Sleepless in Las Vegas by Colleen Collins Read Free Book Online Page B

up. He’d piled plenty of food into Hearsay’s bowl, so his dog wouldn’t be hungry. After a short walk around the block, Drake would be in bed by eleven. If he was lucky and fell asleep right away, he’d get three hours before his early-morning surveillance.
    Hadn’t been that lucky lately, though. At least he put his insomnia to good use. Was halfway through Michael Connelly’s The Lincoln Lawyer, which made him wish he had someone to drive him around while he caught up on his paperwork and made calls. Not a partner, just a grunt with a driver’s license.
    He hadn’t seen Brax’s Porsche or Yuri’s Benz when he’d walked through the Topaz lot, not a big surprise as Sally said she typically saw the cars in the wee hours. He hadn’t been in the mood to go inside Topaz. Same shift, same nonanswers. Nothing like wasting time trying to convince people to talk who didn’t want to talk.
    He passed Bonanza Gifts, its parking-lot-wide marquee advertising itself to be the world’s largest gift shop. More like the world’s largest tacky emporium, but it had been one of his favorite hangouts as a kid.
    He remembered a long-ago birthday gift, a dice clock, he’d bought for his dad there. Each hour had glued-on dice, their dots representing that number. “Snake eyes” for two o’clock, “little Joe” for four, “six five, no jive” for eleven. Over his mom’s protests, his dad had proudly hung it in the living room, over the TV. After a while, he and his dad started telling time by dice slang. “Billy’s coming over at Nina from Pasadena” meant Billy would arrive at nine. “He wants you to call at puppy paws” meant call him at ten.
    Years later, after the old man died, Drake asked for the clock, but his mom refused, playing on dice slang by answering, “Six five, no jive.”
    His dad would have gotten a kick out of that.
    He blinked at the streams of red lights ahead, swallowed feelings he didn’t want to recognize.
    Damn it to hell. He wished he had never met Val, if that was even her name. Wished he’d never heard about those damn pulsations. Like his dad would send such a message through a total stranger, especially one dressed as though she shopped at Army Surplus for Hookers.
    Whatever her scheme, he was one up on it. When she pulled out her cell, he’d memorized the caller ID. He’d run it through some proprietary databases and by the time his head hit the pillow he’d know more about Miss Who Dat than her own mama ever did.
    The phone vibrated against his thigh. He checked the caller ID. Las Vegas area code, but he didn’t recognize the number. Without moving the phone, he punched Answer, then Speaker.
    “Morgan Investigations,” he answered, raising his voice to be heard.
    “Drake Morgan?” A woman’s voice.
    “Yes.”
    “Sir, I’m a dispatcher, Clark County emergency call center, and are you the Drake Morgan who resides at…”
    As the dispatcher recited his address, the hairs bristled on the back of his neck. “That’s correct.”
    “I don’t want to alarm you, but I need to advise that your home is being worked on by several Clark County fire units—”
    “Are you saying…my house is on fire? ”
    “Yes, sir—”
    Adrenaline jacked his pulse. “I’m on my way.”
    “The firefighters are doing their best, and what they need most is for you to remain calm when you arrive—”
    “My dog is inside!”
    “Anyone else?”
    “No.” He gripped the wheel with shaking hands. “My dog likes to sleep under the kitchen table!”
    Spring Mountain Road, the main artery to his street, was ahead. As he shifted to check traffic, the phone slipped and clattered onto the floorboard.
    “Look under the kitchen table!” he yelled, flipping the turn signal. “I’m on my way there!”
    Pumping the horn, he shot through an opening in traffic, straight through to the far lane. A horn blasted. He jerked the wheel left, barely missing an Audi wagon, before he wrestled a turn onto Spring