Sherry had removed the loose tunic to reveal a black sheath dress underneath. Black high heels replaced the sandals. She looked at Kasey in the mirror. “How’d he take it?”
“Who?”
“Tate, of course.”
Kasey had forgotten all about Tate after seeing the man at the bar. “Oh. Not bad, considering. Not bad for a guy who’s bombed and has just been told he’s raping his own business. I only hope…” Kasey’s thoughts returned to the man at the bar.
“Kase, what is it?”
While Sherry finished fixing her face, Kasey told her about the security guard at the club. “He’s sitting out there now.”
Sherry had risen. She tossed her bag over her shoulder and pulled on the door handle. “You want me to nuzzle up to him? Find out who he is?”
Kasey abruptly closed the door. “No, it’s too dangerous. He might know we’re together. Maybe not, though. He wasn’t at the bar when I left the booth to talk with Tate, that much I know.”
Kasey left the rest room first and, much to her relief, the man with the baseball cap was no longer at the bar.
Kasey and Sherry left the restaurant together and separated in the parking lot. Kasey, who was parked closer to the restaurant, waited inside her locked car until Sherry was safely inside her truck, which now leaned forlornly toward a wide, empty parking space. They drove out together, turning in opposite directions on Highway 395. Kasey headed for home. It had been a long day, and she wanted only to fall into bed and sleep. Sherry might also fall into bed, but not to sleep; her work day was just beginning.
Traffic on the highway just before midnight was light. As the miles slipped by, she periodically checked her mirrors, side and rearview. Would the man try to follow her? When she turned off the highway, two cars behind her made the turn. Kasey slowed. Within several minutes one of the cars pulled out and passed her. A pink Thunderbird. The other car dropped back.
Kasey’s mind raced. There was little doubt in her mind that the car behind her was being driven by the man with the baseball cap, the security guard at the club. Her mother’s ranch was less than a mile away. The last thing she wanted to do was lead this nut to her doorstep.
Without slowing further, Kasey whipped the wheel to the right in a turnout and, with tires squealing, gravel crunching and flying every which way, she executed a sharp U-turn. The other car, a black Camaro with tinted windows, passed, then did the same.
Stomping her foot down on the accelerator, Kasey sped back the way she had come, the bright lights of the Camaro obliterating her rearview mirror, blinding her.
She raced back to the highway, the stop sign looming ahead. Without slowing, she laid on her horn and barreled across two lanes of the four-lane highway. The Camaro stayed on her tail, narrowly missing a van in the opposite lane. Amid squealing tires and blaring horns, her Pathfinder fishtailed for a hundred or so feet before straightening. Kasey floored it, intermittently hitting the horn. For once in her life, she hoped a cop would spot her and take pursuit. She headed for Sparks.
Once on the freeway, the Camaro quickly caught up. It stayed on her rear bumper. It was doubtful she could lose it. There was only one place to go.
Minutes later, when she changed lanes to exit the freeway, the Camaro zoomed along the right side of her car, refusing to yield, forcing her to stay in the middle lane. When she sped up or slowed, the Camaro kept pace. Ahead of her, Kasey saw the twelve-story King’s Club. She missed the Nugget Avenue exit. Again she sped up, racing for the next off-ramp, hoping for a chance to get into the far lane. Traffic thinned; and as the miles passed, she realized they were the only cars on the freeway on that particular stretch of road. If she didn’t get off within the next exit or two, she could find herself alone with this madman on the secluded outskirts of town where anything could happen.
As she neared the McCarran exit, Kasey slammed on her brakes. The Camaro slowed, but not enough, and Kasey whipped in behind it, stomped her foot on the gas, and quickly passed on the right, the passenger wheels bumping along the dirt shoulder. The Camaro was alongside in an instant, veering in front of her Pathfinder in an attempt to run her off the road.
She took a chance. Turned the wheel sharply to the left. The two cars made contact. By the muted thumping sound she guessed her front bumper had hit his rear wheel and, like two bumper cars, they glanced off each other. Kasey cranked the wheel, narrowly missing the veed divider barrier, and raced down the ramp. From the corner of her eye, she saw the Camaro brake, then go into a spin. When she pulled back onto the freeway, now heading west, she caught a glimpse of the Camaro’s taillights descending the off-ramp.
Minutes later, her knees shaking so badly she had difficulty braking, Kasey pulled into the valet entrance of King’s Club. Under the brightly lit portico where cars, limos, and tour buses moved steadily along its three lanes, she instantly felt a measure of security. There were fewer places safer than the valet parking of a large casino. She could exit her car at the main entrance, amid groups of people, waiting attendants, and surveillance cameras, knowing that trained security personnel were nearby.
A valet attendant opened her door. Kasey scanned the cars around her, looking for the Camaro. She spotted it idling at the curb on the street parallel to the hotel. Dark tinted windows concealed its driver.
She hurried inside, stopped at the valet desk, and identified herself as hotel management. “Get security on the phone. Quick.”
The girl dialed, handed Kasey the receiver. Officer Dobbs came on the line. After identifying herself again, she told Dobbs about being followed and nearly run off the road by the black Camaro. She told him it was idling at the entrance to the club. He said he would send a unit to check on it and get back to her. The moment she hung up, the Camaro pulled away.
Dobbs called back five minutes later. No sign of a black Camaro, he told her. She asked if he knew of any security officers who drove a black Chevy Camaro with tinted windows. The answer was no. “Would you like to make a report to the police, miss?” Dobbs asked.
She considered a moment, then decided against it. She had no proof, no witnesses. It was her word against his—against a black Camaro, actually. After all, she hadn’t seen the person behind the wheel, hadn’t caught so much as a glimpse through the tinted windows. Having him picked up would only show her hand, and she wasn’t ready for that yet. She would talk to Jay first.
“No. No police. But tell security to keep their eyes open for the car. If they see it, have them report to Mr. King immediately.”
Kasey hung up. Uncertain what to do now, she leaned on the desk and looked around. Before her wild ride through town and country, she’d been tired, exhausted; all she had wanted to do was crawl into bed and sleep. She was still exhausted, but now she was keyed up, as revved as her engine on the highway. She needed time to think, to plan her next move. She couldn’t go home now. Not until she knew she wouldn’t be followed. She could wait awhile and take a chance the man had given up and gone away, or she could spend the night at the hotel.
While she made up her mind, she decided to go upstairs, let herself into the monitor room adjoining Jay’s office, and, in the peaceful solitude, think.
*
The Monk used a lobby elevator. In civilian clothes, he could go about the hotel like any other guest. No one was likely to stop or interfere with him. The cap offered a measure of anonymity. The elevator stopped at the top floor. Before exiting, he glanced up at the surveillance camera in the elevator lobby, saw it was directed at the two elevators across the way, slowly panning toward him. He moved quickly to the corridor, out of the camera’s limited range.
He had come up to check security on this floor. He needed to know firsthand what he was up against. The executive suite took up an entire end of the southwest wing. The Monk stared down the long corridor to room 1214-15 where King and his wife were holed up—both of them no doubt feeling safer, more secure, barricaded behind those thick double doors.
Aside from the
elevator camera, there were none in the corridor. And no guards posted at the door to the suite.
He grinned. Good. Good. A guard would only complicate things. Although there wasn’t a door in the entire place he couldn’t open and there wasn’t an employee he couldn’t bribe or coerce, he preferred to not have to reach too deep into his bag of tricks just yet.
King’s Club, for all its rooms, departments, and closed-circuited surveillance, was as good as his.
But there was no rush. He was enjoying this little game. It was actually going better than he had ever thought it would. He was in no hurry to kill them. Once done, he’d have to leave, change his identity and disappear. He was being paid well for this. Had carte blanche. No reason in hell not to have a good time. He would milk it for all it was worth.
The episode tonight with Kasey Atwood should leave no doubt in her mind that he, a security guard at her client’s hotel, was up to no good.
The Monk smiled. The little lambs, skillfully herded by him, their shepherd, were flocked together under one roof. And if they had any sense, they would be more than a little anxious. The Atwood woman in particular. Because she was going to be the first to go.
The Monk returned to the elevator lobby. He pushed the down button, keeping his back to the rotating camera. While he waited, he shot a quick blast of nasal spray into each nostril. He sniffed. The doors opened. He stepped inside and pressed LOBBY.
“Hold the elevator!”
The Monk instinctively gripped the rubber-edged door as a man in a jogging suit rushed in.
“Thanks,” the man said.
The Monk realized too late that the man was Jay King. He lowered his head, the bill of the baseball cap masking the upper part of his face, and moved to the back of the car. He wasn’t ready to be recognized yet. He wanted King to wonder a bit longer just who was after him. Because once he discovered the who, the why would become crystal clear.
King held a cellular phone. Nice touch. He and the wife were only seven digits away from each other.
King pressed four—the floor with the swimming pool.
The Monk spotted a rolled-up towel tucked under King’s arm. A nightly ritual. A couple of times in the past months while on his security rounds, he had come across the hotel owner in the pool late at night. Of course he had promptly retreated without being seen. It was rumored King swam at least fifty laps whenever he stayed over. Sometimes, on a sleepless night, he would get in more than one set of laps. The pool opened at 9:00 in the morning and closed at 10:00 each night. King then had it all to himself. No lifeguards. No attendants. Nobody.
From now until the Monk decided to put an end to the game, J. G. King would have many sleepless nights.
*
Kasey let herself into the monitor room from the main corridor. She had no sooner closed the door behind her when she heard someone in the adjacent office. Jay’s office.
Assuming it was Jay and eager to tell him about her wild drive through the city with the black Camaro on her tail, she opened the inner door and strode in without knocking.
The room was dim; the only lights glowing were behind the bar. And at the built-in bar, riffling through the open safe, stood Brad King.
When he saw her, he quickly dropped the papers in his hand.
“Brad?” She looked around the otherwise-vacant office. “What are you doing in here?”
“I might ask you the same question.” His tone was harsh, accusing. “Do you always just barge into private offices without knocking?”
“Well, no, I…” He had her on the defensive. She didn’t like being on the defensive. She wasn’t the one rummaging through Jay’s safe late at night in the dark.
“Yes?” he said.
“I was in the monitor room and I heard something. I thought you were Jay.”
He shut the safe, pulled the panel closed, then walked up to her. He smiled his charming, boyish smile. “I was just putting some papers away.”
To Kasey it didn’t look like he was putting anything away. It looked more like he was trying to find something.
Brad moved in close, forcing her against the back of the bar with his body. He reached up and took a bottle from the shelf. She stepped to the side. Brad uncapped the cognac bottle and poured two glasses. He handed her one.
She shook her head. “It’s late.”
“What are you doing here, Kasey?”
Under normal circumstances she would have told him about seeing the security guard at the bar and what had followed. But finding him in Jay’s office this way made her reluctant to share. He was lying. If he were lying about what he was doing here, what else would he lie about?
“I had an appointment in town and it ended early. Thought I’d watch the monitors for a while and then head home.”
“You didn’t get enough earlier tonight?”
“It’s addictive. Like a video game.”
“Want some company?” He moved in closer, so close she could smell his light cologne and the lemony scent of his freshly laundered shirt.
She shook her head again. “I’d kind of like to be alone for a while. You know, to think, to sort things out.”
“Think about what? Sort out what?”
When she didn’t answer, he shrugged.
“Okay. I’ll leave you to your own private demons.” For once, he seemed relieved by her rejection.
He downed the cognac, squeezed her upper arm, moved around her, and left the room without a backward glance.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Jay pulled himself through the water effortlessly. He was on the final laps, face down, stroking by rote, no longer conscious of the water which smelled strongly of chlorine or the burning pain in the muscles of his abdomen and shoulders. At this point he allowed his mind to wander, to free-associate, to bring this nightly ritual to a gratifying and grateful end.
He thought of Dianne in the suite upstairs. Behind a locked, bolted, and chained door she waited up for him. In the event she fell asleep, he had brought along the cellular phone. He would call when he was about to return to their room.
Suddenly he felt a tightness in his gut that had nothing to do with swimming. Lately, time in Dianne’s company was becoming less pleasant and more combative. They seemed to have nothing in common anymore.
Had they ever? he wondered.
Dinner that evening had been ordered in and somber. They had sat at the elegant dining table amid flickering candlelight, looking through a wall of glass at a breathtaking view of city lights and mountain vistas. Dianne seemed testy, snapping at the room service captain, picking at her food, and complaining about everything. Afterward she had sat in the wading pool-sized Jacuzzi, offering little by way of conversation. Jay was familiar with the pouting Dianne. He’d been exposed to it enough over the years and more so lately. He supposed she was upset because he had chosen to work with Kasey in the monitor room instead of staying with her in the suite.
He felt a tinge of guilt again. If Kasey hadn’t had an appointment elsewhere, he might very well have missed dinner entirely, so caught up was he in this thing with the hotel.
His thoughts turned to Kasey Atwood. Kasey, whom he’d spent more time with in the past week then his own wife. When Dianne had suggested he hire her, Jay had been dubious, only going along to humor her. He had not intended to take his wife’s friend or her consultation service seriously. Yet, day by day, he was learning to trust, respect, and rely on Kasey’s expertise. Jay was impressed by her astute reasoning and her quickness. And to complicate it all, not only was she bright, she was also very attractive. A dangerous combination.
He found himself comparing the two women. Both were lovely—one like a crystal prism, the other like a neon sign— each reflecting light and color, and that’s where the comparison ended. Like night and day, they were. Dianne was as intelligent as Kasey, but she no longer had the drive to improve her mind, to advance her skills or knowledge. She had no special interests other than snow skiing and tennis. No hob
bies. It seemed all she cared to do lately was shop, travel, and play. Things he had no desire to do until his aspirations—aspirations once meaningful to his father and brother—had been realized. The death of his brother had intensified his goal. He and Brad were the last. He wanted Brad to carry on the family name with a first-class establishment that would be everything his father had envisioned. By this time next year, the tower and a good part of the renovation would be completed. Then, and only then, could he begin to think about travel and good times.
Jay finished with a backstroke across the length of the pool and climbed out. In the eerie aquamarine glow from the pool, ripples of light dancing along the wall and ceiling, he toweled off and, skin still damp, pulled on his sweat suit.
The clock on the wall said 1:20.
He glanced longingly at the two Jacuzzis. He usually finished with at least fifteen minutes in the hot tub, but tonight he would have to settle for the small one in the suite. Dianne was waiting.
Dianne, the night owl. She stayed awake watching movie after movie, sometimes into the wee hours of the morning. The only nights she succumbed early to sleep were after they had made love.
When was the last time they had made love? Love? Was what they did an act of love or was it merely sex? Sex for Dianne had to be intense, fierce, with a passion bordering on savage. Sometimes Jay thought of it as hand-to-hand combat. A battle of groping, thrusting, stabbing, of being impaled and even consumed, where in the end the victor cries out triumphantly before shoving the vanquished away. Afterward, when they lay exhausted, their bodies still slick with sweat, their breathing still labored, Dianne quickly sank into a catatonic slumber while he was left with battle wounds and empty, yearning arms.
In the elevator, he punched 3 instead of 12. He wanted to pick up some files from his office to read later in the suite.
Instead of going through the executive offices, he let himself into the monitor room from the corridor. Three glowing screens provided enough light for Jay to see someone curled up on one end of the short leather sofa, her head propped on the armrest.
Mortal Crimes 2 Page 115
