Play Dead: Black Tie Security, #1

By Connie Flynn

Meet Jessica Grayhawke

She once had everything she'd ever dreamed of. A perfect law-enforcement family, a delightful daughter, a husband she adored and who loved her back and, thanks to her father's super tutoring, a cushy job as police chief for a luxurious suburban community.

The huge celebration was held in an equally luxurious hotel. The room had a podium and mic that were well used by all the coworkers, friends, extended family, and anyone else who wanted to poke their head in the room. The praise was wonderful. And she was grateful. Not everybody got to live their dream, especially at such an early age.

Her father, the decorated Sheriff of Las Vegas, waited till near the end to get up with a beaming face and list her achievements, saying how proud he was, how he expected even bigger things from her.

That's when the state police chose to barge in and strong-arm him, handcuffing and publicly arresting him for murder and drug dealing. Outraged and incredulous, his family circled around him, denying any truth to the charges. . . and believing it. Especially Jessica, her husband, and her mother.

Until he was found in Jessica's garage with her pre-school daughter screeching beneath his swaying corpse.

That was before things got really bad.

                                                             

PLAY DEAD is the launch volume of a three book series revolving around Nevada's seamy side and the people who work to keep danger at bay.

Soon to be followed by BAD KARMA and DOUBLE DOWN.

• Language: English
• Publisher: TigerTiger Productions
• Release date: Nov 6, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386644323

Connie Flynn

Connie Flynn writes romance, suspense and fantasy novels, many have hit bestseller lists and garnered awards. She taught creative writing at local community colleges for over ten years and is still involved with teaching as a mentor and content editor. She lives in Arizona and takes pride in being a cross-genre indie author.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

LAS VEGAS: MONACO WEST Resort

Friday 10 a.m.

She once had everything she’d ever dreamed of, today was her chance to get it all  back and redeem her family’s name. The air buzzed with action – voices clashing, luggage caddies rattling, footsteps slapping against the marble floors. Members of her client's entourage paced inside velvet ropes, creating an illusion of safety. Some, however, saw it as confinement, but her security escorts herded them back into place.

Jessica Grayhawke stood near a massive revolving door designed to keep weather and noise out. It didn’t fully succeed. Chilly spring air blew against her ankles and the roar of the picketers outside was poorly muffled.

Although forbidden to hang around entrances, protestors still slipped through, proudly displaying t-shirts that declared SAVE OUR DACA, #ME TOO, CHOOSE LIFE, #BLACK LIVES MATTER until hotel security again escorted them to the designated area in the back parking lot. Respectfully, of course. U.S. Senator Arthur Cohen was hosting this fundraiser as the kinder, expansive candidate and wanted no hint of abuse or bigotry.

All was running smoothly. Or would be if the man Jessica was contracted to protect ever showed up. Assemblyman Bollard was more than a half hour late. After several unanswered phone calls, she sent a text message. She was quite uneasy. Her first escort assignment in over five years, and, right off, she’d lost her client.

It didn't help that the man’s spouse was carrying on a loud conversation with the assemblyman's chief of staff, demanding that someone locate her husband. Getting no immediate response, Mrs. Bollard pulled out a phone. Apparently she hadn’t attended the no-cell-phones briefing or heard the warning to stay unobtrusive. Enter quietly, move quickly, then board the first floor elevators without notice.

Jessica had originally advised the senator to take his people through the back corridors and service elevators. Having twenty-plus bodies milling between velvet cords wasn’t exactly unobtrusive. The Senator dismissed the idea. He wanted Bollard’s entry be catch attention. This was the assemblyman’s big moment and nothing was going to dim it. Now he was walking in her direction, his purpose clear. Where is Assemblyman Bollard?

I have a team member out searching for him. She glanced at her phone, nothing there, so she returned to the Senator. When did you last see him?

At breakfast. Quite a few of our entourage attended. You didn’t see him there?

No, sir. We weren’t on duty yet. 

He scowled. You weren’t? You were supposed to be.

Let me check. She flipped through the documents on her clipboard, found the contract and turned it toward him. It says right here that my team should be in place by nine-thirty. We actually arrived closer to nine because we wanted to do things right.

Well, someone screwed up, missy. Who hired you?

The Las Vegas Metro Police Department, sir. She tapped the signature line. The orders came from one of your staff.

"My staff. He glanced down, paused momentarily then almost visibly readjusted his demeanor. Well, all right then . . . do your best, miss. But hurry. It’s nearly ten o’clock and our agenda’s full."

I will sir. We’re working to find him. We take death threats seriously.

And unfailingly thwart them, I assume.

Unfailingly.

With that, the senator hurried back to the velvet ropes, quickly slipping inside and taking his place near Mrs. Bollard and Bollard’s chief of staff.

Jessica nodded to Greg, then tapped her screen indicating time was moving fast. He nodded back, turned to bring the full security team inside the ropes, the guards dressed in west coast casual to blend in with Bollard's party. The Senator and staff were dressed in formal business wear.

Greg, in casual clothes, sported a tour guide’s cap. Jessica and Trisha were decoys, dressed as closely to Mrs. Bollard's and the assemblyman's assistant as possible, wearing wigs duplicating each woman’s hairstyle. Trisha, in a dirty blond bob, got off easy, but Jessica was stuck with a bouquet of riotous curls that made her scalp itch so bad she wanted to rip it off.

The event was a fundraiser rally for Bollard. Senator Cohen had reserved the luxurious Princess Grace Terrace. As the senior senator from Nevada, he’d served for decades and rumors suggested he might step down, possibly endorse a replacement candidate.

Not long after the rumors surfaced, Assemblyman Bollard started getting death threats. A  week before the scheduled fundraiser, he’d been shot at.

Reputedly shot at.

News reports were spotty and Bollard’s staff refused to confirm. More rumors followed, many implied the threats were publicity stunts.

Other than the need to stay acutely alert, she couldn’t care less whether it was a stunt or the real thing. Her job was keeping the man safe. Hard to do when she couldn’t find him. 

For the third time, she stepped into a cozy alcove, one of many designed to facilitate private phone calls and romantic meetups. Just as she tapped her phone screen Trisha’s raspy static-broken voice came over the comm line. Do you see what just blew through the door?

Jessica turned around, looking toward her plain-clothes team. I hope my eyes are deceiving me. 

In seconds the team elbowed their way toward the broad-shouldered beefy guy, one Percival Timkurt, Chief Deputy of the Las Vegas County Sheriff's Office. He was unquestionably crashing her latest—actually her first–security assignment with Las Vegas Metro Police Department even though he’d been told to stay clear. 

Well he was about to be evicted and as Jessica rushed across the lobby to tell him just that, she saw Assemblyman Bollard strolling behind him.

Why was their client with Percy?

The static between the comms became increasingly garbled.

What the– Greg's responded, instantly cut off when Trisha asked, Why is he–

Don't know, but something's wrong, Jessica snapped. Trisha, round up Mrs. Bollard and the assemblyman’s chief of staff. Escort both women to the terrace. Take a couple of guards with you. Be discreet, but stash that loud-mouth wife of his somewhere she can’t make an even bigger fuss.

Trisha sprang into motion. So did Greg. In typical take charge mode, he was already striding purposely toward Timkurt. Before Jessica could say, Greg . . . don't, he already stood nose to nose with Timkurt. Buzz off, Percy! Black Tie Security is officially in charge here.

Clearly unapologetic, Greg turned to their client. Do you have a death wish, sir? he asked, loud enough to make heads turn throughout the noisy lobby.

Jessica cringed and hurried to meet them, apology at hand. Lord knew it was too late to set the desired tone.

She was practically on them now and could hear through her comm. She'd expected a push-back from Bollard to Greg's rude question. Instead the man  turned to Timkurt. Weren't you told not to wear a uniform Sergeant? Especially one that identifies your rank.

I’m a captain, sir, Timkurt sputtered.

Jessica stepped up. I apologize for the mix-up, gentlemen. She touched Timkurt's epaulet. Wow, he'd gone all out, who was he trying to impress? Good work, deputy. She kept her voice crisp, formal and clear. You're free to go now. Please leave quickly, the assemblyman is quite correct, the plan called for no uniforms so we'll act as if this was a chance encounter.

Greg's scowl disappeared, one appeared on Timkurt's face, who turned to appeal to the assemblyman. B-but, sir–

Greg halted Timkurt with a restraining hand.

Quickly is the operative word, Deputy.

Captain, Timkurt corrected, batting Greg’s hand away, then made a sharp military turn toward the exit.  His tone menacing, he said, Take care, Assemblyman, then stormed out of the building.

Jessica was about to corral Bollard when her comm rattled. Package delivered safe and sound, assured Trisha.

Good work, girl. Now remain on the terrace until we complete our hand-off to Metro PD, she finished, then ended that communication and turned toward Bollard. We took the liberty of securing your wife and staffer in the staging room.

Don't you trust the deputy, ma’am?

His puzzled look begged a solid explanation. Any nonsense about Timkurt being  her worst enemy would not serve. Besides, a preoccupied legislator would hardly be interested in her career woes.

So . . . the stock answer was. It's Black Tie's policy to secure all vulnerable clients when something goes off plan. This was one of those cases. Nothing major. All is good.

And constituents are waiting. He gestured toward their group. Shall we join the Senator?

That's our next step.

As she watched Assemblyman Bollard take his place beside Senator Cohen she felt a flush of accomplishment. Everything was in order. They’d manage to keep the protester’s out, Percival Timkurt had received a comeuppance from the assemblyman, and the troublesome spouse was safe upstairs. After all this time, Black Tie Security had finally carved a place in the personal security world, ready and eager to protect.  She was back . . . or close to it anyway.

At that moment the lead guard came up. The crew’s ready to go.

Give me a second to check my weapons. I’ll meet you at the ropes.

She couldn’t wait to get started but needed to check that her dagger was secured in its ankle sheath and her mini-Glock was fully loaded. Ideally she would need neither.

That settled, she hurried to head of the line and took her place beside the assemblyman, still acting as a surrogate wife, then steered him to the middle of the group. To the public, this was just a group of customers whose tour guide had finally arrived to show them the glories of the Monaco West Hotel and Casino. The biggest  trouble spot was the corner turn from the lobby into the hotel’s famous twenty-four hour buffet, which was always crammed with people. The guards assigned to that corner sent back the all-clear then blended into the buffet crowd. Confident everything was in order, Jessica took her first step to getting this little circus on the road.

So what if the rumored death threats were popularly thought to be publicity stunts? In this day of random mad dog attacks every public figure was at risk. Publicity stunt or not it was her job to make sure he safely made it to the fundraiser alive and unharmed. She intended to do exactly that.

Let’s move to the elevators. she ordered. Don’t anyone linger. 

CHAPTER TWO

LAS VEGAS: MONACO WEST Resort

10 a.m. Ready to march

One of the reasons Jessica had no use for politicians? They felt above the rules. As soon as the line got moving, she impressed on the assemblyman how they had to make steady progress. They weren’t a big group, only thirty-one including the guards, most positioned ahead, but the members of the entourage wouldn’t truly be safe until elevator doors slid closed. Black Tie’s job was to protected them from potential shooters. It shouldn’t be that hard.

Instead of setting the pace, Assemblyman Bollard acted like this was a Sunday stroll, chatting with a tall blond showgirl-type about Nevada’s waters issues. Damn clients for not following instructions. Hadn’t Bollard’s staffers insisted they wanted no visible connection to politics during their two setup meetings? They spent several hours discussing the dangers, particularly emphasizing two major ruled—no political statements on clothing, no getting in or out of line. Although the assemblyman was doing his best, she’d give him that, his gaze kept ricocheting to the very impressive cleavage being showcased by the blonde’s skin-tight racer-back sports bra. Jessica was more concerned with the big block letters stenciled across that rack. RATION NEVADA’S WATER. A hot-hot topic if ever there was one. 

Jessica sidled across the space Bollard had managed to put between the blonde and him and tapped the woman on the shoulder. Excuse me, Ma’am.

The woman practically spun, bumping into Bollard. What?

Your top violates the ban on political statements. I need you to cover it up or step out of line.

Step out. Doesn’t that also break a rule?

Something about that tone triggered Jessica’s inner alarm. She glanced down at her clipboard, seeking a name and a brief description. Nope. No leggy blonde with supersized boobs listed. Her gaze flickered to Bollard. How did she get inside the rope?

Bollard’s lips tightened. She approached just before we started moving, voiced  concerns about our state’s water issues. I'm running for re-election, lady, and am about to get an endorsement from a very powerful senator. I can't play shy with my supporters and she was having to run to keep up so I . . .

Well, I’m sorry, sir, she has to leave.

As she talked, she automatically surveyed the surroundings. Nothing unusual. Just a grandma type coming from the head of the buffet line, hunched over a cane and tapping a path along the inner rope.  One of the guards was already guiding her back to the buffet. What troubled Jessica more was how the blonde had gotten so close to the outer rope.

Instantly, she knew. Nobody was guarding the lobby door. When Jessica asked  Trisha to escort Mrs. Bollard and his staff member upstairs, she should have given instructions to send the guards back to the first floor.

Too late now. From the head of the line, Greg reminded everyone to stay inside the ropes until instructed to board an elevator. He tipped his hat, then capped off their brief journey with a tidbit of Monaco West lore. This attention to detail was one of things Jessica so appreciated about Greg.  Suddenly her  oversight seemed like a no-harm no-foul situation. She smiled.

You think this is funny? The blonde said. I’ll show you funny.

Bollard stepped between them Hey, hey . . . what?

In that instant, the blonde crashed through the velvet rope, knocking over the metal and dragging the ropes to the floor. The remaining stands toppled in both directions, exposing the constituents, who glanced around in confusion.

Greg blew a whistle. The guards righted the stands and guided the outliers back in line, but a far greater threat was the blonde, who’d draped herself around Bollard. At first glance, the woman appeared terrified, but only if one overlooked the garotte she was attempting to wrap around the assemblyman’s neck. 

Dropping her clipboard, Jessica swiped the blonde’s calf with her spike-heeled shoe, causing her to free Bollard so he could swat away the garotte. Jessica whirled, slamming her elbow into the blonde’s head. Blood ran down her leg, her knee buckled. Jessica clamped a hand around Bollard’s wrist, trying to drag him to safety. You’re in danger, sir. I’m taking you straight to a secure elevator.

No, no. My wife, the staffers . . .

Your wife and chief of staff are upstairs. The guards will protect the others. She tugged again. Let’s go!

At this point, the massive lobby was in chaos. Picketers had freely entered, overwhelming Monaco’s security staff. Jessica’s own team members were being drawn into dealing with the protesters. There was nowhere and no one to complain to and her primary job was to protect Bollard. Holding his wrist in a death grip, she fairly dragged him toward the elevators, climbing over fallen ropes and pushing through clusters of disoriented people. Just as she and the assemblyman reached the corner turn, a gunshot blast echoed.

What’s going on? Bollard’s voice wobbled.

Jessica paused to give him a once-over. Here was a man used to being in charge but now he was rattled enough to make him dumb.

Stay here close to the wall, sir. She hoped he would do as told. Easing around the corner, she followed her own advice. What she saw shook her. The granny with the cane was down on one knee. Two of Jessica’s guards had pistols trained on her. Then granny lifted the cane. It went off. One of the guards went down. After several long seconds Jessica caught on.

Granny was a man. The cane was concealing a rifle. The buffets crowds scattered in panic. Some screaming, some pushing. Not far away, someone squealed, this time in joy. Dozens of excited voices joined in. Sirens screamed and lights glared—a slot machine’s triple jackpot about to pay off.

Great, more chaos, which invited mayhem.

Hey! Someone shouted out of nowhere.

Where did it come from!

Watch out!

Jessica twisted toward the voice. No, no, no! A convoy of unmanned food service towers barreled toward the buffet line like race cars on an Indy track. Listing crazily. China plates struck the marble floor, spraying food and glass chips.

The buffet line cracked much like the china, people fled in all directions.

Jessica edged between the rolling carts and fleeing people to protect herself and her client, looking for any path to the elevator corridor. Food, pottery, and cutlery littered the marble floor, creating a slippery path made more so by the bearded granny who was clearly after Bollard. His cane was repeatedly raised, pointed at Bollard, then knocked off target by a stray cart or fleeing patron.

For once chaos was on her side. A clear path to the elevator somehow appeared.  Run, sir! Jessica ordered. Stay low.

You don’t need to tell me twice.

Then go! Jessica shoved Bollard into the corridor, pulled out her Glock, chambered a bullet. Greg! Trisha! Where are you?"

And where were the hotel security people who were instructed to back them up? Oh, yeah, fighting picketers who weren’t supposed to be there.

Greg's voice came over the Comm. We're here, Jessie. He’s frozen. Get him in an elevator.

Jessica rounded the corner. Bollard was half-collapsed against the wall beside the opening door, dazed but apparently maintaining enough presence of mind to hit the call button. The door slid open just as she reached him.

The granny was right behind, aiming at Bollard’s back.

Inside! Down. She shoved him through the narrow opening, heard a bullet bury itself into the elevator's padded back panel, jumped in after him. Shuddering at the close call, she slapped the close-doors button, then pressed Bollard against the side wall, shielding him.

What the hell! he squawked.

Stay calm, stay against the wall. When the doors clicked shut, she reached out and pressed the number seven—for good luck, they surely needed it.

Were we attacked? Bollard clutched the puffy sleeve of Jessica's butt-ugly afternoon gown.

If being half-strangled by a six-foot blonde and shot at by a bearded granny are indicators of an attack, I'd have to say yes, we were, in fact, attacked.

Bollard stared at her, then choked out a fake laugh. Funny, he said. You're too cute.

Yeah, She pried his fingers from her sleeve. Sorry. That was a cheap shot. 

Bollard appeared near shock, but his narrowing eyes and a tightening jaw indicated her wisecrack might have jump-started his adrenalin. Definitely a good thing. But his anger could not be far behind.

That old woman was shooting at me with a cane. What the hell are you and your team of pros doing about it?

Uh-huh, there it was. Every client's solemn right to complain after being choked and shot at. A rifle, she explained. Disguised as a cane . . . and the woman had a five o'clock shadow.

Five o'clock . . . oh, God . . . He sagged back against the elevator wall, making another tentative grab for the sleeve of her gown . . . well, not really hers. This was a Mrs. Bollard lookalike dress. Who on earth dressed this woman?  Oh, well. Jessica had charged extra for being a surrogate, so she’d laugh later on the way to the bank. But being pawed wasn’t part of the deal. She fixed the assemblyman with a steely gaze and his hand withdrew.

My team's getting it under control, she assured him, actually knowing nothing of the kind. Now that they were safe, her heart thought it was okay to nearly jump out of her body. Her job was to keep her breathlessness from the assemblyman.

It could be wild crazy out there. One thing was almost sure. This wasn’t the random assault of a disgruntled constituent. This was a professional assassination at work.

Someone took the time to find out when the buffet’s food would be replenished. The showgirl activist appearing, not unusual in Vegas but very distracting, especially one carrying a garotte.  The feeble granny. That was priceless. If Jessica wasn’t so pissed off about being shot at, she might admire the skillful planning.

Their next stop would be the Grace Kelly Terrace on the rooftop. Who knew what would be up there? She badly needed an update. We'll wait for clearance, she remarked idly, wanting to erase the edgy long-suffering look on her client’s face.

He only nodded. Soon, the elevator came to a stop and Jessica pressed the door open button. Nothing happened.

We're trapped in here? Bollard's voice quivered.

She shook her head. Hotel security did it. We're in between floors and that means no one can get in. In fact, the car is as close to a fortress as we can get. We're safe for now.

Turning away, Jessica took a walkie-talkie from her cross-body bag and buzzed the surveillance staff parked in a control van outside. No response, meaning something was skewed. She would hear nothing until things were under control.

She retrieved a small Saturday-night-special from her ankle holster and slipped it in a pocket of the voluminous skirt that came with her costume. Her weapon of choice in small quarters since a ricochet bullet could easily hit the wrong target. Probably an overkill. Getting in should be impossible, but her motto was to always be prepared for the impossible.

Can I peel myself off the wall now? Bollard asked.

Jessica almost smiled. Sure.

A hand touched her hip. My wife doesn't fill out a dress the way you do.

Jessica turned sharply and caught his ribs with an elbow.

Ouch! He rubbed his side. Damn that hurt!

Oh, sorry. Let me advise you to keep your hands somewhere else. Somewhere safe. We have more important worries.

Like how long we'll be here?

Yeah, like that. Seems we're stuck for now. Try to make nice.

He scowled—a now familiar expression—then pointedly examined his manicured fingernails. Jessica inwardly cringed. There was something about perfect hands that made her mistrust a man. Dad's cuticles were always ragged. Not that it had anything to do—

I apologize, Miss Johnson. I was looking to distract myself.

His use of her alias mildly startled her. It had been a while since she'd worked undercover but even so he didn't seem the kind who'd remember a name he knew was false. Embarrassment edged his voice and it made her dislike him less. She wasn't sure she wanted to do that. Okay, she might have too quickly pegged him as a phony political lech, but the sudden change made her second guess herself. Second guesses could get her killed.

You’re quite abrupt. Don't you worry about pissing off clients? he asked.

She gave a half-laugh. Not so much. Mostly I worry about keeping them alive.

The assemblyman nodded. Jessie tried the walkie-talkie. Still dead.

Why aren't they answering?    

Procedure. We cut off the Comm links because they can identify location but I can ping with the walkie. It can’t be traced but the range is limited.

I see. He'd shifted his examination from his fingernails to her face and wasn't attempting to hide his scrutiny. Wondering if this was a soft-pedal seduction technique, she met his gaze in challenge. He snapped his fingers. That's it!

What's it?

I thought you were just a Black Tie Security employee, but you own the agency. You're Jessie, Stan Grayhawke's girl. He pointed at her and she felt guilty as charged. You remind me of him.

I don't go by Jessie anymore, she primly corrected. I use Jessica. And I'm nothing  like him. Nothing at all. Nothing.

You're efficient. Direct. No-nonsense as hell. Good at what you do. You impersonated my wife so well I almost mistook you for her at today's briefing. Now, though, up close . . .  yeah, don't know how I missed it.

What was she supposed to say to that? She lifted the walkie-walkie. Moonsurfer, Moonsurfer. Come in.

Greg didn't respond and she let her arm fall. Bollard regarded her with continued interest. 

I'd just finished law school, he continued, working as a liaison with Internal Affairs on your dad's case. You and your husband—

Look, we're in a tight spot here. Talking about my dad is, well, it isn't helpful.

"You think he did it?" Bollard’s voice carried genuine shock.

Cramped as the space was, the assemblyman tried to pace. Jessica stared at him, pulse hammering, mouth dry. Beneath the wig, her scalp still itched. She was dying to scratch it. The elevator felt drained of oxygen. If Bollard had been loud-mouth and insulting about her dad like most, she could have brushed him off. But this?

The walkie-talkie squealed and she punched the talk button as if activating a lifeline. Skywalker.

There's a gang of monkeys humpin' a football down here, Greg said. What's up with you?

We're stopped at the seventh floor, locked down.

Good place. Is Bollard still hanging with you?

Would I be here if—

Sorry, Jessie. Things are just so nutty. The old lady with the cane got away because no one realized she was a he. Metro arrested the blond woman and won't let me talk to her.

What about the wounded guard?

He was wearing a flak jacket but is having a hard time breathing. He’s out with the medic in the van.

And the terrace? Is it secure?

Trisha’s still up there."

Alone? Greg, she's just an apprentice and—

It's cool. She's cool. It'll be fine. Besides she's got three guys with her.

Okay, but if anything happens to her . . .

It won't, I promise. So lets talk about the tray towers. I met with the food and beverage manager. An electrical malfunction stalled some of the service elevators so multiple carts were loaded onto the few that still worked, and the other carts were loaded in the regular elevators. The delivery procedures lacked . . . well, I can only say it wasn’t smooth.  He chuckled . . . well, more than chuckled. In fact he couldn't quite control it.

Stop, Greg. I'm with the client now. Stop!

Sorry, sorry.  But down here half a dozen busboys are practically pissing themselves. Confusion reigns. Everyone's fuzzy about how the carts got away. No one can say who gave the order to send multiple carts at one time.

Jessica tried hard not to laugh. As it was, she could tell her huge smile was kind of pissing Bollard off. His scowl threatened to become permanent.

The big question from this elevator is how long we'll be  here. she said.

The takeaway, babe, is that this was a highly orchestrated attack. Somebody really wants that legislator dead. It’s going to take some– the connection began spitting static —tim- to sec– ure the area again. As soon as w-we’re cleared, I'm com-in—up to the ro-f—

I can’t hear you, she repeated it several times before giving up, frustrated by the lack of information. When the signal rattled a potential return she waited anxiously until Greg’s voice again came through loud and clear. In the meantime, give the lech a hard time. I know he's dying to put his hands on you.

Jessica laughed. Tell him yourself. Feeling lighter, she clicked off and shoved the walkie-talkie into her bag, which she then let drop to swing lazily from the silver chain that crossed her body.  She expected another scowl from Bollard.

Instead he regarded her with a lopsided grin. Long time since someone called me a lech within hearing distance. What's important is we're still stuck, his grin widened. Too bad you're not hot for me.

It wasn't a come-on this time, Jessica could tell. She couldn't help grinning back, although that was partly over the relief that he wasn't talking about her dad anymore.

When this is over, come see me. I still have notes on your dad's investigation.

Crap, spoke too soon. She must have acted wary, because he raised his hands. "This isn't a quid pro quo thing. It's . . . well, I wasn't convinced he was guilty. I was given some leads that might have cleared him, but nobody much listened."

Why are you telling me this now?

Because you're here, I suppose. It never felt right—the whole case stank. I left the job not long after that to run for the assembly. Took a few campaign cycles before I finally got elected. Now here they are trying to kill me for it. He reached inside his jacket then extended a card he'd pulled from a pocket. Call me tomorrow at my Vegas office.

His words echoed for a heartbeat and dulled her professional discipline. Her mind spun, their surroundings faded. Her father didn't do it? Was that possible? No, no, it wasn't. His guilt was settled. In the past. It needed to stay there. She needed it to stay there. Believing had nearly killed her the last time and she doubted she could withstand another moment of shattered faith.

I know you don't trust me, but tomorrow morning you might see it differently.

His voice sounded oddly urgent. Vaguely wondering why, she numbly accepted the card, tucked it into the glittery handbag, and turned away. Assemblyman Bollard was known as a lying, wife-cheating politician, yet she couldn't meet his eyes.

Shame enveloped her. That same shame she'd fought against every day since her father's final treachery. The same shame that made her start each day knowing she had to prove she was a better cop, a better person.

You might even discover your dad was a hero. Bollard said softly.

A hero? She spun back, her heart pounding. She spoke quietly, although she wanted to shout. No! He was corrupt. He was a thief, a drug dealer, a killer. And he let down everyone who trusted him. Stan Grayhawke was not a hero. There are no heroes–

A cell phone rang. Thank God.

–anymore! she finished, digging into a pocket for the phone. How had the call come through? She'd turned the phone off.

The ring tone was Robbie’s, who knew better than to call when Jessica was on assignment. Something must be seriously wrong.

What's wrong, hotshot?

You're not here, Mummy! You promised to be home by three.

Jessica looked down at her watch. Three-twenty-two. 

She blew out a breath, still stinging from the you-do-this-all-the-time undertone in Robbie's voice. Not undeserved. The cop in her should immediately end the call with a firm scolding about how inappropriate it was. But life had given Robbie some hard knocks and she needed . . .

Ah hell, this elevator car was secure. Greg and the team would be freeing them before anyone could access them. The mom side of told her to spare a second to soothe her daughter.

I'm sorry, Robbie, but I'm in the middle of something. I'll call you when it's over. If all goes well I'll be home in an hour. We can still play then, but right now I'm working and have to get off the phone.

Okay, Robbie answered in a cranky tone, then clicked off.

Jessica returned the cell phone to her pocket.

Mixing a career and motherhood isn't easy, is it?

Bollard leaned against the elevator wall like he was at a political meet and greet and she was getting damn sick of him poking into her life.

She was about to say so when something clanked overhead.

Holy shit, yelled Bollard.

CHAPTER THREE

LAS VEGAS: MONACO WEST Resort

the elevator attack

A dark shadow swung into the car through an open access door above and struck her shoulder. Feet thudded to the floor behind her, a knee slammed her back. She stumbled into Bollard, dragging him down. Her elbow jabbed his ribs. He grunted.

Sorry, sorry. She suddenly felt worthless. A failure as a mother, inadequate as a wife, untrustworthy as a cop, burdened by her father's shame.

Oh, crap. Here she was, still buried in her father’s sins. Sorry for every freaking mistake she’d ever made and every one he’d made. Sorry, sorry, sorry for being a corrupt cop's daughter, a pariah to her former co-workers and ever believing she could make this comeback.. The thoughts flashed through her head during the nano-second it took her to roll away from Bollard, slip her hand through a slit in her skirt and pull her pistol from its holster. Enough of this lifetime review shit. Her client needed her