"At least give it to Marine Martin."
"Serious?"
"Yes, go ahead and give it to him." Poe raised his eyebrows. "Talk about dispassionate. Anyway, Marine works well with Herrod."
"All right. Herrod and Marine Martin." Weinberg picked up the cellular. "Drop me off at City Hall. You go back to Homicide Bureau and prep the duo about Lewiston." He started making calls and was immediately put on hold. The lieutenant regarded his sergeant. "Poe."
"What, sir?"
"Lewiston has power. Watch your butt."
With his hair slicked back and garbed in a brown suit, shortsleeved white shirt, and string tie, Marine Martin looked more like a Vegas junket passenger than a cop. But the giveaway to his profession was the eyes, scanning the crowds, noting the doors and exits, observing the motion at the Laredo. With the warrant stowed neatly in his coat pocket, he was ready for action. His partner, Kurt Herrod, had donned a dark blue suit over a wrinkled white shirt. Herrod was around the same height and age as Marine. And like Marine, he had milky blue eyes, as well as a large, bald pate ringed with gray. But Herrod was much stockier. Together, the team resembled a before-and-after weight loss picture.
Herrod's eyes swept across the casino. "You have a name of someone who will take us up to Lewiston's office?"
"Asking for someone would ruin our tactic of surprise," Martin responded in a clipped cadence. "We go into this mission unannounced."
"Martin, it isn't a mission, it's an assignment." Herrod stuck his hands in his pocket. At least Marine didn't call him Grandpa. "It's a job—"
"Mission, assignment, or job, the semantics don't matter. Only results." Marine glanced at his watch, set to display military time. "It is now precisely twenty-one hours—"
"Don't salute."
"Ready when you are."
"Sure, let's do it."
With that Marine marched up to the information desk and butted in to the front of the line. He laid his badge on the desktop in full view of the information lady. She was in her early twenties—a blonde with pale green eyes, two beats away from being pretty. She picked up the badge and studied it as Marine spoke.
"Detectives Martin Donaldson and Kurt Herrod from Las Vegas Metro Police Department. Homicide Bureau. We need to see Mr. Parker Lewiston immediately." He held out his hand. "The badge please?"
The woman handed it back, confused by what was going on. Herrod came to the rescue.
"If you could, ma'am, please call down your floor supervisor." Herrod took Marine out of earshot from the crowd. "Martin, we're gonna have to do this in steps."
"It will ruin the element of surprise—"
"There's a system here. You can't just waltz in and expect the Red Sea to part."
"If the Red Sea doesn't part, then we'll swim across." Marine's eyes narrowed. "She's using the phone."
"That's because I asked her to call her supervisor."
Marine went back to the desk, holding position as sentry until he got some satisfaction. Within moments, the floor boss materialized. He was broad and well-muscled, with a fleshy face. He stuck out his hand, pulling them off to the side—away from the line and from playing customers. He was all business.
"Bobby Guard. What can I do for you, gentlemen?"
Herrod presented his badge. "We're here to see Mr. Lewiston."
Guard's eyes glanced at the gold shield, then he motioned them to follow. He took them through the casino, past the flashing lights and beeps of cacophonous sound, past the soft shuffle of cards and the cheers from a table as the dice came up seven. Into the back of the casino, up to the cashier's desk. Then he stopped at a side door which blended with the wall and was keyed as well as alarmed. Guard disengaged the bells and buzzers. Then he led them through a series of mazes, and into an air-conditioned suite—a hermetic sitting room which held several leather couches and four wingback chairs placed around a poker table. The area also had a bar, a miniature craps table, and a couple of slot machines. Off to the left was an attached office, which held multiple TV monitors scanning the casino floor. Guard tried to settle them into the chairs. Herrod took up residence on the sofa, but Marine elected to stand.
Guard said, "A drink, gentlemen?"
"No, thank you, Mr. Guard," Herrod answered. "We're here to speak to Mr. Lewiston. The sooner the better."
"Mr. Lewiston isn't in." Guard poured himself a finger's worth of scotch—Glenmorangie. "If you had called—"
"Sir!" Marine broke in. "We do not need Mr. Lewiston for our operation." He whipped out the paper from his jacket. "We have a signed and sealed search warrant for his office here at the Laredo. It gives us the authority to conduct a complete and thorough property search and seizure of the entire twenty-sixth floor. Which we understand is Mr. Lewiston's private office—"
"What are you talking about?"
"We are on a tight schedule, sir. We'd appreciate it if you would take us there immediately—"
"Lemme see that!"
Marine handed him the warrant. "You may read it on your own time, sir. We have our work to do."
"How do I know this is legit?"
Herrod said, "Take it to a lawyer if you want. But we know it's legitimate and we don't need to wait for your permission. Direct us and we're out of your hair."
"You're gonna have to slow down here." Guard sipped his drink and settled into the couch's overstuffed pillows. "Even if this was on the up-and-up, I'm not quite sure who could help you with the office. Are you sure you don't want a drink—"
"Sir, you are stalling," Marine stated. "This is unacceptable!"
"No, I'm not stalling, Detective," Guard answered lazily. "You see, I have a job here. And that's protecting Mr. Lewiston's property, both down at the casino and in his offices—"
"Sir, you do your job, we'll do ours!" Marine looked down at his wrist. "Shall we go?"
"See, that's what I'm trying to tell you," Guard answered. "Even if I wanted to, I couldn't help you. Mr. Lewiston's office is in a private locked wing. It's alarmed and I don't have a key. Now I'm gonna help you out. Mr. Lewiston has always maintained a very good position with the police department here. You just ask your captain—"
Again, Marine interrupted. "I'm going to have to insist that you take action now, sir. Either you do it or I'll do it."
"Detective, I intend to make some calls. But it's going to take a while. So why don't you wander around the casino, and I can have you paged when—"
"That is not acceptable," Marine announced.
Guard smiled. "Detective, it's the best I can do. Take it or leave it."
"Consider your option discarded. Obviously, you are not the man for the job. I'll look elsewhere." Marine turned on his heel and started to exit the room.
Guard jumped up, his drink splashing over the rim of his glass. "Hey! Where're you going?"
Marine was out the door. "To find someone who has some authority."
"Now wait a minute!" Guard grabbed his arm. "You just can't—"
"Let go of my arm, sir!"
"If you want my help, you just hold on a goddamn moment—"
Within a second, Marine had flipped Guard onto his back and had him pinned against the floor. The glass flew out of his hand, hit the floor, bounced, then rolled until it was stopped by the leg of the couch. Herrod stared with admiration at the oldfashioned tumbler. Good, strong crystal. Must be expensive stuff.
Glaring down at the restrained floor boss, Martin formally stated, "The next time you grab me, I will arrest you for assault upon a police officer. Now, you have a job to do, sir. If you can't do it, I'll do it in good old all-American Marine style!"
Two bouncers came storming into the office. Guard shouted, "Don't touch them! Don't touch them!"
The bouncers halted in their tracks. Marine offered Guard a hand, then yanked him to his feet. He lectured, "Your protection is late. If I had been someone dangerous, you would have been in serious trouble, Mr. Guard."
The meaty duo glared at Marine, then at Herrod
, who smiled back at them. Guard glowered at his so-called protection. He snapped to them, "Get out of here."
The two leadweights looked at each other, then left.
Marine said, "With or without you, I'm going to the twentysixth floor—"
"Read my lips, Detective." Infuriated but hog-tied, Guard took a deep breath. "I don't have a key to Mr. Lewiston's private elevator, I don't have the key to Mr. Lewiston's office, I don't have the key to Mr. Lewiston's private wing—"
"Unacceptable!" Marine said. "I'll find my own way to get the job done."
Guard had a noticeable strain in his voice. "Detective Donaldson, you can't get up to Mr. Lewiston's office unless you use the proper elevator with the proper elevator key—"
"There must be a fire escape staircase somewhere."
"I'm sure there is, but that's probably hidden as well as locked."
"Find it for me."
"That's also gonna take time."
Marine felt his face go hot with anger. "You leave me no choice. I take it Mr. Lewiston's office has windows?"
"Well, yes, but—"
"Then I can get into the office, Mr. Guard."
"They're picture windows, Detective. They're glued into place."
Marine flexed his biceps. "A cut or two doesn't deter a good soldier, sir." He picked up the phone and asked for emergency services—the fire department. "They'll help me find the fire escape staircase. And if not, they have equipment to take me to the twenty-sixth floor and axes to smash glass."
Guard's stomach was drowning in acid. "You've got to be kidding."
"I never kid!"
Guard believed that. He said, "Detective, you start smashing windows, I'll have your job!"
"It is a chance I'm willing to take." A pause. Then Marine spoke into the phone. "Hello, this is Detective Martin Donaldson of LVMPD. I need ASAP a ladder truck and a half-dozen of your finest men."
"I don't fucking believe—"
Playing his part, Herrod broke in, saying, "This isn't going to be good for business, Mr. Guard. Having a bunch of wailing fire trucks pull up in front of your place. It might even start a panic reaction."
Guard grabbed at the phone. The man was fucking crazy! "If you'd just wait a goddamn minute—"
"There is no need for profanity." Into the phone, Marine said, "New developments. I'll have to call you back." He disconnected the line and handed the phone to the floor boss. "Five minutes to get something going. Starting…now!"
Guard rubbed his forehead. Keeping his bile down, he activated the cellular and talked softly into the receiver. He hung up and punched in another number. Did it a third time. Finally, he turned back and faced the detective duo. "Someone will be here in fifteen, twenty minutes—"
"Unacceptable!" Marine brought his wrist up to heart level, his eyes fixed on his watch. "I will give you seven minutes and not a second more. If no one appears within the allotted time, I'm calling back the fire department—"
"Detective, the woman's not in the casino. She has to come from down—"
"Then get someone in the casino who has the keys!" Marine kept his eyes on the watch. "Ready…set…"
Guard was getting desperate. To Herrod, he said, "Talk some fucking sense into him."
Herrod said, "Give him eight minutes, Martin."
"All right. Eight minutes. Go!"
Guard said, "This is crazy! You're crazy—"
"Seven minutes, forty-two seconds remaining—"
"You should be in a loony bin—"
"Seven minutes, thirty-seven seconds…thirty-six seconds—"
"I don't need a goddamn town crier!" Guard popped a handful of Tagamet and Maalox, washing them down with scotch from the bottle. Once again, he started making calls. When the supervisor hung up, Marine announced that he had two minutes and twelve seconds left on the clock.
Guard opened the door. "By sheer luck, I found someone. C'mon, we'll meet him by the elevator."
"Good job, Mr. Guard. I knew you could do it." Marine opened the door. "You lead, sir, as you know the way out."
Guard sneered, punching his right fist into his left hand. But he reluctantly led them out the door. His balls were between a rock and a hard place. He knew that letting these two yahoos up into Lewiston's office was gonna cost him his job. Worse than that, Lewiston never forgave, let alone forgot.
But what was his choice? To let some loose cannon smash up Lewiston's office windows, creating a wind tunnel between the outside and inside, hurricaning half of the boss's office contents up into the ozone layer?
What could he do?
What could he do?
But what if the motherfucker had been bluffing?
What if?
Who could tell a bluffer better than Guard, who had seen millions of bluffers try to outsmart the pros? The floor boss studied Marine as they walked over to the bank of mirrored elevators. The cop's face revealed nothing except the crazed look of will and determination.
Bluffing or not bluffing, the cocksucker would have made one hell of a fine poker player.
FORTY-FIVE
HONEY HAD taken a turn for the worse, her condition downgraded from serious to critical. Though Poe had stopped whipping himself for the explosion, guilt still tugged his conscience. Sifting through the wreckage at the call girl's apartment, Arson had come up with some physical evidence of explosives, but none of it name-called Lewiston. Poe knew it would take months to assess the exact cause by making a methodical examination of ashes and soot and debris.
Still, he retained some minimal hope of nailing Lewiston. Last night, Marine Martin had brought back bags of grass from the casino owner's Laredo office. The blades were now being processed in a specialized lab in Reno. As odd as Marine was, he had done a fine job.
No sign of Alison, yet Poe sensed she wasn't far away. Alison—his longtime, suffering friend, his ages-ago lover, his possible half sister…a possible serial killer. Steve's ominous warnings playing in his brain…
Burying himself in the mundane details of work, Poe was glad to see the day end. He gunned his Honda and sped to his private hive in the middle of nowhere. After settling Emma down for a predinner nap, he donned his gym clothes and took off for his run, feeling the constricting ties loosen as he dripped in sweat. The sun was heading toward the horizon, gilding the desert floor with its soft late-afternoon rays. The air was clear and quiet, the only disturbances being the scuffling of his soles against the arid ground and the dust that swirled up from under his athletic shoes. Overhead, a hawk circled, casting an elongated, dancing shadow on the desert floor.
He took the final fifteen minutes of his five miles at a steady, fast walk. Winded and wet, he mopped his face with his shirt, his skin flushed and pulsating with heat. He rotated his head and shoulders, hearing his bones creak and crack. From a distance, as his house came into view, Poe saw a dark blue Lincoln Town Car, its chrome trim reflecting hot light. Immediately, he slowed his pace, his nervous system flashing Code Red. A moment later, he saw two loitering figures wearing Hawaiian shirts, beach pants, and sandals. They were around five-eleven, maybe six feet. Very stocky, with round, thick faces, heavyset arms, and meaty hands.
Goons.
And here Poe was, dressed in gym shorts, a tank top, and running shoes with rubber soles, and without his gun. He might as well have been naked. They stiffened when they saw him approach, straightening as if someone was about to take roll call. Both were swarthy, with dark eyes and lots of facial shadowing. One Hawaiian shirt was a blue print of waves and surfboards, the other was woven with ukuleles, leis, and bikini babes sitting in a red background.
Poe kept fifteen feet between himself and the beef. He dabbed his damp face. "Can I help you, gentlemen?"
Folding his arms across his chest, Red Shirt blocked the door to Poe's house with his girth. His legs were spread apart, his feet rooted to the ground. "Are you Sergeant Poe?"
"That would be me."
Blue Shirt's hand sidled under the hem of his Hawai
ian masterpiece. No doubt his fingers were wrapped around the butt of a revolver. He said, "We're from Mr. Lewiston's office. He wants to talk to you."
"So if you just hop in the car," Red continued, "we'll take you right over."
Poe regarded the Lincoln. No plates. And he couldn't read the number off the temp license affixed to the car's windshield. The glare was too strong. He said, "He wants to talk to me now?"
"That's right, sir." Red took a step toward him.
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