Forrester drove Lucy home, top down under the starlit desert sky. A velvet-smooth Tony Bennett ballad played on the CD; the warm breeze mingled delightfully with the scent of her perfume. In his peripheral vision he noted that her skirt had somehow ridden up to mid-thigh. She keeps glancing at me, too—encouraging signs, he thought.
“I’m so glad you’re playing Bennett and not Francisco. Not tonight, anyway,” she said.
“Are you warm enough?” he asked solicitously. “I could put the top up—”
“No, this is perfect, Steve. It’s fun watching the stars go by.”
Forrester reached over and took her hand. She made no objection; his pulse quickened slightly.
For the next few minutes only the gentle rush of the breeze over the windshield broke the silence as they made their way along the broad reaches of Eastern Avenue toward the Green Valley area of Henderson. Forrester drove slowly, regulating his speed to catch the lights, savoring the moment, anticipating whatever the rest of the evening might bring. To the east, the malls and office buildings were dark and deserted. To the west, the twin landing lights of a jumbo jet signaled the arrival of yet another planeload of tourists at McCarran Airport, another wave of excited gamblers ready to help feed the town’s voracious appetite for cash. Far behind the big Mercedes sports car, the neon brilliance of the Strip faded to a faint glow.
“This is it,” she said as they approached a gated apartment complex. Lucy lived in Arbor Court, a modest but neat grouping of two-story white stucco buildings in West Henderson, just outside the Las Vegas city limits.
Her second-floor apartment on Violet Lane was reached by an outside staircase that led onto a private balcony with French doors. Forrester admired the carefully tended window box decorating her sill.
Lucy’s taste in furnishings had not been tainted by the glitz of Las Vegas, Steve was pleased to note. The decor was definitely Vermont. Her furniture was New England cozy, flowered chintz and pine antiques. Good quality, nothing cheap. Adorning the walls of the modest but immaculate living room were a number of Impressionist prints and a few original oils—covered bridges, farm scenes, snow-covered mountains. A cluster of framed family photos sat on a side table: Mom, Dad, Lucy, and a dark-haired youth who could only have been a younger brother. Forrester even detected a faint scent of pine.
He loosened his tie and settled back comfortably on an invitingly overstuffed Ethan Allen couch.
“Would you like anything in your coffee?” Lucy asked as she busied herself in the neat, cheerful kitchenette. “I’ve got Courvoisier … .”
“You know, this is something I don’t say very often, but I think I’ve had enough booze for one night. You’re a good influence on me.”
“Honestly, I don’t mean to be,” she said, walking over with two steaming cups of coffee on a silver Paul Revere tray. She sat beside him—keeping a decorous cushion’s width between them—and placed the tray on the antique pine musket box that served as her coffee table. “I kind of like you the way you are. It’s been a wonderful evening.”
“It has. And there’s something I’ve been dying to do since you walked into the restaurant.”
“What’s that?” she asked nervously, knowing exactly what it was.
He gathered his nerve. “Kiss you?”
He looked at her questioningly. She blushed, tempted, still uncertain of her feelings. Yet coming up here had been her idea. What could she have been thinking?
“Oh, Steve, I—”
He slid closer and touched her cheek tenderly. “Stop me anytime—”
Brrring! A warble emanated from Forrester’s inside jacket pocket. They both jumped. The spell was broken.
“What’s that?” she said.
“It’s my cell phone,” said Forrester. “Goddamn it.”
“You’d better answer it,” said Lucy. Disappointment fought with relief
at this last-minute reprieve from a confrontation with her feelings. Somehow, at that moment, disappointment was ahead by a considerable margin.
He pressed the SEND button. “Forrester.”
“Sir, it’s Jim Roper at the Galaxy. I’m really sorry to bother you so late, but I think you should get over here right away.”
Steve grimaced. “Right now, Roper? What’s so important, it couldn’t wait until morning?”
“We’ve just had a death in the Cosmic Café. Ordinarily I wouldn’t bother you—”
Forrester recalled the threatening letter and the videotape. “Oh Christ. I hope this isn’t what I think it is,” he muttered to himself. On the one hand, fatalities were not uncommon in any large hotel, Forrester knew. You hated when they happened, but with a transient population of thousands—many of them elderly—seizures, heart attacks, and strokes were a fact of life. Or death. On the other hand, Jim Roper was a pretty levelheaded guy and it wasn’t like him to bother his boss with a routine natural death.
“It looks like a seizure of some kind,” the guard said. “This guy threw up blood, collapsed, and croaked. Kind of messy, but these things happen. I wouldn’t have called you except that we noticed something odd—there was a package taped under the table where he was sitting. Addressed to Mr. Druperman. We haven’t touched it.”
“Describe the package.”
“It’s a brown envelope, one of those padded types, about nine by twelve inches and maybe an inch thick. There’s a printed white address label stuck on it.”
“Shit.” So it had happened, just as the letter had promised. The warning shot. “Okay, Roper, you did the right thing by calling me. Don’t let anyone touch the body. Just secure the scene, and I’ll be right there.” He disconnected and folded up the phone. Why did the bastards have to pick tonight of all nights to do their dirty work?
“Looks like we’ve got a problem, Lucy,” he said. “They may have poisoned somebody in the coffee shop.”
“Oh God, Steve. That movie came true. You’d better go.” She hoped the brisk practicality in her voice would conceal the disappointment.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. Just go.”
“Rain check?”
“Sure. Call me.”
Steve Forrester was thoroughly pissed off, and it showed in his driving. The leisurely drive to Lucy’s earlier in the evening had taken about half an hour; it took him less than eight minutes to make the return trip, redlining the big SL 500 convertible most of the way and ignoring traffic lights. En route, he used the cell phone to leave a terse message for Lieutenant Frank Marshall at Las Vegas Metro. Then he called Emmett Druperman at home. Fuck it. If he could be disturbed, so could Droopy. The CEO reluctantly agreed to meet his VP Security on the Bridge in an hour.
Steve arrived at the Cosmic Café in the middle of a heated argument between Galaxy security guard Jim Roper and two paramedics who wanted to transport Barney Leopold’s body to their waiting ambulance.
“I told them what you told me, sir,” Roper said. “But they won’t listen.”
“Sorry, fellas,” Forrester said to the white-coated attendants. “I’m going to have to ask you to wait for the police before you move him. Shouldn’t be long.”
“We can’t tie up the ambulance all night,” said one of the paramedics. “There’s only two crews on call tonight for the entire Strip—”
“I see. Well, you’d better leave him here. We’ll make other arrangements to move the body.”
“We still have to bill you for the call—”
“Fine. No problem. Thank you for coming.” Forrester managed to control his temper. He noticed that Roper had a familiar bulge in his uniform shirt pocket. Screw it. “Roper?” he said through gritted teeth.
“Sir?”
“Give me a cigarette, please.”
By the time Frank Marshall arrived, accompanied by two uniforms, Steve Forrester was smoking his third bummed cigarette.
The patrons had been asked to leave, and the Cosmic Café was temporarily closed. Yellow tape draped across the entrance bore bright witness to human tragedy.
Steve showed Frank to the area where the body still lay frozen in death like a bloody wax effigy. Evidence of the man’s violent demise was sprayed across the marble tabletop, crimson gore clinging to the salt and pepper shakers, the sugar dispenser, the keno brochure rack. He pointed out the package still taped to the underside of the tabletop.
“I guess these guys weren’t kidding after all,” the LVMPD lieutenant remarked.
“Guess not, Frank. I told you I had a feeling.”
“You also told me you quit smoking. So what’s that in your hand? Caving under a little pressure?”
Forrester grimaced and shrugged.
“All right, Steve. Give me a rundown.”
“Apparently the busboy served him a coffee. Then he hurled blood and collapsed. One of my guards found the package taped under the table and called me. Nobody’s touched anything, Frank. I figured I’d let your boys remove the package … and the body.”
“Good. I called the coroner. The Bomb Squad and Crime Scene should be here any minute. But, then, you probably remember the routine.” The cop fingered his comb-over thoughtfully. “Any witnesses?”
“I don’t think so. Maybe Gladys Adams can tell us something. She’s the hostess.”
“Let’s get her over here.”
Forrester beckoned to the woman to join them. “Are you okay, Gladys?” he asked gently. She nodded hesitantly. “This is Lieutenant Marshall of the LVMPD. He has some questions for you.”
“Why don’t you sit down and tell us what you saw,” said Marshall.
“I-I didn’t really see anything,” she told the police lieutenant. “The customers said he just collapsed. It couldn’t have been anything he ate. The waitress hadn’t even taken his order yet.”
“All he had was the coffee?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Served by the busboy?”
“Yes.”
“Which one?”
“Manuel. His shift is over and he’s gone home.”
“We may need to talk to him.”
“He’s in again tomorrow.”
“All right, now, Gladys, just a couple more questions and you can go. First of all, do you know who this man is?”
“No. I remember showing him to the table, but I don’t recall having seen him before.”
“Okay, Gladys. Now I want you to think carefully,” said the cop. “Who was sitting at this table before the man arrived?”
“Golly, I can’t remember. Dinner is such a busy time for us … .”
“This might be important.”
Gladys closed her eyes. “I’m trying to recall. It’s kind of hard to concentrate after all this excitement.” She furrowed her brow. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant … .”
“I understand. Look, keep trying. If it comes back to you, please get in touch with Mr. Forrester or me.” He gave her one of his cards, and she left the area, shaking her head sadly.
“We’ll have to bag all this stuff and take it to the lab for analysis,” Marshall said. “I’ve got a hunch there just might be some very nasty stuff in that sugar dispenser.”
“What about the envelope, Frank?” Steve said.
“The Bomb Squad should be here any minute. Before we open it, we’ll make sure it doesn’t contain any kind of explosive device—although I doubt it. It looks exactly like the previous package you got.”
“I’d lay odds there’s another video inside.”
“You’d probably win that bet.”
“Druperman’s on his way over. Maybe we could look at the tape in his office once your people have checked out the envelope.”
“Why not? It is addressed to him. And we wouldn’t want to delay the personal mail of the Chief Executive Officer of the Galaxy Hotel and Casino, now, would we?” Marshall slipped on a pair of clear plastic gloves and awkwardly reached inside the dead man’s jacket. “Meanwhile, let’s find out who this poor bastard was.”
Buster Malloy quietly rose from the video poker machine near the entrance to the Cosmic Café, where he had sat unnoticed during the confusion of the past hour. He smugly congratulated himself on having obtained precisely the desired result. There was a tingling in his groin—not the rush he had experienced when he’d offed Helga, but pleasant enough.
He looked forward to phase two with heightened anticipation.