The Monk carefully pressed the bill down into Nicker’s shirt pocket. “Auburn’s not a very big town, is it, Mr. Nicker? If I get down that way, I’ll look you up, check out your operation. Maybe meet the wife and kids. I like kids. Most kids.”
It took the drunken man only a second to assimilate the threat, and the comical look on his face was almost enough to placate the Monk. Almost, but not quite.
Chapter Ten
The following morning the Monk made his way through the underground maze, the vast back-of-the-house operations of the King hotel casino.
It was 10:00 A.M., well into the day shift, the time in which most services operated at full capacity. The Monk was dressed in dark-brown pants and a tan shirt. Downstairs in the basement, pager on his belt and a phony ID card clipped to his breast pocket, he could pass for maintenance. Upstairs in the hotel corridors, without the ID and pager, collar open and sleeves rolled up, he could pass for a guest. He had made these unauthorized rounds many times in the past without incident.
The Monk had just stepped off the freight elevator when he heard footsteps on the metal stairs. He ducked into the shadows. A man, a short Hispanic in kitchen whites, passed quickly without seeing him. The Monk knew the employee had no business in that area without a security escort, no legitimate business, that is. Whatever the punk was into, the Monk thought, it was either illegal or against club rules. He knew all the rules. He had personally violated most of them.
The Monk waited several minutes before following.
He jiggled a doorknob here and there along his way. Locked. This far northeast section of the building housed hotel and restaurant supplies such as food and liquor, and to leave storage rooms unlocked was to invite thievery on a high scale. The Monk knew the entire layout by heart. In his three weeks on the job he’d explored every inch of the building and had come across some interesting things.
His investigation went well beyond the hotel casino to its proprietor, Mr. Jay Garner King. He knew where he lived, the names and ages of his family members, the cars each drove, right down to the people he associated with on a daily basis, both business and pleasure.
The Monk knew King from another time and place. Twenty years ago, they had butted heads; and if everything went according to plan, they would again. Just thinking of the arrogant sonofabitch with his sexy wife and growing empire made the Monk want to smash something with his bare hands. He absently rubbed the clenched knuckles on his right hand as he made his way down the deserted corridor.
As he neared the end of the building and a large open area at the southern corner, a construction area designated as a second food-storage warehouse, he slipped into the shadows. This was the only place the sneaky little spic could be. The cold concrete space was dark, closed off by cartons, wood braces, and draped sheets of clear plastic.
Hushed voices ahead told him the man was no longer alone.
The rubber soles of the Monk’s shoes made no sound. He closed the distance, slow, deliberate, like a predator stalking prey, his presence concealed by a wall of stacked boxes. He paused within ten feet of the man and woman locked in each other’s arms. Lovers.
The Monk wasn’t surprised. Aside from sticky fingers and drugs, illicit sex often went hand in hand with the twenty-four hour business, mainly during swing and graveyard. In large casinos with the work force ranging upwards of 25,000, any dark, secluded corner became a possible site for a lover’s tryst. One of the duties of a security officer was to patrol those areas, all of which were quite familiar to the Monk, and roust the culprits. Today, two day-shift workers had found themselves a cozy niche.
Watching them now, his eyes fully adjusted to the dim light, the Monk recognized the dishwasher from the main kitchen. A few times in the past weeks when their shifts had overlapped, the Monk had escorted him to the basement supply room. The woman was a stranger to him. From the color of her uniform, the Monk knew she was a maid. She was pretty, a thin body with large breasts, also Hispanic.
They leaned against a large tin duct padded with strips of soft, pink insulation. They were fully clothed—she in the tan housekeeper’s uniform, he in kitchen whites. Their union was one of newness, of discovery, and consisted of kissing and groping. The woman kept the man in check. Either she was playing hard to get or she sensed they were not alone.
A banging door in another part of the basement quickly parted them. A few rapidly spoken words in Spanish and they were scurrying off in different directions.
The Monk knew they’d be back.
*
Her horoscope for the day warned of a backstabbing acquaintance. Romance was again on the horizon. Money was all around her. Kasey accepted the part about the money, ignored the romance prophecy, and gave little more than a passing thought to the backstabbing acquaintance.
At 10:00, the start of the day for most casino executives, who on average worked a twelve-to fourteen-hour shift, she met Brad and Jay King in a conference room on the third floor for a staff meeting. Present were Howard Cummings, the chief executive, Epson and Yanick, the top managers in the casino and hotel, and the heads of the various other departments.
Except for Howard Cummings, the CEO, she’d met the others the day before.
Jay introduced her as their new casino host.
The hotel manager, Mark Epson, turned to Jay. “Wait a minute. What about Syd Land? I thought we were going to consider him?”
“We are considering him,” Jay said.
“Then I can bring him in now?”
“Not just yet.”
“When?”
“I’ll let you know.”
“I had someone in mind, too, Jay. My gal is experienced. Has a helluva resume.” Yanick, the CM, turned to Kasey, “Ms. Atwood, what qualifications do you have? Where did you work before?”
“She knows the job, Bob,” Jay said.
“Well, that’s dandy, but I think the rest of us should be aware of her qualifications.”
“Bob,” Jay said patiently, “I’ve already hired her. Are you challenging my decision? My authority?”
“I’m only—no, sir.”
“I brought her in. She answers to me.”
Kasey wasn’t surprised by the reaction of those around the table—uncomfortable seat shuffling, eyes lowered; the more brazen of them pursed lips or nodded knowingly.
“Make no mistake, however,” Jay went on, “she’s perfectly qualified. With Hot August Nights fast approaching, I suggest we all work together to make this promotion the best yet. Do I have everyone’s cooperation?” He let his gaze touch each person at the table. “Good.”
Kasey thought his approach brilliant. She had wondered what she would say to those who asked where she had worked prior to King’s Club. As a rule, hosts came up the ranks in-house, or were stolen away from rival establishments. Occasionally, a host without prior experience might be hired and trained if he or she were sharp and personable, with a good memory for names and faces. But now, hired by the boss himself, though she could expect little or no respect, she knew that probing questions would be kept to a minimum, as well as any close alliances with other employees. The less she was taken seriously, the better the opportunity for her to move around undetected and with little suspicion. Like Brad King, she’d be just another family friend or relative giving orders and pulling in an undeserved paycheck.
“Anything else?” Jay asked, closing that particular discussion.
Howard Cummings cleared his throat, then said, “Yesterday’s surprise sweep by the immigration authorities hit us pretty hard. We lost about three percent of our work force, mostly in the hotel and kitchen areas. We’re scrambling to fill the holes. Usually when this happens, the other hotel casinos are in the same fix; but it seems this time we were singled out. With all these fake green cards, we don’t know anymore who the hell is legit.”
“Have personnel increase job advertisement,” Jay said. “Next.”
Yanick began to chuckle. “Guess who I spotted walk
ing the block last night?” he said. Walking the block meant the common practice of a rival casino or shop sending out a spy to check out the competition. “None other than Tony Bartona from The Harbor Club. You know, that dive on the lake’s north shore that Mr. Vegas himself, Ansel Doyle, just bought into.”
Jay suddenly came to attention. “Was he concentrating on anything in particular?”
“Not that I could tell. I’d say he was just checking out the operation. He had dinner in the Steak House, saw a show, and took a room for the night.”
“Is he still here?”
“I don’t know. I can check.”
“Do that. Get back to me.”
“Tony’s nothing,” Brad said. “I saw him last night, too. Bought him a drink, in fact. Teased him about spying.”
“I’m not so sure you should be encouraging him, or the likes of him, Brad,” Cummings said. “Bartona is trouble in my book. He or any of his goons just setting foot in the place leaves a stink.”
Brad shot Cummings a hard look, then said brusquely, “You’re too paranoid. You think every guy with a vowel at the end of his name has mob connections. He was shopping, nothing more.” Brad smiled. “You know what they say about imitation being the most sincere form of flattery.”
Kasey had watched the exchange between the two men with interest. She remembered Brad’s coolness yesterday toward the casino manager. Now with the CEO. It seemed he had a personality problem with his uncle’s key men.
“Hmmm, well. Brad’s probably right. But if he shows up again, I want to know right away,” Jay said. “Okay, what’s next?”
The meeting dragged on with several department heads coming under fire for one infraction or another. Blame was passed with no one taking responsibility. It was obvious the managers resented one another and, like children, accused and denied. Kasey had begun to tune them out, her mind drifting, when something Barney LeBarre, the head of security, said brought her back abruptly.
“…the guest in question wasn’t the one who complained. The complaint—more an observation, I take it—came from guests in the room across the hall. They thought the man in…” He consulted a clipboard. “…six-forty-three was attempting to signal them. They—the wife, actually—thought maybe he was being threatened by one of our security guards.”
At the mention of a security guard, Kasey and Jay exchanged glances.
“Which one?” Howard Cummings asked.
“I can’t say at the moment. Last night’s swing log had nothing about the sixth floor, or an officer being up there.”
“She was certain the man was security?” Jay questioned.
“Yes. The husband confirmed it, though he didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary. Said he was eager to get back to the tables.”
“Has anyone talked to the guest in six-forty-three?” Epson again.
“Yeah,” LeBarre said. “Name’s Nicker. Said there was no problem. Said he was pretty racked last night and doesn’t remember much. Seems this Nicker hit the dice table a good lick before his brain checked out for the night. Six, seven grand worth.”
“So what’s the problem?” Cummings piped up. “Don’t we have enough problems without inventing more? How long is he staying? I hope to hell someone comped him for another night so he doesn’t walk with our money.”
“I don’t know about that,” LeBarre said, “but if ever a guy were hiding something, it was this one. He broke out in a major four-star sweat when I brought it up…about security, I mean.”
“Well, there’s nothing we can do if he doesn’t want to talk about it. We have to respect his privacy.” Jay turned to Kasey. “If he’s still registered, comp him to meals and another night in the hotel.”
She wrote down the name and room number, then made a mental note to ask Cummings or Yanick to show her the premium-customer ledger. The ledger detailed each customers gambling record, credit limit, and net worth. It also listed personal information such as favorite foods, beverages, sports or activities, even the clothes size of each member of the family. The job of a host had great possibilities for those who liked working with the public, rubbing elbows with the rich and famous. Kasey preferred working behind the scenes. She found hotel guests, particularly guests accustomed to being catered to, a hard cross to bear.
Jay was called away, and the meeting continued without him for another tedious, combative hour. They adjourned for lunch. She and Brad returned to the main floor and were crossing the casino to the Steak House to meet the head maitre d’ when Kasey heard her name paged over the intercom. She excused herself and stepped to a white courtesy phone on the wall near the cabaret bar.
Left to his own devices, Brad greeted a cocktail waitress standing at the bar. The waitress, an attractive woman about Kasey’s age—so Brad did go for older woman—waited as the bartender filled her floor-drink order. In the short time it took for Kasey’s call to be put through, she watched Brad stroke the waitress’s arm, her cheek, and the back of her hand as they spoke.
“Kasey, it’s Jay,” he said, coming on the line. “Can you come up to my office for a few minutes?”
“Right now?”
“Yes.”
“And Brad?”
“Just you.”
“I’m on my way.” She hung up.
Brad, glancing her way, saw she was off the phone. He gave the waitress a smile and a tender pat on the rear and walked away. When he reached Kasey, she stared somberly at him.
“What?” he said, looking around. “What’d I do now?”
“Is that your wife? Sister? Fiancée?”
“No, she’s just some waitress I know. What’s the problem.”
“The problem is harassment. What you just did could be construed as sexual harassment—big time.”
“Oh, come on.”
“Didn’t your uncle go over that with you?”
“Well, yeah, but it doesn’t apply here. That’s Trish; she likes it. She knows I’m only kidding.”
“Are you sure? Are you one hundred percent sure? Does Trish like it here? Does she need this job? Does she have a kid or two she’s working her fanny off to support?”
“I don’t know. What’s the big deal anyway?”
“Ask your uncle about sexual harassment and the courts. It might give you a whole new perspective on fanny patting.”
“Okay, okay,” Brad said. “I get it. I get it. Not in the workplace.”
She shook her head. “And definitely not when you’re in a supervisory position. You’re cute, Brad, a real charmer, and I bet the girls are just crazy about you. But that won’t prevent one of them, or more than one, from slapping you and this establishment with a sexual-harassment suit. Something like that could really hurt your uncle, screw up his plans for expansion.”
She left Brad on the casino floor to mull that over. Five minutes later she was in Jay’s office meeting Detective Loweman of the Sparks Police Department.
Chapter Eleven
“Homicide.”
Det. Loweman looked from Jay to Kasey. He ran his fingers up and down his blue flowered necktie. When he couldn’t mess with his pocket change, he fiddled with his tie.
The three were seated in the conversation area of Jay’s office. Jay had introduced Kasey as a private consultant for the hotel casino.
“Great,” Jay said. “That’s all I need.”
“I’ve got men upstairs now going over the scene.”
Jay stood. “Then you might as well know Kasey and I had a look around in there yesterday.”
“Shit,” Loweman said, obviously perturbed. “Damnit, Jay, you know better. The scene of a murder—”
“What murder?” Jay calmly cut in. “No one said anything about a murder, or that Room 814 was officially a crime scene.”
“Officially, no, but—ah, hell, what’s done’s done,” Loweman said impatiently. “I’ll need to get comparison prints from you two.”
“It was treated as a crime scene, Detective Loweman,” Kasey said.
“Nothing was touched or disturbed.”
Well, thank God for small favors.”
“So the medical examiner found something?” Jay asked.
“Yeah. There’s conclusive evidence she was physically assaulted the night she died,” Loweman said. “It’s not certain if she died from suffocation at the hand of the killer or from a coronary brought on by the attack. But that’s for the legal system to decide once we get our man.
“The M.E. didn’t get around to the postmortem until this morning. And what the coroner suspected when he initially examined the body turned out to be correct. Some bruising on the upper torso just prior to death revealed two cracked ribs. Also a finger was broken. Now that particular break happened to be postmortem.”
“The missing ring?” Jay asked.
“Most likely. Once the victim is dead, there’s swelling.” Loweman demonstrated on his own finger, made the sound of a snapping twig. “The M.E. found fibers in the woman’s mouth and air passage.”
“Fibers?” Kasey said. “Like fur? Were they pink?”
“Pink? Yeah, how’d you know that?”
Kasey rose. “Let’s go up. I’ll explain there.”
Jay, Loweman, and Kasey went directly to Room 814. Two crime scene investigators, already inside, moved around the room snapping pictures, dusting for prints, sketching, taking measurements, and carefully collecting trace evidence. Reporters from two local newspapers were in the corridor interviewing anyone who would talk to them. A uniformed officer stood at the door to keep the rubbernecks and any unauthorized persons out of the way of the officials.
The investigators hadn’t gotten to the closet yet. Kasey pointed to the suitcase on the floor. “Behind that is an angora sweater. It belongs on that hanger with the cleaner receipt.”
Loweman called to one of the investigators and had him retrieve the pink sweater. As the man slipped it into a large evidence bag, Loweman studied the hanger. “Get this, too,” he said to the man. He turned to Kasey and Jay. “You sure you didn’t touch anything?”
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