Page 22

Chapter Twenty-One

–––

Cornered

Dino’s was lit up like a pinball machine. The sign in front stated in all caps: GETTING VEGAS DRUNK SINCE 1962 . Which would be appropriate for pretty much any establishment in town, but whatever.

“We’re looking for a black 2018 Kia Forte, Nevada plates, 8KGC52,” Grace said, hopping out. We all clambered after her.

“Okay,” I said, suppressing a yawn. “How about I take this end of the parking lot, and you—”

“Found it!” Dot called out giddily. She was standing behind a small black sedan a few cars down from the front entrance. We hurried over. Dot gestured to the license plate and said, “Kia Forte, 8KGC52.”

“Okay,” I said. “We still need to make sure it’s the right guy and not just some weird coincidence.”

Grace frowned. “Of course it’s right. According to my algorithm, there’s a ninety-six—”

“Yeah, well, that’s not a hundred percent,” I interrupted. “And as someone who’s been on the receiving end of your cattle prod, I’d like to make sure. So let’s try to come up with a plan before we start zapping random strangers.”

“Fine.” Grace sighed, checking her watch. “But as I mentioned, we are on a schedule.”

“How about a couple of us stay out here in case he tries to leave,” Dot said. “And the other two go inside, see if they can spot him?”

“That’ll work,” I said.

“C’mon, then.” Marcella grabbed my elbow. “You can be my wingman.”

My arm buzzed where she touched it. Swallowing, I said to Dot and Grace, “That work for you two?”

“Sounds good, kiddo.” Dot nodded. “Grace and I’ll keep an eye out here.”

“Please hurry,” Grace said.

“Yeah, yeah,” I said, waving her off. “You got plans. I heard you.”

I turned to find Marcella stripping off her flannel shirt to reveal a strapless corset that barely contained her breasts. “Um, what’re you doing?”

“Baiting the hook,” she said, leaning into the side mirror to tousle her hair. Aside from the corset, Marcella was wearing tight jeans and sneakers, which didn’t exactly scream “sex worker,” but she looked hot enough that it probably wouldn’t matter. My throat certainly went dry as she walked in front of me. Maybe it wasn’t the worst thing in the world that I’d basically just broken up with my girlfriend.

But Marcella is with Toni , I reminded myself. And you’ve decided to stop being such a dirtbag. Easier said than done, but hopefully the effort counted for something.

I followed Marcella through the parking lot. At the entrance, she turned and cocked an eyebrow at me. “You ready?”

“Yup,” I said, holding the door for her.

Marcella sashayed through. Inside, the lighting was dim and hazy with a distinctive red tint. A long bar ran down one side of the room, and the rest of the space was crowded with high-top tables. Despite the fact that it was pretty early in the evening, the place was packed. Bartenders hustled back and forth to fill orders for the folks stacked two deep at the bar. Every table was taken; a hubbub of voices pierced by an occasional shriek of laughter. Like every other dive bar I’d frequented (definitely not a short list), the air stank of stale beer and vomit.

I winced as our ears were assailed by a sudden loud wailing noise. “Fuck,” I said. “What is that?”

Marcella gestured toward a small stage in the corner where a large man on his knees belted into a microphone. “?‘I Will Always Love You,’?” she said. “That high E is a killer. I can hit it, though.”

“You sing?” I asked.

Marcella tilted her head. “Yeah, of course. You didn’t know that?”

“Nope,” I said, scanning the room. There were at least a dozen guys who fit Grace’s composite. “I didn’t think there’d be so many people here this early.”

“Dino’s is always packed,” Marcella snorted. “This actually looks like a slow night for them.”

“Great,” I sighed. Eyeing the karaoke stage, I said, “I guess we could say something happened to the Kia to get them out to the parking lot? Just need to put our names on the list.”

“Good idea. Leave it to me.” Marcella sauntered up to the stage and said something to the singer in a low voice. He nodded and handed the microphone to her as the song wound down.

“Hey, I’m next!” a guy at the bar protested.

Marcella ignored him, leaning over to talk to the DJ. A moment later, the first strains of “…Baby One More Time” belted from the speakers. Marcella threw her head back and launched into the opening verse. Cooing the lyrics, she proceeded to act out the full Britney video, moving her hips, running her hands up her body…by the time she hit the chorus, I desperately needed a drink.

I ordered a beer and sipped it while I scanned the crowd. Hopefully this wouldn’t turn out to be a bust. At least it was a distraction from my relationship drama. I heard Kat’s voice hissing trash again and winced. It was the worst thing she could have said because deep down, it was exactly what I’d always feared she thought of me. Focus, Amber , I chastised myself. That’s a problem for later. Get this done and then you can deal with it.

Marcella finished and bowed with a flourish, clearly relishing the enthusiastic applause. Ignoring the agitated guy reaching insistently for the mic, she shouted, “Thank you, Las Vegas! Also, if your black Kia Forte is parked in the lot, someone sideswiped your car. I got their plate number, if you want it, meet me outside.”

Then she tossed the mic and hopped off the stage. When she reached me, she grabbed my beer and took a long swig, leaving a lipstick mark on the rim. “Nicely done,” I said approvingly.

“Thanks,” she said. “Now let’s go deal with this asshole.”

———

Grace and Dot were waiting in the car when we walked out. Dot rolled down her window and said, “Did you find him?”

Before we could answer, a middle-aged woman in skintight jeans, cowboy boots, and a denim jacket came barreling out the door and charged past us. She went straight to the Kia and started to examine it.

“Well, shit,” Marcella muttered.

“You sure you got the right car, toots?” Dot asked worriedly.

“Positive,” Grace said, but even she looked perplexed.

“And it was definitely a guy who attacked Gina and the others?” I asked dubiously.

“Even with the disguises, I’d imagine the girls could tell the difference,” Dot noted. “Oh dear, she’s coming over.”

Dot was right; the woman was charging our way, and she looked pissed. Planting herself in front of Marcella with her hands on her hips, she barked, “You think it’s funny to mess with people?”

“Yeah, kinda,” Marcella retorted, stepping forward with her chin up.

“I think there’s been a misunderstanding,” I said in a conciliatory tone. Pointing to the Kia, I asked, “Is that your car?”

“Why?” The woman was in her late forties, petite, with big hair and a thick layer of makeup that poorly concealed acne scars.

“What’s your name, hon?” Dot asked.

“Sandra,” she said warily.

“Are you the sole driver of that Kia, Sandra?” Grace asked, coming to stand beside us.

The woman’s eyes narrowed as she took us all in. “The fuck is going on?”

“Listen, I know this is kind of weird,” I said. “But we think someone has been using your car to commit crimes.”

“You don’t look like cops,” she said suspiciously.

“FBI,” Grace said smoothly, producing a badge seemingly out of nowhere. I gawked as she added, “We have evidence that backs up these claims.”

I waited for Sandra to call bullshit on us. But instead, she asked, “What claims?”

“Assault,” Grace said. “The victims are all sex workers.”

Sandra sucked in air through her teeth, her brow darkening as she spat, “Son of a bitch !” Then she wheeled around and tromped back toward her car, calling over her shoulder, “You want to arrest that bastard? Follow me.”

———

We barely had time to pile into Dot’s car before Sandra tore out of the parking lot. She gunned the engine, cutting in and out of the few other cars on the road as we struggled to keep up.

“Holy cow, this is like a real car chase!” Dot exclaimed, bending low over the steering wheel. “Where do you think she’s taking us?”

“More importantly,” I said, throwing a pointed look at Grace, “what do we do when she expects the FBI to arrest him?”

“I brought zip ties,” Grace said blithely.

“Of course you did,” I muttered.

“I think maybe she’ll kill him before we have to do anything,” Marcella said. “She seems pretty pissed.”

“Do I even want to know why you have a fake FBI badge?” I asked Grace.

“Who says it’s fake?”

Before I could answer, the Kia screeched to a halt in front of a dilapidated-looking casino. Sandra charged out, arms swinging, clearly on a mission. We hurried to follow as she threw open the front door and huffed inside. You could practically see steam coming out of her ears as she checked to make sure we were still in tow. Nodding curtly, she led us through the labyrinthine casino floor.

It was a far cry from the other establishments I’d seen in Vegas: The ceiling was low, the carpet threadbare, and several of the slot machines bore handwritten OUT OF ORDER signs. The few people gambling looked like they might not technically be alive.

Sandra blew through, not sparing a glance for anything until she reached the far end of the casino. We had to practically break into a jog to keep up. She finally stopped in front of a ragged black curtain. A faded sign on an easel beside it featured a top hat and read THE AMAZING PRESTIGO! SHOWS EVERY HOUR ALL DAY LONG!

Yanking back the curtain, Sandra bellowed, “Dwayne, you no-good motherfucker!”

I peered past her. The room on the other side was tiny, just a handful of chairs facing a small platform with black velvet stapled to it. The only person in the audience was a guy who, from the look of things, had been rudely awakened by the yelling. Without meeting our eyes, he got to his feet and shuffled back to the main casino floor.

“The Amazing Prestigo” turned out to be a doughy-looking guy in his forties who was every bit as nondescript as Grace’s computer-generated composite picture. His tuxedo was as worn as the carpet, and ragged sneakers poked out from the frayed cuffs. He stood on the platform behind a rickety-looking table with a splayed deck of cards and—yep, you guessed it—a top hat. Dwayne blinked at us, startled, while Sandra stomped to the “stage.” She jabbed her index finger into his chest to punctuate every word as she hissed one long stream of invective, “You useless piece of shit I hope they lock you up forever I knew you weren’t really working all those nights how dare you I want your shit out of my place tonight hear me? To-night—”

She drew a deep breath, clearly preparing to continue the tirade. Before she could, Grace stepped forward and said, “Excuse me, sir? We have some questions for you.”

If Dwayne was surprised at being confronted, he gave no indication of it. “Yeah, sure. Just let me get my things,” he said, scraping the cards into the top hat.

“Your friend can get those for you,” Grace said smoothly. “Let’s go outside to talk.”

“You’re in for it now, Dwayne,” Sandra said with satisfaction. “These are feds. And there’s no way in hell I’m bailing you out this time.”

“Like I said,” Marcella murmured in my ear. “We should just hand him over to her.”

“Aw, c’mon, Sandra,” he whined. “I got a problem, I know that. But I love you.”

Which was apparently the wrong thing to say because Sandra turned a few shades redder and started pummeling him with her fists, screeching.

“Does this place have security?” I asked, checking over my shoulder. The last thing we needed was some burly rent-a-cop who might not be as easily swayed by a fake FBI badge.

“Even if they do, he’s not a paying customer,” Marcella reasoned.

“Yeah, but still. This isn’t exactly low-key.”

Dwayne had put his arms up to protect his face and was making yipping noises as he tried to fend off Sandra’s assault. Luckily for him, she tired quickly. Her arms fell by her sides, and she heaved soft, hiccupping pants as tears streamed down her face, leaving mascara trails in their wake. I felt awful for her. If there was one thing I could relate to, it was how gutting it was to be let down by your partner.

Dot stepped forward and wrapped an arm around Sandra’s shoulders, saying, “C’mon, hon. Let’s get you a drink.”

“You’re going to miss the fun,” Marcella warned.

“This was enough fun for me,” Dot said. “You gals make sure he gets what’s coming to him, though, ’kay?”

“Mother fucker !” Sandra snarled again, turning and spitting at Dwayne’s feet. Then she allowed herself to be led meekly from the room.

Dwayne had red marks on his face from where Sandra had slapped him, and what little hair he had was mussed. Mutely, he held out his hands for cuffs; clearly this wasn’t his first rodeo. When a few beats passed, his look of resignation turned to puzzlement. “So am I under arrest, or what?”

“That largely depends on you, Dwayne,” Grace said.

I stared at her, wondering how far she was willing to take impersonating an FBI officer. It would be the height of irony if, after all the crimes I’d committed, this was the one I went down for.

“Yeah?” His eyes turned calculating. “What, you want cash? ’Cuz I don’t have much on me, but I can get some—”

“Are you trying to bribe a federal officer?” Grace asked, sounding genuinely perplexed.

“No?” he said. “I mean, maybe?”

Marcella made a disgusted noise. “Wow. We got ourselves a real criminal mastermind here.”

He blinked. “What’s this about, anyway?”

“Serious crimes, Dwayne,” Grace said. I had to hand it to her; she made a very convincing fed. “You’re in quite a bit of trouble. Felony assault of at least four victims that we know of.”

“I didn’t assault anyone!”

“Shaving someone’s hair against their will counts.”

“Oh, that.” Dwayne shuffled his feet. “I want a lawyer.”

“I have a question,” I said. “Why hair?”

Dwayne shrugged. “Dunno. But it’s not like I hurt anyone.”

“You drugged them,” Marcella said menacingly. “And made them bald. How is that not hurting them?”

Dwayne looked embarrassed. “You gotta understand, ladies. I have a condition. Besides, is there even a law against it?”

“Are you kidding?” Marcella growled. “Fuck arresting you. We should take you out to the desert and bury you where no one will find the body.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Dwayne said, holding up both hands. “I didn’t mean to hurt anyone. Please, just give me a chance. I swear I’ll stop…”

I frowned. Dwayne’s eyes were darting all over the place in a way that was strikingly familiar; that’s exactly what my mom did whenever she was about to bail. My focus shifted to his hands, which had slipped into his pants pockets. “Hey,” I said warningly. “Keep your hands where—”

Before I could finish, Dwayne flicked his wrist and yelled, “See ya, suckers!”

There was a loud bang! and we were suddenly enveloped in a huge cloud of smoke.