Vanishing Point - Marc Cerasini [68]
"Puta heroin junkies," Balboa sneered.
Tossing a sidelong glance at Pizarro, Stella's full lips curled into a smirk. "Some girls have a problem dancing nude six nights a week in front of a packed house. I'm not one of them."
They reached a steel door. Stella halted. "Here we are."
There were no handles, no way to open the door that the Rojas brothers could see. Without comment, Stella reached into her bag, pulled out a wire coat hanger than had been spun into a tight loop. She unbent the end, slid it into the crack between the door and the doorjamb. The men heard a click.
"Open sesame," Stella chirped.
She held the door open and the men slipped inside. Pizarro locked eyes with her as he crossed the threshold and Stella could see his attitude was softening. His face wore the same sneer as his brother's, but she could see admiration behind his stare, too. Stella gently closed the metal doors, faced the brothers.
"How close are we to the ballroom?" Pizarro asked.
"Top floor," Stella replied. "And I'm sure the guest elevators are well guarded. I know where the service elevators are located however."
Pizarro stepped aside to allow Stella to pass. "Lead on," he said, almost civilly.
11THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 10 P.M. AND 11 P.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME
10:07:07 p.m. PDT
The Cha-Cha Lounge, Las Vegas
The call Don Driscoll had been waiting for came near the end of the evening shift. He reached his meaty hand into the orange jacket, then placed a cell phone to his ear.
"This is Driscoll."
"It's Wildman. We're outside. You ready to rumble?"
"Go to the back of the casino. Follow the building until you find a steel door marked High Voltage. I'll be there in five minutes to let you in. Be ready to go..."
Driscoll slipped the phone into his pocket. The pit boss looked for someone to spell him, spotted Chick Hoffman closing his roulette table. Like the big casinos, dealers at the Cha-Cha worked twenty minutes, then had twenty minutes off. While that was a lot of break time, casino management had learned that an inattentive dealer could cost the casino a lot of money. Since the crowd was so light, Driscoll had given the okay for Chick Hoffman, Frank Ross and Bud Langer to close down their tables for the break. Now he approached Chick.
"Play pit boss for fifteen minutes," Driscoll asked. "I need to take a dump."
"Will do," Chick replied, cooperating for once instead of giving him lip. Driscoll figured Hoffman was still jazzed about the vig Jaycee was slipping him for collaring the cheat.
Instead of heading for the employee break area, Driscoll went behind the bar and hopped into the freight elevator. He rode it down two floors to the beverage room. Passing stacks of untapped kegs, cases of the hard stuff, he entered the dingy hall.
The click of his leather heels bounced off the cinderblock walls as he walked to the remote storage room. The place seemed undisturbed, the air musty. Just to be safe, Driscoll checked on the corpse.
Ray Perry was right where he left him. Driscoll had stabbed Ray to death in the security cell where he'd killed Max Farrow, then rolled the body here on a freight handler. He knew he'd have to come back to this room, to the circuit box to cut the alarm on the back door. It was as good a place as any to stash a corpse.
Driscoll approached the steel circuit box, opened the hatch and threw several switches. He deactivated the alarms at the back door, and cut the juice to all the security cameras in the basement.
Driscoll pulled out his cell phone, dialed the number to the observation booth.
"Morris here," O'Brian answered.
"It's Driscoll. Where's Jaycee?"
"He's downstairs, in the security cell," Morris replied. "Seeking clues about the unexpected demise of our guest, I suspect. Do you need to talk to him?"
"Nah," Driscoll replied. "It's nothing."
In the hidden catwalks over the dealer rooms, Morris O'Brian hung up the phone at his security control station.
"Over here, Jack," he called.
Jack Bauer peered over his shoulder.
Morris flipped a switch and a security