1

Her bloody finger left a translucent smear on the phone screen as she glanced through the list of private investigators in Vegas. There were more than she’d imagined. Most had important-sounding names like Blackman Private Investigation or United Investigative Services. Big firms. Not what she was after. Her stained nail came to rest on Sin City Investigations. She tapped the link for the web page.

It was sparse—only two pages. One was a long list of qualifications. The other was his contact info. One cell phone number and one email meant a one-man operation. How corporate could a guy named Jim Bean be? She pictured a string-bean thin man with glasses and a crooked tie. Perfect.

She tapped the number, cleared her throat. The phone rang.

“Bean.” The voice was deep and breathy, but not gruff.

“Hello, Mr. Bean. My name is Cynthia Hodge. I’m looking for an investigator to help me track down my brother.”

She paused, but he didn’t immediately speak.

She continued. “He’s been missing for several months. He took off with most of my mother’s nest egg. You know the type.”

“Drugs?” More labored breathing. He was doing something.

“Have I caught you at a bad time?” She was ready to get on with the plan. She didn’t have time for his drama.

“In the middle of something.” Somewhere in the background a man groaned and then came the scratching, rustling sounds of a struggle. “Hold on just a moment, Ms. Hodge.” A loud noise pierced her ear as the phone clattered to the ground. The definite sound of a punch, that smacking of skin on skin, possibly the crack of bones snapping. There was a grunt, then a second of silence. Visualizing the scenario made her pulse jump again. Maybe this Bean guy had more mettle than his name gave on.

“Are you okay?”

“Fine. Just needed to get someone’s attention.”

“Do I need to call you another time?” Not that she would. There were plenty more PIs in the area.

“How long since you’ve seen your brother?”

She wanted to tell him the truth. That it’d been seven long years since she’d seen Dan. It almost slipped out, but she managed to catch the words on her tongue. She wasn’t sure how long one would go without searching for a missing sibling. Seven years seemed too long. “Almost two years for me. Mother, a few months back.”

“What makes you think he’s in Vegas?”

“I’m not sure he is. He’s been here before, staying with some card players for months on end. But I can’t find him this time. I need to see if he has any of the money left. To confront him. Try to talk him into rehab or something. My father’s passed. My mom’s heartbroken and not able to pay her bills. Knowing Dan stole her money is killing her. She’s not so strong these days. I need your help, Mr. Bean.” She tried for tears. None came. She thought she managed the appropriate amount of despair in her voice.

“It’s a hundred an hour, plus expenses. If any experts need to be brought in, they get their own fee on top of mine. Finding druggies can be slow. Expensive.”

He was direct. Unconcerned with her mental state. She had chosen wisely. Jim Bean would serve her well. “I have the resources to make payment.”

“Five thousand up front to get me started.”

“That’s fine.”

“This is a Vegas number. You live here?”

“I do now, yes.”

“You know the Coffee Girl diner?” He didn’t give her a chance to answer. “Meet me there at nine a.m. with the retainer. Cash or credit only. No checks. No Discover cards.”

Yes. He would do nicely. “Tomorrow, Mr. Bean.”

“Nine a.m.”

The phone chirped that the call had been ended. She took a cigarette out of her pack. Lit it with a match from a book she’d taken from the dive hotel she’d been forced to endure for the last two months. She blew out the flame. Let the burnt cardboard stick go, watched it flutter, the smoke leaving a crooked path to the floor. It landed next to the dead woman at her feet. Pooled blood was darkening under her head. Her once perfectly coiffed blond bun was now a bloody red mess.

“Did I sound like you, Ms. Hodge?” she asked the corpse and felt obliged to give it a moment in case there was a response. There was none. She shrugged and tucked Cynthia Hodge’s phone in her own pocket. “Let’s see if this guy can find your brother.”

Don’t get cocky.

Her own voice, young and angry, echoed in her head. Condescending. Always judging. Sophie Ryan Evers blew out a large puff of smoke. “Quit your worrying.”

If Sophie was the type of woman who giggled, she would now.