down,” Dillon said, his voice taking on a deep authoritative pitch. He had long ago learned that people didn’t obey high voices in an emergency; they only became more hysterical.
The redhead was silent, but he saw that she was shivering. Something in her eyes told him that she knew she was going to be there for a long time, the center of a murder investigation. She was stunning, absolutely stunning, and something about her intrigued him. Las Vegas was full of gorgeous women, of course—showgirls, waitresses, actresses, singers—but she seemed different somehow.
When he’d first noticed her, those eyes of hers had been…haunted. Not as if she was afraid of losing a dream, certainly not as if she was afraid of simply losing…money, but as if she was terrified of losing something far more precious. As if the roll of the dice could cost her her very soul.
He gave himself a mental shake. He had other things to think about here. Not only was there a dead man lying on the craps table, but that dead man was Tanner Green.
A man came striding onto the scene. A big guy with an attitude. Jerry Cheever, Las Vegas homicide. Dillon was pretty sure that Cheever resented him, but Cheever knew the lay of the land. He might despise Dillon on every level, but he’d been told by his bosses that Dillon was to be granted free rein. Cheever liked his paycheck and his position, so he obeyed, but he also liked to take credit for things that went well, and he knew Dillon had a talent for seeing an investigation through, and he wasn’t above taking advantage of that fact.
Especially because he simply wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer.
“No one move!” Cheever bellowed. “And I mean no one!”
He took note of the blood seeping into the green felt tabletop and soaking the multicolored chips.
“Wolf,” he said curtly, acknowledging Dillon’s presence. His eyes settled on the redhead as he asked Dillon, “What happened?”
“I wasn’t here. I ran over when I heard the screaming,” Dillon said.
Jerry Cheever turned to the redhead.
“What happened?” he demanded curtly.
“I was leaving the table. This man came over and…and fell on me,” she said.
“Do you know him?” Cheever demanded.
“I’ve never seen him before,” she said.
“You’re sure?” Cheever pressed.
“Absolutely sure,” she said with confidence. She was still trembling slightly. Not surprising, Dillon thought, given that she was wearing the dead man’s blood.
“Are you hurt?” he asked her quietly.
She shook her head.
Cheever took in the corpse. “Christ! It’s Tanner Green.” He glared at Dillon again. “Aren’t you two working for—”
“Yes,” Dillon said curtly.
“But you weren’t together?”
“No.”
“Lieutenant Cheever, the M.E. is here,” a newly arrived police officer informed him.
“Give him room. No one gets out those doors, do you hear?” Cheever said.
A murmur arose from the crowd, but Cheever wasn’t disturbed. “Give your payouts, close your tables,” he commanded the casino employees, then turned to his fellow officers. “I want men posted at all the doors. No one leaves here without presenting ID and a valid local address, and not until they’ve been questioned. Are we understood?”
Another swell of protest emanated from the crowd, but no one moved. Not even the casino employees. “Payouts. Now. I want the tables closed up. I want some order here,” Cheever announced.
At last things began to happen. The M.E.—it was Doug Tarleton, a decent guy and an expert in his field, Dillon thought—was sliding his gloved hands over the dead man’s face, closing the staring eyes.
“Lord!” Tarleton said, startled. “It’s Tanner Green.”
“Yes,” Dillon said simply.
Cheever turned to the redhead. “And you are…?”
“Jessy Sparhawk,” she said quietly.
“Exactly what happened?” he asked.
She arched a brow but answered levelly. “I was leaving the table. I don’t know where this man came from. He fell on me and knocked me onto the table. I was trapped under him until he—” she pointed at Dillon “—got me out. And that’s all I know.”
“So you don’t know him?”
“No,” she said firmly.
Cheever’s officers were good, and the floor had quietly filled with them.
Dillon knew there were men already stationed at the doors, and he knew that the others would soon begin questioning the hundreds of people who had been in the casino. Crime-scene tape was already being stretched around the table.
Cheever suddenly stared at Jessy Sparhawk again. “The surveillance cameras will have picked up everything, you know.”
“I told you exactly what happened,” she said, adding, “And I had nothing to do with it.”
“Lieutenant Cheever,” Dillon said, taking a step forward, “Miss Sparhawk is a victim here, and undoubtedly pretty damn uncomfortable right now.”
“That man is uncomfortable,” Cheever said irritably, pointing to Tanner Green.
“No,” Dr. Tarleton said. “That man isn’t feeling a thing. He’s dead. Knife wound to the back, short-hilted, long-bladed weapon, which is why no one noticed it—that, and the fact that they were all staring at the tables.”
“You’re sure on the weapon?” Cheever asked.
Tarleton cleared his throat and looked daggers at the detective. He wasn’t fond of Cheever. “Oh, yeah. I’m sure. It’s still sticking out of his back.”
“Shouldn’t there be a blood trail to show where he was stabbed?” Cheever asked, frowning.
“There might be a few specks somewhere. The knife acted like a cork,” Doug explained patiently. “When Tanner fell, the knife was knocked aside and the blood began to gush. That’s why Miss Sparhawk is covered in it.”
“Bring in the crime unit—I want fingerprints ASAP,” Cheever said huffily. He was embarrassed, Dillon knew, that he hadn’t figured out that the knife would have kept the blood from flowing. “All right, get everyone cleared out of here, and let the crime unit have the area from the door to the table.” He glared at Dillon suspiciously. “You, too, Wolf. Let the crime-scene team get in here, and let Tarleton do his job.”
Dillon stuck like glue to Jessy Sparhawk, who didn’t protest when he led her away. He gave his own name, credentials and address
