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July 11

I don't care what you've seen on television. This is the truth: Most days, being a cop is one of the most boring jobs on earth. Except when it isn't. Or to clarify, it's huge patches of tediousness punctuated by brief moments of stark terror. That's why so many cops turn in their badges before retirement. That's why eight times more cops die from suicide than homicide. The badge ain't for sissies.

I love it. All of it--the tediousness and the terror--even now, six months since my badge was officially yanked. I was a cop for almost ten years; now I'm a consultant, which means I work twice as many hours for half as much money. At least I'm in the game. Tediousness and terror. But still in the game.

The officially designated casino escort met Darcy and me at the front door. He was dark and muscular and obviously worked out and I disliked him almost immediately. "You the chick Chief O'Bannon sent over?"

Just to prove that I'm not high-strung, hot-tempered, rabidly feminist, or any of those other female cop clichés, I let that one slip. "I'm Susan Pulaski."

"You're the shrink?"

"I'm a psychologist. I work as a behaviorist for the LVPD."

"Whatever." Sure, it sounded rude, but I suspect he was compensating for the fact that he didn't know what a behaviorist is, so I let that one slide, too. "The boss says I'm supposed to take you upstairs to see the floor boss captain."

"Then let's do it."

"Sure. And afterward . . ." His eyes narrowed and he got that smirky expression that you only get from men who think everyone finds them as sexy as they find themselves. ". . . I could give you a personal tour of the casino."

"Thanks, but I've been here before."

"You have gorgeous eyes, you know it? I bet you get that a lot. Unusual. One looks darker than the other."

"Cat scratch. I was five. Now if you don't mind--"

I tried to push past him, but he grabbed my arm. "I could show you parts of this place you've never seen. Including some very private rooms. Huge suites. Mirrored ceilings." And then, I swear to God, he actually winked as he added, "Vibrating beds."

Grotesque. Repellent. Wildly inappropriate. But I am a trained professional, cool and detached, and I was sent here to do a job. So I let it pass. "Maybe it would be best if you just took us to the captain."

"Us?" He glanced behind me for the first time. "Who's the punk?" He was pointing at Darcy, the tall, lanky twenty-six-year-old hovering uncertainly behind me. "The boss didn't say anything about some kid coming along." Darcy flushed, stared at the floor, talked some barely audible gibberish, then began flapping his hands. "Why is he here?"

"I'm babysitting," I said. "You know how lousy cop pay is. I have to moonlight."

"I don't want to get into any trouble with the boss. The kid looks . . . weird. What is he, some kind of retard or--"

I flattened him. One punch, on the nose, down and out.

Yeah, I know, I shouldn't have done it. Someone will report me to IA, and they'll throw it in my face the next time I make my periodic pathetic application for reinstatement.

But honestly. A girl can only put up with so much.

It was your typical Vegas casino, if there is such a thing, an exquisite blend of tony, trendy, and tacky. No windows, no clocks, nothing to remind gamblers of the outside world, everything designed to encourage them to settle in and play, play, play. So noisy that Darcy covered his ears and I was tempted to follow suit: the cacophony of slot machines, the clinking of glasses, the jingling of chips, the whirring of security cameras, the incessant chatter about what...

 

"Bernhardt and Las Vegas go together like fire and gasoline."

 

"A thriller that will chill you while its two unique and endearing protagonists steal your heart."

 

"Bernhardt keeps his foot flat on the accelerator, producing action at every turn of the page."