This weekend was not going as he’d planned. That pissed him off, and though he was all about being flexible and rolling with the punches, he’d already been served up the big fat curveball in the form of Gino. Another one was not cool. Reflexively, he reached for his tie to adjust it out of habit, but his hand found buttons instead.
Right. His lucky tie was missing.
“Hey Greg,” he called out. “Did you happen to find a purple tie on the plane?”
“I didn’t notice one, but let me go take a look now.”
Greg returned to the tarmac while Clay spun around, assessing the surroundings at the Van Nuys airport. A small coffee bar, boasting fresh-roasted Four Barrel Coffee, a plush seating area with leather chairs and glossy magazines with golf courses and yachts on the covers, a rental car counter, and an information desk. He pulled out his phone and did a quick search for commercial flights, but the next one out of Burbank didn’t leave until six. Even then it wasn’t direct. If he caught the seven p.m. flight, he’d land in Vegas by eight. He looked up, thinking, running through his options. His eyes returned to the rental car counter, and he shrugged to himself. Why not? At this rate, a car might be faster. Van Nuys wasn’t far from the 15, and that should be a straight shot in a little more than four hours. He’d likely arrive sooner.
He headed over to the Hertz sign, and inquired about rentals and the best route to Vegas. The woman behind the counter gave him the necessary details.
“Give me one minute,” he said to her and headed for the doors leading to the tarmac. He spotted Greg outside the Cessna, chatting with a mechanic. When they were done, he waved the pilot over.
Clay clapped him on the upper arm and lowered his voice. He didn’t want the whole world to know he was superstitious. If the tie had been located, he’d wait here. If it was still AWOL then it was time to cut bait from the cursed plane. “Did you find that tie?”
Greg shook his head ruefully. “Sorry. Scoured the whole cabin.”
“All right. Decision’s made then. I’ll be driving to Vegas. Thank you very much for getting me to Los Angeles safely.”
Greg saluted him, and Clay was glad the man didn’t quibble, didn’t try to insist. An air force pilot, he surely understood the need to make quick decisions and stand by them. “Have a safe drive, sir. I’ll have the plane back in Vegas tonight for your return to New York on Sunday night.”
“Thank you,” he said, then rented a car. As he signed the necessary documents, a strange thought flashed through his brain. Had Greg delayed the flight on purpose? With lightning speed, the pilot had knocked down all the alternatives Clay had suggested. As if he were trying to keep him from Julia.
His blood slowed and his mind whirred as he considered the possibilities. Could Greg be working for Charlie? Nah. No way that could be the case. Because if he worked for Charlie, how would he just happen to be flying the Pinkertons’ plane? That’d be too much of a coincidence. But then, Charlie had contacts everywhere, and inside men all over the country. Charlie ran the underworld of San Francisco. He knew how to get things done, down to infiltrating Clay’s life with a pilot. Was Charlie making a move on Julia in Vegas? Keeping him away from her by any means possible so he could go after her in his absence? Was the man in the hotel somehow connected to Greg? To Charlie?
The thought of her three hundred miles away from him made his stomach churn.
No. He slammed on the mental brakes. He had to stop this train of thought. He was getting worked up over nothing. Greg Barton was a military man, not a mob insider. Greg had no vendetta against him, he reminded himself, as he walked to the parking lot and found his car. But as he turned the key in the ignition and backed up, Clay was adding up clues that maybe should or maybe shouldn’t be added. The dark suit Greg wore. The black suit Charlie wore. The black suit the tall man in the hotel was sporting, Julia had said.
Sometimes a suit is just a suit. But sometimes it’s more.
As he pulled out of the parking lot, turning on the GPS, conspiracy theories were playing havoc with his head, and he knew he needed to get to Vegas as quickly as he possibly could.
He gunned the gas and sped away.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Friday, 3:01 p.m., Las Vegas
“Did you get a name yet?” he asked as he made his rounds, strolling casually—or so it appeared—past the roulette tables. The crowds were building as more gamblers packed themselves like sardines at the games.
“Yeah. He’s Tad Herman. He’s a marketing executive at Farrell Spirits. Did a quick search on him. Lives in Vegas. Has for ten years. Looks like he was in some kind of trouble once, but it was several years ago back in Florida.”
He scoffed as he ran a hand through his dark, gelled hair. “Florida. That place is a hotbed for crime.”
His associate laughed. “Damn right it is.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“Not sure. I need to do more digging.”
“Well, what are you waiting for?” he said gruffly as he continued his rounds. “Get out your shovel and dig that shit up.” He stabbed the end call button on his Bluetooth device as he meandered past the blackjack tables. A few feet away, he spotted a young man in a hoodie. He slowed his pace to watch the hipster. He looked just like those MIT f**kers who bilked millions from Vegas’ casino kings. Profiling, that’s what he was doing, and he knew it. But profiling worked, so he kept his focus on the hoodie who might very well be on the list of known card counters. Casually reaching for his phone, he swiped his thumb across the screen and snapped a shot. He’d send it on later to his contacts, and see if he was right. He was rarely wrong. He knew gamblers, and the professional ones could never stay away from the action for long.
Like that redhead. He’d like to get another look at her, at those ripe tits that would fit so nicely in his palms. Hot as f**k and a penchant for gambling—that woman must be all kinds of fire in the sack. If she came back down to the tables, he’d be ready for her. Oh, hell, he’d be ready for her.
He licked his lips, his tongue sliding over the bottom one.
* * *
Friday, 4:07 p.m., Highway 15 en route from Los Angeles to Las Vegas
As soon as he hit the highway, the sun was blaring high in the sky, like a goddamn alien beam of light from a spaceship, designed to blind him. He dropped his shades over his eyes, shielding them from the glare through the windshield. He slid his phone into the holder on the dashboard and turned on the speaker.