Imogen turned from him to J.D. “Are you the ranking officer?”
J.D. shook his head. “I would be happy to work with you, but you’ve got to talk with Mr. Arbor. He was put in charge this morning.”
“How?” Imogen demanded.
“I know a few people,” Benton told her.
Imogen clenched her fists. She wanted to punch this man more than she had wanted to punch anything in a long time. “My people are as trustworthy as yours.”
“Nothing I have seen of the FBI’s handing of kidnapping cases inspires any confidence at all,” he said, his tone infuriatingly calm. “There are quite a lot of people who think the initials FBI stand for Fast Breaking Information.”
“I assure you that no one on my team would share anything with the press.”
“Right, because I’m not going to give them, or you, anything to share.”
“You refuse to let me work on this?”
“Until I have more to go on than that”—he pointed to the collage—“yes.”
“I could call my boss at Quantico.”
“And I could call his boss in Washington. My cousin Julia, the one you met? She is his goddaughter.”
“I don’t care if you call 1-800-Jerkoff,” Imogen heard herself saying. “This is my case. And it is not a kidnapping. If you treat it like one, you will be desperately sorry.” As she spoke, Imogen saw that he was barely able to keep from laughing at her. “You want to know more? You want facts? I will give you facts. Fact one: there is a false panel at the back of Rosalind Carnow’s armoire that leads to a construction channel and is how she was removed from the hotel without appearing on any security cameras. Fact two: this”—she pointed to markings written by hand in the top corner of the collage—“is the date you can write on Rosalind’s death certificate if you don’t let me get to work. Those are facts.”
She was suddenly completely exhausted. She needed to get away, to be alone to think. Or sob. At least change Rex’s water. She said, “I am leaving my men in control of the crime scene and giving you three hours to make up your mind. If after that time you still refuse to hand over everything you have, I’ll have you arrested for obstructing a federal investigation.”
Before he could actually laugh in her face she hugged her bag to her chest, stalked out of the room, muttered, “Bastard,” under her breath, and closed—not slammed—the door of the suite behind her. Shoulders squared, chin up, holding her spine straight, she continued down the corridor until it rounded a corner. When she was out of sight of his suite, she slumped against the wall and pressed her palms into her eyes.
What the hell was she doing? Why couldn’t she have been tactful? Smiled, been nice. She knew better than to let people like Benton Arbor get under her skin. Smug, condescending, entitled bastard-type people. She banged her head against the wall.
What she wanted, more than anything at that moment, was to turn around and run out of the Bellagio and pretend she’d never heard of Rosalind Carnow or Loverboy or the FBI. She wanted to be back on the beach with Sam in Hawaii; she wanted everything to go back to being perfect like it was then.
But Sam was gone and there she was, standing in a plush corridor in a Nevada hotel, acting like a fool.
And probably killing a goldfish.
She looked in her bag and saw that although he’d lost some water, Rex was still okay. When she looked up she wasn’t alone. Enrique “Bugsy” Montoya was holding a handkerchief toward her. “You were stupendous, boss,” he told her.
In the absence of Sam, Bugsy would have been her next choice for a companion, and she had told Elgin his assistance was one of her requirements for going back to work. He was not only a good investigator, he was also a solid friend, one of the few people she could stand to have close to her—in both a physical and professional sense. One of the few people she trusted. She stood on her toes to give him an unprofessional kiss on the cheek and wiped her eyes. “How did you get here so fast?”
“I was in L.A. for a family wedding when the call came, so I got the first flight up. You walked by me when you left the villa but you were distracted.”
“I’m sorry I made you leave the wedding.”
“I’m not. My mother and aunts had already asked me eighty-six times when it was going to be my turn to walk to the altar. I think that’s about enough for a year. Plus, I would not for anything have missed the expression on Benton Arbor’s face when you told him you were going to arrest him. I don’t think anyone has ever said that to him before.”
Imogen sighed. “I overreacted.”
“No. He deserved it. From how he looked when I left, I’d bet he’s still rooted to that place, staring in front of him.”
“He’s in there laughing at me.”
“No way. Cowering. That’s what he is doing.”
“I should not have lost control.”
“You only do that when someone gives you less respect than you deserve. I think it’s healthy. Of course, there is your slight problem with rich people.”
“I don’t have a problem with rich people.”
“Right. Anyway, you are the only person I know who seems most tightly in control at the times when you claim to be out of it.”
“Super. That makes me sound deranged.” Imogen was hating this assignment more every moment.
“Deranged? Would a deranged woman tell a world-famous millionaire with connections to the Pentagon and enough military decorations and clout to get himself appointed to the cabinet to call 1-800-Jerkoff?”
Imogen closed her eyes. “I did that, didn’t I?”
“Yep. And let me tell you, it was stupendous.”
Imogen groaned, tasting strawberry embarrassment. When she opened her eyes she said, “Bugsy, do you think the rooms here are expensive?”
“Yes. Very.”
“Not in our budget?”
“Not in the least.”
“Good. Get me a suite. And an order of French fries with really spicy chili.”
“Already done, boss. Two bathrooms, a bedroom, and a living room in shades of blue, lavender, and green. Wait till you see it, it’s amazing. I also took the precaution of bringing some of this along from L.A.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small green bottle of Imogen’s favorite habanero salsa. He’d worked with her enough to know that really spicy food was one of the few things that could subdue the slew of tastes that inundated her during an investigation.
She took his muscular arm in hers. “Bugsy, what would I do without you?”
“Muddle along. Come on. Your palace is on the thirty-fifth floor.”
She was feeling better by the time they reached the elevator bank, but something made her hesitate as the doors slid open. Inside, her finger wavered over the large rectangular button that said CASINO. The casino was in the lobby, the lobby was freedom.
She could still leave. She could still turn around and walk right out the door, right out of Vegas, take her fish and head for the hills. She did not have to do this.
What, are you chicken, Page? Afraid to play?
She pushed the circle marked 35 and the elevator began to rise. She could not get the taste of licorice out of her mouth.
CHAPTER 11
The sound of dice knocking together drew the man in the well-tailored gray wool sport coat to the craps table. No one would recognize him as the same man who’d been outside the hotel hours earlier. The shirt, pants, shoes, wig, and glasses had all gone straight into the Bellagio incinerator and now there was just this handsome fellow, out for a good time. He smiled at the only other player there, a woman in the middle of her turn with ultrablond hair, and plunked down a stack of ten five-hundred-dollar chips on the Come line.
“That’s a mighty big bet you’re laying out there,” the woman said with a Southern drawl. She leaned over, exposing a surgically rounded décolletage that he couldn’t stop staring at. “You sure you can trust me with it?”
The man smiled in her direction but not right at her
, because he didn’t want to make eye contact. “We’ll just have to see how lucky I am,” he replied, perfectly copying her accent. He loved betting on the Come line. The Cum line.
“You here for a convention?” she asked, teasing the red Lucite dice in her hand with French-tipped nails.
The man shook his head. “No. Just to play. And you?”
“I’m looking for my fortune.” She stroked the dice one last time and let them fly in a perfect arc. They hit the opposite side of the table and rebounded, coming to rest with the three and the four faceup. She’d rolled a seven, craps. He’d won five thousand dollars.
“I’d say you’re mighty lucky,” the woman told him, her drawl diminished in direct proportion to her losses.
“I’d say so too,” the man agreed, smiling again. Actually, he’d been watching her and decided the odds of getting what he wanted were enough in his favor to make a shot worth it. He preferred to play games he could win. “Why don’t you keep these”—he pushed two five-hundred-dollar chips toward her—“as thanks for handling the dice so well.” Their fingers brushed as she reached for the chips and she licked her lips seductively.
It was a cum-on, he thought to himself. She was CUMING ON TO HIM. He laughed and she laughed too. He liked a woman who could laugh with him. It made him feel silly in the best way.
“Why don’t you let me buy you a drink? So we could celebrate.” He offered another winning smile, keeping his eyes on her boobs.
“I’d like that,” she purred. “But why don’t you come up to my room and have a drink with me there?”
CUM IN MY ROOM.
He hesitated for a moment. It was a little early for this kind of thing, and Mother told him to be careful. Said now was not the time to take any chances. But this wasn’t a chance, this was E-Z. And today, with Imogen arriving, was his lucky day. He deserved to celebrate.
“I’ll meet you up there.” He took her room number on the thirty-fifth floor and watched her saunter toward the elevators. Ten minutes later, with a single rose in his hand, he appeared at her door.
“Knock, knock,” he said toward the peephole. That was how it always started, how it always had to start.
“Who’s there?” the drawl asked from inside.
“Abbot,” he answered, pressing his lips to her hole. She was playing his game with him. He liked her a lot. She was a nice lady.
“Abbot who?” Still playing along.
“Abbot time you open the door,” he said, and she did, laughing.
They laughed together, her silhouetted in the doorway. She was wearing a pale peach see-through thing that only went to her thighs and nothing else.
He could see everything she had, and it wasn’t bad.
He chuckled at the rhyme and she smiled some more. She extended a hand into the space of her suite, parting the flimsy fabric of her robe so her entire front was visible and said, “Do you want to come in?”
What a question!
CHAPTER 12
It took Imogen a moment to figure out who she was when she opened her eyes. With her head propped on the arm of the couch she was facing an entire wall of floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the glittering Las Vegas Strip and the mountain-ringed desert beyond it. The couch itself was parallel to a huge television and divided the living room, which was the size of her last two apartments combined, into halves. Behind it was a bleached white circular table with upholstered chairs, a wet bar, and the door to her bedroom. The entire suite was coated in rich fabrics and milky marble floors, designed for luxury and comfort and pleasure. Nothing about it resembled anywhere Imogen Page would ever get to stay.
Except maybe the ice bucket Rex was now calling home, which was sitting in the middle of the coffee table.
Then her cell phone rang and reality snapped back into place. A voice she knew too well said, “Where the hell have you been, Imogen?”
“Good afternoon, Lex.”
“No, it isn’t. Do you know how I’ve spent my day so far?”
“On an oversold charter flight to a city you don’t want to be in to undertake an investigation you want no part of at the behest of a man you don’t respect? Oh, wait, that’s my day,” Imogen said. “Please, tell me all about yours.”
Imogen could picture Lex white-knuckling his desk so he would not run his hand through his hair and mess it up. One of their problems when they had been together was his obsession with neatness.
“Are you done trying to be witty, Imogen?”
One of their problems.
Lex was going on. “We need to talk. I’ve had the phone glued to my ear since I got in. I would not have thought it possible, even for you, to alienate an entire police force in less than four hours, but I was wrong.”
“I’ve told you before, you underestimate me.”
“This is not a joke. Do you know how many calls from important people we’ve gotten today about you?”
“No, but I bet you were thrilled. You love talking to important people.”
“One of them was a member of the cabinet.”
“Is that why you called me? To tell me how much I am increasing the prestige of your Rolodex? Because if that’s all, I am a little busy. I have to go arrest a recalcitrant millionaire. Good-bye, Lex.”
“Imogen, Gigi, you—”
Imogen hung up on him but kept the phone at her ear as she looked at her watch. The second hand moved—click, click, click, click—
Ring.
“Four seconds, Lex. You are really losing your touch. If you keep this up your efficiency rating is going to go to hell.”
There was a crackle of laughter on the other end of the phone and a male voice said, “I love your sense of humor, Imogen.” It paused for a beat, then added, “Welcome to Las Vegas.”
Imogen’s throat went dry. It was not Lex. She pushed the automatic-trace button on her handset and demanded, “Who is this?”
“Your biggest fan. You looked tired but still wonderful this morning. Although I could wish you would wear slightly more feminine clothes. You have such a nice figure and your eyes would really look better with peach than all that black.”
“Where are you?”
“Close by. Very close by.”
At that moment there was a knock on the door of her suite and the line clicked dead.
Imogen stood, frozen, with the phone at her ear.
Knock, knock.
She forced herself to move to the door, her gun out and ready. “Who is it?”
“Ben.”
“Ben who?”
Punch lines from a hundred stupid knock-knock jokes that Sam told when they were young bubbled through her mind—
Ben a long time, hasn’t it, babe; Ben keeping yourself busy, I see; Ben waiting so long to kill you—
“Benton Arbor. You know, the bastard from the crime scene. Can I come in?”
Imogen looked through the peephole. She opened the door. As Benton walked in, he noticed the gun in her hand.
“You won’t need that. I promise not to do anything untoward.”
Imogen kept the gun in her hand. With her eyes she directed him into a chair opposite the couch. She stood and stared at him.
“Is something wrong?” Benton asked when the silence had lengthened.
“How did you find my room?”
“I asked one of the men downstairs.” It was true, as far as it went. He had asked them. But they hadn’t told him. Working with Imogen Page was a privilege no one was willing to risk by giving out information about her. At least, useful information. If you were interested in how she had solved the Martina Kidd murder case simply by having tea with a woman, or how she had single-handedly toppled a Colombian drug lord’s empire by deciphering a code for INTERPOL, or how she tasted clues, or how many times she had beaten the deputy head of the FBI at chess, they were plenty forthcoming.
He’d gotten the pseudonym she was using—Lucretia Borgia—and her room number from the head of Bellagio security, who was a friend of J.D
.’s, or wanted to be, and had some making up to do after that morning.
“You weren’t kidding about the goldfish,” he said.
“Why are you here?”
Benton took a deep breath. “I came to apologize. You were right; we found a passage where you said we would.”
Imogen had been watching him, gauging him. Since the call, everyone she had met in Vegas was a suspect. You looked tired but still wonderful this morning, the caller had said. He had seen her, been near her. She could tell by the way his coat hung that Benton had a cell phone in his inside breast pocket. Close by. Very close by. He could have phoned from outside her door. She did not really think Benton Arbor was a serial killer, but she decided to test him. “He called me.”
“What? Who?”
“Loverboy. He called me.”
Benton came out of his chair. “Did he say anything about Rosalind? When did he call? Have you had it traced?”
She weighed his reaction. It was the right mix of concern, surprise, and pragmatism. It tasted genuine. “No. He called just before you knocked. He said he had been watching us, watching me, this morning.” She paused. “Why didn’t you come to Vegas with Dr. Carnow? What kept you away until yesterday?”
Benton’s jaw tightened, then relaxed. She could tell that he did not like answering to someone else. She knew the feeling well, and there was a certain pleasure in knowing she had earned the right to inflict it on a man who had never had to work for it, a man who had been given power and authority on an antique silver platter.
“Rosalind wanted some time at the spa. She’d been working very hard and said she needed to clear her head. I had meetings in Detroit until yesterday morning, so it worked out well.”
“That can be checked, you know. Your meetings in Detroit.”
Benton stared at her, realizing belatedly that she’d been asking him for an alibi. “Don’t be ridiculous. A deputy director of the FBI—your boss, Clarence Elgin—has certified me himself.”
“The last killer I caught was the daughter of an Episcopal bishop, an esteemed professor of anthropology, and one of Clarence Elgin’s frequent partners at national bridge conventions. They used to summer together when they were children.”
Bad Girl and Loverboy Page 46