But I know that I’m glad I came. Today is the day for all the feelings I shouldn’t have. But I feel safe enough here to let them be and not worry too much. I sigh, realizing I haven’t felt as safe as I do now, not as far back as I can remember. Even though, the truth is, I’ve probably never been in more danger. I don’t think Junior got lucky or picked me at random. I think he was stalking me.

  “So, one time, a long time ago, I found an old digital camera. I didn’t tell anybody. Figured it was mine — finders keepers and all that. Besides, if I told Daddy, he’d likely say, ‘Oh, yeah. That’s mine,’ and take it away from me. So I took pictures of Daddy. Mostly pictures while he wasn’t looking. While he was doing something, concentrating. Something grown-up. I fell in love with photography, I think because of that. I could take a moment and keep it. Make it mine.”

  It’s all like a dream. I feel like I’m telling the story of a movie, but I tell him anyway.

  “Taking pictures seemed to help me understand the world. I could freeze a moment. Look at it in my own time. See it different ways. I got good at taking pictures of groups of people without them noticing. And learned how to catch the moment. My pictures got a mixture of reactions. People who weren’t in my photos were a lot more positive and enthusiastic than the ones who were.”

  Talking to the Ox makes me think about it in a different way. “I was always surprised when people didn’t like pictures I took of them.”

  I don’t want to get distracted. I haven’t told any of this to anybody, and now that I’ve started, I want the Ox to be the one too know.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “I took pictures of everybody and everything, but my favorite subject was my daddy. He was the person I couldn’t get enough time with, the man I wanted most to be close to. I got the habit of taking pictures of him without him knowing. Pretty soon, I started to follow him, covertly. I got pretty good at it. I knew it was four kinds of wrong. If I’m honest, that might have been a part of why I loved it so much.”

  I ask the Ox for more coffee. I can’t talk for a moment, and I don’t want him looking at me. While he get the coffee, I pad into the bathroom and clean up my face. He’s very courteous. When I get back to the room he’s still by the window, fiddling with the coffee things. He asks if I want a croissant. It’s almost like he’s been house-trained.

  I nod and clear my throat and say, Thank you, as I jump back into bed.

  “So, one night, Daddy was going to one of his ’meetings.’ It was in a parking lot. I mean, what could be wrong with that? Even for him, that was pretty unusual. He was parked in the middle of an empty indoor lot. After a while, another car pulled up next to his, but facing the other way. So the two drivers were next to each other. The windows rolled down and the two men talked. Then there was a gunshot. It was almost silent. I caught the low flash on the far right right of my photo. It must have come from a long way off. A sniper shot. The man Daddy was meeting slumped forward. He fell on the horn of his car. One more shot killed Daddy. I couldn’t hear that one because of the car horn, then a car roared away. I tried to shoot the license plate but there wasn’t enough light.”

  “Daisy,” Joey leans closer. I put up a hand.

  “Please. I haven’t told anybody about that before. Please don’t give me sympathy. At least not now. Not yet. I’ll crack up if you do, and I’m not ready for that.”

  “Can I ask you what your daddy did?”

  “You can ask, but all I can tell you is what he told me – that he was a bookkeeper. I didn’t believe it at the time and I don’t believe it now.” I swallow. Thinking about Daddy is still not easy. “I mean, it’s probably true that he kept books for people, but only like it’s true that Clark Kent sat to work at a typewriter. It’s not what you’d call the whole truth. It leaves out a bigger picture.”

  His eyes soften and I can see that he wants to comfort me. I love him for resisting the urge, though. For understanding that I need space.

  He’s businesslike and he says, “So, you don’t have a pic of the man who fired the shots?”

  “Oh, no. Nothing useful like that.”

  “Damn, Daisy. You kept the pictures, though?”

  “Oh, yes, of course. I got copies all over the place. I can’t look at them. But I kept them everywhere.”

  He says, "We should talk about what happened last night."

  I tense, the lingering warmth inside me shuttering away into cool indifference. "What's there to talk about? We had sex. It was good. End of story."

  He frowns, "It was more than that and you know it."

  "Was it?" I pull my hand from his and sit up, dragging the sheet with me. The barrier between us is like a physical hurt.

  "Don't do this, Daisy. Don't pretend that didn't mean anything." He pauses, searching my face. "I care about you. Deeply. And I think you feel the same."

  Silence stretches out between us, heavy and empty.

  I see my fingers trembling and I put them under the cover. I can’t let a man get so close to me. Especially not the Ox. It takes me a while, but finally I’m slow and deliberate.

  "I don't do relationships, Joey. I don't do commitment or intimacy or any of the trappings that come with it. Sex is sex and love is for other people."

  “I don't believe that, Daisy. Not anymore." He reach for my hand again, and it chokes me to pull it away. He says, “You can deny it all you want, but there's something between us. Something real. And we both know it."

  I look down until I’m composed.

  “Let’s fuck. That’s real.”

  I mean it. He doesn’t argue.

  Making love with him then is sweet and heavenly and devastating.

  We eat the breakfast in fits in between sessions of thrashing on the bed. And in the shower. And on the rug. And up against the walls.

  Sometime late in the morning, he tells me he has to go out. I’m disappointed, of course. But I know he’s got some things to deal with. Problems to solve. And he’s got his business to run.

  Before he goes, he tells me to keep my phone on and charged up. And to stay in the suite.

  “Anything you want or you need, anything at all, call the desk.”

  “What about clothes?”

  “You won’t need them.”

  “I will if I’m going to play dress up.”

  He smiles. Damn. That’s something to see. He tells me if I want clothes, have them send some up. So I do. And a hamburger and fries.

  And I try not to think about him.

  He’s so perfectly wrong for me. Maybe it could work out, I don’t know. Could we really be a partnership, him and me? Is there room in Joey’s world for anyone else’s views or opinions?

  Is there room in mine for an ox?

  When my phone rings, my reaction startles me. I jump like a teenager. I think it must be him.

  But it’s not.

  It’s just Sam.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  On the way, I call Daisy. Make sure she’s staying put.

  I ask her, “You want me to stop by your apartment? Is there anything you need?”

  “No.” She’s playing hard to get. “I’m reliably informed that the hotel here has everything I could possibly want.” She adds, “Besides, I’m not sure I want to trust you around my neighbor.”

  “Roxanna?” I say, innocently.

  “Damn.” I can feel the phone starting to heat up. “And you have been spying on me.”

  Even that little spat leaves me with sunshine in my gut. Too hot and way too low down, but it’s a happy feeling.

  I would love to think of Daisy and me linking little fingers and striding over the horizon, into the sunset together. I can’t see it, though. I have to face it, if I had any ideas about some kind of a happy-ever-after, she would certainly not be it. How could I ever have a happy, contented life with a firestarter like her? She’s untamable.

  Besides, even if she could be tamed, the house-broken version of Daisy would probably be no fun at all. No, I have to brace myself for a hard crash landing.

  I’m probably not built for relationships anyway.

  “I’m supposed to keep everyone out of here,” Mike Talbot lets me in first into Declan's apartment, “but they haven’t been back since the first day. The CSI came and swept the place, so I took the tape off. The owner doesn’t like the look of it on a hallway.”

  My first visit since his brutal murder, I could have let myself in, but I wanted to talk to Mike and, since he had been good enough to call me in the first place, I called to give him a heads up that I was coming. He immediately offered to let me in.

  The weight of absence and still emptiness hangs in the air. Or maybe it’s my imagination. Declan and I were close through some very tough times, and for a long time since.

  Declan’s open living area is immaculate, like always, like the maid just came and left. The sleek, vibrant color palette was similar to the decor he chose for his club. His mid-century modern black leather couch with the matching armchair face the large, floor-to-ceiling window, like he might just stand up and show off his incredible view of the Las Vegas Strip.

  The living room seamlessly transitions into a well-equipped kitchen, featuring a large island with a polished, white marble countertop. I remember the many nights Declan and I had shared drinks and stories, perched on the high stools, now pushed neatly against the counter. My gaze drifts to the stainless-steel fridge, covered in an array of magnets from around the world – a testament to Declan's adventurous spirit and penchant for collecting memories from his travels.

  The fact that nothing is out of place seems typical of Declan. Not of the Las Vegas PD, though, or their CSI teams.

  I ask Mike about it, but all he can do is shrug. “They were here, the uniform cops and detectives, for half an hour, then the forensics people later that day for an hour or so.”

  “They didn’t make any kind of a mess?”

  Apart from some white powder around the lock and the handle on the entrance door, I can’t see any trace of them.

  “Declan was found in the bedroom. There they weren’t so tidy. You might not want to go in there.”

  I’m glad of the warning. I appreciate Mike’s advice, too, although I won’t be taking it. I’m here to see what I can find out. But I will visit the master bedroom last.

  There’s nothing in the living room out of place that I can see. Not even a glass or an empty bottle.

  “No obvious signs of disturbance here.”

  Mike says, “I don’t see any damage around the lock, either.”

  “A pretty serious job, then. Not a random break-in.”

  “No, it looks like professional work, Mr. Calhoun.”

  He asks if I want him to leave. I tell him, stay. If there’s any argument about evidence being disturbed, at least he’ll be a witness. He follows me down the hallway that leads to the bedrooms. All the doors are closed, but I know which room is which. As I pass the master suite, I’m picturing the silk-draped, king-size bed and all-round tiled en-suite bathroom. I brace myself for what to expect.

  Declan’s office is a reflection of his personality – neat and organized, but with a casual air of style. Declan’s large, wooden desk dominates the room, and his overpriced ergonomic office chair sits behind it. His laptop and tablets have all been taken, so there doesn’t seem to be much to see here. His bookshelves are all pretty much as I remember them.

  I try his desk drawers. They’re locked. He kept a key held under the desk with a magnet. It’s still in place. I exchange a look with Mike. He says, “Like I said, they weren’t here too long.”

  In the drawers is Declan’s desk calendar. Underneath it, his 45 Ruger.

  Touching only the edges of the calendar, I flip across the last couple of weeks. Nothing jumps out at me, but I pull some paper from Declan’s printer so Mike can hold the pages open without getting prints on them, and I photograph the last half dozen pages with my phone. Then I put the calendar back on top of Declan’s gun, wipe the key clean and stick it back, the same way around as it was.

  I take a breath before entering Declan’s bedroom. The room is perfectly tidy. Undisturbed, apart from the powder on the carpet and the bedside table.

  And the bed. The big silver-blue silk covering and the thick pillows have a massive, ugly crater near the headboard. Ugly dark brown and red stains surround it.

  A book is on the bedside table. The cover is so thickly covered in forensic dust that the cover and the title aren’t visible. It doesn’t matter; I recognize the book anyway.

  Fobbit.

  Declan’s club is only a few blocks away, but I need a few breaths in the car before I head off to the club. I decide to call Detective Ransom and put him out of his misery, or at least try and get him out of mine.

  “Joey,” he says like we’re old pals. “Thanks for calling back. I just wanted to catch up with you. See if anything had jogged in your memory about your friend Declan.” Is this guy for real? “I wondered if you maybe remembered anything important.”

  “Anything like, never talk to the police without a lawyer?”

  “Come on, man. We’re on the same side here. I just want to find out who killed your friend.”

  “How’s that going?”

  “Bizarrely, nobody has anything they want to tell me, so all I can really do is stick a few names on a dartboard.”

  “No evidence at the scene, nothing from pathology?”

  “Oh, yeah. Get a hold of this, the doc reckons the most likely cause of death could be the three bullets that went through his skull.”

  “Nothing more?”

  “Well, forensics have this wild theory. They think the bullets may have come out of a gun. Very possibly a nine mil. How about that?”

  I’m musing out loud. “Three shots, like a mob hit.”

  “More likely somebody trying to make it look that way, I would say.”

  “Oh?”

  “The three shots were all fired from the same position and in the same direction.”

  I don’t see this going anywhere. I ask him, “Suppose I was to give you a Nevada license plate. Could you tell me who it belonged to?”

  “Seems a pretty random question, not to mention an illegal request. But I’m sure you know that. Suppose I were to say, tell me the license and let’s see where it leads?”

  After I hang up I get a text.

  SOME BUSINESS GUY WANTS TO TALK TO ME ABOUT DECLAN’S PLACE. SAYS HE NEEDS SOME HELP WITH ADMIN.

  I call Sam back.

  He says, “Boss? I’m over at Declan’s.”

  “The apartment?” I’m about to tell him I just left, that I can turn back and meet him there, but it doesn’t make sense. Why would Sam be at Declan’s apartment?

  “No, boss, the club. The guy who’s been put in charge… well frankly, he’s just a management type of guy, you know what I’m saying, right? But he’s asked me to step in and give him a hand with the day-to-day, the operational running of the place. It’s only a short term thing, just temporary. I hope you won’t mind, I just wanted to help him keep the reputation of Declan’s club. You know, for Declan’s sake.”

  This is sounding a lot of odd notes in my ear.

  “Um, sure, Sam. Whatever you think. Did you get some extra manpower in to cover while you’re away?”

  “No, boss. Good thinking… “

  Yeah. Right. “Sam, don’t worry. I’m sure you’re got your hands full there. I’ll call in some favors. We’ll be well covered. Don’t give it a thought.”

  Damned right we will. I listen to him breathe while I wait for him to hang up.

  Then I make a call to Gregory, my trusted head of security.

  “Gregory? You remember Seb was talking about getting a VIP events team together? A top-shelf muscle crew?”

  I love the sound of Gregory’s insolent drawl. “Yeah, he’s cutting along with it. No worry of him leaving his post here though, Joey. He loves the work here.”

  I let go a chuckle. “I know he really does.” Seb steps up whenever big-time celebrities are in town. Big movie stars or rap stars, or whatever, and they catch wind of the club, Seb escorts them. He puts the fear of God into them. He loves it. And they love it, too. They always give him ridiculously huge tips, so they can stick out their chests and tell their friends, ‘Seb, yeah. You know Seb? We’re like that.’ He gets his laughs putting the frighteners on big-ass A-listers, and they sling him a small fortune for the privilege. I bet he giggles himself to sleep.

  Doesn’t hurt the club’s reputation a bit, either.

  “I’m so not worried about that, Gregory. You two, I know I can trust you. No, I just want to know how close Seb is to being ready for business. I want the club security tripled for the next ten days, half visible muscle to work under you, the other half blending with the members and guests. Also working under your direction.”

  “Okay, boss. Anything I need to know about?”

  “In terms of threat? Anything specific I have warning of, I’ll give you a heads up. For now, maximum presence, minimum visibility. Be ready for surprises.”

  “On it, Joey. The extra beef out front and on the door, you want me to make a show?”

  “No, just the opposite, Gregory. Keep them tucked away in the dark. Just be ready.”

  “When do you want it to start?”

  “Now’s good.”

  “On it, Joey. I’m making calls.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  A lump swells in my throat when I turn the corner. Declan's familiar neon logo, the name over a pair of crossed swords, a beacon to brand and signify his club to visitors of all kinds, signals especially to elite warriors and combat personnel. Seeing the red and golden glow whisks me instantly back to the endless nights he spent creating the image. He fretting over every tiny detail over countless hours with the designer.

  In every other way, Declan was a practical, hard-headed and unsentimental man. Great company, and always ready to go to any lengths for a joke or to get a laugh from whatever company he was in. Outwardly, he was a wall of strength. Maybe only I knew that was only his public face, because he kept his romantic side so deeply buried, so well hidden, most people would have had no idea it was ever there.