Death Perception

by Victoria Laurie

  ‘‘Hey!’’ I yelled, and grabbed for the phone. ‘‘That’s mine!’’

  Donahue held it out of reach. ‘‘This phone is registered to Agent Rivers,’’ Robillard snapped. ‘‘We’re confiscating it as evidence.’’

  I could feel the heat rise in my cheeks. ‘‘Get out of this room,’’ I said evenly. ‘‘I mean it, I want you out of here now!’’

  Robillard regarded me as if I were a pesky fly. ‘‘Like I said, don’t plan on going anywhere, Miss Cooper. It’s a dangerous city out there. I wouldn’t want anything happening to you.’’

  ‘‘Yeah, like I might fall and break my neck, right, Robillard?’’

  He smiled again evilly. ‘‘Exactly like that, Miss Cooper. A neck like yours could snap quite easily if you’re not very, very careful.’’

  ‘‘I’d worry less about me and more about finding Dutch, Mr. Agent in Charge,’’ I said, using finger quotes around his title to show him what little respect I held for him. There was no way I was backing down to this son of a bitch.

  Robillard actually laughed and then motioned to a confused-looking Donahue, who was scratching his head at our exchange, and the two left the room.

  Bob waited until they left before he said, ‘‘What was that about?’’

  I turned to face him. ‘‘Bob,’’ I said, ‘‘you have got to believe me when I tell you Dutch Rivers is as straight an arrow as they shoot. He didn’t have anything to do with Delgado’s abduction.’’

  ‘‘I know you believe that,’’ he said gently. ‘‘But you have to give Robillard a little credit. It is suspicious that Dutch has a personal connection to Delgado.’’

  ‘‘I won’t be giving Robillard the smallest ounce of anything,’’ I snapped. ‘‘That’s your bad guy, Bob!’’

  Brosseau pushed a hand through his thick gray hair. ‘‘Abby,’’ he said gently, ‘‘right now I don’t know what to believe. I will say this, though: If Rivers is bad, then you could be in some serious trouble. You might want to think about retaining a lawyer.’’

  I could feel that icy trickle of fear winding its way along my spine. It suddenly dawned on me how alone and vulnerable I really was. I was far from home and friends who believed in Dutch, and out here in this city I was completely out of my element. Bob was right; I was in trouble. ‘‘Thanks,’’ I said at last. ‘‘I’ll consider it.’’

  Bob gave me a nod and turned to leave. ‘‘Call me if you hear anything, okay?’’ he said, and I could tell he had no agenda behind that statement. He just wanted to help.

  ‘‘I will,’’ I said, and waved good-bye.

  When he’d gone, I went into the bedroom and lay down on the bed feeling weary beyond belief. My head felt full of cobwebs. I knew I needed a plan, but I was having trouble forming one. I closed my eyes and before I knew it, I was asleep.

  * * *

  ‘‘Hey there, sweethot,’’ Dutch said. He was leaning against the wall of a big room with white marble walls and small doors up and down the length of it.

  ‘‘Where have you been?’’ I asked him, relief flooding my senses.

  ‘‘Right here,’’ he said, and pointed to one of the little doors. ‘‘I’ve been waiting for you to find me.’’

  I walked over to the door he was pointing to. It was about two feet tall by two and a half feet wide. On the door was written DUTCH RIVERS.

  I turned back to Dutch for an explanation, but he’d disappeared. Curious, I pulled the door open, and without warning, something big and heavy came sliding out at me. I jumped back as the thing came to a stop and that’s when I realized that what had slid out was a coffin.

  ‘‘No, no, no!’’ I said, placing a trembling hand on the coffin. ‘‘Please! Dutch, please don’t be in here!’’ I wanted to walk away without lifting the lid, but I felt compelled—I had to know if he was alive or dead.

  Gritting my teeth, I grabbed the handle and began to lift the lid. I saw a hand with hair on the knuckles, then the TAG Heuer watch I’d given him for Valentine’s Day, then his favorite blue shirt, and finally I saw his pale and still face with eyes that were lifeless and staring. I screamed and sank back from the coffin, and that’s when I realized I was sitting straight up in bed, sweaty and panting.

  There was a loud knock on the door to the room. I placed a hand over my heart, shaken and upset. The knock came again and I heard my name called through the door. I went to the door and opened it. Standing in the hallway was a tall man in a dark suit wearing sunglasses. ‘‘I heard a scream,’’ he said.

  ‘‘I’m sorry,’’ I said, wondering if he was a VIP here at the hotel. ‘‘I was having a bad dream.’’

  He nodded and turned away, walking away from the floor about four feet before stopping and leaning against the wall. It was then that I noticed the slight bulge at his waist and I realized the FBI wanted to make sure I didn’t go anywhere after all. ‘‘Am I under arrest?’’ I asked.

  ‘‘No,’’ he said, without looking at me. ‘‘We just want to keep an eye on you.’’

  ‘‘I see,’’ I said, totally irritated. ‘‘Well, as long as my tax dollars are hard at work!’’ And with that, I slammed the door. I went back inside and sat down on the couch rubbing my eyes tiredly. That dream had been awful and the fact that it was the second dream in a row that I’d had with Dutch playing a corpse had me really worried. My crew was trying to tell me something, but maybe I just didn’t want to hear it.

  I got up and headed into the shower. I still didn’t know what I was going to do, but maybe a nice hot shower would help clear things up. Thirty minutes later when I’d emerged from the bathroom, I had a small plan forming. But first, I needed to disappear from the FBI’s most watched list.

  Gathering some extra clothes and stuffing them into my backpack, I grabbed my purse, Dutch’s note, and one rose from the vase, which I placed in the paperback I’d been reading, and headed out of the room. ‘‘I’m going to get something to eat,’’ I said to my guard.

  He didn’t say a word, but followed behind me about ten paces. I waited with some other guests at the elevator and when it came, we all piled on. We went down a floor and more guests got on. Two more floors, and yet another group of people. We were pretty well squished in, so at the next floor a large party let our elevator go by, opting to wait for the next car down. I could feel the FBI guy edging closer to me. He was obviously on guard in case it looked like I might bolt.

  I worked hard to look like I was still shell-shocked about Dutch’s disappearance and when we made it to the ground floor, I could feel the agent hounding me relax just a little bit. People began piling out of the car and there was a flurry of motion as hotel guests waiting to get on tried to make room for those of us getting off. While I waited for my turn, I dug around in my purse and pulled out a small map of the hotel that I’d found in our room. Pretending to gaze at it while I shuffled forward off the elevator, I managed to edge myself next to the side of the car as a woman with a stroller started getting on.

  I continued to look distracted and got off the elevator, which was still taking on passengers, and I could see the agent watching me closely as his big hulky frame was pushed by the rush of people. I could see the elevator doors beginning to close right behind me and I lifted my leg as if I was about to take a step forward when I whirled and jumped through the doors as they closed.

  I heard the FBI guy behind me shout, but he was blocked by a large Asian family and he couldn’t get close enough to stop the elevator before the doors closed and we were shooting upward. ‘‘Sorry,’’ I said to the woman with the stroller I was leaning up against. ‘‘Forgot something in my room.’’

  At the very first opportunity I fled the elevator, which let me out on the fourth floor. I bolted down the hallway, running to the east side of the building, glancing over my shoulder every chance I got. When I was sure that FBI guy wasn’t behind me, I slowed and caught my breath. I didn’t quite know how I was going to get out of the Wynn, and I had to assume that
my guard had already alerted the troops, who would be swarming the exits of the hotel to prevent me from getting away. What I needed was a safe place to hide out for a little while and lie low without risk of being discovered. I turned my radar to ON and asked for help.

  I got a tug to my right and it felt like I needed to walk down a side corridor. I rounded a corner and began walking, looking for the sign my crew wanted to show me. I passed one of the hotel’s cleaning women, who was tossing some sheets into the bin of her cart. My radar dinged as I passed her, and an idea entered my mind. I walked to a door just to the left of the cart, checked the radar, which sent me an affirmative, and took out my key card. I swiped it through the pad and the red light went on. ‘‘Shit!’’ I swore, then looked up apologetically at the cleaning woman. ‘‘Sorry,’’ I said. ‘‘When I get tipsy, I swear a lot.’’ I wobbled for emphasis and bobbed my head like I was three sheets to the wind.

  ‘‘S’okay,’’ she said, hiding a smile.

  I went back to the key pad and swiped again. ‘‘Stupid door!’’ I said, and gave it a little kick.

  ‘‘It no work for you?’’ she asked, trying to be helpful.

  ‘‘Could be me,’’ I said, waving the card in the air, ‘‘or it could be that I dropped this thing in the toilet and had to fish it out before it flushed. Say, can you get this thing to work?’’

  The cleaning woman’s face looked repulsed by my story. She came over to me and looked down at the key card, inspecting it to make sure it was issued by the Wynn. I tried to hand it to her, but she shook her head and used her own key card to open the door. ‘‘Well, thank you very much,’’ I said, teetering into the room. ‘‘S’very kind of you. I’ma gonna lay down now.’’ I burped a little into my hand. ‘‘Or maybe I’ll jus’ go throw up instead.’’

  With that, I entered the room and pretended to wobble until I heard the door shut behind me. The room was freshly cleaned. There was a suitcase on the dresser next to the television and some toiletries—both his and hers—in the bathroom. I checked the clock on the nightstand; it was noon.

  With any luck the occupants wouldn’t be coming back up here anytime soon, and if they did—well, I’d deal with that when and if it happened. For now, I was safe and free of the FBI and their prowling eyes.

  I took my backpack off my shoulders and dug around for my purse. Hauling it out of the backpack, I rummaged around until I pulled up the small disposable cell phone. It was encased in a thick coating of plastic and I looked around for something to open it with. Nothing sharp enough to cut the plastic came into view. I wandered into the bathroom, where the toiletries littered the countertop. I rummaged around in the man’s valise, thumbing through toothpaste, mouthwash, shaving cream, a bottle of prescription Viagra (quelle surprise), and, at the bottom of the leather case, a gold wedding ring.

  ‘‘Scumball,’’ I muttered as I moved over to the woman’s makeup case. I hit pay dirt there when I finally found a pair of cuticle scissors among all her wrinkle creams and diet pills. Using the tiny scissors, I was able to slowly and painstakingly cut out the phone.

  When it was free, I loaded the two AAA batteries that came in the package and pressed the on button, then waited for a signal. ‘‘Yahoo,’’ I said softly when one showed up on the screen. Punching in a ten-digit number I was quite thankful I remembered, I waited impatiently through the first three rings until to my utter relief I heard a woman’s voice say, ‘‘Candice Fusco.’’

  ‘‘Oh, thank God!’’ I said into the phone.

  ‘‘Abby?’’ she said. ‘‘Is that you?’’

  ‘‘It is, girl.’’

  ‘‘This isn’t your number,’’ she said, and I imagined her looking at her caller ID display. ‘‘It says ‘Las Vegas caller.’ ’’

  ‘‘Yes, I’m in Vegas, but there’s no time to explain,’’ I said. ‘‘I’m in trouble.’’

  There was a slight pause, then, ‘‘Is it safe to talk where you are?’’

  ‘‘Not really.’’

  ‘‘On a scale from one to ten, how bad is the trouble you’re in?’’

  ‘‘Eleven,’’ I said even as I heard ringing in the background.

  ‘‘I’m just guessing here, but does the fact that my office phone is ringing with an ID registered to the Federal Bureau of Investigation have anything to do with the kind of trouble you’re in?’’ she asked.

  I groaned. ‘‘Yes.’’

  The ringing stopped and there was a clicking of keys in the background as I waited for her to say something. After a moment she said, ‘‘My flight gets in at midnight your time. Can you meet me at the JetBlue baggage claim?’’

  ‘‘They might be looking for me at the airport,’’ I said. My paranoia was beginning to get the better of my imagination.

  ‘‘Meet me in front of the fountains at the Bellagio, unless you think you’ll be spotted.’’

  ‘‘Okay, that’s good. Nice and crowded and poorly lit. I’ll find you at, what, twelve thirty?’’

  ‘‘I’ll be there,’’ she said. ‘‘And, Abby?’’

  ‘‘Yeah?’’

  ‘‘This kind of trouble usually takes some cash to get out of. How much do you have on you?’’

  ‘‘How much do I need?’’

  ‘‘Ten, maybe twenty grand,’’ she said, and I felt my insides go weak.

  ‘‘I’ll make a phone call to Boston,’’ I said, referring to my too-wealthy-for-words sister, Cat.

  ‘‘Tell your sis I said hi,’’ she said. ‘‘And lay low until I get there.’’

  ‘‘Candice?’’ I said.

  ‘‘Yes, I know, Abby,’’ she said, and I could feel the humor in her voice. ‘‘You owe me.’’

  ‘‘I really do,’’ I said.

  We clicked off and I hugged the phone. Candice was one of those friends that if you ever got to a point that you had to murder someone, you could not only count on her to keep your secret; you could count on her to help you hide the body.

  When I had collected myself, I punched in ten more numbers, hoping I had remembered them correctly. The other line rang three times and was finally picked up. ‘‘Catherine Cooper-Masters,’’ said my sister in her crisp business voice.

  ‘‘Cat?’’ I said, and my voice wavered.

  ‘‘Abby?’’ she answered. I could hear the alarm in her voice. ‘‘What’s happened?’’

  ‘‘I’m in trouble,’’ I said.

  ‘‘You’re pregnant?’’ she squealed.

  I smacked my forehead. Why was it never easy with Cat? ‘‘No! I am not pregnant!’’

  ‘‘Then what kind of trouble are you in?’’

  ‘‘The expensive kind,’’ I said.

  ‘‘How much do you need?’’

  ‘‘Fifteen to twenty thousand dollars.’’

  There was a long pause, then, ‘‘I see that this call is coming in from Vegas.’’

  ‘‘Yes,’’ I said. ‘‘That’s where I am.’’

  Cat sighed dramatically. ‘‘Abby, don’t you know that gambling never pays?’’

  I smacked my forehead again. ‘‘Cat, listen to me carefully—,’’ I began just as I heard another phone ringing in the background.

  ‘‘Oh, my business line is ringing. Can you hold on for a second?’’

  ‘‘No, Cat, wait!’’ but it was too late. She’d already put me on hold.

  I waited some anxious moments when she finally came back on the line and said, ‘‘Abby! That’s the FBI on the other line! They want to know if I’ve heard from you.’’

  ‘‘Please tell me you told them you hadn’t,’’ I said.

  ‘‘No, I told them to hold because I was on the other line.’’

  ‘‘Cat! Go back to them and tell them you haven’t heard from me!’’

  ‘‘Okay, okay!’’ she said, and put me back on hold. I waited again for a few agonizing seconds when she returnedback to me with, ‘‘What the hell is going on out there?’’

  By this time all the stre
ss was catching up with me. Tears were welling in my eyes and I was having trouble holding my emotions in check. ‘‘Dutch is missing,’’ I said hoarsely. ‘‘His car was found early this morning all smashed up at the bottom of a ravine, but he wasn’t in it. He’s vanished off the face of the earth! And his boss from the FBI thinks that Dutch and his cousin might have taken part in the kidnapping of a local businessman, and that’s why Dutch has vanished. The FBI came to my hotel room accusing me of being involved in this big conspiracy and I had to escape one of their goons!’’

  ‘‘Ohmigod, Abby!’’ she said after I’d blubbered through my speech. ‘‘I really wish you’d said you just needed to pay off some gambling debts.’’

  I let out a sob. ‘‘I’m scared, Cat!’’ I said. ‘‘I can’t feel Dutch’s energy. My crew keeps showing me his grave site when I ask them where he is. I don’t know if he’s alive or dead. I don’t know if his cousin is alive or dead. I don’t know who I can trust out here, and there’s no way I can get home or find Dutch without some help!’’

  ‘‘Tell me what to do,’’ she said. ‘‘I can wire you some money to your bank account. How about that?’’

  ‘‘No!’’ I said. ‘‘If the FBI is calling you, then that means they know I might try to contact you for help. They’ll be watching my bank accounts and credit cards to try and track me down.’’

  ‘‘Fine,’’ she said, and I could hear the take-charge tone in her voice. ‘‘I know exactly what to do. I’m sending a courier on a plane out to Vegas immediately. They will have your cash in hand. Can you meet them at the airport once I confirm the flight?’’

  ‘‘Can’t you just send it Western Union?’’

  ‘‘Don’t be silly, Abby!’’ she said. ‘‘If they’re watching your bank accounts, they’ll certainly watch any wire transfers, especially Western Union!’’

  ‘‘Oh, right,’’ I said, rubbing my temple. I had a wicked headache. ‘‘Okay, then, send the courier.’’

  ‘‘Perfect, can you meet them at the airport?’’