John nodded several times. "Yeah, I think you're right."

"You think I'm right?" Michael repeated, because he was hoping for something more.

"I've got similar information."

"So this isn't news to you?"

"I've been working leads on this case for a long time. This is one of them."

"Why didn't you tell me that's how they met?"

"Because it's not my job to tell you every detail. This is a police investigation. I'm grateful for all you do-don't get me wrong. But I've got to be able to investigate, and sharing every detail with the family can slow me down on the way to answers." He took a beat and then leveled his gaze at Michael. "The answers we both want."

"Fine," Michael said, reminding himself that even though John was the gatekeeper, they had the same end goal. So he tamped down his annoyance. "Let's put our heads together, then. I've got some thoughts."

John nodded. "What's on your mind?"

Michael took his time before he spoke, carefully weighing each word so that he could extract something from the detective. There was so much on his mind, so much he wanted to know-like why the Royal Sinners were so G.o.dd.a.m.n powerful, why they were stronger than any average street gang, and why they were smarter, nimbler, and had more firepower. But those were broader questions, and they wouldn't necessarily get him any closer to the answers he needed. Like the depth of the connection between his mother and the head of the gang.

"The question we both want to know is why," he said. "We know my mother's lover is the head of the gang. We know the shooter was in the gang. We know the other accomplices are part of it, too. What I'd like to know is how my mother got involved with the Sinners, and did it somehow start at my father's work? If she met Luke at a work party, was he a regular there? Luke operates undercover, and that makes me question everything about where he's been and what he's done. Were the other guys in the gang involved in these work parties? Did they know my dad?" Michael held out his hands. "Maybe I'm reaching. But what if there's something to it?"

John met his stare straight on. "That's what I want to know, too. I want to know if work is where they met, and if so, if it sheds new light on the accomplices. Luke played piano at a handful of these parties at your father's company. What does that tell us?" he asked rhetorically. "Not enough on its own, but now that we've learned he's part of the Sinners, we have reason to believe he has knowledge about a number of gang-ordered hits over the years. That's why we want to know if your father's murder had a deeper connection to the gang. Was this just your mother's. .h.i.t, or a part of something bigger? And did Luke know about it?"

"It seems likely that he knew. Doesn't it?"

Yes, it would seem like Luke had to have known about the hit. It would seem, too, that Luke was deeply involved in the planning of the murder. It would sure as h.e.l.l seem as if Luke f.u.c.king Carlton had gotten away with several other murders over the years, based on the information John had obtained from his informants.

But evidence was evidence, and it needed to be hard.

John and his men were getting closer to Luke, but there were things he simply couldn't share with Michael-details he couldn't speculate on with a witness or family member. Things like how the shooter's son, Lee Stefano, had started singing. They'd nabbed him a few months ago on grand theft of iPhones, of all things. The kid was trying to follow in his dad's footsteps, living a life of crime. But several weeks in jail had softened him up, and Lee had started talking. He'd shared more about the two men who'd looked out for him after his daddy went to the big house-Kenny and T.J. Nelson, his father's accomplices in the murder of Thomas Paige.

Turned out, Lee knew some details about T.J.'s whereabouts these days, and John was hoping to piece together enough information to find that slippery b.a.s.t.a.r.d and take him into custody, too. John clenched his fists, thinking of the rap sheet on T.J. Nelson, and the long trail of evidence linking him to other crimes over the years. Some of John's colleagues had gathered insight into the gang as a whole, and the way the Royal Sinners had expanded in power, operating a lucrative drug ring throughout the city of Las Vegas and across the state.

Connecting the dots was proving more complicated than he'd expected. Did the hit have anything to do with the gang, or with things Thomas might have learned about the Sinners? Or was this simply what they'd thought all along, a crime designed so a woman could be with the man she loved?

Those questions kept John up at night, but he had witnesses to talk to and leads to chase down, which might bring him answers. As soon as he had the details, he'd get that f.u.c.ker.

"Listen, I appreciate you doing everything you can," John said, dragging a hand through his dark blond hair, taking his time with each word. "You need to be careful, but I can't tell you not to ask around. What I can tell you is I've heard that T.J. had words with Thomas Paige a few weeks before he died. That conversation took place at your father's work." That was why it mattered to the investigation that Dora had likely met Luke at West Limos. John needed to tie Luke to T.J., and if he could just pull those threads a little tighter together, he'd be able to do it. "I'd like to know why, and what was said."

Michael nodded, an intense look in his eyes. "If you'd like to know, then I'd like to know, too."

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

On the way to gym that evening, Michael tried to reach his father's friend once again. Becky answered, but when he asked for Sanders, she said, "He's busy for a few days, hon."

"Busy with what?" Michael asked, trying to sound casual rather than suspicious, even though he was starting to feel that way.

"He got called out of town. He has things he needs to get done before he finishes work," she said as he turned on the blinker of his black BMW to exit the highway.

"Hmm. Okay. But I've got to see him soon, Becky. Can you have him call me as soon as he can?"

"Of course, love."

The line went dead.

As Michael hoisted a barbell a little later, he replayed the conversation with John, then the brief chat with Becky, trying to read between their words, to line them up like missing puzzle pieces alongside his conversation with Annalise earlier. As he pushed up the heavy weight in his bench press, he zeroed in on some ideas, but they were fuzzy, hazy around the edges, and he didn't want to jump to conclusions. He lowered the bar, wondering if there was more to Becky's odd behavior, to Sanders's absence, and to the conversation T.J. had with his father.

Now, that-he'd sure as h.e.l.l like to know more about that.

He'd seen Sanders a few weeks ago, along with his dad's other friend, Donald, at the Golden Nugget. That was where Donald dealt cards, and Michael had joined them for a few rounds, winning handily each time.

"Just like his dad. Thomas always beat us at poker," Sanders had said, shaking his head and laughing, a hint of pride in his voice. Michael had reined in a grin because he loved those comparisons and ate them up like candy.

Anything to connect him to his dad.

They'd all got to talking when Donald's shift ended, and the older men mentioned something about trouble at his dad's company way back when. They didn't have a ton of details, nor did Michael, but he could recall his father mentioning something similar at one of their Chinese restaurant meals. He just wished he knew what sort of trouble, and if that trouble was connected to Luke. He had nothing to go on now, since West Limos had come up clean in his research into the company. But the details nagged at Michael as he poked and prodded at his own memories of things his dad had said to him.

He wished he had Annalise's memory-precise and, not surprisingly, photographic. His was blurrier, and he often wondered if it was because of how he found out his dad was gone. The image splashed cruelly before his eyes, and he grimaced as he jammed the weights back in the holder. He sat up straight with his hands on his knees, trying to shake off the scene that sometimes replayed unexpectedly.

Taking measured breaths, he focused on the small details around him now. The pounding music in his earbuds. The clang of barbells. The whir of bicycle machines.

They reset him to the present.

But the problem was the present was mired in so much uncertainty. He was on the outside, peeking in, trying to a.s.semble the picture while only having access to the barest bits and pieces. He tried to fill in the blanks as he cycled through all the weights then headed to the rowing machine. Sixty sweaty minutes later, he called Mindy, his sounding board, as he drove home.

"Should we get Morris to look into the company my dad worked at, too?" he asked, mentioning the private eye's name after he'd relayed his conversation with the detective.

"Hmm," Mindy said, seeming to mull over the idea. "I'm not so sure. That's a bit different than having Morris tail Luke Carlton."

"I know," Michael said with a sigh. "That's the issue. Which path to send him down."

"Honestly, I think we need to keep him on Luke, since you know there's likely a connection. And I think you need to talk to the people your dad knew then. Donald, Sanders-those guys. See if they know anything about the conversation with T.J."

"If I can even get Sanders to return a f.u.c.king call," Michael said with a huff, as he turned onto his street.

"Go see him, then."

But something about that idea seemed unwise. With Becky acting odd, Michael wasn't so sure how well her husband would take to a surprise visit. He shook his head, even though Mindy couldn't see him. "I've got to work other angles. I'm going to see what I can dig up. I'll let you know what I find."

He said good-bye, then pulled into the parking garage at his building and headed up the elevator to his home. Once inside, he went straight for his computer, logging into some of the databases that he and Ryan relied on for security and background checks at work. He entered the name of the limo company his father had worked for, but nothing new surfaced. He'd been down this road before. When the investigation had been reopened, he'd looked into West Limos. He wasn't suspicious, per se. Just being thorough. It was owned by some guy named West Stra.s.sman. For years the same guy had owned it from his home base in Dallas. Now he was retired, living in Canada and keeping busy fishing. But he still owned a bunch of businesses around the country, with managers at each to run the day-to-day operations.

Michael leaned back in his desk chair, sighing heavily. Maybe he was reaching. Maybe the connection was simply that his mother had happened to meet her lover when he'd been playing piano at a work party. Got to know him, started selling drugs for his Royal Sinners to make some cash on the side. Got greedy and wanted more dough to cover her debts. Wanted to run away with her lover.

Killed her husband.

Yeah, that seemed as plausible as anything. The West Limo connection was simply the way in which her world collided with that of Luke Carlton. Luke then became the connection to the gang, the drugs, and the murder for hire. h.e.l.l, maybe the conversation T.J. had with his dad was about his mother's affair.

He shut his laptop, padded to the kitchen, poured two fingers of scotch, and let the liquor scorch a path down his throat. He set the gla.s.s on the counter and headed for the shower.

Time to put aside the clues that remained cloudy. He had a trip to take to New York, a woman to focus his energy on, and business to attend to.

As the water beat down on him, he bent his head under the spray, letting the heat soothe his sore muscles. He closed his eyes, and soon enough the questions stopped chasing each other. They circled the drain, and he imagined letting go of them until he could talk to the man who might have the answers. As the shower steamed up, his thoughts returned to that afternoon with Annalise.

For the first time all day, he let himself accept that he was going to have some kind of tryst with her. He was going to touch her in all the ways he craved. He could still smell her when he closed his eyes. She didn't smell like rain today. She'd smelled like longing. Like l.u.s.t. Like the woman she'd become, not the girl he fell in love with.

The woman was like a s.e.xual jack-in-the-box. Wind her up and she exploded beautifully, like diamonds shattering into brilliant pieces. What would she sound like when he tasted her for the first time? How would she move beneath him?

The water pounded his shoulders as he took his d.i.c.k in his hand. He stroked, slowly at first, and then as desire started to pulse, he tugged faster, imagining sliding his c.o.c.k into her wet heat.

He'd jacked off to the vision of Annalise more times than he could count, but never in recent years. He'd denied himself that pleasure. Or really, that pain. He'd successfully shoved her out of his mind the day she unintentionally broke his motherf.u.c.king heart in Ma.r.s.eilles. The shield had gone up, the walls had risen, and he'd resisted all thoughts of her.

Not now.

Not when he was seeing her again.

Not when he was sure she wanted the same thing he did. She wanted him, and h.e.l.l if that wasn't the hottest thing ever.

As the water poured down his back, his fist curled tighter.

He breathed out hard, a rough, gritty exhale as his hand worked faster and his mind replayed the dressing room. She'd melted into him, but it was more than that. She vibrated-like she was on some other frequency, strung tight, hot, and desperate. The way she'd gripped his hand, rubbing up against him, f.u.c.king his fingers, drove him crazy then and consumed him now.

The image stirred up l.u.s.t all through his body, as carnal pleasure built low in his gut. He groaned as the water pounded mercilessly. His muscles tightened everywhere, his quads tensing as his hand flew up and down his d.i.c.k. G.o.d, he wanted her. Wanted to know how it would feel to strip her to her lacy panties then rip them off. Kiss her, taste her, lick her, f.u.c.k her, take her.

His breath raced fast from his lungs, release in reach.

Right now, under the water, in the privacy of his own home, he was free to say her name, to imagine her face, to picture her as he came.

Later, as he lay in bed, he told himself that this reunion was temporary. It was one day, one moment, one chance. Then he'd move on.

He almost believed it.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

Eighteen years ago Something didn't quite add up. Thomas was no expert, but as he finished writing up his log of rides for the day, he grabbed last week's list to make sure he had the correct spelling of the client. But the man's name had been erased, as if the ride Thomas had given him to the airport didn't exist.

He leaned back at the table in the break room and scratched his chin. Why would a ride suddenly go missing? He opened the binder and thumbed through the last few weeks. Here and there, a few others were missing, too.

Flipping to the red tab, he checked out some of the other drivers' records. He remembered his buddy Sanders, who was a mechanic for the same company, had been pulled in to handle a few airport rides. None of those were listed, either.

He shook his head as if he could make sense of the missing info that way. Maybe he'd mention it to Paul, who ran the operations and oversaw all the drivers. Bringing attention to a discrepancy would surely put him in a good light, what with the potential for promotion on the horizon. Paul would have the final say in hiring him anyway. The owner lived and worked in another state and so was never on site.

Thomas finished filling out the details, clocked out, then got into his car to head to his daughter's dance performance. Dora was meeting him there with the boys, except for Michael, who'd been studying at Becky's house with Annalise. As he arrived at the auditorium, he spotted Becky's car and saw his oldest son walking into the event center with his arm draped around his girlfriend. Michael leaned in and planted a kiss on her cheek. As they strolled inside, Thomas pictured them like this a year or two from now, in college, going to a play or a concert, happy together.

But something was missing. Something was off. He rubbed the back of his neck, then an idea slammed into him. Something Michael would need. Something besides money. Not wanting to forget, he grabbed the notebook he kept beside him in the center console and wrote down his thoughts. Tomorrow, he'd make some calls, set things up for Michael. For now, he closed the notebook and headed inside to watch his daughter dance.

The next day when he filled out the log, he noticed more rides had pulled a disappearing act. As he packed up, he rapped on Paul's door, figuring now would be a good time to let him know. This would show initiative, that he cared, that he had the company's best interests at heart.

Paul furrowed his black eyebrows when Thomas mentioned the missing rides. "That so?"

"Yes, sir."

Paul nodded and then smiled, a professional sort of grin. "That's good to know. Really appreciate you bringing this to our attention. We'll get it fixed." Then Paul pointed a finger at him, like a gun. "That kind of attention to detail will get you far."

Excellent. That was everything he wanted. To go so much further.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

Three-f.u.c.king-thirty in the morning. Not when he wanted to be awake. Not when he wanted to be dealing with s.h.i.t. But when the alarm sounded that there was trouble with one of their clients, Michael bolted.

He flew straight out of bed, into his clothes, and to the client's site. He was closer than Ryan, so he called his brother and said he'd handle the incident. White Box, a gentlemen's club, was just a few blocks off the Strip, making it just a few blocks from Michael. He pulled into the lot, parked his car, and ran a hand through his messy hair.

His armed guard was outside, lit up by the glow of the purple and white lights streaming from the art deco sign above the club, a sleek, metal structure that oozed s.e.xy cla.s.s. The guard stood next to a plainclothes cop, along with Curtis, the VP and biz dev guy at White Box, who'd hired Sloan Protection Resources.

Michael said h.e.l.lo, then gestured to the premises. "So what's the story?"

Curtis cleared his throat and went first. He was a beefy guy, exactly the type of man physically you'd want fronting a club, if you could choose a manager based on size. His face was like a block of wood and so were his arms. His eyes were brown and warm, though, like a favorite uncle's. "We got word of some gang activity here on premises," Curtis said, disgust in his tone as he recounted details of an attempted robbery and then the arrest of a young man with a Protect Our Own Royal Sinners tattoo. Apparently, the guy had tried to steal a watch worth five grand off another patron in the men's room. He'd brandished a knife, turning his crime into an armed robbery attempt. The cops came quickly, and the guy was in custody.

"Your patron, the guy with the watch-is he okay?" Michael asked.

"He's fine. Your man stopped things before it turned ugly," Curtis said, nodding to the armed guard Michael had supplied to the club.