Steve Forrester was met at the door to Tony Francisco’s suite by security guard Herman Glockmeyer.
The entertainer’s people were gathered numbly around the fireplace, the flickering light from the log fire accentuating the mixture of shock and disbelief on their faces. Gloria Latorella lay supine on the couch to which Mario had carried her, covered by a blanket.
The guard filled Forrester in as best he could. “Sir, it appears that Mr. Francisco was electrocuted in the shower,” he began. “The lady touched him and received a tremendous shock herself. There’s an ambulance on its way, and we’re looking for the electrician right now. Meanwhile, I’ve posted a man at the bedroom door to keep everybody out. I don’t believe there’s anything that can be … done for Mr. Francisco.”
Forrester’s heart sank. “He’s dead?”
“Yes, sir. No question.” Glockmeyer’s portable two-way radio crackled. He listened for a moment and reported to Forrester: “They’ve located the electrician, sir. He’ll be here in five minutes.” The guard replaced the radio on his belt and looked thoughtful. “Mr. Forrester,” he said hesitantly, “excuse me for asking, but is this what you meant in that meeting when you said we were to watch out for … electrical stuff?”
The electrician said to Forrester, “Before we can do anything, I’ll have to shut off power to the whole suite. I guess the folks downstairs will be okay—they’ll be able to see by the light of the fire. We can work upstairs with a flashlight.” He unlocked a small metal door in the kitchen area, flipped the master breaker, and relocked the door. All the lights went out.
Steve followed the electrician’s flashlight beam up the stairs. The security guard stood aside to let them into the darkened bedroom. Forrester dreaded the scene he knew awaited them in the bathroom.
No one had dared shut off the faucet, and clouds of steam from the Galaxy’s inexhaustible supply of hot water had suffused the room from ceiling to floor with a dense, warm fog. The flashlight shot a powerful yellow beam through the ghostly haze. Both men gasped involuntarily as they beheld the naked body of the Galaxy’s star attraction crumpled grotesquely in the corner of the shower enclosure, his right hand still locked in a death grip on the grab bar. Donning a pair of heavy rubber gloves, the electrician reached in and turned off the water.
“I don’t understand it,” he said grimly. “This should not have happened. All the receptacles in the bathroom are GFI-protected. And the light fixtures are double insulated.” He played his flashlight around the shower enclosure, its beam highlighting the dead man’s face.
Steve was first to notice it. “What’s that?” he asked, indicating the brass grab bar mounted to the shower wall. The flashlight had briefly illuminated the corner of some gray material partially hidden behind the bar.
“Better not touch it, sir. Let me handle it.” The electrician gingerly peeled off the material. “It’s a piece of … duct tape. Somebody’s used it to stick the end of … this wire to the bar.”
“My God,” Forrester whispered, his premonition confirmed. “Those warped sons of bitches did do this.”
The electrician pulled on the wire. It was a single copper conductor. The first inch was bare, the rest of it white-plastic-insulated. “It looks like half of an extension cord, slit down the middle, with one end stripped.” He started to gather the wire, holding it carefully in his gloved hands as he followed it back to its source. “Look at this, Mr. Forrester. They buried the wire in caulking.”
The wire had been artfully concealed in a bead of still-soft caulking running down the corner of the marbled enclosure and across the angle between the floor and the wall. A small hole had been drilled to allow the wire to pass through the brass molding that framed the glass wall of the shower. At this point the other wire from the extension cord, separated from its neighbor and shortened to the right length for its deadly purpose, had been taped to the molding. Beyond the shower stall the cord was intact, its twin leads unseparated. The two men continued to trace the cord to its origin. It
ran under the white shag carpeting, beneath the bathroom door, around the baseboard of the bedroom. The electrician gathered more and more wire as the coil grew larger in his gloved hands.
Finally, they reached the end. It was plugged into a live wall outlet behind a Louis XIV écritoir.
“I thought so,” said the electrician as he unplugged it. “It’s just a cheap extension cord. But it was enough to kill the gentleman. His body completed a circuit between the two wires—like current running through a toaster.”
But Forrester was not looking at the cord. His attention was riveted to the brown envelope lying on the carpet under the receptacle. In the halo of the electrician’s flashlight, he spotted the now-familiar rectangular address label: EMMETT DRUPERMAN, PRESIDENT OF LVCA, CONFIDENTIAL.
Steve picked up the package and slipped it inside his jacket. Then he spoke quietly to the electrician. “I’m going to ask you to keep the details of this incident confidential for now. We’ll be calling the police immediately, but any premature disclosure could jeopardize the investigation.”
“I understand.” The electrician paused for a moment and scratched his head. “What I don’t understand is why the hell the breaker didn’t trip.”
By the time the two men returned downstairs, the EMTs had whisked Gloria away.
“Was it … an accident, Mr. Forrester?” Glockmeyer the security guard inquired.
“I can’t tell you that right now, Herman.” He gathered his thoughts and approached the hushed group gathered in the living room. Solly Greenspan clutched a Cutty Sark, his third in half an hour. Silent tears rolled down Mario’s cheeks. The two bodyguards were pale and subdued. “Gentlemen, Mr. Francisco has suffered a fatal … accident. Please accept my sincere sympathies on your loss.”
“How … how could you … let this happen, Steve?” Solly’s words were thick and slurred. “How the hell could anybody get … electrocuted … in a fucking shower, for God’s sake?”
“We’ll leave the investigation to the authorities, Mr. Greenspan. Meanwhile, I’ll have to ask you all to remain here until they arrive.”
“Where the fuck else … are we gonna go?” Solly mumbled.
The electrician had just restored power to the suite. He peered closely
at the breaker panel and reached inside. Then he walked over to Forrester and drew him aside. “Look at this, sir,” he said quietly, revealing a strip of crumpled silver paper in his palm. “Whoever set this up knew what they were doing. There’s foil stuffed behind the breaker switch. No wonder it didn’t trip.”
Steve nodded grimly, walked to the nearest phone, and dialed the Southwest Area Command. “This is Forrester at the Galaxy. Is Frank Marshall still there?”
“No, sir,” replied the dispatcher. “He left an hour ago.”
“We’ve got an emergency here. Please get in touch with him at once—I don’t care if you have to get him out of bed—and ask him to come to the penthouse suite at the Galaxy. Meanwhile, please send a couple of officers up to secure the area.”
“Yes, sir. What is the nature of the emergency?”
“There has been a … death. I can’t go into details on the phone.”
“Understood. We’ll have some men there within two minutes.”
“And please get hold of Sergeant Jaworski if you can.”
He hung up and called Emmett Druperman’s private home number. After five rings, a sleepy voice answered. It was the Drupermans’ maid. “Druperman residence.”
“This is Steve Forrester. Let me speak to Mr. Druperman, please.”
“But, señor, he is sleeping—”
“Then wake him. This is … muy importante.”
“One moment, señor.”
After a several minutes, the CEO picked up the phone. The irritation in his voice was plain. “Steve, do you know what time—”
Forrester interrupted brusquely: “Listen to me carefully, Emmett.” He turned his back to the entourage, cupped his hand over the receiver, and lowered his voice. “Tony Francisco is dead. And it looks like Thanatos is responsible.” There was a deathly silence on the line. “You’d better get over here now and help me with damage control. Francisco’s suite.”
Casually smoking a Camel outside the rear service entrance of the Galaxy, Buster Malloy watched with dismay as the ambulance departed.
The paramedics had loaded a stretcher bearing what appeared to be a woman—unconscious but apparently still very much alive—into the waiting vehicle.
Not the result he’d hoped for, but he decided to hang around, just in case. In less than an hour his patience was rewarded.
This time, it was the Clark County coroner’s black station wagon. This time, the big Irishman observed smugly, judging by the body bag, its cargo was very definitely deceased.
And Malloy was very definitely aroused.
Ignoring Dan Shiller’s instructions to report back as soon as he knew anything, Buster decided to go and get laid.