Deadly. Set. Vegas.

CHAPTER 1

Silence buzzed as Kennedy Romero walked a long desolate hallway in the Vegas Victory soccer building. Normally the place would be filled with spectators and the scents of beer and popcorn. But today they were silent. Yeah, murder tended to silence a lot of things. Too bad it didn’t silence the questions in her head.

Her dirty military boots scuffed along the concrete as she followed the security guard up the stairs to the owner’s box. She’d always wanted to see how the other half lived, but not like this. The security guard opened the metal door to the box and cool air caressed her face before her boots hit the soft gold carpet.

A thirty-foot picture of Chuck and Craig Perrault, owners of the Vegas Victory Soccer Club, hung in the foyer. No matter his faults, Chuck was handsome. Had been handsome? Kennedy had no idea what to do with that. Salt and pepper hair, more salt than pepper these days, and bright blue eyes.

I can’t believe he’s gone. Kennedy stared at the picture, her voice catching. I watched him play in college, and then for the LA Galaxy. He was an incredible striker… unstoppable on the pitch.

Pitch? The security guard crossed his arms at the wrist and tapped his watch from his post in front of a hallway on the other side of the room. He seemed to be in a hurry. Kennedy was not.

As it was, the whole situation felt crazy. Pitch is another word for field. Kennedy was explaining soccer to a security guard in a soccer venue while avoiding a crime scene. Not exactly how she pictured her day going. Had anyone told her when she’d gotten on the plane yesterday that she’d be checking on her friend after her best friend’s husband was murdered, she would’ve told them they were crazy.

Are you done, ma’am?

She didn’t know which to be offended by more—the tone or the ma’am. She turned her back on the giant picture and followed her impatient tour guide down a hall leading off the foyer. He was an icon on the field. Even if nowhere else.

The guard took a deep breath. So he wasn’t as unaffected as he pretended to be.

Chuck Perrault was an icon. Born and bred in the Vegas valley. The first guy handing out meals at the homeless shelter on Thanksgiving and driving truckloads of toys to the children’s charities. Too bad his generosity didn’t always stretch to his family, but then again, what happened behind closed doors didn’t always match the public persona.

The murmur of police activity drifted to Kennedy’s ears just before they reached the open doorway to the owner’s box. Inside, dark blue paint contrasted with the white cabinetry lining the side wall. White furniture and mahogany tables faced a floor to ceiling window overlooking the field. It was all clean lines and opulence.

Or it would be if the room wasn’t a crime scene.

Cops stood around the body. Red spatters stuck to the gold chandelier. A lake of blood curdled around Chuck’s lifeless body. Chuck.

Oh crap. Her stomach heaved and her heart cracked in her chest. No one deserved this.

We need to move. Security guard stepped in to block Kennedy’s view.

She blinked, and the scene burned behind her eyelids. She’d been to enough crime scenes to know this was personal. Multiple stab wounds. Too many to count.

Who could do this to Chuck? Or anyone?

Voices came from behind the wall of guard. He was stabbed thirty-seven times in the back, Detective.

Apparently, they could count them.

And that’s just what we can see, someone who was probably the detective said. We might find more once we turn the body.

It takes stabbing someone in the back to new levels. The first officer’s gruff chuckle faded and disappeared. Trauma affected people differently. Some threw up. Some cried. Some told horrible jokes.

Who are you? A man in plain clothes and a badge stood next to the bodyguard and growled at Kennedy. He actually growled like a surly bear. His six-foot frame was the only thing bearish about him. He had olive skin, and clean-cut dark brown hair. He’d be cute if he wasn’t scowling.

The bodyguard flipped a thumb at Kennedy. This is Darcy Perrault’s friend.

Bobby, who said you could bring a friend through here? The detective’s glare could melt steel. This is a crime scene, not a show on the strip. We can’t have civilians wandering around.

She’s not a civilian. She’s a cop. Darcy must have told the security guard, AKA Bobby, Kennedy’s profession.

The detective’s eyes roamed up and down Kennedy’s body. She’d think he was totally into her, but his body language said he wouldn’t pee on her if she spontaneously burst into flames. I’ve been with Metro for fifteen years. I’ve never seen you.

You wouldn’t have. I’m a cop in Chicago. A bit of an overstatement. She hadn’t been on the streets in over ten months. Not since the incident.

So, you’re on vacation? The detective’s scowl morphed to a snarl. Misogynist or random anger issues… who knew?

Yes. Not that she chose to take the time off, but he didn’t need to know that.

He flapped his hand at her. She’s a civilian. Get her out of the building.

Come on, ma’am. Bobby started toward the stairs they’d originally come up.

Kennedy didn’t move. I’m going to see Darcy. Her husband was killed, and she asked me to come. Arrest me if you need to. I’m sure Darcy will be happy to post my bail.

The detective glared. Kennedy had stared down murderers and rapists. She could handle a jerk-face Metro Cop.

Fine. Angry cop didn’t look any happier now that he wasn’t getting his way. It probably didn’t help that Kennedy could feel the self-satisfied smile on her lips.

This is going to be a shit-show when this gets out, so keep it quiet, the detective rumbled.

Kennedy pouted. I was going to post this to my social media pages. She wasn’t on social media, but he didn’t know that.

I can and will arrest you if you get in my way. He stormed across the room and stuck his big fat judgey finger in her face. It took everything in her to not bite it. She wasn’t used to being on this side of the officer-ire. She wasn’t usually the one being ired at.

Kennedy knew this would turn into a media circus, complete with soccer hooligans. The longer they put off the throngs, the better. And he was just trying to do his job, so she should let him off the hook. It’s the truth. I am here to see Darcy Perrault. I will not post, call, scream or send smoke signals regarding what I’ve seen here. She held up three fingers in the Girl Scout salute. Okay. So, maybe she wasn’t exactly letting him off the hook. Perhaps you want me to sign a nondisclosure agreement?

The detective sighed and walked away. Rude. She couldn’t really blame him. And bonus… she was getting to do what she wanted without his annoying scowl in her face.

Let’s go, ma’am. Bobby hit the elevator button once they were out in the hall and the door slowly opened. She’s in the office upstairs.

How is she? Death was never easy, but this, this was a whole other level.

She found the body. Bobby followed Kennedy inside the elevator. That’s how she’s doing. The door slid closed.

So… bad.

You could say that. She slipped on the blood and the cops won’t let her take a shower until they’re done talking to her.

Slipped on the blood? That sounded like a mess.

Bobby coughed. Just try not to stare.

CHAPTER 2

Try not to stare.

Kennedy stared at her reflection as the elevator crawled up to wherever the office was. She hadn’t had time to get herself together this morning. She was a hot mess— without the hot. Her dirty blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail. Had she thought about it, she might have brought something a little more appropriate for a trip to the glitz and glamor capital of the world instead of her usual blue jeans and T-shirt.

Better to get the staring out of her system now. Apparently, there might be a reason to stare when they got up to the office. Which really, they should have gotten to the office already. This was a brand-new building built for a brand-new team. One would think the elevator would move faster than a dumbwaiter with a pulley system. The car stopped with a jerk and the door slid open.

Try not to stare lingered in her thoughts as the room came into view.

The decor was professional-office chic. Black leather couches on one side. White desk with matching bookshelves on the other. Floor to ceiling windows overlooking the arena. But the hardwood floors and the blue and golden logo hanging behind the desk wasn’t what caught her eye. It was the woman sitting on a dropcloth on the couch.

You gotta be kidding.

At least Kennedy thought it was a woman.

She looked like a victim from a slasher movie. A creamy white face topping a heavily used tampon, or maybe that was her body.

Kennedy looked over at the guard, but he was already back in the elevator and the door was closing. Wimp. She took a wild guess. Darcy?

The red covered swab moved and the pale face looked up. Her face was streamed with tears. Her hair was a balayage of crusted blond and red highlights.

Kennedy crossed the room and stopped short of wrapping her best friend in a hug. Do you need an ambulance? Or a shower?

Oh, thank god, Kennedy. Darcy jumped up, a tear building in her eye. I can’t give you a hug.

I’m sorry.

Darcy dropped to the couch. A red stained butt-print blemished the off-white cloth under her. I need to take a shower, but we need to get this done first. She nodded to the cop walking toward her, a heavy-set woman wearing a collared shirt, dark pants, and sensible shoes. Her gold badge hung from a lanyard around her neck. Detective, not cop.

I only have a few more questions and then you can take a shower. This detective had kind eyes, unlike the evil one downstairs. She slid her finger over her tablet. You must be Kennedy Romero. I’m Detective Lester with Las Vegas Metro. Did you want to wait downstairs while we finish up?

Downstairs with angry cop? If she had another run-in with the man, there was a good chance she’d get thrown out of the building, or worse, thrown out of town.

Darcy saved Kennedy from being blacklisted in Vegas. Can she stay?

Of course. Detective Lester was by far her favorite. So much kindness. I know this is hard but, does anyone have a grudge against your husband?

Everyone loved my husband.

No one was jealous or angry? No bitter ex-employees? Detective sunshine appeared from behind Kennedy, adding his two cents. He was a black hole where kindness went to die.

No. My husband has always been very giving to everyone. And from the fight Kennedy had witnessed last night, he’d been giving his seed to anyone that moved. Not that the cops needed to know that. Darcy wouldn’t have killed her husband for that. He would’ve been dead a long time ago if that was the case.

I find it hard to believe that a man with his stature didn’t step on a few people along the way. The cranky detective was asking all the right questions, just maybe in the wrong way.

What are you implying? And Darcy was taking them in the wrong way.

I’m implying nothing. The cranky detective moved closer.

I’m sorry, Mrs. Perrault, Detective Lester said. This is my partner, Detective Pagonis. He’s just trying to figure out who might have had a problem with your husband. She was obviously choosing her words carefully. The scene downstairs was very— gruesome. It implies a very personal attack. The person who did that would have been very angry.

I just don’t see how anyone could be that angry with Chuck. Darcy stood up and moved to the window overlooking the arena. Why they had an owner’s box when they could watch everything from up here boggled the mind.

Maybe they weren’t that angry in your mind. But in theirs, he really hurt them.

Darcy sighed. I don’t know. The guy my husband outbid to buy the franchise might have been mad. The woman we outbid for the Rembrandt we bought was pretty steamed. I mean, none of that is reason to kill someone.

I will need those names. Detective Lester wrote the names Darcy rattled off on a tablet with a Metro logo stuck to the back. In Chicago, they had to buy their own paper—there was no fancy electronic tablet. What about players or fans?

Kennedy hated to say she wasn’t that up to date on the hot gossip about the Vegas Victory. If it wasn’t a headline on Google, she probably didn’t know about it.

I don’t think a player would do this. They’re good men. Darcy wrapped her arms around herself and shivered. We’re in negotiations with Tad Markham. He keeps asking to leave, but we’ve built this team around him. I’m sure you’ve heard all the speculation on the news. We’d end up trading or letting go of most of the guys. A few of the fans aren’t happy about all the talk.

If Tad was the one talking about leaving, that seemed like a reason to kill Tad. Just saying.

What about friends or family? Lester asked.

No. His brother basically worshipped him. They fought, but who doesn’t fight with their siblings. His parents are gone. Darcy turned her attention to the empty stadium. She pulled at a clump of hair and flinched—or maybe it was her mouth rejecting the Chuck being worshipped comment.

Detective Lester made another note. What about⁠—’

According to some witnesses, Pagonis said, interrupting her, there was yelling coming from the office last night. They heard something about another woman.

We were having a discussion. Kennedy was there.

Great, now angry cop’s attention was on Kennedy. So, you were the last people to see Chuck Perrault before he died?

Well, I left to feed the dogs, Darcy said.

Which was true, but it was more like Kennedy pulled Darcy off Chuck after he dropped the bombshell that he was in love with someone else.

Officer Smiley focused his attention on Kennedy. Great. So, you were the last to see him alive?

I left a few minutes after Darcy. He was standing at the back windows—very much alive.

Pagonis scowled. Can anyone corroborate your story?

She pulled into the driveway just as I parked in the garage. Darcy looked all happy with herself. Like her explanation took Kennedy’s name off Detective Scowly Face’s most-wanted list.

Shit, this looked bad. They were each other’s alibi, and they both had a motive and means. They needed to regroup. Out of the corner of her eye, Kennedy saw Darcy squirm. The dried blood was a black stain on her skin.

Can this wait? Kennedy asked. The cops needed this information, but right now nothing was more important than Darcy getting out of her Carrie suit.

Pagonis sneered, which wasn’t much better. Since you’re a police officer, you know how this works. The first forty-eight hours are critical to an investigation.

"I do, but since Darcy looks like an extra in a Saw movie, maybe you could investigate the names she’s given you and let her take a minute to defunk. Maybe she’ll even come up with other names if she’s not peeling her hair off her skin."

It’s okay. Darcy attempted a smile. I want to give them as much information as possible, so they can find who did this.

Detective Pagonis snarled again. Detective Lester smiled, the voice of reason. I have all I need for now. We’ll reach out if we have any other questions. She pulled a card from her pocket. If there is anything you can remember, please call my cell.

Darcy took the card and tried to smile, but she was clearly heartbroken.

I’m sure I don’t have to say this. Don’t leave town. Detective Sunshine walked to the elevator and hit the button, staring at Kennedy until he and his partner got inside, and the doors closed.

CHAPTER 3

Steam billowed from the bathroom down the hall. The crime scene people had sifted through the office, but hadn’t found any evidence of a struggle. They cleared the room, which was good since Darcy either had to take a shower here or use the showers in the men’s locker room. Darcy disappeared behind the bathroom door over twenty minutes ago, and the shower had been going ever since.

Not that Kennedy blamed her. If she was in there, she’d be looking at using all the soap and all the hot water— heck, maybe even some of the cold— to get the blood off.

Kennedy walked around the room, running a hand over the long white executive desk as she made her way to the floor to ceiling windows overlooking the field. The large skylight in the dome let in the setting sun, casting an orange glow over the synthetic grass. She couldn’t get over the view. It was beautiful. A field of green surrounded by blue and gold seats. Chuck and Darcy had built something good here.

She moved back to the desk, running her hand along the surface. Nine drawers with black knobs. The knobs were so smooth. She pulled one of the drawers open. Papers lined the top drawer. She should close it. She should go back to that window and watch the grass grow—although since it was synthetic that seemed like an awfully boring proposition. And since her best friend’s husband was dead downstairs, she needed to do something to help. She needed to make sure this didn’t blow back on Darcy.

The best way was to start looking at the facts—starting with this desk. She pulled out a stack of paperwork. On the top of the pile was a birthday card from Chuck’s Aunt Judith. Next was an electric bill. A blank pad of paper.

Find anything incriminating?

Kennedy looked up at Darcy, who was standing in the bathroom doorway wearing a robe, a towel twisted into a turban on her head. All the gore was gone. Kennedy guiltily stuffed the paperwork back like a kid whose hand was caught in the owner’s drawer. Well, it wasn’t like that. It was that.

Don’t stop on my account. Darcy walked over to the desk and pulled out the papers. I need to go through all this stuff.

We don’t have to do it now. Your boobs are about to fall out of that robe. Put on some clothes and we can come back tomorrow.

Eh, who needs clothes. Darcy sat on the couch, her robe riding dangerously high.

Kennedy lifted her hand to block the impending beaver view. I’m about to see something you haven’t flashed me since college.

Darcy laughed as she tugged the robe closed over her naughty bits. Kennedy was almost afraid to look for fear of what might pop out and say hi.

Kennedy gathered another stack of papers. She sat at the other end of the couch and flipped through her stack. A gas bill. A few memo pages with random lists. Post it notes with illegible scribbles. Another electric bill. Folded papers with notes. More lists and scribbles. A page from a coloring book with Dad scribbled at the top in bright pink. Fanny must have colored this when she was just a kid—at least fifteen years