Strip Search (35 page)

THOMAS STEVENS BROUGHT the close-up mirror practically next to his nose and scrutinized the cut of his beard. Left profile—perfect. Right profile—almost perfect. But not quite. He held the tiny scissors in his left hand—he was quite ambidextrous—and clipped the offending hairs until his beard lay as perfectly as if it had been sculpted by Michelangelo. Perfection!

He applied a little gel until he had his hair precisely the way he wanted it—chic, hip, youthful. None of that absurd comb-over Donald Trump stuff. Not that he had a bald spot, or ever would, but if he did, he wouldn’t try to mask it in such an obvious fashion. It was beneath him. He dressed in one of his best suits, a black, always black, Armani number that had been specially tailored. A cane this evening? Yes, a cane, he thought. Added just the right panache. A tad eccentric, since he didn’t need it to walk, but loaded with élan.

Stevens noticed that the latest in his long series of gentlemen’s gentlemen had positioned himself just inside his dressing room door. He seemed to float soundlessly into the room; it was a bit eerie, actually. And his knowledge was equally impressive.

“There are representatives of the press positioned in the hotel lobby,” the man announced. Stevens didn’t know his name. He liked to call them all Jeeves; it was so literary. “Presumably awaiting your comments regarding the contemplated merger.”

“That’s fine. Just fine.”

“Should I instruct the security officers to forcibly disperse them?”

“No, not necessary.”

“Then should I instruct your press secretary to announce that you will give a brief statement?”

“No, not that, either,” he answered, while knotting his tie.

The man stood granite-still, making only a small throat-clearing sound. Stevens knew this was his way of saying, Well, what the hell should I do, then?

“Leave them as they are. I have no objection to picking up a little publicity on my way to the deal. The more attention I can draw to the negotiations, the more likely this business will be completed in a satisfactory fashion.”

“Then—”

“I won’t say anything informative. Just a few cryptic comments on my way through the lobby. Then into the limousine and off I go.”

“Perhaps I should have a security detail attend your automobile.”

“Not necessary. Mercer can handle the crowd. No one can get into the garage unless they know the numeric password on the access lock pads.” Mercer was his driver, had been for years. “Is my tie straight?”

“Your appearance is, as always, impeccable, sir.”

“Good. Uh…tell me. Has there been…any activity from Mr. Wynn?”

“No, sir. Not to my knowledge. Were you expecting any?”

“You never know. Wynn loves attention.” Steve Wynn was, of course, the other building mogul in Vegas, the big dog, the man with the global reputation, although as far as Stevens was concerned, it was based mostly on his talent for capturing media attention, not for his business acumen. Stevens could deal rings around him, though that didn’t get him in the papers. These days, it was all about name-recognition.

Stevens reached for his fur-lined jacket, even though it wasn’t cold today and, in point of fact, was never cold in Vegas. Let PETA cry their hearts out; he looked good in it. “Will there be anything else?”

“Only if you wish it, sir.”

“Then—how can I put it politely—why are you still here?”

His man cleared his throat again. “I know that you have been quite busy of late, sir, but may I assume that you are familiar with the series of unfortunate events that have occurred the last few weeks in our fair city?”

“You mean the murderer? The one who got Danielle?”

“The very same, sir. Quite a dangerous fellow.”

“I thought they caught him.”

“It seems, as is so often the case, the announcement of mission accomplished was premature. He is believed to have an accomplice who is still at liberty.”

“So what’s your point?”

“My point, sir, is that—” Here he cleared his throat again. “According to the morning
Courier,
the pattern that links all these killings together involves records at the Department of Human Services regarding parenting issues.”

Stevens’s neck stiffened ever so slightly. “And your point is?”

“I do not wish to give offense, sir—”

“Then don’t.”

“But I feel it is my duty—”

“I tell you what your duty is, understand me?”

His chin rose ever so slightly. “As you say, sir.”

“Good. Glad we got that worked out.” He smiled. “Don’t mean to put you off, old boy, but I’ve got the best security system in town. No one can get to me.” He grabbed his cane and started toward the door, but just before he reached it, he put the knob of his cane under his gentleman’s gentleman’s chin. “And tell the gang down in the servants’ quarters to stop gossiping, would you? Something like that could cost a person their job. And jobs are hard to find these days. Especially for anyone who burns me.”

THIS TIME, I didn’t wait until Tucker was comfortable, didn’t offer him a drink, didn’t let the boss send out for sandwiches. I wanted him to be uncomfortable. If I didn’t get the name of the woman who had been pushing his buttons today, it would be too late for someone.

With Darcy’s help, we’d run our own homegrown version of the numerology program to come up with the next few likely victims in the DHS files. They were all under heavy surveillance. At the same time, I knew that Tucker’s boss was anything but stupid. She knew we had him. That meant she probably knew we’d broken the code. That meant we couldn’t count on her adhering to it. Tucker said he didn’t know who the next victim would be, and sadly, I believed him. That meant my only chance of stopping the next murder was to find out who this woman was and to stop her.

I slid into the chair at the opposite end of the table in the interrogation room. Didn’t even give him a chance to breathe. “Sexual slavery,” I said. And waited for a response.

Tucker stared at me. He looked tired. I suppose I would be too if I’d had people grilling me for so long. He hadn’t shaved, hadn’t washed his hair. Dark bags under his eyes told me he hadn’t slept well. All good. “’Zat a question?”

“No, but this is. Are you familiar with the concept of sexual slavery?”

“No.”

“I think you are.”

“I don’t go in for the kinky stuff.”

“I think you do.”

“You’re wrong.”

“Then was she the one who liked the kinky stuff?”

“No!”

I leaned forward, capitalizing as best I could on his defensiveness spike. “Are you sure?” I saw the look in his eye, and then I knew. “No, she acted as if she liked the kinky stuff, but it was all show. It was for you. And you knew it. That’s how she kept you. How she controlled you.”

“Don’t know…what you’re talkin’ about.”

“Sure you do. I already told you. Sexual slavery. You’d probably never been with a woman who gave you exactly what you craved most.” I paused. God but his eyes were illuminating. “You’d never been with a woman at all, had you?”

“That’s not true!”

“Sure it is. You were a thirty-something virgin till she came along. Reasonably pretty. Smart. Hell of a lot smarter than you. Did the stuff you secretly wanted her to do. Sure, she was a sadist. She hurt you. That explains those claw marks on your back.” He stiffened, more than enough to tell me I was right. “A relationship based upon sexual servitude. And you were the compliant victim.” I smiled. “That’s why you don’t have a record. You probably never committed a crime in your life till you met her. Tough childhood, sure, but I’m betting you never stole a gumball from a drugstore. She exploited your naivete and, it must be said, your stupidity. What you didn’t understand is that sexual sadists secretly despise members of the opposite sex. And in this case, I think your sexually confused master probably hates people of both sexes. That’s why she was so hard on you. That’s why she’s so hard on everyone.”

“You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

“I do. And you know I do. She spotted you, broke you, used you. That simple. You’ve probably got DPD—dependent personality disorder. Your mistress has radar for finding men like you, and this city is full of them. Why else would they come here to self-destruct with gambling or booze or drugs? She seduced you, told you she loved you. And you’re such a sap you actually believed her.”

“That’s not true!”
he shouted. If he hadn’t been chained down, he would’ve risen out of his seat. “She does love me. I know she does.”

“Then why is she letting you take the rap for her crimes? Why is it you’re the one in custody, the one suffering? The only one. Why did you always have to do all the dirty work?”

“I wanted to help her. It was my choice.”

“Sure it was. If you wanted to keep the creepy sex coming. Once she seduced you, she reshaped your behavior, even your personality, with skillfully directed incentives, clever little behavior modification techniques. Guy like you—I’ll bet a sulky pout was enough to get you crawling back to mommy. I’ll bet she didn’t want you to see your friends, your family, right? No, she wanted to keep you to herself, under her influence. And with every victim, your self-esteem dropped a little lower. Which made it all the easier for her to do her nasty work. To keep you under her finger.”

“You’re crazy!” he shouted. “We love each other!”

“Who does?”

“We do! Me and—and her.”

He almost said it, damn it. He was that close. His mouth was forming the word. His mouth was open—her name probably begins with a vowel sound. He caught himself at the last moment—this time. But maybe if I kept pushing…

“Did she ever tie you up? Shove you in the closet?”

“Hell, no!”

“I’ll bet she did. It would be consistent with everything I know about her. She tied you up—or maybe used those handcuffs you’re so fond of—forced you down on your knees, locked you in the closet. Maybe…played with you. Sexually. Toyed with your body, your private parts. You hated it, but you never said anything, because you thought she liked it. What you didn’t realize was that she was just wearing you down. Until you wouldn’t care anymore. Until you’d be willing to do anything for her.”

“We
love
each other!”

“Do you even know what love is? You want commitment and devotion, someone who cares about you. Not someone who’s using you to do her dirty work. When you say ‘I love you,’ it’s supposed to mean something. It’s supposed to—” Damn it, my voice was choking. “—it’s supposed to mean they’re never going to leave you, that they understand you, that they care about you. Do you really think this woman loves you?”

Again he tried to rise out of his seat, rattling his chains. “I know she does!”

“Love is something someone gives you because they care about you, Tucker. You’re not supposed to have to kill for it!” I paused, hoping my words were sinking in. “Is it really worth it, Tucker? All this killing for some damn math slut?”

“It wasn’t like that!”
He screamed and lunged, so hard that, despite the leg braces, he knocked the table forward into my chest.

While we both caught our breath, O’Bannon and Granger rushed through the door. “Get out of here!” I shouted.

“But he—”

“I’m not done! Leave us alone!” To my happy surprise, they complied. Once the room had settled down, I reached out and did something none of them expected, least of all Tucker.

I took his hand and held it between both of mine. “Look into your heart, Tucker, and give me an honest answer. Do you really think she loves you? Truly? The way your mother loved you?”

His answer was bitter, but I noticed he did not remove his hand. “Leave my mother out of this.”

“Why? Didn’t she love you?”

“I said, leave her out of this!” This time, he took his hand back.

“Okay. We’ll talk about your father.” He looked up. “What did your father do?”

“Nothing! He never did anything to me, understand? Nothing!
Nothing!
”

My lips slowly parted. “I meant, what did he do for a living.”

THOMAS STEVENS WAS A PROUD MAN, but the way he looked at it, he had a lot of reasons to be proud. He’d created himself from next to nothing, a classic self-made man. Sure, he inherited his first million the day he turned twenty-one, but the next 247 of them he’d earned, wheeling and dealing, mostly in real estate, with some periodic diversions into casinos, moving through a series of increasingly valuable projects, finally culminating in his first hotel on the Strip. The press liked to call him the New Steve Wynn, the Younger Steve Wynn, the Hipper Steve Wynn, the Sexier Steve Wynn.

Always some damned comparison to Steve Wynn. He was sick of it.

What had Steve Wynn ever done that was so great, anyway? Bought and sold a few hotels and casinos. The way people talked about him, you’d think he invented hotels and casinos. Not to mention restaurants, trams, shopping malls and, of course, his greatest achievement, Siegfried and Roy. Stevens was tired of being compared to that pretender.

After this new deal was consummated, they’d be calling Wynn the Old Thomas Stevens. The Has-Been Thomas Stevens. The Decrepit Thomas Stevens.

Now that had a nice ring to it.

Once this merger was complete, he would own more square footage on the Strip than Wynn or anybody else. And he would build and build until he controlled more rooms, more slot machines, more everything. No tacky architecture, no girlie shows, no pirate ships, no pretentious French restaurants, no bloody art gallery. He would give people what they really liked, not what they pretended they liked when they went home and told their friends about it. He would be huge.

After this merger, there would be no stopping him.

He stepped out of the elevator and passed through the media throng, waving, smiling, careful never to break his stride. If he stopped, even for a moment, he would be consumed. He had work to do.

“Mr. Stevens, is this a done deal?”

“Is it true you’re borrowing more than a billion dollars?”