Private Vegas

by James Patterson

  “You are funny, Lester.”

  He was not only funny but articulate and convincing. He had all the traits of a sociopathic con man.

  Olsen grinned and said, “If we do this right, it’s going to be fun. So, before we leave my office, we select your future husband. Then you follow my instructions on how to land him, treat him, keep him. I’ll be your personal coach. Your silent partner. When he dies, you will become a very wealthy widow, and you and I will split your inheritance. How does that sound?”

  “My God. I—don’t know.”

  Olsen had laid out his plan, but where was the crime? Marrying a man for money and waiting for him to die wasn’t illegal, and it didn’t connect Olsen to Tule Archer’s threats to her husband.

  She said, “I never thought of this…I mean, it sounds intriguing, but also so…cold-blooded.”

  “Oh, I get you. Val, look at it this way. You’re giving someone a very happy ending, someone who isn’t going to need the money after he dies. But you can say no, and I hope you don’t feel that I wasted your time.”

  Val lowered her eyes, pretended to think it over. She’d observed enough police interrogations to know when to take the lead and when to just listen.

  Olsen turned his laptop around so that she could see it.

  “Let’s meet the contenders,” he said.

  Chapter 99

  VAL LEANED ACROSS the desk and peered at the file Olsen had opened on his laptop.

  Olsen said, “Bachelor number one is Morris Furman.”

  Photo came up of an old guy of about ninety sitting in a unique handmade chair on a huge porch. He had a serious-looking drink in his claw-like hand. A TV on a cart near the railing showed what seemed to be a horse race. His hair was thin, his glasses were thick, and he had wall-to-wall liver spots on his arms.

  “Attractive guy, right?”

  Olsen looked up at her and winked. “Now, listen, Val. Morris used to be head of an insurance company. A nice clean business. He has a hundred million in U.S. markets, and then he’s got another bundle in real estate. He lost his wife twenty years ago, and his children are in their sixties. Has a pacemaker. His third, I think. Morris is what I call a catch and a half.”

  “You know him?” Val asked.

  “Sure, I know him. He’s my grandfather.”

  “He is?” Val looked up from the computer.

  Olsen was laughing.

  “Just joking, Val. I know him because he comes to the casinos when he’s in town. Lives in Butte, Montana. He would fly you out to meet him in half a heartbeat. Which could be his last one. Or perhaps you could cause his last heartbeat. Just don’t have sex with him until after the wedding, okay?”

  Val said, “You can count on that.”

  “That’s fine, Val. But, all kidding aside, you understand you don’t want to marry a young tycoon who wraps you up in a prenup, then divorces you. How long do you want your husband to live?”

  Val did her best to figure out how to handle this moment. Pay out the line, or set the hook? Her hands were sweating. Her skin was damp at her hairline.

  “Actually, I would like some water now.”

  Lester got up, went to the small fridge near the credenza, brought back a bottle of Artesian Springs. Then he sat down, and as he was navigating around his computer, Val said, “But even if the dude is old…well, there’s no guarantee that he’s going to die soon.”

  “Uh, well, think about it. The money-back guarantee depends on you. Maybe you’ll have to give your antique husband a little push for that multimillion-dollar payoff, see? I can only do so much.”

  A little push. Tule Archer was trying to frighten Hal into a heart attack by telling him that she was killing him in her dreams. He’d responded by killing her in real life.

  Reflexively, Val touched the microphone that was attached like a rosebud to the center of her bra and tapped it with her middle finger. And Olsen, seeing that, got to his feet fast.

  He was standing right over her, boxing her in. His expression was suddenly cold and menacing.

  Oh my God. What had she done?

  Chapter 100

  LESTER OLSEN HAD lost his boyishness and his humor, and the man that remained was scaring her half to death.

  “What just happened, Val?”

  “What do you mean? What’s wrong, Lester?”

  “I’m a poker player, Val. One of the best. You know what a tell is? It’s when someone gives himself away with an unconscious movement. Like what you just did when you touched yourself. That was a classic tell.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but you know what? I don’t think this is for me—”

  Val pushed her chair back, but she was up against the wall and there was nowhere to go.

  “You did that at dinner the other night,” Olsen said, tapping the middle of his own chest with his third finger, “and I ignored it. See how you put your water bottle between us? Another tell. I shouldn’t have second-guessed myself. I bet you’re wearing a wire.”

  He put his crippled hands at either side of the V-neck of her blouse.

  “If I’m wrong, I’ll apologize.”

  Fabric tore. Val gasped and tried to cover herself, but Olsen forced her hands aside and plucked the mic off her bra. Then, in one smooth movement, he reached around, opened a desk drawer, and pulled out a gun. He put the mic on his desk and shattered it with the butt of his gun.

  Val’s mind spun. She reached for a plausible explanation, then launched it. “Lester. Let me explain. I’m a reporter. I’m doing a story on how to land a wealthy man. That’s all. The story is going to be good for you.”

  “Who are you working for?”

  “San Francisco Chronicle.”

  “Who’s the publisher?”

  Val sputtered nonsense, then tried to get out of the chair as Olsen swung his hand and slammed the side of the gun into her jaw. Val fell back into the seat, put her hands to her face, and stifled a cry of pain.

  “Who’s on the other end of the mic?”

  “FBI. My people have been listening. They’ll be in here any second now. I suggest you back away from me and figure out how you’re going to explain what you’ve just done.”

  “Shut up, Val, and don’t bother lying to me. You’re an amateur and I can spot your lies before they hatch.”

  He lifted her purse from where it hung at the back of her chair and emptied it onto the desk with one hand. He turned off the recorder and the phone, put both in his pocket.

  “Stand up,” he said.

  Val gripped the arms of the chair. She said, “Nothing has happened, Lester. I was taping into my purse. Let me go and I’ll say I walked into a wall and I’ll forget I ever met you.”

  “Stand up. Put your hands behind your back,” he said. “Or I’ll kill you right here and right now.”

  Chapter 101

  WHEN VAL STOOD up, she had to fight to keep her balance. She was feeling sick and in pain, but she was also experiencing a lot of clarity.

  She understood that Olsen was protecting something more than a high-end matchmaking scheme and he was not kidding around. This was real. He could kill her and get away with it. And she understood that this was her best, last moment to regain his trust and save her life.

  “I don’t even understand why you’re so mad,” she said. “Look, you’re right. I don’t work for the FBI. I don’t work for anyone.”

  Olsen spun her around and shoved her hard against the wall. She felt the gun muzzle at the back of her neck.

  “Your hands, Val. Put your hands behind you.”

  He forced her right hand behind her, and she felt a zip tie go around her wrist.

  “I could teach you about lying,” Olsen said. “See, an innocent person doesn’t go on the defensive. An innocent person goes on the attack. And here you are, pleading and defending.”

  “Will you let me explain?”

  “Give me your other hand, Val. Or whatever your name is. I don’t want to shoot you. Tha
t’s the truth, by the way.”

  Val complied. She was shaking now, rummaging through her mind for anything she’d heard or read or seen, even in a movie, that might turn Lester around.

  Lester cinched her wrists together, pulled the tie tight.

  “What are you going to do with me?” she asked.

  “That depends. What are you, Val? A cop?”

  “I’m a freelance writer. I saw your ad online—”

  “Here’s what we’re going to do, bitch. We’re going to walk quietly out of this room and you do what I tell you to do. Okay? Say okay.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m going to put my arm around your shoulders, and if you try to get anyone’s attention, I’m going to shoot you on the spot. And then I’m going to shoot the bystander. I will then walk away.”

  “Whatever you say, I’ll do it. Just take it easy, okay?”

  “Let’s go.”

  Olsen marched her through the office, then through the storage room. He angled her so that he could open the rear exit, then put his free arm around her shoulder and dug the gun into her side.

  They were behind the strip mall, in a narrow parking lot used by the shop owners, their names stenciled on the asphalt. There was no one around, just empty cars and a couple of Dumpsters.

  Olsen pushed her toward a blue Ford Taurus parked outside the back door facing the road. He changed the position of the gun, screwed it hard into her back while leaning down to open the trunk.

  “Get in, Val. Or I will shoot you and stuff your body inside. You’re a big girl, but maybe you’ve noticed, I spend time at the gym.”

  Val could see the traffic on the road that ran perpendicular to the alley, only fifty yards away. She pictured herself running, getting help from a motorist. If she ran, she would have a better chance than if she got into the trunk. No. If she ran, he would shoot her. As long as she was alive in the trunk, she was…alive.

  “I need help to do this,” she said.

  He supported her as she put a leg into the trunk, then he applied pressure to her back, gave her a shove.

  She fell in and curled up in the cramped space.

  “Be right back,” he said. “And then we’ll go for a ride.”

  “Wait,” said Val. “Look at me. I’m not lying. I’m a private investigator and our satellite is tracking me—”

  Lester reached up and slammed the trunk closed.

  Chapter 102

  LESTER OLSEN LEFT the goddamned girl in the trunk and went back into his office. He used Val’s phone and credit card to book a flight in her name from McCarran to Honolulu, then returned her phone to her purse.

  Next, he opened his briefcase on his desk, tossed in his laptop and power cords. He had a new, prepaid boost phone in his desk drawer all charged up. He put the charger into his briefcase, put the phone in his jacket pocket.

  His safe was inside the supply room. He opened that, took out his passport, the wad of cash, the credit cards, put all of that in the briefcase too.

  He went to the credenza, opened the doors, and took out a dust rag and a bottle of Windex. He sprayed the rag with the ammonia and wiped down the arms of the side chair, the top and edges of his desk. Then he took the rag out front and cleaned the intercom button and the door handle.

  A young mom and little boy walked by, and smiles were exchanged. When they had passed, Olsen stepped back inside his doorway, locked the front door, and then double-locked it. He returned to his office, collected his case, Val’s purse, and his go-bag with a shaving kit and a change of clothes. Then he left by the rear door and locked that too.

  As always, the Ford Taurus was gassed up and ready, an ordinary ride with fake registration, fake plates, all matching his fake ID, all good to go. The getaway car was his ace in the hole, an ace he’d hoped he’d never have to play. But he would play it now, and he would win.

  Val was thumping the lid of the trunk when he got there, but if the girl thumped and there was no one to hear it, what the fuck did it matter? His adrenal glands were pumping adrenaline overtime. He loved adrenaline. Thrived on it.

  The guy who owned the tanning salon came out, Tony something. Big dumb guy. He waved to Olsen, then got into his van and started to back up. Olsen waved, then put the bags into the backseat of the Taurus.

  He got into the driver’s seat, adjusted the mirrors, put Miles Davis’s Kind of Blue into the CD player, and started the engine. He called out loudly over his shoulder, “Everything okay back there, Valerie? You need anything, you let me know.”

  There was a muffled thump and a few words from the rear. He thought she’d said, “Please, Lester. Let me out.”

  “I’m over you, Val,” he shouted.

  He turned on the AC, then backed the car out carefully. Didn’t want to bend any fenders in the damned parking lot.

  A minute later, he was on West Spring Mountain Road. He waited at the stoplight, thought about how the girl might be missed today, but not at four in the afternoon. Her phone’s GPS was active and if anyone was keeping tabs on her, they’d track her phone to the airport.

  He used the boost phone to call Barbie.

  “Barbie, it’s Lester. Guess what—I’m coming out to see you. Yes. This is payday. You know what to do? Okay. Stay home, all right? I should be there by nine or so. I’ll phone you later.” He laughed at how excited she was. “Yes,” he said. “Me too. Me too.”

  When the light turned green, Olsen said, “Bye” to Barbie and disconnected the call. Then he stepped on the gas and headed toward the airport. First he had to deal with the girl.

  He knew exactly what to do.

  Chapter 103

  GOZAN REMARI AND Khezir Mazul were dining in Santa Monica at Mélisse, a fabulous restaurant known for its magnificent food and VIP service. Celebrities who came here were treated like gods.

  Gozan wanted some god-type treatment. Actually, he needed it. He hadn’t slept or eaten since the bloody horror show this morning and he felt that there was more and worse to come.

  He sat stiffly in his comfortable chair under the chandelier in the richly appointed brown-and-white room, smelling herbs and roasting meat while Khezzy played the waiter for a fool.

  “These Japanese cucumbers. They are like sea cucumbers that puke out their intestines, isn’t that right?”

  “Ah, no, sir. I don’t think so. They are a type of vegetable cucumber. Sliced and pickled.”

  “Pickled sea cucumbers, am I right?”

  Khezzy laughed and the waiter tried to look amused, but his eyes were fixed and his smile was tight. Khezzy loved to make people afraid. Usually, Gozan enjoyed watching Khezzy, but not now. Now, he was disturbed.

  Gozan’s mind went back to the woman on the bathroom floor, her throat cut like swine, Khezzy’s knife lying next to her. And he thought about the subsequent killings and the dressing-down by Balar Aram that had humiliated him and made him worry that he and Khezzy would be sent back to Sumar. And if they were, how long would they be allowed to live?

  “Khezzy, we should ask for recommendations, hmmm? And let this young man select for us. I am hungry.”

  Khezir said, “Uncle, you will eat, I promise.”

  Just then, Khezzy’s phone buzzed. He took it out of his jacket pocket, said, “This is strange. Hello. Yes, this is Khezir.” Then, angrily, “You suck. You can’t touch us.”

  He slammed the phone down on the table and said, “Uncle, that pig’s ass of a police captain found my number on your phone. He said he tracked my phone with the GPS…Uncle, where’s your phone?”

  Gozan felt his blood leave his head and run into his feet. He had lost his phone somewhere; had hoped it had fallen out of his pocket in Balar’s vehicle.

  The front door of the restaurant opened and two men came in, their eyes going directly to him and Khezzy. Gozan recognized the police captain from that night at the Beverly Hills Hotel with the mango and peaches women. The other one had been there too. A private cop. Now the captain showed his badge to the
maître d’ and angled his chin toward where Gozan and Khezzy sat.

  Gozan said, “They have come for us, nephew. Do not move or they will justify shooting us. Be calm and we will be fine.”

  Khezzy swung his head toward the front, then whipped it around as the kitchen doors blew open. Four men in riot gear stormed into the dining room with guns drawn, yelling, “Everyone down onto the floor. Get down!”

  Other cops were coming in through the fire exit like cannonballs. People screamed; dishes clattered and smashed. Diners went to the floor as the men converged on them and yelled to the Sumaris to keep their hands on the table.

  Khezzy said, “You did this, Uncle. You are too stupid to live.”

  Gozan felt light-headed, as if his mind were leaving his body. He leaned over and vomited his martini between his shoes. When the captain told him to get to his feet, he did. He clasped his hands behind his neck, and he kept saying to Khezzy, “Do what they say, Khez. Do what they say.”

  Chapter 104

  LESTER OLSEN EXITED the freeway onto West Tropicana Avenue and drove past the faux-medieval Excalibur Hotel and Casino on the right. He stopped at a light and then resumed his drive, feeling pretty good, actually, glad that he was taking action and that, very soon, he was going to be enjoying the life he deserved.

  Val was quiet in the trunk, probably thinking about how much air she had in there, how hot it was, and rehearsing what she was going to say to him when he finally stopped the car and opened the trunk.

  Well, she had to be thinking how she would get away, right?

  Olsen kept going on Tropicana, took a right on South Eastern Avenue, passing McCarran Airport and the busy runways on the right. Then he crossed East Sunset Road, rehearsing a few things himself, choreographing his next moves.