The warden was waiting for me when I finally got through all the security checkpoints, the double-door hallway—my least favorite part, where they let you in then lock the door behind you before unlocking the one in front, all the while watching you from behind thick glass, gauging your every movement, weighing all possible motives. Every time I passed down this hallway I felt guilty of something. And I worried they would discover my transgression through some unconscious tic or something and would never let me out.
Warden Jeffers greeted me warmly with a firm handshake and a smile. He probably didn’t get too many visitors who didn’t have a rap sheet or love someone who did. A tall man with a shaved head and a kind manner, he hovered a hand behind the small of my back as he motioned with the other outstretched. “Here are Irv Gittings’ visitor logs. I made copies of the pertinent sections.”
I scanned the sheets. Nobody I recognized. Darn. My hope was hanging on someone being stupid. I should know better. I folded the sheets and tucked them in my pocket—Security had relieved me of everything else.
“Tell me what you’re looking for.” The warden seemed interested. “I’d love to have Mr. Gittings back.” He shook his head. “A bad judge, now dead. Got Gittings’ fingerprints all over it.”
“I’m trying to connect Irv to the two high-profile shootings recently.”
He nodded, his face serious. “Holt Box and your father. I’m very happy he’s okay. He’s a good man.”
“He is, thank you.” We stood awkwardly in the hall, neither knowing which way to turn. “Anything you can tell me about Irv while he was here? Did he make any friends?” I had the unnerving feeling that every move we made, every word, hell, every thought, was being recorded, monitored, and evaluated. A bit too much scrutiny for my comfort.
“We kept him out of the general population, although he seemed to figure out his way around pretty quickly.”
“No doubt.” I thought about the Irv I’d first met and the man he became. Of course, that man, the one who’d thought murder was a viable business strategy, had always lurked inside the suave pretender. I’d been too young, too easily impressed, too foolish to peek under the veneer. But I took a bit of solace in the fact I wasn’t the only one. Irv Gittings had cut a wide swath.
“Did he have a cellmate or anyone he might have traded confidences with?” If I knew Irv, he’d find someone to use, even in this place where brawn trumped brain.
“No cellmate. We thought he needed to acclimate, lose some of the refinement before we turned them loose on him.”
I shot a glance at the warden. He met it with a level gaze—he’d meant what he’d said. The thought put a song in my heart. As my father said, there are worse things than dying.
“I checked with some of the guards who spent more time around Mr. Gittings. They said he had one friend. They hung together in the yard, that sort of thing. His name is Frank, and he’s actually a pretty good kid. Did one stupid thing. Rode a motorcycle into the casino at the Starlight. Grabbed a bunch of chips from the cashier. He didn’t know the casinos chip the high-dollar ones. He didn’t get far.”
“I remember. Made the national news—a prime-time stupid criminal spot.” I glanced up at the camera in the corner and its blinking red eye and fought the urge to stick my tongue out. One of those irrational urges, like hurling oneself into the void from a high balcony.
“Yeah, he got slammed. All the publicity made it worse for him. Like I said, he’s a good kid. Stupid, but not bad.”
“There ought to be another place for us to rehabilitate stupid. In here, they just get mad and learn all kinds of bad tricks. Can I talk to Irv’s little buddy? It’s Frank, right?”
“I thought you’d ask that.” He stepped back and motioned down a side hallway. “This way.”
We walked shoulder-to-shoulder down the hallway as I fought the urge to drop breadcrumbs. Institutional setting, everything looked the same, each hallway a mirror of the others, all connected in a maze. I felt like a dog in Pavlov’s lab.
“He’s waiting for you in room six.” I must’ve looked uncomfortable as he added, “A guard will be with you at all times, and Mr. Wu will be restrained.”
“Wu? His name is Frank Wu?” Had the Fates finally decided to open a window?
Visiting Room Six reminded me of the interrogation rooms at the Detention Center in Vegas. Same gray paint, same metal furniture, same anger lurking in the corners. The warden held the door for me, then stuck his head in long enough to make sure the prisoner and guard were as he said they would be.
The door closed and I turned, locking eyes with a nightmare. “Sam?” I stared into the face of the dinner jacket guy, the guy who’d shot my father.
He eyed me, a predator eyeing a future kill, with a look that told me he knew what I was thinking, what I was experiencing. But he didn’t quite pull it off. “It’s nice to meet you, Ms. O’Toole.” He angled his head. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
The guard stood close, ready, making me feel crowded and wary. “Funny, nobody has told me about you at all.”
A prick to the ego that drew blood. I saw it in the slight narrowing of his eyes. “Irv, he really hates you.”
The resemblance between the man who sat in front of me and the guy who’d shot my father and mocked me from across the casino was amazing. Not quite identical, but close enough to warrant a double-take. “Tell me something I don’t know.” I eased into the chair across from him, which put me at eye level with the guard’s gun and his crotch, both unnatural bulges. “What did he tell you?”
“He would get even.” Frank crossed his arms, adopting an arrogant air I knew pretty well.
“Your brother has that same look.”
Shock focused his stare. “I don’t have a brother.” He swallowed hard, his eyes moving from mine—not a good liar. Apparently not a good hood either, considering his current address.
“Well, you’ve got somebody out there pretending to be you, looking like you, doing all kinds of interesting things on camera.” I leaned forward. “And I have a feeling he’s working with Irv on that revenge thing. What did Irv promise you for connecting him?” I pressed, my voice hard, my patience short.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’ve done some stupid shit in my day; allowing anyone like Irv Gittings within fifty yards was among one of my more stupendous follies. But,” I leaned forward and gave him my best badass, which I’d been told by those who should know, was pretty good. “I am far from stupid.”
Frank’s mask slipped a little, giving me a glimpse of the kid pretending to be bad.
I leaned back in my chair and crossed my arms. “So let’s see how I do. You got this brother, he’s the real deal, mean, ruthless, a killing machine. And your father, he’s no Boy Scout either. But you didn’t get those genes. You weren’t the kid torturing animals and knifing his friends. No, that was Sam. And your father was proud of Sam, could use somebody like him. So you tried to fit that mold. And you got caught.” I angled my head and gave him a raised-eyebrow look. “How’m I doing so far?”
He shifted uneasily.
“Your sister worried about you in here. So, when her friend Irv Gittings got an invitation from the State of Nevada, she got word to him to look you up, take care of you.”
I hit Frank’s soft underbelly. I saw it in his face, his eyes especially; they were a lot like his sister’s. “You might look like Sam, but you favor Kimberly.”
He broke. “She worries about me.”
“Did you set Irv up with Sam?”
“No.” The last bit of artifice shattered, and I saw the real, frightened, sad kid. “I would never hook anyone up with Sam.” Frank licked his lips and looked away. “Sam is…”
“I know. A coldhearted killer.”
“When he left, did Irv say anything to you?”
“He said he’d get me out of here, which I shrugged off. A lot of guys make promises, and Irv didn’t strike me as the kind who
keeps many.”
Smart boy. Smarter than me. But he’d had a different kind of education.
“You need to be careful. He has it out for you. Never seen anything like it.”
“Revenge. It’ll eat your soul if you let it.”
“Assuming you have one in the first place. He did say he had a lady waiting for him, which was rubbing it in.”
“That’s Irv. Hold out a carrot while he stabs you in the back.” I patted Frank’s hand, and the guard harrumphed. I’d forgotten about him. I turned and ran headlong into his crotch again. I looked up at him. “Could you back away a bit?”
He just stared down at me.
Frank gave me a look. “You get used to it.”
“When will you be out?”
“Long time. Around here they take messing with the casinos seriously.”
I would’ve thrown the book at him, too. That thought gave me something to think about. Snap judgments—perhaps I was guiltier than I thought.
“You got the warden’s ear, right?” he asked. Hope, even in this place.
I didn’t agree or disagree. “Why?”
He glanced at the guard, then found his courage. “I’d really like a drawing pad and some colored pencils or anything. I really like to draw.” He clutched himself, both arms across his chest. “I’m going crazy in here without my art stuff.”
I had to play this hand, but I was going to hate myself a bit in the morning. “Okay, I’ll use what I got, but you’ve got to give me something, anything to get the drop on Irv Gittings. He and Sam, they’re doing some serious damage. Shot my father, tried to kill me twice. I need some leverage here.”
Again, he glanced up at the guard. Nobody liked a snitch, especially not here.
“I get it, kid.”
A smile lifted one corner of his mouth. “Home. Have a nice trip home.”
The cabbie had been true to her word. She fired the engine when she saw me. I’d stopped to chat with the warden. Frank would get his art supplies. Hadn’t taken long. The warden was a good guy.
The ride back passed in silence, with me lost in thought and the cabbie leaving me to it. We rolled through the desert, the miles clicking under the wheels. On the north side, just as the first of the suburban sprawl crawled over the hills, we passed the turn-off to Mt. Charleston sporting its mantle of snow—most folks were surprised to find out one could ski in the morning and sunbathe in the afternoon. Vegas winters, as many distinct faces as the city itself.
When we hit the edge of town, I leaned forward. “Can you reach another cabbie?”
“The dispatcher can find anybody.”
I gave her River Watalsky’s name, then wrote my number on a slip of paper which I handed to her. “Ask if he can call me at that number.”
I watched my city slip by outside the window. When we passed the turnoff for Summerlin Parkway, my breath caught. Jean-Charles’s neighborhood.
Home.
Irv and I had one thing in common—neither of us had a home. I had no idea where I would call home. But the more important question was, where would he?
I had options. What were his? He’d lived at the Athena.
It was gone.
My phone vibrated in my hand.
Jeremy. “Hey. Got anything?” I asked, hope flaring. I knew the pieces were there, but how was all this going down? How could I prove it?
“No sign of your man at Miss Minnie’s.” Jeremy’s voice was tired, but had a hint of happy in it. “I left Shooter out there, and Flash is still hanging in. She is relentless.”
“One of her best qualities and one of her worst. Depends on the context.”
That got a chuckle. “I got that.”
“Any idea where the young Asian woman is? Is she still there?”
“No, she left, but she didn’t come back. Took her mother’s car, or at least I assumed it was her mother’s.”
I heard a female voice in the background. “Thanks. Where are you?”
“Home.” He was being intentionally oblique; I could hear it in his voice. Jerking my chain. Why not? Everybody else was.
“Get some sleep.” I wanted to ask him so much more, but it was none of my business and not a problem I could solve. Sticking my nose in would only make things worse. Amazingly, I took my own advice and hung up.
Waiting for River to call, I was at wit’s end. Frank had said Irv had a lady waiting on the outside. He’d said it casually, but could it have been another hint? A female accomplice? Given Ol’ Irv’s appetites, that would be consistent.
Papers crumpled in my pocket as I shifted, looking for a more comfortable position. Tugging them loose, I unfolded them. The visitor log for Ol’ Irv. Not many names for a guy known for his glad-handing. One name caught my eye. Dani Jo. No last name. On a whim, I rooted through my purse and found the registration form Mrs. Holt Box had signed.
One look and I laughed out loud, startling the cabbie, who darted a worried look at me in the rearview. “I’m okay. In fact, I’m better than okay.”
“Good to know,” she said in a voice filled with indifference.
Different names; same handwriting down to the left-handed slant and the closed-loop letters. Granted, I was no expert. But the similarities were enough to warrant paying the grieving widow a call.
With the help of security and their cameras, I found Mrs. Holt Box at the private pool in the Hanging Gardens. Carrying the Babylonian theme to the max, the Big Boss had created Las Vegas’s very own jungle under glass. The Hanging Gardens, fashioned after the seventh wonder of the Ancient World, were a riot of large draping trees, flowering shrubs, trailing greenery, and all manner of plants clinging to the banks of meandering streams filled with tubing tourists. The streams flowed through three distinct pools—one family-friendly, one adults only, and one private, tops-optional.
The original gardens, as described in ancient texts, consisted of steps of flowering plants, like a giant pyramid or mountain. Nobody knows for sure and many speculate the gardens were purely mythical. Not in Vegas. Here, we make it our life’s work to turn the magic and mythical into reality.
And with the gardens, the Big Boss had exceeded himself.
Yes, the Babylon had the only tropical climate in all of Nevada. And it took an enormous amount of energy, electricity, and manpower to sustain it. Two acres of climate-controlled wonderland.
Mrs. Box lounged by the top-optional pool, availing herself of the option. She needn’t have bothered—by Vegas standards, anti-climactic. But, my assessment … and to be honest, I didn’t make a habit of evaluating boobs. A couple of strings and a tiny triangle completed her ensemble.
Apparently today was my day to be small. Something the two of us had in common, albeit in different contexts. However, I didn’t think pointing that out would be a good icebreaker, so I bailed.
Instead, I dangled the visitor log from the jail in front of her face. “This is you, right?”
She shaded her eyes from an absent sun with a dainty hand. “No.”
I dangled the registration form she’d signed next to the other.
“Oh.” She moved herself to a seated position, swinging her legs over the side of the lounge chair so she faced me, knees to knees, as I plopped down on the lounge chair next to hers.
I could tell she was trying to assess my bullshit tolerance level. “I’m tired of playing games. Your buddy, Ol’ Irv, and Sam, a buddy of his you know, have tried to kill my father once and me twice. They killed your husband, which you seem really broken-up over, by the way. You better tell me what’s going on. If you’re honest, I can help you. If not, I’ll see you buried in a shallow grave where the crows and rats and other desert critters can get to you, ripping your flesh from bone.”
She swallowed hard. “Is that a threat?”
“No. It’s a promise.” My inner Robert De Niro cheered. I had always wanted to say that … and to mean it. Okay, I was faking it, but as they say, fake it ‘til you make it.
She knotted her h
ands in her lap. “Me, and Holt … we haven’t been so good for a long time. We have a big house, him on one end, me on the other, the kids in the middle. We’re doing it for the kids, but I got to the point I couldn’t stand it. Being married to somebody who has a bazillion gals waiting to bed him every night takes a toll, you know? We were just kids, nobodies when we got married. Irv gave him that stage and everything changed.”
“Big lights. How’d that happen? That was a pretty big gig for a nobody, as you say.”
Her face closed. She plucked at the edge of a towel as if there was a thread to pull.
Not in a Babylon towel, thank you. I wanted to slap her hand away.
“I slept with him.” Her voice came out small, defeated.
“You slept with Irv?” I wasn’t surprised. Back then, Ol’ Irv was at the top of the Vegas heap, and apparently at the top of his game.
“Shhh.” She glanced around as if a microphone could be in the bushes. Came with the territory, I guessed. “It was a huge opportunity. Holt was good enough—I think that’s been proven. Look what happened.”
“But Irv needed a bit of extra incentive.”
“Yeah. I’m not proud of it, but you could say I opened the door for Holt. He ran through it, but still.” She looked sad. A plain gal from a small town—simple wants, simple needs, caught in a celebrity maelstrom.
I sorta started feeling sorry for her. Sorta. I still sensed a piranha lurking under the boots and Levis act. “Irv has proof?”
“Pictures and a video.” She shivered. “It’s awful.”
“You’ve seen it?”
“I was there, and yes, I’ve seen enough.” She wouldn’t look at me.
I didn’t blame her. “That was a long time ago. What could it matter now?”
“Yeah, several lifetimes, it seems. But I was married. And now we’re getting divorced, or were. The press didn’t know yet. Nobody knows really—our lawyers, my mom.”
Holt’s death just increased her wealth by a hundred percent. “Irv?”
“Irv,” she affirmed, her voice hard and cold—a tone I remembered from our first meeting. “I’d kill him, you know.”
Lucky Break Page 25