Sleepless in Las Vegas. Colleen Collins

She paused. “What are you pointing at?”

      “That photo over the register. My dad was the original owner’s best friend, and a lifetime member of the Blottos who still hang out here most afternoons. If somebody wanted to learn facts about my father, all they’d have to do was buy one of those regulars a drink.”

      “I don’t know any facts.” She looked at the photo. “He must be the gentleman on the right. The other one is too old.”

      He said nothing.

      After several beats, she said quietly, “You’re right. Those pulsations likely were your phone on vibrate. Sometimes I think I’m picking up on vibes, but...” She gave a one-shouldered shrug. “My nanny, though, she had the gift.”

      “I don’t care if there’s a radio frequency scanner embedded in your skull, you have no right pretending to know Benedict Morgan.”

      His brother had his issues, but Brax would never stoop so low as to fabricate a story involving their father. This evening was getting weirder by the minute. Time to go home, grab some shut-eye before his three a.m. return to Topaz.

      He stood, retrieved his wallet from his pocket.

      “Please, sir,” she whispered, “it was just a...funny coincidence.”

      He turned away as he leafed through the money in his billfold. At least with his back to her, she’d get the hint their exchange was over.

      “You got me wrong,” she continued.

      So much for that theory.

      “I sat next to you because I liked you. I walked in here and I thought, ‘Wow, that’s one good-looking guy. Sharp dresser, too.’ Maybe we could talk, get to know each other, but then your phone dropped...”

      He turned so abruptly she jumped. “Let’s end this nonsense now,” he said in a low rumble. “You claim nobody sent you, fine. You call that...other part...a funny coincidence, okay. I halfway believe you because nobody in their right mind would hire a flake to put some mental muscle on me. But you can’t fool me about the rest of your performance. I’m not buying, sister, so sell it elsewhere.”

      “Sell?” She actually looked affronted. “You think I’m...a hooker?”

      “I’m giving you two pieces of advice. That ingénue act might work on out-of-towners who’ve never been to the big city, but don’t test-drive it on the locals, baby. And the next time somebody asks your name, don’t pick one off a bottle, Remy.” He snorted a laugh. “I suppose your last name’s Martin.”

      Another guilty look. “F’true, you got me there. But you’re wrong about the rest. I’m not selling anything.”

      “Right,” he muttered, “and I’m Mickey Mouse.”

      Sally appeared, set the cola in front of the girl.

      He tugged loose a five and handed it to Sally. “Keep the change.”

      “Going home?” She slipped the bill into the tip jar.

      He nodded. “Time to take my dog for a walk.”

      “Don’t be a stranger.” She pulled out her cell phone and headed down the bar.

      He didn’t look at “Remy” as he plucked his jacket off the high back of the stool. Folding it over his arm, he headed to the door as the music swelled and Frank warbled a long, long note that faded to nothing.

      Drake stepped outside, and the heat hit him like a blast furnace. He wondered when he’d last taken a breath that didn’t smell like exhaust and warm asphalt.

      Looking up at the night sky, he picked out the Big Dipper. When he was a kid, the skies had been cleaner, the stars brighter. But like everything else in life, things changed.

      He was tired of change. It demanded too much and left too little. Never understood why people liked to say “embrace change,” as though it was fun, like wrapping your arms around the waist of some hot babe on a Harley, the two of you streaking toward some exhilarating destination. Change was more like sitting in the back of a taxi with some hard-nosed cabbie who drove recklessly, padded the fare and dumped you at the wrong address.

      That was the problem with being a practical man. You knew life was no easy ride.

      Sometimes, though, he envied the dreamers of the world, wondered what it was like to hope. To believe without the benefit of physical evidence. Staring at the stars again, he wished he could trust that something lay beyond life’s closed door, because he sure as hell couldn’t find the answers here.

      He walked across the parking lot to the darkened kiosk, brushed off the seat of an abandoned stool and laid his jacket neatly over it. Rolling up a shirt sleeve, he watched the traffic along Las Vegas Boulevard. Cars, trucks and those life-changing taxis streamed past, filling the night with scraps of laughter, music and the occasional horn blast.

      He scanned Topaz’s parking lot. No yellow Porsche parked in its regular spot. No black Mercedes, either, but it could be parked in a section not visible from here. He’d walk through the lot on his way to his truck, see what was there.

      Fighting a yawn, he rolled up his other sleeve. He felt drained. Time to close the lid on today’s troubles, go home, walk his dog, then get some rest.

      Click click click.

      “Hello, sir?” called out a too-familiar female voice.

      So much for closing that lid.

      CHAPTER THREE

      VAL SLOWED HER steps as she approached the darkened kiosk. The overhang cast a deep shadow around the building, making it difficult to see what or who was there, but from Dino’s window she had seen Drake stop somewhere around here.

      “Hello, you there?” She squinted into the gloom.

      “If I told you I wasn’t, would you go away?”

      She huffed a breath. “Good thing that bad mood of yours isn’t luggage or it’d be too heavy to carry.”

      “You came out here to tell me that?”

      “No. You forgot your phone.” She thrust out her hand, more than ready to give it up. Whatever pulsations she had felt, or thought she felt, were gone.

      “You want me to come to you?”

      “Mercy, must everything be an issue?” Silence. “Yes, I want you to come to me.”

      “Why? Afraid I’ll bite?”

      “Yes. But I have to warn you, I bite back.”

      She swiped a bead of sweat off her hairline. This damn wig was too tight, too hot. And these fishnet stockings made her legs itch something fierce. They never bothered her when she’d worn them at her old job, but that was indoors with plenty of air-conditioning, not outside where temps were pushing a hundred. Honestly, she could almost feel the steam rising from the pavement, even at this time of night.

      She debated whether to set the damn phone on the ground and leave, but she didn’t want to fail at this. F’sure, she’d told Marta there were no guarantees to the honey trap, but what if Drake, her fiancé, told her about the weird hooker who claimed she felt pulsations through his phone, channeled his father, then stalked him into the parking lot? Hardly the techniques of a seasoned, knowledgeable private eye.

      Marta would demand back every cent of the retainer.

      Val would not let that happen. She had to suck it up, figure out how to salvage this mess. She and Grumpy were here now, alone. Which meant she had one more chance to sweeten the honey trap.

      “You’re right, I’m a girl for sale.” Technically, she sold her investigator services, so that was true. “But I played the wrong man. You’re too smart, too hip to fall for this silly costume and come-on. I apologize.”

      Her