Murder in Vegas Read online

  “That’s the deal.”

  Brandi gave it a beat. Then, “So, how come you’re asking me?”

  The guy seemed to squirm a little on his pub stool, which sort of surprised her, since Ed had struck Brandi as the ultramacho type. Probably six-one, one-ninety, with a military haircut and big, strong-looking hands. Her pre-dick-tion: A fuck buddy who’d come up skimpy on the foreplay but be a piledriver during the car chase.

  “Well?” she said, wondering if maybe the guy was a little slow in the head.

  “It’s part of a business transaction.”

  “What kind of ‘transaction’?”

  “Just some documents. I exchange what this person gives me for what that person gives me, then I do the same thing a couple more times.”

  “What, these ‘persons’ don’t trust Federal Express?”

  “They trust me more.”

  “And why is that?” asked Brandi.

  “It’s confidential.”

  “Confidential.” The curl spilled down over her eye again, and Brandi blew it back away. “You’re a spy?”

  “No.”

  “Private eye?”

  “No.”

  Given the guy’s limited active vocabulary, Brandi didn’t waste her breath on “lawyer,” but she did cock her head in a way that she knew guys dug, kind of a “persuade me” angle, like Sarah Jessica Parker did on Sex and the City. “So, we’re gonna be sleeping together, in the same room, and you can’t even share why you’re picking me?”

  “All right.” More squirming. “It’s because we don’t know each other very well.”

  Huh, that was sure the truth. On the other hand, Brandi figured she could always just fuck the guy senseless, then while he snored away, search through his stuff, find out what was really going on.

  And Vegas would put Brandi one step closer to making her fortune. To attending catered dinner parties at swank homes instead of nuking some frozen muck in the microwave before spending the night surfing the cable channels.

  “Okay, Honey,” said Brandi, “I want to see your driver’s license, and then I’m gonna call three of my girlfriends—who you don’t know at all—to tell them I’m going on this grand tour.”

  Ed seemed to mull that over. “All right.”

  “And one other thing.”

  “What?”

  Brandi leaned across the pub’s bar, used her forearms to push her breasts a smidge higher against her tank-top, give him a little more reason to be nice to her. “You ever eaten at Masa’s?”

  As the slipstream from a passing trailer-truck tried to knock the little Mustang convertible onto the shoulder of U.S. 101, Ed Krause heard Brandi say from the passenger’s seat, “I think it’s another two exits from here.”

  He glanced over at the chick, her pouty face buried in a road map from the rent-a-car company, and began to question his own judgment. Not that Brandi with a fucking “I” wasn’t the right type. Just to the “maybe not” side of slutty, with only one nose-stud and six earrings as body piercings, a small tattoo on the left shoulder that looked professional, not homemade. Decent boobs and legs, too, but overall not so smart or good-looking he thought she’d turn down his offer of a free trip.

  Or his offer to help her through the night.

  But “eating” at Masa’s on Bush Street the night before turned out to be at the bar, since they didn’t have reservations. Actually, Ed kind of counted his blessings on that one, because the very chi-chi, black-and-chrome restaurant didn’t exactly price out as reasonable. He had to admit, though, he’d tried stuff off the “tastings” menu that the bartender suggested, and it was the best fucking food he’d ever eaten. Ed even had wine, served in Felix-like balloons, and Ed could tell that Brandi was impressed by the way he rolled the grape juice around the inside of his glass before sniffing and sipping it.

  Not, however, impressed enough to take him to her place or vice-versa to his, for a little “tour preview.” No, Brandi begged off, saying she needed to pack something more than the tote bag she’d carried from the pub to the restaurant—“It’s Nine West, Honey, and only forty-nine-ninety-nine, but the real reason I bought it is how the last three numbers on the price tag all lined up the same, like it was gonna bring me luck?”

  Thinking, Vegas at the end will make all this shit worth my while, Ed just picked her up the next morning outside Macy’s on Geary Street, thinking too that once he got her hammered on a wine tour and fucked her senseless back in their room, he could always go through the chick’s stuff, get a last name and address off her driver’s license.

  In case you ever want to … visit her later.

  And Brandi was good enough at navigating, Ed could keep his eyes on the rear and side mirrors, make sure nobody stayed with them as he first did fifty-five for a while, then sixty, then a little over before dropping back down to fifty-five. It was a beautiful day, and frankly the slower speed with the top down was a lot more enjoyable than just putting the pedal to the metal.

  There were a bunch of exits for Healdsburg, but give the chick credit: She picked the right one for the Inn on the Plaza. As they were shown to their rooms by a pert brunette younger than Brandi, Ed could tell his cover story was watching him to see if he was watching their guide. But all he did was listen to the brunette tell the story of the “bed-and-breakfast,” how it had so many skylights because it used to be a “surgery,” which Ed took to be where doctors operated before there were hospitals, much less electricity to let them see what they were cutting.

  The room was pretty spectacular, even by Ed’s images of the Las Vegas glitz to come. For now he could see high ceilings and a king-sized brass bed, a big tiled bathroom and Jacuzzi for two.

  If all went according to plan.

  Just as Ed was about to tip the brunette and get her out of there, he heard Brandi behind him gush, “Oh, God, he’s so cute!”

  Which is when Ed noticed the chick grabbing a teddy bear off one of the many throw pillows at the head of the bed and hugging it between her boobs.

  Right on cue, the brunette said, “They’re even for sale, at our desk downstairs.”

  As Brandi squealed with delight, Ed Krause hoped that the tab for their dinner the night before wouldn’t be an omen for the stuffed animal and everything else on the trip to Vegas, even if Felix Wasserman was fronting expenses.

  “I still,” said Brandi Willette, around a hiccup she thought she stifled pretty well, “don’t understand why we couldn’t stop at that last winery?”

  Driving them, top down, along the nice country lane, Ed—not “Eddie”—seemed to put a little edge on his voice. “Same reason we didn’t stop at the other two—of seven, I’m counting right—you wanted to hit: I couldn’t see the car from the tasting room.”

  Brandi swallowed a second hiccup. “Five wineries in one afternoon isn’t really enough, I don’t think.” Then she got an idea. “Is that the same reason you brought your briefcase from the car to the room and then back again?”

  “Yes,” the edge still there.

  The idea turned into a brainstorm. “And how come we have to put the roof and windows up at every stop,” she gestured at the beautiful day around them like she’d seen a stage actress do once, “even though there’s not a cloud in the sky?”

  “That’s right.” Ed pointed toward the glove compartment. “A little yellow button inside pops the trunk, and I don’t want somebody giving it a shot.”

  “Couldn’t—” Brandi tried to stifle yet another hiccup, but it was just not to be denied, “—Oh, excuse me, Honey. Couldn’t ‘somebody’ take a knife to the roof, or break one of the windows, or jimmy open one of the doors, and then pop the trunk?”

  “They could,” Ed’s voice getting a little nicer, so when he slid his right hand over and onto her left thigh, Brandi didn’t brush it away like she had on the drive up from the city. “But they’re not likely to try it when I can see the car, and anyway that’d give me time to get out there and stop them.”


  Brandi didn’t ask Ed how he would stop them, because she’d kind of accidentally stumbled into him at the fourth winery—or maybe the fifth?—and felt something really hard over his right hip.

  A gun.

  Which, to tell the truth, excited Brandi more than scared her. She figured when he pitched the trip to her back in the pub that something was maybe a little dangerous about the guy, with his overall aura and “confidential transaction.”

  And besides, Brandi thought—closing her eyes and letting her head just loll against the back-rest, living the moment with the breeze in her hair and the sun on her face and the birds singing around her—what girl doesn’t like something … hard now and then?

  “I still don’t see why I can’t come in with you?”

  Ed Krause just looked at her, sitting in the passenger’s seat of the Mustang. He’d left the top down for fresh air, but put Brandi in the shade of a big tree in the circular driveway of a large stucco house with orange roof tiles. Let her kind of doze off some of the incredible amount of wine she’d put away, maybe—please, Christ?—even lose the hiccups doing it.

  Of course, despite all the “I still don’t understand this” and “I still don’t see that” bullshit from her, there was no reason to make the chick mad, just as she was letting his nondriving hand, and then his lips, start to soften her up for later, in that brass bed.

  Or better, the Jacuzzi.

  “Like I told you,” he said to Brandi, nice as he could. “This is the business part.”

  She nodded. Sort of. “The confidential part.”

  Con-fuh-denture-pah. Ed shook it off with, “Yeah. Just sit tight, enjoy the afternoon, and I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  Brandi seemed to buy it, slumping deeper into the seat with a sappy grin on her face, so he kissed her once and quickly, slipping his tongue in just enough to know she wouldn’t fight more of the same back in their room. Then Ed opened the trunk, took out the briefcase Felix Wasserman had given him to hold the money, and went up to the front entrance, painted the same orange as the roof tiles.

  The door swung inward before he could knock or ring, an Asian guy standing there, but more like an owner than a servant. Ed shouldn’t have been surprised, since he knew Wasserman dealt with a lot of Chinese guys on the imports, only Ed also thought his gay blade could have prepared him for this by providing more than just a first name.

  “Edward?”

  “Yeah, though ‘Ed’ is fine. You’re Tommy?”

  “The same. Please, come in, though I take it your friend is more comfortable outside?”

  “Let’s just say I’m more comfortable that way.”

  A wise smile. “I see.”

  The guy led Ed into a first-floor living room done up all-Spanish with heavy, dark woods, bullfighting capes and swords, and funny lamps. The guy took one patterned chair and motioned Ed toward its mate.

  The courier looked around before sitting down, feeling on his right hip the heft of the Smith & Wesson Combat Masterpiece with its four-inch, extra-heavy barrel—for pistol-whipping, in case he had to discourage some jerk who didn’t require actual shooting. “No security?”

  Another wise smile. “None evident, shall we say?”

  Ed nodded, kind of liking the guy’s—what, subtlety maybe? “Any reason not to get down to business?”

  “As you wish, especially since I don’t wish to keep you from your friend.”

  Tommy clapped his hands twice, and two more Asian guys appeared from around a corner. One carried a briefcase the same make and model as the one Ed had, the other a submachine gun so exotic that even the ex-paratrooper didn’t recognize it.

  Letting his stomach settle a minute, Ed took his time saying, “And if you clapped just once?”

  “Then, regrettably, you’d be dead, and your friend soon thereafter.”

  Ed trusted himself only to nod this time. They exchanged briefcases—both unlocked, as usual—Ed looking into the one he was given. “Felix told me I didn’t have to test the stuff.”

  “If you did,” said Tommy, “he wouldn’t be doing business with my family in the first place.”

  “Good enough.” Ed glanced at the guy with the exotic piece. “Okay for me to leave?”

  “Of course,” said Tommy, standing, “Enjoy your visit to our valleys.”

  “My friend already has,” Ed rising and feeling he could turn his back on these guys as he walked to the door.

  “Oh, God,” said Brandi Willette, nursing the worst hangover she could remember and afraid to look over the side of the car, because the road just fell away down the steep, piney slope. “I think my ears are popping again.”

  “The change in altitude,” said Ed from behind the wheel. “And that bottle from the last winery you brought back to the room probably isn’t helping any.”

  “Please,” Brandi holding her left hand out in a “stop” sign while her right palm went from the teddy bear in her lap to cover her closed eyes. “Don’t remind me about last night, all right?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I think we both liked what happened next.”

  Well, you can’t disagree with the guy on that one, at least the parts of it you remember.

  Which were: Coming back to the room around five-thirty, after hitting the last row of wineries with names like Clos du Bois, Chauteau Souverain, and Sausal. Feeling free as could be from all the great stuff she’d tasted, and, although Brandi was still hiccuping, ready for anything. Including letting Ed slip her clothes off, the guy more gentle than she could have hoped. After a quick shower together, him touching her just about everywhere, them getting into the Jacuzzi—the guy must have had it filling up while he was stripping her in the bedroom and soaping her in the stall. And then getting a real good look at that snake he had down there, the head on it big as a cobra’s. And Brandi telling him to get in first, sit down, before lowering herself onto his soldier-at-attention. She stayed balanced by resting her palms on his shoulders, her nipples just skimming the surface of the sudsy water as she rocked up and down and back and forth—him laughing, because she still had the hiccups—until she came so violently and thoroughly it was like one long shudder that wasn’t a hiccup at all. In fact, took them away.

  And then him lifting her up, not even bothering to dry themselves off, and onto the soft mattress of the brass bed—her new teddy bear watching—for another, and another, and … .

  “Hey,” from the driver’s side, “you’re gonna puke, hold on till I can pull over.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” said Brandi, hoping she’d have better luck controlling her gag reflex than she did with the hiccups.

  “Okay,” said Ed Krause, nudging the chick on her bicep with his fist, “we’re here.”

  He watched Brandi’s head try to find its full and upright position in the passenger’s seat. After three hours of complaining about everything under the sun, she’d finally fallen asleep—or passed out—a good ten miles from Tahoe City, and therefore she’d missed some of the best fucking scenery Ed had ever driven through. Snow-capped, purple mountains, sprawling vistas down to pine-green valleys. The whole nine yards of America the Beautiful.

  And now Lake Tahoe itself.

  Brandi said, “I’m cold.”

  “Like I tried to tell you before, it’s the altitude. Walk slow, too, or you’ll start to feel sick.” Stick in the knife? Sure. “Again.”

  The chick raised her hand like she had before, reminding him of a school crossing guard, but she managed to get her side door open.

  After checking into the Sunnyside Lodge, Ed got them and their luggage to the suite, which had a little balcony off the living room and overlooking the waterfront, more mountains with snowy peaks kind of encircling the lake from high above. Brandi shuffled into the bedroom and flopped face down on the comforter, not even bothering to kick off her shoes. Ed heard snoring before he could secure his briefcase with the heroin behind the couch in the living room, pissed that the key fucking Tommy gave him for the handle lock didn
’t fucking work, so all Ed could do was click the catch shut.

  Leaving the chick to sleep it off, he went back downstairs and did a walkaround, first outside, then in. Big old lodge, darklog construction, security doors you’d need a computerized room key to open. A moose’s head was mounted on a wooden plaque over one fireplace, a bear’s over another, a buffalo’s over a third.

  Ed liked the place. Rugged, with the taxidermy adding just a hint about the history of killing the lodge had seen.

  But no pool, and when he asked at the lobby desk, the nice college-looking girl told him it was way too cold to swim in even the lake, because it never got warmer than sixty-eight degrees, “like, ever.”

  When Ed got back to the room, Brandi was still snoring. But checking how he’d wedged his briefcase behind the bureau, it had turned a few degrees. Ed tilted the briefcase back to its original angle, then stomped his foot a couple of times, harder on the third one.

  Brandi’s voice trickled out of the bedroom. “What the hell are you doing out there?”

  The briefcase never budged. “Testing the floorboards. Be sure they can take us rocking that mattress.”

  A different tone of voice with, “Wouldn’t we be better off doing your testing … in here?”

  And that’s when Ed Krause knew in his bones that Brandi Willette—given how shitty she must still be feeling—had snuck a peek into his unlockable briefcase, just as he’d gone through her “lucky” totebag the night before at the Inn on the Plaza in Healdsburg.

  “Honey,” said Brandi Willette, in the best seductive/hurt tone she knew, “I still don’t understand why I can’t come in there with you.”

  “Keep your voice down.”

  She watched Ed shut the driver’s side door, even almost slam it, in the yard he’d pulled into, a big Swiss-chalet style house on the lakeside in front of them.

  Ed turned back to her. “It’s like the last time.”

  “Confidential?”

  He glanced into the next yard. “I said, keep your voice down. And stay put.”