Skin Game Page 8

  “Two weeks ago. It was about her living way out here and us never seeing each other. She’d planned on coming to Boston. She canceled on me. I yelled. She yelled. I’d bought the tickets and changed my plans and … you know. Nothing really significant. I made it seem that way. I just wanted to see her.”

  He didn’t stop her, nor did he attempt to comfort her. One conversation can change everything. He remembered their last conversation—the last one before this week, anyway. That hadn’t gone so well either. That had changed his life forever. He understood.

  “I told her she was selfish.” She let out a strained laugh that ended with her choking on irony. “Can you imagine me calling her selfish?”

  He looked up to the mirror again. He shrugged before he returned his attention to the road. Chris was all about other people. Always had been. She was an activist on campus. Volunteering at the animal shelter. He remembered Erica complaining because Chris would spend the holidays at the food banks.

  She sighed. “It was the last thing I said to her.”

  They sat in silence for a few minutes. More strip malls and neighborhoods rolled by as they passed through an inordinately large number of stoplights. He pulled up to the back of her hotel.

  She leaned up toward the back of his seat, hung her arm over it so she was facing him. Back to business. But he could see how things were wearing on her. A dark circle was forming under the bruised eye socket. “So we wait to see what files the FBI guy took?” She made no move to leave his SUV.

  “That’s the next logical step.” He looked back out the front window. “You need to change hotels. Call Adair. Pack your bag. He’ll call you back once he’s here at the hotel. Then do the express checkout on the TV. But wait until he’s here.”

  She frowned. “You really think that’s necessary?”

  If Zant was involved, yes. He sighed. He didn’t want to tell her about Zant. Too much to tell. Too many skeletons in that closet to open the door if he didn’t have to. “After all you’ve seen today, you know we’re in the middle of a cover-up. Maybe of Chris’s disappearance, but I think it’s likely something Chris found out. She stumbled onto something. She’s gone because of that something. The thin man at your door this morning could also be our friend in the yellow shoes. If he is, they know where you are and that you’re sticking your nose into their business.”

  She opened her mouth to argue but then thought better of it. She was smart enough to know he was right. “Where should I go?”

  “One of the big ones in the middle of the Strip. Choose between Paris and the Bellagio, once you’re on your way.” Those were not owned by Andrew Zant. That didn’t guarantee her safety, but it would make him sleep a little better tonight.

  She nodded. “Shouldn’t you come with me?”

  “That’ll just bring even more attention to you. I’ll be close by. You be quick. Text me when you’re settled.” He’d know exactly where she was, but he didn’t need her to know that. If she knew he intended to follow her every move, she’d blow his cover.

  She nodded. Her eyes were sagging.

  “Do not lay on that bed and fall asleep.”

  “Not if you think I might be in danger here.”

  “I do.”

  “Okay.”

  Ten minutes later Jim was positioned at a bank of slots nearest the elevator she’d likely come down. He’d dug in the back of his SUV and changed into white tennis shoes, a blue button-up sweater, and wire-framed glasses. He put a few quarters in the machine and then took out his phone and mimicked having a conversation with a lonely wife complaining about her gambling husband. “I’ll be up in a little while, baby. Just a little while longer. I feel lucky.”

  The old guy a few machines down gave him an understanding head bob and went back to his own game.

  Jim played the slots for the second time that day. This machine was not as high-tech as the one that had paid him off earlier. It clanked for real as he dropped the coins in the slot. He hit the button. It did its virtual spin. He glanced at the elevators as one set of doors opened and a group clamored out and headed for an evening on the strip.

  No Erica.

  Jim dropped his next coin on the ground. As he reached for it, he checked behind him. There was one of the doors that led to the bowels of the hotel. The kind that don’t have handles or visible hinges. They have the wallpaper and trim on them, so at first glance they don’t seem to be doors at all.

  No movement. No security goons on the move.

  He also gave the room a complete scan as he straightened. Nothing seemed out of place. After glancing at his watch, he dropped that coin into the slot.

  Twenty minutes later she was still not down. He texted her. You go to sleep?

  She replied. No. Adair just got here. Are you watching me?

  He grimaced. If he didn’t tell her, she would look for him when she came down. I’m watching everyone else. Just get in the cab and go. Don’t look for me.

  He’s meeting me at the back. Where you dropped me off.

  Smart girl.

  He dropped another coin in the machine as he tucked the phone back in his pocket. Pushed the button. A bell rang.

  Then another. Coins started dropping like rain into the metal till.

  “Nice one.” Three machines down, the geezer grinned.

  Jim grabbed one of the oversized cups from the empty space next to him. As fast as he could, he loaded the coins in.

  Erica emerged from the elevator as Jim moved, acting like he was going to the payout window. She traveled light—one slim black suitcase, carry-on sized, one black suit jacket, and a sleek handbag. She made no commotion coming off the elevator. No one had to step aside to let her and her luggage through.

  She studied the far wall as she passed close by him. She didn’t look his way. As if on a mission, she made straight for the back of the lobby, past registration, to the parking deck. All would look like a normal businesswoman here for a conference … if it wasn’t for her black eye. Several people gave her the double take. She ignored it.

  He meandered around more long banks of slots, heading in the general direction of the parking deck, carrying his cup, stopping to study the flashy displays, as if he was looking for the next hot machine. He found a spot with a straight shot where he could see her go all the way out. She’d made it down the hall, through the automatic doors. He saw Adair get out to greet her as she emerged.

  Jim looked around again. No one seemed out of place, watching her or following her. But his intuition was twitching like mad. He’d learned the hard way to pay attention.

  He dropped money in another slot. He smashed the button twice. The screen spun. No winner. He shook his head at the machine. She was away. He wanted to be close behind her, but he needed to linger if he was being watched. Dilemma. He often faced this kind of decision.

  No cars had pulled out behind the taxi that he could see through the distant glass doors.

  If they saw him watching her, maybe he had prevented her being followed. Maybe not. Maybe he was wrong this time. He played another machine, putting several dollars in before moving again. No one looked like hired help except the two men watching the card tables closer to the center of the casino floor. But this was Vegas. The eye in the sky missed little. He glanced up at the nearest camera. Had Zant’s people watched her from the security room? If so, they were now watching him too. If Banks hadn’t fingered him after the club incident, Zant would know he was involved with Erica by now.

  He needed to linger a bit longer. Just in case. He did not want to be followed to her new location. The smell of bratwurst caught his attention. The sports bar was blaring the pregame for Thursday Night Football. He chose a high table near the door, back to the wall, and stood. A waitress in a costume cut so low it would make her mother blush commented on his cup of winnings.

  His mind drifted to th
e night before and Erica as the waitress rattled off the long list of beers available on tap. Erica was still as beautiful as these young girls. He again wished he didn’t know that.

  The girl finished up her spiel. Jim knew that because she was no longer talking and now had that vacant uncaring look. She was waiting for his choice. “Just water.” She frowned at him. “And one of those brats.”

  “Kraut?”

  “Sure.”

  The game would be a good one tonight. He wouldn’t get to see it. That was what DVRs were for. Erica’s text came as he took the first bite from the dog. She was settled. The brat was cold and greasy anyway. He left the food on the table and the girl enough cash to cover the bill plus a decent tip.

  He headed to the cash window. He had to wait behind two other winners. One held a cup as Jim did. The other had a paper printout in his hand.

  It only took a moment for his turn for the next available teller. She took the cup with a bright, overwhite smile. There was much rattling and clanking as the mechanical sifter counted the coins. Something else intentional. The tinkling of money being won. The noise should have made him happy. He needed the money.

  The machine quieted. The red LED readout said three hundred seventy-two dollars. Total winnings minus the nine dollars and twenty-five cents he’d fed the machine left him at three cents short of a thousand dollars for the day.

  He didn’t have luck like this.

  Something was about to go very bad.

  13

  Erica answered the door after verifying it was him with another text. Again. Smart girl. “You didn’t say when or if you were coming tonight.” She invited him in and then plopped her hands on her hips. “I tried to be anonymous and pay in cash at the desk. You know, and use a fake name?” She frowned. “I guess that’s just for the movies. They required a credit card for incidentals and my ID.” She closed and locked the door behind him.

  Jim would have laughed at her agitation if he didn’t find it so attractive.

  “The woman was quite rude at my suggestion of it. What if I wanted to be in Vegas incognito?” She was so damned cute trying to be cunning. It was pissing him off. “Don’t people come here to be crazy? What about all that what happens in Vegas crap?”

  He looked around her room. It was almost as big as the first floor of his townhouse. A red silk couch with two matching chairs and fancy tables made a living area framed before a floor-to-ceiling window. The cozy area overlooked the Bellagio fountains. She’d paid for the view. There was a dining table for four with a bright chandelier twinkling above. He ran his finger over the marble wet bar across from the view. He could see the huge bed through an open door. Bright floral-laden bedding matched heavy daylight-blocking drapes that covered another window. Also with a view. Suite probably brought his monthly rent per night. Suddenly his winnings didn’t seem so significant.

  His life had added up to rent-to-own furniture and fast-food containers. If the place burned down today, all he had worth saving was Annie. Erica just dropped two grand on a hotel room.

  He opened the bar. Fully stocked. “For anonymity, you go to a different kind of hotel. Not like this one. Not one you’d walk your expensive shoes into. Off the Strip. Not a chain. One story. No pool. The guy at the desk is happy to see your cash because there are no transaction fees for cash. That kind of place won’t have incidentals to worry over.”

  “There are still cheap no-tell motels?”

  At that he did laugh. “Yes.” He settled down on the harder than expected cushioning of the couch. He bounced once or twice before he laid his laptop bag on the ornate glass-top coffee table with a clank. “Probably should have had you go to one of those. But they’re not quite this nice.”

  “I ordered in, guessing you’d show up.”

  “See, incidentals.”

  “I know. I wouldn’t have done it if I’d been able to pay cash. But my card had already been run. Room service charges won’t make me any easier to find.”

  “Hungry again already?” He pulled out his computer.

  “Wanted to take some more pain reliever. Need the food in my stomach.”

  He nodded. Made sense. He could always eat. You never know as a PI when you might get stuck watching someone or something for hours. Eat when you can. Pee when you can.

  He typed into the search engine for the strip club, the one that used a showgirl theme. Two came up. One in Reno. The other, he’d heard about a few years back. But thought it was long gone. “Coyote Springs.”

  “What’s that?”

  He looked over the Googled articles for a moment. “A desert ghost town, basically. One of those communities that had been preplanned, presold, and then the recession hit, and nothing. There’s a nice Jack Nicklaus golf course out there.” That was what he’d remembered hearing about the place. “They planned several subdivisions, shopping, resorts, but they never built a single house. There was a hotel made for anonymity, and a strip club up there. About fifty miles north.”

  “Seems a long way for boobs.”

  “Golf and boobs.” He skimmed another article. “Seems there’s more to it than the recession. Lawyers and politicians involved. Builders and investors suing one another, embezzlement and theft.”

  “You think Chris got wound up in that?”

  “Could be.”

  “She’s a social worker. What would she be doing in that kind of investment deal? That’s more my line of work.”

  There was a knock at the door. Erica jumped. “You answer it.”

  “Step into the bedroom,” Jim ordered. She did as told. No argument.

  Jim hated peepholes. Too dangerous. Never liked the thought of getting his eye shot out. Better to fling the door open and see what came through.

  He did just that. Opened it wide and stepped behind it. Nothing came through. He looked through the crack between the door and the frame to see a small woman behind a large cart draped in red fabric. Two bottles of wine, two glasses topped the cart, along with flowers and covered plates. All the makings of a romantic evening.

  “Room service.” Her voice was timid. An empty doorway confused most people.

  He stepped from behind the door. She jumped higher than Erica had. Jim was pretty sure she was no hit man. This was a clean hotel. Unless one of them had been followed, no one knew she was here. Cards can be traced, but it took a little time and good connections. Unlikely at this point, but possible.

  “Sorry, sir.” She hustled the cart close to the table. Cautiously, Erica came out of the bedroom when he signaled her. She signed for the food as the woman finished setting the table.

  She thanked Erica with a huge smile. Tip was probably more than he usually spent on an entire meal. Maybe more than his usual dinner and lunch combined.

  The waitress lifted the lids. Jim’s stomach growled. She opened one of the two bottles swiftly. Practiced. “Would you like me to pour, sir?”

  “Um … No, thank you.” He could manage to do that.

  Just before backing out of the room, she bowed. “Call if you want us to clear, or you can leave it for housekeeping if you prefer your privacy for the evening.”

  Yes. Perfectly romantic. Great. He looked over to see Erica and her amused grin on the far side of the table. He suddenly felt like a trapped rat.

  This kitchen was getting too hot. Might be time to get out.

  She slid into the fancy French chair and held an empty glass out to him. This was as life should have been all along, all these years, the two of them, sitting at a table, with wine and good food. Sharing a meal like it was the most normal thing in the world for a couple to do. He found himself frozen in place, gripping the stiff wooden back of the chair in front of him. Muscles refused to move. If he sat and let it feel normal, then what?

  He’d never have anything to offer a woman like Erica again. Any woman. His life was about s
cratching for survival. Month to month. And then there were those favors for Zant as well.

  So he didn’t date. Didn’t make friends easily. Avoided any situation where his story would have to be told. Because he hated to have to defend his history, to feel the shame of being accused of such inflammatory things. Relationships meant sharing, and he certainly didn’t want to get close enough to have to share. Didn’t want to keep secrets either.

  Erica let out a burp. A big, belly-rocking, echoing belch. At first he stood there staring at her as if her head had exploded. Not what he expected.

  She turned pink. “Oops.”

  He laughed. “Nice.”

  She snatched the bottle off the table and poured a hearty glass of the red zin. Taking that and her platter, she moved over to one of the chairs and sat down to eat there. Casual, leaning over the coffee table like it was a working lunch or something.

  “Can you toss me some silverware?”

  He was still standing by the table, watching her. He gave her a questioning look.

  “A knife. You know? I need to cut this steak.”

  So she hadn’t planned seduction. For a second he felt a tinge of disappointment. But just for a second. He grabbed the rolled-up utensils and brought them to her. He also gathered his plate and returned one more time for the bottle and his glass. The tension in his body dissipated. He slipped back down in front of his laptop. Back to work.

  “So now what?” she asked and took a huge bite of her filet.

  He took a moment to savor his own. She’d ordered two identical plates. Filets, perfectly medium rare, lightly glazed in a dark wine sauce with shiitake mushrooms scattered about the plate. A mountain of garlic mashed potatoes was also topped with a puddle of the mushroom sauce. The rest of the plate was covered by asparagus.

  “Lots of moving parts. Need to determine what’s important and what might not matter to us.”