He’d died minus a wallet or any other identification—or someone had intentionally removed them.
Saxon had attended the autopsy, because the bones had indicated a possibility that the victim had been one of the Elven, who had strong, elongated bones.
But in the end the ME had determined that the skeleton had belonged to a man—just a man, and nothing more. A dumb man—traveling in the desert on foot with no wallet—but a man. Except that Saxon didn’t think that little of humanity. And no mortal man could have gotten that far out in the desert on foot. It was too convenient to think he’d simply lain down in the sand to die, then was fortuitously consumed by the local wildlife. No, someone had taken him out there and left him to die, or killed him elsewhere and dumped him in the desert for the body to be eaten and the evidence destroyed.
Murder number one, he thought. At least that he knew of.
Then there had been the craps dealer. Rutger Heinz. He had come to Las Vegas because he’d been entranced by what he’d seen and read about the city while growing up in Bavaria. He’d arrived just five years earlier, attended the University of Nevada, then taken a job.
At Monty’s casino. Which was mostly owned by Carl Bailey.
Security cameras recorded Rutger’s exit the night he had gone missing. He could be seen getting into his car and driving away. And then, somewhere in the congested traffic of the Strip, he had disappeared. And he hadn’t been seen again.
Not long afterward, Angela Sanderson had disappeared. Exquisite, beautiful, Elven. Young, talented, ready to take on the world. With everything to live for.
One thing he’d noticed on the casino security footage of both Rutger and Angela before they’d disappeared was that there had been a very high proportion of werewolves around. It was a tentative connection to the murders, but his gut told him it was real nonetheless, that werewolves were involved in the disappearances as well as the killings.
Then, yesterday, the half-chewed body of the Oregon tourist that had caused a disaster on Fremont Street.
Two officially dead—and his concern as a homicide detective.
Two missing and, he feared, most likely dead.
The dead man found right there on Fremont Street seemed to be a sign that the murderer wanted to be noticed. It was like a cry for recognition.
Why would a killer make such a point of calling attention to himself? One possibility: it could be a cry for help. Maybe he abhorred the killing, but couldn’t stop himself and was hoping the police would catch him. Or maybe he was showing off for someone.
Another possibility: the killer was so mentally deranged that he was certain he wouldn’t be caught; as a narcissistic personality, he considered his own desires of uppermost importance and couldn’t imagine that he could be caught.
Yet no matter what else was true of the killer’s psyche, the validity of this was not in question in Saxon’s mind: the killer was a werewolf. A werewolf acting as pack leader, as alpha, and trying to convince the rest of the pack that it was time for the wolf pack to take their place as kings of the city.
Las Vegas was one of the pleasure capitals of the world, a neon-lit paradise where every vice known to man—and Others—could be indulged. Where money—and women—changed hands from minute to minute. A city where Carl Bailey was already the de facto king.
What more could the man want? Saxon wondered. Why would he kill—or, more likely, have someone else kill for him? He had money, and hundreds of people working for him, worshipping his name. He had power, scores of mistresses, every conceivable comfort.
Maybe it wasn’t Carl Bailey, Saxon reminded himself.
He shook his head.
No, Carl had to be involved. The new wolf from Toronto hadn’t been here long enough to make the kinds of connections you needed to kill someone and dispose of the body.
Still, it wouldn’t do to count the guy out. A smart detective considered all possibilities.
He rose. He supposed he could pay a visit to Carl. But he wanted more evidence than what he had—which came down to pretty much nothing—when he actually accosted the man.
He wanted to arrest the bastard, just on general principles, but he had nothing to hold him on.
Besides, how much good would it do when he finally did have enough? How much sway did Carl Bailey have in the courts? Was there any hope the werewolf would actually wind up paying the ultimate penalty under the law?
There should have been another law. A universal law for the nonhuman races. The kind of law that the Keepers had surely used to rule over their creatures, once upon a very long time ago.
Saxon reminded himself that he was a cop. Even if he could prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that Carl Bailey was a murderer, the man was protected by his rights under the Constitution. Saxon couldn’t just walk in with a silver bullet and shoot him down.
They desperately needed real laws for the Otherworld. With real consequences.
It was a waste of time to rue the fact that Monty Reilly was either as crooked as Carl Bailey or totally ineffectual. There were two lost people out there, alive or dead. One of them a woman who was, in a way, kin. He had to find them.
He put through a few calls and found out that the new wolf in town, Jimmy Taylor, was playing craps at one of Carl Bailey’s casinos.
He decided he felt like gambling.
* * *
Jimmy Taylor was in his late twenties, tall, leanly muscled, and he had a thick lock of dark hair that fell over his forehead and the heavy-lidded bedroom eyes that women seemed to find attractive.
The guy could have made it in movies. He should have headed to Hollywood—the kingdom of stars—Saxon thought.
But he’d come here instead—to the kingdom of high stakes.
Carl Bailey’s Galway Glen casino was, like all his properties, expensively and expertly decorated. There were salutes to Ireland throughout. The Tralee Tavern, located above the casino floor with a view of the action, was done in shades of green, and the bartenders were all female and all wearing short green skirts. Carl liked women—the prettier the better, the bustier better still. It was pretty much a given that if a beautiful woman wanted a job—and was willing to kowtow to Carl Bailey—she was guaranteed a job at the casino.
Saxon knew that Carl hated him. He knew from the minute he entered the casino that the security cameras were on him and his presence would be announced to Carl, wherever in the city the man might be.
He didn’t head straight to the gaming tables but decided on a drink first. He settled into a green upholstered chair at the Tralee and took a minute to appreciate the ornately carved wood of the bar itself, designed to look as if it had been cobbled together from logs in a forest. Eyes peered out from between artificial branches, as if mischievous leprechauns were watching out for those who’d come to imbibe. A realistically carved female figure, one of Ireland’s famous selkies, looked down from above the bottles of expensive liquor shelved behind the bar.
His waitress was in her early twenties. She shimmered a bit when she moved, and he instantly thought, shape-shifter.
“Good evening, Detective Kirby,” she said. “Are you here to ask questions? Or are you...off duty?” she finished flirtatiously.
“I’m off duty. But I always like to ask questions,” he told her. “I can start with how do you know my name?”
She flushed. “I guess you’re not going to believe I’ve waited on you before and you introduced yourself?”
“No.”
“Okay, so...the truth is, Mr. Bailey alerted the employees to keep an eye out for you to show up. He doesn’t want to cause a stink by refusing you entrance. He does want you watched.”
Saxon looked over at the selkie statue above the bar. He knew she had cameras in her shimmering eyes.
He waved.
“Why does he want me watched?” he asked innocently.
“He says you’re on a vendetta—blaming the werewolves for everything that’s been happening lately.”
“Could be a shifter pretending to be a werewolf,” he said with a shrug. “Or a person. It’s not as if vicious serial killers can’t be human.”
“So what will you have?” she asked, apparently deciding not to pursue the topic of his intentions.
“I think I’ll stick with the theme. A good Irish beer, please.”
She left to get his beer, and his eyes idly tracked her journey back to the bar. He noticed that there was a platform in front of the selkie statue, and as he watched, one of the servers climbed up and took her place on it. Traditional Irish music started playing, and she began to dance, her feet moving with skill and speed to rival the best performer back on Irish soil.
The waitress returned with his beer.
“She’s good,” he said, nodding toward the dancer.
“Yes—we don’t get hired if we can’t perform.”
“What’s your specialty?”
“I’m a vocalist,” she said.
“This is where that singer used to work,” Saxon said, keeping his tone casual.
“What singer?”
“The one who disappeared.”
His waitress shrugged. “Girls come and go in Vegas. You get a better offer, you move on.”
She started to turn away, but he grabbed her wrist to stop her. “This girl didn’t get a better offer. She disappeared.”
She tried to wrench herself away from him. Without blinking, he made a vise of his hand.
“Damn Elven,” she muttered.
“You don’t need to fear the Elven. You do need to fear your boss.”
“Let go of me. They’ll notice, and I’ll get in trou—”
“Then smile and act like you’re flirting with me.”
She smiled, and he kept his eyes locked with hers, so she didn’t give the cameras a guilty look.
“Did you know her? Angela Sanderson?” he asked. She was obviously frightened, her eyes widening in shock, but she didn’t say anything. “You did know her,” he said.
She leaned close to him and laughed, as if he’d said something funny. “I replaced her,” she said, swallowing. “They said she wasn’t coming back. But that was before I knew...”
“Before you knew that she’d disappeared.”
She looked even more terrified, if that was possible. “I have to go,” she insisted, trying to pull away again.
This time he released her. When she was gone, he drank his beer, then headed for the craps tables.
He spotted Jimmy Taylor at one and took a spot at the other end. He bought in for several hundred, aware that Taylor was staring at him angrily. He ignored the other man and laid money down on the pass line.
A man at the middle of the table was rolling. “Lucky seven, lucky seven!”
The dice landed on four and three. The players applauded.
Jimmy Taylor continued to ignore Saxon as the run continued. The same man rolled an eight next, and more money landed on the table. He hit several more numbers, and then an eight again. The table cheered. There was money everywhere.
But Taylor didn’t seem happy. And when the roller came up with another seven, Taylor actually looked relieved, though sighs went up elsewhere around the table, along with some applause for the shooter, who’d made a lot of money for most of them.
Taylor went to cash in. Saxon held his ground, putting down his money while the next shooter started. On a whim, he played a nice sum on craps. The shooter hit an eleven, and Saxon realized he was coming out ahead, a nice plus for his investigation.
He watched as Jimmy collected his money and headed toward the bar. He waited through the next roll, then cashed in himself and headed back to the Tralee.
There was Jimmy Taylor, his hands rough on a young waitress’s shoulders. Saxon was tempted to step in, but he reminded himself that he was playing for higher stakes. And he knew Jimmy wasn’t going to hurt the girl anyway—not in public, and not in one of Carl Bailey’s establishments.
He followed when Jimmy left the bar. He thought at first that the guy was going to head upstairs, which could prove tricky. Carl’s men would be on him like an infestation of lice if he tried to go up to the rooms.
But either Taylor didn’t know he was being followed or he didn’t care. Either way, he apparently had a destination in mind. Or maybe—Saxon warned himself—a plan.
Taylor headed out to the streets. Saxon followed him down the neon strip, until he took a sudden turn into a back alley. Okay, so a plan it was.
It occurred to Saxon long before he entered the obvious trap that he would need some help, which was easy enough to arrange. It was good to be a cop. But first he wanted about two minutes alone with Jimmy Taylor. After that, it would be great to have some help. He hit the speed dial on his phone and gave the code for “Officer in Need of Assistance.”
Then he took a deep breath and ducked into the alley, keeping close to the wall of the building on his right, one of the smaller casinos and most likely another of Carl Bailey’s properties.
There was a doorway marked Employee Entrance about thirty feet in, and Taylor was heading right for it.
Saxon hurried past boxes and an overflowing Dumpster, and before Jimmy could put his hand on the doorknob, Saxon grabbed his shoulder and spun him around, forcing his thumb on a pressure point in the younger man’s throat as he slammed him against the door.
“Where is she?” Saxon demanded.
The other man couldn’t breathe, which made him desperate. He tried to make the change, no doubt intending to rip Saxon to shreds with his teeth and claws, but Saxon just increased the pressure on that vulnerable point. And if the other man couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t make the change.
Jimmy sagged, giving up, and Saxon eased up just a hair, then repeated, “Where is she?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, so kill me if you want to. But you’d better be quick. You’re going to die soon enough yourself.”
“Not likely. You’ve got good hearing, right? I can already hear the sirens.”
“Great. I’ll have you charged with police brutality,” Taylor told him.
“Where’s your evidence? There’s not a mark on you. Now, you have thirty seconds before I put a shade more pressure on your neck and zap your nerves. You’ll be a paralyzed pup the rest of your life.”
At last Taylor looked scared. “If I talk to you, I’m dead anyway!” he said.