It turns out that the Venetian Gulag is more extensive than I thought. For one thing, there is more than one holding cell. The one I was shown into this time was nicer, or maybe it was the consciousness that this time I hadn’t done anything wrong. How could I be blamed for Fred’s little gaming addiction? Although that wasn’t going to play well with the Thwarter. The fact that I was clothed this time probably helped too.
Plus, I only stayed for a little while. I barely had time to ask myself if maybe old-beyond-his-years Fred had actually been aiming for this outcome, aiming to attract the attention of Venetian security, when two members of that elite squad came in. Security Officer Kim and Security Officer Reese stood on either side of me as I got up from my chair, like they thought I might make some kind of getaway. Officer Kim said, “Come this way,” and Officer Reese said, “Wait here,” and before I knew it I’d been led down a corridor, pushed through a door, and locked in an office. I felt like we had really spent some quality time together.
The office I was locked in was large and impressive, with wood paneling on the walls and a desk in the middle and a bunch of television screens on one side that showed different views of the casino. On the desk was a plate that read, L. A. CURTIS, CHIEF.
But I was more interested in the things on the wall. One side was totally taken up with plaques. The earliest ones were from the navy and then there were several honoring Leonard Curtis for distinguished service in the San Francisco Police Department. So L. A. Curtis’s first name was Leonard. And he’d been both a sailor and a cop.
Interesting.
Another wall had two big stuffed fish on it and a bunch of photos of Mr. Curtis and other men on boats. There were also some pictures of him that could have been taken from a “Man on the Go” calendar: one with an old restored car, several in a wetsuit and scuba tank, and one of him wearing a ripped shirt and soiled pants, standing surrounded by a big group of people and gesturing manfully at a sign that said LAS VEGAS THEATER CLUB PROUDLY PRESENTS—LES MISÉRABLES. No wonder he kept his veneers up-to-date. I was just thinking that he certainly had a lot of energy when the door opened and that star of stage and security bounced in. Today he was wearing a beige linen suit and looking more than ever like he should be meeting private jets at a tropical resort.
He really didn’t seem like a Leonard, even if he did walk kind of strangely.
He settled into his chair, picked a dark thread off his cuff, and then said, “Miss Callihan. Another exciting surprise.”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “I’m sorry, sir. I did not mean to cause trouble.” I also hadn’t really meant to apologize. I didn’t do anything wrong. But for some reason Mr. Curtis was the kind of person who could almost make me feel guilty for having arm hair. Probably his police training.
“Let me ask you a question,” he said. There was something about his tone and the long pause that followed that made me pretty sure it was going to be “Will we have to handcuff you, or will you go quietly?” So I was surprised when he said, “Why did you have Fred pull the lever on the slot machine instead of pulling it yourself?”
“Uh, I didn’t. It was Fred’s idea.”
Mr. Curtis looked at me without saying anything and I started to feel itchy. This was a taste of what I was going to be in for with my dad, I knew, which made itchy turn to desperate.
“Really. I know it was wrong of me to let him,” I heard myself blustering on. “I did not mean to do anything illegal. He—”
Mr. Curtis put up a hand. “Actually, I’ve got to hand it to you. Your quick thinking may be the only thing that stopped a serious crime.”
Time for my second visit to Mr. Curtis’s parallel universe. “I beg your pardon? A crime? What crime?”
Mr. Curtis flashed me a BriteSmile. “You know, I like your inquisitiveness.”
“Um, thank you?”
“You’ve got a lot going on up here.” He tapped his head. “What made you think you needed Security so quickly? Why didn’t you just go find one of my people on the casino floor?”
“I didn’t,” I insisted. Mr. Curtis looked at—or rather, through—me like it was clear he was not buying what I was selling, even though it was true. “Fred had some kind of fit.”
“A fit?”
Only the way he said it, it was like he said, “Ms. Callihan, I can read your mind and I know you are lying.” What if Mr. Curtis were telepathic?
“A fit or a hallucination. Or maybe he really did see someone. He said something, something like, ‘Don’t let him come any closer.’ And then he ran off like he was terrified.”
“He didn’t tell you who he saw?”
“You think he really did see someone?”
“Fred Bristol is very mature for his age and not prone to fits.” He found another dark thread on his cuff and pulled it off, turning it between his fingers pensively, like he was trying to make up his mind about something. He leaned forward and said, “Would you like to see how your adventure with Fred looked to our cameras?”
“Yes!” I said, probably too enthusiastically because Mr. Curtis leaned away fast as if he were afraid I might kiss him.
Sorry, Leonard. Not today.
But seriously, the chance to see real surveillance footage? Of myself? Committing a crime (by accident)? Without having to fast-forward through the bad commercials on the Discovery Channel? Who would not think that was the coolest thing ever? I mean, provided you weren’t on trial for murder or anything.
Mr. Curtis pushed some buttons and all four of the television monitors started to cycle through different shots. There was the pool and the spa and the Grand Canal Shoppes and the lobby and the parking lot and the room corridors and the casino. There were even cameras behind the hotel, on the loading docks, and in the kitchens and service corridors. It was incredible.
“Are there cameras everywhere?” I asked.
“Everywhere but the bathrooms.”
Was that why Ms. Bristol had taken her teary phone call in the ladies’ room the night before? Did everyone but me know this about the cameras? “Is that true in all the casinos?”
“Unfortunately, yes. It’s the law.” I got the feeling that what he thought was unfortunate was that there weren’t allowed to be cameras in the bathrooms, not that people required so much surveillance. But would you really want to see people going to the bathroom? If you answered yes to that question, SEEK HELP NOW.
Mr. Curtis had been concentrating on the changing images on the screens and he sat forward now, like he’d found what he was looking for. He pushed a button and three of the monitors went black. On the fourth we were looking at the casino floor and several of the tables adjacent to the ice cream counter.
“I want you to tell me when you see the moment that Fred became afraid. We’ll be tightening his security, of course, but if we can narrow down who we’re looking for, it will be a big help.”
I tried to ask again about why Fred needed security, but Mr. Curtis said, “This is very important, Miss Callihan. Please keep your full attention on the video.”
Little Life Lesson 18: If you have to watch yourself on a surveillance video, do not be alarmed: It is not just you; no one looks good when filmed from above.
Probably not everyone looks like their hair could eat them for dinner like mine did, though.
I didn’t see myself and Fred enter, but then suddenly there we were, sitting at our table, Fred and my hair, both staring hard at our ice creams. Then Fred looked up and spoke and I saw my hair try to grab him as I leaned forward to give him that etiquette pointer about discussing dead bodies on the first date. Soon my hair was getting up from the table and going around to hug him.
“It’s coming up,” I told Mr. Curtis. I saw Fred drop his spoon and I said, “There. That’s when he had his fit. I mean, got scared.”
Mr. Curtis hit PAUSE, and the other three monitors flickered on. They were showing different parts of the casino floor around the table where we were sitting.
“Which way was Fred facing?” he asked me.
I tried to remember. “Toward the slots with the big wheel on the top. Away from the Haywire Hoedown slots.”
One of the monitors went blank, leaving the one of us at our table and two with views out into the casino in the direction Fred had been looking. “I want you to watch these,” Mr. Curtis said, “and tell me if you see anyone familiar.”
I can’t say I am proud of what happened next. I had always hoped I’d be a natural at police work, but it turns out that after spotting myself, I was kind of useless at spotting others. I did see the two women with the pink and blue Mohawks that I’d noticed at the pool the previous day, but Fred had been afraid of a man. Mr. Curtis was very patient and rewound the tapes three times for me to try again. I kept feeling like there was something there, but I didn’t know what. It was only when he slowed them down that I saw it.
Or rather him.
“That man,” I said, pointing to the center of one of the screens. “I think I ran into him last night at the Voodoo Lounge. When I was coming out of the bathroom.”
“Do you remember everyone you meet?”
“No, but he was drunk and distinctive—I mean, he’s wearing a caftan—and I was sort of in a rush.” Caftan Man? Was that who Fred was afraid of? Was he—
“Did he look suspicious in any way?”
“Not apart from his outfit. Why, is he after Fred? What is going on?”
“I just need you to make this identification.”
“Could you zoom in?”
Mr. Curtis hit a button and the center of the screen, where the man’s face was, got bigger. As did a face in the crowd behind him. My toes and arms and legs started to get tingly and I had a strong urge to get out of Mr. Curtis’s office.
“Are you all right, Miss Callihan?” he asked.
“Yes. Fine. I just feel—tired.”
“I see. Is that the man?”
“The man? Yes, it is. The man from last night. It’s probably just a coincidence.”
“Don’t you worry about that. Are you sure you didn’t see anyone else?”
I almost jumped out of my skin. “Nope. No one else. Not another person.”
I was so eager to get out of there I almost missed the part where Mr. Curtis told me that since I’d been so helpful, he didn’t think my dad needed to know what had happened, although I did tune in for the part when he said, “These people are very dangerous. They will stop at nothing to get what they want. If you think of anything else, I am counting on you to call. Anything.”
I’m sure I was just making it up that he looked at me with special emphasis when he repeated, “Anything.” And I really hoped mind reading was not L. A. Curtis’s superpower. Because if it were, he would have known what I was thinking.
Which was: Little Life Lesson 18 was wrong. Some people looked fine when captured on surveillance video from above. Some people who you could only see when the image was enlarged. Some people looked like dreamboats in green Adidas. Just like they had the night before when they had been surreptitiously questioning me about Fred.
Little Life Lesson 18, REPLACEMENT VERSION: If you meet a guy who is six feet three inches of perfect manly splendor with green eyes and a British accent and warm soft hands and a nice-smelling chest who laughs at your jokes and has lovely manners and is named Jack, keep your distance. Then call security.
Fred had been afraid. But not of Caftan Man. No, the man he’d been afraid of was Jack. I was positive.
Just positive enough to want to find out more. Not quite positive enough to tell Mr. Curtis.