Private Vegas (Private 9)

Last year, she learned that I was looking for an assistant and she applied for the job; she accepted the offer with the understanding that she’d get a promotion to investigator in the future if and when I thought she was ready.

In the short time Val had been working for me, I found her to be smart, disciplined, willing to do any kind of work needed and without being asked. She was also very funny. Val didn’t rile easily. But she was riled now.

“It’s your brother,” she said. “He showed up downstairs and says he’s coming up here right now. He has no appointment that I know of and no apologies either. You want to see him, Jack? Or you want me to call security?”

My identical twin, Tommy, was named for my miserable father, Tom Morgan. Tommy is older than me by three minutes, arrogant, a bully, and very likely a killer. I’ve never been able to prove that last, but I have good reason to believe it.

“Call security,” I said. “No, I’ll do it.” I went for my phone but never reached it.

Tommy brushed past Val, managing to touch her inappropriately on his way through the door.

“Oh nooo,” he said with a bright, mocking tone. “Bad Tommy’s here.”

“What do you want?” I asked him.

“How’d you like twenty million bucks?” he said. “Got time for me now?”

Chapter 20

“DON’T GET COMFORTABLE,” I said to my twin.

Tommy went over to the seating area of my office, threw himself onto the blue couch, put his feet on the coffee table.

He sighed contentedly as he took in the wide view through my windows. Then: “How long does it take you to make twenty million, bro? A few years, at least, right?”

I picked up the phone, called security.

“Charles, I need assistance in my office,” I said. “Right now.” I hung up, said to my brother, “You have ten seconds.”

“What happened to your eyebrows?”

“Maybe you’ll tell me.”

“Me?”

My subconscious had spoken. Yes, Tommy could have done it. Could have blown up cars, set it up the way Detective Ziegler had said. Five cars in my neighborhood, then mine. Made it look like a serial arsonist, but maybe my car was the target all along.

“Oh, are my ten seconds almost over?” he said. “Let me make this fast. I want to buy you out of Private, Jack. Twenty million, cash, before this case against Del Rio drives all your clients away. I’ll combine Private Investigations and Private Security and give you a piece of the whole company.

“I think this could be called equity preservation,” he added.

“Let me think about it. No.”

“It’s win-win for you, Jack. So, okay. How much do you want?”

The security team showed up. I told them that Mr. Morgan needed an escort out. Charles looked at Tom, looked at me, looked back at Tom, both of us with the same sandy-brown hair, the same features—except for my lack of eyebrows.

Tommy laughed, said, “Throw the bum out.”

I said, “It’s your choice, Tom. You can leave by the door or go out through the window.”

“Okay, okay,” he said, grinning, putting up his hands, getting to his feet. “You’re making a mistake.”

In a minute, he was gone, with four security guys behind him to make sure that he didn’t loiter in the hallways.

Tommy had stirred me up. As he always does. And as he has done since we were about seven. My brother hates me enough to set me up to take a murder rap.

He’s done that, and he’s done worse.