The Crime Scene people had completed their grim task in Tony Francisco’s suite. His body had been spirited away by the coroner to the Clark County morgue for its mandatory autopsy.
One of Francisco’s daughters from a previous marriage was reached by telephone. After the screams faded and the tears subsided, she promised to take the next flight to Las Vegas to look after the arrangements.
Tony’s entourage had been politely but thoroughly questioned by the police, with negative results. None of them had been in the suite during the show; none had seen or heard anything out of the ordinary.
“Why are the cops involved in this? And why the hell are you questioning us?” one of the bodyguards had asked Lieutenant Frank Marshall suspiciously. “It was an accident, wasn’t it?”
Apart from the police, only Forrester, Druperman, and the electrician knew the real reason for the star’s death. “Standard operating procedure, sir; just routine,” Marshall had replied.
Solly Greenspan drained the bottle of Cutty Sark. The effects of the alcohol were beginning to transform his initial shock into outrage. “Routine?” Francisco’s newly unemployed manager spluttered drunkenly. “You call this routine? Tony’s dead and … and somebody’s gotta pay. I’m calling our attorneys in the morning. They’re gonna sue this hotel for … fucking billions.”
“We’re all terribly … upset, Solly,” said Emmett Druperman. As CEO, he realized that the potential exposure of the Galaxy for Francisco’s demise was enormous. If the real reason were covered up and the death recorded as an accident, their insurers could be liable for a massive settlement and the hotel’s premiums would skyrocket. On the other hand, if the story of the extortion and the murder came out, the Galaxy’s reputation would suffer
irreparable damage. Either way, Druperman had plenty to explain at the next Summit Enterprises board meeting.
Nor would the Las Vegas Casino Association be pleased. Once the story got out, the incident would damage everyone’s credibility, undermining the hard-won image of Las Vegas in the early twenty-first century as a safe, crime-free tourist destination—a destination that was only now beginning to recover from the cloud cast upon tourism in general by the tragic events of September 11, 2001. Of course, if Emmett were to be totally honest with himself, it was really the force of his own personality that had persuaded the other members to hardball the extortionists’ demands. On the other hand, they had all assumed that the cops would act faster, and even if they didn’t, what the hell, the next victim would just be some unimportant tourist, some visiting nobody whose death could easily be covered up. Who would have dreamed for a moment that the bastards would murder the biggest star in Vegas, if not the whole world? And under his fucking roof, to boot.
Druperman was beginning to dread the next chapter in the Thanatos saga, yet he needed to know what the extortionists had up their sleeve. Steve Forrester had quietly advised him that another package had been found; it only remained for the suite to be cleared of Francisco’s people so they might talk freely.
Steve called Reservations and asked them to relocate Greenspan, Mastrodicasa, and the bodyguards. “I’m afraid you won’t be able to stay here tonight, gentlemen,” he said. “The bell captain will move your luggage to other rooms.”
With grumbles and tears, the remnants of the entertainer’s entourage filed silently out of the suite. It was the end of an era.
Finally, Emmett Druperman could vent his frustration. “What kind of fucking animals are we dealing with here?” he shouted angrily, staring fiercely in turn at Frank Marshall, Morris Jaworski, and Steve Forrester. “How could they disrespect … defile … this man we all loved so much?”
After a moment of skeptical silence and a glance at the others—was this Emmett’s erstwhile “show business dago”?—Forrester fielded the rhetorical question. “They wanted to hit us where it hurt,” he said, ascribing Droopy’s saccharine eulogy to selective sentimentality. “And it appears that they’ve succeeded.”
“All right, but tell me, why the fuck weren’t these guys caught before it came down to this? You told me the cops were right on top of things—”
“Sir, we’re this close to identifying the suspects,” said Jaworski, making a U with his thumb and forefinger. “If we’d had just a little more time—”
“Don’t blame me for that,” Druperman cut in. “I tried to stall, but the schmuck just hung up on me. You heard the tape.”
“Look, there’s no use pointing fingers here,” said Marshall. “Let’s just look at the latest video and plan our next move. Agreed?”
Steve nodded and indicated a large cabinet with double doors. “There’s a TV and a VCR in there, Frank.” He walked over to the rosewood bar. “Anybody want a drink?”
“I’ll read the letter while Frank’s putting the tape in,” Moe volunteered. He picked up the sheet and began: “‘ATTENTION LAS VEGAS CASINO ASSOCIATION! YOU HAVE SEEN OUR POWER. PERHAPS NOW YOU WILL TAKE US SERIOUSLY. AS PUNISHMENT FOR NOT SENDING THE MONEY, WE HAVE INCREASED THE PRICE YOU MUST PAY. YOU WILL NOW WIRE TO BANCO INTERNACIONAL DE PANAMA TWENTY-FIVE MILLION DOLLARS ($25,000,000.00). THE VIDEO HEREWITH SHOWS YOU OUR NEXT ACTION. YOU WILL PAY BEFORE WEDNESDAY 1700 HOURS. THANATOS.’ That gives us less than two days.” Jaworski paused and held up another object. “This time they’ve included a twenty-five dollar chip.”
“Times a million,” Marshall remarked.
“They’re upping the ante again,” said Steve. “These guys aren’t going to stop until they get what they want. And it gets more expensive every time. Let’s see the video, Frank.”
The big screen came to life with grainy black-and-white footage that appeared to have been culled from some bygone news program. The subject matter of the news clip quickly became clear. There were fire trucks and plumes of smoke and flames shooting from windows. A solemn voice-over intoned:
“Just before seven o’clock yesterday morning a disastrous fire broke out at the MGM Grand, starting in the casino and spreading rapidly through the hotel complex. Latest reports indicate that close to a hundred guests and employees may have perished, most of them victims of the deadly smoke, many trapped inside locked stairways. At least two victims leapt from their hotelroom windows, desperately choosing a quick death over slow suffocation.”
On the TV screen a dark shape below one of the windows, half hidden in the haze, suddenly came into focus. The camera zoomed in, revealing a
woman literally hanging on for dear life from the ledge. She remained suspended for several agonizing seconds until either the choking smoke or her failing strength caused her to release one arm, then the other—and she cartwheeled earthward, obviously to her death, disappearing behind the dome of the casino.
“Equipment from as far away as Laughlin was called to the scene, but rescuers were unable to reach any of those trapped above the eighteenth floor.”
A ladder truck, its skinny finger extended to the maximum, pointed to a balcony. A fireman and two rescued guests managed a shaky, painfully slow descent down the ladder.
“Some guests and hotel employees were able to reach the roof, from which helicopters ferried them to safety.”
Thick black smoke mushroomed from the roof. Buffeted by the wind, its poisonous plumes chased a knot of people from side to side across the hot tar-and-gravel surface like a school of frightened fish. Finally, helicopters swooped in and picked up the rooftop survivors.
Then the video cut to a head-and-shoulders shot of a middle-aged man in fireman’s gear, a reporter’s microphone shoved into his soot-blackened face.
“According to the Clark County Fire Chief—”
Marshall pushed PAUSE and the picture froze. “These people are unbelievable,” he said grimly to the others. “Now they’re going to torch a hotel unless you guys cough up twenty-five million bucks.”
“The question is, which hotel?” Forrester said thoughtfully. “And when? Surely they can’t believe they’ve got a hope of successfully targeting the Galaxy for a third time. They must know that by now we’ll have the place protected like Fort Knox.”
“Once again, I believe you’re right, Steve,” said Marshall acidly. “What a loss to the department when you left.”
By now even Druperman had sensed the tension between the two ex-partners. “Could we please stick to the matter at hand?” the CEO rasped.
“Of course,” Marshall replied. “Like Steve so perceptively says, it’s highly unlikely they’ll strike here again. Which means we’ll have to stretch our resources pretty thin to cover all the other hotels in the association. You know, Mr. Druperman …” He hesitated for a moment, unwilling to say what had to be said next. “I hate to ask you this, but we do need to … reaffirm your group’s position. Do you still refuse to pay the money? You know
our policy on extortion, but you’re the guys taking the risk. Maybe you should consider—”
“I’ll call an emergency meeting of the association right now and let you know what we decide,” Druperman growled, fixing a droopy eye on his VP Security and the two policemen in turn. “But don’t hold your breath. We’re still counting on you people to stop these maniacs before they kill anybody else.” He glanced at the frozen video image of Clark County’s fire chief of a quarter century earlier. “You know, I remember that fire at the MGM like it was yesterday. It cost the hotel about a hundred and forty million in lawsuits. And that was in nineteen-eighty dollars. The same fire today, you’re talking a couple billion, minimum.”
The CEO stomped out of the penthouse suite, unceremoniously shouldering the uniformed cop on the door aside. Forrester’s observation that the Galaxy was unlikely to be targeted for a third time had not escaped his attention.
“Anybody like a drink?” Forrester repeated from behind the bar. Marshall allowed as how he would; Jaworski, lost in thought, declined. Steve poured his ex-partner and himself each a generous measure of Jack Daniel’s on the rocks. Then he lit a Vantage from his eleventh pack in three days. There was only so much pressure a person could take; for now, lifestyle improvements would have to take a number. Irrelevantly he added, “Well, I guess Francisco’s gotten away with another marker.”
“Meaning what?” asked Marshall.
“You didn’t hear? He pissed away a million and a half at the craps table—on credit. One roll. Tonight, just before he got zapped. Somehow I doubt if we’ll ever collect on that one.”
“Hmm. I’d say that’s the least of your problems.”
“I’d say you were right. So let’s talk about Thanatos. How’s the video thing going, Moe?”
“Your idea worked,” said the police scientist. “We got the diskettes from the stores and one of our programmers wrote a subroutine to correlate the lists. We’ve narrowed it down to about sixty names—people who have rented both Seven and Extreme Measures over the past month. Our perps’ little flair for the dramatic may have cost them twenty-five mil—and their freedom.”
“Let’s hope so. What about the audiotape?”
“There was only one train in the Las Vegas area the night Thanatos called. At the time the whistle sounded, the front end of this Union Pacific freight train was somewhere between Washington Avenue and Craig Road. That’s as close as the railroad people could locate it for us. So we’re assuming the call came from an area within a couple of blocks of I-fifteen, where it runs parallel with the tracks between Washington and Craig.
“Now that the video-rental list is ready, we’ll cross-reference it to those names you gave us, Steve, and also to the possibles we downloaded from the NCIC computer. Should be done by morning. Then teams of detectives will be given copies of the profile and start making house calls, concentrating on the area around the tracks.”
“Any luck with the poison, Moe?”
“We’re still working on a source, but so far, no results.
“Incidentally, the CIA finally contacted this Banco Internacional de Panama on our behalf. It appears that they’re one of the biggest money-laundering outfits in the area. Mostly South American drug money, but rumor has it they also do business with organized crime syndicates in this country. Anyway, these sleazeballs wouldn’t tell our agents anything. There’s no international law that requires them to reveal details of numbered accounts.”
“Too bad. I guess it was worth a shot.” Forrester stubbed out his cigarette and reached for his jacket. “Gentlemen, thank you. I’ve had it up to here with this business and I’m going home.”
In reality, Steve Forrester harbored no desire to spend what was left of the evening at Conquistador Trail.