Sleepless in Las Vegas. Colleen Collins
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side of the house, flames blew out the shattered kitchen window.
“Got a pulse,” Chuck said.
Drake stared at the dog’s chest, catching an almost imperceptible movement. “He’s breathing!”
The men stared at another rise and fall of the chest...and another...
“Keep at it, boy,” Dietrich coached, “you’re almost there.”
Three grown men on their knees cried and whooped as Hearsay’s eyelids fluttered opened.
Dietrich grinned at the dog, his teeth white in a face streaked with soot. “You’re one tough bastard, Hearsay.”
Blinking, the dog looked around, his gaze settling on Drake.
In that moment, he met God.
“Welcome back, buddy,” he murmured.
After a few minutes, Chuck slipped the oxygen mask over the dog’s head. “There’s an all-night emergency vet hospital near here—”
“I know where it is.” Drake stroked Hearsay’s head.
“Take him there right now, have him checked over. He’s alert, breathing on his own, but the little guy took in a lot of smoke. He’s gonna need medicine to prevent lung issues later.”
“I will.” He looked over at Dietrich, who had moved away and was yammering orders to several firefighters. “I never got to thank him.”
“Captain lost his own dog a few months ago,” Chuck said. “Saving yours helped him, you know? Helped all of us. It’s an honor to save a life.” He put his hands underneath the dog. “Let’s get him up.”
Together, they lifted the dog.
Cradling Hearsay in his arms, Drake walked down the driveway. As he passed through clusters of neighbors, people touched his back, murmured words of encouragement. He held Hearsay close, knowing there were difficult, frustrating days ahead, but at the moment, nothing mattered but the life in his arms.
At the pickup, he opened the passenger door. Cuddling Hearsay close in one arm, he lifted the jacket lying neatly on the seat with his free hand. Then paused. The vinyl seating was old, ripped. A jacket would provide some cushioning.
Carefully, he laid Hearsay on the jacket, which still carried lingering scents of his dad’s Old Spice cologne and love of cigars. His old man would have approved. He liked the material things like anybody else, but nothing—not even a jacket that had cost him a month’s pay—was more important than family.
“Mr. Morgan?”
He double-checked to make sure Hearsay was comfortable, then turned. A streetlight highlighted a stocky man dressed in pants and a sports shirt.
“I’m Tony Cordova, arson investigator for this district.”
Drake guessed his raspy voice was from years of smoking, inhaling smoke or both.
“Like to ask you some questions,” Tony said.
“Later.” He carefully closed the passenger door, which shut with a solid click. “Need to take my dog to the vet hospital.”
“Saw the firefighters bring him around. Glad the tyke’s okay.” He followed Drake as he walked to the driver’s door. “You’re a private investigator, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Then you understand the importance of my asking questions right now.”
“I understand.” He yanked open the door. With any crime, the faster you gathered data, the faster you were on the trail. “But as I said, I’m on my way to the hospital.”
“Was anyone else in your house when you left tonight?”
“I already told dispatch there was no one.”
“Did you accidentally leave the stove on? Any faulty electrical apparatus that you were aware of?”
Drake climbed in, slammed the door and glared at him through the open window. “Tony—that’s your name, right?—I promise to cooperate with your investigation, but now is not the time.” He held out his hand. “Give me your card, I’ll call you.”
Tony handed over a card. “Are you aware of anyone who might wish to harm you?”
“No.”
After checking Hearsay one more time, he shoved the key into the ignition. As Drake drove off, he heard Tony yell something about calling tomorrow.
Heading down the road, he called the vet hospital and made arrangements for Hearsay’s emergency care. Afterward, one hand resting on his dog, reassured by the steady rise and fall of his pet’s chest, he thought about the lie he had told to the arson investigator. No, he didn’t know anyone who wished to harm him.
It wasn’t so much that Yuri wanted to harm him—more like he wanted to leave his calling card, a violent, fiery one meant to intimidate. Which told him the Russian knew Drake had been tailing him.
How? He had taken extra care to park his pickup in secluded areas, always used covert and long-range cameras. In the nearly six years he’d been a P.I., only once had he been caught surveilling someone, but not because he got sloppy. In that case, his client, during a phone call yelling match with his almost ex-wife, had informed her he’d hired a P.I. to surveil her that very day. After that, Drake had never shared his investigation schedule with clients.
No, Yuri must have heard from one of the employees at Topaz that Drake was sniffing around the club, asking too many questions. If Yuri had nothing to hide, he wouldn’t have cared.
But his savage reaction showed the depth of his paranoia. He was afraid Drake might have documented something incriminating. Something the police would find of interest.
Drake had a good idea what had happened tonight. Before setting the fire, Yuri, and probably one or two of his boys, had ransacked the office, snatching cameras, the laptop, recorders. Hearsay, hackles bristling, had barked at the intruders. But it hadn’t taken long for the dog’s street smarts to kick in, sense that retreat meant survival, so he’d withdrawn to his spot under the kitchen table.
The men hadn’t bothered with the dog after that—they had work to do.
Yuri and his stupid cretins. No concept that images could be saved in places other than physical devices. Idiots probably thought “the cloud” was something in the sky, not a remote storage option.
After gathering equipment, they’d drenched his office in gasoline. Considering how rapidly the fire spread through that part of the house, they must have also splashed gasoline down the hall and into the bedroom, too. Then torched the place.
With the dog still inside.
His fingers dug into the steering wheel. That son of a bitch would pay dearly for what he did tonight. And Drake would do it personally, not hand over the meting of justice to some arson investigator.
Sure, he could have leaked Yuri’s name to Tony Cordova, who would have tracked the bastard down tonight for an interview. The Russian would have had an alibi, of course, along with a string of witnesses who’d back up his story. Plus, with Drake siccing government dogs on him, Yuri would go into hiding, and Drake’s personal investigation would grind to a halt. Any hopes of digging for more dirt, or ever getting back the ring, would be crushed.
Then there was Brax.
His brother felt above the law, but arson? He wasn’t that dirty. But if Drake offered up Yuri to arson investigators, trails could lead to his brother. And if they didn’t, Yuri would ensure sure they did.
A form materialized in Drake’s mind. That woman. Who Dat. Had she been a player in this arson? Paid to keep Drake busy, give Yuri and his goons time to do their job? His gut said yes. Just like the Mississippi River that ran through her city of New Orleans, she was twisting, swift and treacherous.
She