Vanishing Point - Marc Cerasini [19]
Voluptuous yet lithe, with slender waist, full hips and eye-catching cleavage, amply displayed by the extreme v-neck of her filmy saffron sundress, Stella Hawk radiated a vitality as fierce and sultry as the desert winds. Her raven hair, streaked with russet highlights, fell in glossy waves down her supple, sculpted back; and, with each confident stride, a thin chain of tiny platinum bell charms tinkled faintly around her ankle.
Heads turned as the woman strutted through the betting floor — there were even a few whistles and cat calls. But if Stella noticed their stares or heard their cries, she paid no mind. A star performer in Risque, an erotic stage extravaganza performed nightly at the Babylon Hotel and Casino on the Vegas Strip, Stella wasn't just accustomed to the adoration of the opposite sex. She reveled in the attention and expected nothing less.
After passing through the casino, Stella entered the Tiki Lounge, walking between two fifteen-foot wooden totems imported from some unnamed South Sea island back when Frank Sinatra and the Rat Pack were a Vegas fixture. She sidled up to the pit boss, who was sipping a scotch at the end of the long, polished mahogany bar.
"Hey, doll," he said with a wink. "Long time, no see. Where you been keeping yourself?" the pit boss asked.
Stella sat on a stool, crossed her shapely legs. "Oh, you know. Here and there."
"Can I buy you a drink?"
"It's a little early, and I'm working tonight." She opened her leather handbag, pulled out a cell and checked the messages. Stella rolled her eyes in obvious annoyance when she found a voice message left by her roommate. Stella closed the phone without retrieving it.
The bartender placed a glass of iced water before Stella. She ignored it. "Where's Jaycee?" she asked.
Driscoll stared down at the brown liquid in his shot glass. "He's in the basement, working on a problem. He's busy. Real busy. You want I should interrupt him?"
"Of course I want you to interrupt him, Don," she said, her full lips curling into a lewd smile. "You tell Jaycee that his Stella's back in town, and she needs some attention real bad..."
2THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 1 P.M. AND 2 P.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME
1:00:57 p.m. PDT
Babylon Hotel and Casino, Las Vegas
"Lev," Senator David Palmer whispered through gritted teeth, "what is all this?"
The hotel lobby was crowded with reporters, all of whom obviously had anticipated the senator's arrival. But David Palmer had been given no notice of this instant public appearance. He was tired, his throat was parched, and the long flight West had left him unkempt and irritable. To top it off, the limo's air conditioner had been on the fritz, so there were perspiration stains under the arms of his wrinkled white button-down.
Still, Palmer knew the power of the photo op; and, inside of fifteen seconds, his initial expression of surprise, then extreme annoyance, vanished. In its place came the well-rehearsed campaign smile. His grin was so firmly set that his lips barely moved when he quietly asked his chief of staff what the hell was going on.
Lev Cohen's fleshy face flushed under his red beard.
"Sorry, David. I didn't know about any event," he replied. "It must be something Congressman Bell's people set up..."
"You should have known about it." Senator Palmer's voice was an irritated rumble.
Sherry Palmer suddenly appeared at her husband's side, tucked her hand under his arm. "You've made this trip to raise your national profile before our run for the Presidency, David," she reminded him softly.
Palmer arched an eyebrow. "Our run?"
Sherry didn't miss a beat. "Yes, David," she purred, her eyes scanning the crowd for familiar media faces. "And I'll be right there beside you the whole way."
The crowd had assembled inside the immense sandstone and glass atrium of the ultra-modern Babylon Hotel and Casino, an architectural showplace