The first magazine was a sensationalist rag. The headline read, Elvis never died. He was just recalled to his ship!

Jessy stared at Sandra, arching a brow.

“Oh, ignore that,” Sandra said. “Go to page four.”

Jessy flipped through to an article about a ghost in the D.C. house of one of North Dakota’s state senators. Harrison Investigations had been called in, only to report that the “eerie noises” and weird happenings in the historic home were being caused by a nest of squirrels—and an unhappy constituent who had managed to get a job as a housekeeper for the senator. The reporter claimed to know, however, that the house had been haunted by a man shot in a quarrel after the Lincoln assassination for insisting that Dr. Samuel Mudd had treated John Wilkes Booth’s leg as he would have any patient’s, unaware that Booth had just killed the president. The reporter was certain that a member of Harrison Investigations had assured the ghost that Mudd—and he—had been vindicated, and the ghost had moved on.

Jessy stared at Sandra. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Check this one out, then.”

She handed Jessy another magazine, a respected news weekly, which carried an article about the same incident and mentioned several others, finishing by saying, Whatever the problem—wildlife, pranksters or even revenants with a grudge—Harrison Investigations seems capable of solving the problem, quietly and without fanfare.

“So they investigate squirrels,” Jessy said irritably.

“They’re ghost busters,” Sandra said firmly.

“If that’s true, it just proves my point exactly. Do I really want to get involved with a whack job who thinks investigating ghosts is the way to solve a crime?”

“You’re hopeless,” Sandra said. “Don’t get involved with him, then. Have sex. Maybe even let him be a friend—with benefits. But stop spending your life in a funk, doing nothing but working, eating a TV dinner, going to bed—”

“I never eat TV dinners,” Jessy protested.

Sandra ignored her. “And visiting Timothy. And frankly, hanging out with a nice strong guy would be a pretty good idea, if you ask me, because I think you should be afraid. That guy didn’t die from having too much fun. He was murdered. Knifed in the back. And like it or not, you’re connected to his death. The more I think about it, the scarier I think it is.”

“What the hell is the matter with you, trying to scare me like this?” Jessy demanded.

“I’m looking out for your welfare,” Sandra told her.

“By scaring me to death?”

“You’re not dead, so apparently my evil plan didn’t work. But I still think you’re in danger,” Sandra said, nodding to show how serious she was.

“So you want me to get…involved with a man who might be crazy,” Jessy accused.

“It’s what you want, and you know it,” Sandra said.

Jessy groaned and changed the subject. “Are we seeing a movie or not?”

“There’s a new horror—” Sandra began.

“Very funny,” Jessy said.

“Sorry,” Sandra teased. “How about that new cops film?”

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 attitude, 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 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.

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, “Hell, if you’re really scared, dial 911. Fast.”

“You know I will,” Jessy assured 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 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.

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.