Michael Connelly - Murder in Vegas

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 thestuffed 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 Wassermandealt 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.”