At five after seven on Thursday morning, Francesca, dressed like herself, was at the front door of Biamonte Industries. She wore flat brown leather sandals that barely made a sound, her cotton navy shorts and a lightweight, short-sleeved blouse freshly pressed. She pulled open the door to what she hoped would be a much-awaited and completely successful reunion with her baby sister.
She wasn’t dumb enough to count on that, though. As determined as she was to find her sister, Autumn seemed equally determined not to be found. There was absolutely no guarantee the girl was going to be as elated to see Francesca as Francesca would be to see her.
Walking through the ornate lobby, noticing everything from the eight-tiered crystal chandelier to the placard on the wall listing all the businesses housed within the building, she asked the brightly smiling, professionally dressed receptionist for Joy Stevens.
Pulling out what appeared to be a company directory, the woman thumbed through several pages and then shook her head.
“There’s no one here by that name.”
On a long shot, she tried Autumn Stevens. Not that she really thought her sister would be using her real name.
“I’m sorry,” the woman said, her smile not quite as vibrant as she slid the directory back in its slot.
“I know she works in this building.” Francesca wasn’t the least bit discouraged by the woman’s inability to help her. She hadn’t expected this to be easy. “Do you mind if I sit over there and wait for her?”
The slender woman frowned. “Well…”
“Thanks,” Francesca said, moving across the lobby to a padded bench along a far wall. She’d already scoped things out. That front door was the only regular access to Biamonte Industries’ five floors of offices.
An hour later, she once again approached the eight-foot rounded podium behind which Biamonte’s very busy and accomplished receptionist held court.
“Theresa,” she said, having paid attention during her vigil, “you’ve got that directory on disk, don’t you? To make changes and print new versions?”
Putting down the phone after an apparently unhappy caller had been giving her a hard time, Theresa nodded.
“Good. Then we can do a first-name search.”
“I can’t—”
“Sure you can,” Francesca said, leaning both arms on the counter with a wistful shrug and a conspiratorial smile. “My friend’s obviously gotten married without telling me, but I’ve been out of the country for a couple of years. I’m only home for a couple of weeks and wanted to surprise her.”
“Go to her house.”
“She moved.”
“Call her.”
“Phone’s disconnected.”
“I can’t—”
“Please,” Francesca said. “It would take a lot less time for you just to look up the name Joy than you’re spending arguing with me. I’m not asking to see your directory, only to have you take a quick peek.”
When she saw that the woman’s eyes softened, she tried again. “Please. I don’t know how long it’ll be before I can get home again and she really helped me out at a critical time in my life.”
Slowly, the woman nodded. Clicked a few times, stared at the screen in front of her. And shook her head. “No Joy anyplace,” she said.
“How—”
“No Autumn, either,” Theresa interrupted. “I already looked.”
Damn. What the hell was going on? The girls had followed Autumn here.
Eighteen months before.
“Is there any way to check last year’s entries?”
“Not here.” The woman was becoming impatient again. “I only have the current version.”
“Is there anyone who would—”
“Check with Human Resources,” Theresa interrupted again, grabbing a big pile of papers and folders from the inbox on top of the counter in front of her. “Third floor.”
Theresa was one impatient woman. If she didn’t slow down, she was going to die of stress before she was fifty.
On the third floor, Francesca quickly spotted the office she needed. The words Human Resources were painted in big black letters on the paneled window directly across from the elevator.
Ten minutes later she was back in the hall. The people in Human Resources made the receptionist look downright friendly. Biamonte wasn’t the most appealing place to work. She wouldn’t be surprised if Autumn had quit.
And—in keeping with the rest of her morning—the elevator doors were just closing as she approached. The lone man inside shot his arm out, obviously trying to hold open the door, but it was too late.
She knew that man. Staring at the closed door, she needed a few minutes to place him. She could count on one hand the number of people she knew in this town, but she was sure she’d met him. Had spoken to him.
She remembered that his voice had been calm. Reassuring.
The casino at the Bonaparte! Her nine-hundred-dollar win that first Sunday she’d been in town. He was head of security at the Bonaparte. His name was Luke Everson. She knew a man who had business at Biamonte. When she was through with the day’s—and night’s—work, she was going to pay him a visit.
A good journalist knew that an “in” was all it took. And there was enough of the old Francesca left that she knew she’d just found hers.
Waiting for the next elevator, she tried to shake off the morning’s failure, mentally planning the rest of her day. A quick trip back to the Lucky Seven to change into her homeless gear. She’d spent too long at Guido’s the night before to rinse out the T-shirt. It hadn’t occurred to her to worry about it, considering her plans to visit Biamonte this morning. She’d been so cocky about her ability to glean information where others had failed.
Come on. She willed the elevator to arrive before she melted into nothing in the offices of this company who’d apparently hired her sister and then lost all trace of her.
She’d be fine as soon as she got outside and breathed some fresh air. Even sweltering-hot fresh air.
Chilled to the bone, she rubbed her hands over her upper arms. She should’ve brought a sweater. Every single place she went in Las Vegas, she froze. The state should be sued for the amount of energy it wasted on air-conditioning, she thought irritably.
A couple of men, talking about some board meeting, walked up to the elevator and continued to converse as though she wasn’t there. Francesca turned, pretending interest in the black metal board that listed room numbers for that floor.
And came face-to-face with the unobtrusive but elegant gold lettering on a door just down the hall.
Colter Adoption Agency.
She had to look. Like someone coming upon a fatal car accident, she was compelled to see who was in there. Prospective parents? Pregnant women? A baby?
And found only one woman behind a desk, talking on the phone.
Francesca backed away. She made it into the elevator and downstairs without conscious thought. She went to the Lucky Seven to change. And on to her street corner. It was routine. Habit. Her life.
And then she looked at the phone booth—and thought of those two young girls. They’d been coming from the direction of Biamonte. Had they been visiting the adoption agency? Giving away their babies?
They’d been sent to torture her. To remind her of what she was trying so desperately to forget. Little Gian. Oh, God, how could you?
For the first time since her return to the States she thought about calling Antonio. But there was no point. Nothing he could do. Except perhaps ease the ache for a second for two. And then make it worse when he had to leave her again.
Those girls were giving away their babies. She just knew it.
She’d been a single mother. Alone and pregnant.
Okay, maybe she’d had a successful career. Enough money to provide all the security she and her baby could ever want. Health insurance.
Still, she’d been alone. So alone.
She couldn’t imagine being twenty, broke and that alone….
Struck anew by the cruelty of life, Francesca sank to the ground, cup in front of her, no longer playing a part. If home was where the heart was, she was homeless.
Women who’d rather be dead than without their babies suffered so much, while others just gave them away. Part of her knew she wasn’t being rational, but pain never left much room for concepts like fairness. God, she hurt so badly she didn’t know how she was going to stand up, let alone go anywhere when the day was done. Just let her sit there in the heat, head against the brick building, and sleep.
Without end.
“Easy does it, lady.”
Easyduzit. What did that mean, anyway?
“There you go. Let’s just get you inside.”
Go? She was going somewhere?
“We at the Bonniport?” She didn’t think that sounded right, but it was close enough. As long as she got there.
“You said you’re staying at the Lucky Seven.” The deep voice just kept coming at her.
“Iss ho-o-ome.”
“And that’s exactly where you need to be.”
Oh. For some reason she thought she was supposed to be at the Bonniport. She’d left Guido’s. She was pretty sure. And the Bonniport was next.
She had her list. In her head.
But she didn’t feel all that great. She’d just get up these stairs he was making her climb and then worry about the list.
“Are you taking me home?” She looked up at the man who had his arm around her waist. “You said if I had more, you wouldn’t let me drive.” She spoke slowly and carefully, a little smug that she’d remembered what he’d told her.
“We are home.”
Uh. Trying really hard to focus, she studied the once-white wood in front of her. “Yep, thas my do-o-or. And my do-o-or handle, too.”
He unlocked it. Someone else had a key to her room? She hadn’t known that.
She stumbled over the threshold and the man’s arm kept her from falling. Her head lolled back and as she looked into somewhat amused brown eyes, she started to giggle.
“What so funny?”
“You aren’t shomebody, you’re Carl.” Her chin dropped and she wasn’t sure she wanted to bother lifting it from her chest.
“Yes, and you’re going to bed like all good girls do at this time of night.”
Bed. Alone. Ghosts and nightmares and darkness.
“Are you coming with me?”
“Do you want me to?”
“Yess.” She nodded, but her chin didn’t come back up like it was supposed to. “Very mush.”
“Then I’d be honored.”
“Okay, go-o-od.” God, she was dizzy.
“I had more than three mar-ga-ri-tas.” She pronounced the word very carefully. She knew he was really proud of his drinks.
“Yes, you certainly did.”
“I’m drunk.” She made extra sure the k came out.
“Yep.”
Just so they both knew. That was all right, then.
“Can I lie down?” She’d thought she was going to throw up, but she didn’t feel as though she would once he finally stopped holding her upright. Lying on the side of the bed that was usually empty, she smiled and was thankful when he unbuttoned her shirt. She wasn’t sure she’d have been able to do that.
He unlaced her high-heeled sandals, too. She heard them thump as they hit the floor. And then he slid her short black skirt over her hips.
Her panties started to come down but he pulled them back up.
“No one was there tonight.” Her eyes were closed, but the thoughts hadn’t stopped yet.
“It was one of our busiest nights.”
“No one I kne-e-ew,” she said with enough emphasis so he’d realize what she meant.
“I didn’t think you knew anyone in Vegas.” He was pulling the sheets down underneath her.
“I have a friend,” she said, opening her eyes and then closing them again. She wouldn’t throw up if her eyes were closed. “I tol’ you that.”
“Oh, yes. Your friend who never showed up.”
It wasn’t nice to remind her.
“People have babies.”
“Yes, they do.”
She was glad he knew. Did he know how much it hurt, too? She wanted to ask him. But she couldn’t think about that. The drinks were supposed to keep her from thinking about that.
“I can’t shleep in my bra. Pleashe,” she added when nothing happened. If he didn’t help her, she’d start to cry.
She might start, anyway. Having babies hurt even if she drank a lot.
“Um.” Carl coughed. “Do you have a nightgown or something?”
“Unner here.” She tried to lift the opposite pillow, but only managed to drop the back of her hand against it.
It was a T-shirt, not a nightgown. Hopefully he’d figure that out.
When he sat down next to her, Francesca rolled over onto her side, presenting him with her back where the bra was fastened.
The last thing she remembered was feeling the latch release.
He should have left hours ago. Though he varied his schedule for obvious reasons, Luke had technically been off work for several hours. Had actually gone home to find his mother already in bed asleep, out for the night with aid of a sleeping pill, and he’d turned around and come back.
They’d had another big win in the casino that night.
Amadeo was going to shit bricks.
After spending a few frustrating hours viewing and reviewing tapes, Luke bade his staff good night and left the surveillance booth to head downstairs. Every single win was with a different dealer. The only thing any of the recent episodes had in common was the card tables and the size of the wins.
What was he missing?
Strolling along the carpeted main roadway that wound through the casino, he took occasional detours into various nooks and crannies as though someplace among those machines and tables would be the answer he was seeking.
His only discovery was something he already knew. Even at this time of night, the unbelievably popular Wheel of Fortune machines were occupied. Shaking his head, Luke moved on. He just didn’t get it. The allure of gambling passed him by, and those machines were at the top of his list. They were some of the casino’s biggest moneymakers. People spent more money trying for a chance to spin that damn wheel and the payoffs were less than with many of the other, less popular machines.
It was the cheap thrill of seeing that spin button appear—feeling you were getting two games for your money. But you spent more money for games that, while they doubled on occasion, paid less than one.
What did that say about human nature?
This late at night, most areas of the casino were populated only by an occasional gambler, the sound effects and blinking lights of the machines quiet. Many of the tables were closed.
Hard to believe that just six or seven hours before, the place had been abuzz with security and officials and bystanders gawking at and cheering the most recent of the Strip’s million-dollar winners.
They’d break this up soon. There were just too many experts working on the case, too much high-tech equipment, for it not to happen.
Hands in his pockets, Luke continued to look around. There was something about the casino in the early morning that spoke to him. Like the hours on Christmas Day before people were up and the presents were opened.
It was filled with energy and anticipation of good things to come. And a curious sort of peace. It was a time after the disappointments of past losses, and before the next day’s allotment.
“What’s up with you?” Arnold Jackson asked as Luke slid onto a stool at the dealer’s blackjack table as the Bonaparte’s most successful dealer watched the floor person, Steve Wallace, place all the gaming equipment—the shoe or card holder, paddle, signs and cut cards—in the shoe box.
“You’re here late, aren’t you, boss?” Wallace asked.
Luke shrugged. “It’s harder to solve a mystery when you’re lying awake in bed.”
Wallace was a good guy.
He wanted to talk to Arnold.
He watched, almost dizzy with exhaustion, as Arnold very deliberately removed the cheque-tray lid and placed it right side up on the table.
Luke remembered the first time he’d heard the term cheque. He’d been about six, accompanying his father to work, and thought that players at the blackjack tables had to write checks for every single deal. He’d pondered the logistics of that more often than he’d ever want to admit.
It had been a couple of years before he’d found out that the term referred to the chips that were used for betting.
As he did every single time he closed his table, Arnold took out every single cheque, setting them in rows. The highest denomination was always closest to the tray.
The reverence with which Jackson methodically went through each stack, counting the chips with the same series of movements, impressed Luke. Every man should value his work so much.
Even the way Jackson held the chips was carefully choreographed.
Luke watched the ritual silently, respecting the seriousness of table closure.
Systematically Arnold put all the cheques back into their holder, calling out the count for each denomination, which Wallace recorded on the table inventory slip. Having grown up in Las Vegas, in casinos, Luke appreciated Arnold’s efficiency and organization. He went through the entire procedure with never an incorrect finger movement.
In a world of escapism and illusion, Arnold Jackson was a man of complete integrity.
Arnold signed off on the table inventory slip, put one copy in the table drop at his hip and another inside the cheque tray.
“What’d you notice?” Luke asked the second the closing was complete and Wallace had walked off.
Standing at attention, as though the table was still open, Jackson shook his head. “Not a damn thing.”
“There was nothing on the tapes,” Luke reported. “Millions of dollars in expensive surveillance equipment and it nets a big fat zero.”
“I’ve got word out on the street,” Jackson said quietly, brushing lint off his table as though discussing nothing more important than the casino’s janitorial service. There was no one else in the vicinity, but Arnold Jackson took no chances. It was one of the things Luke respected so much about the older man. And one of the things that had gained Arnold such a stellar reputation—both in Vegas and in his previous careers.
“If this has any kind of inside mark on it, we’ll know soon.”
Luke nodded. It was the least of his concerns. And, in many ways, the worst possibility. With insiders, not only did the casino suffer the financial hit, but serious morale issues, as well. Casino employees were often closer to one another than family, thanks to the level of trust required.
“Care for a drink?” Luke asked.
“Chivas on the rocks?”
“You got it.”
A loud roar of voices came from a table several yards away. Luke didn’t even look over. Someone was celebrating a win. Which probably still amounted to an out-of-pocket loss for the winner if you calculated what was spent to make that win.
“You know, buddy, you really need to lighten up if you’re going to work in this place.”
“What?” Luke frowned down at the grinning man. “What do you mean?”
“Your disapproval is showing.”
“Gambling’s asinine and weak.”
“It’s entertainment.”
Luke shook his head. He’d seen so many lives crushed and broken by the gambling disease. You couldn’t grow up in this place and miss it.
“Going to a concert’s entertainment,” he told his gray-haired companion.
As always they settled at the one bar that didn’t offer performers, taking the round table in the corner as far away from everyone and everything else as it was possible to be.
They toasted to another night closed, to another day on the job. And with their second drink, to the peace and quiet that had finally descended.
By the third one, they were back to their ongoing argument. The value—or lack of it—in gambling.
“My clients might lose their money, but they’re usually having a good time. Even if they lose, they’ll remember their vacations with smiles on their faces.”
Luke understood how important it was to Arnold to believe that.
“I love ya for the job you do, man,” Luke said, enjoying the light alcohol buzz. “You’re the best. But you know as well as I do that part of what makes you so damn good is your ability to charm people into stopping at your table, and then getting them to stay there and spend beyond what they might have planned to spend.”
“Yeah, well, how much of your concert ticket cost do you leave the theater with?”
With a grin, Luke shook his head. It always ended this way. He knew what was coming next, too.
“Besides,” Arnold continued, “all those people at my table are paying for that fancy house you live in, my friend.”
He couldn’t argue.
It was true. Always had been.