We’d been through all the suites but one, saving the best for last. Well, the best besides the one on the private floor. This one, called Cloud Nine, had its own back entrance for added privacy. Three bedrooms, a game room with a one-hundred-inch flat screen and a full bar, and three en suite bathrooms large enough for a football team—okay a basketball team. The suite had been booked for the next year, even at thirty-five thousand dollars a night. While that might sound steep, the suite came with a twenty-four-hour chef on call, a dedicated Bentley limo, and a helicopter waiting on the roof, so there was a bit of extra bang for the buck.
The place looked pristine, already set up for its first guest. The living room area was decorated in light Asian style, bamboo floors stained dark, overstuffed white pillows with embroidered green leaves on minimalist couches and chairs. The walls painted vibrant green, adding warmth to the white. Clean, white Caesar Stone countertops in the bar, stainless and white marble in the baths, accented with bright green and orange towels. I fingered one as I walked through, taking in every detail. Still damp.
Like I said, working to the wire to get the place ready.
The game room was next. A counterpoint to the minimalist décor of the main rooms, the game room resembled more of a man cave with dark leather recliners, tastefully disguised of course, theater-style seating, and a wooden bar straight from Scotland. The designer or one of his minions had even monogrammed the Steuben tumblers. The antique gun in the lighted case above the bar was a nice touch. “That doesn’t work, does it?”
“Not unless you have a cap, wad, and black powder.”
I didn’t share his confidence. Many of the pre-Civil War guns had been retrofitted to take shells. “Put a lock on it anyway. I like the touch, but still, I’m a bit gun shy these days. And alarm it too.”
He made a note.
The bedroom was fit for I don’t know who, but somebody with fine tastes and a ton of money. This room alone had cost several hundred thousand dollars, each suite over a million. The electronics alone required a dedicated closet and around-the-clock IT staff. The toilets could do everything for you except sing a song—that was extra. And since our music system was state-of-the-art, I didn’t spring for the song part. It still made me giggle at all the personal hygiene the toilets could be responsible for. I couldn’t picture myself sitting still while a machine made a fuss over my nether regions. The whole idea sounded fraught with peril, but apparently this sort of pampering was de rigueur with the well-heeled set.
My foreman and I made a few notes—the finishes that were missing were minor.
“Overall, very impressive job,” I said, as we wandered back to the front of the property where the average millionaires would play. Staff training was winding up—everybody put in long hours as we got closer to the opening.
“You want me to have the guys get on these things tonight?”
“No, it’s almost Christmas, it’s late. We don’t open until New Year’s Eve. We got this. Tell everyone thank you and go home to their families. Tomorrow is Christmas Eve. I’ll see everyone on the 26th.”
He looked grateful, only now letting me see his fatigue.
Man, were we rowing the same boat. I was about dead.
Miss P had been as good as her word. I’d hung my meager possessions in the owner’s apartment closet, mourning the loss of my shoes the most. My toiletries from the office, including makeup and other lotions and potions had been laid out on the vanity. Too tired to sleep. Too wound up to think. I decided a bath was in order.
The hotel … my hotel … settled in around me. The windows brought in the whole of the Strip to keep me company. I dimmed the lights and left the window coverings up. The tub was huge, and I longed for my Frenchman to help me fill it, but that could wait. As if he knew I was thinking about him, my phone lit up.
“Hi,” I said, as I took a seat on the tufted cushion in the boudoir and shucked my shoes. “How’s Christophe?”
“He has charmed all the nurses, and they are filling him with ice cream.”
“As you have charmed me, but I’m not feeling the ice cream. Maybe whipping cream?”
“You are not being nice.”
“Naughty is so much more fun. I’m spending my first night in the owner’s apartment. Would you like to come take advantage of me?”
“Oui.” His voice dropped, turning husky.
Liquid heat through my veins.
“I will see you tomorrow. They say perhaps I can take Christophe home.”
“That would be wonderful. Make him happy-face pancakes and think of me.”
“I think of you always.”
Shucking clothes—how long had I worn these? Long enough they ought to be incinerated, but since most of my wardrobe had met that fate, I thought perhaps a good fumigating might do. I cranked open the taps to the tub, turning the hot to barely short of scald. Warm bubbles on the outside to soak the day away. If only I had some bubbles for the inside. I smiled and wrapped myself in the thick bath sheet hanging on the warming rack.
Padding to the bar, I opened the fridge and bent to peer inside. A bottle of Schramsberg Brut Rosé. They’d thought of everything. I made short work of the cage, popped the cork, and eschewed the dainty flutes for a more robust delivery vehicle—a double old-fashion glass. Cut crystal, it felt heavy in my hand, its quality complementing the primo juice. A creature used to her comforts. Pausing in front of the huge, windows I absorbed the view—a very high-priced view even for Vegas. The fact that it was mine was still something I found hard to comprehend, much less truly believe.
Brand-new surroundings, but they felt right. Each of us grows into our own destiny. Perhaps I’d made it to mine, setting my foot on the first brick of the path meant for me. The tub was filling nicely, and the bubbles warmed me from the inside as I dipped my toe in the water and pushed the button for the bubbles. Dropping my towel, I slid into the luxurious warmth, feeling it pull the hurt, the fear, the loss, the anger out of me. Okay, not so much the anger. That still wrapped around my heart, a black poisonous snake demanding revenge. I would have it, even if it killed me. But not tonight, not now.
I’d brought the bottle with me, so I refreshed my glass and lay my head back, using the rounded edge of the tub for support, everything submerged except from the nose up. Occasionally I came up for a drink. I stayed until my fingers ridged like prunes.
Sleep pressed on me, a demanding suitor not to be denied. A brief towel-off, then I slipped between the sheets, nestling in the softness as I listened to the hotel settle around me. The whir of the elevator as staff tidied up and left for the holidays. The creaks and groans of a building adjusting to the cold night after absorbing the warmth of the sun. Random noises of my hotel, a lullaby to sleep by. Desiree had felt a frisson of fear at staying alone with only Christophe. Not me. I let go and succumbed to the reality of what had been a grand dream.
The day grew distant as I fell into sleep.
Something prodded me awake. A noise?
I bolted upright in bed, startled out of a dream, a nightmare. But what had awakened me? I pushed back my hair from my eyes and tried to focus. For a brief flash, I hadn’t known where I was. Then the memory flooded through me. My brain fuzzy—I’d been down deep—I tried to think, to process as I scanned the room. The Glock waited on my nightstand. I grabbed it, knowing it was ready to go.
And I was ready to use it. I stilled, listening. I thought I heard the faint whir of machinery. The heat? The elevator? The guards patrolling? The police? Something in my gut told me this was foe not friend. They’d tried twice. Maybe third time was their charm. But not without a fight.
The night had deepened, the noise quieted. Six a.m.
I’d been dreaming—a gun, a killer, an old hotel … running.
My subconscious worked the puzzle, fitting the pieces. I bolted out of bed.
The gun—Irv’s gun in the case downstairs. I’d been too tired to pay much attention—I never expected his gun to be hanging in
my hotel.
The damp towel. Someone had used it.
Home. Irv had lived at the Athena.
The Athena had become Cielo.
Home, Frank Wu had said. Irv was going home.
As I shimmied into a pair of pencil jeans and Teddie’s old sweatshirt, the one with Harvard on the front, the one that still smelled like him despite numerous washings, then stuck my feet into a pair of silver sequined flats, I thought I heard the distant whir of the elevator. Brushing the hair out of my face, and wiping the sleep from my eyes, I grabbed the Glock.
Irv was here, and he was looking for me.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
IF Irv wanted me, he’d have to find me. As Father always said, the best part of defense is a good offense. And taking the offense would add an element of surprise, which I hoped would help even my odds.
Taking a deep breath, I killed the lights, stuffed my phone and my master key in my pocket, and moved toward the door. I didn’t call Romeo, probably should have, but I had to be sure. Last thing I needed was the cavalry screaming back to Cielo looking for a killer and once again landing us a primo spot on worldwide social media. With a hotel to protect, perhaps I wasn’t thinking clearly.
Keeping to the shadows, my back against the wall on one side of the interior hallway, I pressed the door handle and thanked myself for buying top-of-the-line locks and hinges. The door moved silently, opening wide enough for me to ease my head around. The lights had dimmed as they were scheduled to do just before dawn. Still light enough to see and for the cameras to record, but a subtle touch for those who staggered to sleep or were awakening for a Grand Canyon tour. Catching a killer hadn’t been a part of the decision-making.
Gun at the ready, I looked both ways, several times. I cocked an ear, trying to override my pounding heart, listening for any hint of movement. My mind played tricks. A new place, new sounds. Pulling my head back, I leaned against the wall, both hands around the butt of my Glock.
I took a deep breath, then ran.
Movement behind me. At the corner, I dove to my right. The shot missed me by inches. Keeping my momentum, I rolled. Back on my feet, I bolted through the door to the stairs. Flashing my keycard in front of the pad, I punched in my number, then locked the door. The bolt engaged just as someone threw their weight against the door from the other side.
How the hell had he gotten a key to the private floor? Security not fully online, construction workers flowing in and out. Not hard to imagine, but it still pissed me off. This was my hotel, dammit.
I pressed back against the wall. The door absorbed three shots; then the firing stopped. Taking the stairs two at a time, I realized how lucky I was that my apartment was one of only two on the private floor. The building code allowed us to have only one stairwell instead of the normal multiples to handle a large crowd. For the moment, I had the jump on my pursuer. He had to take the public elevator—if the last person out had done what they were instructed to do and locked the service elevator.
After putting ten floors between me and my apartment, I hazarded a look into the hallway. The elevator motor whirred to life. Crouching, listening, gun in front of me, I kept to the side as I moved down the hallway toward the elevators. When I could see the displays, I tucked into an alcove, straddling a vase.
The middle elevator moved upward. I’d have the jump on him. Then the far elevator lifted; then a third counted up the floors. Smart man. Now I wouldn’t know which one he took.
Since I wanted to stay above him, I watched them all. They reached the private floor—I had no idea how he’d gotten up there unless he’d ridden up with the workmen, blending in, then hidden and waited for everyone to leave. Right now, the how didn’t matter. The why, I knew. The who, I suspected. And the what was I going to do about it was still a toss-up. Shoot to kill or shoot to punish? Jury was still out.
While I waited and watched, I took the time to call Romeo. Curiously my hand wasn’t shaking and my voice was deadly calm. I quickly filled him in, then finished with, “Seal all the exits before you come looking for me. I can stay alive that long.” He didn’t agree or disagree, but he was a good cop: he’d do the right thing. Best of all, help was on the way. My well of courage was only so deep.
The elevators each paused at the top floor. With four elevators, he’d have a hard time launching them all at once. Narrowing my eyes, I waited for the lag.
He’d taken the middle one. I had to wait, watch where he went.
He stopped at every floor.
If that’s the way you want to play it.
Arms straight, gun in front of me, stance wide, my back braced, I watched, and I waited. My heart galloped as I closed one eye, sighting down the short barrel. But my eye was steady, my hands firm, my finger light on the trigger.
The elevator stopped at twenty-two. Two floors higher than my position.
A pause.
Twenty-one.
I held my breath.
Twenty. The bell dinged and the doors slid open. He’d killed the light inside.
Nothing. No movement. No head peeking out.
I didn’t dare move. He was baiting me, trying to get me to disclose my position.
The doors slid shut. The elevator continued its floor-by-floor descent.
Keeping my gun at the ready, I breathed, slowly, deeply. He had to have been in there. Trying to lure me out.
Where would he get off? Not the first floor. Even now, sirens sounded in the distance. What would he think I would do? I bet my life on his thinking I was a typical female and would run for safety the minute I heard the sirens.
My guard up, I made my way around the floor and down the far hallway to another set of stairs. With five to choose from, I figured the odds were still in my favor. I guessed he’d get off at the mezzanine—from there he could shoot up a floor toward the Spa level or down into the lobby. Stepping lightly, I muffled my steps as best I could. I’d chosen one of the original stairwells from the Athena built when concrete was the norm and those twangy metal steps we used now, unheard of.
At the third floor, I eased the door open. I knew this hotel inside and out, every twist and turn committed to memory by this time, the architectural plans burned on my brain. The architects had seen to that—I didn’t even argue with Mother that much. Nobody fired. I pictured the hall to my left—a small hallway angled off to the right. Pushing the door open, careful it didn’t bang against the stops, I bolted for the hall. I skidded around the corner.
After listening for a moment and not hearing anything, I risked a look. No movement. I sidled to the railing—Cielo’s lobby ceilings topped out at twenty-five feet, the mezzanine ringing the atrium—a fact I hoped my would-be killer didn’t know or hadn’t paid attention to. Halfway around, I caught movement one floor below.
Red and blue lights strobed through the glass front, painting the lobby. The sirens whined as they fell silent. Momentarily distracted, the shooter eased a bit further out from his position, exposing a nice target.
I lined up, held my breath, and brushed the trigger.
The gun jerked.
I heard him grunt as he whirled, raising his gun in one motion.
Cringing back, I tucked into myself.
His shot chipped plaster six inches from my head.
When I stepped out again and fired, he was gone.
“Fuck.”
As glass broke, I heard the bang of the backdoor as it clanged against the wall, then slammed shut on the bounce back.
He was gone.
The police, in full tactical gear, crouched, automatic weapons at the ready. Small groups ran, found a fortified position from which to cover the next wave.
I shouted down to them. “The shooter went out the back.” When I’d decided nobody had a happy trigger finger, I stepped into the light, my hands raised, my gun visible. I identified myself. “He went out the back.” I motioned which way. “You’ll find a blood trail to follow. I winged him, damn it.”
Some of the pol
ice went after him, others stayed, their weapons trained on me, none of us moving, until Romeo skidded into the lobby. He assessed the situation with one look. “Stand down,” he ordered his men. “You okay?” he shouted up to me.
“Have your men check the Cloud Nine Suite.” I pointed. “That way.”
With a nod from Romeo, half the group peeled off and disappeared in the direction I’d pointed.
Help had arrived. I started to relax. Then I saw him. Movement behind Romeo.
Sam.
I raised my gun and fired as the light fixture over my head shattered. The remaining geared-up cops whirled but didn’t fire. Romeo was in the line.
The guy was gone as quickly as he’d appeared, the police in full pursuit.
Romeo hadn’t even ducked. Rooted, he waited for me to join him. Close up, I could see he was rattled despite the calm, cool and collected bit. “Irv?”
“No. Sam Wu dressed as a member of the construction crew.” I was disappointed that it hadn’t been Irv.
Romeo whistled. “You’re lucky, then.” He glanced out at the brightening day. “Wonder why he waited so late?”
I nodded at the construction crew that was already assembling. Although I’d told the foreman no work today, with his reputation on the line, he’d have them here at least half the day. “So he could blend in and disappear, maybe?”
“If you were dead, who’d he have to run from?”
“The guards? Your guys? A good killer always has several exit strategies,” I said like I knew what I was talking about.
“I don’t even want to know how you know that.”
“Another reason could be timing.”
He scratched his head, then mussed his already mussed-up hair. “I’m not following.”
“Irv is tidying up loose ends. I’d say he’s getting ready to move to greener pastures.” I motioned the construction crew to wait just a bit. “Did you get anything out of Mrs. Box?”
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