21st Birthday (Women's Murder Club #21)(70)
Berney flicked his eyes toward me as I was leaving and then shot the dice. I didn’t wait to see how his throw landed. I was already in the main casino, checking out the rows of slots, the poker tables, the chandeliers and swag pendant lights above it all.
And then I saw Evan Burke. At least I thought so.
He’d scrubbed up since I’d seen him on his porch staring down his barrel, aiming at me. Now, Quicksilver was sitting at a tall stool around an oblong table, with five other players stacking their chips, watching the dealer. The man was dressed for a night of fun, wearing a gray dinner jacket over an expensive-looking open-collar shirt, also gray.
He watched the cards, but there was a cute young girl with long curly blond hair standing behind him, touching his shoulder, murmuring into his ear. After each winning hand, they hugged like it was true love. He had winnings and a girly girl less than half his age pressing her young body to his. Looked to me like the highly trained former Green Beret, the Ghost of Catalina, had plenty to keep him busy in Vegas.
Best thing about the tableau in front of me was that Burke hadn’t made me. I retraced my steps to the baccarat room and gave Alvarez and Berney a quick nod to say, He’s here.
Alvarez moved quickly to my side and we went back out to the casino proper, blending in with the shifting good-tempered crowd. As we watched, a loud celebratory shout came up from Burke’s spot at the card table. He raked in a small mountain of chips and relinquished his stool.
Before I could say, “Mr. Burke. We’d like to have a word,” the pretty young blonde opened her bag and Evan Burke dropped his chips inside. Together they headed toward the casino’s front doors.
Alvarez and I followed at a distance while never losing sight of our man and his girl. I saw through the open doors that an empty cab, orange-colored and plastered with casino ads, had pulled around to the entrance and stopped. The valet opened the rear door for Burke plus one. They got in, and their tangerine ride looped around and merged into the Strip.
I pushed ahead of the waiting crowd and flashed my badge. “Police business. Excuse us. Police.”
Another cab pulled up and I also badged the driver.
I hated to use the timeworn phrase, but after Alvarez and I were seated and belted in the back seat, I said it:
“Follow that cab. And step on it.”
CHAPTER 93
THE STRIP WAS fully jammed with vehicular traffic even on a Monday at 9:30 p.m., and Evan Burke’s tangerine-colored cab was locked in place three cars ahead of us.
Hotels came and went on both sides of the road, their hyper-bright icons leaving lingering images behind my eyes. The median planting between the north and southbound lanes of the Strip was a mesmerizing stretch of tall sabal palm trees. I processed it all peripherally, but kept my eyes glued to the orange cab.
A logjam in the intersection up ahead broke apart and cars sped up, then bumped to stops at the next light.
“Where’s Burke going?” I asked myself, but Alvarez answered as our cab turned left onto Fremont.
She said, “Looks like he’s heading for the Golden Eagle Hotel. Used to be a big-time movie-star hangout, but now it’s mainly down-and-outers who stay there. It’s due for a renovation it will never get.”
I saw the massive rectangular brick building three blocks away. It took up a whole block and was topped with a big gold eagle sculpture with its smaller twin perched over the marquis. Looked more like a wartime munitions factory than any of the other hotels on the Strip.
I said, “Sonia. You know this place?”
“Sure do. I know the layout, personnel, where to find the ladies’ rooms. Spent a good part of the last ten years undercover here.”
Up ahead, the traffic light turned red. The glowing orange taxi zoomed through. Horns honked, but there was no sound of crunching metal. Cars between us and Burke’s cab were at a standstill.
I spoke to the driver through the partition, “The orange cab? Did you see him drop off passengers at the Eagle?”
The driver said, “Looks like he stopped at the curb and, yeah. There he goes taking a turn at the next street over.”
I would have asked him to run the light, but it was impossible. We were hemmed in by traffic on four sides.
The driver turned to face me. “Want to get out here?”
I calculated time and distance, found a twenty plus tip in my handbag, stuffed it into the Lucite cash drawer.
“Let’s go,” I said to Alvarez.
She was already half out of the cab.
I followed her, wiggled around the lane of cars, reaching the sidewalk, and hit my stride with the Golden Eagle still a long block away.
Every second counted. If we lost Burke, we might not see him again.
Liveried bouncers opened the front doors for us. Sonia had Burke’s forty-year old army enlistment photo now updated with facial-aging software. She showed it to the bouncer, whose name tag read “Reynolds” and asked him, “Jamie. Is he here?”
“He had a girl with him.” Jamie Reynolds made a twirling motion with a finger near his head, indicating “curls” or “crazy.”
“Bet they’ll be in the casino.”
We entered the air-cooled darkness and into a lobby straight out of the 1940s. There was an eagle motif in the mile of carpet and gold striped wallpaper throughout. The casino was to the right, the front desk just ahead. I swept both spaces with my own eagle eyes but did not see the young woman with golden ringlets. And I didn’t see Evan Burke.