Rothchild? Quite a coincidence, wouldn’t you say?” The FBI agent’s tone was neutral, but his meaning was unmistakable.
Conner tamped down on his quickly rising hackles. Forced himself into composed, professional lawyer mode. “Are you by any chance asking me for an alibi?” he asked coolly. “For this?” He swept a hand toward the mess in the apartment.
Duncan lifted a shoulder. “It occurs to me that a Rothchild would have the strongest motive to search Miss St. Giles’s home. Missing family heirloom, and all. And you being convinced she stole it.” He looked smug. “It would also explain your presence at the Diamond Lounge. You didn’t find the ring when you searched the apartment and Darla had disappeared, so you took a chance her sister might know where she went.”
Damn. It all sounded far too plausible.
Except it was all bull, and Duncan knew it. They both knew whoever did this was the same person who’d stalked and almost killed Silver. And possibly Candace. But, okay, he played along.
“Just one thing wrong with your theory,” Conner said evenly. “I had no idea Darla had a sister. Oh, and the fact that I do have an alibi. I was working another case. The Parker case, if you want to call my firm. I spent the whole afternoon asking questions of the dancers up and down the Strip. At least a couple hundred witnesses, plus video surveillance, I’m sure. The Diamond Lounge was my next stop.” He held up a hand. “And, yes, I do have a checked-off list to prove it. Thank you. Thank you very much.”
At least Duncan cracked a smile. Vera was still glaring at Conner.
“Okay,” Duncan said. “I’ll get that checked out, but I believe you’re telling the truth. Meanwhile, I still have the problem of Ms. Mancuso. Because if you didn’t do the break-in…”
Conner nodded. “It was most likely the same guy who’s been after the ring since it disappeared from Candace’s hand the night she died.”
Duncan nodded, too. “A thief whom Darla seems to have double-crossed. And since the FBI now has the ring in its custody—”
“He didn’t find it in his search. And since Darla has disappeared—”
“He’ll be looking for Ms. Mancuso next, thinking she knows where to find her sister, and therefore the ring.”
Vera had been watching the back-and-forth like a spectator at a tennis match, but now she finally caught on with a gasp. “Are you saying…I could be in danger?”
“Did you read the message he left on the wall?” Conner queried.
“This man has already gone on the attack for the ring,” Duncan said. “Don’t take any chances with your safety.”
“So what am I supposed to do?”
“Ms. Mancuso was released into your recognizance, Rothchild. ” Duncan turned to remind him. “And the terms of her bail still stand. But if you prefer, I’ll take her back into custody. I can’t risk losing my only suspect. In any manner.”
“What? Hold on!” Vera exclaimed. “His recognizance or police custody? There has to be a door number three here.”
“I respect your dilemma, Ms. Mancuso,” the agent said. “But the only reason you are not in a cell right now is because of Mr. Rothchild’s spotless reputation as an attorney and his formidable social standing in the community. I’ve already stretched the law as far as I’m willing to go in that regard. He stays with you or you come with me.”
There was a pregnant pause, the silence in the marble foyer only broken by the sounds of the CSI techs’ cameras clicking inside the apartment.
“Fine,” she said at length, but obviously mad as a hornet. “I’ll move a futon for him out into the vestibule.” She rounded on Conner. “You can set it up in front of the elevator so there’s no way I—or anyone else—can slip past—”
His brows shot up. Excuse me? He shoved aside the insult. “You want to stay in a ransacked apartment?”
“Like I have a choice?” she fired back.
“Sorry,” Duncan interrupted. “Not possible. No one’s allowed into the apartment until the techs are finished processing for trace and fingerprints. That’ll take at least a few hours.”
“She’ll stay at my place,” Conner said through clamped teeth, ready to strangle the woman. A freakin’ futon? He didn’t think so.
She opened her mouth to protest but he nipped it. “I have plenty of room. And can provide an armed guard,” he added pointedly.
“Good,” Duncan said, passing Conner his notebook. “Write down the address and phone number.”
Almost sputtering, she crossed her arms over her ample chest. Sending an untimely reminder through his body that he was still more than half-aroused. But her vehement, “I am not going anywhere with you,” jerked him right out of his momentary hormonal stupor.
Which probably made him point out more sharply than strictly necessary, “I happen to know you have no money and nowhere else to go.” He ignored her gasp and went on, “And if you think I’m paying for a hotel when I have ten bedrooms sitting empty at my house, you’re dead wrong.”
She blinked and her eyes shuttered. He realized too late he’d reacted like a defense attorney, trampling her objections like a charging rhino. And he’d hurt her.
Well, too damn bad. She’d hurt him first.
He pushed out a calming breath, chagrined at his childish outburst.
God.
Was he actually whining like a two-year-old?
“I’m sorry,” he said gruffly. “That was a thoughtless and unnecessary remark. But the reality is, it’s my house or jail.”
She looked like a Nile cat chased into a tree by that charging rhino. Angry. Cornered. But undefeated. “In that case,” she said with chin held high, “I’ll take jail.”
Chapter 7
Vera stared up at the stunning mansion in front of her.
Holy mackerel.
The rising sun was just peeking over the desert horizon, spreading a magical spill of golden light over the soft coralcolored adobe walls and arches of the Southwest-inspired manor house and surrounding lush green lawns and gardens.
“You live here?” she asked her jailer. “Alone?”
They were the first words she’d spoken to Conner Biggest-Bully-in-the-Universe Rothchild since she’d grudgingly hunched into the passenger seat of his ridiculously ostentatious car to be driven here. To his house. Where he lived.
How she’d let herself get talked into going anywhere with the lying jerk, let alone his own home, she’d never know.
Okay, not true. It was the work of the usual catch-22:
