Amy Atwell - Lying Eyes

“Do you need help?” Hunter asked in a low voice.

Mickey considered the offer. After all, Iris’s safety was paramount. “No. This situation is best played quickly and alone. But keep an eye on Cosmo’s other daughters. If someone went after Iris, they might send someone after the other two.”

“Will do. Be careful.”

Mickey stuffed the phone back in his pocket. Be careful. He’d said those words to Brian each time his little brother had gone on duty. A talisman that hadn’t protected him in the end.

Guilt stuck him like a spitted pig. His gut instinct had been to keep Iris by his side at all times. The problem? It was harder and harder to tell where protective gut instinct ended and lust began.

But it was his fault she was now in danger, just as it was now his responsibility to get her away from Jock and Pebbles before anyone discovered the jewels were fake.

With a soft curse he vowed he’d get another chance at arresting the Boss. People had died thoughtless, senseless deaths. The Boss might be polite and businesslike, but he was as cold-hearted as any shooter on drugs, without any concern about killing a man-or a woman.

He wouldn’t risk leaving Iris in this villain’s clutches.

Life was full of hard choices, but for Mickey, this one was easy.

Donovan strode the length of the boardroom again while the gemologist peered through his refractometer. In the corner, Turner leaned against the wall and contemplated his nails. The sun had set, leaving only an indigo mass as a backdrop outside the windows.

The gemologist pushed his chair away from the table. “What you have here are top-quality examples of tinted corundum.”

“I didn’t ask for a diagnosis,” Donovan snapped. “Are they, or are they not, alexandrite?”

“They are not.”

Donovan turned away to place tense hands on the windowsill.

Turner rose from his chair. “Thank you for your time,” he said to the gemologist as he ushered the man out the door.

“You’re welcome, but-oh, I forgot my-” The man hurried back to the oversized table in the middle of the room and fetched his glasses. “Take heart. These might not be authentic alexandrite, but they’re top-quality imitations. I’d say they date back to the 1920s-antiques in their own respect. This size, this clarity, they’re probably worth a thousand dollars apiece.”

Donovan said nothing.

“Well, good night then, gentlemen.” The gemologist scooted out the door Turner held open for him.

When the door clicked shut, Donovan turned to find Turner watching him like a trained dog awaiting his master’s orders. Turner was the only solid player in this whole scheme. Everyone else had let him down, screwed up or tried to cheat him.

Donovan strode over to the refractometer and picked up the single gem lying beside it. He held it in his hand, staring at the blood red color, while frustration boiled within him.

“Dammit!” In one quick eruption, he whipped the small stone across the room. It hit with a thwack and fell to the floor, leaving a pockmark in the wall. “Ten thousand dollars, and I spent ten million. Someone’s going to pay for this.”

Turner came forward, not the least intimidated by the outburst. “George Halsted’s already paid, and so has Cosmo Fortune.”

“Do you really think those two flew all the way to Russia and accepted these? Halsted was smarter than that.”

“True. So, you think the real alexandrite is somewhere here in Las Vegas?”

“I’m sure of it,” Donovan said emphatically. “The question is who pulled the switch.”

Turner perched a hip on the table. “Cosmo’s the one who wouldn’t hand them over. And his daughter’s the one who gave these to Kincaid.”

“Do you think Kincaid knew what these really were?”

Turner shrugged. “Even if he did, he didn’t have ten thousand to buy them from somewhere. Someone who knew gems had to be involved to get this quality.”

“So Iris Fortune is a dead woman, but first I need her to tell us where the real gems are.” Donovan rolled down his shirtsleeves. He was still pissed, but at least now he was taking steps to overcome this latest setback. “I can’t sign those real estate contracts until I have the Romanov alexandrite in my hands. I was counting on trading that to the Russian Cultural Minister in return for him reopening my casino in Moscow.”

“Postpone the meeting,” Turner said flatly.

“I wasn’t looking for advice.” Donovan headed for the door, his way of indicating this meeting was at an end.

“And what about Kincaid?” Turner rose from his perch.

Donovan paused at the door. “If he goes near that Fortune woman, kill him.” He stalked out.

“As you wish, sir.” Turner withdrew his cell phone and dialed Jock.

It proved too hard to flag down a cab on Las Vegas Boulevard, so Mickey wound up in the cab line at Treasure Island. His first destination was Jock’s apartment. A logical, if wrong, choice. When he discovered the place empty, he cursed, then grabbed the next CAT bus to his own place where he picked up his car. Still, it was an hour and a half after he’d dropped off the gems before he got downtown to the dingy apartment building Pebbles called home.

Spying the PT Cruiser-purple, no less-that Pebbles babied, Mickey skirted the building and parked on the opposite side. Doubling back to the Cruiser, he studied the parking lot for something he could use to stop it from running. A plastic ballpoint pen cap caught his eye. Round, blue, it had a protruding arm that would normally be used to anchor the pen to someone’s pocket. Perfect-he had a much better use for it.

He hunkered down next to the driver’s side front tire, unscrewed the cap from the tire valve, and wedged that protruding bit of plastic against the valve to open it. Air continued to hiss even after he let go. With a smile, Mickey dusted off his hands and headed into the building. As long as no Good Samaritan tampered with it, that tire would be flat in less than ten minutes.

Who was he kidding? No Good Samaritan had lived in this neighborhood for years.

Climbing eight flights of stairs winded him a bit, but he checked out the hallway, listened at other doors. Everything seemed normal. With a final cleansing breath, Mickey knocked on the apartment door.

Footsteps approached from inside. Mickey saluted the peephole.

The door opened a sliver. One of Jock’s eyes and half his nose showed. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“I believe you have something that’s mine.” Mickey shoved through the door.

Jock was thrown back by the force, and he danced around to stay on his feet. Brushing off his jacket, he looked Mickey over. “Oh yeah? Did you come for the bimbo or the bunny?”

“I want them both.”

“Aw, come on, Mickey. Let me keep the bunny.” Pebbles sat on the derelict sofa. At his feet, Edgar sat up on his hind legs as if he’d just been taught to beg.

Mickey thought about telling the giant to go fuck himself, but then decided against it. As it was, he’d be lucky to get back out of here with Iris, Edgar and himself intact. He looked at the rabbit. “Edgar, buddy, sorry to say, but you’re the first one I’ll sacrifice.”

The rabbit swiveled his ears and raised his head to sniff, as if he understood the situation.

“Well, you’re not getting either.” Jock folded his arms and waited.

From the sofa, Pebbles added, “Turner said if you showed up, we should invite you to stay until he got here.” He leaned over to stroke Edgar’s head with a pudgy thumb.

Jock gritted his teeth, and his face flushed with whatever curses he repressed.

Mickey’s eyes darted from one to the other while he sought for the most plausible story. “You want to hide behind that chain-of-command shit? Fine, but Turner’s being a dick.” He placed a hand on Jock’s shoulder and lowered his voice. No need to frighten Iris. “Turner’s boss-the big guy, top dog, white leather in the limo and everything-told me to get the woman out of here and deal with her. Now, if you won’t let me take her, I guess I can deal with her here, but it could get messy, and you know Turner will ask you to clean up.”