Diagnosis Murder 6 - The Dead Letter (20 page)

Standiford carried himself more like a presidential candidate than like one of the richest men in America, the developer admired and loathed for invading the Las Vegas Strip and reshaping it to his own tastes.

But that stately charm and hospitality weren't on display when Mark Sloan was ushered into Standiford's two-story, glass-walled, top-floor office with its breathtaking views of Las Vegas. From here, Standiford could look down upon the city like a Greek god and hurl lightning bolts at those who defied him.

Standiford wouldn't have to strain his arm today. He could smite Mark face-to-face.

"What you're asking goes too far," Standiford said, rising from behind his steel-and-glass desk.

"Not as far as you've gone." Mark said. "I'm not killing anyone."

"I haven't killed anyone either." Standiford said.

"We both know that isn't true," Mark said. "You're morally responsible for what your hit man did. You'd be held criminally responsible, too, if it wasn't for me."

"You didn't have the proof."

"The people who kidnapped and murdered your daughter eluded the FBI and you for years. But I found them. Do you really think it would have been that hard for me to make a case against you?" Mark said. "I chose not to."

Standiford glowered at Mark and sat down behind his desk again. Mark remained standing, mainly because he knew from experience that the steel-and-leather guest chairs that looked so stylish were hell on the lower back.

"You want a five-hundred-thousand-dollar credit line." Standiford said.

"I won't keep a penny of it," Mark said. "Whatever I win belongs to you. I'll try to stick to blackjack or roulette so my losses go back into your pocket and not to another player."

"How generous of you," Standiford said. "I could lose my gaming license if this gets out."

"You mean to tell me you don't have gamblers you're staking to keep the games lively and the pots rich?"

"That's a myth," Standiford said.

"If it is, it won't be after tonight—though I am hardly a professional gambler."

"What's the point of this whole exercise?"

"I believe that Robin Mannering is actually Jimmy Cale with a new face. He faked his murder, framed his business partner for the crime, and ran off with millions of dollars he embezzled from his clients."

"What does this have to do with you?"

"There's a man serving time on death row for a crime he not only didn't commit, but that never happened in the first place. That's an injustice I have to correct. I also believe Cale is responsible for a murder in Kingman last week. He has to pay for that."

"So you want to obtain his fingerprints and his DNA to establish his true identity, to prove Mannering is Cale," Standiford said.

"Yes," Mark said.

"I can do that for you easily enough without giving you half a million dollars to gamble with in my casino."

"I want to meet him in his element," Mark said. "I want to see what kind of man he really is. But I can't get in the door without being a high roller myself."

Standiford grinned. "That's really why you do this, isn't it?"

"Do what?"

"Solve murders. It's not about justice at all. It's not even about the puzzle. It's about pitting yourself against an opponent in a game of wits. You could accomplish what you need to without ever meeting the man, but that would take the thrill out of it, wouldn't it?"

"I like to look my adversaries in the eye," Mark said. "But that's just so I have an accurate sense of who I'm up against."

"You're just another gambler, Dr. Sloan, only you play with much higher stakes than money," Standiford said, his mood lightening considerably. "This is a game I'm going to enjoy watching."

Standiford hit a button on his desk, and Grumbo entered almost instantly.

"Nate, give Dr. Sloan whatever assistance he needs," Standiford said, then turned back to Mark. "If you want to be convincing in the part, you'll need to stay in our hotel and you'll need a new identity."

"Let's not stray too far from the truth," Mark said. "I'm not much of an actor."

"You'll be a wealthy doctor," Standiford said. "No, I have an even better idea. You'll be a visiting surgeon at our in-house medical center."

"You expect me to work for you?"

"I'm giving you five hundred thousand dollars to play with, aren't I? The least you can do to earn it is hand out a few aspirins. Besides, this way while you're waiting for Mannering's DNA results to come in, it won't seem unusual to anyone if you have the run of the hotel." Standiford gave Mark an appraising glance and clearly wasn't happy with what he saw. "You'll also need to get yourself suitable attire and a nice tuxedo."

"I can handle that," Mark said, though he wasn't sure that his credit card could.

"While you're out shopping for clothes, I'll set everything up." Grumbo said.

"Could you do something else for me?" Mark said. "I'd like you to ask Mannering's lady friends if he's missing a toe. Perhaps they noticed during one of their ménages a trois."

"I find it's hard to keep track of whose foot is whose in those situations," Grumbo said.

"I wouldn't know," Mark said.

"Nate can arrange for you to find out, if you like," Standiford said.

"No thanks," Mark said.

"What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas." Standiford said with a sly grin.

"And in your video vault to be pulled out when it suits your needs," Mark said.

"You're a cynical man, Dr. Sloan." Standiford said.

"Now I know where my son gets it," Mark said.

"I'm going to need a name to establish your new identity and your credit line, book your room, and set you up in the medical center," Grumbo said.

Mark thought for a moment. "Ross. Dr. Douglas Ross. You can call me Doug."

"I'll come down to the casino tonight and make the introductions myself," Standiford said.

"You don't have to do that," Mark said.

"I want to," Standiford said. "I'm a sporting man, Dr. Sloan. I like to meet the players and size them up before I bet on the game."

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Mark couldn't afford to shop at the Côte d'Azur and he couldn't risk being seen driving around Las Vegas in a rented Ford Five Hundred, so he accepted Nate Grumbo's offer of a ride in one of the hotel's fleet of Mercedes limos.

The chauffeur took Mark to the shopping malls at Caesars Palace, the Aladdin, the Venetian, and then, with obvious reluctance, to the outlet mall at the far end of town.

Mark bought himself a week's worth of clothes, careful to select brand names of much higher quality and price than he was accustomed to wearing, and spent more on a tuxedo and dress shoes than he had on Steve's first car.

When they returned to the Côte d'Azur that evening, his room was ready, as was a full set of identification documents to use at the hotel. He was now officially "Dr. Douglas Ross," at least within the confines of the resort complex.

His room was a lavish second-floor suite with a view of the hotel's massive wave pool, the four swimming pools, and the freshwater lake. The interior was opulent, with an elegantly appointed living room full of French antiques, a projection room with theater seating and a collection of classic films on DVD, a study lined with leather-bound first editions, a master bedroom with a four-poster bed and a flat-screen TV, and an elaborate bar fully stocked with vintage wines, fine Scotch, and assorted spirits.

Since Mark had a few hours to spare before Mannering showed up at the casino, he was tempted to stay in the room and read one of the fine first editions or watch a movie in his private theater. Instead, he decided Dr. Ross should probably make an appearance at the Côte d'Azur's medical center.

So he showered and changed into a nice shirt and slacks, clipped his Côte d'Azur ID to his leather belt, and wandered over to the medical center.

When he walked through the door he stopped in amazement. He'd never seen a medical facility like it before. It was to hospitals what the Côte d'Azur was to hotels. The waiting area, elegant, softly lit, with fine art on the paneled walls and plush leather furniture, felt more like a fine private club than the lobby of a hospital. There wasn't anything the least bit sterile-looking or cold about the place. It didn't even smell like a hospital.

He approached the front desk and introduced himself to the receptionist, a beautiful and perfectly poised young woman with a bright, warm smile.

She told him the director of the hospital, Alexis Bratton, would be right down to meet him and asked if he'd like a latte or an espresso while he waited.

Mark declined the refreshments but was impressed that he'd been asked. A patient at Community General would be lucky if the receptionist pointed out the drinking fountain—and even luckier if the drinking fountain actually worked.

There was a lot he could learn here. Unfortunately, without Standiford's deep pockets, he wouldn't be able to apply much of that knowledge at Community General.

Mark had heard about places like this, but had never before visited one himself. Specialty surgical hospitals were booming nationwide and were seen by general hospitals to be a serious threat to their continued existence.

He could see why.

If he had a choice between staying at the Côte d'Azur facility or at Community General, he'd pick this one—and he hadn't even gotten past the lobby yet. But if Standiford's attention to detail and extravagant spending extended to his surgical facilities and patient suites—and Mark was sure that they did—there was no way a full-service hospital could compete.

Alexis Bratton was even more stunning than the receptionist. She wore her lab coat as if it were an evening gown, looking professional, elegant, and sexy at the same time. It was clear to Mark that Standiford used the same standards in hiring his medical personnel that he did in hiring the hostesses on the casino floor. Mark hoped the medical personnel, at least, had qualifications beyond their measurements.

She welcomed him to the facility and expressed her delight that a doctor who had once served as the personal physician to the Saudi royal family had chosen their facility to care for his current patients during their stay in Las Vegas.

Mark just smiled and nodded. He didn't want to be asked any questions about Saudi Arabia, a place he knew nothing about, or the details about his new patients, whom he also knew nothing about, mainly because they didn't exist.

Instead, as Bratton showed him around the facility, he asked lots of questions. What he learned was that the Côte d'Azur facility specialized primarily in elective and preplanned surgeries, as well as any assorted mishaps or ailments that might befall the hotel's guests.

Because the facility focused primarily on orthopedic, cardiovascular, and plastic surgery, it was more efficient and had more state-of-the-art equipment than a traditional hospital. Because it offered a better work environment and higher pay, the Côte d'Azur also attracted superior surgeons and nurses. The ratio of nurses to patients was much lower than in community hospitals.

In specialty surgical hospitals like the Côte d'Azur, Brat ton said, patients were twenty times less likely to become infected by other patients, so they weren't hospitalized as long and their medical bills were substantially lower, while at the same time they enjoyed a higher level of care. The length of time patients were hospitalized at specialty surgical centers was twenty-five percent less than at community and teaching hospitals.

As impressed as Mark was by the Côte d'Azur's medical center, he understood the risk that specialized hospitals like it posed to community hospitals, which offered emergency care and basic treatment for a wide variety of medical conditions, as well as outpatient services, anatomical pathology services, clinical laboratory services, and pharmacy services. Those necessary programs were funded, in part, from the revenue generated by the profitable surgeries that the specialized hospitals were luring away. Without that revenue, many general-service hospitals, vital to the well-being of their communities, might be forced to shut down.

But Mark also realized the limitations of the traditional hospital model, which contributed to the soaring costs of health care. Perhaps the increased competition would lead to better medical care for everyone, though for now, facilities like the Côte d'Azur were restricted to only the rich and powerful.

Bratton told Mark that all of the center's services were at his disposal and that the security, privacy, and anonymity of his patients would be assured. Mark knew that his nonexistent patients would rest easier knowing that.

The tour was an eye-opening experience for Mark. He left the Côte d'Azur medical center wishing he had the financial resources to provide the same comfortable, elegant atmosphere and exceptional level of care at Community General.

He returned to his room, had a shrimp salad delivered for dinner, and then changed into his tuxedo. It was time to meet Robin Mannering face-to-face.

As Mark descended the grand staircase into the casino in his tuxedo, the brassy score of
Goldfinger
playing on the speakers, he couldn't help but feel like James Bond himself.

He'd never felt so cool, so suave, so self-confident, so ready to gamble. The world was his for the taking and he was going to take it.

Mark desperately wanted to play baccarat, 007's game. It didn't matter that he'd never played it before and had no idea what the rules were. He was wearing a tuxedo, he was in a casino, and he looked great. That was all that really mattered.

An impossibly beautiful woman with radiant eyes, lush lips, and bottomless cleavage was standing behind the red velvet rope at the entrance to the high-rollers room. She seemed very glad to see him.

But who wouldn't be, the way he looked, the way he felt? Women would be helpless in his presence tonight

"The name is Ross, Douglas Ross." Mark cocked an eyebrow and flashed a grin. "Dr. Douglas Ross. Licensed to practice medicine."

"Yes, of course, Dr. Ross," she said. "We've been expecting you. If there's anything I can do to make your evening more pleasant, don't hesitate to ask."