Hold ’Em Hostage (26 page)

I hadn't noticed, but somehow Paul's girls had surrounded us, and I expected to be mobbed and robbed. Instead, on a word from the girl in the center, they all ripped the top layer off their signs to reveal the depths of Paul's horrors—there were blown-up photos of him taunting young children with fang-bearing snakes. Photos of him applying leeches to a baby. “Church of the Torturers, led by Phineas Paul” read another. “Paul paid me three thousand dollars to walk the picket line this week,” read another. “I got crack to seduce a sixty-year-old poker player so he could get caught by the cops.”

The most sickening of all was this sign: “All these means justify his ends.”

The right-hand man barked orders to someone into his two-way radio.

“Blasphemy!” Paul shouted. “You all have been possessed by the devil. The moral corruption in Las Vegas is too much for your young souls to fight. Get in the buses, now, you all must be exorcized immediately.”

As the buses pulled up and men who looked like soldiers of fortune jumped out, the girls squeezed in on us. They began whacking their reverend with their signs. With one arm up to stave them off, Paul tried to reach into my purse. The right-hand man twisted my arm so hard I thought it was breaking. With tears rolling down my face from the pain and frustration, I knew what I had to do. With one hand I reached into my purse, found the envelope, pulled out the money and threw it straight up into the air. Two million dollars rained down on The Las Vegas Strip and chaos erupted. Then I ran as fast as I could.

 

A
couple of hours later, back at our suite, the phone
rang as we watched the Church of the Believers compound burst into flames on national TV. The compound had been stormed by law enforcement, according to the reporter. Dozens had been freed, but there was expected to be a death toll. I felt sick, imagining all my loved ones roasting in the fire. The CNN reporter on the scene couldn't tell us who'd escaped and who hadn't, just that authorities on the scene had reported seeing Paul set fire to his own creation.

As the phone rang for the seventh time, I hesitated to answer, forgetting that the bad guys wouldn't be calling me for orders anymore, not remembering that my mother didn't know that Ben might be in the inferno and not believing that I'd be lucky enough to have anyone I loved survive.

“Hello?”

“Bee Bee,” he murmured. Ben sounded tired.

“Where are you, how are you, how's Aph, how's Frank?”

“Breathe, Bee Bee, breathe.”

“Talk, Ben. Talk.”

“Affie is okay. She's with Frank and his guys. We're going to be debriefed by the badges, then head to the airport and catch the first flight back.”

The relief I felt couldn't have been measured in a universe as small as ours. I swallowed hard before I asked, “She wasn't hurt, abused, tortured?”

“No, apparently she was put in with the rest of the teenage brainwash victims in the cult. With Paul in Vegas, it operated more like summer camp with some creepy activities. They did have to do something with rattlesnakes, but she had Grog and faked out the instructor apparently. Somehow she managed to avoid being indoctrinated. Imagine that, considering who her mother is,” he added drily.

I was afraid to ask the next question. “And you? Are you okay?”

“Yeah, just so happened that it was easier than I expected. When I went to the tattoo parlor, the Garden of Eden lady overheard me ask for the dragsnashark tattoo and when I was leaving she cornered me and asked if I was in the gang. Her brother is a Medula. She got me an interview with one of the lieutenants and he liked me.”

“Wait a minute, Ben. You got one of those godawful tattoos.”

“Yep. I'm going to have to get it removed, I guess. Unless…”

“Ben,” I warned.

“Really, Bee Bee. The Medula gave me a new perspective on free enterprise, that's for sure,” Ben said. “The guy I worked under for two days, he had an MBA from Harvard.”

“You're kidding?”

“Nope, the whole gang is run like a Fortune 500 company. The only difference is they don't even pretend to have scruples, morals or ethics. It makes things a lot more definite, easier, actually. They made a boatload of money in their partnership with Paul's church, I can tell you that.”

“You
are
coming home, aren't you?”

“Yeah, when Paul got in trouble there, the whole gang went underground, advising their lieutenants to scatter for six months. Pretty good vacation package, don't you think?”

“Ben!”

“I was tempted, but, nah, I think I like pretending to have scruples. Speaking of which, can I talk to Shana?”

I handed the phone to my friend, thinking I'd give him a pass on the whole opportunistic moment thing. I guess he deserved to hear from a grateful, beautiful woman who'd be awed by his bravery. He'd be put in his place when he got home.

 

W
e heard on TV a while later that Grog was the true
hero.

Here and I would've sworn snakes couldn't be any good.

However, Grog defied expectations. The anchorwoman's tone was serious as she said, “Paul snuck out of Las Vegas in the midst of the chaos on The Strip, was picked up by his helicopter in a parking lot, seen clutching handfuls of the bills Bee Cooley threw up in the air. He made it to the compound hours later, determined to destroy it. Grog the boa apparently slithered up Paul's leg as he was flinging the matches onto the gasoline tracks he'd poured out and constricted him until authorities arrived. Then, apparently, it took ten men to pull him off Paul, who had fallen unconscious. It is suspected Paul may have permanent brain damage if he ever wakes from his coma.”

“I've got news for them,” Jack put in. “Paul had permanent brain damage
before
Grog ever got ahold of him.”

I was still watching CNN—watching my snake ham it up for the camera, held by a teenage girl who'd obviously gotten friendly with him in his time at the compound. Huh. I was attached to Grog but I never expected this from him. From a dog, maybe. I'd even heard of a rare cat attacking a robber, but never a python. I suppose he was a better judge of character than I ever gave him credit for. I should have let him loose for all those stinker dates I had over the years.

Ingrid called before the story was over to inform me she'd already set Grog up with his own website. I was betting my snake was already more famous than I was. Somehow that didn't upset me.

I thought Frank had been a hero too, but that was one story we wouldn't hear on CNN or probably even from Frank. Maybe Joe would tell me one day. I'd seen my reluctant bodyguard toting an Uzi in the background of one of the live shots. Maybe he wouldn't be mad at me anymore since he got in on some action.

I refused to ask to talk to Frank. And Ben didn't offer.

 

T
he next morning I still hadn't been arrested. It was a
bad feeling, like waiting for the next aftershock of an earthquake, so when Trankosky called, I was braced for the worst.

After he asked about my mental state, he got on with business. “You owe your friend, Jack. He risked his life to get you off the hook.”

“I'm off the hook?”

“With the feds anyway. His tape recordings have sent them full blast after Paul. You are small potatoes, sure to be interviewed but not arrested. The sheriff's department, however, has some questions about the body we've identified as Drew Terry, deacon of the Church of the Believers, slashed to death with the same sort of weapon, a serrated knife, ten inches long, that killed Keith Tasser.”

Oops, I'd forgotten to look for the knife. I peered under the couch. Nothing. I parted the cushions. Sure enough, bloody knife, serrated, about ten inches long. I coughed, turned it into a throat clearing. “Popular opinion is, I killed them?”

“Popular opinion is Terry was in your suite at some point, dead or alive. He expired, and his body left not of its own volition. And there is the matter of the scarf, too. How did he come to be wearing your scarf?”

“How did you know it was mine?” I blurted, then clamped my hand on my mouth. Too late, obviously.

“It was a little tricky. We thought it was some kind of ascot. But then someone recognized it as an original Sheila Trudeau. She only made ten. You got the prototype for doing her ad campaign.”

“Oops.” I paused. “What kind of cop would recognize a Trudeau accessory?”

“Krane did. You apparently inspired her to improve her fashion sense. Ironically, it came back to bite you.” He was trying hard not to laugh. I was insulted. “Belinda, a word of advice, you need to get a less distinctive wardrobe if you are going to regularly use it to dress dead bodies.”

“I guess I'm nailed. Since you
are
the CCSD, what can I expect?”

“I am not the whole department. I just want to run it,” he added jokingly.

“Well, pretend like you already do. What is going to happen to me?”

“Considering the evidence we have, and the remainder you will provide by
cooperating
, I'd say you might have to plea bargain for a couple hundred hours of community service, which will bring you back to Vegas for a few months later this year.”

After the week I'd had, I thought that should sound worse than purgatory, but somehow it didn't sound that bad after all.

“B
en, what made you think you could pull off a miracle?
That was foolhardy, dangerous grandstanding. Besides which, you mutilated yourself.” I pulled a face at the tattoo. It did make him look tough, but it was ugly as all get out.

“I already called Joaquin, he's removing it tomorrow,” Ben said. “Although it's growing on me.”

Shana cocked her head, shooting him a warning glare. He put up his hands. “I promise. It's out of here.”

“Ben, don't avoid my question,” I said. “You were lucky to get out alive, and now that you have I might kill you. Didn't you learn your lesson when you pulled this James Bond business the last time we were in Vegas? Mother is beside herself with worry over you.”

He shocked me by saying, “I understand.”

“You
understand
Mom? Did they do a lobotomy on you while you were in Medulaville?”

“Not only do I understand Ma, but she will understand why I took a chance too. You do these kinds of things when you're a parent, Bee Bee.”

“Okay, but…” I paused. “
What
did you say? And how would you know?”

Ben and Shana shared a look, like the dozens of mystery gazes they'd been throwing back and forth since the first night we'd arrived in Vegas. Shana shook her head. “Ben, until we can confirm—”

“I'm confirming it. That's all we need. We don't need blood, we don't need DNA. I'm Aph's dad, whether you want me to be or not. We'll tell her as soon as she gets here.”

My mouth dropped open. My limbs went weak, and I dropped onto the couch. Wordlessly, my mouth opened and closed. I shook my head.

“This doesn't make any sense,” I finally choked out.

Shana sat down on the couch next to me and patted my knee. “It's still all supposition. See, when Affie went missing, Ben asked me about her dad—whether we should contact him—and I told him I really didn't know Aph's father's name. So I told the story of how she was conceived at that masquerade party in college…”

I'd heard the story, of course, never guessing I might know the man in the peacock-feathered mask, much less be related to him.

Ben picked up where she trailed off “…I'd been in Dallas on a sales trip, when I ran into some SMU coeds at a bar and they invited me to the masquerade ball.”

“Kind of old, weren't you, twenty-six and crashing a college party?” I asked.

Ben raised his eyebrows. Since when did he have any scruples?

“Never mind, stupid question.”

“…well,” Shana continued, “once we realized we'd been at the same party, we got into some things about what happened that night only the two of us could know.”

Shana blushed. I stared. My boisterous friend never blushed, never got embarrassed; she, proud of her intemperance, would normally be telling me the details, drawing me a picture. Not that I wanted that when my
brother
was involved. Ick. Super ick.

I shook my head. “I don't believe it. Aphrodite is way too responsible to have been spawned from the two of you, the most impulsive, hedonistic pair on the face of the earth.”

And then Aphrodite walked in through the door with Frank, Joe and Jack, and I saw it. I saw Ben in her. In the green of her eyes, in the dimple on her right cheek. In the way she strutted when she walked. Wow. How could I have not seen it before, after all these years?

Ben saw the recognition and the wonder on my face and nudged me with his shoulder, as he whispered, “Good thing she got my looks because I guess she inherited her Aunt Bee Bee's serious-as-a-heart-attack character. Poor kid.” Ben grinned and ran to his two girls, grabbing them in a bear hug.

The secret was out. My brother was back. My best friend had finally grown up.

And, I had a brand-new niece.

I waited, patiently for once, for my own hug, because I wanted it to last the rest of her life.

 

D
ale Trankosky was leaning against a white Porsche
convertible in the valet area as I left the Mellagio a few hours later.
Vavoom.
“Hello, Belinda.”

A silver stiletto, size eight, dangled from his index finger.

“Are you trying to be Prince Charming?”

“Is it working, Cinderella?”

“You've got a little more work to do, but thanks,” I said plucking my beloved Angel from his fingertip. “This is a good start, although I don't want you to get in trouble for swiping evidence.”

“Considering they picked up your Dragsnashark, whose name is Pablo Nunez, and he's singing, they decided they didn't need it anymore.”

I nodded, pleased. “How long have you been there?”

He shrugged. I guessed he was off duty, since he wore a blue and yellow striped polo, khaki shorts and deck shoes. It was a little disconcerting to see him in street clothes, because it made him seem more like a person and less like a cop. Somehow it balanced out his shaved head, softened his ironic mouth.

“You know, you could have come up to the suite, if you needed to talk to me,” I told him as I approached. “And not loiter down her and scare the natives.” The valets were all eyeballing him, having pegged him for a cop immediately. He had the power aura. I doubted he'd ever be able to work undercover and get away with it. Unless he went under as a crime boss.

“I didn't trust myself to behave in a private venue.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“You know, Belinda,” he said, “we are in the most romantic city in the world.”

I perceived Vegas a lot of ways—sexy, dangerous, thrilling, bizarre, otherworldly, recently quite deadly—but never romantic. “How do you figure?”

“More people get married here than anywhere else.”

“For reasons other than romance,” I put in.

“I never pegged you for a cynic,” Trankosky said.

“I guess you don't know me that well then, do you?”

“I'd like to…get to know you. Every inch of you. Inside and out.”

“That's kind of suggestive, Detective.”

“Only for people with dirty minds,” he returned with a lopsided grin. “Those of us who see a city of neon, gamblers, pimps and prostitutes as romantic find that kind of comment…touching.”

I belly laughed. I couldn't help it. He was actually cute—in a dog-begging-for-a-bone way, albeit an oversize trained-to-kill dog, like a mastiff. “Well, consider me touched then.”

“Not yet,” he murmured, wrapping his arm around my waist and pulling me just close enough to kiss.

I hesitated. He waited. Then I remembered that I'd made a decision days ago that I had to move on with my life. “You
did
quit dipping, didn't you?” I asked, surprised to feel comfortable in his arms when I had become so accustomed to another's.

He laughed and nodded. “I had a good incentive.”

I relaxed, and Dale Trankosky kissed me. It wasn't a Frank kiss. It wasn't toe curling, flame inducing or wanton, but it felt soothing and nice. Maybe the cop
was
a romantic after all. I sighed. “I think I needed that after the week I've had.”

He murmured, “You don't want to get married today, do you? I'm tight with an Elvis preacher who could work us in.”

Smiling at his joke, I eased away. “Not today.”

“Okay, Bee Cool, when you feel hot!”—he grinned at my raised eyebrows, and backed off—“or just like talking, give me a call, I can be a friendly ear. My lips are pretty friendly too, not to mention my hands…”

Laughing again, I put up my hand to stop him. “I get the picture, and I have your number. Now, how about giving me a ride to the airport?”

 

F
rank had slipped out during the big reunion earlier to
take his kids to breakfast at the Black Bear. Monica had told me what time their flight was departing and that she and her parents were meeting Frank at the security checkpoint. I'd gotten there first because I wanted to read his face when he saw Monica for the first time in years as her mother confirmed they, not Monica, transferred the kids for Frank's visits. When I did see Frank's face, from behind the cover of a rent-a-car kiosk, I knew in my heart my decision was right. The hardness life's unfairnesses had laid around his eyes and mouth softened away. His brown eyes begged forgiveness and hungered for what had been lost. It only lasted an instant but that was all I needed to confirm what I suspected. As he gave her a small peck on the cheek, then turned his attention to the children, I approached as if I'd just arrived. After a shot of guilty surprise, he drew me into his arms and kissed me. I broke away, whispering, “Don't confuse the children, Frank.”

Then I drew the kids into a circle with Monica and Frank and stepped back out of their way to chat with Monica's parents, mostly about my home renovation since Randolph was a retired contractor and had plenty of useful input. I was aching to talk to Frank about Ben and Shana and my goddaughter who was my niece, but didn't. Instead, as I listened to Randolph, I watched Frank tousle Matthew's hair and tickle Katie until she giggled. He seemed so natural with them—something I didn't expect after all their time apart. The call came for preboarding and the kids' faces fell. Wilma gathered their things. Randolph manned Monica's chair. I leaned down to kiss her cheek. “Thank you for your help.”

“Thank you for making him happy,” she said softly, with a smile.

I couldn't answer, so I turned away to see Katie crying quietly as she wrapped her arms around her daddy's neck and Matthew, with especially shiny eyes, high-fiving Frank over his sister's head. Smiling, I shook Randolph's hand and waved at the kids as they grabbed their grandmother's hands and bounced down the concourse behind their mother's wheelchair.

Once they'd disappeared, Frank turned to me, his face softening but nothing like it did for Monica. “She likes you,” he said.

“I like her,” I answered. “Who wouldn't?”

“Honey Bee,” Frank slipped his arm around me. “This week was full of too many close calls. I know I sound like a broken record, but give up poker. It's your curse. You know it's not good for you.”

“I'm not going to give up poker, Frank. I'm going to give up…you.” I handed him the plane ticket I'd bought for him on my way in.

His breath caught, and he turned away. I held fast, willing myself not to touch him, not to reassure him, to be as composed and strong as Monica Gilbert was, as I let my love go.

“Frank, you have a terrific family. Other men should envy you—a lovely wife, two great kids. Go back to that. That, not me, is what can keep you stable, looking for tomorrow, not drinking. That, not me, is what you can wake up each morning to with hope and happiness. That, not me, will make life worth living.”

“Honey Bee, this is about that Clark County cop, isn't it? Joe told me—”

I refused to feel guilty about the kiss, whether he knew about it or not. This wasn't about that. This was about him. About the “us” that obviously wasn't working for him. I steeled myself. “Go back to them, Frank. It's the right thing. It's the good thing. It's the only thing that will heal your soul. Good-bye.”

I turned and walked away. Frank Gilbert didn't come after me. When I turned around, he was gone.