She’d suggested that whenever Frances got the jitters, to remind herself she could only control what was in her power and let everything else take its course.
Only problem with that thinking was that Frances liked to control every aspect of her cases. Liked to know every nuance of an investigation, every possible fact she could dredge up. It gave her confidence. Some people felt she had too much confidence, but that was their perception. Or, she liked to think, an acknowledgment of her well-crafted illusion.
But letting everything else take its course?
That would take magical thinking on her part, something even a magician’s daughter couldn’t conjure up.
* * *
SITTING AT THE DESK in the reception area at Morgan-LeRoy Investigations, Braxton Morgan read the text message from his grandmother Glenda a third time, mostly because he couldn’t believe it the first two.
I entered you in the Magic Dream Date Auction at Sensuelle on Valentine’s Day. Raise $$ for Keep ’Em Rolling & the guy who brings in the highest bid wins a car!
It wasn’t that Braxton was against raising money for Grams’s favorite charity, Keep ’Em Rolling, which provided wheelchairs for those in need. The cause was close to her heart, as she was a wheelchair user herself. And he’d love nothing more than to ditch his clunker and drive a new car. Until recently he’d avoided any activity that put him in the public eye, but he was ready to get out and about again, test the Vegas waters.
Not so long ago, as the manager of the high-end strip club Topaz, he’d lived la vida loca en Las Vegas—plush penthouse, Italian designer suits, kick-ass Porsche. At first he pretended not to notice when his boss, a Russian named Yuri Glazkov, muscled people for money or forged documents. After a while he had to admit Yuri was a thug, but Brax figured that as long as he kept his nose clean, no problem.
But like that old saying “You are what you eat,” you’re also who you hang out with.
After a few years working with Yuri, Braxton had been willing to break a law here and there for his boss, justifying it by telling himself he never indulged in violence or threats, just fudging a few numbers. Hell, everybody cheated on their taxes, right? But after Yuri got arrested for tax fraud, Brax couldn’t pretend he wasn’t on his way to being a thug, too.
But, when he tried to leave his job at Topaz, Yuri threatened to go to the authorities with evidence and witnesses to a crime Braxton had supposedly committed. All mocked-up evidence, given by “witnesses” who were Yuri’s buddies, but Braxton didn’t want to be railroaded into prison, so he stayed, waiting for the day he could make a clean break.
Which he finally got last August when he and his brother, Drake, along with a handful of Vegas police officers and a sharp arson investigator named Tony Cordova, headed up a sting at the Mandalay Bay Hotel and Casino that resulted in Yuri’s arrest on a slew of nasty felony charges, including attempted murder and extortion. After Yuri’s defense attorney got him released on a half-mil bond, the Russian thug had been keeping a low profile. Which was fine with Braxton. No Yuri meant a happy, peaceful life, even if he had been forced to rebuild his from scratch.
At least he still had his designer clothes, but he was back living with his mom and grandmother, and drove a banged-up turquoise Volvo with two balding tires. He hated turquoise.
He looked at his grandmother’s text message again.
He’d done his best to man up, never complain about his shift from big spender to budget shopper, but no way was he parading like a slab of beef in front of hordes of women fueled by hormones and free booze.
He glanced at the grandfather clock. Quarter after three. His mother would still be at her Wednesday bowling league, but Grams was either at home or her boyfriend’s down the street. Since she’d just texted this message, she was probably available to read his response right now.
He began tapping the keypad on his smartphone.
Grams, I’m not a slab of...
The desk phone jangled. Why Val LeRoy, his brother’s wife and P.I. partner, insisted on keeping this dinosaur landline service was beyond his understanding.
“Brax,” yelled Drake from the back office, “get that? I’m on another call.”
Braxton lifted the handset, mentally cursing the tangled phone cord that tied him like a leash to the phone.
“Morgan-LeRoy Investigations,” he answered, staring at his unfinished text message to his grandmother. Sounded hostile. Not good. He punched the back arrow to erase letters.
Grams, I’m...
“My apologies,” a man said, “I thought I dialed Diamond Investigations.”
The caller had a strong Russian accent, which brought back bad memories. Although he detected a faint, almost imperceptible British lilt, which he’d never heard in any of Yuri’s crowd.
“The agency name changed to Morgan-LeRoy Investigations last October,” Brax explained, waiting in case the man had questions about the former owner, Jayne Diamond. Sometimes callers didn’t know Jayne had died last October after a brief illness or that she’d bequeathed the agency to her protégé, Val LeRoy, and Val’s husband, Drake Morgan, Braxton’s identical twin brother.
“Ah, I see. I would like to speak to Mr. Morgan, please.”
Probably meant his brother, as Braxton had only come on board recently as a security consultant. “Drake is on another call. I can transfer you to his voice mail.”
Adjusting the sleeve of his blue-striped Armani shirt, he frowned at the phone, wondering if he knew how to do that. He tapped a button on the phone console that apparently turned on the speakerphone, because when the caller spoke again, his voice echoed through the outer office.
“Braxton Morgan,” the man clarified. “I wish to speak to Braxton Morgan.”
Brax hesitated. The Russian thing... Nah, he’d let the paranoia pass. Couldn’t afford to turn down an inquiry for his consulting services. He set the handset on the desk and leaned back in the swivel chair. “Speaking.”
“Excellent! My name is Dmitri Romanov, but my friends call me Dima. I am calling on behalf of my community. We would like to retain your services to help us.”
“Which community?”
“The Russian community.”
Which was a large one in Las Vegas, at least three thousand people. Didn’t mean this call had anything to do with Yuri. “The problem?”
“We are concerned about our image and our ability to run legitimate businesses because of recent negative publicity regarding one individual. We want to know where he spends his time in Las Vegas and if he is still conducting criminal activities. His name is Yuri Glaz—”
“You called the wrong guy,” Braxton snapped, wishing he’d listened to his instincts and canned this call. “Got problems with Yuri? Call the cops. Better yet, call the D.A., who I hope skewers that bastard to the wall at his trial next month.”
Drake strode into the room. To
