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Again, Beth’s eyes locked briefly with the security guard’s. Then he turned in the direction of the shot, frowning as if he’d misheard. She tilted her gaze to the screen above him. The image of Ramiro’s collapsed body changed, as if she’d already been shown enough. Then another woman’s scream, coming from beyond the escalators, broke the silence.
The security guard quickly ditched his reading and jumped off his chair. Another yell quickened his pace as he headed towards the lobby. Beth retreated in the opposite direction.
The screams swelled and rebounded off the balconies. People emerged from the bars and cafés to investigate, but she trotted dazed and robotically past them and back to the ramp that led to Excalibur. Ramiro’s bursting head played on a loop in hers.
*
Mimic remained to one side of the large potted palm tree opposite the concierge desk.
Ramiro’s body had slammed against the champagne floor about twenty yards away from him. Briefly, confusion allowed him the temporary freedom of the scene so he could examine his handiwork. Besides, a sudden departure would draw attention. He moulded his own features into horror, duplicating those around him. More people screamed.
He allowed the security cameras to capture his presence as he walked falteringly towards the body. He’d gone for a coffee in the Starbucks opposite and had taken his position minutes before Casales had arrived. Now he stepped out from it so he was centre stage. It didn’t matter. The kid had taken his own life. No suspects.
“Jesus fucking Christ.” His whispered words vocalised the expressions of the young family of vacationers checking in who had turned to look at the mess behind them.
Although his legs and arms were in disarray, Ramiro was still alive. But Mimic knew, despite the fact Ramiro was lying on his back with the worst of his head wound against the floor, the fragments of bone and flesh scattered around him meant his scrambled brains were likely to drop out if anyone tried to lift him up.
Even though his eyes were open, Ramiro wasn’t seeing anything. His nostrils pumped as he breathed erratically. Looked like the kid’s ruined cortex hadn’t had time to tell his lungs what happened. They were operating on their own, but they’d close down soon enough.
It was his best work. He’d replicated not a local but a globally trending crime and got the kid to do it for him. Was he really ready to retire? It was better than the Kelcie Brooks set-up, and his removal from the process certainly hadn’t robbed him of his inner mellow.
He turned and ambled back in the direction of Starbucks. “Somebody call the cops. He’s been shot.” People were emerging, rearing up like meerkats to see what the commotion was. “Call them!” he addressed a young black couple clutching their cells and staring dumbly past him. Everyone was momentarily stunned.
But it would only be fleeting. Soon, those iPhones would be activated as cameras and there would be no blind spots. Mimic’s exit had to be legit. He didn’t have time to be a witness and so had to surf out of there on a wave of natural distress. He moved to a bright orange girl in a turquoise halter neck clutching her phone against her cleavage and craning to see past him.
“Call the cops!” he reiterated, but she looked at him through ridiculous eyelash extensions as if he were a distraction to the main event. It was his best cover.
He pushed past her and strode briskly down the side of Starbucks, passing the restrooms, Luxor Essentials and Spirits. He could hear sirens already. More people were coming to investigate, but they didn’t see him. He hung a right and exited the pyramid via the ramp into Excalibur.
A pyramid, he considered, was the perfect place to leave a body.
