Colleen Collins - Hearts in Vegas

Of course, Charlie had his reasons for not alerting the police. He worried that details about her undercover work, as well as her true identity, would get disseminated too widely throughout the police department, compromising her ability to work.

He said it had happened before to other investigators.

“Watch your head, ma’am.” The officer planted his hand on her skull as if it were a basketball and guided her into the backseat of the unmarked car.

Looking through the passenger window, she eyed the dozen or so people on the sidewalk who’d stopped to watch the arrest-in-progress. A middle-aged woman in a blue sweatshirt with the word Lucky in glittery letters licked her double-dip ice-cream cone, her wide eyes glued to the event as if it were a reality TV show.

After getting into the front seat, the cop held up her clutch bag. “I want you to know that I have not opened your purse. It will remain on the front seat of my car until I return it to you.”

He was letting her know that its contents were safe, which protected him from any later accusations of theft. Definite police protocol. Yet he hadn’t followed other standard procedures.

She shifted, trying to get comfortable, an impossibility with her hands bound behind her back. “So,” she said, trying to sound unconcerned, “weren’t you supposed to read me my rights?”

“Why, thank you, ma’am,” he said, turning the ignition. “Guess I just plumb forgot. Lemme see...just like that Bud Buckley song about keeping secrets, you have the right to remain silent...anything you got any inkling to say can and will be used against you in a court of law....”

He drove, reciting her rights as if they were country-song lyrics, missing the turn to the detention center. Clearly, this wasn’t a standard arrest, and the joker behind the steering wheel wasn’t like any cop she’d ever known. A lot could go wrong while carrying jewelry worth seventy thousand dollars.

“Where are we going?” she asked, trying to sound calmer, stronger than she felt.

“I forget,” he said, “did I mention the part about if you can’t afford a lawyer? Hey, that reminds me of that ol’ Willie Nelson song ‘Mama, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys.’ Has that line about lettin’ kids grow up to be doctors and lawyers. And such.”

As he started singing the song, she looked out the window, feeling more annoyed than scared. As insane as this ride-along was, she didn’t have the sense she was in any danger. Her instincts told her something else, too.

She was on her way to meet the person who’d stolen the Lady Melbourne brooch.

* * *

TEN MINUTES, TWO country songs and one headache later, the unmarked car pulled into the parking lot behind the Downtown 3rd Farmers Market.

The building sat at the apex of Stewart Avenue and North Casino Center Boulevard, two streets that always bustled with traffic. Since the market only opened on Fridays, the lot was empty except for a sleek black limousine with darkened windows. In a corner of the lot, some teenage boys practiced their skateboarding moves, the wheels clattering and grinding along the asphalt. Across the street sat a bright red coffee hut.

The officer, flashing her a big ol’ welcoming grin, opened the back door and helped her out. She closed her eyes against a gust of chilly wind as he undid the plastic binding. The scent of French-roast coffee drifted past. Opening her eyes again, she rubbed her wrists while watching the limo.

“After the meeting, I’ll drive you back to your vehicle, ma’am.”

So this had been planned. “Fine,” she muttered, “just no more singing, okay?”

“Does humming count?”

She exhaled heavily. No wonder he didn’t need to recite Miranda warnings—hanging out with him for a few minutes made anyone want to remain silent.

As they walked to the limo, her nerves kicked back in.

No one is going to kill me in a luxury limo. Especially one parked in broad daylight, blocks from the Las Vegas Metro Police station. Plus those skateboarding kids were close enough to easily describe her, the officer, his vehicle and the limo.

But even after mentally rattling off logical reasons that she was safe, she still wanted to throw up.

The cop opened a back door, and she leaned inside the limo, sliding onto a curved leather couch that faced a wet bar, leather chairs and small desk. Two men sat farther down the couch.

With the daylight spilling inside, she had a good view of the occupants. The man closest to her was in his early forties, with pronounced Slavic features, startlingly blue eyes and light, short-cropped hair. He wore leather loafers, slacks and a tailored blue shirt that revealed a muscled physique. On his far side sat a thirtyish man with a tight-lipped expression and wavy dark hair. His clothes weren’t as nice—green-checkered gingham shirt, jeans, scuffed sneakers—and he wore an earbud, its wire connected to a smartphone.

The officer, quiet for once, handed the Lady Melbourne brooch to the older man, then shut the door without coming in.

“Hello, Frances,” said a man with a Russian accent.

A ceiling lamp flicked on, lighting their seating area.

She wondered how he knew her real name. “And you’re...?”

“An admirer...and a potential friend.”

Considering how matter-of-factly he accepted the brooch, as though it were his, this had to be the criminal working with Enzo. The mastermind Charlie and Vanderbilt Insurance wanted her to find. And to think she’d been convinced she’d blown this case.

Great. She’d found him. But who was he? Apparently a Russian who had an undercover Vegas cop on his payroll.

The man picked a box off the couch. As he leaned forward, holding it toward her, she caught a whiff of his cologne, a potent mix of burned cherries and leather.

“Please help yourself,” he said. “Chocolates from the Krupshaya confectionery factory of Saint Petersburg.”

“Are you from Saint Petersburg?”

He made a clucking sound. “Don’t be impolite, my dear. We’ve barely met and you’re already asking personal questions.” He gestured to the box. “I suggest the dark chocolates. They’re creamy and sweet, unlike the dry, bitter variety one finds in America.”

“No, thank you,” she said. She vaguely remembered someone telling her that refusing a Russian’s offer of food or drink was considered rude. “I’m allergic to chocolate.”

“Allergic to vodka, too?” He helped himself to a piece of candy.

“Uh, no.”

“Good. Would hate for you to miss out on all of life’s pleasures.” He settled back on the couch and, after popping the confection into his mouth, nodded to the other man, who moved forward, turning his smartphone so Frances could see the screen.

A video began playing of her and Enzo at the jewelry store, talking across the display case. It had been taken from the camera on her left, a good twenty feet away, yet it looked as though it had been shot from much closer.

Thoughts ricocheted through her mind. Enzo was either a terrific actor, emoting cluelessness as she lifted the brooch, or he had no idea she’d done it. Considering his current legal problems, she doubted he could pretend to be anything other than what he was—a troubled, weary man.

Which meant this Russian had somehow gotten hold of the surveillance film, but since he had the brooch again, why show this to her?

He said something in Russian to the younger man, who tapped the screen. The image froze just as she swapped the replica with the Lady Melbourne brooch.

“Nice work, Frances,” the older man said. “You’ve obviously done this before.”

“How do you know my name?”

“Your government has a marvelous facial-recognition database that contains every U.S. driver’s license photo. My associate Oleg hijacked the signal from the surveillance camera to his smartphone, selected a clear image of you and ran it through that database. It linked to your license photo and gave us your name.”