Private Vegas (4 page)

MRS. GROVE STOOD when I came into the room, took my hands in hers, said, “Mr. Morgan, I want to thank you again.”

“My name is Jack. Of course, you’re welcome, Mrs. Grove. How are you doing?”

“Call me Belinda. I’m ashamed that I was so easily tricked,” she said, sitting down again. “We were having lunch in the Polo Lounge, my daughter and I, and we were talking about the Children’s Museum. Those monsters were at the next table and overheard us. Gozan said he had many children and would be interested in making a donation to the museum.

“Jack. They were well dressed. Looked well-heeled. They said they were diplomats. They were staying at the hotel. Gozan said he wanted to talk about making a sizable donation to the museum, but he wanted to discuss it privately.

“I ignored any warning signs. We went to the bungalow. I said that we couldn’t stay long, but a short chat would be all right. We are always looking for benefactors, Jack. They used Rohypnol or something damned close to it. It was in the champagne.”

“Don’t blame yourself. These are dangerous men.”

“I hope never to see either one of them again unless they’re hanging by their balls over a bonfire. I don’t think that Adrianna will be physically scarred, but emotionally…Emotionally, my daughter is in terrible shape.”

Terrible shape
was an understatement. Adrianna had been drugged, probably raped, maybe by both men, and Khezir Mazul had stroked her throat with a serrated blade. She would have a scar across her neck for as long as she lived.

I hated to think what would have happened to these women had I not been tipped off, if we hadn’t shown up when we did.

I started to reason with Mrs. Grove, explain to her that if she made a complaint, Remari and Mazul might be deported.

She shook her head, warning me off.

“My daughter is a senior at Stanford. It would be tragic if she had to leave school. What happened today is something Adrianna and I will learn from and, at the same time, try to forget. That’s how one deals with horror, don’t you think?”

I said, “I’d suggest some counseling…”

She ignored me and went on. “My responsibility now is only to Adrianna, and I’m going to make sure that she has whatever she needs in order to heal.”

She stood up. “You take care, Jack. God bless. I mean that.”

Belinda Grove left the beige room with her head down, passing Captain Warren, who was on his way back in.

Luke Warren and I talked together for several minutes. There were no angles to work, no strings to pull. But there are a few cases every year that I want to work pro bono, and I thought this might become one of them.

I told the captain to call me anytime, that I would work with him free of charge. Happy to do it.

I thought if we caught them, I could convince Mazul and Remari to leave the country for good.

I MADE THE return trip home under the speed limit and in record time, drove up to my gate, and left my car outside on the grass so that it would be easier for Justine to get out in the morning.

I no longer slept in the master suite, not since Colleen’s murder. I’d taken over the guest room that faced the front garden and had sliders out to the back deck.

The full moon was perfectly balanced above the ocean, and moonlight came through the glass, bathing the white bedding in a pearly glow. Justine looked ethereal, as if she were made of dreams.

I put my gun on the nightstand and got into bed beside her. She was sleeping soundly, but she turned at my touch and curled against me. I put my arms around her and kissed the part in her hair. She murmured my name and we kissed good night.

I tried to stop thinking, to let myself drift off. But there was too much inside my mind and it all fought for my attention: the men from Sumar; Colleen, dead, with her eyes open, three bullets in her chest.

And I thought about that night in Afghanistan when I was piloting a transport helicopter to Kandahar from base with fourteen Marines in the cargo bay. A ground-to-air missile fired from the back of a pickup hit the aircraft in the belly and took out the tail rotor section.

There was a horrific sound and the CH-46 began its downward spiral through hell. Even though I landed the Phrog on its struts, the missile had done its work.

No amount of time or therapy could erase the afterimages of the events of that night from my mind: the scramble out of the aircraft to the cargo bay, the
chunka-chunka-chunka
sound of .50-caliber guns going off, the stink of burning aviation fuel, the sight of the dead and dying men.

If Justine had been awake, she would have asked me what I was thinking—and I would have lied.

I had lied to Justine many times, and when I got away with it, I suffered. If she found out that I’d lied, we both suffered.

And that’s why psychologist Dr. Justine Smith couldn’t imagine a future with
me
.

THEY WERE HAVING dinner at Spago, Wolfgang Puck’s signature five-star restaurant at Caesars Palace, Vegas. Their table was at the back of the room, giving them a fine view of the dazzling chandeliers and the collection of bright, contemporary works of art on the walls.

But Lester was looking only at Sandra.

Right now, he was feeling an edgy kind of high, thinking how close they were to the jackpot. Sandra was almost ready. She just needed a little extra support.

Lester said, softly, “Hey. Talk to me.”

“I’m thinking,” she said.

Sandra was an angelic-looking twenty-eight-year-old with blunt-cut dark hair to her shoulders and the long, fluid limbs of a dancer. She was dressed in a black Hervé Léger bandage dress with an understated, million-dollar diamond necklace at her throat.

Sandra was perfect; gorgeous, smart, and very cold. She was also the well-cared-for wife of an extremely wealthy man.

Lester Olsen was not that man.

Lester was in his midthirties, of average height and build. His hair was thick, with a mind of its own, and he had a pleasant face of the boy-next-door variety. His fingers were unforgettable. They were misshapen—crippled by disease or a birth defect or some trauma, his dinner partner didn’t know.

Lester never discussed his hands.

Tonight, he and Sandra were having a business dinner, but Olsen cared about her. He was her friend and her coach and sometimes she called him the Big O, which made him laugh out loud. He saw no problem mixing business and pleasure.

But the
point
of their relationship was business.

Lester was teaching Sandra how to kill.

Right now, Sandra seemed thoughtful. She idly twisted the massive pink Tiffany diamond and matching wedding band on her ring finger.

“Sandra? What’s on your mind?”

She said, “I’m not concerned about going forward. That’s not it. I’m worried about how I’m going to feel afterward.”

Lester sipped his wine, and then, after the waiter had cleared the table, he said, “Sandy, it’s easy for me to say ‘Don’t worry.’ But don’t.”

“Tell me why not.”

“I have some experience in these things.”

She smiled. “Not your first rodeo?”

“Not my second either.”

They both laughed.

He reached for her hand, squeezed her fingers.

“It’s different for everyone,” he said. “You may feel down for a little while, but that feeling won’t last. I’ll be there for you no matter what. We’re partners, right?”

“You bet we are,” she said.

“You can back out, you know.”

“I know.”

“Or—keep your eye on the big fat prize. A year from now, you’ll be happier than you’ve ever been, or ever imagined you could be.”

“Promise?”

She was lightening up, coming back around. Attagirl.

“Would you like coffee? Dessert?” he asked.

“No. You go ahead.”

“Do you trust me?”

“Yes.”

Olsen smiled his approval, then signaled for the waiter.

“Sir?”

“The hot chocolate cake and coffee. For two.”

Sandra smiled at Lester.

“Thank you,” she said. “Thanks very much.”

CAPTAIN LUKE WARREN sat in his Hyundai Sonata and watched Gozan Remari leave the Men’s Central Jail and walk through the gate to Bauchet Street at 10:15 p.m.

The diplomat from Sumar was wearing a charcoal-gray suit, a striped shirt, and no tie, because he had used it to bind a naked woman to a table against her will and the tie had been taken into evidence.

Remari’s phone rang.

Warren saw him take his phone from his jacket pocket and talk for a few minutes, looking around him the whole time. When he was done talking, he returned the phone to his pocket and picked up a newspaper from the sidewalk.

After that, he leaned back against the chain-link fence and began to read the front page under the not-so-bright light of the streetlamps.

About then, a late-model black Lincoln pulled up, a type of car not commonly seen around this neighborhood. Remari stooped to the window and spoke to the driver, and then the driver jumped out, went around to the back passenger side, and opened the door.

Warren had never seen a car with a liveried driver making a pickup at the jail. This was a first.

Remari folded the newspaper under his arm and got into the Lincoln, and the captain started his engine and watched as the Lincoln continued to idle at the curb.

The captain was trying to understand Remari. He wore good clothing, had excellent grooming, spoke with a trace of an English accent of the upper-class kind. He contrasted all that with the crude, criminal assaults on the Grove ladies and the six other brutal, sexual assaults he and his friend were suspected of committing.

Why pick up rich women and torture them? Why draw attention to himself with this pricey car?

Another ten minutes passed and Warren sat there watching. He slugged down the dregs of his cold coffee, and then the other donkey turd came through the chain-link gate.

Khezir Mazul had put bruises on Adrianna Grove’s thighs, had very likely raped her, and had definitely perpetrated an ear-to-ear slash across the front of her neck.

The word
cutthroat
suited this guy to a T.

Now Khezir Mazul looked around, saw the black car. A grin crossed his face. He got into the backseat next to his buddy, and as the door closed, the car shot away from the curb.

Captain Warren turned on his headlights; he let a couple of old cars get behind the Lincoln, then he got into line three cars back. It was sickening that these guys were protected by some international law that kept diplomats from persecution and prosecution while they were on a diplomatic mission. Maybe that covered them back east, but that had nothing to do with LA, and
shouldn’t
have anything to do with LA.

He was working on his own time, fairly certain that he would be able to explain this to his chief later. He had a feeling he wouldn’t have to tail these goons for long. From the way the Sumaris used their diplomatic privileges, Warren was pretty sure they would commit another outrageous crime.