21st Birthday by Patterson, James (mystery books to read txt) 📗

and me. He’d help us transport the SOB to San Francisco for questioning. After thanking us for our assistance, he’d fly Burke to Quantico, all softened up and ready to admit to innumerable crimes he was suspected of committing.

Alvarez looked very comfortable on her old turf. I was uneasy. The plan was mostly “make it up as you go.” Alvarez and I didn’t have much history together, and Berney and I had none.

I wished he’d said there were a few dozen undercover FBI agents disguised as porters and housekeepers ready to grab the presumed killer, chopper him back to the Hall, and leave him with us for a few night interrogations that would result either in a bulletproof confession or believable deniability.

Berney glanced at his phone while reaching for his wallet. The mild, satisfied look on his face was gone.

Joe asked what was wrong and Berney said, “My signal from Burke’s GPS is down.”

So, Berney was in the dark with the rest of us.

Was Burke’s signal down temporarily?

Or had he deliberately pulled off the road, turned off the engine, and let his GPS signal go dark.

He could be right here.

Right now.

Berney said, “You all have my number. Emergency calls only. Thanks.”

He put a stack of bills on top of the check, and as quickly as he’d arrived he was gone.

Joe said, “I should be going. Got a message for the Bugster?”

A Neil Diamond classic was playing, “Cracklin’ Rosie.” I walked Joe to the escalator, and asked him to bring Julie a few bars of the song if he could sing it.

“I can sing it, Blondie, but I’m not sure how to explain, ‘Cracklin’ Rose, you’re a store-bought woman.’”

I laughed. “Can you hum it?”

“May-bee. How do you feel?”

“Mixed. I want to get Burke, badly. Berney has said, ‘Be very careful,’ but I’m not really getting the plan.”

“You’ve got this, Linds. You backed Burke down on Mount Tam, and Berney respects that. Alvarez is a great asset. Berney will have eyes on you. And bringing down bad guys is what you do. Get Burke in your sights, throw him down. Call Berney to help you get Burke to Clapper. That’s the plan.”

Hunh. I didn’t love it.

Joe asked, “Where’s your piece?”

I patted my handbag.

He kissed me, told me he loved me and to call him when I could. He waved as he went down the escalator. I think he was singing along with Neil Diamond.

CHAPTER 92

ALVAREZ AND I WERE in our fancy duds and had loaded guns in our handbags.

It was still early in the evening so Alvarez took me for a tour of the Bellagio’s cavernous main room.

We started with a peek in at the baccarat table in an alcove off the casino. It was quieter by far than the dinging, ringing of the slots and the ten-decibel excitement of the players popping the lids off their everyday lives to sounds of Sinatra’s greatest hits.

Alvarez explained to me how baccarat was played as we strolled through the marble-floored playground with its convex glass ceiling over the huge ground floor, the conservatory, the lobby with forty tons of Chihuly’s glass flowers clustered at the ceiling dome. We window-shopped the high-end boutiques; Dior, Prada, Chanel, where Alvarez was connected enough to get big discounts on last season’s evening clothes.

That was very cool.

But I never stopped thinking about Evan Burke.

At nine, we stood around the baccarat table with our backs to the wall and watched Berney clean up. Either he was in his wheelhouse or the dealer was in his pocket because all eyes were on Berney. The other players were in jackets, but Berney was wearing his pink sweater. If Burke was looking for Berney, he really couldn’t miss him. When the spectators were two or three deep behind the players, I signaled to Alvarez that I was going to step outside the room and have a look around.

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