Vicki Pettersson - The Given

“Yeah. I get a shot at saving Kit’s life.” And nothing else mattered. “So let’s get on with it.”

So Sarge agreed, saying he’d allow enough time to get to McCoy’s home before she was killed, and now Grif was quick-footing it down the infamous Las Vegas Strip, dodging tourists like a salmon swimming upriver. He ignored the scattershot music blasting from the giant LED screens overhead, the roar of cabs and car horns on the wide, joyous streets, and the river of cascading lights overhead, so bright that they shuttered out the heavens he’d so recently inhabited.

The first time he’d lived this night he was playing cards with a bunch of old-timers in the back of the Italian-American Club, a social circle that’d been surprisingly hard to infiltrate. He’d been hoping they could give him some leads on the boys who’d run this town in 1960 . . . if any of them were left.

No chance of that now. He’d stood them up, and there’d be no second invite, though he might not need it if he reached Barbara McCoy in time. It was almost seven at night. She was slated to die within the hour.

He sidestepped, barely evading a body blow from a woman who was laughing as she looked behind her, swinging a neon drinking cup the length of her arm. A loud couple nudged by in the other direction, the male hitting Grif’s shoulder as they passed, but he ignored it, turned down Flamingo, and headed east. He overtook an older couple, both huffing as they dragged luggage down the sidewalk in search of McCarran Airport.

“It’s farther than it looks,” the woman grumbled, steering wide of a homeless man slumped against the wall. He smelled of alcohol and was arguing with ghosts. Unlike on the main drag, the homeless were more evident here. Another reminder that frivolity existed in the same world as abject cruelty, not that Grif needed it.

He paused before the man and handed him a few bucks. Then he thought about it, and handed over the entire roll. He’d been fresh off the craps tables when he died, plenty flush. Plus, no matter how much money he spent in this lifetime, the full amount would return to his wallet at the exact time of his original death: 4:10 every morning.

“What if I steal your wallet?” Kit had once asked, after learning of— seeing— his angelic nature.

“Then I slap your wrist,” he said, playfully doing just that as she curled up tight, warm at his side. He linked his fingers in hers. “But it’ll be back in my pocket at 4:10. Same as everything I died in.”

“So that explains the sweet vintage suit, the wingtips, the shit-hot stingy-brim.”

Yes, it explained all of his clothes, along with the photo of Evie he’d carried in his wallet, the snubnose with four remaining rounds secured at his ankle. All that was missing was his wedding ring, his driver’s license, and the memory of his death. The latter was why it was so damned hard for him to move on. His thoughts were still caught in 1960. Yet how could he look to the future when so many questions remained?

Strange, but the question no longer felt as important as it had before Nicole Rockwell had knocked him upside the head. Knocked some sense into him, too, it seemed, because Donel had been right about one thing. Grif’d been caught in an emotional limbo, stuck waiting for something, anything, to happen.

And now something had.

Gradually the streets shifted from bright and gaudy to a more muted chaos, and the Panorama Project, where Barbara McCoy lived, loomed before him. The high-rise was famous for its opulence and valley-wide views, which meant it was easy to spot as well. Good. The thought of having to ask for directions made him break out in sweat.

Drawing close, he studied the billboards touting the building’s many amenities and, with unit prices close to the seven-figure mark, there were more than a few. It boasted its own grocery “boutique,” as well as a dry cleaner, a workout facility and spa, and conference rooms for executives who preferred to take a mere elevator ride to work. There was a secure underground parking garage for residents, and a private guard to assist visitors. Barbara’s death in the guarded and stacked high-rise should have been a near impossibility. Grif shook his head. He also wondered how the hell he was going to get in.

He glanced straight up and took in the soaring twenty-floor facade as he approached the main entrance. Yet one look from the building’s guard, who gave Grif a good once-over as he circled the short drive, and a second glance at the security cameras dotting the shining glass entryway, and he knew he wouldn’t be entering from the front.

“Just gimme a door,” he muttered, shoving his hands into his pockets. He headed around the corner, pausing there for a moment.

It was Saturday night, but this neighborhood purposely lacked a thoroughfare, making the depths of it quiet, a stillness enhanced by the evening’s chill. Yet the high-rise was in the foreground, and there a steady stream of limousines and taxis were ferrying couples along the complex’s circular drive. The men were in tuxes, the women in furs, and all were greeted by the doorman or the security guard before disappearing inside.

Grif glanced down at his classic suit, smiled, and buffed his wingtips on the back of his pant legs. Then he straightened his skinny tie and decided to take a little stroll.

He timed his approach as a powder-blue Bentley rolled into the drive. The sleek, humming ride had the doorman jumping to attention, and Grif waited until the man had his hands full with fur pelts and perfumed wrists, assisting a woman wearing heels so stacked they resembled hooves. The doorman steadied her on her pins as she tried to find purchase on the faux cobblestone, and Grif slipped behind him . . . then plowed directly into a most inflexible chest.

“Good evening, sir,” rumbled the security guard. “Can I help you.”

It wasn’t a question.

“No, I’m fine.” Grif rubbed his chin and made to move around the guard.

The guard—HOWARD, said the name tag—intercepted like a linebacker. But not before Grif spotted the placard directing guests to the pool house.

“I’m afraid all visitors must check in with me, sir. Which resident may I call for you?”

Grif wasn’t about to say Barbara McCoy, not with her pending murder, so he motioned in the direction of the pool house. “I’m here for the Hastings’ vow renewals.”

He sidestepped the guard again, but Howard countered by widening his stance. Apparently, this was a full-on scrimmage. “Your invitation?”

Grif turned up his hands and motioned down his body. “I’m the entertainment.”

Howard’s brow remained low for a moment longer. Then a slow smile bloomed across his weathered face. “Of course! The funny hat should have tipped me off—”

Grif crossed his arms. He suddenly felt like scrimmaging.

But Howard motioned him inside, even holding the door wide as he pointed to the left. “Mr. Hasting loves all those old crooner tunes. Go on in. I think your band is already setting up.”

He was being so helpful that Grif forgave the hat remark. “Warming up,” he said, shooting Howard a wink. “They need more practice than me.”

The pool house lay tucked to the rear of the giant property, where a pert hostess in black silk cradled a clipboard, cheerily checking off guests’ names while a swing band was indeed setting up behind her. A normal enough scene, except that the band was suspended directly atop the pool. Vegas had to do everything bigger. He bet even the lemonade stands sported strobes and sequins.

Grif strolled over to the twin elevators leading to the residential towers, and bent to tie his shoe. When he rose, he sent a warm pulse of energy into his hand, and flashed his palm over the security card reader. The doors slid open with a soft ding.