Dead Money Page 13

  “So they can actually kill you the next time?” Fleet asked. “How about we cross that bridge of giving the key to the police or not after we get some help. Your life is more important.”

  “Tomorrow,” I said, waving for him to sit down. “Right now we get out of here, head back to the Bellagio. In the hotel’s security, I’ll be safe, and tomorrow morning I’ve got a meeting set up with Annie. She is the Las Vegas Police. I’ll get her and the police involved then.”

  “You promise?” Fleet asked, staring at me.

  “I promise.”

  “Then let’s get the hell out of here.”

  I stood and picked up the pistol and ammunition.

  Fleet backed up two steps, his face whiter than normal, his gaze again frozen on the gun.

  “Right after I lock this in Carson’s floor safe.”

  “Real good idea,” Fleet said, taking another step back. “Except for one problem. It’s open, but we don’t know the combination.”

  I shrugged. “I’ll bet my mother does. We can get it if we need it.”

  I could feel my anger coming up at her again. I pushed it away. Now was not the time.

  Fleet backed into the kitchen, staying away from the gun.

  I didn’t want to go past those pictures in the bedroom again just yet, but it was clear I couldn’t get Fleet to take the gun to the safe.

  He was afraid of snakes and guns.

  I was afraid of some pictures on a bedroom wall and getting killed for some unknown reason.

  We were a hell of a team.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Las Vegas, Nevada. August 23

  VERNE ADKINS OPENED the front door to his Vegas home and stepped inside, letting the air-conditioning wash over him. The house felt empty, even more silent than usual.

  He sighed and closed the door, locking it as he had done for years, even though it was still very light outside. He played poker every day from nine in the morning until six in the evening, five days a week. Just like working a real job.

  And just like any job, he gave himself time to rest on the weekends. For almost forty years, the schedule had worked for him, making him a very rich man, with investments, stocks, and real estate all over Nevada.

  His family and grandchildren would be very well taken care of when he died.

  The schedule had not only allowed him to be a successful professional card player, but also raise a family in some sort of sense of normality. As far as his kids were concerned, Dad just went off to work in the morning and then came home for dinner. He stayed home weekends, went to games and school events just like any other parent. Normal in all respects, even though his job wasn’t that normal.

  Now his beloved Cannie was dead from breast cancer, his kids long gone into their own lives and families. The house was still the same, only these days it felt more and more empty and unused. Only his schedule kept him going. And sometimes he wondered if even that would be enough for long.

  “Make no sudden moves,” a voice said as he stepped into the dark, blind-shaded living room. His heart raced like it was about to explode from his chest.

  In front of him a shadow moved, but Verne couldn’t make out who it was since his eyes had not yet adjusted from the bright light outside.

  “Turn on the lamp beside your chair slowly.”

  Verne did as he was told, then turned to find himself facing a white man with a gun standing about five feet from him. The middle-aged man was dressed casually in slacks, a light shirt, and a light jacket. He had dark, mean eyes and a slowly receding hairline. He was wearing white gloves and was holding a very nasty-looking gun.

  Verne hated guns, almost more than anything else in the world. He hated them even more right now.

  “What do you want?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t want much,” the man said. “Just a special key.”

  Verne felt his legs go weak. Twice in one day, after all these years, the keys had come up. The robbery of Jeff’s grave and Carson’s death were part of something going on, someone working to get the keys at all costs.

  He took a breath and faced the man. He had kept that key and its secrets for decades. He wasn’t about to let it go now.

  “Besides the gun, why should I give it to you? If you kill me, I can guarantee you will never find it.”

  The guy looked down at his gun as if just remembering he was holding it, then shrugged. “This was just to keep you calm at first.”

  The guy put the gun away in a holster under his jacket.

  “I still would like to get the key. And I won’t say please.”

  Verne stared at the man, now very surprised. “So tell me why I should give it to you?”

  “You son drives a very nice Audi, light green, parks it in the same place in his corporate parking lot every day in Sacramento. Your daughter is clearly happily married and a mother of two wonderful boys. I bet you’re really proud of those boys.”

  Verne said nothing, but he was fighting the desire throw up.

  The man went on, his voice calm, as if he were just having a normal conversation. “Your two grandsons go to a wonderful preschool, well-thought-of in the Reno area. Your daughter picks them up at exactly four in the afternoon every day in her blue Plymouth van, and then they often go shopping for dinner. Your son-in-law gets home about six every night. The perfect family in all respects. You have to be very proud.”

  The man looked at Verne. “Would you like me to go on?”

  “You wouldn’t harm them?” Verne asked, his voice shaking, more afraid than he had ever been in his entire life.

  “If I don’t walk out that door with the key,” the man said, “over the next week they will all meet with very sudden and tragic accidents. Even if you are dead before I leave. And if something goes wrong and I die here by some strange chance, they will die even more painful deaths.”

  “No.” Verne couldn’t hold himself up any more. He dropped into his favorite reading chair and just stared at the man who was threatening everything in his life that was important to him.

  “I’m afraid the answer is yes. There is a very good reason to get these special keys all rounded up.” The guy laughed. “At least I think it’s a good one.”

  “Which one of those bastards do you work for?” Verne asked.

  The man laughed and shook his head. “Who said I worked for anyone?”

  Verne fought back the urge to just lunge at the man. If he did that, he had no doubt the man would kill his family. He could feel the coldness in the words. More than likely, this was the man who had killed Carson.

  For twenty-seven years, Verne had worried about his family and the key he held. Now his worst fear was coming true.

  He managed to point a shaking hand at the fireplace mantel. “The key is taped under the paper on the back of the picture of my wife.”

  “That-a-boy,” the man said. He quickly stepped to the fireplace, picked up the picture, gently opened the back, pulled out the key, then respectfully replaced the back and the picture where it had been.

  A smiled crossed the man’s face, like no smile Verne had ever seen before. A cross between someone smiling while killing another person and a kid’s smile seeing presents at Christmas.

  The guy studied the key like it was a rare collectable, looking more and more excited by the moment.

  “I have three of these now,” he said, holding up the key. “Jeff Taylor’s, Benson James’, and now this one. I hoped to have four, but something didn’t work out just yet.”

  He smiled and just stared at the key.

  Finally, after a long moment, he seemed to regain a little control and put the key in his pants pocket.

  Then he turned. “I just need a quick signature.” He handed Verne a pen.

  Verne felt like he had almost left his body, his mind was so detached from the horror that was going on in front of him. Maybe he was having the heart attack Cannie had always feared he would have. His mind felt like he was in a dark well looking up
ward at the light.

  He took the pen and signed where the man wanted him to sign, not even caring what it was about. At this point, he would do anything to save his family.

  Anything.

  They were all that mattered.

  “That is a very well-written note you just signed,” the man said, “if I do say so myself.”

  Then the man moved around to Verne’s right side.

  Before Verne could even object, he took Verne’s right hand, and put a small gun in it.

  Then, like a parent directing a child, and before Verne could even realize what was happening, the man raised the gun to Verne’s head and forced him to pull the trigger.

  Darkness came instantly.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Las Vegas, Nevada. August 23

  THE LAST PERSON I expected to ever be sitting across from me in my suite at the Bellagio was Heather Voight from the NTSB team in Idaho. Yet there she sat in all her blonde glory.

  Wow, it had been one long day. I seemed to be having my share of them lately, that was for sure. And this day didn’t look like it was ever going to end.

  By a little after seven, Fleet and I had returned to the Bellagio and had finished a room-service dinner. When Heather called, Fleet was at the dining room table going through some papers he had found at Carson’s house. I was sitting on the couch, some light jazz music on faint in the background, thinking about the day, trying to make sense of everything that had happened.

  I spent many a night, after a tournament or playing in a live game, sitting on the big couch in my suite, just thinking.

  My suite at the Bellagio felt more like home to me than the house I owned in Boise. And I had a hunch I spent a lot more days every year here than there.

  The house in Boise was nice, sure, but this suite was actually my home, or at least that was how it felt. It had high ceilings, a large living room area with a big screen television that I seldom used, and wonderful large and very comfortable couches that I took naps on more than I wanted to admit.

  Everything from the furniture to the rugs to the drapes was done in brown tones, with touches of stone in places around the room and covering the big fireplace. The decorating gave the place a very warm feeling, almost like I was back up in the mountains.

  There was also a fully equipped kitchen and dining area, a fantastic bathroom with a whirlpool tub that I had never used and a large shower. The bedroom had a comfortable pillow-top bed so big I could lay sideways across it and not touch either side.

  On top of that, they made the bed and cleaned every day. I had at least a dozen great restaurants inside the same building, and the Bellagio was easy to get to from the airport or anywhere else in Vegas.

  It felt like the center of what I needed to do in Las Vegas. One hell of a lot better than my father’s house, that was for sure. Just the drive from his place to the Bellagio took thirty minutes one way with good traffic. I could see no reason to waste an hour a day driving when I had the money to live like this.

  Granted, I paid enough to the hotel in one year to buy another three or four houses in Boise. But it was my suite, I lived here. It was always available for when I needed it, and I kept a closet full of clothes and bathroom items here as well. No suitcases that way when I traveled back to Idaho. I had clothes at either end of that trip.

  Over the years, Fleet had tried to get me to buy a house in Vegas, just because it made sense financially. But financially didn’t concern me when I was here in town playing cards. Comfort did, and it didn’t get any more comfortable than this.

  Besides, I didn’t spend my money on any other extravagant items. This suite was it. Worth every penny.

  When the phone had rung, it had made both of us jump. I had already had uncomfortable conversations with Ace and my mother tonight while waiting for dinner to be brought up. I didn’t want to tell either of them what was happening just yet, because I didn’t really know. And my anger at both them had just made the conversations cold. And at the moment, I didn’t really feel bad about that.

  At least I hadn’t yelled at my mother. I wanted to. Hell, I was an adult and had been for a dozen years. She could have told me about the relationship with Carson at any time, explained why he had left me, but not her all those years ago. But instead, I had to find it out this way. I was amazed I had stayed as calm as I had when I talked to her.

  On the phone had been Heather Voight, the blonde from the NTSB team, who had clearly been added by someone in Washington. She had wanted to talk, she was in Vegas, and so I had invited her up.

  “Oh, this can’t be good,” was all Fleet had said when I told him who it was.

  Now she sat across from us in a sort of strained silence. I was a poker player. I could wait as long as she wanted to. She was the one who had wanted to talk, so I was just going to wait until she talked.

  She was dressed in what I called Las Vegas business. Light tan slacks, a sandal-type shoe, and a light blouse with a light dress jacket over it. Considering that it had to be well over a hundred and ten outside, she was almost overdressed.

  Finally, she shook her head and said, “I’m not sure where to start this, so let me just jump right in. I’m not normally a part of an NTSB team.”

  “I assumed as much,” I said, giving her a break and helping the conversation along. “So who do you work for?”

  “The FBI,” she said. “Actually, on this assignment, I’m working for the President on a special assignment.”

  I glanced at Fleet whose eyes were getting larger by the second. Of all the answers she might have given, that was not one I expected.

  She pulled out a badge and ID in a brown flip folder from her small purse and showed first me, then Fleet.

  It looked to be FBI, very official and all, but to be honest, I wouldn’t know what one of their badges even looked like. In playing poker, I had just never had a reason to get near the FBI.

  Fleet studied the badge for a moment, then her ID beside the badge, then nodded. He seemed convinced.

  “So, why would the President care about a plane crash in Idaho?” I asked. “Enough to send you along before anyone even knew it wasn’t an accident?”

  I knew that Carson and the President had been friends because the President had sent flowers to the funeral home. The friendship and the flowers had surprised me. Now I wanted to see what her reason was.

  “President Chase and your father were good friends,” Heather said. “He asked me to watch over the investigation for him.”

  Just as Ace had asked me to do for him.

  I sat back. No surprise so far.

  Fleet shook his head. “The President of the United States asked you to go to Idaho? Dolan Chase, that President?”

  She nodded.

  I tried not to smile. Clearly Fleet had not seen the flowers.

  “Because my father was killed?” I asked

  “Yes.”

  “And do you have any ideas who might have killed him?”

  “Not yet,” she said.

  She didn’t look happy about that answer, so I was betting it was the truth.

  “And even if you did, you wouldn’t tell us,” Fleet said.

  “Actually,” she said. “I might.”

  She looked at me, holding my gaze. “Do you have any idea who killed him?”

  “Not a clue. I didn’t even know Carson. I’m finding out more about him yesterday and today than in the twenty-five years previous.”

  Heather sighed and sat back. “I assumed as much, but I had to ask. You didn’t even talk to the man in over twenty-five years. How could you know him?”

  That she knew that about me bothered me, but it didn’t surprise me. She was FBI. I had a hunch she knew more about me than I wanted anyone to know.

  “So, are you going to tell us exactly why you are here?” Fleet asked.

  She glanced at Fleet, then back at me. “The President asked me to come here, talk to you, as a favor to him. He wants me to try to keep you alive
.”

  “Alive?” I asked, sitting forward. Now she had stunned me.

  “Alive?” Fleet said, his voice far too high.

  An FBI agent had been asked by the President to keep me alive. That didn’t bode well for my life expectancy.

  Fleet leaned back in his chair and covered his face with both hands.

  Heather nodded. “Alive.”

  I couldn’t help myself. I laughed.

  Come on, when does an average citizen get to hear the FBI say they are there to keep you alive? Never, so this had to be a joke. It sure seemed like a joke to my tired mind.

  Heather stared at me, and Fleet just kept his face covered as he shook his head.

  “I’m being very serious,” Heather said after a moment.

  “Well, that’s all fine and good, as my Grandfather would say, that the Commander in Chief of this fine country sends someone to protect me from who knows what or who, but just where were you this afternoon when some big guy with too many tattoos tried to kill me right out in front of my father’s house?”

  I was laughing at the strangeness of it all because, to be honest, I didn’t know how else to deal with what she was saying.

  But Heather wasn’t laughing. She turned rock hard and focused. I suddenly could see why a woman like her was a trusted person to the President. I wouldn’t want to make her angry at me. In one look she went from harmless, overbuilt blonde to killer.

  She asked two questions about the guy and what he was after and I told her what he looked like, what I had done to him, but left out the key part, saying I didn’t know what he was after. I just didn’t know who I could trust on any of this. And even though she had all the right papers and shiny badge, I didn’t feel like I should trust her at this moment.

  “I’ve got to get more help on this,” she said, tossing her card on the coffee table and standing. “My number is there. Call me any time of the day or night if you need my help.”

  With that, she turned and left, pulling the door closed behind her.

  “Oh, good,” I said after she left. “Now she needs more help keeping me alive.”