12. Final Justice

by Fern Michaels

  "That about sums it up. Where you go is up to you. You have your whole life ahead of you. Make wise choices, and you won't go wrong.

  "Believe it or not, Marble Rose, you set this town on its ear. By next week it will never be the same. Be proud of the fact that in some small way you're part of what's going to be made right. So, if there's nothing else, I'll see you tomorrow morning."

  The huge white cat leaped to the floor and meandered over to Ted. Putting down his BlackBerry, Ted dropped to his knees and whispered to the cat, who yawned, then slapped at Ted's hand with one of its paws.

  Marble Rose laughed, a genuine laugh of amusement. "That means Lily likes you."

  Marble Rose walked to the door and opened it. "Thank you hardly seems adequate. Will it do?"

  "It will do," Lizzie said.

  "Miss Fox. . .where does my mother live?"

  "California. Land of sunshine. Here, take this," Lizzie said, handing her the card Beatrice Preston had given her. "Good luck." She reached out to hug Marble Rose.

  In the car, Lizzie settled herself, and said, "I love happy endings."

  "Was that true what you told her, about your mother and all that? Now, where are we going?"

  "Ask yourself why I would lie about something so sacred. We're going to the Babylon to a meeting, so please be quiet and let me think."

  Ted always followed orders.

  "It looks to be a slow evening," Mike Oliver said to those seated at the long table affording them a view of one of the monitors that covered all the casino's entrances and exits. "I think we should lie low for a few days. Udal is on our ass, and. . ."

  "You aren't paid to think, Mike, so shut up. Did you forget who runs this operation?" Hank Owens asked.

  The 290-pound blimp, as Owens called Mike Oliver, his right-hand man, was not intimidated. "It's my ass on the line, and I'm worried. There are too many damn people here all of a sudden. The goddamn outgoing director of the FBI suddenly shows up with some retired judge. Tell me that's not something to be concerned about. And suddenly we have to have this martial-arts exhibition, right-now-or-else thing. Don't you think that's a little suspicious?"

  "The outgoing director is here to get married. People do that, you know. For some asshole reason, they think it's romantic to have some over-weight clown with sideburns pretending to be Elvis marry them. This isn't the first time we've had spur-of-the-moment events. It happens all the time, and you damn well know it. Don't go blowing this all up into something that is nothing but a pimple on your ass. I'm on it, Mike."

  Dwayne Richards, the second member of Owens's inner ring, was a muscular-looking thug with a pockmarked face that scared little children. He tilted his head to the side and stared up at his boss. He was soft-spoken, which made him seem all the more deadly. "If there's nothing to worry about, why did you switch up this morning and raise the ante from $1 million to $5 million to that breast cancer research? And why is our glorious boss and owner of the Babylon, Homer Winters, on his way here from the airport?"

  "I'll tell you why," Leon Quintera, the third member of the inner circle said. "Because Udal told him to get his ass here ASAP. Even people like Homer Winters jump when Udal tells them to."

  The fourth member of the inner ring was an ordinary-looking guy named Stu Franklin, who had curly sandy-brown hair and a boyish smile. Under his five-thousand-dollar Hugo Boss suit he was all muscle and sinew. He was also an ex–Navy SEAL. He liked to think of himself as the voice of reason when his fellow goons were ready to go off half-cocked. "If you think Alvin Lansing is a match for Cosmo Cricket, then I have a rocket launcher ready to fire up your ass. The meeting that's supposed to take place an hour from now is not your run-of-the-mill get-together, Hank, and we all know it, so don't go blowing smoke. Something is happening, or something is going to happen. Cancel tonight with your people, and we'll all rest a little easier."

  Owens leaned back in his chair as he thought about Franklin's words. He could afford to take a hit tonight and maybe for the next few nights until everyone settled down. He looked around at his inner ring and knew they were jittery, and jittery was not a good thing. He nodded to show he agreed with Franklin.

  "I don't like it that Winters is on his way here," Mike Oliver said.

  "He owns the frigging place, Mike," Hank said. "We're just his hired guns, who work for a salary. We're overworked and underpaid."

  The others laughed, recognizing the joke.

  "Just be respectful. Ask after the family. Make sure you remember the grandkids' names. You can sidetrack the old geezer real easy. The only thing he's interested in is the bottom line, his charities, and how clean this place is. I don't see one complaint finding its way to him."

  "Udal. . ."

  "Will you stop with the Udal thing already. He's not God, you know," Hank snapped. He couldn't let his men know he was getting more pissed by the minute as he, too, wondered what was going on. Christ, how he hated Peter Udal and that monster Cosmo Cricket.

  Stu Franklin pointed to a monitor covering the main entrance, where a bright red Corvette had just roared up and come to a stop. They all stared at the gorgeous set of legs that swung out of the car. He whistled to show his approval. "Now, that's one classy-looking woman."

  The men watched as the valet held a whispered conversation with the owner of the Corvette. The watchers saw a look of alarm spread across the valet's face, then he laughed as the woman pressed some bills into his hand.

  "Ah, she's just telling him to be careful with her wheels. Women are fussier about cars than men are," Mike Oliver said.

  Down below at the entrance, Ted held the door for Lizzie. "And what was that all about?"

  Lizzie was humming under her breath, a tune Ted more or less recognized but couldn't quite put his finger on. Then it came to him, and he laughed out loud. A Kenny G song, "What A Wonderful World." He was still laughing as they walked around the casino.

  Lizzie stopped humming long enough to say, "I don't think you want to know. When we leave, that particular valet will not be working here."

  "And you know this. . .how?"

  "Are you sure you really want to know?"

  Ted wasn't sure if he did or not, but he knew damn well Maggie would want to know. "Yeah," he said.

  Lizzie, aware of cameras and all things security, whispered in Ted's ear. He stopped in midstride and burst out laughing all over again. Lizzie smiled and looked upward and waved and mouthed the words, "See you in a bit." To Ted she said, "I play to win, I told you that."

  "Wait, wait. How do you know Cricket is the owner of that car?"

  "I saw him drive into the garage. He's not going to let some kid park a car like that. Not to worry, it was Cricket. Look, Ted, I'm not as evil as you think. This morning I went out for coffee to bring back and there, in the parking lot of the condo, was this guy from Edison, New Jersey, staring at a red Corvette he won in a crap game. He was drunk as a skunk and worrying about how he was going to explain the Corvette and being here in the first place to his wife. Seems he came here with a few friends, who disappeared on him after the crap game and headed back to New Jersey, and left him high and dry. There he was, clutching the title to the car and I said I'd give him ten grand for it, and he said okay. End of story. So, no, it is not a rental, no, I will not claim any damage to it, and when we leave here tonight, I will turn the car over to the valet, who is now working at the Venetian. Win-win, Ted."

  "But who is going to pay for the damage to Cricket's car? Not that I care."

  "When this is all over, I'll step up to the plate or negotiate a settlement. Don't worry, Ted, I got it covered."

  Ted was laughing again as Lizzie went back to humming "What A Wonderful World."

  In the underground garage, Julio Valencia, known to his friends as Doc, was having the time of his life as he scooted around the ramps in the red Corvette looking for a silver Enzo Ferrari whose price tag was a mere $1 million. He knew because he was a car buff. He looked down at the two thousand doll
ars the silver-haired woman had pressed into his hand. He laughed when he recalled how she'd whispered, "Check the video cameras, then just back into it and smash in the front. You might want to give it a second crunch. Don't worry about my car, then park the Corvette, nose out. You have a job waiting for you at the Venetian. Three bucks more an hour. Just tell them Mr. Udal recommended you. Remember this number and call me if you have any problems."

  Hot damn, the valet thought. Now I can take my girlfriend to Jamaica.

  He loved and hated the sound of the Corvette smacking into the Ferrari's front end. He swung the Vette around and had another go at it. He got out to assess the damage and was satisfied the car was probably totaled. He climbed back into the Corvette and roared down a level to another floor, where he did what he was told and backed the candy-apple red machine in. He climbed out and walked up the ramp to the outdoors. He walked down the street, hailed a cab. His thoughts were on his girlfriend, Lucinda, and the two grand in his pocket.

  Chapter 16

  "My treat, Joe," Maggie said, paying for two coffees and two bagels. She carried the tray over to a small table in the coffee shop in the lobby of the Post, and set it down. Joe had two copies of the morning edition of the Post. Both of them were grinning from ear to ear as they stared down at the headline. It wasn't a WAR headline in big bold letters. It wasn't even a medium War headline. The fine italic heading was a statement: Mass Exodus From The Nation's Capital To Las Vegas. Underneath the startling headline it read, Does anyone in Washington really believe what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas? This paper thinks NOT.

  The printing was so finely scripted readers either had to put on their glasses or bring the paper to within eight inches of their faces.

  "Great teaser!" Espinosa said.

  "I can't take credit for it. It was Ted's idea. That's why I gave him the byline. I'll bet you five bucks the phones at the paper are jammed."

  Espinosa grinned. He shook his head. "That's a sucker bet. It's like old times, eh, Maggie? Do you miss all the digging and the running, the adrenaline rush?"

  "Yeah, old times," Maggie said wistfully. "Of course I miss it, but being the EIC has its moments, like right now. I have to admit, give this town a nugget and they'll run to hell and back to get to the nitty-gritty. Who the hell ever ran a headline like that with no story, just two pictures, some red arrows, and a question? No one that I can recall. I made the decision to double our print run tomorrow."

  Seasoned reporter that he was, Espinosa agreed with his boss. "And we did it in color!"

  Maggie looked down at the picture of the White House and next to it a full aerial shot of Las Vegas with a large arrow running from the White House to what looked like a particular casino. A second arrow ran from Vegas to the White House. A particular casino with no name.

  "Joe, neither you nor I pretends to be a fashion maven, so I want you to take my printouts Ted has been feeding me via his BlackBerry to Mavis Riley and have her do a write-up of Lizzie Fox's wardrobe. That lady is so into fashion I want every woman in D.C. salivating when they envision the Silver Fox's clothes. Tell her I will allocate a full three inches of space above the fold. Four if she absolutely needs it but no more. Be sure you give her credit, the socialites in this town follow her fashion advice. You always want to keep them wanting more and more and more."

  "What went down at the meeting last night?" Espinosa asked. "Did Ted fall asleep at one of the gaming tables?"

  "Nothing that exciting. It was canceled at the eleventh hour. Seems the owner of the Babylon flew in, got his jockeys in a knot, and said he was too tired to conduct business at that hour of the night. It's on for this morning. All the players were in place, but nothing went down. Ted won two hundred bucks and Lizzie lost forty-five dollars. But something interesting is on the front page of the Sun this morning. Seems someone has it in for Mr. Cosmo Cricket. His Enzo Ferrari, which set him back a cool mil, was pretty much totaled in a parking garage. That's two cars in two days. Seems the guy is chewing nails and spitting rust."

  Espinosa laughed. "Don't they have security cameras in those garages?"

  "Well, yeah," Maggie drawled. "Vegas is the land of security, but for some reason the cameras were short-circuited last night. That's what happens when you're dumb enough to take up two spaces. Ticks off the next guy who can't find a space. Shit happens, Joe. Listen, I have to get up to the office. Find out who else is bugging out of here. You sure you don't want to take that five-dollar bet?"

  "Nah. Are you sure Ted doesn't need my help? I can do there what I'm doing here. Ted might need me, Maggie."

  Maggie gathered up her paper and trash and stared at him for a long minute. "It might come to that, Joe. I think I can guarantee that there will be no available flights to Vegas out of D.C. today or tomorrow. I'll let you know. Get me everything you have on Homer Winters and his family. Everything, Joe. Call in on the hour."

  Espinosa saluted smartly. "Yes, ma'am." He started to text message Ted until he realized the time difference between D.C. and Las Vegas. Ted was probably still catching his z's and might not have his BlackBerry set on vibrate. Espinosa slipped his own BlackBerry into his pocket and sauntered out of the coffee shop. At the last second he turned around and went back to get two coffees to go. Maggie liked it when people brought her coffee. So what if he was brownnosing the new EIC? So what?

  The inner ring were munching on jelly donuts and drinking vanilla-flavored coffee as they viewed the night's security films. The only thing of any interest was live video of Homer Winters stomping his way toward his chauffeur-driven car, which was blocking the entrance to the casino. They all shrugged, as much as to say, He's old, and if he wants to be a curmudgeon, let him. He was the owner in name only as far as they were concerned. Hank Owens, although he'd never admit it aloud, considered the Babylon to be his. He knew how to keep Winters in line.

  "Nothing else?" Owens asked.

  "I picked up the airport video before I came in this morning," Leon Quintera said.

  "Anyone look at it yet?"

  "No, Boss," the men said in unison.

  "That's it, then?" Owens's tone of voice clearly meant there better not be anything else.

  "Unless you count the morning edition of the Washington Post," Oliver said.

  Owens bent over to stare down at the online headline. He started to curse. "What the hell does that mean? Who the hell is 'flocking' here? I want names.

  "Now, look alive, gentlemen, we're in the security business here. Let's see who's arrived in our fair city in the dark hours of the night. Maybe if you guys put your glasses on, you can identify the Washingtonians who are invading our fair city."

  Airport tapes were usually on the boring side, grainy and poor quality but still good enough to make out the features of those the camera captured. You could always tell the high rollers and the movie stars because they held their heads up so the cameras could capture them full face. It was the travelers who wore caps, sunglasses at night, or big hats, and kept their heads down, that interested the security team.

  "Jesus, look at that!" Owens said as the camera caught a British Airways Red Cross jet sitting on the runway. "How come all handicapped or sick people come to Vegas?" he grumbled.

  A string of obscenities flew out of his mouth when he saw the portable staircase wheeled up to the jet's door, which was standing open. Seven white-coated attendants descended the steps, each one carrying a wheelchair. An airport worker opened the collapsed chairs and lined them up. Minutes later, the same attendants carried frail-looking patients down the steps and carefully placed their charges in the waiting chairs.

  "Jesus Christ, tell me those people aren't registered here at the hotel. You know what hell wheelchairs cause in the gaming rooms. First they block the aisles, then the people sitting in them start to complain about the cigarette smoke and the watered-down drinks. They demand instant service, and they want smiles and hop-to-it-ness. They send their goddamn food back six times, and want to-go bags. And they
damn well don't tip, and they tie up the elevators. Well, where the hell are they staying?"

  Mike Oliver was busy tapping away on a computer. "No one is showing seven British handicapped guests. Probably staying someplace private. I think we're in the clear, Boss."

  "Okay. Keep everyone on their toes. Who the hell knows when old Homer will decide to show up. I'll be in my office. I have to deal with that shit about Cosmo Cricket's fancy set of wheels. He thinks he's going to walk out of here with a check for a million dollars.

  "Richards," he boomed, "find out what the hell went wrong with the garage cameras. I'm not going to authorize a million-dollar payout if Cricket doesn't know how to drive. I don't give two shits if Udal is his boss or not. You, Oliver, find out where those handicapped people are staying. Something is not sitting right with me about that jet and its passengers. Check the hospital and see what reason, if any, they might have to be going there. If they're here for fun and games, nail it down."

  The inner ring rolled their eyes, then sat down together to decide if they wanted to waste their time on handicapped people or sit and finish the donuts and the coffee.

  "Screw it," Quintera said. "A private ambulance picked them up, which means someone has money, and people with money pay for privacy. End of story."

  The others agreed. They went back to their food.

  Down the hall and around the corner, Hank Owens stomped his way into his private office. He settled himself behind his desk and bellowed for coffee, which appeared like magic just as Cosmo Cricket walked through the doorway. As always, Owens was struck by the sheer size of the man. He sighed and motioned for the lawyer to enter and take a seat. "Coffee?"

  "Sure, why not?" Cricket asked.

  Owens bellowed again, and within seconds a young woman carried in the coffee on a silver tray. Guests always got a silver tray, another one of Homer Winters's cockamamie rules.