My trip was supposed to be a five-day stay, and so I’d packed four sets of suit pants and shirts, figuring that I could double up at least twice during my time in town.
After my long shower, I stepped out and wrapped a towel around my waist and wiped the condensation off the mirror. I was clean now but still didn’t feel like it, and no matter how long I stared at my reflection, I saw the image from this morning of a bewildered man with a spot of blood on his chin.
I finished drying off and quickly dressed in the one set of clothing I hadn’t worn yet. Charcoal-gray slacks, a light-blue shirt. The sport coat I chose was the same charcoal gray. Last, I slipped my Rolex Explorer II over my wrist and clasped the Oystersteel bracelet.
The time was almost 10:30 a.m.
Despite washing off the switchblade back at the Lucky Star, I washed it again, using both the hotel-supplied hand soap and shampoo and then drying it off with a towel. I considered packing the knife away in the suitcase but instead dropped it into my pocket. I’d toss it away in some random trash can between here and the airport.
I picked up my phone off the bedside table. No text messages, no emails. No news alerts. The lack of notifications was almost calming, one of the main reasons I’d purchased the prepaid as opposed to keeping my regular phone on me during this trip.
I shoved everything I’d brought into my suitcase and then did another circuit of the room, searching for anything I may have missed. Then, still feeling paranoid, I took one of the unused towels and circled the room again, wiping down every surface I could reach.
I considered calling the front desk, telling them that I was checking out a day early, but then decided not to bother. I would leave the do not disturb sign on the door. The maid would skip this room for today. Then tomorrow I would call and say I’d already left. Or maybe not. Maybe I’d just let them come into the room and find the place empty. With a nice tip on the nightstand.
Before I opened the door, I checked the peephole. Nobody waiting for me out in the hallway. No movement whatsoever.
Taking a deep breath, I opened the door and leaned out, looking both ways like I had done back at the Lucky Star.
The hallway was deserted.
I stepped out, slipping the do not disturb sign on the door handle, and then let the door quietly close behind me before starting toward the elevators.
Two minutes later, I was headed back to the main floor. I kept my head down, mindful of all the cameras stationed around every corner and crevice. Probably not nearly as many as in the casino itself, but there were still a bunch, and I wanted to make my exit as inconspicuous as possible.
As I headed through the lobby toward the exit, I was conscious of all the people around me, scanning their faces. The guests coming and going, some of whom were staring up at the art display in the ceiling, taking pictures. The people standing in line to check in. The staff everywhere—the front desk clerks and the bellhops and the concierge—and I was suddenly aware of two men who didn’t seem to fit the typically hectic scene.
There was something official about them that gave me pause. They breezed into the lobby, their stride purposeful and swift. They went straight up to the front desk, bypassing the line of people, and one of the men, flashing a badge, spoke just loud enough to be heard over the din.
“I’m Detective Sutton with the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department. I need to speak to a manager immediately.”
A manager happened to be nearby. She stood behind the long counter and moved over toward the two men.
“What can I help you with?”
The detective slapped a key card down on the countertop.
“I need you to tell me whose room key this is.”
The manager offered up an apologetic smile.
“I’m sorry, Detective, but you know I can’t—”
“This key card was found at a murder scene not too long ago. It’s the only lead we have right now. You want us to get a warrant, we will, but every minute that passes we lose the chance of catching the guy who did this.”
Go. Just go!
The same thought that banged around my head back at the Lucky Star voiced itself again. I should have already been outside, should have already been in a taxi headed for the airport. Instead I was standing in the middle of the lobby, my free hand in my pocket gripping the switchblade, staring off toward the casino while trying my best to listen to what the detective was saying.
The manager stared down at the key card, clearly conflicted.
The detective said, “Look, at the very least, can you tell me if the person is still a guest?”
“Detective, I wish I could help, but—”
The detective leaned in, said something inaudible. But those nearby heard him. A few even gasped.
I started making my way toward the exit. Slowly. Not wanting to draw attention to myself. I was briefly aware of the manager releasing a breath and saying, “Okay, hold on,” and then a few seconds later saying, “This card is no longer active, but it appears to be associated with a current guest. In fact—”
Her sudden pause was enough for me to stop again. To stand motionless for a half second before shifting slightly to look back over my shoulder.
The desk clerk who had helped me less than an hour ago was standing near the manager. She was whispering something into her ear. Her eyes, I realized, were on me. Because she’d obviously spotted me. And when she realized whose key card it was, she had no choice but to say something.
The manager looked up in my direction.
At the same time, both detectives turned too.
We stared at each other for a beat, across the expanse of the lobby.
The main detective—the one who had slapped down the key card—shook his head and mouthed one word.
Don’t.
I didn’t listen.
I turned and ran.