Guilty Little Secrets

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Chapter 1 The only thing Rosie Malone hated more than a bad guy was a bad guy who couldn't tell time. With a sigh that fell dead against the atomic heat of the Las Vegas afternoon, Rosie pushed up her sleeve and glanced at her watch. Two forty-five. If her informant didn't show up sometime soon, this just might be the shortest undercover operation in the history of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms. And a stain on Rosie's perfect service record. It would also be the biggest clandestine lemon since the Bay of Pigs if she waited around, was late for rehearsal, and got fired from her showgirl job before she ever had a chance to find out what was really going on at the Silver Swan. One more look at her watch and her mind was made up. Rosie headed toward the three cement steps that led up to the landing outside the door to the Swan's receiving area. If she was quick, she could get to the theater just in time. If she was lucky, no one would notice she was late. Then again, if luck had anything to do with the way things were going, she wouldn't be in a back alley in the first place. She also wouldn't be dressed like a clown. She was already trying to work out the physics of getting her two-foot-long clown shoes on the one-foot-wide steps when she heard the sharp rap of high heels against the pavement. Rosie turned just in time to see a woman round the corner. For a moment, the sight of a brunette with long, long hair and a short, short skirt took her by surprise. Then again, Chuck had never been specific. When her boss called earlier that morning and told her an informant wanted to talk, Rosie had automatically pictured a man. Looked like she was going to need to revise her thinking. Looked like she wasn't the only one. Six feet away, the woman stopped and squinted through the shadows over to where Rosie was waiting. "Nobody told me nothing about a clown," she said. "No . . . well . . ." Rosie stepped forward, closing the distance between herself and the woman. "It's kind of a long story. Are you the one who called Chuck?" "Yeah, that was me." The woman stepped back. "But that Chuck guy, he didn't say a clown. He said a special agent and I was expecting . . . you know . . ." "You were expecting a guy in a navy-blue suit, a white shirt, and a striped tie. That's the FBI." Her attempt at humor was met with a blank stare, and Rosie got herself back on track with a shake of her head. Fuzzy bits of her red clown wig floated up into the air and stuck to her lips, and she blew them away. "Everybody expects the guy in the suit. They're usually surprised to see me even when I'm not dressed like this." Briefly, she glanced down at the yellow shoes and the blue-and-white-striped costume that looked like a cross between a jumpsuit and a Thanksgiving Day parade balloon. For a woman whose most daring real-life outfit was a knee-length black skirt that she wore with a tailored gray jacket when she was feeling frisky, her costume was the ultimate irony. That and the fact that she had spent the better part of her twenty-eight years yearning to blend in with the masses of everyday, vanilla-ice-cream, middle-of-the-road people she saw everywhere but in her own family. So much for listing her fourteen years of dance lessons on her employment application for the ATF. Rosie reached inside the neckline of her costume and pulled out the ATF ID card and badge that dangled from a chain. "Rosie," she said by way of introduction, and tucked her credentials back inside her costume. She stuck out her hand. "And you're . . ." The woman hesitated. "I'm Neeta." She didn't take Rosie's hand and Rosie got the message. She moved back a fraction of an inch, giving Neeta the room she so obviously needed. Neeta reached into the tiny purse she had