He keyed the ignition of his Lexus SUV in the parking area outside Wu Liang’s, got the air going, popped on his lights, and waved to the driver of the Jaguar idling in the slot beside him. Joss Garland, a regular in Dorset’s dinner group, tapped his horn in acknowledgment and pulled out with his two passengers, Anthony Cervelli and Matt Pakonen. A moment later, Dorset saw the retired bishop of the Diocese of Las Vegas, Monsignor Sebastian Valdercourt, follow in his Honda.
Dorset had known the clergyman for twenty years. And he went back even longer with Garland, who had been among the Strip’s most well-known casino managers once upon a time. His boisterous storytelling was peppered with names like Sinatra, Presley, Newton, and Ann-Margret, who Dorset still thought was the sexiest woman ever to kick up her shapely legs onstage.
Yes, Joss had been a bona fide mover, and the same could have been said about all of the members of the group. Cervelli had headed the Nevada Gaming Commission throughout the 1980s. Pakonen was a celebrated defense attorney who’d represented mob boss Anthony Frattone at the height of his unrivaled power in Vegas—and whom Dorset had ironically gotten to know on a social basis after presiding over an extortion-racketeering trial that sent Frattone to prison for a quarter-century.
But the diverse bunch included more than just former legal and political big wheels. Or, putting it another way, Dorset thought, recognizable but attention-starved old farts, me paenitet, Monsignor. Blake Weller was a bestselling novelist in his thirties, Sheldon Cranston an agent representing dozens of current entertainers, Lars Ullen a preeminent chef. Though he was onstage at the Sands tonight and only joined them on occasion, Jackie “Rob” Calston one of the group’s relative newcomers, was half of Rob and Hood—pun obviously intended—the hottest illusionist act in town.
Surfacing from his thoughts, Dorset watched Garland’s Jaguar leave the outdoor lot, passing under the ornamental Chinese arch. No sooner had it swung onto Spring Mountain Road than he heard a buzzing noise over to his left. He glanced around as Ullen, wearing a silver jet-style helmet, sped off on his little Italian scooter.
Dorset supposed he’d better get going as well. He would drive back to Vista Bella on his customary route, heading in the opposite direction of the Jag toward South Decatur, then taking the interstate and Summerlin out to his home off the gated community’s eighteen-hole golf course. First, though, he’d make his usual stop at the gas station and Food Mart on the corner of West Charleston.
It was now a few minutes past nine o’clock. All told, he’d be in his living room mixing a Bitter Canadian by ten.
He backed out of his spot and drove under the arch to exit the plaza and merge with the evening traffic.
After stepping down from the district court, Dorset had second-guessed his decision on a host of occasions. He was in good health for a man of sixty-eight and felt he could have stayed on another five years, perhaps longer. But losing his wife had robbed him of something vital to the post. He didn’t know what name to lay on it. Commitment? Focus? Really, he didn’t know. He and Gilda had bought the Vista Bella house just three months before she was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. They’d planned to spend their weekends shooting holes on the course, socializing at the club, easing into their senior years. It was never to be, though. They hadn’t even had a chance to furnish the house when the pernicious disease took her from him.
And so he’d vacated the bench. The transition had been undeniably rough—rougher than he’d foreseen. And slower, too. There was boredom and loneliness and the long, sleepless nights of wondering if he’d made the right choice. But then, in eventual stages, almost before he knew it was happening, his doubts had eased off, and Dorset had found he’d settled into his lifestyle.
Approaching West Charleston now, he signaled, moved into the right lane, turned into the gas station, and pulled up to the pump. He got out, slid his credit card into the reader, and put the nozzle in his tank. He’d noted his fuel needle was halfway down and locked the handle before walking over to the grocery for his newspaper.
“Señor Juez, cómo estás?”
Dorset took out his wallet and smiled at the man behind the cash register. He always held a copy of the weekend Journal for him and had set it out on the counter beside cardboard displays of Easter candy and egg-decorating kits.
“I’m well, Enrique,” he said, handing over a five. “I ordered a new dish tonight, the Mongolian beef. It was the chef’s special.”
“Ah. Is good?”
“Perfection,” Dorset said. “You’re welcome to join me one of these nights.”
The vendor flapped a dismissive hand. “I not such an important person.”
“Nonsense. Who am I but a subpar golfer with bad knees?” Dorset said. “Seriously. You should come to dinner some night, try that duck for yourself. My treat.”
Enrique passed him his change. “Gracias, Señor Juez. Maybe one time, I surprise you.”
“I hope you do,” Dorset said. He tucked the paper under his arm. “Buen fin de semana, Enrique. Enjoy the weekend.”
A nod. “Tú también.”
Dorset headed outside. It was a beautiful March night in the valley, seasonably brisk, the moon a silver crescent above Mount Charleston, stars speckling the clear black sky. The chocolate Easter eggs and bunnies on Enrique’s counter had reminded him that the holiday was right around the corner, although special occasions of that sort were admittedly when he thought most about Gilda, who’d always applied a festive touch to their home when they were coming up on the calendar.
Thought about her, yes. And missed her dearly.
He strode from the glow of the storefront window into the dark and crossed to the pump island with its lighted canopy. The gas nozzle had cut off when his tank was full, and he paused before going around to hang it back on the pump, opening his passenger door to toss in his Wall Street Journal.
“Excuse me, sir, I think this might be your wallet.”
Momentarily startled, Dorset straightened with his door open, turned toward the sound of the voice, recovered at once. The man who’d come up to him under the canopy was smiling pleasantly, a brown leather billfold held out in his left hand. Thirtyish and clean-cut, he wore trendy thick-rimmed eyeglasses, a blue pullover Windbreaker with a kangaroo pocket and the Nike swoosh in front, and khaki trousers.
“I found it over there on the ground,” he said in a friendly tone, nodding toward the Food Mart. “Figured you might’ve dropped it when you left.”
Dorset didn’t have to check his trouser pocket. He could feel his billfold against his thigh, and the one in the young man’s hand didn’t resemble it at all. A gift from Gilda for some long-ago birthday, its worn tan leather was monogrammed in gold with his initials.
“It isn’t mine, thanks.” He smiled. “You’re very decent wanting to return it… have you seen if there’s identification inside?”
The man shook his head. “No,” he said. “But look at this.”
His right hand went into his kangaroo pocket and reappeared an instant later. Dorset’s eyes widened in shock when he saw what was in it. The man was gripping a small black pistol, aiming it at him point-blank. He barely had time to wonder how he could have missed its outline against the jacket’s thin nylon fabric before its snout was shoved hard against his side.
“Get in,” the man said. His voice was harsh now. “Then slide behind the wheel.”
He bodied up against Dorset, angling the weapon’s muzzle up under his ribs, thrusting it into him as he forced him toward the SUV’s door.
Dorset gasped as the air left his lungs, half stumbling, half falling into the passenger seat. The man was incredibly strong—far more powerful than he’d have guessed.
“Listen to me… you can have the vehicle,” he said. “My money. Anything else. You don’t need to do this.”
“Shut up. Don’t think I wouldn’t put a bullet in you right now.”
The man’s eyes burned into Dorset from behind his glasses. He pushed him de
eper into the vehicle, got in after him, and shoved him over the center console against his faltering resistance.
Dorset winced as his shoulder bashed painfully against the driver’s-side door.
“Let’s go,” the man said from the passenger seat. The muscles of his jaw flexed. “You’ll drive.”
Dorset hesitated with the key in his hand, looking over at the man, struggling to keep his fear under control.
It proved impossible. Those eyes. They were boring into him. He felt as if he’d been pinned under the lens of a microscope.
“You have a wide forehead,” the man said, his voice dropping to a low mutter. “I had to measure to scale from photographs.”
Dorset looked at him in confusion. “What did you say?”
The man blinked as if startled from a momentary trance. Then Dorset felt the gun jab his side again.
“Never mind. Put your key in the ignition… hurry.”
Dorset inserted it, turned it, felt the Lexus shiver to life. He looked out at the Food Mart’s window and saw Enrique behind the counter.
“Do anything stupid, and you’ll be dead before he can help.”
Dorset’s pulse roared in his ears. “What is it you want?” he heard himself ask. His voice sounded distant and wavery. “Will you at least tell me that?”
The man was silent. His pistol still buried in Dorset’s side, he slammed the passenger door shut. And only then gave his answer.
“I’m going to king you,” he said.
“Okay. Stop.”
“This place… why did we drive here?”
“You’ll see.”
“But—”
“Shut up and stop. I already told you what I want to do. You should be pleased.”
Dorset braked, cut the motor. I’m going to kill you, he thought. He was sure they had been his words… right ?
The pistol nudged his ribs. “Now, get out. Slowly. Remember, there’s no one to hear me empty my gun into you.”
Dorset shuddered. He was greasy with sweat under his shirt.
“What are you waiting for? Open your door.”
Dorset reached for the handle and was reluctantly shifting around to leave the vehicle when he was struck under the back of his neck. It wasn’t hard—a light, stinging slap. But then he felt a sudden numbness spreading from his shoulders down through his limbs.
Dorset’s thoughts shrank into a cold point of terror. An instant later, darkness eddied around him, and he was swept away.
2
“JOSH, YOU’RE AN IIIDIOT.”
“And you’re wasted.”
“A real iiidiot,” Caitlyn slurred, ignoring him. “You don’t believe me, jussht ask Mia and Owen.”
Josh stared at her, standing there on the dark concrete median between the eastbound and westbound lanes on Koval about a mile from where they’d left the dance club—a place called Random, which was the third place they’d hit that night, after Flicker and that first club with the French name he couldn’t pronounce. He was thinking that if Caitlyn the boozy birthday girl wasn’t such a hot figure-eight in her bandage dress and heels, and if he didn’t have maybe a seventy-thirty chance of rocking the mattress with her once she finally returned to their room and got over being pissed, and also if Owen wasn’t her older brother, and especially if the muscle-bound lump wasn’t twice his own size, he would tell her to keep her nasty, insulting mouth shut and show her what an idiot really was, leave her and her little posse stranded on this dark, miserable back road where there was nothing but trailer-truck depots, cheap all-night diners, and budget motels like the one they’d booked near the airport for their Vegas getaway. Happy birthday, sweetie. It was nice banging—excuse me, hanging—with you while it lasted.
All those things aside, Josh was still tempted to leave Caitlyn, her balloon-armed brother, and his twit of a fiancée right there. Good riddance. Meanwhile, he’d hike the mile or so back to where their cab had turned off the Strip at the monorail tracks and then cut onto Flamingo and grab a different taxi from the lines over at one of the resorts there, maybe with a driver who’d appreciate earning a buck in a day and age when half the people in America were unemployed and donating blood just to pay their electric bills.
Appreciate it, that was, in comparison with their last driver, the real culprit behind their getting dumped off like so much trash, no matter how Caitlyn was spinning things right now.
“Tell you something,” he said. “If I’m an idiot, that cabbie was a douche.”
“Gee, you sound soooo shhmart.”
“Come on,” Josh said. “Were we or weren’t we supposed to be partying tonight?”
“Doesn’t mean you had to get on that cabbie about the radio,” Owen said.
“Who got on him? I asked the guy to turn it up.”
“Told him’s more like it,” Mia chimed in.
“Whatever, I was respectful,” Josh said defensively, thinking that all he needed was for her to start in on him, too, make it a perfect three. “Ain’t my fault he was allergic to rap music.”
“Dude don’t got to turn it up ‘cause you say so,” Owen said.
“He wants his tip he does.”
“No, he don’t.”
“That’s the problem.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, you’re insisting on it’s what got us kicked out.”
“Look, I told him we’re celebrating, right? Come all the way from Philly to celebrate your sister’s birthday.”
“Soooo shhmart,” Caitlyn said.
Josh looked at her. “You hear me talking to you?”
“I heard you talking about me.”
“So how about you don’t chime in till I finish my point?” Josh frowned sulkily. Given how things were deteriorating between him and Caitlyn, he figured the odds of getting it on with her tonight—well, actually, this morning, since it was almost three A.M.—had already dwindled to fifty-fifty. They shrank any more, he was absolutely ditching out on her. “I want the radio cranked so we can sing along to that Rob Z track in the backseat, what’s the major offense?”
“You got no right insisting that of him, is what,” Owen said.
“For the second time, I didn’t insist. Besides, what right does he have insisting we get the hell out?”
“You tell him he can forget about a tip he doesn’t turn up the song, he’s got the right,” Mia said.
“It’s the cabbie’s cab,” Owen agreed, nodding.
Josh gave Caitlyn a piercing look. He’d had his fill of taking crap from her gang of three here.
“It’s the cabbie’s cab,” he parroted. “Now, that’s what I call smart. Takes a genius to figure out it’s the cabbie’s cab.”
“You inshhulting my brother?”
“Why not?” he said. Owen wanted to haul off on him, he could be his guest. “I insist to the cabbie, I insult your brother, I’m the biggest idiot on the planet—”
“Got that shhhtraight,” Caitlyn said.
Josh kept glowering at her. Enough was enough. He was sick of being triple-teamed. Caitlyn could have their room to herself, assuming she ever made it back to the motel. He would get there ahead of her in taxi number two, have the driver wait while he packed his suitcase, and then bring him to another low-budget inn. There had to be a dozen near the airport with vacancies. More than a dozen, he bet. Once he checked in, he’d grab the phone book and order some takeout—preferably of the blond variety. Do some real Vegas-style celebrating.
“That’s it,” he said. “I’m going.”
“Where?” Caitlyn said.
“None of your business.”
“But it’s, like, three miles to the motel,” Owen said.
“Right.”
“You get us tossed out of that cab, and you’re cutting loose?”
“Right, genius.”
Josh turned around quickly, figuring it was now or never as far as Owen smacking him one to preserve his drunken sister’s honor… of which Josh had noticed littl
e to none since they’d first hooked up in a bar maybe a month ago. When the blow upside his head didn’t come, he figured he’d better get a move on before the dumb galoot changed his mind. Or had it changed for him.
“Kick hisssh assh, Owen,” Caitlyn said behind him, trying her best to do just that.
“Screw him, he ain’t worth it.”
Breathing a sigh of relief, Josh hoped he would stay unworthy as far as Owen was concerned, if only long enough to disappear into the deep, dark night. He hustled across the eastbound lanes to the sidewalk and started backtracking toward the monorail, walking parallel to the chain-link security fence fronting an enormous truck lot to his left.
“Joshhh, you bashhhtard, shhhtop!”
Crap, he thought. Caitlyn had followed him across the road—he could hear her high heels unevenly scuffing on the pavement as she tried to catch up. Meanwhile, Owen and Mia were shouting her name even as she yelled his at the top of her lungs, creating the potential for a whole ugly scene to develop.
Josh wanted no part of it. Ignoring all three of them, he quickened his pace to a near trot.
“Joshhh, you ba—” Caitlyn suddenly broke off. “Omigod! Omigod!”
He barely had time to register the shock in her voice when a loud, wordless scream burst from her lips, tearing shrilly into the predawn silence along the deserted lane. He stopped cold and felt his blood rush into his legs.
Josh stood with his muscles locked. Caitlyn kept screaming. His heart beat twice, pounding hard against his chest, and he realized he’d turned to see what was happening. She was ten or twelve feet behind him, facing the truck depot, staring into it through the chain-link fence. Screaming, screaming, screaming, as Owen and Mia raced over to her from the median.
And then all three were gaping at something beyond the fence. Josh snapped his eyes in that direction. Saw the dark shape on the ground. It was just inside the linkage, visible at the outer rim of the glow from a lamp pole inside the lot. Caitlyn was still screaming hysterically, her eyes wide with fright and confusion, and now Mia was shrieking her head off, too.
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