Page 17 of Targeted at Christmas

They took the stairs up to the next level, for more inspection and comments from everyone, for better or worse, and continued this throughout the fifteen-story building. By the time they had returned to the main floor, everyone agreed that the development was on the right path toward completion and would make the city and its inhabitants proud.

Lexi knew that Mitzi Roscorla would be tasked with making the final call. It was still depressing that it would no longer be Horace Eckhart, who had seemingly done his job by the book, in guiding them along the way through the arduous process. She had no reason to think that anyone associated with the development project had tried to bribe—or succeeded in bribing—Horace. Or had been solicited by him for money to receive favorable actions on his part.

But this would be left up to Cooper and the FBI to determine. Lexi only knew for certain that her work as an architect was strictly in accordance with the law where it concerned architecture. She wouldn’t have it any other way. And it was apparent to her that Cooper was of the same mind—making him all the more appealing and someone she wanted to see more of.

COOPER WAS STILL operating on the theory that Horace Eckhart was killed in relation to his foray into public corruption rather than a straight carjacking turned fatal—even if an argument could still, be made, in theory, for the latter, until disproven conclusively.

In sticking with the former, Cooper met up with Special Agents Julia Dobrescu and Olly Montgomery of the Arizona Department of Gaming Intelligence outside a supposed accountant’s office on North Central Avenue. Cell phone records revealed that more than a dozen calls had been made by Eckhart in the days leading up to his death to the number of Alphonso Rossovich, a known booker or bookie.

For his part, Cooper was less interested in the illegal gambling allegations leveled at Rossovich and more in what role he might have played in Eckhart’s murder.

“Your timing couldn’t be better,” Julia told Cooper. “We were just about to break up Rossovich’s illegal gambling operation when we got your call.”

“Lucky me.” Cooper regarded the tall, thin special agent with black hair in an Italian bob and blue eyes. “But not where it concerns gambling—only in Las Vegas,” he emphasized for the record.

Julia laughed. “Keep it that way.”

Olly, who was at least six five and muscular, with dark hair in a military cut and green eyes, was all business when he said, “Let’s go execute the arrest warrant for Rossovich and see if he may have added murder to his criminal activities.”

Cooper met the special agent’s hard gaze and responded in kind, just as eager to speak with the bookie. “What are we waiting for?”

They entered the somewhat spacious office and the suspect, who was standing near the window and already on the phone with his lawyer, hung up and identified himself as Alphonso Rossovich. Sixtysomething, short and heavy, with slicked-back black hair in an undercut and a chin strap beard, Rossovich sighed and asked, seeming to accept his fate, “So, am I under arrest or what?”

Olly peered at him and responded, “Yeah, you are, I’m afraid—for illegal gambling activities. Cuff him,” he told Julia.

“Gladly.” She removed the chain handcuffs from her belt and put the suspect’s hands behind his back, while reading Rossovich his rights.

Once he was secure and unable to make a run for it, Cooper walked up to him, standing next to a metal desk and leather chair, and said, “FBI Special Agent Reid. Before they take you away, I need to ask you some questions about Horace Eckhart—”

Rossovich hoisted a thick brow. “What about him?”

“Eckhart was murdered recently,” Cooper answered, lowering his voice.

“So I heard.” Rossovich frowned. “What’s that got to do with me?”

“Phone records reveal that he made numerous calls to your phone number in a short period before his death—including the day of.” Cooper jutted his chin. “Given that you were his bookie and he may have come up short on payments, maybe you were willing to cut your losses by paying someone to kill him—”

Rossovich snorted. “You kidding me? That’s crazy. Eckhart was a louse in his line of work and personal life, from what I understood—but take him out…for what? He was a gambling addict, and always seemed to find a way to cover his bets. How he got the money was none of my business. If he happened to get over his head with the wrong lenders—not my problem. Go after me for illegal gambling, which I’ll fight, tooth and nail—but not for murdering someone. Least of all Horace Eckhart.”

Olly gazed at Julia, then Cooper, and asked him impatiently, “So, we’re done here for now?”

“Yeah, take him away,” Cooper replied thoughtfully. Rossovich’s argument won him over as far as not being the strongest candidate for killing Eckhart, if not eliminated altogether as a possible suspect for involvement in his death.

As Cooper drove from the scene, he believed that moving away from Rossovich’s culpability merely brought him back to his greater instincts in that Eckhart’s death was likely tied in more with his public corruption than personal weaknesses. Even if the two were inexorably joined at the hip.

LEXI GLANCED UP at the rearview mirror. She could have sworn that the dark SUV was following her. She first noticed this after leaving her studio when it seemed to make a right turn and then a left one just as she had. Then later, after she had chalked it up to coincidence, she seemed to see the same SUV when she left the supermarket parking lot on East Bell Road. Now there it was again as she left the development project under way on Seventh Avenue.

Am I losing my mind, or what? Lexi asked herself as she tried to focus on the road. Why would someone want to follow her? A stalker perhaps? In her profession, she came across all types of people—any one of whom could have locked in on her with some unnatural fixation. Was that what this was?

As she allowed fear to get the better of her and had dark thoughts of being abducted, raped and murdered—before being given the chance to find true love again and have a family to cherish—Lexi glanced back up at the rearview mirror as she drove down Washington Street. Her heart was racing as she fully expected to see the SUV hot on her tail—bumper to bumper.

Instead, there was a red sedan—perhaps a Nissan Sentra—behind her. And not at all threatening.

She looked behind it to the best of her ability and saw what looked like a white Ford F-150. There was no sign of the dark SUV. Maybe it was her imagination getting the better of her.

I guess I am losing my mind, Lexi thought with a laugh, while breathing a sigh of relief. Maybe she was overworking herself to the point of an overactive imagination. She needed to take a chill pill.

Or find a way to channel her insecurities.