Las Vegas

by A. C. Fuller

  The hotel lobby was decorated with a large Christmas tree, strung with sparkling playing cards, silver poker chips, and some traditional lights and bulbs. He’d never been to Vegas around Christmas, and he hadn’t noticed it the previous night. Classy.

  He stepped onto the curb and got in a taxi. “Club Blue, please.”

  “It’s six-thirty. They closed at four.”

  “I know,” Warren said. “I’m not going to party.”

  Pacing between the side entrance and the back entrance of Club Blue, Warren pulled up his collar and balled his hands into fists in his pockets, bracing against the chilly morning.

  The famous nightclub was the largest, most-popular stand-alone joint in Vegas. In the 2000s, most of the top hotels and casinos had gone to war with one another, creating larger, fancier, and more exclusive nightlife to lure in young people. They hired the hottest musical acts and DJs and fought to get celebrities in the club.

  It was eight in the morning by the time someone showed up. He was a huge man, Warren’s height and maybe a hundred pounds heavier, practically pouring out of his black Escalade, which he’d parked next to a dumpster behind the club. His shirt was untucked, his eyes covered by large sunglasses. His face showed a couple days of stubble. Warren assumed he was a manager. In the club business, things got crazy at night, and most of the big clubs employed business managers and accountants to go over the receipts in the morning. To count the money, look for theft. This guy looked like he’d been at the club until four, grabbed a couple hours of sleep, and returned before showering.

  As he unlocked the back door, Warren approached.

  The man turned, startled.

  “You work here?” Warren asked.

  The man nodded, glancing side-to-side like he was making sure Warren was alone.

  “Don’t worry, I’m not here to rob you. Just want to talk. I know this is an NVM club, but I don’t care about NVM. I want to talk about The Truffle Pig.”

  The man had turned back to the door, so Warren couldn’t tell if he’d reacted to the name. “Who’s that?” he called over his shoulder as he swung open the door. There was a bulge on the left side of his jacket, and Warren took a chance. “That gun licensed?”

  The man turned, standing in the doorway of the dark club. The scent of nightclub wafted through the doors. Booze and bodies.

  “Who the hell are you?” the guy asked.

  “Robert Warren, Marine, NYPD cop, sort of. I’m here with the FBI on the nine murders thing. We believe you and this club are connected.”

  “I’m Skinny Pete, and I don’t know anything about anything. I do the numbers.”

  “Peter Bluth, right? Got an aunt Wendy in Georgia, I hear. So what’s with the”—Warren pointed at the bulge in the man’s jacket—“firearm?”

  “In case assholes like you show up to rob us.”

  Warren took a step forward. “It registered?”

  “Fuck you, pal. You think anyone cares?”

  He had a point. Cops often frequented clubs like this. He wouldn’t be surprised if the man had worked out an arrangement. “I’ll level with you. You’ve heard of the nine murders thing, right?”

  Skinny Pete smirked. “Who hasn’t?”

  “I don’t think you have anything to do with that.”

  “Anyone said I did?”

  “No, no one—but the FBI is monitoring this club, I can tell you that. I imagine you’ve got back-scratching deals with local police. But if the FBI thinks you guys are involved in the nine murders thing…” he shook his head...“that’s game over.”

  The man ran his thick hand over his stubble, thinking. “You know we don’t have anything to do with that. You just said it.”

  “But your aunt Wendy’s SUV was in Florida yesterday, carrying a dude who murdered The Truffle Pig in broad daylight, so the FBI thinks you do. Gimme five minutes inside and I’ll convince them you don’t.”

  Warren was on thinner than thin legal ice. In fact, he was drowning in frozen water. He’d tried the only thing he could. Now he hoped Skinny Pete would feel threatened enough to want to talk.

  The massive man studied him for a long moment, then nodded. “I’ll buy you a drink.”

  Warren followed him in past a couple offices and a banquet hall, through a kitchen, and into a large space with the famous circular bar in the center. Skinny Pete walked behind the bar and poured two shots of whiskey. He slid one across the bar to Warren, shot the other one, then refilled it.

  Warren put his hand around the glass but didn’t drink.

  “In the old days,” Skinny Pete said, “if a man refused a drink”—he squinted—“it meant you couldn’t trust him. The alcohol loosens the tongue, you see, makes it harder to lie. So if a man doesn’t drink...he’s got something to hide.”

  “I’m an alcoholic,” Warren said. “I take this shot and I’ll be in the club for a week, doing blow off your bathroom counters until, eventually, I’ll get hauled back to rehab. You want that?”

  “This is Vegas. Wouldn’t be the first time that happened. Long as you paid for the booze, hell,” he shrugged, “it’s still a free country. Kinda.” He shot his second whiskey, then took the glass back from Warren and sipped. “Now”—he placed the shot glass back on the bar—“why would the FBI think this club has anything to do with the nine murders thing?”

  “The Truffle Pig escaped Italy and did a bunch of hits in America. Killed Ana Diaz in Miami, then got greased at a gas station in eastern Florida. Guys who shot him were seen in this club.”

  “Everyone is seen in this club. It’s where people come to be seen. Prince partied here before he died. Backstreet Boys. Hell, the NFL champs came after they won the Superbowl. You saying they’re all in on it?”

  Warren smiled. “You never know with NFL players.”

  Skinny Pete smiled, too. “I like you. Sure you don’t want a drink?”

  “Nah, man, but seriously—bit of a coincidence, right?”

  He shrugged. His face had reddened from the shots and he sat heavily on a stool behind the bar. Warren understood. At his lowest point, he’d needed a shot or two to get going in the morning. He’d be able to get what he needed from this guy. All he needed to do was keep him talking, and keep him drinking.

  “I’ve seen the photos,” Warren repeated. “From 2012. The guy who shot The Truffle Pig was here.”

  “You said you were NYPD, and that’s the best you can do? A guy was snapped in my club. So what?”

  He’d tried various angles, like a boxer throwing jabs, trying to soften up his opponent. Nothing had worked. He’d focused on Skinny Pete’s aunt in Georgia for ten minutes, but the man hadn’t given an inch. He’d tried small talk and threats, then finally returned to the man who’d been photographed in Club Blue. Nothing.

  Warren had taken this guy for a hungover dunce. A fool. But he’d outflanked him for the last half hour. “Do you like working for Sunny Lee?” he asked, his frustration clear.

  “Club Blue is owed by Vegas Nightlife, Inc., which is owned by Epic Entertainment Group, LLC.”

  “C’mon. Sunny Lee runs the club.”

  “I run Club Blue. I’m here counting the money.”

  “And skim—what?—twenty percent off the top to hand to Sunny Lee in cash before you report it?”

  He smiled. “I’d never do such a thing.” He sipped his whiskey slowly. “You were a good cop—I can tell. You ever wanna relocate, we can get you...maybe eighty grand a year? Plus benefits.”

  “To do what?”

  Skinny Pete’s smile grew crooked. “We’d call it club security. You’re smart, I can tell. Most cops come in here when they want something. They threaten us. You’re working the angle.”

  “Don’t patronize me.” He tilted his head. “Know anything about a retirement party?”

  “Hosted a few in my time.” His voice was now loose, his delivery sloppy.

  “For Sunny Lee, I mean.”

  With great effort, he turned and took a glass
from the shelf. He filled it with water from the bar sink. “What you heard about that?”

  “Your first non-denial.”

  “I take an interest in all activity in Las Vegas. You happen to know something I don’t, it would be irresponsible not to find out more.”

  “Don’t know much, but rumors are floating around that someone’s going to take out Sunny Lee, a ‘retirement party.’”

  Skinny Pete downed the water in a few long gulps, filled the glass again, and set it on the counter. “Hydration is important.”

  Warren eyed him. “No thoughts on Sunny Lee?”

  “Told you. Don’t know her. I work for Vegas Nightlife, Inc.”

  Warren needed some breakfast. He slid the stool out from the bar and stood. “Thanks for nothing.”

  “You give up too easy.” His smile was wet. “Remember the OJ book, If I Did It?”

  “Heard of it.”

  “Few years ago, OJ wrote a book about how he did the murders, but it was all hypothetical. A confession and not a confession.”

  Warren eyed the man, who took off his sunglasses for the first time and set them on the bar. “If The Truffle Pig was who you say, a hitman for the Italian mob, and he escaped to America, maybe—just maybe—Italy never forgot. Maybe they’d been looking for him for years. Maybe they paid top dollar to an organization that could locate him in America. Maybe The Truffle Pig died a tragic death because he betrayed the people closest to him. Maybe he got what he had coming, and there never was a connection to the nine murders.” He put his sunglasses back on. “Again, just hypothetically speaking, of course.”

  10

  Cole spotted Warren at a table in the corner of the restaurant, where he was already halfway through an omelet. On the table across from him was a plate of waffles, bacon, eggs, a muffin, and a foamy coffee she assumed was a vanilla latte.

  She sat, raising an eyebrow at the food.

  “I ordered you the exact opposite of what I’d eat. Hope you don’t mind. We gotta go soon.”

  She sipped the drink, which was in fact a vanilla latte, though weaker than she was used to. “You did well, but what’s the hurry?”

  “I set up a meeting.”

  “With who?”

  “We’ll get to that.” He ate the rest of his omelet in two giant bites, then slid the plate away. “First, I gotta tell you about my morning.”

  “Yeah, you do. Why didn’t you wake me up?”

  He ignored the question. As she ate, he told her about his meeting with Skinny Pete, spending extra time on the last part of their conversation. “He was definitely trying to tell me something without telling me something.”

  “I remember when OJ came out with that book. Sick bastard. And yeah, sounds like he told you point-blank: killing The Truffle Pig was unrelated to the nine murders. His former Italian paymasters tracked him down and paid NVM to take him out.”

  Warren ran a finger around the rim of his glass. “Ridiculous, right? Problem is, I think it was the truth. But why tell me?”

  Cole frowned. It wasn’t ridiculous that the Italians would track him down, and it wasn’t ridiculous that they’d hire NVM to kill him, but it seemed far too coincidental that they’d shot him only hours after he’d killed Ana Diaz. “Let’s just say it’s true. The Truffle Pig could have been heading to another job. He did the last two. If he was killed by NVM, unconnected from the nine murders, he could have been on his way to do a third.”

  “He wasn’t gonna drive to Vegas from Florida. That’s 2,000 miles. And the other U.S. cities pinned on the map are even further.”

  “Could have been headed to an airport. Paris, or London, or Tokyo.”

  Warren shook his head. “There’s something we’re missing.”

  Cole finished her waffle and picked at the muffin. The food was lukewarm and bland. It made her miss the bright colors and exciting flavors of Little Havana.

  “Oh my God!” It was a man’s voice behind her. A thick southern accent. She turned and followed his eyes to a TV screen above the salad bar.

  The muted TV showed a gray-haired news anchor. Text scrolled at the bottom of the screen. “Deputy Crown Prince of Saudi Arabia, Mohammad bin Muqrin, assassinated at OPEC meeting in London. Details still emerging. Stay with CNN for ongoing coverage.”

  Cole grabbed her latte and waved at the server. “Can you turn the sound on, please?”

  She trailed the server across the restaurant. Warren followed, and together they stood a few yards from the TV, their necks craning to hear as the server turned up the volume. The old man who’d been behind her joined them, as did a young man with a baby strapped to his chest in a harness.

  The news anchor said, “If you’re just joining us, disturbing news this morning, as Mohammad bin Muqrin, the Deputy Crown Prince of Saudi Arabia, was assassinated as he entered an OPEC meeting in London. Speculation has already begun that his death could be connected to the nine murders manifesto and…” She pressed a finger to her ear. “Yes, we have word now that responsibility has been taken for this killing online. We can now report that this appears to be the fourth in the string of assassination-style killings that gripped America, and now grips the world.” Again, she pressed a finger to her ear. “CNN was in London covering the OPEC meeting, and we go now to Brian McNeely, live in London. Brian, what can you tell us?”

  The shot switched to a young man in a tan raincoat, standing under a red CNN umbrella. Behind him, police barricades blocked off a large glass building. Other reporters could be seen doing stand-ups nearby and, behind the reporters, a gray, rainy sky drenched everything. “Thank you, Olivia. The scene here in London is total chaos, but I’ll do my best to fill you in on this tragic and shocking day. What we know so far is that this morning—which marked the third and final day of the OPEC meeting in London—Mohammad bin Muqrin exited his limousine, waved to the crowd gathered outside, and began walking toward the hotel where the meetings have been taking place.” The camera panned to the large glass hotel with a red carpet leading from the curb to the sleek entryway. “He was at the end of that carpet when he was shot through the neck from behind. From what I’ve been told—and details are still coming in—he was in an ambulance within minutes and was pronounced dead when he arrived at Charing Cross Hospital. That was only about fifteen minutes ago. As of this moment, we have no footage of the shooting itself, though with the intense media scrutiny of this OPEC meeting, we expect some will emerge shortly.”

  Dazed, Cole set her mug on the edge of the salad bar and returned to the table. Warren followed. She picked up her phone, planning to get online to see what else she could learn.

  Warren took her hand. “Wait. Can we just talk for a minute?”

  “We had the wrong city.”

  “I know.”

  “I was sure the next murder would be here.”

  “There’s still the retirement party. Maybe we just had the wrong order. London, then Vegas.”

  “I know. Of course I know that.” Her head spun and she wriggled her hand free and unlocked her phone. She immediately looked for news about Mohammad bin Muqrin from before he was killed. He was an important world figure, but she knew next to nothing about him besides that. A quick scan of a few articles and Cole learned that he was the sixth richest man in Saudi Arabia, a hardliner who argued against the Kingdom’s relationship with America. A year ago he’d been accused of using oil money to fund terrorism against Americans, Europeans, and Israelis. Ever since, he’d been in a power struggle with the Crown Prince.

  “What?” Warren asked. “What are you reading?”

  “I know next to nothing about Saudi Arabia, but it sounds like there could be a hundred people who’d want him dead, including the people above him in government.”

  “If you can call what they have a government.”

  “Like I said, I know next to nothing about Saudi Arabia.”

  Warren stared at her. “This is getting way too big for us.”

  She nodded slowly. They
’d likely gone to the wrong city, and, if Warren’s source in the NVM was correct, they’d come for the wrong reason in the first place. She felt utterly hopeless.

  “We still have the retirement party piece,” Warren said. “Even if the NVM guys killed The Truffle Pig as a paid hit, there’s still Sunny Lee. There’s no way it’s a coincidence she’s going to get taken out tonight. I have no idea how she connects to Mohammad bin Muqrin or Ana Diaz or the others, but it can’t be a coincidence. There’s just no way. So we had the order wrong. The fourth killing was London, but the fifth is coming tonight.”

  Cole was skeptical, but nodded slowly. “Think you can convince Takigawa to let us come?”

  “I’ll try.”

  Warren had said they had to leave soon when she sat down. “Where do we have to be?”

  “What?”

  “When I sat down, you said there was somewhere we had to be?”

  “Remember Frankie Undercroft?”

  He was the Marine buddy Warren had mentioned. The one who always lied. He’d sounded like a good laugh, but she was in no mood for stories.

  “Well, he’s in Vegas now, and we’re going to meet him.”

  11

  Their Lyft dropped them in a residential neighborhood near downtown about twenty minutes south of their hotel. It was only a few blocks from the historic section of Las Vegas, where the original casinos still stood. Historic Vegas had been cleaned up and was now a major tourist attraction, but Undercroft’s building was a crummy six-story residential, its beige stucco chipped and peeling.

  They passed through a small courtyard and reached an elevator. Warren stopped short, examining the graffiti sprayed on the elevator door. “Stay down here, alright? It’s been a few years and I don’t know how he is. I’ll text you.”

  Cole understood. Matt had told her once that the connections he forged with Marines overseas were unique and difficult to explain. Cole had never shared danger with another person the way he had. She’d never counted on someone to save her life, never been counted on to save someone else’s. If Warren needed time alone with Undercroft, she’d give him that.