Nightwalker (3 page)

At last things began to happen. The M.E.—it was Doug Tarleton, a decent guy and an expert in his field, Dillon thought—was sliding his gloved hands over the dead man’s face, closing the staring eyes.

“Lord!” Tarleton said, startled. “It’s Tanner Green.”

“Yes,” Dillon said simply.

Cheever turned to the redhead. “And you are…?”

“Jessy Sparhawk,” she said quietly.

“Exactly what happened?” he asked.

She arched a brow but answered levelly. “I was leaving the table. I don’t know where this man came from. He fell on me and knocked me onto the table. I was trapped under him until he—” she pointed at Dillon “—got me out. And that’s all I know.”

“So you don’t know him?”

“No,” she said firmly.

Cheever’s officers were good, and the floor had quietly filled with them.

Dillon knew there were men already stationed at the doors, and he knew that the others would soon begin questioning the hundreds of people who had been in the casino. Crime-scene tape was already being stretched around the table.

Cheever suddenly stared at Jessy Sparhawk again. “The surveillance cameras will have picked up everything, you know.”

“I told you
exactly
what happened,” she said, adding, “And I had nothing to do with it.”

“Lieutenant Cheever,” Dillon said, taking a step forward, “Miss Sparhawk is a victim here, and undoubtedly pretty damn uncomfortable right now.”

“That man is uncomfortable,” Cheever said irritably, pointing to Tanner Green.

“No,” Dr. Tarleton said. “That man isn’t feeling a thing. He’s dead. Knife wound to the back, short-hilted, long-bladed weapon, which is why no one noticed it—that, and the fact that they were all staring at the tables.”

“You’re sure on the weapon?” Cheever asked.

Tarleton cleared his throat and looked daggers at the detective. He wasn’t fond of Cheever. “Oh, yeah. I’m sure. It’s still sticking out of his back.”

“Shouldn’t there be a blood trail to show where he was stabbed?” Cheever asked, frowning.

“There might be a few specks somewhere. The knife acted like a cork,” Doug explained patiently. “When Tanner fell, the knife was knocked aside and the blood began to gush. That’s why Miss Sparhawk is covered in it.”

“Bring in the crime unit—I want fingerprints ASAP,” Cheever said huffily. He was embarrassed, Dillon knew, that he hadn’t figured out that the knife would have kept the blood from flowing. “All right, get everyone cleared out of here, and let the crime unit have the area from the door to the table.” He glared at Dillon suspiciously. “You, too, Wolf. Let the crime-scene team get in here, and let Tarleton do his job.”

Dillon stuck like glue to Jessy Sparhawk, who didn’t protest when he led her away. He gave his own name, credentials and address to one of the officers, and
watched as Jessy did the same. He noted that her address was in Henderson, a suburb just outside the city, and her occupation was entertainer. She was working at the newly opened Big Easy—casino. When a uniformed officer came over to interrogate her, she answered his questions calmly, even though she was still trembling.

No wonder. She was still bathed in the dead man’s blood.

“Hey! How long are we going to be kept here?” a florid man in a plaid jacket shouted angrily.

“Until the lieutenant says you can go,” one of the officers said.

Jessy Sparhawk looked at her watch and bit her lower lip.

“Are you late for work?” Wolf asked her.

She shook her head. “No, it’s Timothy…. I didn’t expect to be away from him this long,” she murmured.

“Your…son?” he asked. She couldn’t possibly have a kid over ten, and she didn’t look like the kind who would leave a child at home alone while she went out and gambled.

She shook her head. “Timothy’s my grandfather.”

“I see. Give me a minute.”

He strode across the room, to where Lieutenant Cheever was bullying a couple of the players who had been by the door when Green had entered. “Excuse me, Lieutenant,” he said politely.

Cheever stared at him and controlled his hostility. “What?”

“The woman who was caught under the corpse, Jessy Sparhawk. She’s miserable. Why not have a heart?” Dillon
asked, as if there had never been the least animosity between them. “Let her go home and get cleaned up.”

Cheever frowned and pointed at Dillon. “I need to talk to you.”

“At your convenience. But let her go home. I can see that you’ve started releasing people once you’ve questioned them.”

For a moment Cheever appeared to be almost human. He shook his head in frustration. “I’m trying to prevent an all-out riot here and not let a murderer slip through my fingers,” he said.

“From what I understand, Green entered the casino, staggered through the crowd and crashed down dead on top of Ms. Sparhawk,” Dillon said. “It’s probable that he was stabbed outside the casino. Even a bunch of hard-core gamblers would probably notice someone going after someone else with a knife that big.”

“So you say. He was a bodyguard for Emil Landon, wasn’t he? Just like you.”

“I’m not a bodyguard. Landon is convinced that someone is trying to kill him. I’m supposed to be finding out who. I just took the case, and I wasn’t pals with Tanner Green. I knew him, yes, but that was it.”

“So where the hell were you, if you weren’t at the table?”

“I’d been playing at the table, but I had just wandered into the high-stakes area over there,” Dillon said, pointing toward the far left.

“Oh?” Cheever said, his eyes narrowing. His tone and his look clearly asked,
What were
you
doing in the high-stakes area?

“I was checking out what players are in Vegas right now,” Dillon said. “Like I said, I just accepted Emil Landon’s offer. This morning, in fact. Plus, I was nowhere near the front door. And he was stabbed outside. I’d bet ten years that the crime-scene team will find specks of blood somewhere along the way.”

Cheever stared at him, knowing he was right.

“The girl obviously didn’t kill him,” Dillon said flatly. “And she takes care of her grandfather. You need to let her get home.”

“Lieutenant?” an officer said, approaching Cheever quickly through the crowd. “The security tapes are ready.”

Cheever started to move.

“Lieutenant?” Dillon said, calling him back.

“All right, take her home. But you—I want you in my office tomorrow morning, eight o’clock sharp.”

“I’ll be there,” Dillon assured him. “Emil Landon will want to know everything possible about this.”

“And he will—
when
I have something to share.”

“He’ll want me to see those tapes.”

“I don’t like repeating myself, Wolf, so I’ll only say this once. I know you know someone who knows the damn governor, but you’ll still wait until I’ve seen those tapes myself. Tomorrow morning, eight sharp.”

“Right,” Dillon said, turning away. More and more people were being released. Some, Dillon thought, would be heading on to other casinos, irritated that a man’s death had ruined their evening. Others were guests at the Sun, and some of them would be heading up to their rooms, shaken by tonight’s events.

Tanner Green had been no angel. He was known
around Vegas. He had a record. And no matter what Cheever did that night, the killer was long gone. Even Cheever himself had to know that. He was just covering his ass, going through the motions.

Cheever suddenly called his name again. “Wolf!”

Dillon paused and waited.

“I mean it. Eight o’clock.”

Dillon tried not to laugh. Cheever always liked having the last word. It gave him a feeling of control.

Dillon turned again and made his way back around the closed-off gaming tables. Dr. Tarleton was still standing by the body with a member of the forensics unit, looking for trace evidence. Dillon paused for a moment, waiting. Watching.

Feeling
the room.

But nothing came to him. He paused for a moment longer, then proceeded to the area where Jessy Sparhawk was waiting. He pulled out his investigator’s license again, in case the officers on crowd control didn’t know him. “Ms. Sparhawk has been cleared,” he said quietly to the one standing with his arms crossed over his chest, blocking the exit.

The man nodded, recognizing Dillon and barely glancing at his ID.

Dillon took Jessy’s arm and led her out the door. She didn’t protest; she readily hurried along at his side.

Once out the door—where police cars were as thick now as ants on a hill at the grand entryway—she let out a sigh of relief. “Thanks. Thanks so much. A P.I., huh? Well, I’m glad you’re friends with that lieutenant.”

“Not exactly friends,” Dillon murmured.

They kept walking until they reached Las Vegas Boulevard, where another crowd had gathered on the sidewalk, everyone staring at the action and speculating.

When his cell phone started to ring, he wasn’t surprised. In fact, he was surprised it hadn’t done so earlier.

“Excuse me,” he said to Jessy, then answered the phone. “Wolf.”

Emil Landon’s voice came through clearly, and hard with agitation. “I’ve just heard Tanner Green is dead.
Dead.
Murdered. Knifed in the back.”

“Yes, I was in the casino when it happened.”

“Did you see—”

“No. I didn’t even know he’d come in.”

“You should have known, damn you.”

“Excuse me?”

“I need to see you. Now.”

“As soon as possible.”

“He was a bodyguard on my payroll. And he’s dead. I want to see you
now
.”

“As soon as possible,” Dillon repeated steadily.

“I can fire you, Wolf.”

“Feel free.”

Immediately Landon backed down. “Just get here as soon as you can. I told you I was in danger.”

Dillon closed his phone. Jessy was looking away, courteously pretending she hadn’t been privy to his conversation. “I’m sorry. You must be busy, and I have to get home.”

“Where’s your car, then? I’ll walk you to it.”

“I didn’t drive tonight,” she said. She flushed. “I had a business appointment, and I thought I might be
stopping somewhere on the way home, so I decided not to drive. I, uh, I don’t drink and drive.”

“I didn’t see you drinking.”

“I wasn’t, but I might have been. Long story. Anyway, I’m sorry, but I really do have to get home now.”

“I’ll take you. My car is just down the Strip.”

“No, no, really. I’m in a hurry, and it’s easier just to hail a cab. But thank you. Thank you so much.”

What the hell could he do? Insist? He didn’t have the right.

“You could be in danger,” he said. What a crock.

She smiled, knowing it was a line.

“Thanks. I’ll be okay.”

He kept his gaze locked on the crystalline blue of her eyes as he reached into his pocket for his card. “Please, call me if you need anything.”

She smiled without glancing at it. “Wolf. Ute?” she asked. “Local tribe? Distant tribe? Hell, Erie? Cherokee? Apache?”

He grinned. “Paiute,” he informed her, then offered her an awkward grin. “All right, so…Sparhawk? Ute, Apache, Nez Perce—stage name?”

“Lakota Sioux, my great-great-grandfather. I’m a real all-American mix,” she replied, sounding amused. They stared at each other for another moment. Then she awkwardly took a step away. “I really have to go. Thank you again.” She hesitated. “You knew him?”

He nodded.

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m always sorry if a man is dead. But he wasn’t a close friend.”

“Oh.”

He frowned. “You didn’t cash in your chips, did you? No time, I guess. I forgot about them in the mass confusion.”

She shook her head. “So did I. I have them, though. I can cash them tomorrow.”

“Those chips represent a lot of money. You could be mugged,” he told her.

She laughed. “A cabdriver isn’t going to know about my chips,” she assured him. “I’m okay, honestly. I’m a big girl. I grew up out here. I carry pepper spray. I’ll be all right. I promise.”

He saw a taxi. He wondered about the grandfather she had mentioned. Was he ill and waiting for her?

Dillon stepped out to the curb and whistled, flagging down the approaching cab. He saw her into it and waved goodbye. There was nothing else to do.

He frowned, watching the cab as it pulled away. There was a strange shadow next to her, almost as if there was a second person in the seat beside her.

His muscles knotted with tension. The cab passed under a streetlight, and he could see that there was only one person in the backseat. She was alone.

So why was he still so uneasy? he wondered as he watched the cab disappear down the street.

S
he should have driven herself, but she’d known that she was likely to have a bad time out at the home, and that she might stop to have a few drinks on her way home, try to console herself with a pity party and take a little time figuring out her life.

The cab seemed very slow.

She was tense with anxiety by the time the driver pulled up in front of her home in Henderson, and she nearly fell over her own feet in her hurry to get out and reach the house.

“Sandra?” She was calling her friend’s name even as she turned the key in the lock. As the door opened, Sandra heard her and came rushing from the back of the house to meet her at the front door.

She was a pretty woman in her mid-thirties and had once been a showgirl, but now she wrote novels for
young adults, having found a way to mine her own youthful angst for profit. She also had a sixteen-year-old daughter, born when she was very young herself, and Reggie gave her an even greater insight into the teenage mind.

Sandra Nelson was a good friend. Many people would have shied away from watching Timothy when he was visiting Jessy and she had to go out. Not Sandra. She considered it an easy gig and said all she had to do was listen to Timothy’s stories—and see that he didn’t set the house on fire because he was convinced he needed another log for his grandfather’s sweat-lodge fire.

Sandra’s alarmed stare brought an apologetic smile to Jessy’s face. “I’m so sorry, it’s just that—”

She didn’t finish, because just then a loud gasp came from her right, where the family room abutted a courtyard. “Mom! Mom! It’s Jessy—she’s on TV! A man was murdered!”

Sandra stared at Jessy, who grimaced and went running past her to reach the family room, where Reggie was draped over the big comfortable sofa, staring at the television. She gasped again when Jessy walked in.

Jessy stared at the television. She’d been so focused on getting home that she hadn’t noticed the news cameras out front when she and Dillon Wolf had finally escaped the casino, but there she was. She hadn’t realized that she had actually been hanging on his arm.

“You were involved in a murder?” Sandra asked.

“Forget that. Who the hell’s the hottie?” Reggie demanded. Tall and slim, she had her mother’s green,
dark-lashed eyes and a perfect heart-shaped face. Despite her beauty and her age, though, she was basically a nice kid, and Jessy was always pleased when she came over to help Sandra with Timothy.

“Murder?” Sandra repeated.

At that moment, Timothy emerged from his bedroom. He was wearing jeans and a plaid shirt that was on backward. Despite that, he maintained his dignity as he straightened regally and said, “Murder? Yes, it
was
murder. They can bury my heart at Wounded Knee for a fact, because the slaughter of the American Indian remains one of the greatest tragedies and injustices of our nation’s history.”

“Don’t worry. The Native Americans are taking a just revenge. It’s called bingo, and it’s wonderful. They make money, and no one dies,” Sandra said, placating him gently.

Jessy walked over to give him a hug, but he only stared at her. His eyes, light blue and misted like fog at the coming of day, were blank at first. Then they registered that she was in front of him. “Granddaughter. You’re home. And you’re safe.”

She was startled to feel him trembling as he hugged her. She looked over his shoulder, frowning questioningly at Sandra.

“This just came on,” Reggie said quietly.

“You were in danger,” Timothy said. “They told me so.”

“Who told you so?” Jessy asked.

“The ghost riders. Their ghosts came and told me that I needed to be strong, that you were in danger, and that I need to defend you,” he said earnestly.

“I’m all right. Honestly,” Jessy said, really worried now.
Ghosts?
This was new. “Timothy—”

“I miss my bed,” he said.

“Tim, you have a bed here,” she told him.

He smiled at her, his eyes misty again. “Yes, and I’m grateful. But it’s not my bed. I should be in my own place, where you come to visit me.”

“You’re going back tomorrow, Timothy. It’s going to be fine,” she said.

Sandra was staring at her, arching a brow. Her silent look said quite clearly,
It’s wrong to lie to him. Where can you get that kind of money?

“Come on, Timothy, let me get you to bed,” Jessy told him, ignoring her friend’s silent admonition.

His shoulders straightened, and he was entirely lucid. “I can take myself to bed, Jessy girl.” He turned to face Sandra and Reggie. “Thank you, ladies, for the lovely dinner, and for listening to an old man tell even older tales. Good night.”

Reggie hurried over to give him a hug, and Sandra gave him a kiss on the cheek. He turned and headed back to his room. Jessy didn’t want him to see her checking up on him, so she kept an eye on him from where she was and promised herself that she would look in on him later.

When she turned back to Sandra and Reggie, they were both staring at her, wide-eyed.

“What the hell is going on?” Sandra demanded.

“And I still want to know who that guy is,” Reggie added.

“And there’s…blood all over you,” Sandra said, ignoring her daughter. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine, I promise, but you’ll have to excuse me,” Jessy said, wiping at the blood, suddenly desperate for a shower.

She practically ran to her room, where she couldn’t get her clothing off quickly enough. She threw it all straight into the trash basket, knowing she would never wear a single piece of it ever again. She hurried into the shower and turned the water on so hot that it was almost scalding, then rubbed her skin practically raw. She massaged shampoo through her hair over and over, until, finished at last, she threw on her terry robe and hurried back into the family room.

Reggie and Sandra spun around to stare at her again, and before Sandra could manage a word, Reggie demanded, “Tell me now. Who is that guy? Have you been holding out on us?”

“No. I never saw him before tonight. His name is Dillon Wolf,” Jessy told her.

“Oh, okay. They said his name on TV,” Reggie said.

“Oh? Did they say my name?” Jessy asked.

“No, you’re just the unidentified redhead,” Sandra told her. She looked concerned, and rose from the sofa to bring Jessy a cup of tea.

Jessy thanked her and took a sip, then choked. It was half brandy.

“Sandra—”

“You need it,” Sandra told her.

“You might have warned me,” Jessy protested.

“Could we get back to what happened?” Sandra asked.

“I was playing craps—”

“What?” Sandra broke in, frowning.

“Not to worry, I wasn’t betting the house or anything,” she said.
Not quite, anyway.

“And was the hottie playing craps, too?” Reggie asked.

Jessy laughed. “I don’t think he’d like being called a hottie.”

“Is he here to complain?” Reggie asked.

“No, but—”

“Let’s get off the guy,” Sandra said. “We know more about him now than Jessy does, I’m willing to bet.”

“What are you talking about?” Jessy asked.

“Oh, they kept announcing his name on TV, like Reggie said,” Sandra explained. “He’s a P.I. with a hush-hush government agency of some kind.”

“I think he’s working for Emil Landon,” Jessy said, confused. She took another swallow of the brandy-laced tea. Now that she was forewarned, it was delicious.

“I bet he’s working undercover,” Reggie said, excited. “So how did you get to know him so quickly? When is your next date?”

“We weren’t on a date,” Jessy said.

“I was playing craps. Dillon Wolf was at the table—I didn’t even know his name then. But—I won. I won a lot of money. It was bizarre—as if an invisible hand was literally moving the dice until they landed on a hard ten. Anyway, I was starting to leave, and then the man plowed into me, knocked me onto the table—”

“Dillon Wolf knocked you onto the craps table?” Reggie asked.

“No, the dead man, the murder victim.”

“He was dead, but he knocked you down?” Sandra asked, confused.

“He was dying when he knocked me down, and then he died on top of me. And then Dillon Wolf came back and helped me up. Actually, I think he convinced the cops to let me out of there, too,” Jessy said.

“Cool,” Reggie told her. “So are you going to see him again?”

“I don’t know why I would,” Jessy said.

“I don’t know why you wouldn’t,” Reggie said.

“He didn’t ask me out, for one thing.”

“He will,” Reggie said confidently.

Jessy smiled and took another sip of the tea. It all seemed distant now, as if it had all happened to someone else. The man, Tanner Green, falling on her…dying.

“What a night,” Sandra said quietly. “What you told Timothy…Before all that happened, you made enough to keep him at the home?”

Jessy smiled falteringly. “It was amazing. It never happened before, and I’m sure it will never happen again, but yes, I made enough to keep Timothy there for the year.”

Sandra gasped. “You made that much? You
did
bet your house!”

Jessy shook her head. “No, honestly, I wasn’t that crazy. It wasn’t my money I was betting. I was rolling well, so other people kept throwing money down for me.”

“It’s all so unbelievable,” Sandra said. “All that money. And then a man dying on you. That is one bizarre night.” She looked thoughtful for a moment, then asked, “And no one saw anything?”

“Not that I know of. He plowed into me, and he…died,” Jessy said.

They all sat in silence for a long moment, and then Sandra said, “All right, we’re up and out of here. If you’re sure you’re okay…?”

Jessy nodded.

“I still feel creeped out.” Reggie shivered suddenly. “I mean…whoever murdered that guy is still out there, right?”

Jessy felt a chill streak down her spine. Suddenly, as if she were reliving the moment, she could see Tanner Green’s face, the lips moving, the eyes going dim, clearly before her. Shaking herself to drive the image out of her mind, she stood to see them out. “I’m fine. We’ll all forget it in a couple of days,” she lied, knowing she would never forget the events of tonight.

“Call me. Let me know if…well, if there’s anything I can do,” Sandra said.

“Will do,” Jessy assured her. She watched as the two women made it into Sandra’s car, then carefully closed and locked the door. She suddenly wished she had an alarm system, but until tonight, it would have been wasted money, considering the cost of Timothy’s care.

With the door closed and locked, she checked in on Timothy, who had dressed for bed properly and was sleeping soundly.

She went on to her own room, thankful for the house. It had belonged to her parents, who had bought it long before Henderson became a popular spot to live. The courtyard was pebbled, with cacti here and there, along with statuary they had bought through the years. The living room held her mother’s old piano, and had glass doors that led out to the small patio and pool area. She
had a kitchen, dining room, family room, three bedrooms and an office.

Tonight, however, she wished that she also had an alarm.

She tried to tell herself that it was ridiculous to feel fear. Whoever had killed Tanner Green surely had no interest in her. She hadn’t seen anything. She had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. But since Timothy was going to get to live happily because of the evening, she couldn’t really regret it.

As she curled up in her own bed, she found herself thinking about Dillon Wolf. She’d been intrigued by him, attracted to him, when he had just been standing there. That he had reappeared in time to help her up from the table was her own little minor miracle.

Why the hell hadn’t she let him drive her home?

Because there would have been no point, she told herself. She didn’t even have time to date. She was responsible for Timothy, for one thing, and she didn’t mind that. Not at all. He had always been there for her, so it made her happy that now she could be there for him. And now she was so accustomed to working, trying to catch whatever overtime came along, that she barely remembered dating, much less having a relationship, and she wouldn’t know how to date anymore, anyway, even if the opportunity presented itself.

It had been nice to touch him, though. To be touched. To feel the fabric of his jacket. To…

She closed her eyes.

And allowed herself to dream about the man named Wolf.

But in the middle of the dream, just as Dillon Wolf was smiling at her, things suddenly changed. She was at the table again, and everything seemed to shrink away. She turned, and Tanner Green was stumbling toward her. Straight at her. She could almost feel his crushing weight against her again. See his eyes staring into hers just before the light of life faded from them for good.

She saw his mouth moving, and once again heard the word he had whispered.

Indigo.

She woke with a start. It was still night, and the darkness seemed to press down on her. She was suddenly certain that something was there with her, hidden in the shadows, that she was being watched.

She leaped out of bed and dived for her light switch. The room jumped into view, and she blinked against the sudden harshness, tense, her body ready to spring.

But there was no one there. The room was empty.

She felt foolish, but she went into her bathroom, took the bloodied, discarded clothing and carried it into the kitchen, where she placed it in a larger trash bag, which she hauled out into the garage. She knew it was silly, but she wanted that reminder of the evening as far away as she could get it. Then she went back to bed, where she turned on her small bedroom TV and didn’t turn off the light.

It occurred to her then that no one had asked her if the dying man had said anything.

And so she was the only one who knew that he had spoken that single word.

Indigo.

Emil Landon was a man of an indeterminate age; he might have been a worn thirtysomething, or a fit man in his fifties. Because Adam Harrison—owner and director of Harrison Investigations, the rather unique private investigations firm that was Dillon’s actual employer—had contacts with access to just about any record on any human being living in the United States and beyond, he knew that Landon was forty-eight, had married and divorced three wives, had fathered one child who lived in Dublin with his mother, and had inherited millions from a grandfather who had been a Turkish oil baron. Sound real-estate investments had added to those millions. He liked to be a player. He liked the clothing and the cars, and the women who followed the call of big money. But he wasn’t a lucky gambler himself, so he’d discovered a way to profit from the propensity of most men to count on luck’s eventual appearance, gamble—and lose. He’d opened his own casino and was in the process of negotiations to create more gambling meccas, something of a sore point in the community. On his mother’s side, he could provide the proper court-required documents to prove that he was one thirty-second Paiute—in fact, he only needed to be one sixty-fourth—which gave him the right to build casinos on Indian land, where he would no doubt see to it that the proceeds of his venture stayed in his pockets and didn’t reach the Indian nation that should benefit from it.