Private Vegas (10 page)

Petino didn’t get what he wanted. He lost the election, his divorce was finalized, and now he was back as our city’s DA. I’d heard that Bobby was working on Justine, had told her that things would be different for them this time. That this time, he wouldn’t break her heart.

Same kinds of things I told her.

Bastards. Both of us.

Justine said my name. I came back to the moment, said to her, “Sorry. I was thinking about Tommy.”

“Well, stop doing that,” she said.

We talked, we joked, we savored the chocolate cherry devil’s food cake, and I wondered if Justine had made plans with Bobby for later that night.

The check came. I put my card down, looked up at Justine, who was looking at me.

She’d said that as far as our relationship went, we were both free agents. Since I’d been unfaithful to her, it was fair for Justine to set the rules.

No matter how much it killed me.

She pulled the clip out of her hair and tossed her mane. My heart rate ticked up by twenty beats a minute. All these years of knowing her, and I still got a rush when I smelled her hair.

“Where to, Jack?” Justine said. “Beach house or my house?”

LESTER OLSEN SAT alone at the exclusive Club Privé in the Bellagio Hotel. The private casino was richly appointed in art deco style: black lacquer, dark wood, veiled with silver screens and textured glass. The air smelled like freshly mown money.

Olsen had been banned from the card tables, but that didn’t matter. He was still in the game. From where he sat in the plush armchair, he could see Tule.

Tule was twenty-two, petite, with skin as smooth as Baileys Irish Cream. He’d met her when she was serving drinks in the VIP lounge at the Black Diamond Hotel and Casino. Right now, this adorable woman wore a Reem Acra gold-sequined dress that cost around three thousand dollars, Cartier’s wrapped citrine earrings, and strappy Manolo Blahnik sandals, all of which he’d paid for.

Les heard Tule say to the dealer, “Hit me,” then saw her peek at her cards. The guy sitting next to her was an industrialist with a heart of stone. He looked very good for seventy-eight, wore an Armani tux and a big diamond-studded Rolex that matched his silver hair. He whispered to the young Filipino woman.

Tule nodded, then said with confidence, “I’ll see you and raise you—this much.”

She pushed towers of chips toward the pot with both hands.

A waiter walked into Olsen’s view, replaced his empty glass with a new tumbler of Woodford Reserve. When Olsen could see the card table again, Tule was dancing around her date, kissing his face, crying out, “Wowee. Honeyyyy. We did it.”

Nice sound of chips stacking on their side of the table. Looked like they were having a good time.

Tule moved away from the table, and his phone buzzed.

He picked up, saw Tule’s face on his screen.

“Hey,” she said, grinning. Les had paid to have her teeth straightened and veneered. The guy had done a very good job. Perfect, actually.

“How’s it going?” he asked.

“I just made ten grand in two minutes.”

He laughed. “I know. Good for you.”

She said, “Could you meet me near the little girls’ room?”

“Absolutely.”

He left his drink on the table, walked past the bar, caught up with her when she stopped in the alcove. She stretched up her arms, put them around his neck, and, getting up on tiptoes, kissed him on the mouth.

“I adore you,” she said.

He squeezed her, swayed with her a little bit, kissed her neck like she was a baby, making her giggle. Then he straightened them both up and looked into her eyes.

“Tell me, Tule. I really want to know.”

“We’re getting married,” she said. She was keyed up, trying to keep her excitement in check.

“Seriously? That is awesome,” said the brown-eyed man. “When?”

“Tonight,” said Tule. “In a chapel up the street.”

“No way.” Then: “You’re phenomenal.”

“I owe it all to you,” she said.

“Not
all
of it.”

She grabbed his hand and laughed. They both did.

“I’ll call you from Cannes. France. That’s where we’re going on our honeymoon.”

“Wow. Give me another hug. Stay in touch. I mean it.”

They hugged and he patted her bouncy little behind “for luck.”

Then Olsen went to the elevator, stabbed the button with one twisted finger. He whistled as the car took him down silently, smoothly to the main floor, and from there, he walked out into the timeless neon life of the Strip.

THE NEXT MORNING, my iPhone was clogged with alerts and e-mail from friends and clients letting me know that Private was in the headlines again. Rick’s past was being dragged through the muck, and Private was dirtied by association.

It made me sick. All of it. And I was particularly worried for Rick. The man had saved my life. And there was no way I could help him with this.

Justine and I arrived at the Criminal Courthouse before nine, sidestepped all but the most aggressive of the reporters who were clumped around the entrance to the building. One of the swamp suckers ran up to Justine, said, “Dr. Smith, what’s your opinion of Rick Del Rio’s personality? Borderline or full-blown psychopath?”

I shoved the reporter out of our way, almost knocking him to the ground, saying, “Excuse me,” and as he howled for the police, we entered the judicial building.

We found two seats together in courtroom 7B, three rows behind the defense table. Across the aisle and about four seats down, my brother lounged in a chair, one sockless, snakeskin-loafer-shod foot crossed over his thigh. He lifted his hand in an exaggerated, brassy wave. Why the hell was Tommy loitering in this courtroom? Was he here to aggravate me? To gather information? If so, what information, and why?

Del Rio must have sensed the tension arcing across the aisle, because he turned for an instant, saw Justine and me. He smiled sadly. I gave him a thumbs-up, hoping it would give him a lift. He nudged Caine, who also turned, nodded, then turned back to face the bench.

Within the next few minutes, the room filled and court convened. The bailiff asked everyone to rise, and Judge Johnson entered from the door behind the bench and took her seat. The clicking of little-dog toenails on the floor meant that her Chihuahua was under the bench.

There was a sudden, muted flurry of conversation between the prosecutor and Eric Caine. I couldn’t hear them, but both attorneys turned and looked at me. Why?

Lewis said, “Your Honor, we need a word.”

The judge asked the lawyers to approach, and Lewis quickly got to the point. He pointed at
me
.

“Jack Morgan is a witness for the defense,” Lewis said loudly. “He should be barred from the courtroom until he testifies.”

I heard some of what Caine said in response: that I was a character witness, that my testimony was not material to the charges. And after some back-and-forth, the judge went along with Caine.

This was good. I needed to be here for Rick.

The jury filed in. ADA Lewis introduced his first witness.

“The People call Ms. Geralyn Brodeski,” he said.

I didn’t know the name, and I wondered who Dexter Lewis had put at the top of his witness lineup.

A woman in her early fifties came through the double doors. She had short, streaked hair, wore a calf-length skirt and a ruffled print blouse. If I had to characterize her by her looks, I would say that she was a mild person, maybe a good citizen.

She headed for the witness stand, said “Hello, Your Honor,” to the judge, then swore on the Bible to tell the truth.

I WATCHED DEXTER Lewis leave the prosecution table, walk over to where Ms. Brodeski was fluffing her ruffles and preparing for her fifteen minutes of fame.

At Lewis’s questioning, Ms. Brodeski said that she was a postmistress and established that she lived directly next door to Victoria Carmody.

Lewis asked his witness, “Would you say that you and Ms. Carmody are good friends?”

“Good neighbors, anyway. Both of us are divorced, and sometimes we talk about men.”

“All right, Ms. Brodeski. Now. Did you see Ms. Carmody on the thirteenth of June, the day before the assault Mr. Del Rio is charged with committing?”

“Yes. I just got home from work, and Vicky was watering her lawn. We exchanged a few words.”

“What was the gist of this conversation?”

“Vicky said that an ex-boyfriend was coming over the next night to return her camera. She was glad to have it back, because she had a photo on it that she took of Sylvester Stallone.”

“And did Ms. Carmody mention the name of the man who was going to be coming over the next night?”

“Yes. Rick Del Rio.”

“Thank you, Ms. Brodeski. Your witness,” Lewis said to Eric Caine.

But Brodeski kept talking, explaining to Dexter Lewis’s back and everyone in the room, “I didn’t like Rick. I told Vicky from the beginning that he was troubled and angry. And I was right.
That’s
why she broke up with him.”

Eric Caine stood and spoke angrily from the defense table.

“Objection, Your Honor. Let me count the ways. The witness’s uncalled-for remarks are her opinion as well as irrelevant and prejudicial. Then she topped it all off with a little hearsay, and I object to that as well.”

The judge said, “Quite right, Mr. Caine. Ms. Brodeski, don’t volunteer opinions. Mrs. Gray, please strike the testimony from the record. Jurors, please disregard the witness’s remark. It may not be considered during your deliberations. Any questions? Mr. Caine?”

Caine said, “I have no questions for this witness.”

Dexter Lewis dismissed Ms. Brodeski, who beamed proudly when she walked past Del Rio. Then Lewis said, “The People call Mr. Bradley Sutter.”

IT JUST KILLED me to sit helplessly by as Rick was accused of bad character and a sickening felony I was sure he hadn’t committed. Lacking a smoking gun, the prosecution was going to play on the jurors’ emotions. And I had to admit, Dexter Lewis had the superficial charisma of a pretty good dramatic actor.