by Randy Singer
This wouldn't be the first time Quinn and Bobby had worked together at the Rogue. The last time they'd been here, a few of the floor security guards had paid a little closer attention to their table than Quinn had liked. Bobby was nervous about coming back, but Quinn talked him into it. Quinn's friends sometimes accused him of having a death wish, which might explain why he had chosen this casino out of dozens of others that could have worked just as well.
Maybe he did have a death wish, Quinn supposed. But he was tired of taking heat from his firm's managing partner just because Annie couldn't pay her legal bills. A few more nights of "moonlighting," and he could at least slip her enough to make a decent down payment.
As Quinn meandered past the blackjack tables, a block of a man wearing a blue blazer moved in just behind his left shoulder.
"Hotel security," the man said, keeping his voice low and discreet. "I'll need you to come with me."
Quinn turned to look at the man and, out of his peripheral vision, saw another guard taking up a position about ten feet away.
"Something wrong?" Quinn asked.
"We can talk in Mr. Hofstetter's office," the man said gruffly. He put a hand on Quinn's elbow, directing Quinn toward the nearest wall. "There's a concealed door straight ahead, built into that wall."
Quinn shook his elbow free and walked a step ahead of the guard. "You ought to introduce Mr. Hofstetter to this thing called a cell phone," he said.
"He prefers to meet in person."
They took a hallway to an elevator and were joined by a second guard, equal in girth and attitude to the first. Both guards had gun-size bulges in their blazers.
The elevator traveled up sixty-eight floors to the executive suites, where a third gentleman ushered them down a hall with rich hardwood floors and expensive-looking paintings. Hofstetter's office was located at the end of the hall, taking up acres of prime Vegas real estate, a mammoth tribute to the fact that boatloads of money could not buy taste. Persian rugs and antiques were scattered about haphazardly, combining with floor-to-ceiling windows and the sleek black lines of Hofstetter's furniture to give the room a schizophrenic feel. Or maybe Quinn was just projecting his own jitters on his surroundings.
Hofstetter stood behind his desk. "Have a seat."
"I think I'll stand," Quinn said. He was flanked on each side by one of the bulky security guards.
Hofstetter shrugged. "Suit yourself." He paused and seemed to be searching for his thoughts. "You know why you're here?"
"Because you and your boys want to get sued for harassment?" Quinn sensed the guards stiffening, like assault dogs waiting for a command. Adrenaline pumped through Quinn's entire body, fear staking its claim. But he wouldn't show fear to Hofstetter.
"It's okay," Hofstetter said to the guards, though his nose flared in anger. He walked out from behind his desk, grabbed a remote, and pushed a few buttons. A screen dropped down from the ceiling to Quinn's right. Hofstetter pushed a few more buttons, and Quinn's poker table from the last time he'd gambled at the Rogue appeared on the screen, viewed through an angle behind and above Quinn.
Using an edited series of excerpts and a red laser pointer, Hofstetter pointed out the signals Quinn and Bobby Jackson had used, as well as the hands on which they had bid up other players at the table and scammed their money. He followed it with a video of the meeting between Quinn and Bobby Jackson at the hotel bar, complete with a stop-action shot of money changing hands.
"You have the audacity to come into my casino and cheat my customers?" Hofstetter said, his face flushed with anger. "After all you've put my family through?"
Quinn watched warily as Hofstetter flicked off the video and returned to his station behind the desk. The man's anger burned deep, barely under control. Quinn suddenly realized nobody knew he was even here. If Hofstetter gave the order, how far would his henchmen go?
Do not show weakness.
Quinn forced a smile. "That's it? You're going to take your little slide show where? To the gaming authority and try to have me blackballed? To the DA and try to have me arrested? 'Hey, Carla, this guy bid up the pot a couple of times when this other guy at the same table blinked and then afterward, they shared a drink and settled up some bets.'" Quinn shook his head. "Good luck."
"You're a punk," Hofstetter spit back. "A moron. You think I'd take that to the authorities? They'd laugh in my face." Hofstetter sat down in his chair, a smug look on his face that worried Quinn. "I'm not stupid."
Quinn waited. "So what's your point?"
"My point, golden boy, is that you ought to be more careful about the folks you play poker with . . . especially if you're going to steal their money. I've done a little research." Hofstetter opened a manila folder. "Among your victims in the past few months are two gentlemen with local mob connections, one gangster, and another man who has a plain old nasty temper."
Hofstetter looked up at Quinn with a devious smile. He tossed a picture of a battered and bloodied face toward Quinn's side of the desk. "This is another guy who had the bad sense to cheat some of these men. We've got tapes ready to go to every one of the gentlemen you cheated who have any criminal connections whatsoever."
"Unless?"
"We both know your sister is guilty of murder," Hofstetter replied. "You're guilty of worse. Defaming my son and our family." He stopped, his jaw tight, his right hand balled into a fist.
"I'm aware that there's a deal on the table right now that can put this all behind us," he continued, rage riding hard on each syllable. "I don't like it, but at least it ends this ordeal. My family doesn't need to go through another trial, forced to watch you strut around the courtroom with your sanctimonious lies. Take the deal, Mr. Newberg. If you don't, these other card players will be the least of your worries."
Quinn, normally quick on his feet, found himself at a loss for words. At the moment, he just wanted to get out of the man's office unharmed. He could evaluate his options later.
"I've got a job to do," he responded. "We'll take the deal if it's in the best interest of my client."
"Get out of here," Hofstetter fumed. "And if I ever see you in my casino again--ever--your sister will need to get herself a new lawyer."
The guards led Quinn down the hall and into the elevator, pushing the button for the lobby. Halfway down, a guard reached out a stubby finger and pushed the stop button. Another quickly opened the panel and killed the lights.
"What's going on?" Quinn demanded.
He smelled one of them, directly in his face. Then came the answer. A kidney punch from the back. Quinn grunted in pain. One of the guards squeezed the base of Quinn's neck, exploiting a nerve that generated excruciating pain. Quinn tried to grab the guard's thick forearms and pry them off but it was hopeless.
"Next time," the man whispered, inches from Quinn's face, "show a little respect."
Just before Quinn passed out, the guard released his grip, and Quinn slumped to the floor. Somebody flipped a switch, and the elevator started down again, still in the dark. When the door opened at the bottom, the two guards forced Quinn to stand and pushed him down the hall and out an exit door. He stood there for a moment, leaning against the building, trying to catch his breath and regain his lucidity.
The nerve endings in his neck felt like they were on fire, while a knifelike pain jabbed into his kidney. As his mind cleared, he decided against calling the police. He had no cuts or bruises. The cops might write up a report, but the prosecutor would probably argue there was a lack of evidence. Though Quinn could sue Hofstetter and his goons in civil court, he really just wanted to put this whole affair behind him, rather than get in the middle of a two-year legal suit that might result in minimal damages.
In all honesty, he was tired of this case, maybe even losing his nerve. Things would be so much easier if Annie just took the deal. Quinn had already carved out his reputation as an insanity plea expert--he didn't need a second trial for that. And Espinoza would be grateful because Quinn could get back to making so
me serious money.
On the other hand, there was Sierra. Three years without a mother would be an eternity for a teenager. And regardless of whether he took the deal, Quinn knew that Hofstetter wasn't really going away. The old man wouldn't do anything serious right away--Quinn's greatest protector was the publicity surrounding his sister's lawsuit. If anything happened to him now, people would suspect Hofstetter. But eventually, when Quinn least expected it, Hofstetter would strike. The sad truth was that Quinn was already a marked man. Taking the deal wouldn't change that.
Quinn took a few deep breaths and headed for the parking lot. His stubborn side wanted to head back into the high stakes table at the Rogue and make a killing. But he had been around enough to know that gambling while angry was a bad idea.
He flexed his neck and tried to massage away the pain. Bobby Jackson was on his own tonight. For Quinn, it might be a good time for a rare night off.
31
On Thursday, Catherine found herself increasingly distracted at the office and left work early. She had tossed her laptop into the bay at about 12:30 the night before and then had found it hard to get any sleep. This morning, she had used a calling card to talk with Jamarcus, who reported no real progress on the case. It was as if the Avenger of Blood had just materialized from nowhere, kidnapped three babies, left behind two eerie messages, and vaporized into the atmosphere.
Catherine arrived at her duplex and changed into shorts, flip-flops, and a T-shirt, then sat down to finish loading software onto her new computer. After an hour or so, she took a break and surfed a few of her favorite blogs. A thought hit her, and she googled the words multiple personality disorder, resulting in a number of interesting sites. An article from Psychology Today was particularly helpful.
The article said the phrase "multiple personality disorder" had been changed to "dissociative identity disorder," also known as DID, sometime in 1994 to reflect the fact that patients actually fragmented their personalities as opposed to "growing" multiple new ones. Most DID patients only had a couple of fragmented personalities, though some had as many as one hundred. Cat thought about that for a moment. A hundred separate Catherines! How could anyone survive like that?
The disorder was frequently accompanied by memory loss, especially among the more passive personalities. In other words, a patient would create and live in two or more separate realities, and the passive personality wouldn't even know the more aggressive personality existed. Many times, the more aggressive personality could be very clever in covering up evidence of its existence. According to the article, transitions between personalities were normally triggered by psychosocial stress. One sentence in particular jumped out at Catherine: "Visual or auditory hallucinations may occur."
Reading that sentence was like a slap in the face. She stared at the screen for several moments, considering the implications. Could she truly be sick? The part about psychosocial stress sure fit. And the article also said that the disorder was frequently accompanied by depression or anxiety.
She was definitely anxious now.
Cat rose from the computer and got a bottle of water. She started feeling a little light-headed, her skin perspiring as she turned the possibility over in her mind. It was ludicrous. She didn't even know the families whose babies had been kidnapped. She couldn't possibly be involved.
Could she?
She sipped the water and started pacing the duplex, rehearsing all the reasons the DID diagnosis couldn't apply to her. She tried to reason through it, but the whole thing seemed to defy rational analysis. Then she had a thought. One personality might forget events that transpired in the life of another personality, but physical evidence didn't just disappear.
Cat went back online and started researching the kidnappings one more time. What weapons did the Avenger use? What were the precise times and dates of the crimes?
She knew her calendar didn't show anything for the nights in question--the police had already asked her about that. So she focused on the Avenger's MO--a needle and, in one instance, a Taser. Where would she even get such a thing?
Methodically, Cat searched through every room in her small duplex, looking for a Taser or needles or research about the Carver kids or the Milburn baby or rubber gloves or a knife or gun. She looked for bloodstains on clothing or ripped fabric. Catherine ransacked her own place, looking for anything inconsistent with the Catherine she knew.
After two hours, she had found absolutely nothing.
When she finished, she lay down on the couch and closed her eyes. She was exhausted physically and emotionally. If she wasn't crazy yet, at this rate, she would be soon.
* * *
When the e-mail first arrived, Rex Archibald could hardly believe his luck. The Reverend Harold Pryor, a "person of interest" in the Carver and Milburn kidnappings, was assembling a dream team of lawyers. He wanted Rex to serve as one of his trial lawyers!
Rex played it cool, resisting the urge to report the good news to his assistant and slap her a high five. His legal career had fallen on hard times recently, dragged down by a long string of losses and lack of high-profile clients. But Rex knew he was only one big case away from the boom times. Seven years ago, after the headline-grabbing verdict Rex had engineered for Paul Donaldson, the phones had lit up for months. Winning a high-profile case was good; winning a high-profile case when everybody knew your client should have been convicted was golden.
Despite his eagerness to be part of the dream team, Rex played it by the book. He sent a reply to the Reverend Pryor and provided wiring instructions to the firm account. As soon as you wire a twenty-five-thousand retainer, we'll talk.
Dream team lawyers didn't come cheap.
After some negotiations via e-mail, Rex agreed to a retainer of ten thousand. He didn't tell Pryor, but given all the publicity the case would be sure to generate, Rex would have done it for free. Pryor asked whether money orders would be okay, and Rex assured him that money orders would work just fine. Rex had been well schooled in the number-one rule for criminal defense lawyers--never question the source or the means of payment.
But nothing prevented defense lawyers from dreaming about how they would spend the money. In Rex's case, it was already spoken for. He and Crystal, his wife of thirteen years, had finally been successful in their fertility treatments. Rex was going to be a daddy! He was hoping for a daughter to spoil, though at times he imagined throwing a baseball or football with a rugged little son. In either case, the kid would go to college and then on to law school. It was never too early to put a little something away in a savings account.
Because Rex practiced law in Richmond and the Reverend Pryor was busy raising havoc in Virginia Beach, they agreed on a meeting place halfway between, just outside Williamsburg at a small church where Pryor knew the pastor. Rex's assistant took care of the meeting details and printed out a set of directions from MapQuest. Pryor would be bringing a Virginia Beach lawyer with him, the assistant told Rex.
Now, just fifteen minutes away from the church on Thursday night, Rex received a call on his cell phone. "I'm the custodian for the North Williamsburg Baptist Church," said the caller, "and I wanted you to know I'm unlocking the side door located on the right of the building as you face it from the parking lot. I just talked to Reverend Pryor and his lawyer, and they said they're running a few minutes late. You can just come on in when you get here and wait for them in the fellowship hall."
"No problem," said Rex, though he usually liked to stress his own importance by being the last one to a meeting, not the first. "I'm running a little late myself."
"I'll put on a pot of coffee in the fellowship hall," the caller said. "I may be working in another part of the church, so just make yourself at home."
"Okay. Thanks."
After he hung up, Rex decided to pull over at a convenience store and grab a soda. At this pace, he would arrive a good fifteen minutes late, minimizing the possibility that he would be the first one there.
A half hour lat
er, at twenty minutes after eight, he pulled into the gravel parking lot in front of the small box church with vinyl siding and a cross that served as a steeple. There was a sign out front, the kind with interchangeable black magnetic letters. As his headlights flashed across the sign, Rex noted that it contained a reference to a single verse: Ezekiel 18:20. Rex had seen a number of these types of signs before, usually containing pithy sayings that tried too hard to be cute--God: "Don't make me come down there."--but never one with just a single verse, especially when there was no indication what the verse actually said.
The sun was low in an overcast sky, throwing long shadows across the church property. Rex parked the car, picked up his file folder, and headed toward the right-hand side of the building. Unfortunately, even with his slow-down tactics, Rex had apparently beaten the others to the meeting.
To his surprise, the side door was locked. He knocked--loud enough to demonstrate his confidence. Hearing nothing, he knocked again.
Without warning, two darts hit him in the back, followed immediately by debilitating pain. He winced and shouted, crumbling to the ground, his muscles contracting. An electrical current snaked through every nerve ending in his body, setting him on fire, causing him to groan in agony. He tried to cry out, tried to beg for mercy, but could no longer control his tongue.
He writhed in pain on the cement, glancing toward his attacker with pleading eyes. His thoughts flashed to Crystal and the baby. They needed him! He had to survive! But when the pain became unbearable, his body ignored his will, and Rex Archibald passed out.
* * *
