Lex hung up, feeling light-headed.
“What was that?” asked Perez.
“FBI New York.” He bit his lip, thinking.
“Do they have something on Harold and Epstein?” She came over to his desk. “What’s the fax say?” she asked.
Lex reached for his jacket. “I need to pay Epstein a visit. I’m going to the Desert Lion.”
She cursed. “Duncan—”
He held up his hand. “I promise, I’ll explain. Later. But where I’m going now has nothing to do with this case. This is personal.”
“What about the fax?”
“On my desk.”
She glowered at him for several beats, then threw up her hands and muttered something in Spanish as he left.
Jenna stormed into the hallway, Napoleon’s little doggie nails clicking on the marble behind her. She was insanely relieved no one appeared to be home. But as she headed for the stairs, aiming for a hot shower, and some serious thinking, she caught sight of the headline on one of the morning papers that Clive routinely placed on the hall table.
The main story and photo was of the big auto pileup on the freeway last night. Her mouth went dry. Jenna snagged the paper, quickly scanned the story.
Thank God, there was nothing about any deaths or terribly serious injuries. There was also no mention of who had caused the pileup. Yet. She flipped the page and read the continuation of the article, a smaller headline underneath the story suddenly snaring her attention. And her blood ran cold.
There’d been a murder.
The owner of the Lucky Lady, a fortune-teller named Marion Robb, was found early this morning, her throat slit.
Jenna folded the paper, numb. Afraid. Somehow everything was connecting, and she couldn’t see the patterns. She climbed the stairs, mechanically going through the motions of showering, dressing, feeding Napoleon. But all she could think of was Lex, of what the Lucky Lady had told him about his mother, and how the fortune-teller had alluded to Vegas’s dark mob past and Sara Duncan’s possible involvement.
Sara’s throat also had been slit.
Had that dark mob past finally caught up with the present in that murky psychic store that sold dreams?
Jenna thought of her own father and his possible ties to Epstein, and of the stories about Epstein’s old links with Vegas Mafia. She thought of the death threats in her dad’s drawer—how they promised to avenge a past deed, how they all referred to The Tears of the Quetzal and how Candace was the “first” to be taken out. How her dad had lied about the fire in South America.
Jenna sagged onto her bed, inhaling deeply. Lex was the one person in her life that remained a lighthouse through this maelstrom. And she’d run from him. She’d pushed him away.
And he’d said he loved her.
Her eyes misted.
She couldn’t begin to articulate how messed up that made her feel. Being with him last night, having him make love to her in his bed, was like nothing she’d ever experienced. He’d made her feel whole. As if she’d come home somehow.
More home than she felt here in the Rothchild mansion now.
She angrily brushed away an errant tear.
She’d been overwhelmed by it all—along with the shock of almost being killed and by the gravity of what she must now do to her own father. To her family. But in truth, Jenna knew the course was the right one, and she had to find the courage to go through with it.
Candace was, after all, family, too. She needed justice, too.
Jenna wondered if Lex was even aware of the Lucky Lady’s murder. It wouldn’t be an FBI case, as far as she knew, so he might still be unaware. She needed to talk to him.
She dialed his cell phone, but it went straight to voice mail.
She tried his office number, again voice mail. Jenna walked to the window, looked down into their beautiful garden, their wealth visible, tangible. She thought of Lex, his orphans. His mother. His strong sense of allegiance. Honor.
Of course he couldn’t lie about her finding the death threats—she’d basically asked Lex to go against everything he was. She needed to see him. Talk to him. Now.
She grabbed her keys off her dresser and ran down the stairs.
Perez found Jenna Rothchild in a small FBI waiting area, not looking at all like the Jenna Rothchild she knew. Sweet little dress, flat sandals, hair all loose and unstyled, no jewelry. Jenna had asked to see Lex, and Perez was vaguely amused by the idea that the tail she’d put on Jenna Rothchild this morning had been led right back to the FBI field office. It appealed to her twisted sense of humor. “Agent Duncan isn’t in, Ms. Rothchild. I’m Agent Perez, his partner. Is there anything I can help you with?”
She got up, looking nervous.
“You okay, Ms. Rothchild?”