Casino exit.
There’s one on the outside wall of the casino. Our shortcut to the street when we’re too lazy to go through the lobby. I check the stairwell again and—my God—the ball of heat swarms me. I draw a breath and gag. My lungs. Frying inside me.
God, God, God, please. My feet move, the slap, slap, slap of my Gucci sandals against my soles sharpens me. I dart into the casino’s west entrance, shoving open the double doors, noting as they swish closed behind me. Plan. I need a plan.
Blackjack tables. Far wall. Grab Gayle and we’ll run straight out the door.
But, Lord, the room is packed and the smoke. Too thick and gobbling the oxygen like a predatory lion. The room spins and I shake my head. I have to move. Fast.
“Fire!” I scream. “Fire. Fire. Fire!”
I push through bodies, shoving them aside as the room erupts with screams and folks head for the exit behind me. No, no, no. Wrong way. “No! Not that way! It’s blocked.”
Above me, something explodes, a loud crack of shattering glass. The glass wall overlooking the casino from the second floor. The first prick to my skin hunches me over and I cover my head with my hands to block the shards raining down on me.
And then I’m moving again, heading deeper into the black hell. “Gayle!”
“Lady!” a man yells. “You’re going the wrong way.”
As if I don’t know that? Because my lungs, oh, the heat. Too much. Too much.
“Gayle!” I choke out.
I can’t see her. Where is she? More screams pierce the air—is that her?—and I spin back to where people rush the door and others double over coughing. So much coughing.
I picture myself bursting through the exit door and sucking up all that lovely moist ocean air.
Something roars at me, a loud stab to my ears that makes me cry out. A flash. I look right and another giant black ball storms toward me. For a few precious seconds, I’m in awe. The sheer size. And then—boom!—the ball bursts into hot, licking flames. Run.
Street exit. All around me, the screams continue and a man picks up a stool, slamming it against the glass wall leading to the sidewalk. Nothing. It’s shatterproof. George bragged about it.
“The door!”
The screams drown me out and I keep running, grabbing people and pointing to the doorway. Two of them follow me as more pick up stools and hurl them hopelessly against the glass.
And, oh, the flames. There’s an odd beauty to them as they shoot across the rich green felt covering the tables. Bright, blazing orange and yellow licks suddenly engulf the mahogany trim. Too fast. Too fast.
Between the rancid smell of burning plastic and the unbearable heat, the panic I’ve held at bay unleashes itself.
Another flame shoots past me and a scream pierces my ears. A woman’s dress is on fire. She hits the ground, her shrieks of agony mixing with the roar of the fire. I move to help her, but feel a tug.
“No.” Someone grabs me. A man. “You’ll die in here.”
Die.
Phillip’s face, my sweet boy with his dark hair and silly cowlicks, fills my mind. He’s only three. If I’m swallowed by this inferno, will he even remember me?
More and more people go up in flames, their bodies writhing in some sort of sick dance that horrifies me. “Get down and roll!” the man shouts to the people on fire.
Gayle.
God, please let her have gotten out. One sweep past the blackjack tables. That’s all I need to make sure. Whump. The craps table becomes another fireball, the heat blasting me sideways off my feet. One of my shoes goes flying.
Phillip.
I want my son. He needs me. But…Gayle. I look back, one last time, at the back wall where the card tables erupt in a violent burst of orange and more wailing fills my head and I can’t breathe. No air. Tears flood my eyes, blurring them. Not now. I swat at them, clearing my vision.
“Gayle! Gayle! Gayle!”
“We have to go,” the man, still beside me, says.
He’s right. I know he is. But…
I pick up my pace, gripping my rescuer’s arm. “There’s a street entrance,” I tell him. “It’s supposed to be for emergencies, but I know the owner. We use it all the time.”
I point and he starts running, dragging me along, pushing others in that direction as we sidestep burning bodies and the screaming—ohmygod—the wails.
And then I’m out, hobbling on one shoe as sunlight pours over me and…air. I drag in all the clean oxygen my singed lungs will take, but then start coughing.
The man stays with me, guiding me from the inferno with one arm around my waist as I gag and step and gag, ridding myself of the nasty poison. Sirens sound in the distance and I peer out at the street where onlookers stare straight up. What the hell are they all looking at?
I glance behind me. Three people. Where is everyone? Why is no one leaving the building?
A blast comes from above and I snap my gaze to where magnificent, violent flames shoot up—three, four…six—stories high. Just that fast, fire has consumed the bottom half of the hotel.
Even in the heat, I’m shivering. My bones seeming to come apart, bit by bit. My knees give way and I hit the ground, landing on all fours. My head hangs, its weight too much for me to even hold up. Ten to eleven pounds. That’s what Simon, after a night of drinking two nights ago, had told me a human adult head weighs.
Odd how it felt like fifty.
My partner, the man who’d gotten me out, squats beside me, places a gentle hand on my back. “You’re all right,” he says. “Take it easy. You’re all right.”
No. I’m not. I’d never be all right.
Ever.
“Rose?”
I shake my head—a futile attempt to rid myself of the images—and look left. Rae.
She wraps her fingers around my forearm. “Are you…okay?”
“No,” I say. “I don’t think I am.”
29
Rae
* * *
Rose is melting down.
I sense it more than see it because, after all, this is Queen Rose. She has that way about her, all upper-crust refinement.
But there’s a stiffness to her. A tightness in her face that screams of brutal control. Or the stress of it.
What was I thinking, dragging these photos in front of her? I peer down at them and wince. Facing me are charred shells of rooms, the casino specifically, some with body bags yet to be removed.
I shake my head. I’m a good journalist. I know it. Except sometimes, my sensitivity chip fails and I wind up alienating those around me.
I squeeze Rose’s arm again. “I’m so sorry. Let’s sit down and I’ll get you some water.”
She lets me guide her to the couch and gently lowers herself into it. She might as well be a statue, she’s wrapped so tight. My fault.
Again.
I hustle to the minibar, grabbing a bottled water from the fridge. When the hell will I learn?
“I’ll take the vodka,” Rose says.
Whoa. Okie dokie. Vodka it is.
Along with the water.
I carry both items plus a glass to her and hand them over. She sets the water on the cushion beside her, then cracks open the mini-vodka, taking a gulp. Straight from the bottle.
I watch her throat bob as she downs it. And downs it.
And downs it.
Holy hell. Go, Rose.
She polishes off the bottle, smacks her lips together, and sets the empty on the table. “Thanks. I needed that.”
No kidding.
I perch on the edge of the chair beside the sofa. “Gosh, Rose. I shouldn’t have put you through that.”
For a few seconds she stares straight ahead, gaze fixed on the far wall where there’s yet another Warhol print. Finally, she faces me with a wilting smile. “It’s not your fault. I knew I’d have to face it. I just didn’t expect…”
Whatever she was about to say, she waves it off and my guilt meter spikes. “It brought it all
back, huh?”
“It did. I’ve never told you, but I was in the casino.”
Oh. My. God. What have I done?
“You were in there? When the fire broke out?”
She nods and acid churns in my gut. In all the research I did, I never saw anything about Rose actually being in the casino.
“I was in the lobby, heading to the elevator. The fire had already started upstairs, the smoke wafting down. That’s when I saw it. This giant wall of…of…blackness. I couldn’t go down the stairs to the exit and the door behind me was all the way across the lobby. I went into the casino, intending to find Gayle and go out the side door. Obviously, I couldn’t find her.”
“Oh, Rose.” I lean in, clasping her frigid fingers that might as well snap like icicles. “I had no idea you were actually in the casino. This is unfair to you. To make you relive this.”
At this, she swings her head back and forth. “Absolutely not. It is hard to think about it. But it’s long past time. I’ve compartmentalized the grief, pretending to be all right and assuring my family I’ve been fine. Fine, fine, fine.”
“Well, I give you credit for pulling it off because from what I’ve read, no one could be fine after that. I’m in awe that you were able to hold it together.”
“I think I was kidding myself. You can’t outrun grief. At some point, you have to deal with the emotional trauma. Instead, I threw myself into raising my son and taking care of my husband and volunteering, always being the dependable one. Busy Rose. Always something to do and no time to think. Now, with Simon gone and my boys grown,” she offers another pitiful smile, “I’m alone. Nothing to keep my mind busy but a broken-down refrigerator. So, as painful as this is, you’ve probably done me a favor.”
A favor? By dragging her into my mess of a life? How is that fair to her? Not only will she have to work through her grief, I may be putting her in danger just by being with her.
I have to tell her about the threat. Who knows who it came from—although I suspect Charlie Carter is behind it. His attempt to get me not to testify against his goon, no doubt.
That mess is mine, but with Rose and me spending time together, she could become collateral damage in my war.
“Well," I say, "I think you're giving me way too much credit. But thank you for saying it. After the last few weeks, it's good to think I'm not a total screwup. And I'm not fishing for compliments. I know crappy things happen and the Charlie Carter story was an important one. Just like this one is. But I feel like I get tunnel vision. I have to learn which lines I shouldn’t cross instead of going for it at all costs. Whatever it is."
This time, Rose is the one who leans in. She slides to the edge of her seat and gives my knee a light smack. “That's what I like about you. You're not afraid to go after what's right. It's an excellent quality and one I don’t believe you should ever apologize for. Believe me. As long as you're honest about your intentions, I don't see how ambition is a bad thing. For God's sake Rae, if you were a man, you'd have a Pulitzer by now. For such a civilized society, women are still treated like second-class citizens.”
She has a point there and it's something I've thought about many times, but I can't change an entire industry. Not alone anyway.
What I can do, considering this most recent threat, is make sure Rose doesn't get hurt. "Don't get mad at me, Rose, but I think you should go home."
She draws her pencil-thin brows together. "We're making progress here. We can't go home."
"Not me. You. I wasn't going to tell you this, but I have to be honest.”
“That’s always best. What is it?”
As if it was that easy? Still, I owe it to her. “While I was grabbing dinner, some jerk came up to me."
“What jerk? Who was it? Was it about the Grande?”
Just as I'm about to explain, I stop. I automatically assumed the threat came from Charlie Carter. But now, thinking back, before we left the police station Ernesto Guerrero told us to stay away from the Grande. That we could get hurt.
Huh.
A burst of energy propels me from the arm of the chair and I stride a few steps before whipping back to Rose.
"I don't know who it was. He came up to me while I was in line at the fish stand. I thought it was about the mess I left in North Dakota, but now I’m not sure."
Rose lets out a gasp that somehow seems foreign for Her Majesty. Later, I’ll have a laugh over it.
“What did he say?"
“He said some stories shouldn't be told. And that he'd always find me. At first, I thought he was referencing me having to testify against Charlie Carter's goon. You know, like I should keep my mouth shut and not testify. I get so many of these crazy calls and e-mails, I automatically went there. Now? After Guerrero told us to stay away from the Grande? Gosh, Rose, I don't know. What if this is about the hotel? And you're in the middle of it. If anything happens to you, I'll never forgive myself."
Not to mention Phillip’s threat to hold me responsible if any harm comes to his mother.
Rose? She’s not having it and waves me off. “Idle threats. Nothing will happen to me."
"Yeah well, I didn't think I'd find some creepy guy trashing my apartment, and look where that got me.”
From her seat she somehow manages to stare down her nose at me. She wants to respond, I can see it in the way she's shifted her shoulders back. Queen Rose, ready to deliver her rebuke. But...nothing.
On some level she knows the young squire—meaning me—nailed it.
“I have to admit,” she says, “you make a good argument. I still think there is more we can do here."
A week ago, I couldn’t get Rose to talk on the phone and now look at her. I hold up a hand. "There is always more we can do, but I chase stories like this for a living and we don't need to be here. Would it help to get face-to-face with some people? Yeah. But we have all the notes from Detective Sanchez. The police chief basically told us to buzz off and I don't think we'll get anyone else on the police force to talk to us.”
"What about the union workers? If they did set the fire, there has to be someone who knows something."
"Sure. But even if we’re lucky enough to find someone from back then, I don't think they’ll talk. It's been thirty years, why talk now? And as far as the union officers, assuming this union even still exists down here, they won’t want negative publicity. It’s a PR nightmare."
Rose studies me with pursed lips, but before she can hit me with one of her Haughty Queen Rose lectures, I forge on. "Besides, Sanchez actually worked the case. He's the best source down here and we've probably gotten everything we’re going to from him. I say we go back to Bel Air where your property gates and security system will keep you safe while we look into this counterfeiting angle. And,” I flash a grin, “it'll keep your sons off your back."
She drills me with a look that makes me almost giddy because I’ve bested her.
We both know it.
“Well,” she says, “You didn't waste any time using that against me."
As much as she wants me to think she's mad, I’m not buying it. She's already admitted she likes my spunk. "A good journalist uses whatever information she has. You know I'm right. I mean, yikes, Rose. They followed you down here from California. You don't think they'll be on you like white on rice while we’re down here?"
After another glare that should have melted me, she rises from the sofa and walks to the open area behind it. She does a lap around the room, turns and does another. Back and forth she goes. Back-and-forth back-and-forth back-and-forth.
Finally, she halts and holds up a finger. "As much as I hate to admit it, smarty-pants, you're right. I won't get a minute's peace down here. We'll need to regroup."
Atta girl, Rose.
Relief eases my shoulders down and I nod. I’ve actually won an argument with Rose Trudeau. Yay. Me. “I agree. We've accomplished a lot while here." I hold my thumb up. “The Secret Service agent." I put up another finger. "We know there was some kind o
f counterfeiting going on down here." A third finger goes up. "And your husband and son were questioned. These are all new leads. We might even be able to use the Freedom of Information Act to get files on the counterfeiting investigation. Who knows, maybe Myles had a beef with the counterfeiting guy and he set the hotel on fire? Maybe it wasn’t the union workers at all.”
"I think you might be on to something here. Since Myles is dead—I'm assuming you knew that?"
“Yes. I found out through my research."
She starts pacing again and I cop a squat on the arm of the chair before I get dizzy watching her.
“George must know something. He spent most of his time at the Grande those last few years. I intended to talk to him anyway upon arriving home. He owes me an explanation of what exactly he knew about the situation with Simon and Jeremy. He may have kept it in confidence while Simon was alive, but now I deserve the details. I deserve to know if Jeremy has told me all there is to know."
I don’t know the guy, but if he’s kept that secret all this time, I doubt he’ll pony up any information now. But I’ll leave that to Rose. She’s a force when she wants to be. "Do you think he'll tell you?"
"Before the meeting with Detective Sanchez, I would have bet my own life on it. After what we've learned today, I honestly have no idea. But it's worth pursuing.”
"I agree."
"Excellent. I'll get us on a flight tomorrow." She checks the delicate silver watch on her wrist and taps it. "Phillip and Jeremy will be in the air for a while. I'll leave them both a voice mail that we’ll be home tomorrow night."
The last-minute flight will be a small fortune. Probably two weeks’ pay, but I still have room for $1,000—well, $989—on my credit card.
My emergency credit line I swore I wouldn’t tap.
Once I max that thing out, with no money coming in, I'll have to pick up a freelance gig or two. Add the cost of a hotel in Los Angeles and I'd better start looking for work tonight because it doesn't look like I'll be going back to North Dakota for at least a few more days.
"I can make my own reservation. I don't want you paying for everything."
Into the Fire Page 13