Hearts in Vegas. Colleen Collins
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kitchen. Leave messages on both that I’ve been pulled over on Third, across from the courthouse. Gotta go.”
After stopping the car, she eased the brooch from her pocket and set it carefully between the leather seat and the console, then rolled down her window and killed the engine. Slowly, she placed her hands on the steering wheel where they could be seen.
Exhaust fumes and the scents of hot dogs from a nearby street vendor wafted into the car as she watched the man in her rearview mirror unfold himself from the vehicle and swagger to her car. He wore jeans, white T-shirt, windbreaker—universal undercover-cop attire.
His steps crunched to a stop next to her window. Leaning over slightly, his blue eyes fastened on hers like steel shards to a magnet.
“Is there a problem, Officer?” she asked politely.
“Howdy,” he said, all friendly like, “mind handing over your phone and car keys, ma’am?”
Not asking for her license and registration? “Uh...isn’t this out of the ordinary?”
Looking around, he puffed out his chest while stealthily opening his jacket just enough for her to see his shoulder holster. Was this for real? The guy was acting like some kind of yahoo, showing off his big bad gun. If she wasn’t so unnerved by being pulled over like this, she might laugh.
But even yahoos could be law enforcers, and she wasn’t about to argue with a loaded gun, so she handed over her phone and key fob.
He powered off her phone and dropped it into his jacket pocket. “Step out of the car, please, ma’am.”
Once she did so, he swiftly tied her hands behind her with a plastic handcuff, then leaned in close and whispered, “Where’s the brooch?”
Maybe Enzo had been sharper than Frances had given him credit for, realized she’d lifted the real pin and left behind a look-alike. At least her dad was calling Charlie, alerting him to this snafu. He’d call the police department, get this ironed out. What a hassle.
Meanwhile, it’d be stupid to play dumb.
“Between the front seat and console,” she said, more irritated than nervous at this point because she’d just blown the case.
Sure, Charlie would make nice with the police, and Vanderbilt would be pleased about the return of the Lady Melbourne, but she’d screwed up any possibility of tracking what Vanderbilt had wanted most—the fifth-century-BC coins. Although jewelry was her forte, she’d felt a connection to those coins after learning they were the last currency to be individually hammered, not minted. It reminded her of Georgian jewelry, the last to be made with hand-cut diamonds.
After the cop retrieved the brooch and her clutch bag, he thumbed the key fob to lock the car doors.
As he escorted her to his vehicle, she memorized the numbers on his license plate, mostly out of habit. Later she’d suggest to Charlie that the next time he wanted her to steal back Vanderbilt’s property, at least give somebody in the police department the heads-up that she was working undercover and prevent a foul-up like this.
Of course, Charlie had his reasons for not alerting the police. He worried that details about her undercover work, as well as her true identity, would get disseminated too widely throughout the police department, compromising her ability to work.
He said it had happened before to other investigators.
“Watch your head, ma’am.” The officer planted his hand on her skull as if it were a basketball and guided her into the backseat of the unmarked car.
Looking through the passenger window, she eyed the dozen or so people on the sidewalk who’d stopped to watch the arrest-in-progress. A middle-aged woman in a blue sweatshirt with the word Lucky in glittery letters licked her double-dip ice-cream cone, her wide eyes glued to the event as if it were a reality TV show.
After getting into the front seat, the cop held up her clutch bag. “I want you to know that I have not opened your purse. It will remain on the front seat of my car until I return it to you.”
He was letting her know that its contents were safe, which protected him from any later accusations of theft. Definite police protocol. Yet he hadn’t followed other standard procedures.
She shifted, trying to get comfortable, an impossibility with her hands bound behind her back. “So,” she said, trying to sound unconcerned, “weren’t you supposed to read me my rights?”
“Why, thank you, ma’am,” he said, turning the ignition. “Guess I just plumb forgot. Lemme see...just like that Bud Buckley song about keeping secrets, you have the right to remain silent...anything you got any inkling to say can and will be used against you in a court of law....”
He drove, reciting her rights as if they were country-song lyrics, missing the turn to the detention center. Clearly, this wasn’t a standard arrest, and the joker behind the steering wheel wasn’t like any cop she’d ever known. A lot could go wrong while carrying jewelry worth seventy thousand dollars.
“Where are we going?” she asked, trying to sound calmer, stronger than she felt.
“I forget,” he said, “did I mention the part about if you can’t afford a lawyer? Hey, that reminds me of that ol’ Willie Nelson song ‘Mama, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys.’ Has that line about lettin’ kids grow up to be doctors and lawyers. And such.”
As he started singing the song, she looked out the window, feeling more annoyed than scared. As insane as this ride-along was, she didn’t have the sense she was in any danger. Her instincts told her something else, too.
She was on her way to meet the person who’d stolen the Lady Melbourne brooch.
* * *
TEN MINUTES, TWO country songs and one headache later, the unmarked car pulled into the parking lot behind the Downtown 3rd Farmers Market.
The building sat at the apex of Stewart Avenue and North Casino Center Boulevard, two streets that always bustled with traffic. Since the market only opened on Fridays, the lot was empty except for a sleek black limousine with darkened windows. In a corner of the lot, some teenage boys practiced their skateboarding moves, the wheels clattering and grinding along the asphalt. Across the street sat a bright red coffee hut.
The officer, flashing her a big ol’ welcoming grin, opened the back door and helped her out. She closed her eyes against a gust of chilly wind as he undid the plastic binding. The scent of French-roast coffee drifted past. Opening her eyes again, she rubbed her wrists while watching the limo.
“After the meeting, I’ll drive you back to your vehicle, ma’am.”
So this had been planned. “Fine,” she muttered, “just no more singing, okay?”
“Does humming count?”
She exhaled heavily. No wonder he didn’t need to recite Miranda warnings—hanging out with him for a few minutes made anyone want to remain silent.
As they walked to the limo, her nerves kicked back in.
No one is going to kill me in a luxury limo. Especially one parked in broad daylight, blocks from the Las Vegas Metro Police station. Plus those skateboarding kids were close enough to easily describe her, the officer, his vehicle and the limo.
But even after mentally rattling off logical reasons that she was safe, she still wanted to throw up.
The cop opened a back door, and she leaned inside the limo, sliding onto a curved leather couch that faced a wet bar, leather chairs and small desk. Two men sat farther down the couch.
With the daylight spilling inside, she had a good view of the occupants. The man closest to her was in his early forties, with pronounced Slavic features, startlingly blue eyes and light, short-cropped hair. He wore leather loafers, slacks and a tailored blue shirt that revealed a muscled physique. On his far side sat a thirtyish man with a tight-lipped expression and wavy dark hair. His clothes weren’t