1
Ryan
The light was playing tricks on me.
The golden haze of the late-afternoon sun, and its halo glow around her, was some kind of illusion. No way, no how was it possible for anyone to be so gorgeous that she actually shimmered.
Mirage was the more plausible explanation for the platinum blonde stepping out of the Aston Martin at three o’clock in the afternoon on a Thursday in July, looking as if she belonged in a gangster movie. She was the woman they all fought over. The woman who brought the men to their knees.
From the pinup dress, to the pouty lips, to the gleaming car that stretched a city block—or so it seemed—she was . . .
Glamorous. Sultry. Voluptuous.
My fantasy woman.
No question about it.
I stared shamelessly over the top of my aviator shades as I walked along the palm-tree-lined sidewalk that framed police headquarters, cycling through the right icebreaker for a woman like that. A woman who wore a black dress with a cherry pattern and bright white sunglasses—busty and bold enough to roll up to the Las Vegas Municipal Court building at midday looking like sin come to life.
With one hand on the car door, she glanced to the left, away from me, and pushed her sunglasses on top of her head. In her other hand, she held a phone, a notepad, and a pen. She bumped her rear against the car door, shutting it with her ass.
What a lucky car door.
I half wished she’d drop the pen, so I could swoop in and pick it up. Bend down, grab it before it rattled to the street, and gallantly present it.
Then I’d get her number with that pen. She’d be the type to push up the cuff of my shirtsleeve and write it on my arm.
Checking my watch, I saw I had two minutes to spare before I met with the detective. I could do this. I could meet her in 120 seconds.
The sun pelted its hot desert rays at me, radiating off the sidewalks, as I ran a hand along my green tie and cleared my throat. I looked up from my phone, and instantly we locked eyes. Hers were blue like the sea. As she caught my gaze, she arched an eyebrow.
This was it. No time for lines. Just talk to the woman. “Seems I’ve been caught staring,” I said as I reached her.
“I’m afraid I’m guilty on that count too,” she fired back, her voice laced with a torch-singer sultriness, her words telling me to keep going.
She twirled the pen in her hand absently.
I tipped my forehead toward it, figuring this was indeed the best entrée. “Incidentally, I’m astonishingly good at picking up pens that beautiful women drop outside our fine city’s government buildings.”
Her lips twitched. Red. Cherry red and full. I wanted to know what they tasted like.
She brought the pen to her lips, danced it between them, raised her eyebrows in an invitation, and then let it fall. It clattered to the sidewalk. “Is that so?”
The pen was like a promise. Of something more. Of flirting, and then flirting back. Of phone numbers to follow. And then some.
“That is so,” I said in a firm voice, bending down to pick up the writing implement, just as Sinatra’s “Fly Me to the Moon” crooned from her phone. I rose, and she was tapping her screen, sliding her thumb across it.
“Must answer this. But thank you so much for rescuing my pen. By the way, I like your tie.” She reached out to trail a finger down the silky fabric, her hand terribly close to my chest. Then she held up that finger, asking me to wait.
“So good to hear from you,” she said into the phone, keeping her eyes on me the whole time. “I can’t wait to see you tonight at the gala at Aria,” she said, arching an eyebrow at me as she emphasized that last word. “It’s going to be a fabulous event, and we’ll raise so much money. My only hope is there will be some gorgeous man there in a green tie who can afford a last-minute ticket.”
I shot her a grin—a lopsided smile that said yes, the man in the green tie could absolutely afford a ticket.
I nodded my RSVP to the gala. She waved goodbye and walked down the street.
Suddenly, I had plans that night.
Was everyone I encountered today hired from central casting? If there was a dress code for police detectives, rule number one must be “Thou shalt not tightly knot a tie.” John Winston had taken that to heart and was sporting the slightly-loosened look, as if he’d been tugging on his navy tie all day, frustration increasing as he questioned belligerent suspects. The other hallmarks of the job were straight out of Hollywood too, from the striped button-down with the cuffs rolled up to the paper cup of deli coffee on the desk in his office. Even the stubble seemed to have been custom ordered to fit the part of a homicide detective.
Funny how people could look like their jobs. Briefly, I wondered if the blonde was a movie star. I wouldn’t be surprised.
“Thanks for coming in,” Winston said, shutting the door behind him. Glass windows looked out over the rest of the department and a sea of half-empty desks. I wasn’t sure if that meant business was good or bad in homicide. “Have a seat.” The man gestured to a frayed brown office chair. “Ordinarily, I’d chat with you in a witness room, but they’re all full right now.”
So it was a busy day here.
“This works fine for me. What can I do for you?” I asked as I sat down, eager to glean any details I could about the reopened investigation into my father’s murder eighteen years ago.
Winston had called earlier in the week and asked me to come in to help shed any light on the case that I could, as the victim’s son and all. I was flying solo here today. There was no need to bring a lawyer along just for routine questioning—that would make it look as if I had something to hide. I did have something to hide, but not the sort of thing that would help solve the mystery of my father’s death, and the vault in my brain was going to stay locked tight. That had been sealed for eighteen years, and no crowbar would get it open, so I wasn’t worried.
I was, however, damn curious. I wanted to know what Winston knew about my family. About my mother in prison. About my father, six feet under. I quickly scanned the detective’s desk for any clue as to who John Winston was—a family photo, pictures of the detective with his kid, maybe even some sports memorabilia. But there were no telltale signs, save for an autographed baseball in a plastic case amid a neat desk covered only with newspapers and a stack of manila folders.
The detective grabbed the chair opposite me. “I appreciate you coming in,” Winston said, as he held up a digital recorder. “I’m going to record this. Standard procedure whenever we talk to someone.” I nodded as Winston set the recorder on his desk. “I’m hoping you might be able to answer a few questions that could help us with the investigation. We’re going to be talking to a lot of people, and I want you to feel free to speak about what you know of your parents. And I’d like to keep what’s said just between us.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” I said, shooting him a smile. See? Nothing to hide. “You’ve got us all curious. Not gonna lie—we were pretty damn surprised when you showed up at my grandma’s house and told us the case was being reopened. Last thing I expected to hear. What have you got?”
My mother was doing hard time for the shooting. She’d gone to trial quickly for murder for hire, along with the gunman, and both were behind bars for life. After eighteen years, why had a closed case gotten hot again?