Nobody Dies in a Casino Read online

  All the water took care of her headache and she bit into the sub with more interest than she’d expected to. Moist roasted-tasting turkey slices—not the slimy cold-cut type—smeared with mayonnaise and cranberry sauce, topped with onions, black olives, shredded lettuce, and sprouts.

  The men watched her, almost fondly. Men did that. She would not think about it.

  Evan patted the elbow she’d bent to allow her hand to feed her mouth. “My lovely agent here is a fast-food connoisseur.”

  “Oh, that reminds me.” Charlie grabbed one of the hundreds of napkins that always accompanied these meals to wipe the mayonnaise off her fingers and reached into her purse. She handed him the $200,000 minus the hundred-dollar tip. “Compliments of Art Sleem, body number four.”

  Boy, did she have everybody’s attention.

  Evan looked especially astounded, but he’d earned any worry it might cause him. Charlie figured the more open she was in front of the authorities, the less trouble he could get her into.

  She answered her client’s look with a wink. Don’t ask me for sympathy, guy. Too many bodies under the bridge, and half-assed nonexplanations of things you are intent upon involving me in. Just handing you back a little bit of the grief, my friend. Enjoy.

  She popped the air out of her bag of crinkled chips, feeling more in control than she had since Art Sleem and company presented her with matching bullet holes in their foreheads. No sign of struggle, as if they’d lined up for execution. All laid out in a row. And all that blood in their eyeballs and spreading into the carpet. Recent kills. Somebody had caught them searching this house. She was lucky that somebody hadn’t caught her.

  Detective Battista held out a hand still smeared with mayo and wearing a wedding band. Evan handed over the money. But Battista, who looked more like a male model than a cop, asked Charlie the obvious question instead of Evan Black. “One of the dead men gave you this money for Mr. Black? When?”

  “Well, that’s what Matt Tooney thought the money was for, anyway. He’s body number six. As well as IRS.” And Charlie described her morning.

  Evan waited for the half of her sandwich he knew she wouldn’t eat and she gave it to him. The other two stared at her, baffled.

  “There’s only three bodies in there—not enough for you?” Mr. Undisclosed asked. Baggy eyes and jowls, beer belly, gray hair clipped to within an inch of its life. “Oh yeah, the one in the casino. I’m still missing two bodies.”

  “She’s very imaginative for an agent.” Evan hugged her.

  Detective Battista cut through the crap. “So, why did you come out here, Miss Greene?”

  “To give Evan the money. Even the IRS wouldn’t take it off my hands. I don’t like wads of unexplained cash and thought I’d dump it and all the trouble it might bring on Evan.”

  “Don’t listen to her,” the writer/director/producer said with his beguiling grin. “She loves me. Honest. Best agent I ever had.”

  “So, the other two bodies,” the fed insisted.

  “Patrick Thompson—the native Las Vegan and pilot for the nonexistent airline that flies workers in unmarked planes to Groom Lake and who did not die by pedestrian error on the Strip—he’s number one, and number two was Officer Timothy Graden.”

  “You were at the scene of the hit-and-run that killed Tim Graden?” Battista’s sleek face tensed, dark eyes focused to a squint.

  “No, but I did witness Thompson’s murder and explained it to Officer Graden, the only one in authority there who would listen to me. And look where it got him.”

  “Do I detect a certain leap in reasoning here?” the fed asked. “The bicycle cop was a victim of a hit-and-run because you told him about what you imagined happened to Thompson? And as I’m counting, we suddenly went from not enough bodies to too many. There’s still one unexplained.”

  “I told you, didn’t I, that there were two goons who walked Pat Thompson out of Loopy Louie’s?”

  “Oh yeah, and shoved him under traffic that wasn’t moving.” The fed—what else could he be?—started in on the guy method of handling problems with those lower in the food chain. His condescending smile directed around the table showed the overbite of preorthodontist days.

  “Same kind of traffic it would be tough to get killed in jaywalking,” Charlie countered. “Anyway, the bald corpse, number five, was Sleem’s accomplice in this.”

  Undisclosed went for the gold. “And what would you say, little lady, if I told you that Mr. Arthur Sleem worked for the government of the United States?”

  “Then I’d say the government’s in a whole lot of trouble.”

  “Told you—conspiracy. Right?” Evan beamed at the two other men and would have hugged Charlie again if he hadn’t caught the look in her eye in the very nick.

  CHAPTER 17

  “A TRIPLE MURDER at the Las Vegas home of producer-writer, Evan Black, the young genius behind such award-winning films as All the King’s Women, a fictional exposé of presidential fornication throughout history, and the hilarious docudrama of attempts to hide bungling at the highest levels of corporate America—The Accountant in the Wardrobe—starring Mel Gibson and Tom Hanks, has left the Lakes neighborhood and Las Vegas police stunned.” This was Barry on the local evening news. He couldn’t have gotten through that whole sentence if not for the fact that he spoke even slower than Frank Sinatra used to sing and so could breathe after every three words and you didn’t notice.

  Did he and Terry work morning, noon, and evening broadcasts? Charlie sprawled in an enveloping chair in front of a mammoth TV that lowered from the ceiling on command in Bradone McKinley’s really swell accommodations high atop the Vegas Hilton. She accepted a chilled gin martini from Reed the butler. It might be poison, but it had to be a hundred flights up from yak crud. And this had been one long afternoon, baby.

  Evan Black, “the young genius,” spread out on a floor pillow at her feet, using her chair for a headrest. “Hey, what about Waiter, There’s a Government in My Soup?”

  “Never got released.” Richard Morse cuddled with their hostess on a couch so puffy, all Charlie could see was his head.

  “Still the best film I ever made.”

  “How come,” Charlie asked, “we’re the same age, but you’re a young genius and I’m not young anymore?”

  “Because you’re not a genius. Geniuses are supposed to be old, so, if they’re not creaky yet, they’re young.”

  Since Evan’s house was a crime scene under investigation, they let him pack an overnight bag and told him he’d have to spend the night elsewhere. He was going to spend it in Richard’s room since Richard would be up here.

  “Last night,” Terry took over, “Black reportedly held an advance screening of an as-yet-unmade film, using raw footage of various scenic wonders of our area, including Area Fifty-one and Yucca Mountain, amazing special effects, and even, get this, footage of the robbery at the Vegas Hilton’s casino.”

  “That Black’s always out ahead of the crowd, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, Barry, and it sounds like Vegas will be in the movies once again. Sources say that none other than Mitch Hilsten will star in Black’s latest flick.”

  Except for a helicopter video of the Lakes subdivision, busy with emergency vehicles, and another of Detective Jerome Battista refusing to talk to reporters as he entered a building, the only visuals the broadcast had for this segment were stills. Stills of Evan, Mel, Tom, and Mitch. And then one of Charlie.

  “You gotta have a new picture taken,” Richard remarked. “Haven’t looked like that since Libby caught puberty.”

  “Black was reportedly attending a friend’s funeral today and the bodies of three men, as yet unidentified—”

  “I can identify them,” Charlie said.

  “Shut up,” Evan said.

  “… discovered by Black’s Hollywood agent, Charlie Greene,” Barry said.

  “If this gets picked up by the networks, you couldn’t get better publicity,” Bradone the astrologer told E
van the genius and predicted, “People will be throwing money at you to get in on the ground floor.”

  “They already are,” Charlie said.

  “Shut up,” Evan repeated, and asked Bradone, “How much you in for?”

  “Don’t listen to him,” Charlie’s boss warned his new girlfriend. “That’s not how funding goes.”

  “Life’s not legal without the middleman, huh, Morse?”

  “Georgette Millrose,” Terry began, and a pub photo flashed on the screen.

  “Talk about needing a new photo.” Charlie could hear the sour grapes in her voice. “She hasn’t looked like that since World War Two.”

  “… local celebrity and author of twenty-some romance-filled thrillers, announced today that she would be signing on with Jethro Larue at the Fleet Agency in New York.”

  “What, she hired a publicist?” Everybody knew midlist writers were not news, especially in their hometowns. “How’d she get that kind of press release on TV?” Charlie waved away Reed and another martini, as did Bradone. The guys accepted.

  “No dead grass under that Jethro Larue,” Richard Morse pronounced. “Face it, you were just coasting with her.”

  “But you’re the one who told me not to—”

  “Shut up,” Richard said.

  Charlie and Evan had spent the afternoon answering questions both separately and together and were still on the pool patio when the bodies were carried out. They’d offered up skin cells, hair and blood samples, and mouth swabs. Evan looked patiently through the mess of the upstairs and could find nothing missing, nor in the rest of the house either. Charlie did, but kept her mouth shut.

  When Battista and Mr. Undisclosed grew intimidating over what the murdered men might be doing in the house, what the burglars might have been after, and whether he or Charlie thought the dead men might be the ones who’d searched it, Evan refused to say more without his lawyer. Charlie continued to keep her mouth shut.

  Over a simple supper of baked potatoes, leafy salad, and hot crusty rolls, whipped up on a moment’s notice by Brent the chef, Charlie asked Evan about the picture of the exaggerated building. The simple baked potatoes were topped with a creamy wine sauce creation—thick with hunks of real crab-meat, button mushrooms, pearl onions, raw asparagus tips, and every kind of tasty tiny herby thing. So it took him awhile to answer.

  “That’s not fake. It’s the DAF. Starwars Device Assembly Facility. That was a real picture we took, from very high up. Been building it since Reagan to assemble weapons we don’t need anymore. It’s over by the little town of Mercury.” He turned down Brent’s wine choice and ordered another of Reed’s martinis. Not to be outdone by the younger man, so did Richard. Bradone McKinley’s amusement threatened to make a breakout.

  Charlie also turned down the wine. One, it was white. Two, she had enough of a buzz on one martini.

  “I read about that building.” Bradone allowed a chuckle. “Cost something like a hundred million to build and eight million a year just for maintenance and security.”

  “It’s actually a group of buildings inside a concrete fortress with security sensors, razor wire, and those famous ‘armed response personnel,’” Evan told her.

  “I’ve heard of those ARP guys,” Richard said. “There’s private companies that hire them out to government installations just like commercial security services do to businesses. Only these ARPs are ex–military security instead of ex-cops.”

  “There’s a lot of ex-ARPs on the market now too,” Evan added—not to be outdone by the older man. Men compete on everything. “Especially in Vegas, with all the loose cash. There’s lots to secure and not enough mob presence to see that it’s done quietly and neatly. And they’re becoming more political, patriotic. Organizing and going out in groups to take care of people who do antigovernment things. They’re like the reverse of the antigovernment militia movement but better armed and trained and with friends in high places. How does that tickle your little conspiracy phobia, Charlie?”

  “Seems like you might be asking yourself that question, since you’re continually baiting the keepers of the secrets out at Groom Lake. Maybe they’ll come after you.”

  “Maybe they already have.”

  “A picture of the DAF was on the desk when I found the dead men. But it disappeared before we left.”

  “Maybe that’s what whoever searched the house was looking for.” Evan snapped his fingers. “We’ve got a real detailed plan of that state-of-the-art security system.”

  “Where’d you get something like that?” Richard wanted to know.

  “Off the state-of-the-art Internet.”

  Charlie actually finished almost all of her baked potato and the men had seconds. They retired to the ploopy couch to argue over how a great project really gets funded and why agents and bankers and brokers are important to the process. Their speech was slurred. They ordered coffee and brandy and didn’t seem to notice when Bradone lured Charlie out onto the roof patio.

  Charlie wanted to stop and enjoy the amazing light show that was Vegas, the shadow mountains ringing the horizon, and the steam rising off the Jacuzzi next to the pool. But Bradone tugged her through the glass doors of an elegant bedroom and tossed a couple of pieces of cloth at her. “I bought this for my niece, but you can have it.” She was already pulling off her own slacks and blouse.

  “But I haven’t shaved my you-know. I mean—”

  “Hell, I don’t care. And those guys will be passed out by the time we get wet. Brent and Reed are gay and not easily impressed. Now hurry, dessert is in the Jacuzzi.”

  Yes, Charlie had a thought or two about whether or not lovely Bradone was bi. And what this dessert might be. But she put on the bikini and ignored the pubics—it had been that bad a day. Now that Sleem and his bald buddy were dead, all she had to worry about were the ARPs from Groom.

  “Finally, I have you all to myself.” Bradone laughed low. “You’ve been so busy finding dead bodies and Richard’s been so … very attentive.”

  “I was a little surprised”—stunned was more like it, but Charlie too was choosing her words carefully—“at your interest in him.”

  “Yes, well, he’s something of a novelty. I’ve always liked novelty.”

  “Nothing stays a novelty for long.”

  “No, nothing does.”

  Dessert was a chocolate mint and coffee. And if the guys weren’t asleep already, they were certainly quiet in there.

  The water bubbled warm against her mostly nakedness. The air blew chill against her face. The rich coffee went down hot. Charlie sighed. “Here I am, a mother, and I can see all these people murdered and feel this good afterwards. Do you suppose Hollywood has hardened me?”

  “There’s a lot to be said for the survivor syndrome.”

  “Don’t forget good old guilt. I seem to get nourishment from it.” Charlie could feel tight muscles relaxing. Even her bones seemed to be readjusting more comfortably in their ligaments and sinews, or whatever kept her together.

  “You’re not worried that the police think you killed those three men today?” An edge of concern crept into the modulated voice.

  “I don’t know. But I have had a connection with six murders in five days, and the cops don’t think three of them are murders even. Well, maybe the hit-and-run. Driving me nuts.”

  “Six?” Now Bradone McKinley sounded incredulous but listened without interrupting as Charlie described once again the deaths of Patrick the pilot, Timothy the bicycle cop, and Ben Hanley who drank from Charlie’s glass. She went on to describe what little she knew or suspected of Art Sleem, Tooney, and the bald thug, whose murders in Evan Black’s great room nobody denied.

  “So what’s the connection?”

  “The only one I can see,” Charlie said helplessly, “is me.”

  “Why not Evan? He would seem to have more of a connection.”

  “Not with Ben Hanley from Kenosha, Wisconsin, he doesn’t. Bradone, would you believe I feel worse about that dea
th than all the others combined?”

  * * *

  Subdued lighting aimed downward highlighted curving stone pathways among shrubs in pots, flowering plants, small fountains and statuary, concrete gargoyles, and the bottom of the kidney-shaped swimming pool in the penthouse garden. The hot tub sat on a raised platform, so that even the mostly submerged could view the dazzling display of Las Vegas at night, the city streetlights blazing in lines radiating in all directions, the airliners blinking overhead.

  All around, the mountain ranges hunkering on the horizon, forming a circular frame to keep reality at bay.

  Steam made Bradone McKinley and the arm she raised toward the heavens appear to waver and warp as she pointed out the constellations either by direction or by distinguishing stars that managed to stab through the light refraction from the gaudiest city in the world.

  Charlie had begun to tense up again with all the talk about dead bodies, and the astrologer’s soothing, melodic voice calmed her. She caught herself yawning as Bradone carried on about planets and houses and moons rising.

  “Charlie, what if even one of those planets has some lifeform? What if that life-form is even now on its way here? Or already here?”

  “What if that life-form has its own system of astrology? What if it reads some significance in the position of our solar system, Earth even?”

  The older woman lowered her arm and her head suddenly to ask Charlie the date and time and place of her birth. Charlie answered the best she could remember from what Edwina had told her and then Bradone grew far too quiet for far too long.

  “So what’s the prognosis, stargazer? Is the body count over for the week? Am I going to salvage some vacation here or what?”

  “We should meet for breakfast,” Bradone said instead of answering. “Somewhere away from here and Richard and the police. There are so many things I want to ask you, Charlie. About Mitch Hilsten and Georgette Millrose. About Evan and that strange film we saw at his house last night.”

  Charlie noticed she didn’t mention learning more about Richard Morse. “Bradone?”