Sheila Miller was an attractive woman in her mid-fifties. She’d taken good care of herself—something to be admired in someone who’d spent thirty years dealing cards on Las Vegas Boulevard.
“Can I get you anything?” she asked, showing him into the tastefully decorated kitchen of her condominium. “Coffee? Or something stronger?”
“Coffee would be great, if you’ve got any,” he said, dropping into the chair she’d offered.
“It’ll only take a second.” She was obviously very comfortable in her kitchen and had coffee brewing in a matter of seconds.
“I’m sorry I called so late,” she told him, sitting down while she waited for the coffee. “I was on until eleven.”
“No problem,” Luke said, glancing at his watch. “I was out, anyway.” It was almost midnight. Another couple of minutes and Thursday would begin. Dared he hope it might be a better day than this one had been?
Francesca had completely rejected anything he had to say when she’d left him, not ready to believe that he’d known nothing about the shady side of the Colter Adoption Agency. But he was going to convince her. As soon as he figured out how to nail Amadeo’s ass to a tree…
“When I heard tonight that you’d left the Bonaparte, I knew I had to call you. I’ve been sick for two days, ever since Arnold was taken to jail. That last win was my fault. He’d already decided to stop. He said things were getting risky and he’d gotten what he came for, but then he found out I was in debt up to my eyebrows and he offered to make one more play. Just enough so I wouldn’t lose everything…”
He was tired. Really needed that coffee. He made an effort to understand. “This last win, at Arnold’s table. You were somehow going to benefit?”
She nodded. “He was giving me his cut. The thing is, Mr. Everson, what he did was wrong. I know that. He knows that. They’re trying to pin over a million dollars on him. They’ve already set bond at half that. If this sticks, he’s looking at five to ten years in prison. And I don’t think he even cares about that as long as the end result takes Esposito down, too.”
Luke shook his head. He’d once been known for his mental sharpness. Had it deserted him without his knowing? “Why?”
“Do you remember a few years ago when the papers were filled with the death of that girl out in the desert?”
“Of course. No one who was around here at the time will ever forget. Or get over the unease of knowing her killer was never caught.” He frowned. “But what on earth does this have to do with Arnold Jackson?”
“He was the girl’s father.”
Holy shit. The news cut through him. “Are you sure?”
Sheila nodded. Looked away as her eyes filled with tears.
Even disillusioned and angry with the man, Luke could feel for his friend. And as terrible as he felt, it couldn’t be anything compared to what Jackson lived with himself. Probably every minute of every day.
That initial shock took a few minutes for him to cope with. Sheila got up. Poured the coffee.
And then his brain kicked into gear. A young girl. Connected to the girls at Guido’s. Who, according to Francesca, were all “employees” of the Colter Adoption Agency. Practically indentured servants, who lived in fear.
Victims.
He sipped coffee. Needed alcohol.
“Esposito was behind it.”
It didn’t take Sheila’s nod to kill the vulnerable child still inside Luke. The boy who’d trusted and loved his godfather…
The nod just clinched things. Beyond the shadow of a doubt.
She leaned forward. “Arnold has papers on Esposito, Mr. Everson. Enough to send him to prison forever if he can get anyone to look at them. And fill in the blanks…”
The only reason Francesca got up when there was a knock on her door at two o’clock Thursday morning was that she thought it might be Autumn. One look at Luke’s weary face through the peephole and she cracked the door open, anyway.
She didn’t like him. Didn’t trust him. Didn’t want to see him again. And didn’t know how not to love him.
“I’m sorry it’s so late, but this is something you’re going to want to hear.”
She pulled on some sweats, took off the chain lock and let him in.
“So the girl found dead in the desert was Arnold’s daughter?” she asked half an hour later, still not sure she wasn’t having the most fantastical nightmare.
Luke nodded. “He and his wife were divorced—mostly because of him—and his daughter, who’d pretty much hated him by then, had taken his ex-wife’s maiden name. Seems Arnold was an investigator for the state of Arizona. He was trained as a cop, but worked in the state’s district attorney’s office investigating white-collar crime. There’s not a whole lot of money in government work—at least at that level—so anyone who’s in it is there because he believes pretty strongly in what he’s doing.”
It wasn’t hard for Francesca to picture the dealer as a state investigator. That was much easier to imagine than the switch from dealer to crook.
She sat on the edge of her bed, her knees directly across from Luke’s, his position mirroring hers on the opposite bed.
“According to his girlfriend, Arnold blames his divorce and his daughter’s eventual running away on his own inflexibility. He saw so much crap in his job that he went overboard trying to keep it out of his home. His expectations were unrealistically high. He says, looking back, no one could have survived living that way.”
“You have to feel sorry for the guy.” Life was a confusing array of mistakes. There were fathers who didn’t love enough but never paid for that. And fathers who loved too much and paid all their lives.
“Anyway, after Mary’s death, Arnold hired a detective, who unearthed enough information to prove that Biamonte was somehow involved. Sheila said that when Esposito got wind of what was happening, he offered to pay off Jackson’s ex-wife, just to avoid the bad press. Or so he said. But what he offered was a pittance.”
“This was before you came back to town?”
Elbows on his knees, head lowered, Luke nodded.
“It was the suggestion of a payout that tipped Jackson off. He’d been dealing with white-collar crime for twenty years and knew a bad smell when he came across it. He did some investigating on his own, and together with his hired man, managed to piece together what was happening at Colter. The detective went to the police—and then suddenly everything disappeared.”
“Damn! He’s one powerful bastard, isn’t he?”
Luke’s gaze was completely serious when it met hers. They were talking about the man who owned her little sister.
“Jackson had leaked information to the papers about the blood on his daughter’s body, and the next thing you know, everyone’s silent about the whole case. It just goes away. No one knew of Jackson’s connection to Mary Samuels. Colter had signed statements from the girl, obviously coerced, about her baby’s paternity—stating that she had no idea who the father was, that she hadn’t even known his name—as well as papers stating her desire to give up her baby for adoption. So the way it looked was that Colter had been supporting a young girl in need, clothing her, housing her, keeping her healthy. They came out looking like God incarnate.”
“Except that she was a runaway minor and they didn’t send her home.”
“She had ID saying she was twenty-one.”
Of course.
“So these hits were a way for Arnold to get back at Esposito?”
“In part, I’m sure. He’d spent a lifetime investigating money crimes. If anyone was going to know how to move money without its being noted, it would be him.”
“You mean he stashed the money? To use it afterward?”
“Exactly.”
“So he’s got it all put away someplace?”
Luke shook his head. “Revenge was only part of it. If at all. His real motivation was his ex-wife. When they finally heard what had happened to their daughter, after more than a year of searching for her, his wife had a mental breakdown. Because of the responsibility he felt about everything, he took her care upon himself. But her medical expenses were far more than he could afford. All her insurance would do was put her in a state-funded home and he couldn’t bear to leave her there. So he spent his life savings getting her set up in an assisted facility and, in his free time, studied blackjack dealing. When he was ready, he hired on at the Bonaparte and slowly worked to gather his organization around him.”
She was so exhausted her eyes felt swollen. And her mind was spinning so fast she wasn’t sure she’d ever sleep again.
“As a trained cop, he knew all about security measures, and after a lot of study, had a fair knowledge of how to get around them. He’d slowly built a network of dealers and scouts to find potential clients for them. All the client had to do was agree to split the win fifty-fifty. The wins never exceeded the amount of a casino check payout. The clients were always picked at random, visitors to town who had no reputation with the casinos. With his tutelage, the scouts—his accomplices—were able to find people who exhibited small signs of criminal tendencies, just enough to ensure the success of their plan.”
“Like counting cards.”
“For starters, although it would’ve had to be a novice, as known card-counters are all on a database and the cameras pick them out as soon as they’re in the casino. I think it was more like a willingness to push the boundary without really stepping over it. They couldn’t use anyone with a record, obviously, or they’d raise suspicions, but they also couldn’t use anyone with too much of a conscience. Sheila didn’t know all the details, only that the winners were chosen more or less scientifically, based on criminal abstracts—studies depicting personality traits necessary for certain actions—and always with extreme care.”
His knee brushed hers. Francesca moved, only slightly, but enough that they continued to touch.
“Once the table was set,” Luke continued, “the dealer would look off in the distance and smile, a move meant to distract anyone else watching—including those studying videotapes—while he looked at the cards coming up in the shoe. After that, it was just a matter of finger positioning to make sure he pulled in the right order. He didn’t need any attention-getting cards. Just needed to be certain that the right player won. The player knew to start playing max bets when the dealer touched himself with his right hand.”
“It sounds so simple.”
Luke nodded. “Simple enough to slide right by all the experts looking for something big.”
“It was genius, really,” Francesca said with a wan smile.
“Right down to the fact that, until this last game, no one suspected him. He’d insinuated himself with me—having found out about my commitment to my mother, he apparently determined that I was sucker enough to fall for it. He used our friendship not only to keep abreast of any investigation, but also to waylay any suspicions I might have.”
Francesca’s heart fell at the self-deprecation she heard in his voice. “You’re not as much of a sucker as he took you for.”
With his head still bowed toward the floor, he glanced up at her. “What do you mean?”
“You hired a private team not even he knew about when he tried to work you on those videotapes.”
Luke smiled, hooked his hand around her neck, pulling gently until they were forehead to forehead. “You’re very good for me,” he said softly.
“We’re too good.”
He nodded and she wasn’t surprised he knew what she meant. They thought alike.
“It could become addictive.”
She swallowed. His nearness was already addictive. “And then I’d want to stay.”
“And I’d want you to.”
“And it would all go to hell in a handbasket.”
“Look at us,” Luke said, his gaze intent as he peered into her eyes. “Deception’s everywhere. It’s all around us. Antonio. Esposito. Jackson. Even Autumn deceived you.”
“Kind of hard to figure out who to trust,” Francesca agreed. “Or even whether to trust.”
“I’m not a man who can handle being tied down.”
“And I’m a woman who needs my freedom.”
He sighed, brushed her lips with his. “Can we forget all these difficult questions about trust and freedom, just for tonight?”
“So we can crawl into bed and get some sleep?”
“You read my mind.”
Five minutes later, curled up to Luke Everson’s chest, one leg thrown over his, Francesca fell asleep.
She woke abruptly to the insistent ringing of her cell phone. She wasn’t sure how many times the caller had dialed, but suspected it had been more than once.
“Hello?”
“Francesca? It’s Matt.”
“Matt?”
Oh, God, no. Completely separating herself from Luke, who was sitting up beside her, Francesca stood. “What?”
“You need to come to the hospital.” He named the same one they’d visited what seemed like a lifetime ago.
“It’s Autumn, isn’t it? What happened? Did she lose the baby? Is she okay?”
When he’d heard about Autumn’s situation, the young man had cried, more for her than for himself. And he’d promised Autumn that they’d find a way to keep her baby and raise him themselves.
“I don’t know.” Matt was distraught. “I’m not family, so they won’t tell me anything.”
“Did she call you?”
“No,” Matt said. “I’m sorry, Francesca, but I couldn’t sit back and allow them to do this to her. She wanted to run away and I wasn’t going to let her leave without me.”
“What happened?”
“I picked her up around two in the morning. She had a bag packed and was waiting for me. We walked the couple of blocks to my car and I got her out of town as fast as I could.”
This was taking far too long. Luke was already getting dressed. She could feel his intent stare. And his strength.
Thank God he was there.
“What happened?” she asked again. She didn’t mean to snap. Hoped he was too upset to notice.
“I wish I could tell you, but I’m just not sure. One minute we’re on the highway heading toward Hoover Dam by ourselves, not another car in sight, and all of a sudden, there’s this car trying to run me over the edge. Somehow I managed to keep us on the road, and then the next thing I knew, I was lying on the side with a trucker standing over me and Autumn was lying a few feet away.”
“How are you?” she asked. Her tongue felt glued to the roof of her mouth. Luke held up his keys, pointed toward the door.
“A broken wrist and some scrapes and bruises.”
“And Autumn?”
“I don’t know.” He started to cry. “All they’ll tell me is that she’s alive.”
“Okay, you stay put,” Francesca said, pulling on her sweats and sliding her feet into a pair of shoes, all with the phone still held to her ear as she followed Luke out the door. “We’re on our way. Just keep talking to me.”
“Okay.”
But he didn’t talk. He just sobbed. Francesca tried to think of something to take his mind off the tension created by not knowing if the woman he loved was dying. And to take her mind off the same thing.
“Do you think you were followed from Autumn’s apartment?”
“I didn’t think so.” He sounded like he was about to cry again. “But I’m just a kid, Ms. Witting. What do I know about jerks who kill innocent girls and leave them in the desert to be eaten by animals?”
Autumn lost the baby. And probably the chance to ever have another one. But she was going to live. Matt, having finally been allowed to see her, assured the bruised and battered girl that if she couldn’t have children, they’d just adopt.
With a smile that lit her eyes despite her swollen and discolored face, she told him she’d like that.
“I’m so thankful it’s all over,” she said, with a tired smile for the three people in her room.
Sitting in the far corner, Luke didn’t have the heart to tell them that it was far from over.
If, as he suspected, Amadeo Esposito had been behind Autumn’s “accident,” she was in more danger than ever. In addition to everything else, the casino owner now had a failed murder attempt to cover up.
And Luke had the challenge of his life ahead of him.
“Hi, cara— Oh! Francesca!”
Gasping, Francesca whirled from the bed toward the deep voice behind her. Autumn’s gaze was filled with fear—and a distaste that alerted Luke more than any words could have done. Matt stared at the man in the doorway, clearly confused.
Luke got up and took a step forward, reminding himself that he lived on the right side of the law.
“What are you doing here?” The woman who spoke was Francesca, but the voice wasn’t hers.
“I’m the emergency contact on Autumn’s chart. I flew in as soon as I heard. Frannie, love, I had no idea you were back in—”
“Get out.” Her voice might have been trembling, but there wasn’t even a hint of weakness. “Now.”
The man moved forward. His face gained a hint of confidence when he saw Autumn in the bed.
“But…”
Francesca and Luke stepped toward him at the same time.
“I said get out.”
“You might as well go, Antonio,” Autumn said, her voice weak with fatigue and, at the same time, strangely competent. “She knows everything.”
Luke could have removed the man. Badly wanted to. But the women he’d grown to love were handling things fine on their own. They deserved this chance.
“You have no place here, Antonio. You don’t deserve to breathe the air we breathe. Now, get out before I call Security.”
With a quick glance at Luke, the man shoved both hands in the pockets of dress slacks that were unmistakably silk. “I’ll go for now, but we need to talk, Frannie. I have the right to explain—”
Still exhibiting no sign of weakness, Francesca took another step forward. “You have no rights. Period.” For a woman who’d spent the past couple of hours alternating between crying and sitting virtually comatose as she waited to hear the extent of her sister’s injuries, she was certainly finding an impressive store of strength. “There will be no further conversation, no further contact. I never want to be in the same city with you again if there’s any way I can avoid it.”
Antonio Gillespie obviously didn’t get his walking papers often. The man appeared to be gritting his teeth. “I loved you, Francesca. I really—”
“Get out!” Luke had never heard someone yell so effectively without even raising her voice.
Luke almost grinned when, without another word or even a backward look, the man turned and left.
Someday he’d tell Francesca how proud he was of her.
It all happened so fast, Luke wasn’t sure if he’d been instrumental in making it happen or if fate had finally taken pity on them and guided all the details into place. A police chief had retired since Mary Samuel’s death. Another officer suddenly remembered seeing that case misfiled. Jackson’s detective turned over copies of all the evidence he’d submitted years before. And the truck driver who’d been taking a dangerous shortcut on a lonely stretch of Nevada highway had not only witnessed but prevented what would’ve been the untimely death of two innocent young kids.
Less than twenty-four hours after the accident, Luke accompanied a group of city and state police officers through the back service doors of the Bonaparte resort. Half an hour after that, they escorted a handcuffed Esposito out the same way. There wasn’t a lot of fanfare. No press. Just a spitting old man who’d finally found out that life eventually exacted payment from even the most powerful.
Luke didn’t watch them put the old man in the back of a squad car. It was a sight he had no desire to see. Instead, he found a quiet place in a back hall and called Francesca at the hospital to let her know what had happened.
“I’ve come to realize something, sitting here this past day,” she told him. She sounded weary, but oddly peaceful, as well. Luke envied her that.
“What?” he asked. He could use a realization or two. Anything that would help him make sense of everything that had happened.
“That life is only here and now,” she said, the clarity of her voice traveling through to him. “That we can’t rob the future to pay for the past.”
Smart words. True words. And Luke had absolutely no idea how to transform great philosophy into practical applications. The past always made demands of the future, and sometimes it completely shaped what was to come.