“Ted, do you know what he drives?”
When he said he didn’t, she hung up and rushed into the other room. She switched on two of the monitors, tuning into the cameras focused on the garage elevators. She watched the main lobby and the lower level for several minutes. A steady stream of people exited both elevators, none of whom were Lucas Cage.
Was he on the premises? How many black Camaros with tinted windows could there be in this town? Employees were prohibited from parking in the hotel garage, but since when did Cage follow rules?
Kasey called Ted Lunt back and requested he send a man to check out the service stairs. If the guard found anyone there, he was to detain him.
She left Jay’s office. Minutes later, she was on the top floor of the six-story parking garage. She would find his car and get the license number, leaving nothing to chance.
*
Lucas Cage avoided the elevator and took the stairs. This was one time he’d rather not be seen. At least not until after he had made the change.
Halfway to the second floor he heard footsteps on the metal steps two floors above, coming down fast. He paused. In the direction he’d just come from, he heard the metal door open and footsteps now sounded below. He was on the landing between the first and second floor. He couldn’t go down. No time. He stood a better chance going up.
He took the steps three at a time, his black Nikes silent on the steps, the footsteps of the two others ringing loudly in his ears.
He quickly unlocked the door on the second floor, and just as he pulled the door closed behind him he caught a glimpse of the dark shoes and blue pant-legs of the security guard coming down. He heard shouting—one guard shouting at the other. He left them to battle it out between themselves.
Cage took a moment to look around the convention area. Except for a porter sifting through the sand-filled ashcans at a bank of telephones, the area was empty. He made his way to the door of the catwalk without meeting another soul.
Inside the clubhouse, the small, stuffy room that Cage had begun to affectionately regard as his home away from home, he opened the nylon bag, removed a brown uniform that the club provided for their maintenance crew, and put it on.
He turned and sat on the large metal toolbox he had brought up to this room his first week on the job. He reached back into the bag and removed a curly blond wig, matching mustache, and a pair of tortoiseshell glasses. He put these on with the aid of a small compact mirror. He clipped a ring of keys to his belt and a laminated ID tag to his pocket. After one more glance in the mirror, he picked up the toolbox and left the room.
He took the service elevator to the lower level, no longer concerned about being seen or running into security. He was just a club maintenance man doing his job.
In the basement he passed employees, both male and female, coming or going from the various rooms in the underground maze. He acknowledged no one as he headed toward the area where a week ago he had killed the maid and left her body for her lover to stumble upon. Foot traffic this far from the building’s hub thinned out to nothing. Ahead of him Cage could see the yellow tape cordoning off the crime scene. Just thinking about that afternoon filled him with renewed energy, and he almost went down there to savor the moment again.
Instead, he slowed, took one quick glance over his shoulder to make certain he wasn’t being observed, then he let himself into the main mechanical room.
*
Kasey spotted the Camaro on the second floor. She had walked through four levels looking for it. It was in a place she would never have expected to find it, backed into a slot reserved for the chief of operations, Howard Cummings. Dianne’s red Jaguar was parked on one side and Brad’s Chevy van on the other. The reserved spaces were near a private door that opened into the reception area of a lounge and meeting room of the club’s key personnel. Kasey pulled on the door handle. Locked.
She stared at the car. It had been backed into the space, close enough to the wall to hide the rear license plate. She moved around to the front, peering through the dark tinted windows with little success. The front license plate was filthy. Through splattered layers of mud she made out a Nevada plate, silver on blue. Kasey knelt down and, with the side of her fist, rubbed at the dried mud. MO—she rubbed harder—N—K. A vanity plate. MONK.
To the right of the car, the private door suddenly opened. Kasey quickly ducked down out of sight and moved around to the side of the Camaro. She heard footsteps moving away from her. A moment later she chanced a peek.
Brad King stood behind his midnight blue van, and by the way he glanced around and checked his watch, she suspected he was waiting for someone.
More footsteps. She ducked down again. A moment later, she heard hushed voices, two males conversing. Kasey looked again. Brad stood talking with a man who looked vaguely familiar. It wasn’t until she heard Brad say the name Carne that Kasey remembered where she’d seen him before. Dan Carne, the mobster that Jay had had thrown out of the club awhile back.
“C’mon,” Brad said. “Let’s get away from this door.”
She heard the sound of footsteps retreating. And before they were out of earshot, Kasey heard the name Tony Bartona. What the hell was going on? Bartona was one of Ansel Doyle’s men. He was connected with Doyle’s Tahoe operation. Mobsters. Rivals. What was Brad mixed up in?
This changed everything. Kasey could no longer keep Brad’s involvement a secret from Jay.
She waited a full minute, then quickly headed to the elevator, looking over her shoulder for the two men.
Halfway across the garage, she sensed she was not alone. She slowed, looked around, but saw no one. It couldn’t be Brad and Carne; they had gone in the opposite direction and there was no way they could have circled around so quickly. The garage was cool and dim, filled with deep shadows, ominous shapes, and hiding places galore. She glanced back across the garage to Lucas Cage’s Camaro. The Monk of Mayhem would soon claim his car, and he was the last person she wanted to run into in a deserted garage.
Several cars ahead, she heard a jarring sound, like a heavy key ring hitting the concrete. The sudden jangling noise startled her. She looked up to see a blond, curly-haired man with tortoiseshell glasses, wearing the hotel maintenance uniform, step out from behind a white van. He started walking toward her.
He moved toward the middle of the lane, forcing Kasey to stay to the side where the cars were parked along the wall. There was something about him that had the hair at the back of Kasey’s neck rising slightly. At first, when she realized it was only a hotel maintenance man and not Brad and his companion, she had felt relief
Relief turned to anxiety again.
The man passed her without slowing.
His black shoes made no sound on the concrete.
Kasey felt a tightness at the base of her spine. She had turned halfway around before she was hit. He slammed into her, drove her down the narrow space between the van and a pickup, crushing her against the wall with such force that the air was knocked out of her. Pain exploded in her shoulder.
She tried to scream but was caught at the throat, the large hand squeezing, making any sound impossible. He was at her back, pressing her face and chest into the wall. His fingers squeezed.
Bright lights burst in her head. She was going to die. He was going to choke her to death.
Through the roaring sound of blood rushing inside her ears, she heard a metal door clank shut. With what strength she had left in her body, she struggled, kicking at the side of the van, slapping the wall, trying to make herself heard.
“Is someone down there?”
Jay’s voice.
Kasey managed to break the hold on her throat. “Jay!” she screamed.
“Brad! This way. Brad!” Jay shouted.
The sound of running footsteps.
She was suddenly released. The man leaped into the bed of the pickup, bounded out the other side, and ran.
Kasey, on her knees, looked up and saw Jay and Brad rushing toward
her.
“Follow him,” Jay said to Brad. “Don’t try to stop him. Find security.”
Brad disappeared.
A moment later. Jay was crouched at her side and she was in his arms. He held her tight for an instant, then he was running his hand over her face, throat, and through her hair.
“Kasey. Kasey. Are you hurt? Did he hurt you? Can you talk?”
She nodded, but no sound came out.
“Relax, try to relax,” Jay said, pulling her close again. “Take a minute to catch your breath.”
Her hand was trembling violently Jay took it, squeezed it reassuringly, held it steady between their bodies.
When her trembling subsided slightly, she inhaled sharply, deeply, then said quietly, “I’m all right. More shook up than hurt.”
Jay put his hand to the side of her face and turned it until she was looking into his eyes. His clear blue eyes seemed to swallow her. She found such comfort in them, comfort in his arms. What was happening to the levelheaded Kasey Atwood, the woman who had no time for romantic fantasies? Here she was on the floor of a parking garage struggling for air, lucky to be alive, and she was thinking about how good it felt to have Jay’s arms around her.
The pain in her throat and shoulder hauled her back to reality.
Jay rose to his feet, bringing her with him. He walked her to the front of the van. He held onto her, but moved back a ways to see if she were bleeding or bruised.
“What happened?” He carefully straightened her blouse, smoothed down her skirt, brushed hair from her face.
“He jumped me. He came out—he jumped me, pushed me back there, then tried to strangle me.”
“Was it Cage?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
“Did he say anything?”
“No.”
“It could have been his accomplice.”
She nodded.
Footsteps sounded behind them. They turned to see Brad approaching with a security guard.
“Did they get him?” Jay asked, dropping his arm from Kasey’s waist.
Brad looked contrite, shook his head. “He gave me the slip. One minute I had him in sight, the next he was gone.”
Jay raked fingers through his hair.
“His car is over there.” Kasey pointed across the garage. “It’s parked in Cummings’ space.”
Jay instructed the guard to check it out. To Kasey he said, “What’s going on? How did you know his car was here?”
In faltering words, her throat sore from her attacker’s strong fingers, Kasey explained what had brought her into the garage. She told them that the files were gone but she had a license ID for Cage’s car.
“Damnit, Kasey, we have security to do those things. You weren’t hired to risk your neck.”
“It all happened so fast. I got carried away. I’m sorry.”
Brad took her hand. “Kasey, do you need a doctor? Did he hurt you badly?”
“No, Brad, no doctor. Thanks, I’ll be okay.”
The guard returned. “Sir, there’s no car parked in Mr. Cummings’ slot. He must have doubled back and driven off without anyone seeing him,”
“Shit,” Jay said.
“What kind of car?” Brad asked.
“Camaro. Black with tinted windows.”
“Haven’t seen anything like that,” the guard said.
“What’s that license number, Kasey?” Brad asked.
“He has a vanity plate.” She turned to Jay. “It’s Monk. M-O-N-K.”
His eyes expressed his incredulity.
“Okay, look, we have to report this,” Jay said. “Frank’s upstairs with Dianne. I just came down to get some papers from my car. Thank God I chose now to do it. Are you sure you’re okay?”
She nodded, rubbed her shoulder, then her throat. “Bruised a little.”
“Better come up and talk to Frank.”
*
Kasey decided to go ahead with her plans for an evening with her mother.
Marianne insisted on meeting her at the theater. There was no point, Marianne reasoned, in Kasey’s driving all the way out to the ranch to pick her up and take her home when Kasey intended to stay in town again.
Kasey, her blouse buttoned to the top to conceal the bruises on her neck, arrived a few minutes early, bought two tickets, and waited at the door of the twelveplex. Two hours later, mother and daughter, eyes red-rimmed—the movie had been a two-tissue tearjerker—exited the theater and walked to Kasey’s car. Once inside the car, Marianne said “I thought this was supposed to be fun. I haven’t bawled this much since Grandma Bane died.”
“So pick a fun place for dinner.”
“How about fast food?”
“No.”
“All right. Chinese. I want Chinese.”
“Now you’re talking.”
Kasey took her mother to the Canton Palace, a place tucked away in the corner of a large strip mall in Sparks. The food was as good as the atmosphere, the decor as tasteful as the house specialty of walnut-glazed shrimp.
The host, Bobby Lee, greeted her with an almost embarrassing display of pomp and ceremony. The year before, Lee had hired Kasey when he suspected that his nephew and one or two other relatives were skimming the profits. After determining that the cash shortage was most likely to occur the day before Lee took the receipts to the bank on Tuesdays and Fridays, Kasey staked out the restaurant after closing time on Monday. She was there to sound the alarm when the culprit entered through the back door, and minutes later the police found the thief elbow-deep into Lee’s safe.
The nephew, as well as the ten other family members employed at the restaurant, was innocent. It turned out the culprit had been the previous occupant of that particular mall space. In possession of a backdoor key and the combination to the wall safe, which Lee had neglected to change, the man let himself in periodically and helped himself to just enough cash to cause the proprietor to suspect one of the employees.
Bobby Lee, grateful to learn that the theft was not an inside job, placed Kasey, the bearer of the most fortunate news, in a highly revered position.
Inside job?
As Lee seated mother and daughter in a corner booth, Kasey reflected on those words. Inside job. Lucas Cage had an accomplice inside. Someone who fed him pertinent information. Someone who had access to the entire club. How else could Cage come and go so freely and appear one step ahead of them? It wasn’t enough to be on the security team.
She had had no chance to be alone with Jay to tell him about Brad. How do you tell someone you suspect their own flesh and blood of conspiring against them? She wouldn’t make accusations, just give him the facts and let him put it together.
Bobby Lee took their order himself. Marianne frowned slightly when Kasey ordered a glass of white wine for each of them.
“Relax, Ma. One glass won’t kill you.”
“It’ll just go to waste.”
“No, it won’t, I’ll drink it if you don’t.”
Her mother’s frown deepened. Kasey knew what she was thinking. Like father, like daughter. If Dotus harbored that special gene that made him prone to alcoholism, then it was possible his offspring harbored it as well. At thirty-three, Kasey enjoyed wine or an occasional Bloody Mary, margarita, or brandy, depending upon the circumstances. In fact, she had at least one glass of wine a day, usually with dinner. By no means did that make her a lush, or even close to it. Right? She wondered if her father had felt the same way when he was thirty-three.
They ate with chopsticks, moaning ecstatically with each bite. The chopsticks gave Kasey an excuse to take smaller bites and eat slower. The pain in her throat had eased. It only hurt now when she swallowed.
Yet still her mother noticed. “Gotta sore throat?”
“A little.”
“With you it was always the throat. Tonsils, adenoids, the whole enchilada. Other kids got the ear infections, the respiratory ailments, but you always got it in the throat.”
A comforting thou
ght. Perhaps that would be her destiny. Death by strangulation. Today she had beat the grim reaper. Although it hadn’t really hit her yet—tomorrow maybe, or the next day. No matter, she was determined to see this through.
Every few minutes, Lee showed up at their table with a different dish for them to try—on the house. “Something new. Taste,” he’d say. “Tell me if you like.”
Kasey and Marianne reached for the soy sauce at the same time, knocking over the salt shaker in the process. In unison, she and her mother grabbed a pinch of salt and tossed it over their respective shoulders.
“Now you’ve got me doing it,” Kasey said, glancing around to see if they’d been observed. “What a sight we must be.”
“Once you give into a certain superstition, there’s no going back,” Marianne said.
“Thanks for telling me.”
Over the years Kasey had seen her share of bizarre behavior. Gamblers as a rule were a superstitious lot. But no one could compete with her mother.
At the end of the meal, when the dishes had been cleared, Marianne touched her daughter’s hand and asked, “Honey, what is it?”
“What’s what, Ma?”
“Something’s on your mind. You have a habit of running your hands through your hair when you’re worried about something. You’re doing it now.”
Kasey picked up her wine glass to still her hands. “It’s just the job.” On the drive over Kasey had told her mother that they thought they had identified the suspect and that she would be spending more time at the club until either the police had arrested the man or until her services were no longer needed. No way would she tell her mother about the attack on her that afternoon. Just thinking about it made Kasey shudder.
Something else is bothering you, isn’t it? Something more personal.”
“With all that you have to do, when did you have time to get your degree in psychology?” Kasey asked flippantly.
Undaunted, Marianne replied, “Mothers know these things.”
Not prepared at this time to discuss her feelings regarding Jay with her mother, whom she knew would be less than pleased to learn her daughter had fallen for a married man, Kasey again reached for her wineglass, only to find it empty. To her chagrin, she saw her mother had finished every drop of her own wine.
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