Michael Connelly - Murder in Vegas

“Precisely so. From Tahoe you’ll transport the remainder of the cash involved to Las Vegas.”

Christ, even a bonus. Growing up in Cleveland, Ed’d always had an itch to sample the glitzy life, but in all his time in San Fran’, he’d never been to Vegas. He’d heard everything there-thanks to the casino action-was bigger and better. spectacular tits and ass on the showgirls, classy singers and magicians, even lion tamers. Not like the trendy shit that passed for culture in the “City by the Bay.”

In fact, Ed had also seen-three times, at cineplex prices-that Nick Cage movie, Leaving Las Vegas. Got the guy an Oscar, and he fucking well deserved it. I mean, who’d ever believe that anybody’d want to check out of the genuine “City That Never Sleeps”?

Felix allowed himself another couple drops of his wine. “When you reach Las Vegas itself, a friend of mine will-shall we say, hand-wash-the actual bills for his own fee of a mere five percent, after which you shall bring the balance back here to me.”

Ed thought about it. A little complicated for his taste, given the number of stops and exchanges. But fifty thousand for what would be maybe three, four days tops of driving? And he didn’t give a shit whether his share was laundered or not, since Ed would be passing it in far smaller amounts than Wasserman probably had to pay his creditors.

“Felix, with all this running around, I’m gonna need a cover story, and an advance against expenses.”

Now a pursing of the lips. “How much?”

“That’ll depend on where I’m picking up the powder to begin with.”

Another sigh, but more-what the fuck was the word? Oh, yeah: wistful. “Edward, I actually envy you that, even though the Cabernet varietal, in my humble opinion, doesn’t really thrive there. You’ll make your first exchange in Healdsburg. Or just outside it.”

Ed had noticed the town’s name on maps, maybe two hours up U.S. 101 from the Golden Gate, in one of the many parts of the state called “wine country.”

He said, “Three thousand, then, upfront, given the cover story I’m thinking about.”

“Which is?”

“Bringing a chick along, camouflage for flitting around all these vacation spots like a butterfly.”

“A woman.” The deepest frown of all from Felix Wasserman. “That I don’t envy you, Edward.”

“Let me get this straight,” said Brandi Willette, trying to size up whether this guy who never plunged for more than three well-drinks at a sitting-but did tip her twenty percent every time he settled a tab-was on the level. “You want to take me-all expenses paid-with you on this whirlwind trip over the next four days?”

A nod from his side of the pub’s bar, the guy wearing an honest-to-God, old-fashioned sports jacket. “Maybe even longer, we like it in Vegas enough.”

Brandi had been there only once, on the cheap with a girlfriend, splitting every bill down the middle. The girlfriend turned out to be a drag, but Brandi loved the gambling, believing firmly that if she could just sense her luck changing, she’d make a fortune, even from the slot machines. The kind of money that’d let her get out from behind a smelly, tacky bar, listening to offers from guys like this… uh, this… “It’s ‘Eddie,’ right?”

“No. Just ‘Ed,’ like you’re ‘Brandi’ with an ‘I’.”

She shook her head, then had to blow one of the permed blond curls out of her face. “Okay, Ed. We go together, same room, same bed, but if I don’t feel like doing the nasty, we just share the sheets, not stain them?”

“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 reasonI bought it is how the last three numbers on the price tag all lined up the same, like it was gonna bring me luck?”