They agreed, then moved on to wrangling over what restaurant to go to as they left.

Dillon arrived at the crime lab just as the shift was changing, was hoping to find an old friend, Wally Valdez.

The first thing he had done after hearing about Rudy Yorba's death to was call Jerry Cheever and suggest it was too much of a coincidence not to be connected, even revealing the fact that he had talked to Rudy shortly before he was killed. Cheever told him that they had already checked out Rudy's car, which had been found parked on the side of the highway. It had been out of gas, plain and simple. Some cowardly drunk was probably busy, even now, praying that he wasn't somehow traced.

"You got anything to go on?" Dillon had demanded.

Cheever had grown impatient at that point, stressing that it wasn't his case and was being handled as accidental vehicular homicide. His own hackles had been raised by Cheever's att.i.tude, keeping him from being totally forthcoming when Cheever demanded to know what Yorba had told him.

As soon as they'd hung up, he'd come here.

As he was asking after Wally, Sarah Clay, the woman who had helped him with the video the day before, appeared in the reception area.

"What are you doing here?" she asked him.

"Just looking for a friend, Wally Valdez. Do you know him?"

"I do."

He frowned. "Actually, what are you you doing here? I thought you worked over at the station." doing here? I thought you worked over at the station."

Sarah smiled. "Actually, I'm usually here. I was just called in to work with the casino tapes. Anyway, Wally is off tonight, but he'll be back tomorrow." She paused and looked thoughtful.

"Wally says you're one of the good guys."

"Glad to hear it."

She smiled. "If I can help you...?"

"Thanks for the offer. It's nothing to do with the casino tapes, actually. I'm here because of the hit-and-run last night."

"The Rudy Yorba case," she said somberly.

"Right. It just seems odd to me that Rudy Yorba, who happened to be parking cars at the Sun when Green was killed, managed to run out of gas and end up struck by a hit-and-run driver in the middle of the night. Even in Vegas, that's a quiet time."

"There are always lots of drunks behind the wheel in this town, though," Sarah told him.

"Still, it's quite a coincidence, don't you think? Two dead in two days, and both deaths connected to the same casino?"

"I wish I could say our non-natural death rate was so low that that seemed weird to me," Sarah told him gravely, "but it's not. One murder, one accident. A pretty normal ratio around here, really."

"Still...I questioned Rudy about what had happened the night Green died just hours before he was killed. Have the investigators come up with anything yet? Any clue at all?"

She studied him gravely for a moment. "I don't know anything yet, and it's not my case. But I can try to find out what's going on, and I'll be able to give you what we get on paint evidence, if nothing else. I think they were able to find a few chips on the body," she said. "I'll call you when I have something. Just give me a number. I did hear that the cop on the case has been calling body shops, and no one has come in with a damaged car."

"Thanks. I appreciate it." He gave her one of his cards, then turned to leave.

"He was struck really hard," she said softly.

He turned back to look at her. She had large brown eyes and a heart-shaped faced, and, despite the scrubs she was now wearing over her uniform, she was a beautiful young woman, one who right now looked not just sad but worried.

"As if there was something personal? As if he was struck on purpose?" he asked.

"In my mind, yes," she said decisively. "How do you hit a man hard enough to break just about every bone in his body-and not crash into the guardrail or go over the embankment yourself? Especially if you're a drunk, so your reflexes are slow?" She shook her head. "I'm not high enough in the force for anyone to want my opinion, but that's my take on the situation. If you want it."

"Definitely. And thank you again."

"Call me. Anytime."

He was pretty sure she was actually flirting with him then. And she was certainly attractive, bright and intriguing.

He was working, he reminded himself.

But that wasn't what caused him to ignore the signals and courteously extend his thanks one last time, then walk away.

It was the memory of a woman with deep cobalt eyes and a mane of sunset hair.

Sandra was quiet as they drove back to Jessy's house after their night out.

"What's the matter?" Jessy asked her.

"Want to come and stay with me?" Sandra asked.

Yes, I do, Jessy thought, surprising herself. Jessy thought, surprising herself.

But she wasn't going to abandon her home. If she did, she might never have the nerve to go back.

"Thank you, but I'm fine." She frowned. Sandra was actually looking worried.

"What is it?"

"I admit I was trying to get to you before. But now...I think I've managed to actually scare myself over you."

"I have an alarm," Jessy reminded her. "And if someone was really afraid I knew something, they'd have to know I'd have spilled it by now, right? Haven't we already figured all that out?"

"All right. But if you need anything, call me." Sandra paused, then added, "h.e.l.l, if you're really scared, dial 911. Fast."

"You know I will," Jessy a.s.sured her.

"I'll go in with you," Sandra volunteered.

They walked through the house together, Sandra brandishing one of her spiked heels like a weapon, just in case they surprised an intruder.

But the house was empty. Not that Jessy had ever thought there was actually someone there.

Not a living living someone, anyway. someone, anyway.

She told Sandra good-night, then silently repeated her new mantra. Look straight ahead. No peripheral vision allowed. Do not make eye contact. Look straight ahead. No peripheral vision allowed. Do not make eye contact.

She hummed loudly, and blasted her television as she made a cup of tea and got ready for bed.

Even in bed, she kept humming.

Like any private detective, Dillon had picked up a few tricks in his day.

And since Cheever had informed him that he didn't have enough to go to the ADA and ask for a search warrant, Dillon had decided that he had to take matters into his own hands. In fact, Cheever had said, "It's nuts. Cops have to follow certain rules and the public doesn't. Some things just suck."

Dillon had taken that to mean that Cheever was all for him doing a few things that skirted the wrong side of the law.

Limos were often sitting just outside the entrances of the various hotels and casinos, awaiting the pleasure of some newly flush high roller.

But a walk along the Strip showed him that neither the Sun nor the Big Easy currently had its latest-model white super-stretch out front. A few casual questions to the right people elicited the information that both limos were at a garage for maintenance. Interesting coincidence, that.

A few more questions gave him the name of the garage each casino used. The same name both times. Another interesting coincidence.

The garage wasn't open when he swung by, not that he had expected it to be. It was surrounded by a high fence with a barbed-wire coil along the top, but it wasn't electrified.

Two Dobermans guarded the premises instead.

After a quick stop at a nearby supermarket, he headed back to the garage. He opted to park on the road that ran behind the property, then dodged the traffic and crossed the median to reach the rear of the establishment. There, he waited for the dogs to appear. It wasn't a long wait. He spoke to them as they approached, concentrating on the tone of his voice as he lured them over for the meat he'd purchased. He hadn't drugged it; he was counting on his ability to befriend the dogs. He was patient, feeding them, talking to them. He slipped his hand through the wire, touching them, still rea.s.suring them. Finally, he climbed the fence, crossing carefully over the barbed wire. One of the dogs started to snarl, but he spoke to it firmly, and the snarl became a whine. He patted both dogs as he walked slowly through the lot toward the garage itself, encouraging the animals to accompany him.

There was no alarm on the door to the garage itself, and the lock was easy to pick. The owners apparently had a lot of faith in their dogs. Then again, a garage wasn't usually a prime target for thieves.

It took a while for his eyes to adjust to the dim light, but after that it was easy to find the two super-stretches. He was dismayed to see that both had just received new paint jobs. It was easy enough to identify which limo went to which casino, though, thanks to the vanity plates. Sun 1 Sun 1 and and Big E Big E were pretty d.a.m.n obvious. were pretty d.a.m.n obvious.

He wore thin plastic gloves, to keep his own prints out of the equation, just in case the limos become part of an investigation.

Neither one appeared to have been involved in the kind of accident that would have killed someone. The paint was fresh, but neither vehicle appeared to have had any bodywork done, not that he thought the murderer would have been sloppy enough to use the same vehicle twice.

A thorough inspection of the Sun's limo yielded nothing. He was sure no obvious blood spill would have been left behind for the cops or anyone else to find, but he'd come prepared. A spray of Luminol and a small black light showed no signs of bloodshed, either.

It was possible, though, that the knife itself would have temporarily sealed the wound, but he searched thoroughly anyway. In the end, he found nothing, not only no blood, but no sign of bleaching to remove blood, either.

Lots of s.e.m.e.n, though.

He moved on to the limo from the Big Easy.

Once again, both his first inspection and then a spray of Luminol showed nothing. Not a speck of blood, and no hint of bleaching. But as he ran his fingers along the upholstery next to the right-hand pa.s.senger door, he found something else, maybe something just as good.

It looked like a b.u.t.ton from a designer shirt. He studied it in the narrow beam of his small flashlight and wondered if Tanner Green had been missing a b.u.t.ton when he died. That would be easy enough to ascertain. He pulled out his phone and took a quick picture of the b.u.t.ton, then returned it to where he had found it.

One of the Dobermans was starting to whine.

Dillon quickly flicked off his light, then quietly stepped out of the limo and closed the door softly behind himself, as both dogs raced toward the door, which he had left slightly ajar.

Someone was coming in. He cursed himself for not having heard signs of movement earlier, but it seemed that whoever was arriving had come in as stealthily as he had himself.

He rolled under the BMW parked beside the limo, and did his best to look and sound like a slab of cement floor.

"Idiots left the door open," a man noted irritably. "Fat lot of good you friggin' dogs were doing, sleeping in here."

Hugo Blythe, Emil Landon's surviving bodyguard.

Dillon rolled again, moving from car to car, making his way toward the door-which, luckily, Blythe had also left open-as the other man made his way straight to the limo Dillon had just exited.

The dogs, thankfully, were following Blythe, tails tucked as they whined nervously. Apparently they knew the man. Maybe Emil Landon did business with the garage that went beyond having his vehicles serviced here. The dogs knew Hugo Blythe. And they didn't love him, they feared him.

Mulling over the possible meanings of that knowledge, Dillon slipped under the car parked closest to the rear door and watched as Blythe entered the limo.

Then he made his escape.

He raced for the fence, scaled it quickly and had just leaped free of the barbed wire and landed hard, rolling to mitigate the impact, when he heard the first shot.

It was followed quickly by a second.

Blythe was running in his direction as he fired again.

Dillon sprang to a crouch and ran.

Luckily Blythe was lumbering and slow. Dillon made it to the road and crossed the flow of traffic. He was in his own car and rejoining the stream of traffic before Blythe ever made it to the fence.

Jessy became aware that she was dreaming somewhere in the middle of her dream.

She was back at the Sun, which was as crowded as always, and she was being chased. She was weaving through the crowd and between the tables, c.r.a.ps tables, poker tables, roulette tables. She was inside, but there was a low ground fog, which she knew was ridiculous. Fog didn't rise inside. Fog was for outside.

Suddenly she-and the fog-were outside. Now she was being chased around a cemetery. But it wasn't an ordinary cemetery. It was like Boot Hill. Old West cemeteries didn't have fine marble markers. The crosses were wooden and primitively made, the graves surrounded by stones.

Sagebrush danced by in a breeze she couldn't feel. The dust of the desert seemed to choke her, then die away in a fog that couldn't-shouldn't-be in such a dry place.

And from the distance, she could hear the buzzers and bells of the casino. She could see a poker table....

There were men around it, but something wasn't right about them. They weren't real. They were part of the fog. And they were dressed in old railway frock coats and dusty old hats. She could hear the faint sound of a tinkly old-time piano.