“I sure as hell don’t have any right now.” There was an uncharacteristic weariness in Fallon’s voice. “You said the guy waiting in your room was a hunter?”
“We didn’t have much of a conversation, but I can tell you he moved like a hunter. He was also bulked up on steroids.”
“Don’t take this wrong,” Fallon said. “I’m glad you and Chloe are okay. But how did you do it? Hunters are fast.”
“I’m a strat, remember? I’ve got a few tricks of my own.”
“Huh.”
Fallon wasn’t buying the explanation.
“I got lucky,” Jack said. Lying came easily when you were a strat. Just part of the talent. “There was a struggle. The guy panicked and ran off, probably afraid of drawing attention. The second man was waiting in the alley out back with a Harley. No license.”
“Nightshade,” Fallon said. “Got to be. Listen up, Jack. You and Chloe need to ditch your phones, computers, credit cards and anything else of an electronic nature. Nightshade may be using one or all of them to track you. You both need some new ID. And I’m not talking about the papers you’ve been carrying around for the past year. Burn ’em.”
“You knew I had some fake ID? Then you have been watching me.”
“No, but I know you, Jack. We think alike in some ways. If I’d been in your shoes all these years I’d sure as hell have had some emergency ID stashed for just this kind of situation.”
The black-tinted glass doors of the casino slid open with a soft hiss. Cold, stale air rushed out. Jack followed Chloe into the neon-sparked darkness.
“We’re in the middle of a desert, Fallon, and you’re telling me I can’t use computers or phones,” he said. “Just how do you expect me to come up with two new sets of ID?”
“You’re in Vegas. You can buy anything in that town. But if you want top-of-the-line work I suggest you ask Chloe to introduce you to her Uncle Edward and her Cousin Dex.”
Jack came to a halt near a row of gleaming, flashing, blinking slots. He took off his sunglasses and looked at Chloe. “You know that Chloe’s uncle here in Vegas does fake IDs?”
Chloe’s eyes widened.
“Harper work is the best,” Fallon said simply. “Always has been. Family’s got a talent for that kind of thing. Who do you think I use?”
He cut the connection.
31
“UNCLE EDWARD, I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU’VE BEEN WORKING for Jones & Jones since Fallon Jones took over the agency,” Chloe said. She was still reeling from the news. “I don’t know what to say. I’m aghast. Stunned. Shocked. Is anyone else in the family aware of this? Do Mom and Dad have any idea?”
They were sitting in Edward Harper’s paneled office on the second floor above the showroom and warehouse. The address was just off Dean Martin Drive near Tropicana Avenue, a gritty, industrial neighborhood. There was a truck-stop casino next door that catered to truckers looking for a break from the long haul to California or the East Coast. Across the street was a building with blacked-out windows and a neon sign that read Gentlemen’s Club. But here on the premises of Harper Fine Furnishings the atmosphere was classic Old World elegance.
Edward was seated behind a graceful Louis XV ormolu- mounted, veneered desk. She and Jack occupied a pair of George III mahogany chairs. The paintings on the walls were mid-eighteenth century. An expensively suited, elegantly groomed assistant had been sent for coffee. They were sipping the beverage from nineteenth-century porcelain cups. At least, Chloe thought, they looked exactly like nineteenth-century china.
Edward was a polished, patrician-faced man with silver-white hair, manicured hands and a well-cared-for body. From his tasseled loafers to his Italian jacket, trousers, tailored shirt and silk tie he was a model of the bespoke lifestyle.
“So few people appreciate quality workmanship these days,” he said. He had the grace to appear mildly apologetic. “There was a time when forgery was considered an art form. But, alas, those days are long gone. Done in by desktop publishing and high-tech copiers. The business went into a general decline a few years ago—we were forced to expand our client base.”
“Don’t you mean you lowered your standards for clients?” Chloe said sternly. “Really, Uncle Edward. Jones & Jones?”
Edward widened his hands in a what-can-one-do gesture. “Fallon Jones pays well, and he is a connoisseur. In this day and age it is a rare pleasure to work with a client who has a truly discerning eye. And I will let you in on a little secret—this isn’t the first generation of our family to make our art available to J&J.”
“Oh, geez,” Chloe said. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this.”
“I would appreciate it if you didn’t mention my little arrangement with J&J to anyone else in the family, however,” Edward said.
“Don’t worry. Harper Investigations is big on confidentiality. It’s just the shock, you know?”
“Of course. Thank you, my dear.” Edward looked at Jack. “Now, then, I believe we are talking about two new complete packages. Not just the usual driver’s licenses and the like but credit cards and clean phones, as well?”
“I’ll also need a clean computer,” Jack said.
Edward nodded. “Passports?”
Jack glanced at Chloe. “Sure, why not? We’ll take the works.”
“Certainly.”
Edward reached under his desk and pushed a concealed button. A section of office paneling slid silently aside revealing a windowless room filled with stainless-steel workbenches and an array of gleaming, high-tech equipment. Chloe saw a familiar figure bending over a light box, a jeweler’s loupe in one eye.
“Dex,” she said.
She jumped out of her chair and hurried toward him through the maze of UV light viewers, cameras, laptops, printers, copiers, laminating machines and exotic lighting devices.
Dex straightened and turned. When he saw her, he grinned widely. “Hey, there, Chloe. I didn’t know you were in Vegas.”
Dex was about her age, tall and gangly. He had been endowed with Edward’s noble features, but he lacked his parent’s patina of elegance and sophistication. With his overlong, tousled hair, dark-framed glasses, rumpled shirt and jeans he looked like the brilliant artist that he was.
“It’s good to see you.” She hugged him warmly and stepped back. “How are Beth and little Andy?”