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with
Carolyn Haven and Chantelle Aimée Osman
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CARLA LIGHTFOOT STEPPED out of the taxi a block from the Palermo restaurant in Carroll Gardens, voted “the place most likely to see, and be seen by, the Mafia” according to New York Magazine. Her vintage Hermès boots splashed through the puddles and light Brooklyn rain. Under the familiar red and green canopy she took out a mirror to straighten her hair, check her makeup and see if anyone was tailing her. The street was quiet tonight.
She could smell the wafting of basil, almost taste the veal meatballs with just the right amount of seasonings, and imagine the dribble of fresh roasted tomato sauce kissing her lips as she pushed open the stained glass double doors. An imposing, pinstriped figure stood at the top of the staircase leading to the private dining room.
“Come, give your uncle a hug,” he called out.
She handed her damp things to the maitre’d and hurried up the steps to fold him in a tight embrace.
“So, what’s this meeting all about?” She couldn’t help but be curious, mid-week was outside of routine. More like business.
He gave her a cryptic smile. “I had a call from Giovanni, seems there’s some problems at the Excelsior in Vegas. But don’t worry about it now. Come, eat.”
Carla was a loyal niece. Even though she had been at junior college in San Antonio, near her mother and stepfather, she had visited her uncle Paul regularly while he served three years in the Brooklyn House of Detention for tax evasion. Paul had a brilliant flair for analyzing games of chance, and ran the most successful bookmaking operation in New York. “Math and gambling are intertwined,” he’d remind her every time they went to the track.
While inside, he asked her to read the latest copies of PC Magazine and Popular Science and keep him up to date. As a result, she developed a passion for computers and chose to specialize in cybersecurity after receiving her undergraduate degree in Informational Technologies.
Carlo—the legend she learned was her father on her sixteenth birthday—had never been to prison. He wanted his family to own legitimate businesses and be successful professionals, and Carlo was proud that his brother had encouraged his daughter to embrace new technology. Carla was part of the clean branch of the family. She went on to earn her master’s degree from NYU, where she settled to be near her extended family, then was recruited by the Department of Homeland Security.
“Does the DHS know you’re here?” asked Uncle Paul.
“I didn’t tell them,” she winked and walked through the doors and into the private room.
Before sitting down, Carla removed a small black box with two antennas from her leather tote. She put her finger to her lips in a silent signal to the group not to speak.
“This detects wireless protocols.” At everyone’s blank stare, she clarified, “Bugs, it detects extra fancy bugs.”
She had spent her school holidays working for the family at the Excelsior Resort and Casino in Las Vegas and earned the respect everyone showed her by overseeing the software for the family’s elite, luxury property.
“But I need your phones off... yes, the burners too.” Carla was charming and clever like her mother, but had the personality of her late father—cautiously confident and quietly ruthless.
Phones came out and beeped as they were powered down. Carla scanned the room as quickly as possible, then ran the device over everyone seated at the table. The device remained silent, and Carla nodded at her uncle.
The waiters brought out a sumptuous feast with Chianti, served family-style. Carla caught up with all her relatives and enjoyed fish, pasta, and her favorite: fried zucchini.
“Now to business,” Uncle Paul announced after finishing his espresso and the room was sated. “Our resort in Vegas is vulnerable to cyberattack. I don’t want us to be taken advantage of. Obviously, we are not calling in the police when we can do it ourselves.” He motioned to Carla then continued. “The Excelsior hasn’t been hit hard... yet. But several nearby hotels have, and it’s only a matter of time. We need someone to update the systems, assess the at-risk areas, and develop new protocols as soon as possible. Our clientele is elite—and paranoid.”
Everyone at the table murmured, digesting the information with the same relish they had finished off the desert. Slowly, every head turned to Carla, who smiled and stood.
“Well, of course I’ll help.” Carla loved her job with Homeland Security but family was sacrosanct. “I can take a leave from work. I haven’t taken a vacation in years, and I know they don’t want to lose me.”
The DHS office on Court Street in Brooklyn was where she spent most of her days—and an overlarge portion of her nights—had benefited from both her skills and the connections her family provided.
“I don’t see the DHS having a problem, they may even want me to do it on their dime. They’ve been monitoring these same incidents. Last year, 250 Hyatts were compromised worldwide and the hackers stole thousands of credit cards, not to mention the theft of passports and valuables from safes. Ditto for Marriotts and Hiltons. The hackers seem to have switched from box stores to the hospitality industry, because the fruit hangs low.”
“Speaking of low hanging fruit,” chimed in her older cousin Anthony, “I’m confirming the rumor Uncle Giovanni asked me to look into about a fence who’s moving high-ends goods out of Vegas.”
She chided, “You know I don’t want to hear that. You can tell Giovanni that news yourself when you call him on Sunday.”
Don Paul laughed and hugged her. “As my big brother used to say, ‘You have to be like a lion and a fox. The fox is smart enough to recognize traps, and the lion is strong enough to scare away the wolves.’” He looked her in the eye. “Be like a lion and a fox, niece, and no one will ever beat you. Stay safe.”
***
IT HAD BEEN ALMOST too easy to get approval for her leave of absence from the DHS. If she didn’t know better she’d think something was up with those G-men, but then, it usually was.
When her flight landed, she followed the resort’s chauffeur to the Excelsior’s black limousine. As the bright lights of her youthful stomping grounds came into sight, her excitement grew. Vegas was gaudier than New York, like Times Square on acid, without question, but she loved it. Carla hoped she wouldn’t have to constantly be chained to the computer rooms for the next two months.
“Welcome back, Ms. Lightfoot,” the Excelsior doorman bowed and saw to her luggage. The grand European style lobby surrounded Carla in welcoming warmth. Light from the Murano glass chandeliers reflected off the gold leaf accented ceilings, shimmering above lavish carpeting and elegantly upholstered furniture. She walked through a set of frosted glass doors to be hit by the familiar noises of a crowded casino. The one-armed bandits were in a separate section, so as not to distract the distinguished high rollers playing baccarat, poker, blackjack and roulette. She took it all in, but spared a skyward glance to the faces behind the cameras overhead. A quick visit to the tech department made Carla realize this project would take longer than everyone expected.
***
WITH CARLA’S HELP—AND that of a few MIT grads she pulled in—the Excelsior’s in-house technology teams made significant improvements in a few short weeks. Their big Valentine’s Day party would be a test run for the new systems as well as for networking with their partner hotel, the Rio. Giovanni wanted to show the Badolatos what needed to be done to protect both resorts. It was a longstanding relationship her family had fostered in 1960 when they invested in the Excelsior.
“Vincent Badolato is coming to the party. Alone.” Her uncle had not-so-subtly informed her with a waggle of his eyebrows when the first round of RSVPs had come in. She had given him an over-exaggerated, teenage eye roll for his matchmaking efforts. He sighed. “You don’t date; you have no boyfriend. And don’t think I haven’t noticed. Vincent has grown into a fine man. He runs the Rio now. He would be good for you.”
Truth be told, as a teen, she had crushed hard on the handsome soccer player, but never acted on her feelings. Always working hard and focused on school, she didn’t have time for relationships. So, she had let him steal a few kisses, but never anything more.
Her uncle’s information had nothing whatsoever to do with the low-cut red Vera Wang cocktail dress she wore that night that set off her shoulder-length blond hair and her Cherokee mother’s slim figure—she just enjoyed looking sexy.
More nervous than she admitted over the prospect of seeing Vincent, she made her rounds, stopping to chat with a few people from the old days. She excused herself from the recently hired concierge for the Excelsior, Alexander Braillowski, a dapper-looking man with prematurely gray hair and a habit of standing way too close when he conversed. She hated hair gel—it reminded her of the wanna-be criminals in Little Italy. Despite the fact that he wore Les Clefs d’Or, the concierge symbol of excellence, he sent up all sorts of red flags for her.
After the awkward encounter, Carla needed a drink. Heading to the bar, she was surprised to see Matthew Mulligan, a DHS agent from the Houston office, artfully twirling a bottle. Apparently, the DHS was making their move and hadn’t deigned to inform her. She’d known Matt since her NYU days. He was thoughtful, handsome and smart—an amusing friend. Their time spent in bed was no more than a convenience for her, despite his repeated attempts to make it serious.
She sidled up to the bar, and just loud enough to be heard, commanded, “Make me a Mudslide, and it had better taste damn good or you’re fired. This is my hotel.”
Matt’s eyes rounded in surprise for a split second—he may not have been expecting her either— before he began juggling two bottles. His seductive smile and blue eyes put Tom Cruise in Cocktail to shame. Of course, his uniform of a black leather vest and no shirt drew enough attention on its own. Judging by the stack of telephone numbers and tips in his jar, his cup runneth over.
“When did you get here?” he whispered, sliding her drink over on an Excelsior coaster. “After you try this, you’ll want to give me a raise.”
Carla sipped the creamy, chocolate drink, and winked at him. “You can stay, but without a heads up, I’ll have to think about that raise.”
“Glad to hear it, Boss. It’s my first day.”
Before Carla could comment, he was halfway down the bar, taking an order from another familiar face, Madam Ann, owner of the top escort service in Vegas and an organizer of “Hookers 4 Hillary”. Carla sipped the drink, surveying the crowd for a few quiet moments before turning toward the room at large. Someone bumped her elbow. Fortunately, what was left of her Mudslide sloshed safely inside the glass rather than on her dress.
“Excuse me,” she preemptively said to the party goer, setting her drink on the bar.
“Carla, Carla Lightfoot? It’s me, Natalie Logan! We went to high school together in San Antonio. I was a year behind you. We competed in the National Computer Applications Competition. You won in the tiebreaker.”
“Oh, Natalie. Hi! It’s good to see you. What are you doing here?” Carla’s mind worked furiously trying to place the statuesque brunette.
“My aunt passed away and I inherited her flower shop. We’ve expanded beyond weddings and high school proms—we’re a part of hospitality services at the Excelsior now,” she finished proudly.
“Did you do the beautiful arrangements for tonight?” She recalled her uncle mentioning contracting a new florist. “They smell heavenly.”
“They were flown in from Ecuador just for this event. Only the best for our clients.”
“I’m curious, have you had any problems with credit card theft?”
“No, knock on wood. I’ve still got enough skills to keep my business safe.” Natalie removed a business card from her silver card case and passed it to Carla. “You know, if you’re going to be in Vegas a while, we should get together and catch up.”
There was something more than training holding Carla back from readily accepting the invitation.
“That would be great, if I can get away.”
“Well, if you find the time, you have my number.” Turning away, she smiled at Carla, but it didn’t reach her eyes.
Carla watched the woman walk gracefully across the carpet on four-inch heels. Heads turned as she crossed the room, Vincent Badolato’s among them.
He’d grown up, filled out and looked sexy as hell in an open-neck shirt, white blazer and bespoke trousers. Carla’s girlhood crush flared and sprouted wings. She felt the moment Vincent saw her—he stopped talking, the tension grew palpable. The look he gave her was far more intimate than he’d earned. A blush almost as red as her dress set her cheeks on fire.
She crossed the few feet separating them and stuck out her hand. “Nice to see you again. I hear from Giovanni you may need some help updating security over at the Rio?”
“Bad news travels fast,” said Vincent, his gaze penetrating. “Now that you’re back I hope we can have an... intimate discussion about my problems.”
“Oh, Vincent. I bet you say that to all the girls.”
“Just the brilliant ones,” he joked back.
After the party, Giovanni, Carla and Vincent adjourned to an office above the casino. Vincent leaned back in a leather chair, while a waiter served coffee and liqueurs.
“In two months, we have over 3000 women coming to the Rio for the RT Booklovers Convention. They were in Texas last year, and the security at the hotel was quite lax. A few rooms were robbed, including the owner’s. She was not pleased.” He motioned to the waiter for a refill. “We would like to start a long-term relationship with them since they’re such a nice group, run up $5,000 a day in bar bills and party hearty. But that’s not all, Hillary Clinton may be making an appearance at the convention. That means Secret Service. And I know DHS is involved in that.”
“That means credit cards, jewelry, and merchandise from the convention can be stolen, not to mention possible protesters and security risks to the candidate. Purse checks and metal detectors will have to be brought in... you do have your hands full.”
Giovanni stood up and stifled a yawn. “Late night for me. Good night, niece, and...” he lowered his voice into a conspiratorial whisper. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” He gestured toward Vincent, who held open the door.
“Crime before love, uncle, crime before love,” she replied. “Anyway, it’s past my bedtime too.”
Vincent’s smile faded. Apparently, he’d been planning something. She let him walk her back to her suite, and they discussed plans to meet tomorrow. Before saying goodnight, she gave him a chaste kiss. Shutting the door, she let out a pent-up sigh. She still had work to do.
When Vincent was out of earshot, she made a call. “I’ll be in your room in five minutes, you better be dressed and alone.” Carla disconnected before Matt could respond. She had used her resort system log-in to look up the room number of his usual alias. It was too easy; he was lucky she wasn’t a baddie.
This wasn’t Budapest or Rome, where they had been forced to work under deep cover for weeks at a time, but Vegas. A leisurely roll in the hay was permissible here. After all, what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. Mostly. Before they could start anything, she filled him in on the problems at the Rio. Like she had told her uncle, crime before love.
“Interesting. HQ got word that a cyberattack is imminent, they told me to pass it on to you. Word is, it’s going to happen the weekend of April 17th.”
“That’s the same time as the convention and the candidate event.”
“The department has an assignment for you. They want you to attend the convention—blend in with the writers and readers.”
“Do they now. Looking for what? I’m curious.”
His answer was lost to her. Matt had walked behind her and slowly unzipped her dress inch-by-inch before finally unhooking her bra. She let out a low moan.
“I’m supposed to be a romance author?” she asked over her shoulder. “I guess I could write about you. But I forgot the handcuffs and the leather belt.”
“I didn’t,” he said. As he slowly undressed in front of her, whipping off his belt. “But I think that’s considered erotica.”
He turned off the light and tossed her on the bed.
***
THE FOLLOWING DAY, after spending the morning in the tech support room checking on the computer gurus, Carla heeded the call of the all-powerful massage chair in her suite. Heels off and half asleep, she nearly jumped out of her skin when her phone rang.
“Lightfoot,” Carla answered.
“Carla, it’s Vincent. Can we meet for dinner?” He sounded worried, and she could hear the binging of an onslaught of messages in the background.
Maintaining security these days wasn’t easy, but when your facility is at the top of the list of potential targets, whammo, instant heart attack. Years ago, it was all card counting, safe cracking and money laundering. Now it was stolen identities, credit card fraud and e-fencing—plus money laundering.
“Tell me something interesting, and maybe I’ll consider it.” Leaning back in the chair with a vibrating foot rest, all Carla wanted to do was relax.
He paused for a moment. His voice deepened, “You have such a lovely face. And lips, I remember your lips, Carla. I want my fingers...”
“Stick to business,” she admonished. She remembered his lips too. “Seven-thirty in our bistro.”
***
MATT WAS WORKING AT the restaurant bar and brought over wine glasses and a few extra cocktail napkins to the table. Carla noticed his chicken scratch on her napkin and switched it with a clean one as Matt uncorked the wine. She glanced at it under the table, it read: “Need to talk. Orders from above.” She balled it up and tossed it in her purse.
The food was exquisite, and the wine well paired. Carla complimented Vincent on his choice. After dessert was cleared, she brought out her notebook and began to jot things down.
Their plans required doubling efforts to ensure all the upgrades were complete in time for the convention and hiring off-duty police in plainclothes. A manual of travel tips would be sent to all attendees, to make them aware and proactive in avoiding credit card fraud and thefts. Basic things like don’t bring a debit card; a DO NOT DISTURB sign does not stop thieves; take valuables with you or put in them in the safe; lock your suitcase; notify your bank that you are going out of town; check your charges online, be wary using credit cards in gift shops and restaurants.
Carla thought it would be best to route Hillary into the ballroom via the kitchen. After readers and writers stream out, it would be time to bring in the union members who voted for her in the primary. Everyone would be forced to go through metal detectors set up at the entrance to the conference area.
All told, another fifty people needed to be hired.
At the end of the meal, Carla stretched, arching her back. The motion was intended to draw Matt’s attention. She opened her fingers to indicate she needed ten minutes before he followed. Looking back, Carla found Vincent’s eyes glued to the front of her dress. She cleared her throat. He shrugged and flashed his devil-may-care smile.
On the boy, the smile was enough to make her weak-kneed. On the man, it was devastating. She readied her chant of “crime before love”, but didn’t get a chance to say it before he received a text and reluctantly stood up to leave.
“Thank you for a most pleasant evening. I’m sorry to say I have to put out some fires at the Rio. Let’s talk again tomorrow.” He placed a kiss on her palm, and left. It was her turn to be slack-jawed.
When she recovered, she shot Matt a text message: “Supply closet.” A very unlikely place to be bugged. It suddenly hit her, that she’d never considered sweeping the Excelsior for bugs.
She turned the doorknob, and screamed as a hand grabbed her wrist and pulled her inside.
“You scared the crap out of me.”
Matt rolled his eyes. “You’ve been distracted all night.”
“It’s just family business, none of your concern. Spill the beans or I kill the messenger.”
He held up his hands in surrender. “DHS is officially putting you back in the game. They want you on the ground at the convention in a more visible position than the usual plainclothes.” He shrugged. “Good news is, I found someone to help with your cover. There are hundreds of authors, but only a few female cover models. We have the perfect escort for you. You’ll be demonstrating how to pose for a romance book cover.”
She stared at him as the silence stretched on. “Are you going to tell me who it is?”
“Fabio,” he blurted.
“Did you say... Fabio? As on the bodice ripper covers and ‘I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter’, Fabio?”
He nodded. “The photographer will be one of our men.”
The plan finally dawned on her. “No way! I’m not a model. I don’t know how to pose. This is crazy! Where do I hide my gun, in his codpiece?”
“The upper levels had me approach Fabio, it wasn’t my choice. Face it, you’re a cover model now, Boss.” He grinned.
***
THAT WEEK, REPORTS of hotel heists at the Mandalay Bay and the New York-New York were being investigated. All with the same MO—an increase in credit card fraud and identity theft, followed by cracked safes and rifled luggage in high profile client rooms.
The morning before the RT Booklovers Convention, Carla needed a break and decided to stroll around the hotel gardens. As she walked through the lobby of the Excelsior, reception was quiet, except for two attendants. A gorgeous new flower arrangement was positioned by the concierge sign. Alexander Braillowski was not at the desk, but she decided to take advantage of the quiet and, quite literally, smell the roses. The fragrance was faint, but divine. She sniffed again, and felt something bump her nose. She jumped back. Cautiously, she peered at the bloom. Seeing nothing, she removed the rose and shook it.
Something small and metallic fell onto the marble floor. Carla knelt down and examined the thin black disk for a moment before hurrying to shut down all the computers and peripherals. Pulling out the wireless detector from her purse, she switched it on. Sure enough, the tiny disk emitted a signal. She swept the concierge desk and found a bug on the bottom of Mr. Braillowski’s nameplate.
She texted Vincent before continuing her sweep of the lobby. It revealed several more, black disks. She noted their locations but did not remove them. She wasn’t ready to tip her hand to whoever was behind this.
Vincent met her in the tech room of the Excelsior. She put a finger over her lips as they walked in to make sure no one would give them away. She swept that room too, and found a hard drive, storing data from the bugged flowers. Meanwhile, Vincent’s face was turning unattractive colors.
“Hey, Vincent, that program’s almost finished. Let’s go grab a bite to eat.”
He nodded.
In the lobby they had a hurried discussion. “We’ve got to work fast, and we don’t even know who’s behind this.”
“Don’t you think it’s obvious?” Vincent fumed. “It’s your own people. And probably mine too.”
“I’m not so sure. That hard drive could have been put there by anyone. The door wasn’t even locked, and the tech guys know there are people coming in and out all day. We need an automatic lock with key pad placed on our doors immediately.”
“Isn’t that a bit like locking the barn door after the horses have escaped?”
But she knew the black disks could only account for part of the setup. Who was listening, and how were they conducting the attacks?
“We’re running out of time.”
***
HER WORST NIGHTMARE had come true. Carla was freezing in a wispy gypsy skirt and revealing lace bodice. The photographer’s lights were not nearly hot enough to chase away the chill. The only thing keeping her from hypothermia was the body heat of her partner who was embracing her tightly and gazing deeply into her eyes as hundreds of cameras flashed. Of course, he got to wear pants, tight-fitting though they were.
Fabio had been great, so supportive and helpful in making her look like a professional model. Next to someone who looked that good, there wasn’t a whole lot for her to do. The DHS was right—the stage was the ideal place to scan for suspicious activity. She was sure every female in a five-mile radius had passed through this convention hall. At last count, the DHS had thirty scanners or more zapping the crowd. One fake gun, and three pairs of knitting needles, had already been found by the Secret Service.
Since every attendee had a smartphone, tablet or laptop of some sort, how was she supposed to find a hacker, let alone see past the crowd surrounding the authors signing?
While she was concentrating on holding still in a particularly ridiculous pose, Fabio repositioned her ear near his mouth, and whispered, “I think I see something strange.”
“What?” Carla whispered back.
“A pack of women with rolling luggage. Not the book bags everyone else is carrying. Now they’re regrouping, before they were acting like they didn’t know each other. I’ll lift you so you can see.”
A moment later, Carla’s head was above the crowd, and she saw the group he described.
“We need a break.”
Fabio raised his voice. “We’re taking fifteen.”
A chorus of disappointed groans went up from the crowd as Fabio set Carla on the floor. She wrapped herself in a robe and spoke into her hidden mic.
“Do you have eyes on five women leaving the conference center dragging heavy wheeled bags?” She described their nearly identical striped luggage.
“Eyes on,” Matt confirmed. “Do you want them taken into custody?”
“No, observe and report.” At the hall doors, she went one way and Fabio went the other to divert the fans. Soon, she had a visual of the undercovers and the women. Those bags were too heavy to contain just a few signed books. She contacted Vincent at his post in tech tower.
“What are our infested flowers telling us?”
“A man is telling someone to move faster. He’s parking his van and leaving in ten. Guess that explains how they’re transporting the goods. We’re monitoring data usage through the wi-fi repeaters, and haven’t noted any significant surges yet.”
“Grid eight,” Vincent’s voice interrupted across her transceiver.
“Matt, get some men to the loading dock.”
Lucky number eight. Carla hotfooted it to the location. Readers with tote bags full of signed books jumped out of the way of the crazy woman in the robe. When she got to the dock, Carla didn’t see either of the two people she expected. But looking at the van, everything fell into place. She took out her phone and dialed a number.
“Vegas Strip Florist, this is Natalie speaking. How may I help you?”
Bingo, thought Carla as she tracked the call and made her way toward the woman speaking. “Oh, hey, Natalie, this is Carla. About that date to catch up... I think I’ll finally have the time.” She pulled the phone away from her ear to relay the description and location to the team—in front of the metal detectors just inside the conference center entrance.
Natalie Logan saw Carla and lunged, moments before DHS reached them. Matt tackled her, and Natalie bit him. “You owe me,” he said to Carla with a lascivious grin as he handcuffed the florist.
“You! You always have to win. You always have to be the best. It’s all your fault.” Natalie shrieked as she was being taken away. “This round isn’t over yet! Be ready for some big surprises.”
Fabio made his way through the police line, keeping back the crowd, and appeared beside Carla. “Dinner?” He interrupted smoothly. Carla smiled gratefully, tightening the sash of her robe.
“I’m not really dressed to go out, but I have a lovely suite and we can order in.” She batted her eyelashes, took his arm and they posed for the camera. This time for real.
Vincent and Uncle Giovanni were trying to disperse the crowd and the news cameras. Hillary would be arriving soon. Carla nodded at the Secret Service agents monitoring the doorway.
“This has been an exhausting day, Fabio. I think we deserve champagne.”
“At the very least,” he whispered in her ear.