Michael Connelly - Void Moon

"Something like that, Jack. It would have solidified yours, too. Anybody with me would be along for the ride. I was going to get kicked up to GM. I would've been able to pick my own man in casino ops, put whoever I wanted up in the nest."

"What about Hector Blanca? He'd want his own man up there."

"Doesn't matter. The deal I made gave me the choice."

Karch got up and joined Grimaldi at the window. They spoke while both looked out across the desert to the mountains beyond.

"So the guy on the bed – Hidalgo – came out here with payment number one and got ripped off. It sounds like their problem, Vincent. Not yours. Not ours."

Grimaldi responded in an even tone. His words were measured, severe. The histrionics were gone and Karch knew this was when he was most dangerous. Like a dog with a broken tail. You try to pet it and you still might get your hand bitten off.

"It is my problem and that makes it yours," Grimaldi said. "I set up the transaction. The second that Hidalgo stepped off the plane at McCarran he and the money were in my care. That's the way Miami looks at it, so it's my ass that is on the line."

Karch raised his eyebrows.

"You already told Miami about this?"

"I talked to Miami right before I called you. Not an enjoyable call to make. But the picture was made real clear to me. The courier is no great loss. But the money, that's different. They're holding me responsible for it."

He paused for a moment and when he began again there was a note of desperation and maybe even pleading in his voice. It was a small note but it was there. It was a tone Karch had never heard coming from Vincent Grimaldi in the many years they had known each other.

"I have to get the money back, Jack. The GCIU report goes to the printer on Tuesday. After that it's too late to change. I have to get the money back and make the payment or the sale goes down the toilet. That happens and Miami will be sending people out."

He used his chin again to point, this time out toward the desert.

"That's where they'll take me. Out with the rest of them who didn't go the distance in this town. Breathing sand."

Grimaldi shook his head once, a quick, tight back-and-forth.

"I'm sixty-three years old, Jack. Forty-five fucking years in this town and that's what I'll get."

Karch let a delicious ten seconds slide by before responding.

"We can't let that happen, Vincent. We won't."

Grimaldi nodded and his mouth turned up into a humorless smile.

"Good old Jack of Spades. I knew I could count on you."

KARCH began with the body, studying its position and the pattern of blood spatter on the headboard and wall. The fat man had obviously been sitting upright on the bed when he took the bullet. The shooter had been standing at the foot of the bed.

"A lefty," he said.

"What?" Grimaldi asked.

"The shooter. He was left-handed. Most likely."

He stood in the position the shooter would have stood and extended his left arm. He nodded. It was likely that if Hidalgo had been hit in the right eye by a bullet from a gun held by someone facing him, then that person held the gun in his or her left hand.

His eyes traveled up from the body to the headboard and wall. Back at the office he had a couple of books on blood spatter – how to read the meanings of elliptical versus circular blood drops and so on. But he had never gotten past the introductory chapters because the stuff was so deadly boring and rarely usable in his line of work. What was to be read of significance from this tableau? Not much. The guy was alive and then he was dead. That was all.

"Anybody report a shot?" he asked.

"No," Grimaldi said. "But I wanted him isolated. So none of the rooms on either side or across were occupied. Also, I don't know if it connects up but there was a fire alarm on this floor last night."

Karch looked at him.

"About eleven," Grimaldi said. "Somebody left a cigarette on a room service cart and parked it in the service alcove, right below a smoke detector."

Karch nodded at the dead man.

"Was he evacuated? Did he leave his room?"

"Not that we know of. I have somebody pulling together the tapes so we can look at everything."

Karch nodded but was unsure how the fire alarm could have played into things. He looked at the body again.

"I think what you have here is a half-assed attempt to make this look like a suicide. But – "

"This was no suicide. This was a fucking rip-off. "

"I know, Vincent, I know. Listen to me. I said an attempt to make it look that way. A lousy attempt at that. Just listen to me before you start going off."

He decided to discontinue his running commentary. He'd let Grimaldi figure out things for himself. What bothered him most about the scene was the handcuffs. He didn't understand why they weren't removed.

"Vincent, I take it you searched this place top and bottom for the money?"

"Yes, it's gone. The case, too."

"What about his keys?"

"Keys?"

"Keys." He pointed to the dead man's wrist with the two cuffs on it. "The key to the cuffs, where is it?"

"I don't know, Jack. I didn't see any keys. Whoever took the money, took the keys, I guess. But they'll get a surprise."

"What surprise?"

"The key to the briefcase won't be on there. Fat boy here didn't have it. Mr. Bla – uh, his boss didn't want him opening it, maybe going down to the tables with a piece of the cash. So he sent the key to me and I would open the case at the drop meeting this morning. I have the key but no fucking briefcase to open. The case has electronic protection – like a stun gun. Somebody tries to open it without the key, they'll get knocked on their ass good. Ninety thousand volts."

Karch nodded and took a small notebook and pen from his pocket. He jotted down a note about the key and the briefcase.

"What are you writing, Jack?"

"Just a couple notes, so I can keep things straight."

"I don't want any of this information getting into the wrong hands."

Karch turned and looked at Grimaldi. It backed him down.

"I know, Jack. You'll be discreet."

Karch came around the bed and looked at the watch on the night table. It looked like a Rolex. He hooked the pen through the metal band and lifted it, holding it so that he could look at the wrist plate.

"Whoever it was who did this was smart enough to know this is a phony."

"Anybody on the con would know that, Jack. They sell those things for fifty bucks on the sidewalk outside of any place on Fremont. Whoever it was was smart enough to know what they wanted was the goddamn money and that was it."

Karch nodded and put the watch back down. He stepped over to the closet and opened it and looked down at the safe. The door was open and it was empty.

"Tell me about this guy, Vincent. When did he come into town?"

"Three days ago. I wasn't sure when the drop would take place. The guy we were paying was calling the shots on that. We just had to be ready with the cash. Hidalgo came in Monday and we waited."

Karch squatted on his haunches and closed the door to the safe but not all the way. He studied the combination pad.

"He stay in the room the whole time?"

"No, he spent a lot of time on the floor. I gave him a draw and the fuck started cleaning up on me. Christ, I thought if we didn't get this drop taken care of soon he was going to bankrupt us down there."

Karch turned and looked up at Grimaldi.

"How much did he win, Vincent?"

"I gave him fifty bees out of the cage on Monday. By last night he had turned that into a hundred K and change. He was doing good. He was tipping hundred-dollar bills around like it was toilet paper."

Karch looked back at the safe and swung the door open. He looked into its emptiness but was not really seeing anything. He was thinking, brooding on what Grimaldi had just said.