Stolen Thoughts

by Tim Tigner

  “He’s got a knife!” she shouted.

  While Chewie took in the scene, Vance suddenly stopped writhing and sprang to his feet.

  Vicky watched in shock. Was it mind over matter? Had he adapted to the Taser?

  Chewie grabbed the assassin’s right arm with both hands in a valiant attempt to neutralize the blade, and the two began banging about the room. Vance delivered vicious blows with his free fist and knees as they grappled, but Chewie managed to keep the knife at bay for the second or two it took Vicky to realize her mistake. Taser blasts only lasted for five seconds. They clacked like a robotic rattlesnake while discharging, so the wielder would know when the juice started flowing and when it stopped. But she hadn’t heard the signal.

  She pulled the trigger a second time and kept it pressed.

  Vance immediately seized up and dropped to the carpet.

  Chewie delivered a savage kick to the side of his head, then pried the punch-blade from his fist before looking her way. “Let’s go!”

  She scurried out of the reading room with her finger still squeezing the trigger. Chewie pulled the door shut behind them and then kept hold of the lever, penning Vance in.

  “Did you call security?” Vicky asked.

  “I hit the panic button,” Chewie said, scanning the lounge.

  As one of the Bellagio’s celebrity performers, the casino provided Vicky with security that included a panic button and an escort to and from her shows. She left the button at reception while the studio was open, since that was where trouble was most likely to present.

  “What are you looking for?” she asked, noting Chewie’s frantic gaze.

  “Something to prop the door lever in place so I don’t have to stand here holding it.”

  “What’s going on?” a third voice asked. It was Kyra, Vicky’s regular security escort.

  “A man pulled a knife on Vicky,” Chewie said. “She Maced him and Tased him and now he’s locked in her reading room.”

  “Are you okay?” Kyra asked Vicky.

  “I’m shaking and my eyes are burning from some stray pepper spray, but I’m not injured.”

  Three other people arrived, two security guys and the Bellagio’s Retail and Entertainment Manager, Basil Bakhshi. Kyra quickly conferred with them, then asked, “Does he have a gun?”

  “I don’t think so, but I’m not completely certain. That’s his knife.” Vicky gestured toward the blade on the floor.

  Kyra didn’t pick it up. Instead, she nodded to her two colleagues who both drew their sidearms. “Chewie, release the door and step away.”

  He hastily complied.

  Kyra pushed it open.

  “I didn’t attack her! She attacked me!” Vance yelled. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor with his hands raised and his face a puffy mask of snot and tears. “I came here to ask for insights regarding an antique knife, but before I said word one she sprayed Mace in my face and then Tased me.”

  “Why did you want to ask her about a knife?” Kyra asked in a calm and steady voice.

  “The dealer who sold it to me said it used to belong to Jesse James. I wanted to know if that was true.”

  Kyra turned to Vicky. “Did he threaten you with the knife?”

  Vicky played things forward in her mind. It wasn’t difficult. If she was completely honest with her answer, Vance would walk away and she might even be facing a lawsuit. If she fudged the facts to make his mental threat a verbal one, it would become a he-said, she-said situation. She’d lose either way.

  As Vicky quickly contemplated that sad state of affairs, a far more distressing thought struck. Someone wanted her dead. Badly enough that he had offered Vance $100,000 to do the deed. Therefore, Vance was no longer her primary concern. The employer was. Until she knew his identity and why he wanted her dead, she would essentially be living beneath a guillotine.

  She met Kyra’s eye. “I need you to do me a favor.”

  “What’s that?”

  Vicky stepped into her reading room. “Wait outside while I talk to him.”

  4

  The Explanation

  DESPITE THE DISTRACTING chemical fire raging on his face, Vance had figured out Cassandra’s secret. He came to his conclusion a few minutes too late to carry out his assignment but was still in time to avoid whatever trap she had planned as she walked back into the room.

  She must have seen him draw the knife from his heel! She must have cameras hidden all over the place. Motion-activated, no doubt. In retrospect, that made perfect sense. While psychics relied heavily on body language for guidance, the draped tables supporting their crystal balls would hide tapping toes, bunching fists, and many other telltale movements. But not from her.

  On top of that, Vicky Pixler was undoubtedly able to identify subconscious signals much better than most people could, given that her brain would be compensating for the absence of auditory input by amping up her visual processor. Furthermore, as a professional, she’d know how to interpret every twitch.

  Vance had to remain still as a rock during this session to avoid giving anything away. And he needed to stick to his strategy, regardless of the psychological tricks she was sure to employ.

  While having the punch blade concealed in his heel was an inconvenient complication, claiming that Jesse James also carried it in his boot would fit his inspired, off the cuff explanation. Meanwhile, going on offense was clearly his best defense. He’d be home for supper as long as he kept the threats coming—and admitted nothing.

  “Who sent you?” she asked.

  Not a bad opener, Vance thought. Specific and valuable. An accurate answer would drive almost everything that followed. But he had no idea who’d employed him. He rarely did. Of his thirty-one kills, Vance had only known the man who paid the bill on two occasions. Most of the time, he could venture a good guess, but not today. Who cared if a psychic died? If not an irate ex-lover, it was likely someone who’d bet big on her prediction and lost. But that didn’t tell him much. “Nobody sent me. You’re going to pay for this assault. I’m going to own you when this is done. So you’d best start treating me with the respect you’d show your boss.”

  To his surprise, she didn’t press. “If you weren’t sent, then why were you paid $100,000?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m just a regular guy getting a bit of entertainment in Sin City. One you chose to attack.” Keep going, lady. I can play this all day.

  “The families of your thirty-one victims will surely dispute the assertion that you’re just a regular guy.”

  Whoa! How did she know about them? She couldn’t possibly. Unless… Was this a setup? A sting arranged by a victim’s family? Had to be. But which victim?

  Michael Mancuso maybe? His wife had been a bulldog with the Vegas PD. But she’d moved to Boca Raton.

  Sitting still as a statue, Vance began cycling through the list. His curriculum vitae as a killer. Adkins, Arellano, Baldwin, Ballard, Bullock, Castaneda, Dempsey, Gallegos…. Given their family situations, about half were candidates. None was the obvious suspect.

  Cassandra was just sitting there, watching him like a police detective, no doubt hoping he’d find the silence awkward and fill it with a confession as lunkheads often did. No chance, lady. “Was there a question hidden in your rambling?”

  Cassandra dropped it, just like every other question. Was she performing? Asking questions so she could then psychically fill in the blanks? Would a jury listen if she did? Earning $1,000 for a twenty-five-minute consultation did buy her credibility.

  “What, exactly, was your plan for me?” the psychic growled.

  I was going to pop you like a tire and then vanish like a ghost. “No plan. I simply wanted to know if Jesse James actually owned my knife. I’m just a client. One who’s growing wealthier by the minute. You injured my eyes and probably my lungs with that pepper spray. And who knows what damage the multiple Taser blasts and kick to my head did—beyond the obvious pain and suffering.”

/>   “I understand why you wouldn’t want to talk about your first major failure. Let’s talk about your successes instead. Tell me about the Adkins assassination.”

  Was that who set him up? Seemed unlikely. Jerry Adkins had lost his cock because he couldn’t keep his hands off another man’s wife. It was probably a lucky guess on Pixler’s part. Was she going to list every notorious unsolved Las Vegas murder? “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Do you remember that day? What you did afterwards?”

  Halloween of 2015. Buried the body, delivered the dick. “You know, the longer you keep me from receiving medical attention while engaging in this cruel fishing expedition, the more of your business I’m going to own.”

  “Well then, let’s work on making you rich,” Pixler taunted. “Tell me about the Arellano assassination.”

  5

  The Relationship

  LIKE MOST PEOPLE, Chewie was familiar with the axiom: You never know how much you love someone until they’re gone. What he hadn’t known until seconds ago was that attempted murder served the same purpose.

  Although he’d only met Vicky half a year earlier, it seemed a lifetime ago. He had been putting his creative writing degree to work by managing a Reno bookstore by day and writing a novel by night when Vicky walked into his shop looking for books on starting a new business.

  She’d been coy about the specifics when he first offered to help out, indicating that she would be “working in the field of psychology, attempting to put a new spin on an old business model.” Her doctoral degree was in bioengineering, not psychology, but she’d “recently woken up with a gift to see things others couldn’t.” An ability she “felt compelled to share.”

  Crazy as it sounded to abandon a prestigious scientific PhD in favor of a psychic studio, it proved to be a brilliant move, because she really did have an incredible gift. An inexplicable and uncanny talent to provide life-altering advice. Chewie was no expert, but according to client comments, Cassandra could accomplish more in half an hour than most therapists could in a year.

  Acting as her confidant and advisor over nightly dinner meetings, he watched in wonder while her business rapidly outgrew Reno. Before long, he was helping her move to Vegas to take her shot at the big show.

  All as a friend who longed for more.

  Chewie made a few savvy marketing moves as her office manager—including offering free consultations for the Bellagio’s dealers and wait staff—and was soon booking consultations at ten times the rate Reno customers were willing to pay. Before long, Basil showed up and offered her a show. A weekend matinee in one of the Bellagio’s smaller theaters, which soon expanded to five days a week.

  The road ahead appeared to be paved with gold and adorned with roses—until Walter White walked into her reading room.

  “You don’t believe him, do you?” Chewie asked Basil as they waited for Vicky to finish her private interrogation.

  “Of course not. Did you see his face?”

  Chewie wasn’t sure what the Bellagio executive was referring to. Vance’s face was a wreck. A puffy, red, snot-covered mess—thanks to the pepper spray. “What do you mean?”

  “His mustache and eyebrows were peeling off. Disguises are considered evidence of deception in Vegas.”

  That was good news. The big casinos were practically principalities, given their size, income, and local authority. Plus, as the saying goes, they did print money. While Chewie pondered the implications of Vance’s disguise, the reading room door opened and Vicky walked out.

  Once Kyra closed the door behind her, Vicky said, “He doesn’t know who hired him.”

  “How much was he paid?” Basil asked.

  “A hundred thousand dollars.”

  “Wow! That’s well above market rate. You have no idea who would want you dead that badly?”

  “No idea,” Vicky said, shaking her head.

  “Give it some thought. Make a list of possible suspects and I’ll have someone look into it. Discreetly of course.”

  “No need to worry about that, but I do have another list for you.”

  Basil raised his thick gray eyebrows.

  “He admitted to thirty-one prior murders.”

  “What!?” Basil and Chewie both blurted.

  “Give me a few minutes and I’ll write down their names. He supplied dates and locations for most.”

  “That’s incredible,” Basil said. “I’m speechless.”

  You wouldn’t be, if you’d sat through a consultation, Chewie thought. Basil and Vicky had both avoided mixing business with pleasure. As had Chewie himself, come to think of it.

  Vicky pressed on. “One name in particular may be of interest to you. Vincent Castaneda.”

  “My predecessor? Vance killed Vinny?”

  “Used a young prostitute to lure him to a cheap motel, then dumped him in a desert ravine.”

  “He told you that?”

  Vicky pursed her lips. “He’ll deny all of it. But he could lead you to the gravesite if properly motivated. He used it more than once.”

  Basil smiled. “We have a guy who’s very good at getting to the truth.”

  “So you’ll deal with this incident in-house?”

  “In the family,” Basil said, putting an arm around her shoulder.

  6

  First Mistake

  TRENT KELLER CRINGED, then cursed as his twenty-five-year winning streak crashed to a stop—in Las Vegas of all places.

  The cold fist of defeat had taken hold of his heart an hour earlier when Cassandra’s big receptionist abruptly turned from the desk and ran to the back during Vance’s appointment. The squeeze temporarily eased when Bellagio security officers began arriving before anyone left. Not Vance, and more importantly, not Vicky Pixler. The actor-turned-assassin had obviously botched his escape, but had he completed his mission?

  With his eyes covertly locked on the archway that separated the public part of the studio from the lounge and reading room in back, Trent waited nearly an hour for that disappointing answer. It came when the psychic walked into sight. She left the studio a few minutes later, flanked by the receptionist and a Bellagio bodyguard.

  Trent remained seated on a bench across the esplanade, waiting to see if Vance left on his feet or in a bag. He didn’t have to wait long. Within a minute of Pixler’s departure, the failed assassin was frogmarched out of Cassandra and through a nearby employees-only door.

  He was toast.

  Casinos were kingdoms that vested their security chiefs with the power of medieval sheriffs. Vance would talk, and then he would disappear. That was a tough break, but Trent felt no pity for the man he’d hired. Vance had been warned, forcefully and repeatedly, to ignore Cassandra’s psychic powers at his own peril. He’d also been paid in accordance with that elevated risk. Now, he’d pay the price for ignoring that advice.

  As would Trent.

  He’d never let his colleagues down before. Not in twenty-five years. Granted, this was their first assassination, but it was far from the first time Trent had clandestinely hired someone for a covert operation. He had no excuse, and he wouldn’t try to make one.

  He walked outside and headed for one of the Bellagio’s uncrowded lakeside terraces to make the mea-culpa call.

  “How’d it go?” Colton answered in his trademark silky voice.

  Trent replied with a question of his own. “Can you get everyone in the room?”

  “I think the guys are here. Scarlett’s traveling. Is something wrong?”

  “Please call them in.” Trent didn’t want to have to go through this more than once.

  A gurgling noise intruded while he waited on the line, then water jets sprang to life behind him as Viva Las Vegas began playing from the lakeside speakers. Bongos, strings, and that unmistakably upbeat sixties sound.

  “We’re all here,” Colton said.

  “Are you calling from a bar?” Jim asked. “I hear Elvis.”

  “The Bellagio fountain sh
ow just started. Bad timing. Look, that guy I hired—got caught.”

  “What happened?” a chorus asked.

  “I’m assuming he didn’t take my warnings seriously enough. In any case, he’s in casino custody and she’s secure.”

  “What does he know? Can he harm us?” Colton asked.

  “He knows nothing about who hired him or why. He saw only a door and received only cash.”

  “You did warn him though?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Without specifics, I assume?” Jim asked.

  “No specifics. I simply repeatedly stressed that her psychic powers were real, and that he needed to act as if she’d know what he was thinking.”

  “I’m not surprised that he didn’t believe you,” Jim said. “Ironically, I don’t think we’d want to hire anyone who would.”

  “Who was he?” Colton asked.

  Trent noted Colton’s astute use of the past tense. “He was an actor with a computer science degree who tried to make it as a Hollywood tough guy. When he failed, he became a real killer ‘to show them.’ Something he did thirty-one times before this gig.”

  “The fact that he failed tells you something about her,” Colton noted. “What’s your next move?”

  “If at first you don’t succeed…”

  “She’s been warned, so the subtle, pissed-off customer approach may not cut it,” Walter said, speaking up for the first time. “Instead of one pro, why not see what a gang of thugs can do? Make it a home invasion.”

  “I agree,” Jim said. “Assuming you can figure out how to manage the logistics anonymously.”

  Trent did not care for the idea of working with outlaws, but striking at home had appeal. “I’ll give that some thought.”

  “Why don’t we try talking to her?” Colton suggested, turning the conversation in a different direction.

  “We’ve been through that,” Walter said. “What could we say? Sorry you can’t use it, only we can?”

  “Works for nuclear weapons,” Colton said.