurricane Katrina, had started over in Las Vegas a few years ago.

Dmitri finally broke the silence. “On days when there are two investigators, we’re talking one thousand for expenses, plus a three-fifty hourly fee. You are expensive, Mr. Morgan.”

For a moment, Brax thought about explaining how chasing Yuri could get complicated and costly, fast. Plus, if he pulled up to a five-star restaurant or a high-end casino in his turquoise Volvo, he might as well spray-paint on it Gumshoe Tailing Somebody.

Instead, he said politely, “You’re welcome to hire another P.I., Dima, but gotta tell ya...no one in town knows Yuri the way I do.”

Val, wearing a simple black dress, entered the room from the hallway that connected the agency to her and Drake’s living quarters in the back. The overhead lights caught streaks of violet in her bobbed brown hair.

When she heard the name Yuri, her brown eyes grew wide. She sat in one of the guest chairs, her hand on her bulging tummy.

“I accept your terms,” Dmitri said over the speaker, “with the understanding that we review your progress at the twelve-thousand-dollar mark. That is the amount of the retainer check my associate will drop off at your agency tomorrow morning at nine.”

Val mouthed Twelve thousand? to her husband, who gave her an acknowledging nod.

“Braxton,” Dmitri said, “I have an urgent appointment, so I must end this call, but I have something else I would like to discuss with you. May I speak with you later?”

After giving Dmitri his cell number, Brax ended the call and looked at his sister-in-law and brother, cupping a hand to his ear in a let’s-hear-it gesture.

“You are the hot dog,” Val said approvingly.

“Agency hot dog,” Drake corrected.

Brax flashed them an I’d-try-to-be-humble-but-it’s-so-true smile.

“As much as I would so love to be part of this case,” Val said, “My feet are starting to swell somethin’ fierce—no way I could keep up on a foot surveillance.” With a sigh, she looked at her left hand. “Fingers are swelling, too. Dropped off the family heirloom ring with Grams this morning so she can wear it for a while.” She looked back at the brothers. “Since I’m out, you two split the retainer.”

“You’re the lead investigator,” Drake said to Braxton, “plus you’ll be working more of the case, so...sixty-forty?”

Brax racked up the numbers in his mind. “Seven thousand, two hundred...sounds like enough to get my own place.”

Finally. His own bachelor pad. Not as posh as before, of course, but a place where he could play his music loud, toss a shiny new black satin cover on a king-size bed, invite a special lady over for his renowned spaghetti alla puttanesca, a bottle of Chianti and a homemade tiramisu dessert that would make an Italian mama weep.

Ah, a pared-down version of the life he left behind was almost his again....

He looked down at his cell phone.

Grams, I’m...

He didn’t mind, much, paring down when it came to his new life, but forget stripping down, as in going shirtless, which was what he’d heard guys did in these date auctions.

But it wasn’t an issue to be discussed in text messages. He needed to talk to Grams in person, offer a compromise, like his donating some money from his hefty retainer instead. Yeah, that might fix this problem.

He looked back up at Val and Drake. “Guys, mind if I take off early?”

Val did a double take. “You finally have a date, Brax?”

“Sorta.” More like a sit-down negotiation with one of the grandest old ladies who ever graced this planet.

“That didn’t come out right,” Val continued. “Sounded as if you can’t get a date when that’s so far from the truth. Why, with your stud looks, you could be courtin’ a different girl every night, so it’s just odd you’ve been livin’ like a monk for months now.”

“Honey,” Drake murmured, “you might be stepping over a line.”

She looked at her husband, all innocence. “Because I mentioned an obvious fact? Why, even Grams is worried about him! That’s why you—” She pursed her lips.

Braxton leaned back in his chair and checked out his brother, who was scratching his eyebrow. Which he always did when he was uncomfortable. Or guilty. “What’d you do, bro?”

“I, uh, paid the entry fee.”

“Entry fee,” he repeated, not liking where this was going. “To this brawn fest.”

“Magic Dream Date Auction, yes.”

Brax rocked forward on his chair, the front legs hitting the floor with a thud. “You think I can’t get a date?”

“Hey, Brax,” Val cut in, making a placating gesture, “it’s not like that, really. It’s just that ever since you moved in with Mama D and Grams, you stay home every night, get to bed by ten, never answer your former girlfriends’ calls. You seem, well, defeated, flat...nothin’ like my former bro-in-law.”

“I don’t stay home every night,” he muttered, wondering if it were Mom or Grams who’d snitched about his not returning those calls. Probably both.

“Right,” Drake said, “one evening you drove to a convenience store and bought a quart of milk.”

Brax blew out an exasperated breath. “I can’t believe this! I spend years being estranged from my family for hanging out with thugs, dating questionable women and skirting the Nevada criminal justice system, during which time Mom banned me from our childhood home. But now that I’m law-abiding, and yeah, okay, so I haven’t been involved with a woman for a while, but that’s my choice, by the way...” He gave both of them an and-you-better-believe-it look. “Where was I?”

“A law-abidin’ citizen,” prompted Val.

“Right. Now that I’m an upstanding citizen, my family can’t hear enough about my uneventful, boring life? I suppose Mom’s spilled that I still watch cartoons sometimes, too.” He jabbed an accusing finger at Val, then Drake. “Maybe it’s you people who need to get a life!”

“Brax,” Drake said, “don’t take it the wrong way.”

“What’s the right way? To joke about my do-nothing, go-nowhere, get-nothing life?”

“It’s all right, dawlin’,” Val said, drawing out the word dawlin’ like a slow pour of molasses. “It must be awful bein’ a former playboy. Like bein’ an ol’ James Bond sent out to pasture.”

As if he needed that mental picture. An old Bond bull with a bunch of over-the-hill Miss Moneypennies.

“Look,” he said, “I know you two mean well, but let’s put the brakes on the matchmaking, ’kay? That includes any blind dates, Craigslist ads, surprise walk-ins, you get the picture.”

Val frowned. “Surprise walk-ins?”

“Some hot blonde walks into the detective agency, needs to talk to a P.I. He falls for her story and her, and that’s when his real troubles start. It’s in every clichéd private-eye film.”

“F’true,” Val said, her eyes lighting up, “I recently saw Chinatown, and just like you said, the trouble started when a blonde walks into private eye Jake Gittes’s office.”

“I dunno,” Drake said. “You’ve been a monk so long, maybe you need a little blonde trouble.”

“Monk.” Braxton snorted. “Now you’re stepping over the line, bro.”

“Yeah?” Drake countered. “Well, since I’m already there, gotta ask...still watching Donald Duck cartoons?”

“I don’t need this.” Brax picked up his phone and stood. “I’m heading home to tell Grams that as much as I appreciate her—and your—concern to find me a date, I’d prefer not being auctioned off to the highest bidder.”

He started walking to the door.

“Good luck saying no to Grams, bro.”

“I never claimed to be a wise man,” he said over his shoulder. “Just a savvy, determined monk.”

CHAPTER TWO

CLOSE TO THREE, Frances cruised her rented Mercedes sports car past the Passage-of-Love drive-through wedding chapel, its tunnel bright with gaudy lights and gold-painted cherubs. In the lot next to it was a run-down duplex, where a scrawny girl in cutoff shorts and a T-shirt sat hunched on the porch steps, solemnly watching a couple ride a motorcycle into the chapel. To Frances, those two buildings summed up downtown Las Vegas—glitz, business and tough times.

At the end of the block, she pulled into Fortier’s lot and parked. After patting the inside pocket of her jacket to confirm the presence of the replica brooch, she exited the car.

The winds were picking up, but brooding clouds still hovered, as though unsure whether to take action or not. February forecasts were like crapshoots in Sin City—if the weather report called for fair skies, it might snow.

Heading toward the silver-tinted jewelry-store windows, she spied Enzo Fortier’s Bentley, one of the inheritances from his late father, Alain Fortier. Enzo’s siblings were angry their father had given the bulk of his estate, including the Bentley and jewelry store, to his youngest son, Enzo. The ongoing family drama, with its litigation, accusations of extortion, fraud and theft, had left Enzo distracted and vulnerable to criminals.

That was what she and Charlie believed, anyway. The person who stole the Lady Melbourne brooch had taken advantage of Enzo’s distraction to fence the pin. Not that Enzo was innocent—he had to know he was receiving stolen goods, but was probably too frightened to say no.

Whatever the situation, Charlie had tapped her for this case because she knew about Georgian jewelry. Being a woman didn’t hurt, either, he’d said, because Enzo had a roving eye.

So one reason Charlie had picked her for this case was because she was pretty enough to attract Enzo’s attention.

Not much of a compliment, really, as it was her artifice, not her, that would attract him. Not to say she wasn’t proud of her skill applying silicone gel and concealer. Sometimes she even wondered if she could market this talent, help other people struggling with facial scars.

And then sometimes, usually late at night when she’d run out of distractions, she wondered if any man could ever accept...touch...kiss the imperfection that lay beneath.

Stepping inside the jewelry store, she smiled pleasantly at the middle-aged security guard stuffed into a blue uniform accessorized with a shiny gold A-1 Security badge and gun holster.

She noted the surveillance camera in the ceiling to her right, which recorded her five-nine height—five-seven without the heels—as she strolled past the height ruler tacked on the inside of the entrance door.

A skinny middle-aged man in an Armani suit approached her. Despite his dazzlingly white smile, apprehension clung to him like a fog.

“Welcome. May I help you? I am the owner, Enzo Fortier,” he said in a thick French accent, bowing slightly.

“Elise Crayton.” On undercover cases, she always offered a name that couldn’t easily be spelled. She absently adjusted one of her earrings, drawing his gaze to it.

“Exquisite,” he said approvingly. “Antique, yes?”

“Georgian,” she said casually, dropping her hand. “My favorite style.”

“Oh, yes,” he said, his face lighting up, “I just happen to have several Georgian pieces available.” With a flourish, he gestured toward the back of the room. “This way, madame.” He paused. “Or is it mademoiselle?”

“Mademoiselle,” she murmured, letting her gaze lock with his for the briefest of moments, giving the illusion she just might be interested in him, too.

Nothing was more powerful, or more real, in life than the illusions people put forth. She guessed people didn’t have the time, or inclination, to dig deeper, so they accepted whatever was presented on the surface.

Maybe because she was a magician’s daughter, she understood that the best illusions were the result of weeks, often months, of practice, so she tried never to be overconfident in her own first impressions of others.

Moments later, she sat on a cushioned bench, eyeing a sparkling earring set and the Lady Melbourne brooch in the glass display case. As far as she knew, only the brooch had been taken from the museum. Later, she’d describe the earrings to Charlie, see if they could dredge up information about whether those had been stolen, too.

“What a lovely pin,” she said. “May I see it?”

“Absolument.”

As he retrieved the brooch from the case, she pretended to fix her hair while scanning the layout of the surveillance cameras. The closest one, in the ceiling almost directly overhead, captured a tight view of the two of them and this case. Another camera, positioned farther back in the ceiling to her left, recorded a long-range view of the back area of the store.

Fortier gingerly laid the piece of jewelry on a black velvet tray.

“Fourteen-karat yellow-gold pin stem,” he said. “The center diamond is two carats, and the petals are covered with...one hundred and twenty diamonds.”

Actually, there were one hundred and fifty diamonds, which was probably why he hesitated. He either hadn’t done his homework or he’d forgotten whatever information the thief had provided.

He also hadn’t mentioned that each stone had been mine-cut, one of the last hand-cut diamonds before the age of machinery took over. Although sometimes lumpy in shape, mine-cut diamonds reflected their natural shape, making each truly unique. A significant point to collectors.

“May I see the backing of the brooch?” She slid off an earring. “I’d like to compare it to the backing on this....”

As she handed him the earring, it dropped with a soft fomp onto the black velvet.

“Oh, pardon!”

He stood, his features pinched with worry. As he carefully lifted the earring, she leaned forward, angling her right shoulder toward the nearest camera. Her right hand slid into her left jacket pocket as the left plucked the Lady Melbourne brooch. The switch was complete within a few seconds.

Enzo, still examining the earring, murmured, “I do not see any damage.”

She had purposefully let it fall on the velvet tray so it would land safely. Nevertheless, she frowned with concern.

“Thank goodness,” she murmured. “So clumsy of me.”

“No, mademoiselle,” he said, returning it to her, “it is I who should have been more watchful. If you see a problem, you must bring it back and we shall repair it, at no cost, of course.”

“Thank you.” She slipped it back onto her ear.

“Even if you don’t find a problem,” he said, lowering his voice, “bring it back on your beautiful ear, and we shall take it out to a late lunch.”

She smiled coyly. “How late?”

The look in his eyes darkened. “As late as you’d like.”

She glanced at the brooch, back at him. “Maybe we can take the brooch to this late lunch, too.”

He laughed uncomfortably. “I don’t take my jewelry out to lunch or anywhere else.”

“You think I’d steal it?”

He stared at her for a moment. “No, of course not. But someone else might.”

“I was joking about taking it out,” she said offhandedly, “but I am curious....” She inched her hand across the glass counter, her fingers almost touching his. “Where did you find this exquisite pin?”

He glanced at her hand. “A collector.”

“Did he give you those Georgian earrings, too?”

“Yes.”

So the “collector” was a man. Since the brooch had been stolen in Amsterdam, she asked, “A European collector, perhaps? Because I know a gentleman in Brussels who has an impressive Georgian collection.... Maybe we know the same person.”

“No. Not Brussels.”

One look at his wary expression and she knew he wouldn’t say more. Switching gears, she returned to a safer topic.

“So, is the backing on my earring the same as—”

Releasing a pent-up breath, Enzo picked up the flower brooch and turned it over. “This foil backing is similar to your earring, yes.”

“How much for the pin?”

“Thirty-seven thousand.”

Ten years ago, it had been valued at fifty. Which made it easily worth seventy or more today. He also hadn’t referred to it as the Lady Melbourne brooch or mentioned its history. According to legend, it had been a gift from Queen Charlotte to Lady Melbourne, one of her ladies-in-waiting.

He obviously wanted to sell it, fast. Maybe he had been promised a cut.

“Let me think it over,” she said pleasantly.

He gave her his card, and she left the store, smiling at the security guard on her way out.

As she drove out of the lot, she lightly touched the Lady Melbourne brooch, safely tucked into her inside jacket pocket. The replica now lay in its place at Fortier’s, and unless his “collector” acquaintance checked it closely, no one would know about the switch. That was, until she, or maybe Charlie, returned to interview Enzo about his role in fencing the brooch. Depending on when, or if, she found the master thief, which could take days or weeks. Maybe months. Investigations always had their own timeline, based as much on the investigator’s skill as patience.

Driving down the street, she saw the duplex ahead to her right. The young girl still sat on the porch steps, her eyes glued to the wedding chapel next door.

Frances pulled over and parked. Opening her clutch, she retrieved a bill that she’d tucked away a week or so earlier. Years ago, someone had given her such a gift. Now that she made a good income, she liked to give back in the same quiet way.

The girl’s dark eyes widened with curiosity as Frances walked briskly up the cracked concrete walkway. The youngster scanned her linen pantsuit, all the way down to her Dolce & Gabbana heels, then raised her eyes to the glittering earrings.

Frances paused at the bottom of the steps and looked at the pile of old car parts stacked in a corner of the worn wooden porch, the bent metal frame of the screen door. They reminded her of a similar building she had lived in nearly twenty ago, and how for a few weeks she and her parents had spent their evenings in the dark because of an unpaid electric bill.

Not total darkness, though, because her dad lightened their moods, literally, with magic tricks. He’d light candles with a wave of his hand, make lightbulbs glow with a touch of his finger. She and her mom had seen the tricks dozens of times, knew the secrets behind the maneuvers, but they had laughed and clapped as though experiencing them for the first time.