“But that’s not even the worst of it, right?”
The manager stammering now, because he understands what Bobby’s getting at. It isn’t the potential loss of life ten, twenty years down the line. No, that’s not how casinos think. They think in terms of the bottom line, they think in terms of stockholders, they think in terms of the next business cycle.
So Bobby lets that sink in and says, “You know what happened to Chernobyl, right?”
By this time the manager’s shaking in his Guccis.
“They put a fence around it. They got everybody out of there and they put a fence around it, around the town, around the area, and nobody could go in for hundreds of years.
“Think about it. All these casinos. Your casino. Think about all the money that changes hands every day. Think about what would happen if Las Vegas didn’t exist anymore.”
Then the kicker: How much is a million dollars compared to that? One lousy million dollars. I know what you’re gonna say. “How can we lay our hands on money like that?” But you know that would be disingenuous, right? You have that in petty cash right now. If there’s one place you can get your hands on cash, it’s Las Vegas.
It was a perfect set-up. The truck in the parking lot, Bobby with the phone at—as Dick Cheney would say—another undisclosed location, and plenty of money downstairs and all over Las Vegas.
“What I want is real simple,” he’d say. “If you do what I ask, it will be one of the simplest transactions in the world. All I want is one million dollars. If you can’t scrape up the money on your own, you can always call some of your friends. I’m sure you can come up with a million in no time.” He’d list a few interested parties: the Mirage, Mandalay Bay, the Bellagio, the Luxor. They’d all have a stake in this.
And so he would make his demand: the million dollars, wired to a Swiss numbered bank account, which he would have to get confirmation on. Once the money had been successfully wired, he would take off in the car he had stashed in the Mirage parking lot.
He knew, though, that they would try to cheat. Even for a million dollars, which should only be the cost of doing business when you’re trying to save Las Vegas from becoming a ghost town—even then. He’d learned that about folks, especially rich folks. Especially corporations. They liked to hold onto their money. The more they had, the more they begrudged the loss of even a penny. The casino guys, they’d think they were being really crafty, trying to put one over on the poor white guy with dirt under his nails. It could manifest itself in many ways: They would try to stall him so a bomb team could come out and defuse the bombs. Or they would enlist the police to make a hotel-to-hotel search in this immediate area. Or they would try to do something with the wire transfer itself—although that was pretty much foolproof.
Still, he didn’t trust them. Hence, the hostage.
Sometimes, the human factor was the only thing that could change the equation. The fear that a woman might be buried underground, left to die under a pile of earth—anybody could relate to that. Or at least the fear that the Blue Lagoon Hotel and Casino would be seen as putting the value of their bank account over the value of human life.
If that came out, their lagoon would dry up into a tadpole pond.
Bobby’s eyes tracked a jackrabbit as it loped across the desert, the same dull gray-brown as the landscape it ran through. Las Vegas, for all its billion lights and shows and waterfalls and fake-looking grass and the chiming that went on day and night, could be as dead as this desert in a week. He pictured it: refugees in Armani suits with smartphones, running out off the Strip like rats.
Bobby knew he had to keep it between him and the casinos. He knew they wouldn’t want the media there any more than he did. Last year an al Qaeda operative videotaped casinos as possible terrorist targets. When the city fathers were notified that there were terrorists casing the place, they stuck their heads in the sand like ostriches. They didn’t want to hear about it. They didn’t want the bad publicity, didn’t want to discourage so much as one overweight, flip-flop-wearing, Hawaiian-shirted tourist from unloading his paycheck here. That was their answer—ignore it and it will go away.
So he thought his chances were pretty good for getting away clean, if he kept it between himself and the Blue Lagoon.
Something his mother always said popped into his mind: think positive. Coming from her, that was a joke. She never had one positive thought in her life, but she made that her mantra. As in: The trouble with you is you don’t think positive. You don’t aim high.
High enough for you now, Ma?
So he was going to think positive. Like the Little Feat song said, put on your sailin’ shoes, and he was going to sail all the way to Mexico. He wasn’t going to think about all the ways it could go wrong. He was going to set those happy, success-oriented molecules in motion.
Bobby was still thinking about all of this and starting to feel really good about his prospects when he came up over the rise and saw the line of cars in his lane up ahead.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
“So what have we got?” Special Agent in Charge Damien Peltier said as he pushed past Laura into the room
Laura looked at Jon.
His demeanor had undergone a change. He seemed polite, attentive even. But the light had gone out of his eyes; they were still blue marbles in his head. As he gave the rundown, his voice was as flat as his eyes.
Peltier, short, slender with black hair and a narrow nose whose flared nostrils always seemed to sniff out something bad. Elegant ringed fingers always in flight, the black hairs on the back of his pale knuckles catching the light. Laura had once heard Jon call him Captain Queeg, because he focused on minutia at the expense of what was important.
And he was a little bit crazy.
In early 2000, he’d been one of the supervisors who had ignored warnings of potential terrorists wanting to fly planes without learning to take off and land at an Arizona flight school. For that oversight, he had been promoted to Special Agent in Charge, Phoenix Division.
Jon got about a paragraph into his description of events when Peltier raised his hand. “We don’t have time for this,” he said. “I want the boiled-down version.”
Jon started over, using short sentences. He outlined the basic points, but there were big gaps in between. Peltier seemed to like it; he cracked his knuckles when Jon was through. In Peltier-speak that meant rolling up the sleeves and getting to work.
Peltier glanced at Laura. “Good the way that worked out—thanks for the tip. As soon as the helicopter gets here, I’ll be setting up house at the command post. We’ll be out of your hair pretty soon, so you can get back to your routine.”
FBI-speak for dismissal: Your work is done here.
Laura knew better than to get in a pissing match with him over that. But she wasn’t going to back down regarding her own case. “You’re not in my hair,” she said in as pleasant a voice as she could muster, “although we have our own interest in Bobby Burdette. He’s suspected in the murders of two people. We’ll be working the case from here.”
He smiled, but his little current eyes glinted hard. “Of course you need to follow your case,” he said. “What you need to understand, though, is we have a nuclear emergency here. You can go ahead and do your thing, but I just want to be clear. Don’t expect us to hold your hand through all this—we’re busy trying to avert a disaster.”
“I wasn’t aware until now that the two cases aren’t linked.”
“Priorities,” he said briskly. “You know how that works.” He turned to Jordan Benteen, dismissing her. “When’s that chopper going to get here?”
“Any minute, sir.”
Peltier put his hand to his chin like The Thinker. “You picked the right place—east of Searchlight. Good job, figuring that out from here. But I think we should be a little closer. We’re moving the command post two miles back toward Searchlight—about six miles east of town instead of eight.” He walked to the map and tapped the Route 164 just east
of Searchlight. “I’ve got FBI SWAT on their way now.”
“Las Vegas Metro offered a SWAT team.”
“We’ve got that covered. Did you call for helicopter surveillance?”
“No,” Service said. “We don’t want to spook them. We’ve got them on satellite.”
“We’re going to have to have a real show of force—we want them to give up right away, realize there’s no way out. I want every law officer within a thirty-mile-radius right there behind the roadblock, make sure they don’t get to the Colorado River. We can’t afford to let these guys think they can run the roadblock and get away with it.”
“We should have somebody on 95,” Jon said. “Just in case the truck turns south.”
“Why would they do that? They’re going to the Colorado River.”
“They probably won’t, but—”
He tapped the map again. “I want them at the roadblock on 164. Is there anything else?” He looked from Laura to Jon.
“DPS is sending a negotiator,” Laura said.
“Negotiator?” He looked at her. “Why?”
“A hostage negotiator, in case—”
“We don’t need one.”
“I would advise you to have one there,” said Service.
“Well, we’re not having a DPS team. This is going down in Nevada. We don’t want any more jurisdictional headaches than we need. As it is, everybody and his brother’s coming to the ball.”
“You could get a team out of Las Vegas,” Laura said.
He glared at her. “This is really not your business, detective.” He turned to Jon. “I talked to our SWAT commander not an hour ago. He seems to feel we don’t need a hostage negotiator. So we’ll leave it at that.”
Suddenly, there was the familiar whopping of helicopter blades. Damien Peltier’s white teeth showed, half-grimace, half-smile. “There’s my ride. Jordan, pack up your tent.”
Service said, “I think you should keep that unit on 95.”
Peltier ignored him. “Let’s go, let’s go. Everybody get a move on, let’s make this quick.” He saw Service filling his briefcase. “Jon, you understand, but we’re going to need you here—we need you to coordinate the info coming in on this end.”
Jon’s face turned a dull red, but he said nothing.
“You two go ahead and coordinate your efforts.” He glanced at his watch. “Just remember you’re a guest here and don’t trample all over her homicide—you’ve got to work and play well with others, be sensitive to her needs.”
He picked up his shoulder bag. “Let’s show some chivalry. Just because there’s a truck full of nuclear waste headed for the Colorado River, doesn’t mean we can’t give the locals a hand.”
Grabbing up his briefcase in the other hand, he strode briskly out of the office, calling back over his shoulder, “Look busy!”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
California Highway Patrol officer Jess Harding walked along the row of cars, occasionally stopping to talk to one motorist or another, what they called in his job being “Officer Friendly,” presenting a good face to the public and doing his bit for public relations.
Some motorists were impatient, downright pissed-off at the delay, and some were philosophical—one family was watching a DVD in their big, new SUV, windows rolled up and air conditioning on. Despite the heat and the wind, a number of people were standing in the road, straining to see the wreck, which was still smoking.
“What happened up there?” asked a guy wearing a T-shirt emblazoned with an eagle head and the words PROUD TO BE AN AMERICAN.
“Car accident. We’re close to clearing the road, shouldn’t be long.”
That wasn’t strictly true. It would be a while. The tow truck was waiting to remove the wreck of the Corvette, which had been reduced to a twisted black, wheelless hulk. But the other vehicle, which had escaped the fire, was dead center in the roadway and they were waiting for the Jaws of Life to extricate the driver.
“What happened? Did anyone get killed?”
“I don’t have that information at this time, sir.”
But of course he did. The driver of the Corvette was toast. The other guy was alive, but didn’t look like he’d stay that way. How it looked to him, the Corvette must have been going at a high rate of speed when the old ranch truck pulled out in front of him going in the same direction.
CHP officer Jack Sheedy was measuring the scene and marking evidence for any criminal charges when it got to court. There would be a lawsuit from someone. Jess continued up the line, deflecting questions and putting a cheerful face on it. The last vehicle in line was a semi truck.
When he got to it, he grabbed the mirror and stepped up on the running board. The driver rolled down the window.
“Where you headed?” Harding asked.
“Flagstaff,” the driver said. He nodded to the cars in front of him. “What’s going on up there?”
“Accident. Speeder in a sports car ran into some old guy turned right in front of him.”
“What time frame’re we looking at?”
Harding decided to be a little more honest since this guy was a trucker. “Looks like an hour and a half at least.”
“Guess I have time for smoke then.”
“I could use a cigarette right now myself.”
Guy shook out a Camel but Harding declined. “Can’t,” he said, surprised that he sounded apologetic.
Harding stepped down, saw the silver tanks under the heavy tarp. “Looks like giant beer kegs under there. That would be something, huh? What are they anyway?”
“Milk.”
“Milk?”
“PET Milk.”
Harding shook his head. “Haven’t heard that name in years. There’s still a market for it?”
“Uh-huh. Especially in France.”
“France.” He laughed. “Figures.” He had one foot back on the running board, which offered him some lumbar support. He would rather bullshit with the truckers or play officer friendly with the citizens than sit in his car, even though standing for long periods made his back ache. “Where you coming from?”
“Tonopah.”
“That’s where this stuff comes from?”
The guy looked at him, sunglasses dark and glossy. His mouth turning up at the corner: “Dairy farm.”
A blast of wind buffeted Harding, fluttering his uniform pant legs. Wondering whether the guy was putting him on or just making a joke. He laughed. “Dairy farm, what else? Must be hard getting milk into those little cans, huh?”
Silence. Guy just sitting there, serene behind his dark glasses. Clearly had no sense of humor, so Harding didn’t bother to explain his joke. He could still hear the echo of his own laugh, tinny all by itself. He patted the cab door, said, “Take it easy.” He started back up the line of cars again, the wind coming hard now and slapping him sideways, carrying with it the smell of charred meat, and Harding could swear he felt those dark glasses staring at his back all the way.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Richie Lockhart already had his telephonic warrant and was on his way to Bobby Burdette’s, but decided to let the Williams police chief know what was happening as a professional courtesy. As he walked to the building he saw Josh Wingate talking to the chief out in the parking lot.
“You need any help executing that warrant?” Chief Loffgren called out.
“Oh, so you know about it.”
“Jungle drums. Talked to the judge.” He clapped Officer Wingate on the shoulder. “Seriously, you might want to take Officer Wingate along. Might be good to have another eye.”
Why not? Richie didn’t want to do it by himself, and he had been impressed with the way Wingate had handled himself at Cataract Lake. He nodded to the young officer. “Come on.”
Josh Wingate detached himself from the car he’d been leaning against and followed him to his Chevrolet.
“You ever execute a warrant before?” Richie asked.
“No, sir.”
“Just do what
I tell you. The occupant won’t be there. But we gotta maintain the chain of custody, any evidence we gather, so the main thing I want you to do is follow my lead, do exactly as I say—and wear gloves.”
“Yes, sir.”
They drove out Seventh to Edison Avenue and turned right.
Josh Wingate was quiet. Glancing in Wingate’s direction, Richie saw that the kid was staring straight ahead, his face impassive. Richie had noticed that he had been very helpful in the past and always had a nervous energy. Not today, though. He’d thought he was doing him a favor to bring him along, but the kid was a bag of laundry sitting on the passenger’s seat.
Then he realized. Of course. Family troubles. His mother had gone off the deep end, nearly taking Laura Cardinal out when she tried to kill herself a couple of days ago. Of course he’d be shaken up. Barbara Wingate off to the loony bin. His whole world turned topsy-turvy.
“Everything okay?” he asked.
Josh Wingate mumbled something that Richie couldn’t decipher.
Richie decided to pursue it. He needed to know this kid’s state of mind. If he was preoccupied with his own problems, he would be useless at the house, which was a crime scene and needed to be treated as such. “I heard about what happened with your mother. She all right?”
“She’s okay.” Staring out the passenger window now.
“Heard they took her in for observation. She out now?”
“Yes, sir.” Flat voice, flat expression. Holding on to a lot of pain, trying to keep it inside. Richie knew all about that, only he hid his pain by joking. He remembered in happier days when his wife had season tickets to Arizona Opera and dragged him along. One of them was I Pagliacci.
Laugh, clown, laugh.
What he wouldn’t give to have her drag him to one more opera. “How about Erin? She okay?”
“My brother-in-law and his wife are coming for her next weekend.”
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