“Do you have a specific question?” I asked her.
She shrugged and shook her head. “Didn’t think you were going to pick me.” Then she giggled again.
Southern accent. Sounded…Texan. East Texas, possibly Houston.
Here’s what I did: I picked the topic. Then, a few possible angles, all of them light-hearted. Never anything heavy, like divorce. Every time I got a hit off the person, some sign that what I’d said registered, I got a new direction to go in. It was sort of like one of those “pick the adventure you want!” stories my sister Stevie loved so much when she started reading. Granted, she was eighteen months old at the time, and she was over them by the time she was three, when she’d moved on to reading Dumas. In French.
Colin and I had added mind-reading to the act five months ago. We did twelve shows a week, two mind-readings per show for twenty weeks, and in all that time I’d had one person say that I was wrong. All the rest were amazed, confounded, excited by what I said. More than a few people, women and men both, had made their way to the dressing room afterwards, asking for a longer reading. Yes, periodically I did it, because it was an easy way to pick up some extra cash, and a nicer way than half of the showgirls in town earned extra money in their dressing rooms.
I took the woman’s hand and asked her name. Rebecca.
“You’re a Becky, aren’t you?” I said.
She giggled again and nodded.
I took her hand, damp and cold from her drink and trembling with stage fright, and closed my eyes. What would a woman in her early forties who had a comfortable marriage ask questions about? It was either her job or her kids. Job it was. I stay away from doing readings about kids. Too much chance to hit a deep nerve.
“You don’t want to know about your job, do you?” Starting out with a question like this was a win-win—if the person said yes, then I get points for bringing up the topic, and if she said no, then I get points for having dismissed the idea.
Becky’s hand clutched mine a little and she nodded.
“You work in—” Good comfortable shoes, an amiable demeanor, easy with people. Health care or teaching? “—the medical field.”
Becky gasped.
“You’re a nurse?”
She nodded.
“You’ve been overworked lately, haven’t you?” The least psychic thing I could have said: nurses everywhere were overworked. “You’re wondering if you should change positions?” A tiny flex in the hand. “You heard about a new position opening up and you’re wondering if you should move to it.”
Becky shrieked as she pulled her hand away from me and clenched her fists. She was smiling though, which was a good sign.
“Becky, I think you know exactly what you need to do. You need to trust yourself more that you can do what’s right for you and your family.” After a second’s pause, I grinned at her. “Would you mind telling the audience how well I did?”
I tilted the microphone toward her and Becky said, “That was amazing! That’s what’s been on my mind! We’ve been talking about it every minute we’ve been here!” She grabbed me and hugged me, which caused a minor bit of feedback over the sound system.
When she let go, I asked for the second and final volunteer, and a lot more hands went up.
I glanced over at the side of the stage. Colin was leaning against the pole, his arms folded across his chest. He was smiling. Stupid bastard. I picked a second volunteer.
#
After I finished, the music for the final illusion started. The house lights dimmed and I went backstage to get into position. Colin came up behind me and put his hands around my waist and his cheek against my head. “They love you.” He kissed my hair. “Don’t leave.” He interlaced our fingers.
Fabulous. Now he was lovey-dovey Colin. Up mood, down mood. I was tired of babysitting him, just as I was tired of babysitting my sister Stevie, but she came much higher on the priority list than he did. Colin didn’t know that, because he’d never even heard the name Stevie, let alone met my younger sister. Six months into our stage partnership and sham marriage was not the time to mention her existence. Or the fact she lived in a small one-room apartment in a run-down building a few miles off the Strip. He had never asked where I went when I wasn’t with him, and I never volunteered that information. “Colin, don’t do this.”
“At least tell me where you’re headed.”
“I have to get on-stage.”
When Colin’s mood was up, he was fun, he was exciting, he was supportive. Those times I actually looked forward to doing the show—well, if not the actual show, then the rehearsals and the kidding around and going out together afterwards. Bad Colin made things unpleasant.
I remembered what Bad Colin had just done, and I reached into his pocket. No bracelet.
My hand moved to his right pocket but he smacked it away. “Yes, I’m irresistible. Save it for later.” He grinned and pulled the curtain aside. “Your cue.”
I headed out.
The finale was an over-the-top spectacular of blood, gore, and exceptional deftness with capes. Or, in some cases, dropcloths stained pink from all the stage blood that had been dropped on them during previous shows.
At the end, Colin merrily lopped parts off Kristin while I ran around reattaching them. It was all very Sweeney Todd and the audience enjoyed it, finally getting into the blood and gore of the Grand Guignol. Then Colin eluded both of his assistants, vowed to return, and then disappeared.
In sync, Kristin and I both looked up at the large sheet-covered mass hanging from the stage ceiling. It had hung up there the entire finale, of course, but no one would have looked at it with all the antics on-stage. And a bloody stain began to spread from where the cable disappeared into the sheet.
“You don’t think—”
Kristin said, “Isn’t he afraid of heights?”
“Isn’t he afraid of hooks?” I always got a laugh with that one.
I shimmied out of my heels and lifted my foot. After waiting a moment, I wiggled my toes. “Oh!” Kristin said, late on the mark as usual. Then she wove her fingers together to form a platform for me. I stepped on her hand, she boosted me up, and I jumped to snatch the sheet off Colin.
I landed on the ground, bloody sheet in hand. And nothing happened. The audience was supposed to gasp at the sight of Colin, impaled on a meathook, before he raised his golden head and winked at them. But as I stood there with the sheet, the audience sat there, silent. Waiting.
Kristin stared up at Colin. Then she looked at me, widening her eyes a little to signal me that something was wrong.
I looked up. The round, smiling plastic mannequin’s face of the practice dummy beamed down at me. The blood pack leaked dark red corn syrup. And the dummy wore a square piece of paper pinned to his chest.
Right on cue, as though the show was continuing as usual, the meathook began to lower. At the point where Kristin and I would help Colin off, to fervent applause, we unhooked the dummy to silence broken only by ice in glasses and a few murmurs here and there.
Kristin took the note off the dummy’s chest. “Sorry, have to go,” she read. She looked at me. “What does that mean?”
The audience seemed to get the idea that something had gone terribly wrong, because the murmurs graduated to talking at full volume.
I put my hand on Kristin’s shoulder. “Stay here,” I whispered. I ran backstage, to where Sam and Q waited by the curtains. “Where is he?”
Q shrugged at me. Sam said, “He went around to stage left. Said he had a new end tonight.”
Sam, darling Sam. So good with the mechanical things, and so much slower with others. I ran behind the fire curtain to the other side of the stage: no Colin.
I dashed to the back door of the stage, which emptied out into the employee parking area. When we arrived at the casino for our little talk, Colin had taken the space right by the fire door, and I parked next to him. I pushed open the fire door into a cool Las Vegas night. The Strip lit up the heavens two mi
les away. The halogen light near the fire door showed me the parking space was empty.
Colin Abbott had abandoned his own show.
I stood in the entrance of the fire door for a millennia or two, trying to understand this. I could sooner believe Colin would literally saw me in two—or three, or more—than I could wrap my mind around him leaving his magic show.
I thought of the note. Sorry, have to go.
He’d left before I could.
“Filth-swilling whoremonger of Babylon,” I muttered before slamming the door shut. Q slouched nearby. “Give me your phone.” He handed over his mobile without so much as a peep. Smart boy. I called Colin’s cell.
It rang. And rang.
He was gone. And he’d taken my bracelet with him. My stupid goddamned bracelet.
“Where is he?” The voice was oily and loathsome, and that was the best part of the man.
When I turned around, I found Barry Coffey glaring at me. Barry Coffey was short, round, balding, and the producer of our show for the casino. He had thick, stubby fingers and his suit—I think he had only the one—stunk of cigars. He’d hated me since I arrived, because I’d told him, rather forcefully and a mite shy of breaking a digit, that I was not open for business. He’d tried again when Colin had proposed the Grand Guignol theme. Colin explained that it would be messy, but a great selling point. Coffey’s response? She gives me a blowjob, you can have your show. Without missing a beat, Colin mentioned that not one but two other casinos had contacted us, and we’d tank every show from here on out if we needed to. Coffey caved, but he never forgave us. Didn’t send us a wedding gift either. Told us to be at the theater at the regular time that night.
Colin had shown some real pendulous testicles with his shove-back at Coffey, because in reality no other casino was interested in us. I admired him for that. It wasn’t like he’d done it out of love.
Behind Coffey was his main goon, Vin Behar. If Coffey was my number-one bete noire, Behar was not far behind. Of course, Behar had nearly gotten me killed tonight, so he was moving up the list fast.
“I’d like to know where he is as much as you would,” I told them.
“You would, huh? So would I. That’s my money.” Coffey waved his cigar around. He grabbed my arm, his fingers digging into my bicep, and he leaned in close. Ugly cigar smell, masking something…uglier. “Where is he?”
I looked him right in the eye. “I recommend taking your hands off me.”
Coffey grinned at me as he let go. “You’re his wife. So until I find him, I’m keeping your ass under hard surveillance.” A nasty grin, his gaze fixed on my tits. A grin that meant that one way or another, I was on that hook Colin had disappeared off of.
He was kidding himself if he thought he’d get anywhere with me without some part of his body snapping off. Any part. I wouldn’t be particular.
“Find him. And you’re not going anywhere, until I get my money back. One way or another.” In case I didn’t get his meaning, he stuck his cigar back in his mouth. The man had all the subtlety of the rhino he resembled.
I grabbed his hand and twisted his arm behind his back, and then kicked the back of his knee. He was face-down on the ground, lighted end of the cigar dangerously close to his cheek. “Don’t touch me. Or next time I’m going to break this. Slowly. And with a great deal of pleasure.” And I yanked his arm up a tiny bit more before letting it drop.
Which I would. I’d done much worse than break someone’s arm when they hurt me. The first time you hurt someone, it’s the worst thing in the world. After that, it gets easier. I have learned my lesson over the years: I don’t make threats. I make promises I am absolutely willing to keep. It helps to make everyone understand where we all stand.
All the stagehands avoided me as I returned to the edge of the stage. Kristin came over to me. “It’s a mess. No one in the audience is leaving.”
“Go tell the ticket sellers there’s no second show tonight.” I thought of Coffey. “And give refunds.”
Kristin nodded, but she didn’t move. She had a lost expression in her eyes. “What are we going to do?”
Her real question was, what am I going to do? And not only about tonight, but tomorrow, and the day after. Twenty-four, out on her own, her first job since coming to Vegas to be a showgirl. I had no sympathy. When I was her age, I’d been on my own for eight years, dragging Stevie behind me, scared to death our father would find us.
I kept rubbing my wrist, wrapped with a bandage, not a bracelet. That bracelet could, in the wrong hands, cause a lot of problems. For me, and for other people. Mostly for me, though. I had no idea what Kristin was going to do, but I knew what item number one on my agenda was.
“I’m going to kill him,” I said.
CHAPTER TWO
IT TOOK ME six weeks to find where Colin was hiding.
I still visited the Marrakesh on the sly, hoping to pick up information about Colin, avoiding Barry Coffey where possible. He yelled a lot, but he kept his distance. So instead, he set Vin Behar on me. Every day, the walrus parked outside the apartment I shared with Stevie. A couple of times, he sent one of his flunkies to sub for him, and they used the same car he did. But mostly it was Behar. He followed me to the Marrakesh Casino, and he followed me home. When I went running in the middle of the night, more than once he followed me by car.
But never any closer than that. He stayed in the car.
I grew to loathe that brown sedan. On the twentieth day in a row, I peered out the front window and muttered, “Goddammit.”
Stevie’s grunt from across the room reminded me to watch my language.
“Sorry. Zeus damn it? Zeus smite them all to Hades?”
My elf of a sister smiled up at me and went back to her computer.
My clever sister tried all the standard ways to find Colin. Stevie sat at her computer, curled up in her tight pretzel and nibbling on the bottom of her braid, and pulled his cell phone records. And then a lot of the phone records for different Marrakesh departments. Honestly, computer security at the world’s largest firms still sucks, even after all these years of practice they should have had. A few hours spent social hacking via phone—a friendly chat here, a short pretense at being a field rep there—and it didn’t take much for me to get Stevie the information she needed.
The phone records didn’t find Colin, though. At least, not directly. One of the ways I earned money during those six weeks was doing “intuitive” readings for some of the people I knew at the Marrakesh. The ones who couldn’t be convinced my act was a put-on. I put on a good show and they got their money’s worth, okay? The Thai hookers had one segment of the job market sewn up and drug dealing had never appealed to me, so I became psychic and it paid our bills. My biggest fan was Barry Coffey’s administrative assistant, Eliza, and I was her biggest fan, because she paid in cash. Eliza had dated Colin briefly, before I was even in Las Vegas, until Coffey told her her job depended on being available to him. Eliza was a friendly, helpful little gal.
And then one day she wouldn’t look me in the eyes and her laugh was a little too fake.
I told Stevie to pull all the records on Eliza’s office phone, her home phone, and her cell phone. Stevie found a call to the office from Los Angeles from a phone belonging to someone named Anne da Silva. A cell phone that had been registered after Colin’s disappearance. Anne da Silva was a writer for People magazine who already had a cell phone number (same cellular provider), a landline at her house, and a work phone.
Usually that sort of person doesn’t need yet another phone line.
Stevie checked the location of the number that had called Eliza. Cell providers keep records of phone locations—Stevie told me they do that in order to improve service, not to track people, although the ability to track people doesn’t hurt. The GPS coordinates for the phone showed it mainly being in two locations over the past six weeks: near Anne da Silva’s house, and in an area of Hollywood filled with apartment buildings. The GPS coordinates were speci
fic enough we knew the spot on the block.
Modern technology rocks.
The next day I went straight to Coffey’s office, where Eliza was doing some paperwork. Without saying a word to her, I picked up her phone and dialed the number we’d found.
A man said, “Liza?”
I slammed the phone down. “He asked you to get his final paycheck, I presume?”
Eliza looked as though I might hit her. Word of what I’d done to Coffey had gotten around.
“You don’t say a word to him,” I purred. “Nod if you understand.”
Eliza nodded.
I called Stevie and told her to get ready.
At six thirty the next morning, I stopped by Vin Behar’s car, parked as usual by the parking lot to my apartment building. As I had on at least six other occasions, I handed him a foam cup of coffee. This time, in addition to the cream and sugar I usually added, I’d put in enough Rohypnol to stop a rampaging herd of rhinoceroses. In Behar’s case, that probably would only make him sleepy for an hour or two. He thanked me completely insincerely. I went back into the apartment, got Stevie downstairs to the car with the two small suitcases I’d packed, and then drove past Behar, completely knocked out.
When we were ten miles outside Los Angeles, Stevie logged on to the cell network’s records again. Colin’s phone was in Hollywood, so I headed that way.
The GPS did not steer us wrong: we found Colin’s Camry in the stall marked “22” underneath a shoddily-built apartment building. Same car, only the Nevada plates had been removed. Before going to see my beloved life partner, I decided to poke around his car. A quick use of handy tools unlocked it for me. The interior was spotless. Nothing in the glove compartment.
In the trunk, I found a brochure for the Marrakesh, a spare tire, and nothing else.
Dammit. I checked under the mats; I checked the interior of that tire. No bracelet.
I bounded up the stairs and knocked on the door of twenty-two. Then I stopped knocking and started banging.
No one answered. That was frustrating. I’d come quite a ways to find him, and now here he and his car were, and yet my bracelet was nowhere to be found.
You Know Who I Am (The Drusilla Thorne Mysteries Book 2) Page 2