Rake (Wolfes of Manhattan 4)

“No. Not that I know of, anyway.”

“What does that mean?”

“Fuck.”

His tone reeked of defeat. I wasn’t going to like what was coming.

“She had a key. She gave it back to me after we parted ways, but…”

“But…she could have had a copy made.”

“Yeah.”

What were you thinking? I wanted to demand of my brother. But the fact was, he hadn’t been thinking about Dad at all. He all but admitted he tried never to think of the bastard. Most ex-girlfriends weren’t mercenaries, so he didn’t bother changing his locks.

Made perfect sense.

Except we were all fucked now because of his little faux pas.

“She never had the combination to my gun safe, though,” Rock said.

“Okay, that’s good. But think. Did you put the gun back in the safe the last time you went to the shooting range?”

Silence.

He wasn’t sure.

Fuck.

“I’ll take that as a no.”

“Fuck, man. It’s not a no. But the thing is, I just don’t remember.”

“Shouldn’t you always replace a gun in the safe?”

“Of course, if you have small children around. Or you fear someone living with you might be suicidal. But I lived alone, Reid. I wasn’t going to blow my own head off, so I didn’t worry about shit like that.”

My mind raced. “So she could have taken your gun. But we already know your gun wasn’t used to blow Dad’s head off. It was just the same model.”

“Right, so who cares if she took it?”

“Well, you should.”

“I do. She’s a conniving little shrew. But the fact that my gun is missing doesn’t implicate me any further, because it’s not the murder weapon.”

“No, you’re the only one with a seemingly ironclad alibi.”

“What do you mean seemingly?”

“The cops still think you could have had it done.”

“Why would I do something so stupid as to have it done with a gun that’s a duplicate of mine?”

“Good point. Honestly, I’m not sure why they haven’t ruled you out. Something’s fishy about all of this.”

“It has been from the get-go, bro.”

“I know.”

“Honestly, Nieves could have taken my gun. Or she could have taken something else that I have no clue about.”

“I’ll find out at lunch.” I glanced down at my watch. “In fact, I have to go. I’ll check in with you later.”

“Sounds good.”

I ended the call and shoved my phone in my pocket.

Time to turn on the charm once more to get what I wanted.

11

Zee

After I got the shoes all packed up and lugged the damned package to the post office—and paid twenty-plus bucks in postage, thank you very much, Reid Wolfe—I headed into work early to have some repair work done on my costume. Several of the opulent beads had come loose during the last show, and that was a recipe for disaster.

Beads falling off and rolling on the floor while we’re all dancing in stilettos…

Not good.

Tonight was a topless night for me. We took turns baring ourselves. That way, we all knew all the dance moves for all the parts and could substitute for anyone with no notice. Revue shows like the one I was in were a dying breed in Las Vegas. Sure, topless shows were available in smaller venues in the city, but our show, Best of Sin City, was one of the last large revues that featured nearly a hundred showgirls. Celebrities like Donny and Marie Osmond and Celine Dion, among others, were taking over the biggest venues and drawing huge crowds, making traditional Vegas shows a thing of the past.

Consequently, I was lucky to have this gig. Many showgirls weren’t so lucky and had resorted to stripping and lap dancing at local clubs. Each night, I thanked the stars that I had this job. I didn’t know how to do anything else. My childhood foray into acting had proved I was no actress, and my modeling days were long over. My medical career had gone up in dust years ago. I was just too old. Too old, too tired, and too scarred.

Topless nights no longer bothered me. My scars were well hidden with creative makeup and costuming. Plus, the bright lights on stage made the leering men invisible to me, if they even existed.

I was, simply, grateful to be alive, even as the wreck I’d become.

“Good thing you came in,” one of the seamstresses said to me. “This needs to be taken in anyway. You’ve lost an inch around the waist.”

“I have?”

“Yeah. Have you been eating?”

Hmm. Had I? No, I hadn’t. Not really. Only the barest sustenance since that PI for the Wolfe family had found me.

“Well,” I said, instead of answering her question, “I don’t think any woman alive worries about taking off a few pounds.”

“You should,” she said. “You dancers are all muscle. If you lose weight, you lose muscle.”

Not in the mood for a lecture, thanks. I didn’t reply.

I sat at my dressing table—not mine, actually, the dressing table I shared with several others, though none of them were in yet—while the tailor finished working on my costume, checking my phone, when the star of our show, Candice Hall, whisked by, cigarette in hand, leaving a mixture of smoke and Chanel hovering in the air.