Private Vegas (Private 9)

Olsen looked up at her and winked. “Now, listen, Val. Morris used to be head of an insurance company. A nice clean business. He has a hundred million in U.S. markets, and then he’s got another bundle in real estate. He lost his wife twenty years ago, and his children are in their sixties. Has a pacemaker. His third, I think. Morris is what I call a catch and a half.”

“You know him?” Val asked.

“Sure, I know him. He’s my grandfather.”

“He is?” Val looked up from the computer.

Olsen was laughing.

“Just joking, Val. I know him because he comes to the casinos when he’s in town. Lives in Butte, Montana. He would fly you out to meet him in half a heartbeat. Which could be his last one. Or perhaps you could cause his last heartbeat. Just don’t have sex with him until after the wedding, okay?”

Val said, “You can count on that.”

“That’s fine, Val. But, all kidding aside, you understand you don’t want to marry a young tycoon who wraps you up in a prenup, then divorces you. How long do you want your husband to live?”

Val did her best to figure out how to handle this moment. Pay out the line, or set the hook? Her hands were sweating. Her skin was damp at her hairline.

“Actually, I would like some water now.”

Lester got up, went to the small fridge near the credenza, brought back a bottle of Artesian Springs. Then he sat down, and as he was navigating around his computer, Val said, “But even if the dude is old…well, there’s no guarantee that he’s going to die soon.”

“Uh, well, think about it. The money-back guarantee depends on you. Maybe you’ll have to give your antique husband a little push for that multimillion-dollar payoff, see? I can only do so much.”

A little push. Tule Archer was trying to frighten Hal into a heart attack by telling him that she was killing him in her dreams. He’d responded by killing her in real life.

Reflexively, Val touched the microphone that was attached like a rosebud to the center of her bra and tapped it with her middle finger. And Olsen, seeing that, got to his feet fast.

He was standing right over her, boxing her in. His expression was suddenly cold and menacing.

Oh my God. What had she done?

Chapter 100

LESTER OLSEN HAD lost his boyishness and his humor, and the man that remained was scaring her half to death.

“What just happened, Val?”

“What do you mean? What’s wrong, Lester?”

“I’m a poker player, Val. One of the best. You know what a tell is? It’s when someone gives himself away with an unconscious movement. Like what you just did when you touched yourself. That was a classic tell.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, but you know what? I don’t think this is for me—”

Val pushed her chair back, but she was up against the wall and there was nowhere to go.

“You did that at dinner the other night,” Olsen said, tapping the middle of his own chest with his third finger, “and I ignored it. See how you put your water bottle between us? Another tell. I shouldn’t have second-guessed myself. I bet you’re wearing a wire.”

He put his crippled hands at either side of the V-neck of her blouse.

“If I’m wrong, I’ll apologize.”

Fabric tore. Val gasped and tried to cover herself, but Olsen forced her hands aside and plucked the mic off her bra. Then, in one smooth movement, he reached around, opened a desk drawer, and pulled out a gun. He put the mic on his desk and shattered it with the butt of his gun.

Val’s mind spun. She reached for a plausible explanation, then launched it. “Lester. Let me explain. I’m a reporter. I’m doing a story on how to land a wealthy man. That’s all. The story is going to be good for you.”

“Who are you working for?”

“San Francisco Chronicle.”