Sin on the Strip Read Free

don’t mind?” He kept his tone even, friendly.
    â€œAre you a detective?” she asked.
    â€œNo, ma’am, private investigator.” The muscles in his back twitched, his shirt beginning to cling to his damp spine. Noticing she still blocked her face from the sun, he said, “Why don’t we go somewhere else, less bright?” Marring that delicate skin with a sunburn would be a sin.
    â€œI don’t talk to PIs.” She glared at Cooper, a spark of panic in her eyes. “Horace?”
    â€œI won’t keep you long,” Christian offered, curious what had made her suddenly nervous. Like it or not, he needed her cooperation to find the missing pieces. Regardless of what the feds thought, this was the killer he’d spent his screwed-up childhood wishing dead, and most of his career trying to make sure that happened. Yes, twenty-five years was a long time, and professionally he had to admit there was a slight chance he was wrong. But his gut told him the MOs were too alike to be coincidental. Something had put this scum on hiatus, but he was back.
    â€œDon’t worry,” the lieutenant replied, squeezing her hand. “It’s not what you think.”
    What exactly had gotten her panties all knotted up?
    â€œHe works for ICU,” explained Cooper. “Look, let’s all go to the coffee shop down the street.”
    The public knew Ryan Sheppard’s Investigative Collection Unit as an elite organization for hire for those with money. Sheppard’s private investigators were some of the best in the country, if not the world. The public also knew Sheppard as an entrepreneur and playboy jet setter. What they didn’t know could fill a wing in the New York Public Library.
    She didn’t look happy but walked with Cooper to her car.
    â€œWell, well,” he muttered. Why did it surprise him to find out Pollyanna drove an Alfa Romeo Deutto? It seemed running a strip club paid well. Was there more behind Ms. Anderson and Heart’s Desire than a run-of-the-mill club? Glancing over at the sweet red sports car, he figured much, much more.
    Â 
    Maggie clutched the steering wheel, her heart at last beating an even cadence. Why would a private investigator want to talk to her?
    Horace knew investigators made her nervous. She should have asked more questions, instead of freaking out. Who hired him? Did he know who she was? Her attention had to stay focused on Heather’s death and her responsibility to the other women. His snooping was an unwelcome distraction.
    The first to arrive at the coffee shop, she waited for Horace. Mr. Beck had caught the red light, so time was short. “Talk. Who is this guy?”
    â€œI don’t have all the details, but the captain believes he can be a benefit to this case. As long as he doesn’t break the law, I have to play nice,” he said, gritting his teeth. “Besides,” he admitted, “ICU is a top-notch agency with offices all over the world. They’ve been able to do what others couldn’t.”
    She guessed they were too expensive for Joe Shmoe. “That means someone who wanted her cheating husband followed, taped and put on television wouldn’t hire them?”
    â€œRight,” he said, failing to hide a grin. “As far as I know, your father doesn’t figure into this. I’ll let Beck explain the rest. Let’s go inside.”
    So no one was using her to get to her father? Tarnishing his reputation would be big news that would sell a lot of papers. And ruin all her efforts at the club. She’d be a magnet for wannabe starlets, women who would use the publicity Heart’s Desire would draw to get their names in the paper, not girls who needed her help.
    Through the large store window, she saw the PI park his Nissan Maxima. Horace showed her to an oversized armchair in a secluded corner, then headed for the front counter. Mr. Beck strode in just as Horace passed her