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  THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 3 P.M. AND 4 P.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME

  3:01:16 P.M. PDT Mesa Canyon Townhouses North Buffalo Drive, Las Vegas

  The streets surrounding Mesa Canyon, a sun-washed residential development on the outskirts of Las Vegas, were deserted. Paul Dugan parked his Dodge Sprinter right outside the gate of Compound One, on the corner of Smoke Ranch Road and North Buffalo Drive. He opened the truck’s door, and immediately knew why. With nothing but concrete and sand all around, there was no shade, so the residents had taken refuge from the punishing heat and relentless sun inside the air conditioned comfort of their mock adobe townhouses.

  Fair-haired, tall and lean—despite hours of relative inactivity spent behind the wheel—Dugan retained his boyish good looks late into his third decade. That’s precisely why he was hired by Fit-Chef on the very day he filed an employment application, before he even passed his background check. Ric Minelli, FitChef’s smooth talking Las Vegas regional manager, was a former salesman himself. Ric understood his company’s clientele and realized immediately that Dugan’s home-spun charm would play well with his customer base, which was ninety-six point fi ve percent female.

  Paul had been with for Fit-Chef for a year now and liked his job. Fleeing a massive layoff in the blighted northeast, he left Johnstown, Pennsylvania and his shrew of an ex-wife, hoping to relocate to Los Angeles where he had friends. But the transmission on his car failed just shy of the California border, and while Paul waited in a Las Vegas garage for repairs, he met another driver for Fit-Chef. The man told Paul that the most popular food ser vice in Nevada was always looking for an experienced delivery driver. Now Paul was another transplant to the fastest growing urban area in the United States.

  Feeling the burn on the back of his ruddy neck, Dugan unlocked the back of the white panel truck, checked the manifest on his electronic pad. “T. Baird” was his next delivery destination. Paul grinned in anticipation. Tiffany Baird played a scantily-clad vampire at the new Goth extravaganza at the Castle Casino. Though he’d never actually seen the show, Paul couldn’t help but notice the ubiquitous ad campaign, in which Tiffany’s figure was prominently displayed. Of course, in reality Tiffany was nothing like her showgirl persona. She was actually rather sweet.

  In the shade of the truck’s interior, Paul fumbled around until he located the right order. Hefting the box, he closed the truck. As an added precaution, Dugan primed the alarm system. After what happened this morning, he knew it was wise to be careful.

  Whistling tunelessly, Paul carried the boxes to the gate, pressed the buzzer. The intercom crackled immediately. “Yeah? Hello . . .”

  “Fit-Chef,” Paul replied. The lock clicked and he pushed through the metal gate, entering a circular plaza surrounded by townhouses. In the center of the complex, the blue waters of a swimming pool shimmered invitingly, though the poolside was as deserted as the streets outside.

  Tiffany’s was the fourth door to the left, but Paul didn’t need to press the doorbell. She stood outside, awaiting her delivery. Even without makeup, Tiffany Baird was a stunner. Today she wore a baby blue nylon kimono that ended mid-thigh. Her long legs were naked, tiny feet slipped into matching blue plastic fl ip-flops. Her red hair was pulled back into a ponytail that spilled down her shapely back, held in place by an elastic hair band. Once again Paul noticed the third fi nger of her left hand lacked a ring.

  Tiffany Baird greeted him with a smile that was tempered with surprise. “What are you doing here?”

  “Hello, Miss Baird,” Paul replied. “I guess I got lucky.”

  “I thought that Mexican kid was delivering today.”

  Paul frowned. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were disappointed to see me.”

  “Not at all,” Tiffany cried, pushing an unruly lock of hair away from her face. “It’s just that the delivery is coming so late and all, I figured something must have happened.”

  Dugan handed her the package. She set it down on a plastic lawn chair, signed the electronic manifest he presented.

  “Actually, Ignacio’s day turned to crap,” Dugan said. “His truck got jacked a couple of hours ago. The punk who stole it pistol whipped Iggy, put him in the hospital.”

  Tiffany ripped the lid off the box. “Jesus. Ain’t nobody safe?” she grunted.

  “Apparently not,” Dugan replied. “It’s crazy, too. It’s not like he’s driving a Brinks truck, just a shit load of diet food—er, pardon my French.”

  Tiffany sniffed, frowning at the contents of a plastic container. “Edamame again. They call this protein?”

  Paul watched her rummage through the box, realized she wore nothing under the thin kimono.

  “If you ever get sick of that rabbit food, let me know. I’ll buy you a steak at Smith and Wollensky’s.”

  The bold invitation had come out of Paul’s mouth before he realized what he was saying. Now, face flushed with embarrassment, he waited for the polite rebuff—and felt like kicking himself.

  Tiffany licked teriyaki sauce off her fi ngers. Then she grinned. “Fit-Chef is a real full ser vice company, huh?”

  “I . . . I’m sorry,” he stammered.

  “Don’t be,” Tiffany replied, tapping his nametag with an ebony enameled finger. “In fact, you better watch yourself, Mr. Dugan. I might just take you up on your offer.”

  Dugan blinked. “How about this Saturday?”

  Tiffany’s grin broadened. “How about Sunday. I work Fridays and Saturdays.”

  Paul nodded, speechless.

  “You’ve got my phone number in that little computer of yours,” Tiffany said, hefting her delivery. “Give me a call on Friday and we’ll set a time.”

  Dugan stood blinking in the sun for a full thirty seconds after Tiffany Baird closed her front door. Finally he turned and, whistling again, headed back to the truck.

  Crossing the sidewalk, Paul Dugan was too distracted to notice the late-model black Ford Explorer with tinted windows parked across the street. Still lost in a fog of euphoria, he deactivated the alarm and unlocked the door.

  A shadow suddenly crossed the sun, then something exploded inside Paul Dugan’s head. A sharp jolt of pain roiled his spine. His knees gave out and he dropped to the hot asphalt. Seemingly in slow motion, he reached out to steady himself—only to have the truck’s keys snatched out of his semi-limp fi ngers. Paul grunted in protest, and another blow came down on the back of his head, slamming him fl at.

  He moaned as someone stepped over him. Hot tar burned his cheek. The wheels right next to his head spun, squealing, as the truck roared away. A moment of throbbing silence followed. Then a red haze engulfed his vision, and Paul Dugan’s world faded to black.

  3:09:26 P.M. PDT North Buffalo Drive, Las Vegas

  “Big Ed’s got the keys and made it away clean,” said

  the fi dgeting man in the passenger seat.

  “Let’s go,” the driver grunted.

  Toomes threw the Explorer into gear, pulled away

  from the curb. As they drove by, Drew peered through the tinted glass at the man on the ground.

  “Jesus, I hope Big Ed didn’t kill ’em,” he said, one hand clinging to the dashboard.

  “So what if he did?” Toomes kept his eyes on the highway, his giant hands wrapped around the steering wheel. His rubbery jowls bounced like jelly on the rough pavement.

  “Goddamn construction,” he cursed.

  Drew dropped back into his seat. He lifted his wrist to display his plastic Seiko watch. “It’s after three. We should have been back by now.”

  “Relax. We’re done. We’re gonna pick up the other trucks.”

  “Yeah, we’re done. But was it done smart?” Drew’s voice was high. His eyes were close together, and bulged a little, like fish eyes. Now they darted nervously. “Listen, Hugo told us to snatch three trucks in Reno, Toomes. Not Vegas, Reno. That’s ’cause he doesn’t want them turning up on the Metro Police stolen vehicle sheet for twenty-four hours—”

  Toomes snorted. “Hugo Bix gives the cops in this town way too much credit. Why should I give up my winning seat at a high stakes table at the Bellagio, to drive to Reno in the middle of the stinking night. All that, just to jack three trucks?”

  “It’s what the boss wanted—”

  “Bix is getting what he wants,” Toomes replied. “He wanted three Dodge Sprinter panel trucks, and that’s what we jacked. He said it would be better if they were white, and they’re white.” Toomes slapped the steering wheel. “Dream come true.”

  Drew calmed a little. “We’re in the clear, as long as Big Ed don’t say nothing to Hugo before we get there . . .”

  “If Big Ed says anything, he won’t get paid. And Big Ed likes to get paid.”

  Toomes braked for a traffi c light. Traffic was particularly heavy along this stretch near the Lakes.

  “Man, we’re later and later,” Drew whined.

  Wheezing, Toomes glanced at his own watch. The Rolex seemed tiny on his thick wrist, the band tight around fl esh and muscle.

  “It’s not even three-thirty,” the big man wheezed. “Hugo’s boys have plenty of time to prime the trucks. We’ll go fetch the two we jacked this morning and drive them over to the garage. Bix will be so happy to see us he’ll never know the difference.”

  3:13:08 P.M. PDT The Cha-Cha Lounge, Las Vegas

  Crossing the game floor to the Tiki Lounge, Jack heard his cell phone beep over the jangling slots. He slipped into an alcove near the rest rooms, an area marginally shielded from the noise.

  “Jager,” he answered.

  “It’s O’Brian.”

  “Where are you, Morris?”

  “Up in the rafters with the rest of the bats.”

  Jack automatically glanced up. Somewhere behind the one way mirrors that made up the ceiling, Morris O’Brian was watching him.

  “Got a call for you, Jack. It’s Henderson, across the special line.”

  Jack tensed, sure it was more bad news. “Put him through.”

  A long silence. Then Jack heard a breath inhaled hundreds of miles away, at CTU, Los Angeles.

  “You don’t have many fans upstairs, do you Jack?” Christopher Henderson’s voice was delayed a second and oddly distorted—byproducts of Morris O’Brian’s audio encryption system. But at least no one could possibly intercept the call, either here or at CTU.

  “What’s going on?” Jack asked.

  “I have a bureaucrat by the name of Alberta Green up my ass. You know the woman?”

  “Yes.”

  “She’s been questioning our operation from its

  inception, even though she doesn’t have a clue what we’re doing. Now she’s talking about pulling the plug

  on our budget if we don’t show some results.”

  “She can do that?”

  The pause seemed overlong this time. “She can, especially with Ryan Chappelle making the same noise. Unless we show some progress, we could be shut down tomorrow.”

  Jack chose not to hide his impatience. “We’ve made progress. I’ll put you through to Morris again. He’ll update you.”

  Before his boss could reply, Jack put Henderson on hold and punched up Morris.

  “I heard, Jack. And I might say that from up here, you don’t look particularly happy.”

  “Morris, I want you to brief Henderson about the technology we seized today.”

  “Will do. Should I mention our corpse down in the basement?”

  “Say nothing for now. If Henderson asks, tell him I’m still interrogating the suspect. I need to fi nd out who killed Max Farrow before I can reveal his death.”

  O’Brian paused. “Gambling again, Jack?”

  “Morris. Don’t second guess me. Just do your job.”

  “Right-O, chief. I’ll—”

  Jack hung up, slipped the cell into his pocket. He felt an impotent rage welling up inside of him. He already knew this operation was running on borrowed time, but Jack was hoping that today’s discovery of stolen technology would breathe new life into the investigation. The death of Max Farrow had thrown more than a crimp into his plans. Ironically the man’s capture had been their first break, but Farrow’s death—once revealed—might end the operation immediately. Before Henderson’s call, Jack felt he still had a little time to maneuver. Now, with the entrance of Alberta Green into the equation, his window of opportunity had been reduced from days to hours.

  A hand on his shoulder broke Jack’s concentration. “Hey, Jaycee. Have you seen—?”

  “What?” Jack snapped.

  Lilly Sheridan took two steps backwards. “Jesus, I’m sorry I bothered you.” The woman turned away. Jack grabbed her arm. “Whoa, Lilly. Don’t go. I’m sorry I took your head

  off.” Lilly pulled back. “Don’t, Jaycee—” Her eyes were locked on his fi ngers. Jack released her arm.

  “Look, I didn’t mean anything,” Jack told her. “I’m having a rough day, that’s all. You’re looking for Stella, right?”

  She hugged herself, nodding. “I’m supposed to give her a ride somewhere before I go to work.”

  Jack nodded. “Yeah, over to Hugo’s garage.”

  The woman frowned. “I didn’t want to say.”

  “Yeah, well . . .” Jack grunted, in character.

  Lilly shrugged. “Look, I don’t know what’s what . . . Who knows what game Stella’s playing.” “No game, so she says. Just a repair job,” Jack replied. He watched Lilly’s expression, saw the skepticism there. He wondered if Lilly was lying. If she really did

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  know something he didn’t. Was Stella still working for Hugo Bix?

  “Let’s go to my table at the Tiki,” Jack offered. “Stella’s using the shower. She’ll be down in a minute.”

  “I don’t know, Jaycee. I have my daughter here.”

  “Here?” Jack said, genuinely surprised.

  A girl Jack guessed was about ten years old stepped around an idle bank of slots. She met his gaze, regarding Jaycee Jager with a mixture of wariness and unconcealed interest.

  “This is Pamela,” Lilly said, pulling the child close.

  Jack blinked. Though Pamela Sheridan was a few years younger than his own daughter, he was suddenly reminded of Kim. Jack wondered what she was doing right now. Was Kim in school, or in rehearsal for the class play—she’d won a prized role, he remembered. With a jolt he also recalled that Kim’s show was staged last week, and he’d missed her performance. The realization was so hurtful that Jack immediately pushed it aside. With an effort, he smiled down at the girl, shook her tiny hand. “Hello, Pamela,” he said.

  Jack’s flaring emotions reined, his professional instincts reasserted themselves. He noted that the resemblance between mother and daughter was obvious. Both had wide, expressive blue eyes and high cheekbones. Lilly’s blond hair was a shade darker than her daughter’s and cut so short it curled around her ears. While Lilly was tall and willowy, her child was skinny, all arms and legs and a neck like a gazelle’s.

  “Let’s go to the Tiki,” Jack coaxed. “The joint’s deserted this time of day. We’ll sit in the back and Pamela can have a ginger ale or something.”

  Lilly hesitated, then nodded. Jack, mindful of their seedy surroundings, took them straight to a remote booth near an oasis of fake palm trees and a fl ock of plastic pink flamingoes. The waitress appeared at Jack’s shoulder. She wore a bikini top, grass skirt, and sneakers.

  “Nancy, the young ladies will have ginger ales . . . Make it three.”

  The drinks appeared in under a minute.

  “How are things at the Babylon?” Jack asked.

  Lilly curled her nose. “Big political event tonight. I’m doing double duty, hostess and server. It’s a nice gig with extra money attached.” While she spoke, Lilly fished in her tiny purse until she found her cell phone. Still talking, she checked her messages. “Sorry, Jaycee. I’m waiting to hear from my babysitter.”

  She slipped the cell back into her purse.

  Pamela seemed intrigued by the fake fl amingoes, left the booth to get a better look. Jack leaned closer to Lilly.

  “So,” he said softly. “You think it’s wise for Stella to go over to Hugo’s garage, after she dumped him for me?”

  Lilly adjusted her pink blouse. “Stella and Hugo, they’re friendly. I mean, I don’t know what goes on between you and Hugo, but Bix seems civilized. And Stella steers business his way—”

  She suddenly covered her mouth. “Oh, crap! Maybe I wasn’t supposed to say anything about that.”

  Jack reassured her immediately. “Our relationship

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  is personal, not business,” he said. “It’s just that Hugo’s been messing with me. I don’t want him messing with Stella.”

  Lilly looked away, sipped her drink.

  Jack reached into his pocket. “Here, Lilly, I want you to take this,” he said, displaying one of Jager’s business cards. He turned it over. On the back was another number, written in his own handwriting.

  “That’s my personal cell phone number,” he explained. “If I don’t pick up, a guy named Morris O’Brian will. If Stella gets into a jam, or if you ever get into trouble, give me a call.”

  Lilly accepted Jaycee’s card, but her expression said it all—the last thing she felt she needed was another sympathy play from a lowlife gangster who was banging her roommate.

  “There you are.”

  Jack and Lilly looked up. Stella had arrived. She was as put together as she’d been when she arrived. Dress in place, makeup perfect.

  “Ready to go, Lil?”

  “Sure,” Lilly said, jumping up. “I’ll just fetch Pamela.”

  Stella Hawk watched her roommate chase after her daughter. “She dotes on that brat,” Stella said with a sigh.

  “Will I see you later?” Jacked asked, wrapping his arm around Stella’s waist.

  “Depends,” Stella replied, peeling his hand away.

 

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