Kill Fee (28 page)

T
he client’s contact waited at the bottom of the escalators. He was small and dark, with suspicious eyes. “FBI’s here,” he told Parkerson. “They’re onto your hit.”

Parkerson stared at the man and felt his throat tighten. The goddamn FBI. “Where is the target?” he said. “Where’d they take him?”

“Still at his hotel, last time I checked,” the contact said. “He switched rooms last night. Moved across to the Rio, other side of the highway. FBI guys are talking to him there.”

Parkerson tried to focus his thoughts. No way they’d get access to the target’s room now, no matter which hotel he’d moved to. Not with the goddamn FBI on the scene. What the hell was he going to do?

The smart money said walk away. Cancel the hit and refund the client’s money. Make it back later. There was no shortage of jobs. Parkerson glanced at the asset. The asset looked back at him, blank-faced. “Shit,” Parkerson said. “I guess we’re headed home.”

The contact pursed his lips. “There is another option.”

“What option?” Parkerson said. “I can’t take the guy out if the FBI’s watching.”

“There’s a parking garage at the Gold Coast,” said the contact. “Across the street from the Rio. If your man here can shoot from long range, I can get you the equipment.”

Parkerson frowned. “Like a sniper.”

The contact nodded. “It’s not a difficult shot.”

“The target will be in transit later this afternoon,” Parkerson said. He glanced at the asset again. Mulled it over and saw an opportunity. Then
he pulled out his phone and dialed the client. Left the asset with the contact and walked behind a Starbucks kiosk. “I hear the FBI’s got your man,” he said. “You still want him dead?”

“Want him dead?” The client laughed, humorless. “Buddy, I
need
him dead. Before he gets on that plane.”

“We’ll do it,” said Parkerson. “But the price just went up. A half million in my account before we pull the trigger.”

“Christ.” The client paused. “This is your fucking fault, you know that?”

“You want him dead or what?”

Another pause. Then, “Five hundred thousand. I’ll get you the money.”

Parkerson ended the call. Walked back to the contact. “Wouldn’t be Vegas without a little gambling,” he grinned. “Let’s find us a rifle.”

J
ulio Ramirez didn’t want to talk.

“FBI?” he asked Windermere. “The fuck I need you for?”

They’d driven to the Rio in a rented Buick. Windermere drove. Stevens rode shotgun. Mathers sat silent in the back. There was something up with the kid, Stevens thought. He hadn’t said much since he’d climbed off the plane. Tired, maybe. Worn-out from the case. Except this was a big break. He should be thrilled.

Julio Ramirez had moved from the Bellagio to the Rio immediately after Richard O’Brien’s visit. It was something of a step down: the Bellagio sat plum in the center of the Strip, featured art galleries and high-roller tables and high-end shopping boutiques. The Rio stood a mile
distant, gaudy in blue and red, a crummy consolation prize amid strip malls and fast-food joints and interstate on-ramps.

“Kind of a last-minute request,” the Rio’s head of security told Stevens. “Guess we were the only penthouse in town.”

Stevens nodded. “How long’s he booked?”

“Just one night. Heard he’s flying home this afternoon.”

Windermere glanced at Stevens. “Good thing we got him in time.”

ALONG WITH HIS CHANGE
in surroundings, Ramirez had picked up a couple new friends. They stood by the door, imposing and inscrutable, mountains of men with bad dispositions.

“Private security,” Ramirez said. “Best in the business. Damned if I need any FBI with me.”

Windermere tried to peer around a guard and into the room. The guard shifted slightly, blocking her path. “Even if you don’t need the FBI, Mr. Ramirez, the FBI needs you. How about you tidy up in there and let us come in and talk?”

Ramirez scowled. “Talked to the cops already.”

“The LVPD, yeah, and they appreciate it.” Windermere stuck a hand on her hip. “We’re the Feds, Julio. There’s big things popping off. You’re a target. We’re trying to catch a killer.”

Ramirez stared at her. Windermere held his gaze. Finally, the big man shook his head.
“Puta,”
he said. “Give me five minutes.”

F
ifteen minutes later, Julio Ramirez’s door swung open again, and a security guard led them into the suite. It was vast and airy, overlooking the Strip. Stevens could see Caesars Palace in the distance and, to its right, the Bellagio. He stared at the sprawling structure and wondered again what had made O’Brien fail.

The security guard led Stevens and the two FBI agents into a large living area. The scent of marijuana lingered in the air. Two women decades Ramirez’s junior lounged on the couch. There was a baggie of something hidden between the couch cushions.

Ramirez said something to the women in Spanish. They looked at Stevens and Windermere and disappeared into a bedroom, muttering as they went. Then Ramirez looked at Windermere. “So what the hell do you want?”

Windermere sat down opposite the big man. Stevens walked to the window. Mathers lurked by the hallway. “I want to know what happened,” Windermere said. “Step by step, nice and slow. I want to know why he didn’t kill you when he had you begging for your life.”

Ramirez made eyes at a security guard. The guard raised an eyebrow. Then Ramirez looked back at Windermere. “You can’t read a police report?”

Windermere shook her head. “I want to hear it from you, Julio. This kid found his way into your room. How?”

Ramirez shrugged. “Maybe he bribed a maid.”

“Ambushed you. Held a gun to your face. What’d he say?”

“He said nothing. I asked him did he want my money, he didn’t say
nothing.” Ramirez frowned, his veneer slipping a little. “He just stood there and looked at me with those eyes, man. Like a ghost or something.”

“Yeah,” she said. “Then what?”

“Then he pulled the trigger, man. Nearly blew out my ear and still didn’t say nothing.”

“Then he ran,” said Stevens.

“Like a little bitch. Like he just figured out who he was fucking with.”

Stevens looked at the big man. “You call security?”

“Fuck you, did I call security. Somebody somewhere must have heard the shot, though. The big guys came up in a hurry.”

“You know anyone would want you dead, Julio?” said Windermere.

“I know a lot of people.” Ramirez narrowed his eyes. “But that’s my business, not yours.”

Windermere looked at Stevens. Then she shook her head. “You know we can do this the hard way.”

“Not without my lawyer. I got rights.” Ramirez grinned a toothy grin. “Now, if that’s all you got for me, you gotta scram, Feds. I got a plane to catch in about ninety-five minutes.”

T
he contact gave Parkerson a car key and promised to return with the rifle. Parkerson took the asset to the parking garage at McCarran and found a dark blue Honda Civic in the long-term lot. There was a shopping bag in the back with a pistol and a couple pairs of sunglasses and twin “Viva Las Vegas” hats.

The asset let Parkerson maneuver him into the passenger seat. He still
hadn’t said much. Parkerson buckled him in and looked at him. “You ever done any sharpshooting?”

The kid nodded. “Little bit.”

“You any good?”

“Killed everything I shot at.”

Parkerson studied the kid’s face. No emotion anywhere. Scary. He circled around the car and climbed in the driver’s side. Drove out of the parking garage and along the highway to the casino.

The Gold Coast Casino was a sad-looking white building with a glitzy marquee advertising one-dollar Heinekens and good odds on craps. There was a low parking structure attached. Across from the garage was the Rio.

Parkerson drove the Civic to the top of the structure. Angled the car to get a good look at the Rio. Directly across the street was a long taxi queue and the valet line, uniformed bellmen keeping watch. Parkerson sat back in his seat and cranked up the AC. Settled in to wait for the contact.

THE CONTACT SHOWED UP
a half hour later. He backed his Cadillac truck up to the Civic and climbed out with a package the size of a suitcase.

Parkerson gave the man an envelope in return and watched him drive away, leaving nothing but empty cars around them. Parkerson opened the package and unwrapped the rifle. It was a big gun, powerful, deadly. Looked like a movie prop. Parkerson cradled it in his hands. Imagined shooting the target himself, imagined what it would feel like.

Messy, is what it would feel like. Dirty. This is what the asset’s here for.

He felt around in the backseat of the Civic for his briefcase. Took out a picture of the target, a description. Studied it and showed it to the asset. “This is your target,” he said. “I want him eliminated.”

The asset looked at the picture. “Memorize his face,” Parkerson told him. “He’s going to come out of the casino over there. You’re going to shoot him. Then we’re going to leave. Understand?”

The asset nodded. “I understand.”

Parkerson slipped the pistol into his waistband. Gave the asset sunglasses and a Las Vegas hat. “Don’t let anyone see you,” he told him. “Don’t tell anyone what we’re doing. This is covert, you follow?”

“I follow.”

Parkerson studied the asset, trying to gauge his level of obedience. This was it, he knew. The moment of truth. The smart money still said he should run. He knew it. Five hundred thousand dollars, though, said he should stay.

He pulled his own hat low, over his face. Slipped on the sunglasses and stared out at the Rio, waiting for the target to show.

S
tevens and Windermere left Mathers to watch Ramirez’s room at the Rio. Drove across to the Bellagio to check out the security footage.

“You believe that guy?” said Windermere as she pulled up to the valet stand. “Barely escapes with his life and still doesn’t want to help catch the killer.”

Stevens climbed out of the Buick. “From the look of it, I’d say he considers us a bigger threat than O’Brien.”

“Yeah, well.” Windermere shook her head. “The hell do I want with some gangbanger and his girlfriends? All I care about is taking down Killswitch.”

They walked into the casino. Crossed the gaming floor to the hotel and found the director of security waiting. Gates was his name. He was a big guy, officious. Studied Windermere’s badge hard, and then nodded and led them into the bowels of the building.

“What’s up with Mathers, anyway?” Stevens asked as they walked. “You wear him out back in Philly? The kid’s pretty damn quiet.”

Windermere struggled to keep her face neutral. Felt her stomach do an unpleasant flip. “Guess he’s tired,” she said. “Long days. Tough case.”

“Guess so,” said Stevens. “He’s usually so damn chipper.”

Windermere said nothing. Hurried to catch up to Gates and prayed Stevens would drop the subject. Mercifully, the security director chose that moment to stop before a heavy door. “Security center,” he said. “The Fed goes in. State cop, no way.”

Stevens frowned. “Seriously?”

Gates looked at him, impassive. Then Windermere stepped up. “He’s assisting a federal investigation,” she said. “Has the same rights as I do. We both go.”

Gates didn’t say anything.

“You want I should call my boss first?” Windermere asked him. “Or yours?”

Gates exhaled. Shook his head once and stepped aside. Windermere smiled at Stevens. “After you, partner.”

They walked into the Bellagio’s massive security center. Machines hummed in all corners. There were screens everywhere, all of them cycling between views of the casino. Windermere turned to Gates. “Show us the kid.”

HE WAS AS SCARY ON-SCREEN
as he’d been in real life. Stevens watched O’Brien appear on the security footage, a sleepwalker amid the hotel lobby’s chaos. He stood there, unmoving, as people ebbed and flowed around him. Bystanders glanced at him and hurried away.

“Too grainy to see his eyes,” said Windermere. “But that’s him.”

“Sure is,” said Stevens. “The guy gives me the creeps.”

They watched as O’Brien seemed to jolt back to life. He looked up and then walked, steadily, out of the lobby and into the casino. The view on
the screen changed. O’Brien walked down a long carpeted floor, past slot machines and roulette wheels. He didn’t slow down. He didn’t look around.

The screen changed again. A bank of elevators and a security guard. O’Brien walked on-screen. Showed the guard something. “A room key,” said Gates. “We don’t know how he got it.”

Stevens glanced at Windermere. “Killswitch gave it to him.”

“How’d Killswitch get it?”

Stevens shrugged. “Maybe the Defense Department hooked him up.”

Windermere looked at him. Laughed a little. Then turned back to the screen. O’Brien was climbing onto an elevator with a group of tourists. The doors slid closed.

The screen changed to the thirty-fifth floor. O’Brien walked off the elevator and down a long hall. Paused in front of a door and took a pistol from his waistband. Knocked a couple times and used the key card to get in. The screen didn’t change. Windermere looked at Gates. “Anything from the room?”

Gates shook his head. “Afraid not.”

The elevator doors slid open again. Julio Ramirez stepped into the hall, trailed by his two girlfriends. They walked down the corridor to the room, jostling and laughing. Unlocked the door and walked in. “And then nothing,” said Windermere. “Who the hell knows what happened.”

Gates leaned forward and pressed a button. The tape fast-forwarded a ways. Then O’Brien appeared again, down the hall. Gates slowed the tape.

“This is where we got the call,” he said. “Guest on the thirty-sixth floor caught a bullet in her couch. We sent security to investigate.” He looked at Stevens and Windermere. “We take guest safety very seriously here.”

Windermere looked at him. “I bet you do.”

On the tape, O’Brien walked fast to the elevator and jammed the call button. Looked back. Pressed the button again. Stevens leaned forward, squinted at the screen. Then the screen changed.

“That’s pretty much it,” said Gates. “He rode the elevator down,
dodged our guys headed up. Sat at a slot machine for a minute and then walked out of the casino. Hijacked a taxi and rode off into the sunset.”

Windermere’s phone was ringing. She picked up. “Mathers,” she said. “What, right now? We’ll head back.” She hung up the phone. “Ramirez is leaving for the airport.”

Stevens nodded. Stood up from the monitors. Then he stopped and looked at Gates. “Can you scroll back some?” he said. “To the thirty-fifth floor again?”

Gates pressed a button and the screen changed again. Now O’Brien was standing in front of the elevator. “Pause it,” said Stevens. “Right there.” He leaned forward. “Yeah,” he said. “There.”

Windermere frowned at him. “What do you see?”

Stevens pointed at O’Brien. “His eyes,” he said. The footage was grainy, but there was something there. A look on the kid’s face where there was nothing before.

Windermere stared at the screen. “Holy shit, Stevens,” she said. “That kid’s terrified.”