Private Vegas (33 page)

WHEN VAL STOOD up, she had to fight to keep her balance. She was feeling sick and in pain, but she was also experiencing a lot of clarity.

She understood that Olsen was protecting something more than a high-end matchmaking scheme and he was not kidding around. This was real. He could kill her and get away with it. And she understood that this was her best, last moment to regain his trust and save her life.

“I don’t even understand why you’re so mad,” she said. “Look, you’re right. I don’t work for the FBI. I don’t work for anyone.”

Olsen spun her around and shoved her hard against the wall. She felt the gun muzzle at the back of her neck.

“Your
hands
, Val. Put your hands behind you.”

He forced her right hand behind her, and she felt a zip tie go around her wrist.

“I could teach you about lying,” Olsen said. “See, an innocent person doesn’t go on the defensive. An innocent person goes on the attack. And here you are, pleading and defending.”

“Will you let me explain?”

“Give me your other hand, Val. Or whatever your name is. I don’t want to shoot you. That’s the truth, by the way.”

Val complied. She was shaking now, rummaging through her mind for anything she’d heard or read or seen, even in a movie, that might turn Lester around.

Lester cinched her wrists together, pulled the tie tight.

“What are you going to do with me?” she asked.

“That depends. What are you, Val? A cop?”

“I’m a freelance writer. I saw your ad online—”

“Here’s what we’re going to do, bitch. We’re going to walk quietly out of this room and you do what I tell you to do. Okay? Say okay.”

“Okay.”

“I’m going to put my arm around your shoulders, and if you try to get anyone’s attention, I’m going to shoot you on the spot. And then I’m going to shoot the bystander. I will then walk away.”

“Whatever you say, I’ll do it. Just take it easy, okay?”

“Let’s go.”

Olsen marched her through the office, then through the storage room. He angled her so that he could open the rear exit, then put his free arm around her shoulder and dug the gun into her side.

They were behind the strip mall, in a narrow parking lot used by the shop owners, their names stenciled on the asphalt. There was no one around, just empty cars and a couple of Dumpsters.

Olsen pushed her toward a blue Ford Taurus parked outside the back door facing the road. He changed the position of the gun, screwed it hard into her back while leaning down to open the trunk.

“Get in, Val. Or I will shoot you and stuff your body inside. You’re a big girl, but maybe you’ve noticed, I spend time at the gym.”

Val could see the traffic on the road that ran perpendicular to the alley, only fifty yards away. She pictured herself running, getting help from a motorist. If she ran, she would have a better chance than if she got into the
trunk
. No. If she ran,
he would shoot her
. As long as she was alive in the trunk, she was…alive.

“I need help to do this,” she said.

He supported her as she put a leg into the trunk, then he applied pressure to her back, gave her a shove.

She fell in and curled up in the cramped space.

“Be right back,” he said. “And then we’ll go for a ride.”

“Wait,” said Val. “Look at me. I’m not lying. I’m a private investigator and our satellite is tracking me—”

Lester reached up and slammed the trunk closed.

LESTER OLSEN LEFT the goddamned girl in the trunk and went back into his office. He used Val’s phone and credit card to book a flight in her name from McCarran to Honolulu, then returned her phone to her purse.

Next, he opened his briefcase on his desk, tossed in his laptop and power cords. He had a new, prepaid boost phone in his desk drawer all charged up. He put the charger into his briefcase, put the phone in his jacket pocket.

His safe was inside the supply room. He opened that, took out his passport, the wad of cash, the credit cards, put all of that in the briefcase too.

He went to the credenza, opened the doors, and took out a dust rag and a bottle of Windex. He sprayed the rag with the ammonia and wiped down the arms of the side chair, the top and edges of his desk. Then he took the rag out front and cleaned the intercom button and the door handle.

A young mom and little boy walked by, and smiles were exchanged. When they had passed, Olsen stepped back inside his doorway, locked the front door, and then double-locked it. He returned to his office, collected his case, Val’s purse, and his go-bag with a shaving kit and a change of clothes. Then he left by the rear door and locked that too.

As always, the Ford Taurus was gassed up and ready, an ordinary ride with fake registration, fake plates, all matching his fake ID, all good to go. The getaway car was his ace in the hole, an ace he’d hoped he’d never have to play. But he would play it now, and he would win.

Val was thumping the lid of the trunk when he got there, but if the girl thumped and there was no one to hear it, what the fuck did it matter? His adrenal glands were pumping adrenaline overtime. He loved adrenaline. Thrived on it.

The guy who owned the tanning salon came out, Tony something. Big dumb guy. He waved to Olsen, then got into his van and started to back up. Olsen waved, then put the bags into the backseat of the Taurus.

He got into the driver’s seat, adjusted the mirrors, put Miles Davis’s
Kind of Blue
into the CD player, and started the engine. He called out loudly over his shoulder, “Everything okay back there, Valerie? You need anything, you let me know.”

There was a muffled thump and a few words from the rear. He thought she’d said, “Please, Lester. Let me out.”

“I’m over you, Val,” he shouted.

He turned on the AC, then backed the car out carefully. Didn’t want to bend any fenders in the damned parking lot.

A minute later, he was on West Spring Mountain Road. He waited at the stoplight, thought about how the girl might be missed today, but not at four in the afternoon. Her phone’s GPS was active and if anyone was keeping tabs on her, they’d track her phone to the airport.

He used the boost phone to call Barbie.

“Barbie, it’s Lester. Guess what—I’m coming out to see you. Yes. This is payday. You know what to do? Okay. Stay home, all right? I should be there by nine or so. I’ll phone you later.” He laughed at how excited she was. “Yes,” he said. “Me too. Me too.”

When the light turned green, Olsen said, “Bye” to Barbie and disconnected the call. Then he stepped on the gas and headed toward the airport. First he had to deal with the girl.

He knew exactly what to do.

GOZAN REMARI AND Khezir Mazul were dining in Santa Monica at Mélisse, a fabulous restaurant known for its magnificent food and VIP service. Celebrities who came here were treated like gods.

Gozan wanted some god-type treatment. Actually, he needed it. He hadn’t slept or eaten since the bloody horror show this morning and he felt that there was more and worse to come.

He sat stiffly in his comfortable chair under the chandelier in the richly appointed brown-and-white room, smelling herbs and roasting meat while Khezzy played the waiter for a fool.

“These Japanese cucumbers. They are like sea cucumbers that puke out their intestines, isn’t that right?”

“Ah, no, sir. I don’t think so. They are a type of vegetable cucumber. Sliced and pickled.”

“Pickled
sea
cucumbers, am I right?”

Khezzy laughed and the waiter tried to look amused, but his eyes were fixed and his smile was tight. Khezzy loved to make people afraid. Usually, Gozan enjoyed watching Khezzy, but not now. Now, he was disturbed.

Gozan’s mind went back to the woman on the bathroom floor, her throat cut like swine, Khezzy’s knife lying next to her. And he thought about the subsequent killings and the dressing-down by Balar Aram that had humiliated him and made him worry that he and Khezzy would be sent back to Sumar. And if they were, how long would they be allowed to live?

“Khezzy, we should ask for recommendations, hmmm? And let this young man select for us. I am hungry.”

Khezir said, “Uncle, you will eat, I promise.”

Just then, Khezzy’s phone buzzed. He took it out of his jacket pocket, said, “This is strange. Hello. Yes, this is Khezir.” Then, angrily, “You
suck
. You can’t touch us.”

He slammed the phone down on the table and said, “Uncle, that pig’s ass of a police captain found my number on your phone. He said he tracked my phone with the GPS…Uncle, where’s your phone?”

Gozan felt his blood leave his head and run into his feet. He had lost his phone somewhere; had hoped it had fallen out of his pocket in Balar’s vehicle.

The front door of the restaurant opened and two men came in, their eyes going directly to him and Khezzy. Gozan recognized the police captain from that night at the Beverly Hills Hotel with the mango and peaches women. The other one had been there too. A private cop. Now the captain showed his badge to the maître d’ and angled his chin toward where Gozan and Khezzy sat.

Gozan said, “They have come for us, nephew. Do not move or they will justify shooting us. Be calm and we will be fine.”

Khezzy swung his head toward the front, then whipped it around as the kitchen doors blew open. Four men in riot gear stormed into the dining room with guns drawn, yelling, “Everyone down onto the floor. Get down!”

Other cops were coming in through the fire exit like cannonballs. People screamed; dishes clattered and smashed. Diners went to the floor as the men converged on them and yelled to the Sumaris to keep their hands on the table.

Khezzy said, “You did this, Uncle. You are too stupid to live.”

Gozan felt light-headed, as if his mind were leaving his body. He leaned over and vomited his martini between his shoes. When the captain told him to get to his feet, he did. He clasped his hands behind his neck, and he kept saying to Khezzy, “Do what they say, Khez. Do what they say.”

LESTER OLSEN EXITED the freeway onto West Tropicana Avenue and drove past the faux-medieval Excalibur Hotel and Casino on the right. He stopped at a light and then resumed his drive, feeling pretty good, actually, glad that he was taking action and that, very soon, he was going to be enjoying the life
he
deserved.

Val was quiet in the trunk, probably thinking about how much air she had in there, how hot it was, and rehearsing what she was going to say to him when he finally stopped the car and opened the trunk.

Well, she had to be thinking how she would get away, right?

Olsen kept going on Tropicana, took a right on South Eastern Avenue, passing McCarran Airport and the busy runways on the right. Then he crossed East Sunset Road, rehearsing a few things himself, choreographing his next moves.

The entrance to Sunset Park was just past the northwestern corner of the intersection, and he made the turn, driving the blue Taurus into Sunset Park. This place was frequented by hikers and dog walkers during the day and on weekends.