Private (Private 1)

“Yeah. Crocker’s asking for a refill. The bartender just took away his glass.”

The bartender was in his early thirties, sandy hair thinning in front. He was buffed and looked bored, had the name Buddy appliquéd on his shirt.

“What can I get for you ladies?”

“Pinot Grigio,” said Justine.

“Perrier,” said Nora. There was a jostling movement at Justine’s back, someone bumping into her.

“What the…?”

“Don’t look now. Crocker’s got company,” said Nora. “Skinny guy, hair down over his eyes. Looks like a total geek.”

“I can’t hear what they’re saying,” Justine said.

“Doesn’t matter,” said Cronin. “As long as we can see them we’re cool.”

The bartender put their drinks on the bar. Justine paid with a twenty, told Buddy to keep the change. The bartender palmed the bill, took a bowl of nuts out from under the ledge, and placed it in front of her.

Justine lifted her eyes and watched Crocker in the mirror behind the bar.

He had the stand-out ears, the memorable nose. The rest of the picture was just un-freaking-believable: how could a guy this ordinary be vying with legendary psychos for a top spot in the killer lineup?

The busboy brought a rack of clean glasses to the back bar, and the bartender took a few orders. Crocker’s friend had a beer from the tap, and the two of them talked without looking around.

Justine dropped her eyes when Crocker signaled to the waiter for the check. She watched him sign it, then both men got off their stools and left the bar.

Buddy moved to clear away the glasses, and Nora slapped her badge down on the bar in a fraction of an instant.

“Don’t touch the glassware,” she said to Buddy. “I need it. It’s evidence.”

“Evidence of what?” the bartender asked.

“I think that pretty girl over there is looking for another drink,” Justine said to Buddy. “Why don’t you go give one to her.”

Nora and Justine each wrapped a paper napkin around a glass: the one belonging to Crocker and the one belonging to his friend.

Only when they were out of the bar, sitting together again in the Crown Vic, did they allow themselves to smile.

Justine opened her phone and tapped in some numbers.

“Sci. Can you meet us at the lab in twenty minutes? I think we’ve got something good.”

Chapter 102

AS YOGI BERRA would have said, it was “déjà vu all over again.” Rick was sitting beside me in the Cessna. We landed at the Las Vegas airport at dusk and rented a car.

Then we drove out past the sandy lots of stillborn subdivisions that had gone silent in ’08. Eventually, a gray wall appeared, blocking the view of the gated community from the street.

We stopped at Carmine Noccia’s front gate.

Rick pressed the button, and a voice answered, then someone buzzed us in. We crossed the bridge over a man-made recirculating river that could only have existed in Las Vegas, or maybe Orlando. We continued past the spotlit stables and came into the forecourt with its island of date palms outside the massive oak door.

Squint your eyes and you were in Barcelona or Morocco.

The Noccia goon we’d last seen wearing a red shirt was now in a tight black pullover and leather-like jeans.

He opened the door for us, then took Rick’s gun and mine and put them on top of that double-wide gun safe masquerading as a Moorish armoire in the hallway.