Weekend at Prism

by John Patrick Kavanagh

  “Research?”

  “As in R and D? Like you, I presume. J-P?”

  Spotswood chuckled. Nobody’d ever asked where his own had originated. “You got it.”

  “And I am here regarding exactly what? In your own words,” he asked, grabbing a pair of hand towels.

  Spotswood reached into the tech pocket on his jeans, removed his trans and set it on the counter. “How about in somebody else’s words.”

  After listening to Cassie’s message once, Reynolds gestured for it to be repeated as he crossed his arms and stared at the floor. When it ended, he placed his hands into the pockets of his blazer and rocked absently side to side. “Did you call the number?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Reynolds, RD…”

  “David. Yes, I did. Place called The Gun Store.”

  “And the status?”

  “A Smith and Wesson .38.”

  “Interesting choice.”

  “Some special edition?”

  “Doesn’t matter right now.” He paused. “What does is that we’ve had our eyes on Ms. Chase for awhile.”

  “Right. Ben mentioned that to me this morning.”

  “Mr. Walbee?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “We just confirmed…did he tell you we’ve confirmed she’s not one of the Auroras?”

  Auroras?

  “I don’t recall.”

  “Maybe not. He’s been lax on current intel. Which is understandable. That’s why I work for him, not the other way around.” He thought a moment. “I take it that the dustup Ms. Chase referred to was the incident last week?”

  “I guess.”

  He nodded. “Have you seen her since then?”

  “No.”

  “Any phone calls, texts, emails, singing telegrams, what have you?”

  “None.”

  “Interesting.” He placed a palm on the counter then began to lightly tap the surface with the top end of the cane. “Well, what we’ve got here is a girl with an exceptionally high ball drive.”

  “Pardon?”

  Reynolds smiled. “Sorry. Shop talk.” Now he tapped one of the faucets. “When dogs are being vetted for search duties…you know, drugs, explosives, contraband…one of the things we like to check first is their ball drives.”

  “Like chasing a ball?”

  “Any pooch can chase a ball. What we try to figure, and this can be kind of subjective…we’re looking more for want. But we’re also watching for keep. And beyond that, we’re scoping out the intensity of the want and keep.”He paused. “Find a mutt that’s 100% all in, no detraction from distractions, balls to the wall focused on one and one thing only, you’ve got yourself a valuable asset.”

  “I think I understand.”Man, do I.

  “Let me ask you a few personal questions. And for future reference, I’d recommend you answer them truthfully or not at all. That’ll make my job easier and your welfare more assured.”

  “Deal.”

  “Okay, this first one isn’t…I’ve seen photos of her since she had that minor facelift at St. Honore’s spa…”

  Claude St. Honore? How’d he get into this?

  “…and just guy to guy, you actually decided to break up with that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I mean, Jip…that’s not something comes along in our lives on a regular basis.”

  “I know.”

  “Was…she lousy in the sack?”

  “Nope.”

  That first night, the night of the storm, they’d made love twice. In the nascent episode, Cassie’d been all at once shy, reticent and eager, seemingly desirous of having it last as long and making it as perfect as she could, moaning in ecstasy as two orgasms shook her body, then moaning more intensely as they climaxed together. An hour later, after they’d both freshened up, her passion arched considerably, her hunger for him seemingly insatiable.

  They spent the entire next day and night together—the impassable roads and scattered power outages making it insane to do otherwise. Using some of her ingredients and some he had on hand, they’d enjoyed a sumptuous breakfast, a splendid late lunch and a rich supper concocted from leftovers of the previous meals. In between eating, watching both the weather coverage and a couple of on-demand movies, a bit of reading along with a rolling, easy-going conversation, they had sex two times more, both even more satisfying than the previous night’s.

  And that was just a portent of what was to follow in the ensuing weeks.

  Reynolds started tapping the brass ball into his hand. “Then?”

  “Wrong person; wrong time.”

  “Okay.” He paused. “When you were still on speaking terms…I presume all of those nocturnal rendezvous weren’t devoted to jigsaw puzzles… were any substances, legal or otherwise, involved in your interactions?”

  Spotswood just stared.

  “Your eyes gave me the correct response,” Reynolds advised. “The eyes always do. Windows into the soul and all that. I love eyes.” He thought a moment. “Speaking of eyes…I read Wheels Up, by the way. Nice work. Speaking of eyes, you ever seen Polanski’s? I hear they’re really weird.”

  Spotswood had once. And they were. But Andy’d asked he never mention them. “No. You were saying about drugs?”

  “Look. I’m not going to drop a dime on you with the Las Vegas Narcotics Unit. I just need to fill in some spaces on my bingo card.”

  On Sunday morning, the City was back in business. Cassie was anxious to see how her condo was faring—Wilson Towers having reportedly been hit by one of the most extensive of the electrical failures—while he needed to drop by Pinkiefinger and run a list of errands. After coffee and an omelet that wrapped up what was left of the caviar, she was packed and a limcab was waiting downstairs. Stepping into the kitchen as he was straightening up, she wrapped her arms around him from behind and asked, “Honey? Could you help me with a little project I’m working on?”

  “Sure. What?”

  She displayed a small, cylindrical glass tube. After fetching a paper plate, she removed the stopper and shook a cotton swab onto it. “Pick up one end, touch the other inside that wonderful mouth of yours, then deposit in the container, s’il vous plais?”

  He figured an STD test, but that’d be closing the barn door.

  “I’m clean.”

  “Well so am I. But it’s not for that.”

  “Then what?”

  “When I was in France, a friend introduced me to…you would not believe the details you can learn about your genetic background. I found out that I’m, among other things, maybe one percent Icelandic.”

  “That might’a come in handy if it’d sunk like they thought it was going to. You could have been a key ingredient in restarting the whole operation!”

  They both laughed.

  “Everything is kept in the strictest of strictness. What do you say?”

  “You had me at strictness.”

  Reynolds lifted a towel from the counter and began polishing the brass sphere. “Help me out here, Jip.”

  “Not counting champagne?”

  “Anything that might be termed exotic?”

  Spotswood figured he must know about something, but couldn’t suss why he’d care. “Yes.”

  “Did she provide it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Injectibles?”

  “Why do you want to know? She told me she might get in trouble if I mentioned it to anyone.”

  Reynolds shook his head in disbelief. “Let me get this straight. You’re worried about some nut job who’s indicated an interest in splattering your brains all over Las Vegas Boulevard, and a .38 hollow point’ll do just that, because she might get in trouble?”

  Spotswood thought a beat. “Okay.” He took a deep breath. “She told me they were made in France based on my genetic profile. She had some of her own.”

  “Description?”

  “Uh, little round capsules, maybe the size of a pea. Four different colors…red, blue, green and pur
ple... luminescent. She gave me a couple dozen of each. They could be used alone or in combinations.”

  “With a Bradean?”

  “A modified one with insets in the cylinders.”

  “Interesting.” He paused. “On a scale of one to ten, one being worthless and ten being…”

  “They’re absolutely phenomenal.”

  “Did she ever…did she have a name for them?”

  Spotswood thought it through. “All I can recall is things like the magic potions or the stuff or …” What was that word?”…I remember one time she said something that reminded me of a Beatles’ song about drugs.”

  “Weren’t most of them?”

  They both laughed.

  “Jesus. It seemed to make so much sense at the time.”

  “Think of the voice singing it. That might help.”

  “Lennon.”

  “Didn’t he once say he’d taken acid over a thousand times?”

  “That’s it!” Spotswood yelped. “Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds!” He paused. “But she didn’t call them diamonds.”

  Reynolds nodded. “Lucioles?”

  Spotswood nodded back.

  Reynolds set the walking stick on the counter and gave a serious look. “Do you have any left? And if so, are they here?”

  “Twenty, maybe less. No, they’re not, but I’ve got ’em in a safe place.”

  “Whatever you do, hold on to them. They might come in handy depending how everything shakes out.”

  “I will.”

  “Your profile lists two guests staying in the suite. Are they here yet?”

  “Dave and Shar?”

  “Stonetree.”

  “Not here and don’t know if they will be. Might have a previous commitment.”

  “Any questions for me at this juncture?”

  “No.”

  He gestured to the door. “Then let’s rock.”

  His three assistants were waiting as they entered the great room, standing with their hands behind their backs. “Anything of interest?”

  “Nothing,” Mary replied.

  “Chip? Get with the owner of The Gun Shop, uh…Pete’s his name. We’re interested in the pickup of a Smith-Wesson, order number 719446. Send a couple folks over to introduce themselves and see if he wants some tickets or a comped room or something. Have them park outside and check in when somebody shows for it. I’ll need photos, mode of transportation, accessories, whatever.”

  “Right on it,” he said as he left.

  “Mar? Check with McCarren carriers on all incoming or completed flights for a Cassandra Chase. ID is in the bank. Send a couple folks over there to find out where she goes and if she meets anyone.”

  “Done,” she said as she left.

  “Denny? I am now placing Mr. Spotswood in your care for the duration of his stay. Coordinate with the previously assigned detail and feel free to swap someone in or out if you choose. That okay with you, Jip?”

  He’d been briefed on the security arrangements a few days earlier, advised that his personal guard would consist of two or three men that would tower over his 5’10” height, both to intimidate intruders and to literally be able to cover him if the need arose. His expression must have revealed his trepidation because Reynolds guffawed.

  “Oh, you’ll have the fullbacks when circumstances dictate. But as is said, big things often come in small packages.” He twirled his cane like a baton then pointed it at the woman. “Perhaps you could give Mr. Spotswood a rundown of your qualifications?”

  “Certainly, sir,” she said as she took a step forward. “I have degrees in psychology and mathematics. After working as a contractor specializing in Psych Ops, I was recruited by Israel Special Forces as a trainer, then moved into personal security. Did a temporary hitch with Mossad, followed by an assignment protecting the Prime Minister…”

  “Who personally requested her services,” Reynolds put in.

  She grinned. “Who personally requested my services. I’m skilled in firearms, taekwondo, krav mega and abir.”

  Reynolds held out his walking stick straight about level with his head and she instantly, precisely jumped and kicked the handle, making Spotswood smile and nod in approval.

  “As I was about to say,” he said, offering his hand to her, “I’m very happy to have you aboard.” He thought a moment. “What did you mean about finally making my acquaintance?”

  “She’s been tailing you since all the chatter started in November.”

  Then it hit him. “Were you at Calico the night…”

  “Two tables over to your left, her right.” She coughed. “Glad I didn’t have to get involved in that blowup.”

  One of the devices attached to Reynold’s belt beeped twice and he answered, “Okay… good… really?... interesting… fine… fine… good work.”

  “So did she land?” Spotswood asked.

  “Hmmm? Oh. Beats me. Believe it or not, you’re not my only prob today.” He made to leave. “So how ’bout you two work out the specifics of your weekend together while I go see a man about a dog.”

  “Make sure it’s got a high ball drive, David,” Spotswood offered.

  “I’ll just do that, Jip.” And he was gone.

  Denny made a hands-up, can-I-answer-any-questions gesture.

  “So you’re from Chicago?” he asked.

  She nodded her head and grinned widely, displaying the pair of deep dimples. “Good call. Born and raised in the city, then moved to the ’burbs.”

  “How’d you end up in the Middle East?”

  “I knew the career arc I wanted, so decided to study with the best.”

  He nodded then glanced about the suite. “Uh…when are you going to be with me?”

  “From here on out, constantly. Except when relieved. But I’ve got a couple subs in mind who’ll do just fine.”

  “Do you…stand outside in the hall?”

  She gestured to a grouping of sofas and chairs forming a sitting area then stepped across.”Right here would be just fine.”

  “Ah.”

  She leaned into one of the couch’s arms. “I’ll stay out of your bedroom and bath.” She examined the nails on one of her hands, then looked up coquettishly. “Unless requested otherwise, sir.”

  “You can call me Jip if you’d like.”

  She examined the other set. “We’ll see.”

  “Okay. Any questions for me? Feel free.”

  She crossed her arms and regarded him with curiosity. “Do you really think that she gave you her virginity?”

  He crossed his arms in return, giving no reply.

  “At the restaurant?” she chuckled. “I’d guess the customers out in the waiting area heard that part of her meltdown.”

  He tried to hide his grin but couldn’t. “In all honesty…you know something? I have no idea anymore. Why do you ask?”

  “Just to see if you’d gotten that issue out of your system.”

  Chapter Five

  Charles Bernardini whispered Meglio di quanto mi aspettasse as he exited the elevator on the 33rdfloor of Prism, the location of the identical pair of Master Penthouses. The two security personnel accompanying him slowed their pace after just a few steps as if they sensed the new visitor would literally stop in his tracks because of the sheer magnificence of the reception area, which is exactly what he did.

  In the distance he could see a broad hallway that led to the Penthouse doors, at least a hundred yards distant from where he stood. Angular glass walls rose three stories to the pinnacle of the hotel while false perpendicular walls dotted the space, decorated with a collection of 20th and 21stcentury art rumored to be insured for more than three billion dollars. Aside from small seating areas to the left and right and a triangular bar dead center, there were no other furnishings. Soft, ambient music floated from unseen speakers, somehow making the massive area seem more compact than it obviously was.

  “This is quite an unusual use of space for art display, as elegant as it is.”
/>   “It’s much more than that, sir.”

  “Oh?”

  The lead gestured back to the quadruple doors on either side of the lift. “Hidden behind those walls are our staging materials. Depending on the occasion, Reception can be converted into all manner of configurations. We have an altar and pews for marriages, dining tables for banquets, three kitchens for food prep, what have you.”

  He smiled and nodded. “Is this also the location of…I received an invitation from Mr. Potcheck for a special party to be held following the concert tomorrow night.”

  “Yes, sir. This is also where you’ll find The Wisconsin Bar.”

  “Ah. That’s good to know.”

  They continued on to the hallway, arriving at the entrance area between the two penthouses which featured another seating grouping, three flat screen televisions broadcasting Fox, CNN and WSJ, along with a diminutive version of the bar in Reception. One guard apiece manned podiums beside the penthouse doors. Stepping across to the sentinel on the left, Bernardini pulled his suit coat away to display the badge containing his photo, name, three holographic stamps, a bar code, the letters AAA and the legend “All Access Upon Confirmation.” The guard pointed a scanner, checked the screen at it then requested, “Mr. Bernardini? Your password, please?”

  “Traveler.”

  “Thank you. The alternate?”

  “Cub.”

  “Thank you, sir. And good day.”

  “Buongiorno.”

  He pointed a remote at the door and after a series of clicks it opened slightly. “I’ll inform Mr. St. Honore of your arrival.”

  “Grazie.”

  The first thing that caught his eyes as he entered the foyer was the sweeping ceiling, sunlight broken into unique combinations of colors pouring through the array of sharp cornered windows and skylights. The second was the stunningly attractive young woman who approached wearing a subtly sensuous variation of the traditional French maid’s uniform.

  “Bon jour, Monsieur. I am Ellie. Come with me, s’il vous plais.”

  She ushered him into an expansive great room where he saw Claude St. Honore rise from a sofa and approach to greet him.

  The man, he knew, had already attained legendary status in the hospitality, gaming and luxury services sectors, St. Honore Industries, S.A. owning four resort/casinos throughout Europe and Asia while managing another seven. In addition were the five independent health spas offering everything from simple relaxation to exceptional cosmetic and surgically required procedures, guests often ferried to them on one of the 20-some private jets or helicopters operated by the transportation wing of the conglomerate. High-end boutiques, higher-end restaurants, executive security services and a private residence sales/exchange/leasing operation completed most of the picture.