Neon Prey

by John Sandford

  “We’re getting close,” Lucas told him. “We may want to work something out with your SWAT squad. These guys are hard-core.”

  “I’ll talk to the sheriff,” Mallow said.

  * * *

  —

  RAE CALLED. All prescriptions were computerized and those issued by the hospital had been filled at a Walmart pharmacy. “Does that help?”

  Lucas spotted the Walmart on his iPad: it was located off a stretch of the Beltway due west of the airport’s east-west runway. “Yes. Everything points to the same neighborhood,” Lucas said. “We need to get back to the hotel and figure out what to do next. I was planning to go to the TV stations and put Beauchamps’s face on the news, but, now that I think about it, that might not be a good idea. If they run, we’d just have to track them again, but for now we sort of know where they are.”

  “See you at the hotel,” Rae said.

  Lucas had worked his way out to Paradise Road, on his way back to the hotel, when Sandro Tremanty called from New Orleans. “Hey, Dad.”

  “What’s up?”

  “I heard you’re in Las Vegas,” the FBI agent said.

  “Yeah. We’ve followed them this far, crossed their trail a couple of times. We’re starting to pin them down. Can’t promise anything.”

  “You remember Dick? Ricardo Santos, the guy you met at Rog Smith’s house?”

  “The guy with the degree in chemistry,” Lucas said.

  “That’s the guy. We’ve put a light tag on both Smith and Santos. I found out a few minutes ago that Santos jumped on a cut-rate airline at eight o’clock this morning, going to Vegas. He ought to be arriving there in about an hour.”

  “Oh-oh. Text me the details. I’m in a car; I just left the Hertz place by the airport. I’ll turn around and go back. I’ll get Bob and Rae headed this way.”

  “Do that. I’m trying to find a flight, but everything has a stop somewhere, they’re all six hours or more,” Tremanty said. “I can’t get there until tonight. But if you’re close to Deese, I’d like to be there.”

  “Jump right in,” Lucas said.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTEEN

  They had to hurry. Lucas did an illegal U-turn and headed back south, called the Hertz manager, spoke for a moment, got Bob and Rae on the phone. They’d been driving east toward I-15, on the way to the hotel, and were only ten minutes behind him.

  “Unless he’s got his own car, he’ll have to rent one or take a cab,” Lucas said, fast. “I was talking to the manager at Hertz. We’re like old friends now. I want you to drive right up there like you’re returning a car. He’s expecting you and he’ll turn your car around. Take a shuttle back to the airport; the manager says it only takes a few minutes. I’ll talk to the airport cops and keep my car outside. Santos knows me but not you. I’ll spot him coming off the plane and then you guys follow him to wherever he’s going. If he rents a car, you should be able to jump on a shuttle and follow him right out of the place. If he’s got a limo or gets a cab, I’ll follow him.”

  “On the way,” Bob said. “We should talk to our SOG guys here in Vegas in case we need them.”

  “I’ll let you and Rae do that, you know them,” Lucas said. “But get your asses out to Hertz now.”

  Lucas drove up the departures ramp at the airport, saw a cop, identified himself, and was pointed to a place where he could park his car. As he was getting out, a supervising cop jogged up to talk to him.

  “You think anything will be going down here?” the cop asked.

  “No. We’re following him out of the airport, trying to see where he goes. For God’s sakes, don’t put any cops out there,” Lucas said. “This is a smart guy, he’ll spot them in a second. I’ve got two people on him, nothing will happen here.”

  Lucas, escorted by the cop, badged his way through security, located the gate for the incoming plane, which was still a half hour out, and managed to fractionally relax. A blank gray door that said “No Entry” was across the concourse from the gate, and Lucas got the cop to open it. There was nothing behind it but a stairway landing, with stairs going up and down.

  “Could you stay with me? I’d like to hide here when he comes through.”

  “Not a problem,” the cop said.

  Bob texted from Hertz, said they were set, that the Tahoe was “cocked and locked.”

  “We’re in in Terminal 1, the D gates,” Lucas said. “Get down here as soon as you can.”

  * * *

  —

  FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, Lucas and the cop sat waiting at a bank of one-cent slot machines when Bob and Rae walked up. Rae looked at the slots, said, “They won’t let you get out of here with a fuckin’ penny,” and Bob said, “Tell us about it.”

  Lucas introduced the cop—“This is Judd Harlan”—and pointed across the concourse to the gate. “Santos will be coming out of there. We’ll be behind there”—he pointed to the gray door—“and then you follow him. If he meets somebody, or gets a cab or a limo, you gotta let me know. I’ll be at my car, I’ll track him, and you can get back to the Tahoe and follow me. If he goes to Hertz, you drop in behind him and call me and I’ll follow you.”

  Rae said to Harlan, “We’ll need another one of your guys. We’ll need him to stay way, way behind us, but if somebody meets him and he doesn’t go for a rental or a cab we’ll need you to run us through the airport to the parking structure, which we don’t know about. We don’t want somebody shooting at us because we’re running.”

  “You got it,” Harlan said, and he went off with his handset to call for a backup cop.

  While he did that, Bob said to Lucas, “We talked to the head guy on the local SOG and they can gear up in an hour. You gotta tell me when.”

  The SOG was the marshals service Special Operations Group, a heavy-duty SWAT squad. “We’ll wait until we see where Santos is going,” Lucas said. “If he heads out west on I-15, we’ll want to get them ready.”

  “You think this too easy?” Rae asked. “Bob always worries about that.”

  “Maybe, but we’re not there yet,” Lucas said. “We thought it was too easy in LA until I got my ass shot.”

  “Santos is a complication,” Bob said. “We don’t know exactly what he’s doing here . . . if he’s doing anything. Maybe he came to roll some bones.”

  Lucas nodded and said to Rae, “By the way, I’ve got some news for you. Your heartthrob is coming to town. Tremanty. He’s on his way right now. Maybe, you know, you’ll want to shave your legs.”

  “Maybe I’ll do that,” Rae said. “When does he get here?”

  “Don’t know yet. He’s trying to get the fastest flight out, but there aren’t any more directs today,” Lucas said. “He’s gotta go through somewhere else.”

  Bob had a wide smile. “My, my. Sandro Tremanty, Rae Givens, Las Vegas, Nevada. There’s a three-way made in heaven. What happens in Vegas . . .”

  “You’re such little boys,” Rae said. “Shave my legs. Three-way. I mean, Jesus.”

  * * *

  —

  THE SECOND COP arrived with Harlan. They all went into the bay with the penny slots to wait. Bob walked through the banks of fake-neon dinging machines, checking them out. Rae started talking to Harlan and, after a bit, took a ten-dollar bill out of her pocket and slipped it into one of the slots. Bob took a chair a few yards away, and Lucas settled in beside him, to watch her lose her money.

  After a minute, Lucas said, in a low voice, “I always meant to ask, never did because it’s none of my business. You seem amused by the idea of Rae getting involved with Tremanty. I never quite figured out you and Rae.”

  Bob smiled and shook his head. “There is no ‘me and Rae’ except as marshals. She’s smart, she’s pretty, we like each other a lot, but nothing ever happened and nothing will. If I had a sister, she’d be Rae.”

  “Huh. I mean, does
that ever bum you out? Even slightly?”

  “No. Man, I like her better than anybody I ever met. But no heat. Not that way. We gossip about our relationships like a couple of old hens, but nope. Sister and brother.”

  “Okay. Sorry I asked.”

  “Surprised you didn’t ask sooner,” Bob said. “Everybody else has. And . . . here she comes.”

  Rae came over and said, “I didn’t even win a penny. They took the whole ten dollars. Didn’t win once. Oh, by the way, Santos is on the ground. He’ll be here in five minutes.”

  Lucas took a dollar out of his pocket and said to Rae, “Let me show you how this is done.” He slid the dollar into a machine, pushed the button, and won five. He pushed the payout button, took the slip, tucked it in his wallet.

  Bob said to Rae, “That’s all there is to it.”

  Rae said, “It’s because I’m black, isn’t it? Who would have suspected: racist slot machines . . . Hey, there’s his plane.”

  * * *

  —

  THEY WATCHED as the plane taxied up to the gate and then they followed Harlan onto the stairway landing behind the gray door. Two men and a woman, all in dark business wear, were the first off, followed by Santos, who wore blue slacks and a pale linen sport coat and open-necked French-blue dress shirt. As they watched, he put on a white straw hat and sunglasses. He carried a brown leather backpack and a brown leather overnight bag.

  “Guy knows how to dress and accessorize,” Lucas said, peeking through the crack between the door and the jamb.

  “Watch the hat,” Rae whispered to Bob. A minute later, the two of them launched from the stairway landing. Lucas held the arm of the second cop until they were almost down the concourse and out of sight, then pushed him and said, “Follow Bob and Rae, but don’t get closer than you are now. Not unless they yell.”

  Lucas and Harlan went out through a security lane and down to Lucas’s car. On the way, Bob called and said, “He’s heading for the rentals. You want me to crank up the SOG guys?”

  “Not yet, we don’t want a false alarm. Stay with him. I’ll try to get behind you so we can change up.”

  * * *

  —

  BOB CALLED AGAIN when Santos was rolling down the Avis ramp. “Stay on the phone, I’ll keep you up on where we are. We rode all the way to the rental place on the same shuttle. We’re in the wrong vehicle, though. We’re too big and visible, and it sorta looks like a cop car.”

  “This Volvo doesn’t, I’m embarrassed to say.”

  Bob said, “He’s turned north. He’s in a dark gray Chrysler 300.”

  If he were going to the apartment complexes off the airport runway, Lucas thought, he should have turned south. North would lead to the Vegas Strip and downtown.

  Bob, a few minutes later: “We’ve turned west on Hidden Well Road,” and, a couple of minutes later: “North again on Las Vegas Boulevard.”

  Lucas got on Las Vegas Boulevard, spotted Bob and Rae fifty yards ahead, accelerated past them, said into the phone, “I got him.”

  “I’m turning here in case he’s watching his mirror,” Bob said. “I’ll be back behind you in a minute.”

  Lucas was two cars behind of Santos, stayed with him through several traffic lights, got on the phone to Bob. “I’m afraid to pass him, he knows me. Are you back behind me?”

  “Yeah, we’re catching up.”

  “If he rolls through one of these lights on a yellow, I’ve got a problem. I think you ought to blow on by him. There are lots of Tahoes out here. Get ahead of him in case I get caught at a light.”

  “Doing that,” Bob said.

  A minute later, Bob and Rae’s Tahoe sped past Lucas, Rae at the wheel. She slowed a bit as they came up behind Santos, then went on by. Bob said, “I’m in the footwell, so all he could have seen is a woman driving a truck.”

  “All right,” Lucas said. “Don’t outrun him.”

  They all got stopped at Harmon Avenue, Santos a half dozen cars behind Bob and Rae, Lucas another half dozen cars behind Santos. They went through Flamingo together, then Bob said, “Shit, he pulled into the valet parking at Caesars. You’re on your own, Lucas. We’ll be back as soon as we can turn around.”

  * * *

  —

  LUCAS DROVE SLOWLY toward the valet stand, stalled a bit despite a valet waving to him, waited until Santos was on the steps going inside, then drove to the valet, grabbed the phone and his bag, hopped out of the car, shoved his ID in the valet’s face, and said, “Keep the car close, right out here, I’m working, I’m running, give me the ticket.”

  The valet passed him the parking stub and Lucas grabbed it and hurried up the steps through the door where Santos had disappeared. He stepped inside and scanned the crowd: there were several straw hats in the lobby, but he didn’t see Santos at first, until he glanced toward the concierge desk and saw him talking to the woman behind the desk. She pointed across the lobby, and Lucas turned away and stepped back outside, where he watched through the glass doors as Santos walked across. He wished he had a hat like Santos’s, anything that would disguise his appearance since Santos had seen him in New Orleans.

  Rae jogged up. “Where is he?”

  “Walking across the lobby.”

  Bob came up. “I dumped the car with the valet, goddamn near killed an old lady doing a U-turn on the boulevard. Where is he?”

  Rae had stepped inside, waved them in beside her. “See his hat?”

  They moved up behind him, the three of them spreading out across the lobby, and then into the gambling area. He was easy to follow through the various craps and roulette tables, but he disappeared into slot machines on the far side of the tables. Some of the machines were seven or eight feet tall, and the pale straw hat vanished amid their crazy flashing lights.

  * * *

  —

  SANTOS WAS WALKING fast through the slots, the three marshals a hundred feet behind him. Gamblers wandered back and forth between the machines while bad rock music pounding down from the ceiling contributed to the sensory overload.

  When Santos disappeared, Rae ran after him, the fastest-moving person in the place, lots of eyes tracking her. She got through the first area of slots, then stopped, looked back at Lucas, shook her head.

  Lucas hurried into the slots, which were arranged in what amounted to a maze—short aisles leading into blocking banks of more slots—like they didn’t want you to get out.

  He called to Bob. “See him?”

  Bob said, “No, I lost him. Where is he?”

  He took a call from Rae. “You got him? Where?”

  Then Bob came up. “We lost him. He’s gotta be right here,” and Lucas heard him say to Rae on the phone, “Did he go in there?”

  “Don’t think so . . .”

  They’d lost him.

  * * *

  —

  WHEN LUCAS was sure that Santos was gone, he told Bob, “Go back to the valet stand and make sure he doesn’t get the car back. Rae, let’s find the closest taxi stand. I saw one when we were here the other day.”

  They looked for half an hour but didn’t see him again.

  When they got back together, Bob said, “I think I know why they were making those calls from here—it’s impossible to track somebody. Too many people moving in too many directions. Santos might never have seen us, but he scraped us off because he knew he could do it and not take a chance that he might be tracked.”

  Lucas said, “That hints he’s up to something. That he’s here to meet with Deese.”

  Rae: “We know where his car is. We could stick a GPS tracker on it in case he decided to use it—but we’d need a warrant.”

  “Why would anyone give us a warrant?” Bob asked. “As far as we know, Santos doesn’t even have a criminal record.”

  Lucas said, “Ahh . . . shit.”

  * * *r />
  —

  THEY SPLIT UP AGAIN and wandered around the casino, and eventually into the Forum shopping center, in case Santos turned up again. The Forum was an absurd place, gigantic statues of big-breasted nude Roman women and Greek gods with fountains spraying water over them. Tourists wandered around, taking selfies and eating crap. After a while, it became apparent that they wouldn’t find Santos by just wandering. They located the hotel manager, who checked for him in the reservations and failed to find his name.

  “Maybe he’s like us: he’s in this hotel for a reason but checked in somewhere else,” Bob said.

  “If he’s checked in at all,” Lucas said. “He comes here, shoots Deese or gives him a bag of money—or whatever he’s doing—goes out to the airport and gets on a plane. He might not even need a hotel.”

  “Doesn’t have a gun unless he got one here,” Rae said. “Probably doesn’t have a bag of money, either. They would have seen that at security and would have asked questions.”

  “There are ways to handle all of that if you need to: you wire a million bucks to a casino and cash it in here,” Bob said. “I mean, maybe not a million, but a lot. After that, a gun is a matter of knowing the right guy. Roger Smith would.”

  “You almost sound like you know what you’re talking about,” Rae said.

  “I read about it in a book,” Bob said. “Books are always accurate.”

  * * *

  —

  LUCAS GAVE UP on Santos. He could be anywhere in Las Vegas. “We need to work the streets, out on the end of the airport flight path,” he said. “It’s gonna be tiresome, but what else can we do?”