by Ann Aguirre
At least, that had been his experience in the past. Serrano was starting to think maybe he’d never met anyone quite like Foster before.
“Twenty percent increase,” Foster answered, expressionless.
“Excellent. I’ll see what I can do for you this year, too.” With that, he turned, dismissing his chief of security with his back. Though he heard no movement, he knew the moment the man left by the nearly silent snick of the door.
He’d entrusted a great deal to a man nobody knew much about. Serrano had stolen him from a rival casino because he came so highly recommended and because Foster was dispassionate as a shark. The security chief didn’t invite confidences any more than he shared them. He did his job and he went home, which as far as Serrano knew was a simple one-bedroom out in Green Valley, even though Serrano paid him enough to afford something ten times as nice. Foster could live in a penthouse if wanted, but his security chief wasn’t motivated by money. Serrano wouldn’t feel entirely at ease about the man until he knew just what did motivate him. In nearly two years, he still hadn’t figured it out.
Still, he had no concrete basis for his suspicions. They were reflexive more than anything else. He hadn’t kept his position by letting people put things over on him. If he really thought the guy was up to something, he wouldn’t have put him in charge of cleaning up the Justice debacle.
Serrano shrugged into his suit jacket. He’d be damned if he was going to change his routine. Tonight his cronies would be showing off at an exclusive club, where the drinks were overpriced, the women wore very little, and the men came in one shape: powerful. Ordinarily, he’d be the first one there. Since his humiliation, he hadn’t shown his face, but he couldn’t hide forever.
On the way down, he called for his driver, Tonio, who met him at the front doors of the Silver Lady. The casino was a blowsy whore, but he loved every inch of her from the red carpet to the silver neon that ran the length of the electric bombshell that had made the place famous. There was a healthy crowd in there, he thought, as he climbed into the limo. Lots of blue-collar Joes like he’d once been, begging Lady Luck for a break. He could’ve told them all to go home and invest their money in a good IRA, but that would be bad for his own bottom line.
Serrano poured himself a drink. He didn’t have to tell Tonio where he was going. Most of the time, his life ran like a Swiss watch. The driver dropped him off outside the club, seventeen thousand feet of pure luxurious debauchery. At the door, the bouncer waved him in and he took the VIP elevator up to the private suite. He didn’t like mixing with all the drunks on the main level.
When he arrived, he found two guys waiting, Lou Pasternak and Joe Ricci. They had drinks in hand, watching the greater floor show. It wasn’t just the dancers, but the way the men reacted to them. From up here, you could get the big picture, which was one of his favorite things about stopping by the security room at the Silver Lady. Sometimes he liked keeping a finger on the pulse of the place.
“So you finally crawled out of your hole,” Joe said, raising his glass. “I think I’d just kill myself, if I was you. Nobody’s ever gonna forget this.”
Pasternak showed his teeth. “You know one of your guys put that thing on YouTube? When she held up the sign, I thought I’d piss myself laughing. Have you seen it?” The big man threw his head back and laughed.
Serrano froze. Son of a bitch. He’d known rumors would get out, repeated by those who were there that night. There was no avoiding that. He couldn’t have imagined this would end up on the Internet. Somebody at the Silver Lady, somebody who worked in security, had copied the footage, sneaked it out, and put it up to disgrace him further.
He’d find out who was working that night, identify the culprit, and make an example of him. He hadn’t dumped a body in years, but he still knew how to go about it. They had to see he wasn’t soft.
A sick feeling overwhelmed him. Killing her might not be enough. He needed to do something big to make people in this town remember why they’d feared him.
Something big . . .
Addison Foster returned to the security room precisely ten minutes after he left his boss. The guards came to attention when he slid inside. They always became more conscientious by virtue of his presence. If he hadn’t been distracted by other things, he would have found their nervousness amusing, not that it would have found any outlet in his expression. Foster prided himself on his inscrutable mien.
Where Gerard Serrano was concerned, it had saved his ass more than once.
“What’s the situation on the floor?” he asked.
Rodriguez gave the report. “Making money almost everywhere, but table eight is losing steadily to a guy in a porkpie hat. I haven’t been able to ID him yet.”
Amateurs.
“Did you figure out his system at least?”
“Not yet.”
He’d have to do it himself before their losses got big enough to piss Serrano off. “Show me the footage on the backup screen.” Obligingly, Rodriguez sent the images over where he could examine them frame by frame. Foster sat down, and within forty-five seconds, he said, “Bring me the blond at the slots behind the table . . . and the guy in the hat. She’s signaling him.”
“Right away,” the other guard said.
With a sigh, Foster let himself into the interview room. He could do without these idiots who were so sure they had a foolproof way to beat the house. There was no such thing as money for nothing. The guy in the porkpie hat didn’t come quietly. It took four security guards to get him up there, and his blond accomplice wouldn’t stop crying.
After conducting the required disclosure and confiscating their ill-gained goods, he turned the would-be Bonnie and Clyde over to the cops. It amused him how much play Serrano got out of the local authorities when he was probably the biggest criminal on or off the Strip. The only difference was, nobody ever caught him.
The rest of his shift passed quietly enough, but it was 4:00 A.M. by the time he clocked out and headed for his gold Nissan Altima. It was two years old and in excellent condition. Foster had learned to take care of his possessions as a child, and it didn’t matter their actual value. He safeguarded what belonged to him.
So very little did.
It was a fair drive to his apartment so late at night, but he wouldn’t live near the casinos. That brought back too many memories. Once he reached his apartment building, he checked the lot out of long-ingrained habit. Though it had been years since anyone had tracked him down, he never knew when the past would come calling again unexpectedly.
No shadows, no telltale signs of pursuit. Not even a car passing to another residence. That was good. At this hour, everything should be quiet—and it was—another reason he liked working this shift. It made it easier to spot things out of order.
Foster got out of his vehicle, hit the lock button on his remote, and kept an eye on the landscaping. It was impossible for him to walk to his building without constantly scanning side to side. As it always did, his heart pounded a little harder in going up the stairs to the third floor. If anyone had chosen tonight to try and kill him, this would be their best chance.
But as it had been for the last six hundred nights, he made it to his apartment unimpeded. Sometimes he almost felt disappointed in the ones hunting him. In that regard, he had some sympathy for the woman against whom they’d dispatched a professional. But if they’d only tried a little harder, they might succeed in making his life interesting. Instead he’d slipped into the skin of this nonentity, Addison Foster. Doubtless this man had grown up in New Hampshire and summered in the Poconos. He’d attended all the right schools.
Most days, he hated the son of a bitch, even as he was forced to live his life.
But not entirely.
The woman was waiting for him, as she was paid to, three nights a week. He did not speak to her as he hung his jacket in the closet. As instructed, she was already wearing the blindfold. She’d chained one of her wrists to his bed-post, and he took care of t
he other one himself. Then he left her that way, anticipation flooding his veins. He took a slow, leisurely shower, washing off the smoke and stench of a night at the Silver Lady.
The prostitute knew better than to make small talk. She was slim and lithe, younger than he wanted to think about, most likely, but not too young. His tastes didn’t run in that direction. At his request, she had no body hair, just the dark mane on her head. It was dyed, of course. She’d been a mousy blond the first time she came to him, but in Vegas, you could have anything, if the price was right.
Just looking at her cuffed to his bed made him hard. She didn’t move when he opened the table beside the bed and produced a condom. He rolled it on with the ease of practice, and she lay sweetly still and passive as he came down on her. The good girl had already lubricated herself, so he slid in easily.
Foster found it easier to do this with whores, who didn’t question his preferences. Regular women always wanted to know why when he said, don’t look at me, don’t talk to me, and for God’s sake, don’t touch me. He’d given up on that type of exchange years ago. In many ways, this was cleaner and more honest.
Holding himself away from her on his arms, he began to thrust. They touched nowhere except this point of penetration. He could tell by her breathing when she started to like it. That was the thing that surprised him most about their arrangement. He found it strange that a working girl could take pleasure in his very particular tastes, but this one did, no question. She came almost as silently as he did—with a soft exhalation and a nearly imperceptible tightening of muscles.
It was exercise, nothing more.
As soon as he finished, he rolled away from her and unfastened one of her arms. He went to the bathroom and shut the door. She knew her cue. While he washed and disposed of the condom, she would dress and disappear. She’d never once seen his face.
That was the way it had to be. If she ever found out who he was—or more important—who he had been, things would change for her—and not in a good way.
By the time he came back into the bedroom, she was gone. Doubtless she envisioned he had some kind of hideous deformity, something he didn’t want her to see or touch. Maybe she even got off on the thought that she was fucking a circus freak. There was no accounting for kink.
The truth was, his difference lay beneath the skin, nothing that could be measured or quantified. He merely accommodated it as best he could. Foster shrugged into a silken robe. The maroon dressing gown would surprise Serrano, he thought. He reckoned Foster a complete ascetic or possibly a homosexual. That too was part of the plan.
Then came the next part of his nightly ritual. Foster checked all the traps in the apartment, tiny cues that would tell him if something had been moved or touched. If the girl had shown signs of letting herself in and prowling in his things, well, they would not have continued their association. But she only did what she was paid to do, the consummate professional. He respected that in a woman.
He had a downright soft spot for the one who’d humiliated his boss on closed-circuit TV. Giving one of the guards the idea about YouTube had been priceless. Foster didn’t think Serrano had seen that yet. The fireworks would be spectacular.
When he was content the apartment was still clean, he drew a titanium case out from its hiding spot. Inside, there was a laptop. He powered it up and input eight different passwords, taking him through various layers of encryption. He waited for a connection, then two words popped up on the black screen:
KNOCK KNOCK.
Despite his general distaste for the drama, he typed: WHO’S THERE?
MOCKINGBIRD.
Ah, he’d gotten lucky then. Foster smiled as he input, SHRIKE HERE. I KNOW HOW WE CAN TAKE HIM DOWN.
CHAPTER 5
Kyra had crossed the state line into Texas awhile back.
Now she just needed to decide where she was going to stop and how long she’d stay. She’d been running ever since she left Vegas, having the uneasy feeling if she lingered in one place too long, they’d catch up with her. She had to assume Serrano had people looking for her. God, if only she could’ve seen the look on his face.
Laughter overwhelmed her, almost drowning out the sound of the wind rushing through the car. If she had any sense, she’d be making arrangements to get out of the country, but she had no idea how to smuggle a large sum of money past customs. Unfortunately, the kind of people who might help her seemed equally likely to kill her and take the cash.
Plus, she didn’t want to go anywhere she couldn’t drive. She just wasn’t leaving the Marquis, so that limited her choices. Canada might be an option, if she could get across the border with the money, but they’d tightened security lately, and she didn’t want to wind up in jail. The same went for Mexico, and she’d have a language barrier to overcome there. No, Canada looked like the best option. She just needed to wait for Mia to get back—and stay free until she did.
She tapped her fingers against the steering wheel, gazing out over the plains. No help for it. Her shoulders were burning, and her ass was sore. She needed to rest, maybe take a couple days off and have a little fun. In every town, there were always idiots who could use some separation from their money. Sure, people would say she had no reason to work anymore, but that would be like telling a composer to stop writing music, just because he’d earned enough doing it. Some things you did for love.
Making a split-second decision, she yanked the car to the right, taking the exit. She followed the sign pointing toward Mount Silver. It looked to be no more than a tiny dot, several miles off the highway, but they’d have a cheap motel at the very least. Places like this always did. In the morning, she’d take a look around and consider her options.
Sure enough, she found a place on the outskirts of town called the Sleep E-Z. It was a concrete block U-shaped building that looked as if it had been last updated in 1957, and a series of motion-detecting lights flickered to life as she parked beside the office, illuminating an unholy collection of lawn gnomes. After climbing out of her car, Kyra stretched to pop the kinks out of her shoulders and back.
There was no restaurant attached to the property, but she had some ramen noodles in the trunk. With any luck, there would be a coffeemaker in the room. When she got to the office door, she found it locked, but there was a bell for after-hours service. It took almost five minutes, but eventually a man wearing low-slung tan pants and a dingy wifebeater came shuffling out through a curtained area in the back. He surveyed her suspiciously through the door and Kyra raised both hands to show she wasn’t armed.
“I need a room,” she said through the safety glass. “Do you have any vacancies?”
That was a ridiculous question. There were only two other cars in the lot, and one of them probably belonged to him. Still, it didn’t hurt to be polite, not when he looked so grumpy about being woken up.
“Yeah,” he grunted. “Just a sec.”
She heard the sound of about ten locks being disengaged. What the hell did he expect to happen out here in the middle of nowhere? But maybe this was a high-crime route, based on factors she didn’t know about.
With a smile, she stepped into the office, which smelled of burned coffee and stale sweat. The manager or owner—whatever he was—didn’t speak as he set out the guest registry. The nicer hotels would demand a credit card and a picture ID, which is why she generally wound up in places like this. She wrote Cassie Marvel, one of her favorite aliases in the line below the last guest, whose scrawl was illegible.
“Forty-five bucks. Cash,” the guy told her, as if he suspected she might try to pay in food stamps or bingo tickets.
Kyra laid out the money in small, crumpled bills. That seemed to relieve his mind somewhat and he plunked an old-fashioned metal key down on the counter. “You’re in 117. No parties, no unregistered guests. Basic cable is free. Check-out is at noon. You’re not out of there at 12:01, you pay for another night.”
“Got it.” She nodded and snagged the key. “Thanks.”
She left the building and hopped back in the Marquis, pulling it around the building to the corner of the U nearest her room. The exterior lights seemed too few and far between. The dark was more profound out here, broken only by the stream of her headlights. Once she turned them off, she couldn’t see, and that made her uneasy.
For a moment, she sat listening to the engine tick over. Then she told herself she was being stupid. Nobody knew where she was. Hell, she couldn’t even pinpoint the town without half an hour and a map.
Before getting out, she locked the other doors, and then clicked the lock button on the driver’s side. Then she grabbed the keys and her bag from the backseat. Try as she might, Kyra couldn’t dispel the foreboding as she slid out of the car. Her fevered imagination conjured footsteps crunching across the parking lot, even though she didn’t see anyone. Her heart was pounding like a jackhammer by the time she got in the door.
For a long moment, she leaned up against it, eyes closed. It was a thin barrier between her and imagined danger, but it helped a little. She turned and engaged both the bolt and the chain. It was a wholly irrational response to the dark, but she’d been afraid of it ever since she was a kid.
Normal people grew out of it, but normal people didn’t deal with a dad who’d left her on her own more nights than she could tally. He meant well, and most times, he did come home with breakfast money from whatever game he’d gotten into. Kyra understood what kind of man he was, not the sort who could work a day job, and she’d loved him fiercely. But she’d always gone to sleep with the lights on. The worst time she could remember was a bad storm in Pensacola, when the power went off. She’d been nine.
Thunder rumbled in the distance. Ah. That probably explained her nerves. Lightning in the air always made her nervous.
“Looks like I got off the road just in time,” she said aloud.
A tired driver coupled with a fierce Texas thunderstorm didn’t make a good match. She took stock of what forty-five dollars had bought her. The room was shabby but fairly clean, if you didn’t look too long at anything. She was thankful to find a coffeemaker in the tiny bathroom, so she could heat water for soup. First Kyra checked it for telltale signs it had been used for cooking meth, but it was dusty, not rusty looking. Next she filled the pot and poured it in the top, checked and then rinsed the filter area, and flicked the machine on. It immediately began to hiss.