Royal Flush (28 page)

"Why what?"

"Why the good clients are coming to me," I said. "I'm putting it on the line."

He laughed. "Yeah, I'm sure that's it!"

I sighed. "Let me check the phone," I said. I pressed the "on" button and hoped for the best. It came to life, making all kinds of noises in the process, and then promptly flashed me a warning that it was low on battery life. Well,
duh,
I thought. I kept it plugged in and pulled up Kent's email, which showed only four unread messages.

"He's only got four unreads, so he's got to be checking his email some other way," I said. "Maybe on the computer, or maybe he got a new phone."

"Anything good in there?" Mike asked.

"Not sure yet. There's a lot to go through."

I clicked on every message that looked remotely interesting, and even a few that didn't. Nothing was jumping out at me, until finally, I found one I could use.

The plan was crystallizing now, and my adrenaline was coursing through me due to something other than fear, which was as refreshing as it was exciting. But I needed some help.

"You want me to do
what
?" asked the young man in front of me. He was standing in the doorway of a ratty hotel room, arms across his chest, dressed for this Sunday afternoon in green underwear and a T-shirt.

"Remember, I can get you deported," I threatened.

Thomas Q. Dyson looked up at the ceiling. "And how am I supposed to do what you want, anyway?"

"I think I know where they are," I explained, trying to keep the urgency out of my voice. I needed him, this man who had pretended to be Kent at Melanie's funeral, and I didn't want to frighten him off. "All you have to do is talk."

"And who's this guy?" he asked, nodding at the silent Mike.

"Never mind," I said. "He's with me."

Dyson grimaced and scratched his left ear nervously, rolling the idea over in his mind. "Can I at least put some clothes on?"

I chuckled. "By all means. But class it up a little bit. We're going to the Bellagio."

After two minutes of shuffling around, gargling, and toilet sounds, Thomas Q. Dyson was ready. It was an enviable trait he shared with all men: the ability to go from disgusting to presentable in two minutes flat.

We double-timed it there, picking up a glisten of sweat under the hot early evening sun, and made our way to the poker area. I had been babbling to Dyson the whole way there, with him limiting himself to grunts and nods. I explained what had happened to me that morning, and how we had just come from the hospital to visit the bruised and battered Detective Weakland, who was on the mend. He looked as if a cement truck had run over his face, but he was going to pull through. I wasn't sure Dyson understood fully, but he knew what to do. Whether Mike would play his role was another question.

"There he is," Dyson said. He pointed at a table deep in the poker room, where the weekly $1,000 Texas Hold 'Em tournament was in full swing. Kent was sitting with his profile to us, a blue soccer cap on his head.

"That's the easy part," I muttered. I had known from his emails that Kent was playing in this tournament. It wasn't Kent I was here to see.

We wandered around the area, trying not to look as if we were looking for anything. But there was nobody there. No one was at the rail watching the poker tournament, just a throng of men hooting and hollering at the NFL games showing in the sports book nearby.

Deflated, I slumped against the rail. "She's not here."

Mike fidgeted, not sure what to do or how to react, and Dyson seemed downright relieved. Not that I blamed either of them. My idea was somewhere between a mild possibility and a long shot.

Dyson nudged me. "There she is," he whispered.

I followed his line of sight but came up empty.

"Yellow baseball cap, ponytail," he said, sensing my confusion.

"Aha! You're right. I didn't expect she'd be
playing
in the tournament." It was a surprise, but something we could work with. "Tommy," I said, "I guess we'll just have to wait until there's a break."

Dyson coughed. "It's Thomas, actually. But yes, I suppose we must wait."

Mike sighed, almost imperceptibly. His heart wasn't in this plan—I could tell. "There's a bank of slots right over there," he said. "We can sit down there so we don't stand out so much."

I checked the board in the poker room, which indicated that the blinds were now 800 and 400, with antes of 100 chips. It said there were about seven minutes left in that round, with a break to follow.

"About seven minutes," I said. "We can handle that."

We all agreed and found spots sitting in front of a bunch of one-dollar Blazing 7's slot machines, waiting for the break in the poker action. My willpower being what it was, I slipped a twenty into the machine, pushed max play, and promptly won two hundred and forty bucks.

"How about that?" I asked, to no one in particular.

Mike grunted, but Dyson seemed impressed.

"Quit while you're ahead," he muttered.

"Done," I said. "I'm going to go hit up security."

I asked a waitress where the security desk was, then followed the edge of the casino around the corner to a wide desk with two uniformed guards propped up on a dais overlooking the slots and roulette area. I flashed my ID and asked for a manager, and, after a few shrugs, they told me to wait.

Eventually a stern-looking oak of a woman emerged from the back. She had two bars on her epaulettes, and her nametag read "Lisa."

Lisa heard me out, silently assessing whether I was a crackpot or whether I had legitimate business to discuss. When I threatened to involve the LVPD, she perked up and assured me of her support, whatever that meant.

I strode past the poker room on my way back to our slot machines. Forty-one seconds to go.

"Places, people," I purred, trying to keep things light.

Mike whipped out a few papers from his pocket, and I pulled out a baseball cap from my handbag. I would remain in the wings, but I didn't want to queer the deal by being recognized.

There was no mad rush out of the poker room. When the clock stopped, it meant that any hand still in progress would be played out to its conclusion, which could take several minutes if there was heavy action. Finally a few groups of guys started meandering out, their faces glued to their smartphones, finding their way, somehow, to the bathrooms near the sports book bar. The ratio of men to women was probably twenty to one.

"She's coming," Dyson whispered. He looked at Mike, and they walked purposefully over to her. I hung back, close enough to hear but not close enough to be recognized.

Mike gave her an authoritative tap on the shoulder. She spun around, surprised, probably expecting to see Kent.

Mike cleared his throat and held out a sheaf of official-looking papers. "Caroline Weston? I am a process server licensed by the State of Nevada, and you are hereby served with this summons and complaint."

"What's this all about?" she asked, confused. And then she noticed Dyson.

Dyson was clearly nervous, but he kept to his lines. "I'm suing you for interfering with my estate. My wife left me with ten million when she died, but you've—"

Caroline sniffed. "Your
wife
? Give it up, man. Melanie was never married to you, she was married to…" she paused, looking around. "
Him!
" She was pointing at Kent, who had emerged from the poker area.

Mike chimed in. "And you've known this the whole time?"

She shrugged, defiantly. "Melanie showed me his picture. So what? You're going to try to scam us out of millions of dollars by pretending to be her widower?"

"Then why didn't you say anything at the funeral?" Mike asked. "You just played along."

I moved out from behind the corner's edge, where I'd been lurking. "I think I can answer that," I said. Caroline had already said enough for me, but I wanted to get it all out there.

"Was it the pregnancy?" I asked.

She eyed me curiously, then with venom when she recognized me. "You're that bimbo who ruined my spa treatment," she hissed.

"Was that what made you do it?" I asked, trying to sound understanding. "I mean, here you were, in love with your sister's husband. And now she was pregnant with Kent's baby. It was all so
official,
right? You can undo a marriage, but now they were starting a family together."

She cocked her head to one side, just as Kent wandered over. "Raven," he said. "What's going on?"

Caroline gave him a searching look. "Have you been
talking
to her?"

Sensing danger, Kent held up his hands. "She's just been asking some questions."

Fists clenched, she moved directly in front of Kent. "About me?"

"A little bit, but mostly about me," he said. "And some things I've had going on."

She began looking between Kent and me, back and forth, her eyes developing a half-crazed look. "You're defending her, you bastard!" She yelled, drawing the attention of some passersby, who wisely steered clear of our little huddle. "You cheated on me!"

It was becoming more and more clear to me. The jealousy, the crazed paranoia. The
rage
. I decided to play on it. It was grotesque, but it just might do the trick.

"Yes," I said, defiantly crossing my arms. "Kent and I are together now, just like Melanie and Kent were. Don't you get it? You're not going to be with Kent. Not now, not ever. He's mine."

Mike cringed, sensing the nuclear bomb I had just dropped.

Kent put a hand on Caroline's shoulder, but she spun away in disgust and turned back toward me. The hatred in her eyes was unmistakable.

"What?" I asked. "Are you going to kill me too? At least fight me face-to-face, though. It's cowardly to poison someone."

It was Dyson's turn to cringe. I had thrown the red meat in the water, hoping the shark would take the bait.

Caroline stiffened, unexpectedly, seeming as if she was trying to calm herself. "She died peacefully," she whispered. "No suffering. I made sure of that."

"And where did you get the heroin?" I asked.

She looked up and stared at me, seeming to look right through me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw two burly men in white shirts begin circling us, directing patrons in the other direction. Caroline took a deep breath, and then she charged me.

She got one good punch into my abdomen before the security guards brought her down. I had ahold of her hair, but the guards backed me away, bumping my bruised hip up against the rail, which set off fireworks of pain coursing down my leg. Mike helped me up, and we watched the scene unfold. It brought no joy.

Caroline was flailing around, kicking and scratching at the guards, who were forced to hog-tie her with her hands behind her back. Another guard arrived and held her legs. No one had returned to their seats at the poker tables, their eyes glued on the reality show taking place right in front of them. Kent's face had gone ghostly white as the reality set in.

I watched the guards escort Caroline through a discreet exit door and then pulled out my phone. Someone in Detective Weakland's room answered and then put him on the line. He told me he'd arrange for LVPD to come and get Caroline. They'd need to talk to me, of course, but I was almost home free.

Kent was shaking his head. "I knew she was blinkered, you know,
gaga
, as you would say. She was a little protective, too. A jealous one. But…" He trailed off.

"It must be the accent," Mike muttered.

I cringed. "Seriously, Kent. You can be very, uh, charming. That can be dangerous."

He sighed. "But still."

I was beginning to get angry. "You're acting as if you're the victim here.
You're
the one who was sleeping with your wife's own sister.
You
led her on, and then you created this giant ruse to try to trick her into thinking that her sister was really married to Tommy over here."

"
Thomas,
" he sniffed.

 I ignored him. "How long were you going to carry on like that?"

Kent was silent, reduced to staring at the gaudy casino carpet.

"Let's get out of here," I said, grabbing Mike's arm.

On our way out, I turned back. Kent was returning to his seat at the poker table.

Twilight reigned. The grounds outside the Bellagio danced with elongated shadows cast by palm trees, and the luminescent balloon at Paris bathed in blue light the swarm of tourists who had gathered in hushed anticipation of the next water fountain show. Mike was in a reflective mood.

"I have to say, that was impressive," he conceded.

"Chalk it up to women's intuition, or something like that," I said, uncomfortable with the praise.

"Still," he said, probing.

I relented. "It all clicked when I figured out who the guy trying to kill me was. When I remembered he was one of the guards at the Weston's mansion, and when Detective Weakland showed up at my doorstep, I realized everything traced back to LA. And I figured when Melanie got pregnant, the natural thing would be to tell her sister, a girl who was in love with the same man."

"A jealous, paranoid girl," Mike added.

"Exactly. Once I confirmed that she already knew this Dyson guy wasn't her sister's real husband, it meant she knew it was Kent. And the only way to keep Kent for herself was to eliminate her own sister."

Mike offered me his arm, which I took in silence. We were wandering up the Strip, in the opposite direction from my apartment, neither of us quite ready to call it a day. I was expecting the LVPD to call my cell phone any minute, but for now I was going to enjoy the cool night air and the water show.

From the number of tourists pointing cell phone cameras at the water, I surmised that it was just about 7:30. On cue, the music came on—Tony Bennett—and then the fountains roared to life, illuminated by hundreds of unseen underwater lamps. Mike unhooked his arm and leaned into the railing.

The inground speakers were booming out the sound right in front of us, a sound you could
feel
pressing into your skin, making it seem as if you were a part of the water show, especially when the loud
whooshes
of the fountains exploded in tandem with Tony Bennett's high notes. But the booming sound wasn't the only thing I was feeling. At the loudest part of the song, I felt the unmistakable coldness of metal poking into my back, followed closely by a hand grasping the front of my neck. I squirmed and tried to yell, but I couldn't get any sound out of my throat. The music roared, the fountains danced, and yet all I could feel was a powerful force trying to subdue me. And it was winning.