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He frowned at her. “What’s wrong with you? Late night?”
Sergeant Roberts had taken her under his wing when she’d busted her butt to prove herself two years ago and become one of the youngest detectives in the history of the Las Vegas police force. The lines etched in his face spoke of his twenty years of hard work for this city. Hard work and stress. Because no one came out of this place unscathed. Every time Mila looked at him, he seemed more tired, more worn-down. But despite his gruff exterior, she knew he had a heart of gold. And he worked hard, pushed them
hard, because he expected the best from them, and he cared.
“Yes,” she answered. “Late night. And, uh, I think I grabbed decaf coffee this morning by mistake.”
He grunted, but seemed placated for now. “Well, make sure you see Christine if you’re struggling with anything.”
Christine was the precinct therapist and available for counseling, mostly when shit went bad and officers exhibited signs of PTSD. Mila had been once, when she’d helped on a particularly gruesome case. Christine was nice enough, but it wasn’t as if Mila could spill about how she’d found herself on her knees, letting a suspect come all over her like some . . . porn star.
Fuck, this was so messed up.
Roberts had already walked away by the time she could make her head nod in agreement. Joel was standing behind him, smirking at Mila.
She rolled her eyes as he approached. He loved when she got in trouble. Sick bastard.
“What the fuck do you want?” she said, somewhat teasing. If the roles had been reversed, she’d be the one smirking at him. It was just the kind of relationship they had. Like siblings.
“So testy today.” He flopped into his chair at the desk beside hers then set his coffee mug down. “What’s wrong? Haven’t been getting enough action lately? I could help you with that, you know.”
God, he was a pig.
“Go suck a dick, Adams,” she said irritably. “I’m not in the mood.” Usually she had better comebacks, but she was too distracted today. And mad at herself. Mad, ashamed, disappointed . . . She’d gone to bed feeling fuzzy and sated then woken up feeling dirty and used. And fucking stupid.
So stupid.
Clearly, messing around with Atlas had been a bad idea. She laughed inwardly. Like that was news. A really bad fucking idea. She wished she could do the whole night over. She’d have told him to fuck off at the club.
No, wait. She wouldn’t have even set foot in that club. It was dangerous—not criminally, but emotionally.
How was she supposed to face him now? Talk about a conflict of interest. Maybe she’d request a different case, but giving up just wasn’t her style. They’d hand it to Joel and he’d harass her about it constantly. About how she couldn’t hack it. An inexperienced but genius rookie who’d made detective way too soon for her age.
And now she’d been a complete idiot and fucked it up—all because she couldn’t control her hormones. Since she couldn’t face Atlas again, maybe she’d try one of the other Larson men. The brother or cousin. At least they were both married so there was no chance she’d end up in their beds.
Yeah. She’d avoid Atlas, that was all. She didn’t have to quit the case. Everyone knew she was one of the best detectives on the force. If anyone could crack it, it’d be her. Without the distraction of a certain muscled godlike pervert.
Too bad he was exactly the kind of pervert she liked.
***
The car garage smelled like piss, even at four in the morning with the cool air seeping in through the glassless windows. On the third level, a Lexus had been stolen just hours before. Mila crouched down, scanning the parking spot where the owner had left the car.
“I set the alarm,” he said for the hundredth time. “I always set the alarm.”
She set her lips into a thin line and nodded apologetically. “Unfortunately, these people have ways of disarming them.”
The newest victim, Chase Remington, was a high roller. He’d spent most of the night at the casino gambling, until he’d tried to go home and found his car missing.
“The dealership told me it had the best security system on the market,” Chase argued.
One of the officers behind her snorted. “Yeah and the Titanic was an unsinkable ship.”
Mila tossed the officer an irritated look. “I’m sorry,” she said to the victim. “Salespeople shouldn’t be promising stuff like that.” Since investigating the string of thefts, she’d learned a thing or two about cars. The more expensive ones often seemed more secure but certain features had the opposite effect. They weren’t easy to smash-and-grab, but the so-called security systems made them easier to hack, if someone was savvy enough to do it. Someone like a computer hacker. Someone like Atlas Larson.
Something caught her eye several feet away. “Excuse me,” she said to Remington then took a few steps away. Another officer started asking him questions to take his statement. Mila focused on the small white thing on the ground the next parking spot over. “Can someone bag that cigarette butt?”
DNA. Could be nothing. Squinting, she scanned the scene again. She turned a circle, certain she was missing something. “There’s really no camera footage?”
