Private Vegas (14 page)

Del Rio said, “Okay, they’re talking to each other in Sumarin. Wait. Now in English.”

One of the Sumaris said, “I am ordering oysters for two and a nice bottle of champagne. Is there anything else I can get you?”

And the other, the one with the younger, higher-pitched voice, said something from the balcony, his words blown away in the wind.

The first one put in the room-service order, asked how long it would take, and said thank you.

About fifteen minutes went by. Cruz and Del Rio listened to the TV anchors reporting the local news, and then there was the sound of a door buzzer, a door opening, the man’s voice, sounding hollow because he was behind a wall, probably in the foyer.

A woman’s voice chirped, “Would you like me to set this up near the window?”

Something, presumably a cart, rolled and squeaked over the carpet, and the older man said, “Let me help you with that, dear.”

“I’ve got it, sir.”

Cruz and Del Rio heard the female voice say, “Shall I open the champagne?”

There was the soft pop of a cork being ejected from the bottle, the older man calling out, “Khezzy, come and see what we have here.”

The younger man said, “Maybe later.”

The other man sighed deeply, said, “Ah, well. What is your name, miss?”

“I’m Luanne. When you’re ready for the cart to be picked up, just call star eighty-eight and put the cart outside.”

“Luanne, can you stay for a moment? I’m sorry that my partner changed his mind. Will you have a glass of this excellent champagne?”

“Thank you very much, but I can’t. It’s against—”

“Oh dear, I apologize,” said the one that had to be Gozan Remari. “I didn’t want to put you in a difficult spot. I have been at death’s door for a very long time, and now that I’m in remission, this is the first champagne I’ve had in five years. And I don’t wish to drink alone.”

“Well, that’s good news,” said Luanne. “I guess I could take a tiny sip.”

“Good. It is good to celebrate all the important moments.”

Cruz sat up straight in his seat, grabbed the car phone, and called Jack.

“Jack, it’s Cruz. They’ve got a girl in there. We’re going in.”

CRUZ AND DEL RIO bolted from the fleet car, ran like hell to the parking lot on the same side of the street, then along the sidewalk fronting the hotel, which was littered with runners and ladies with strollers and bike riders. They took the front steps two at a time and arrived in the lobby of Shutters on the Beach, breathless.

Cruz flashed his badge at the desk clerk, a thin young man with a beaky nose and glasses and a look on his face like a mouse had run up his leg.

Cruz said, “A crime is being committed in a third-floor unit, northwest corner.”

“What crime? How do you know that? Are you the police?”

Del Rio snarled, “Where’re the stairs, dimwit?”

Cruz and Del Rio ran up two flights, pushed open the fire door on the third floor, and sprinted to the room at the end of the hallway.

Del Rio banged on the door, banged on it again, Cruz shouting, “Open up. Do it
now
.”

The door opened, and Gozan Remari, fully clothed in a white shirt, tails out over blue dress pants, said, “What is this? What is going on?”

Cruz said, “Stand aside, sir. We have to check the premises.”

Remari said, “Be my guest.”

Cruz and Del Rio shoved past Remari and entered the homey suite. They found the woman in the room-service outfit standing by the table at the far end of the room. She looked confused but was still in her blue uniform, her hair neat and held back in a headband. She was apparently unharmed.

She was saying, “I didn’t do
anything
. What did I
do?
”

Cruz said, “We’re private investigators and these men are sexual predators. Are you all right?”

“Oh my God. No. Yes. I’m fine.”

Khezir came in from the other room. He was scowling, said, “What’s going on here?”

Del Rio said to the young woman, “Did anyone put a hand on you?”

“No. Like I said, I’m fine.”

“You should go,” said Del Rio. “Get out of here, now.”

The young woman scurried out of the room, and Cruz said to the Sumaris, “We know who you are. We know what you’re doing.”

“Oh, mind readers,” Gozan said with a laugh. “And who are you again? Secret police?”

“Watch yourself,” said Del Rio.

“
You
watch
your
self,” Khezir said, rolling up his sleeves. “You are clowns. You need red noses and big shoes. You want to make my day?”

Cruz stepped in front of Del Rio, took a picture of the men with his phone, and said, “Your faces are going out to every hotel in LA. After today, you’re going to be sleeping in your car.”

Gozan was on the phone, “Suite three W. I need security. Immediately.”

Del Rio and Cruz took the fire stairs down.

“I don’t know. I don’t think that went so well,” said Del Rio.

“We got the girl out of the room.”

“There’ll be another one,” said Del Rio.

SANDRA STOOD BESIDE the enormous bed watching the neon lights outside her windows fling spangles of color onto the white bedding. She wore her husband’s dress shirt, unbuttoned all the way, showing off her large, natural breasts and her small black thong.

She said, “Harry?”

Her husband wasn’t paying attention.

Actually, he wasn’t breathing, but his skin was still warm, almost as if he were still alive.

Sandra gave his arm a little shake, then went to the vast marble-tiled master bath and got into the shower. She let the jet spray beat down on her for several minutes as she thought about how she’d distracted Harry all day long, keeping him too busy to think about food. When he went into hypoglycemic shock, she just closed the door and let him drift away.

Not a bad death, really. Not at all.

She lathered her hair with a fragrant spa shampoo, followed up with a special rinse that made her dark mane bounce and reflect light. She toweled off with yards of Egyptian cotton, then stepped out of the stall and stood naked in front of the full-length mirror.

“Okay, Sandy. Okay, now,” she said to herself. She looked really good. She twisted her body a little so she could see the elegant line of her back, her perfect ass, how long her legs looked from behind. Then she blew out her hair and returned to the bedroom.

Turning her back on Harold Wiggens III, deceased heir to the Wiggens Cough Syrup fortune, Sandra pulled on some underthings and a small, clingy white dress.

Then she sat down on the edge of the bed, put on jeweled sandals. She said to the dead man, “Harry, I’m sorry. We had a good time, didn’t we? I’m as sorry as I can be.”

She lifted his eyelids, one at a time, then picked up the no-name mobile phone and punched in a number she knew by heart. After two rings, Lester answered and said her name.

“Yes. It’s me. It’s done.”

“How are you doing?”

“I’m okay. So far.”

“You should call the police.”

“Right after we hang up.”

“I’ll call you later.”

“No. I’ll call you.”

“Sandra?”

“Don’t worry, Les. I’ll call you.”

The newly minted widow closed the phone and mentally rehearsed what she was going to say.

I thought Harry was sleeping. When I tried to wake him up, he was—dead. He was diabetic. I don’t know what went wrong.

Sandra picked up the landline and called 911. As she waited for the operator to answer, she put her hand over her heart, which was just going crazy. She could hardly believe it was almost over.

Without a doubt, this was the most exciting day of her life.

WAITERS ON SKATES whizzed by me as I stood in the shadows at the entrance of the Socket. Enormous cogs and gears from the original bulb factory had been burnished and highlighted to terrific effect. Iron pillars punctuated the concrete floor, and hundred-year-old light fixtures, tracks, and pulleys hung overhead.

It was still early, about seven p.m., and the smartly dressed, twenty- to thirty-something after-work crowd were filling the club, cozying up to the Line, a forty-inch-long bar topped with a steel-and-leather conveyor belt in the center of the floor.

Groups and couples, laughing and carrying on, gathered in the comfy conversation pits around the perimeter, and one young woman with a flashing tiara was having a birthday.

Tonight’s music was swing, and it seemed to me that the boozy sound of the old instrumentals was putting the customers in a very nice mood.

I looked for Tommy but didn’t see him on the floor, so I moved to the bar for a better view. A wannabe-actor barkeep came over with a smile and a frothy white drink, put it down in front of me.

He said, “The game starts in a minute, Tommy—actually, I think it just started.”

I was an accidental clubber passing as my brother, and I had not been briefed on the game.

I sipped the drink, which looked like milk. It was, in fact, milk.

I said, “Well, I’ll be a little late.”

The bartender said, “Izzy asked after you, went down ten minutes ago. And there goes Billion-Dollar Bill. I hear he lightened your wallet the other night.”

I swiveled on the stool, saw a guy in a pale herringbone sports coat and a good haircut heading toward the wide down-going staircase at the back of the room.

I put a twenty on the bar, said, “I guess I’ll follow the money.”

The bartender wished me luck, and, keeping the herringbone jacket in view, I went down the cantilevered, concrete slab stairs to the basement. The lower level was a dance floor set up for a DJ who hadn’t yet arrived, but recorded music pounded, and the crowd was getting thick, dancing in place, drinking steadily.

I tagged behind Bill, and when we came to a green door at the rear wall marked Shipping, Mr. Bill turned and clapped me on the back.

“No kidding,” he shouted over the music. “Good to see you, Tom. I was hoping you’d try to get your money back.”

“I don’t scare off easily,” I said.

I didn’t know what was behind the green door and I had no plan. But, hey, I’m a pilot. I was going to have to wing it.