Private Vegas (Private 9)

“You bet we are,” she said.

“You can back out, you know.”

“I know.”

“Or—keep your eye on the big fat prize. A year from now, you’ll be happier than you’ve ever been, or ever imagined you could be.”

“Promise?”

She was lightening up, coming back around. Attagirl.

“Would you like coffee? Dessert?” he asked.

“No. You go ahead.”

“Do you trust me?”

“Yes.”

Olsen smiled his approval, then signaled for the waiter.

“Sir?”

“The hot chocolate cake and coffee. For two.”

Sandra smiled at Lester.

“Thank you,” she said. “Thanks very much.”

Chapter 6

CAPTAIN LUKE WARREN sat in his Hyundai Sonata and watched Gozan Remari leave the Men’s Central Jail and walk through the gate to Bauchet Street at 10:15 p.m.

The diplomat from Sumar was wearing a charcoal-gray suit, a striped shirt, and no tie, because he had used it to bind a naked woman to a table against her will and the tie had been taken into evidence.

Remari’s phone rang.

Warren saw him take his phone from his jacket pocket and talk for a few minutes, looking around him the whole time. When he was done talking, he returned the phone to his pocket and picked up a newspaper from the sidewalk.

After that, he leaned back against the chain-link fence and began to read the front page under the not-so-bright light of the streetlamps.

About then, a late-model black Lincoln pulled up, a type of car not commonly seen around this neighborhood. Remari stooped to the window and spoke to the driver, and then the driver jumped out, went around to the back passenger side, and opened the door.

Warren had never seen a car with a liveried driver making a pickup at the jail. This was a first.

Remari folded the newspaper under his arm and got into the Lincoln, and the captain started his engine and watched as the Lincoln continued to idle at the curb.

The captain was trying to understand Remari. He wore good clothing, had excellent grooming, spoke with a trace of an English accent of the upper-class kind. He contrasted all that with the crude, criminal assaults on the Grove ladies and the six other brutal, sexual assaults he and his friend were suspected of committing.

Why pick up rich women and torture them? Why draw attention to himself with this pricey car?

Another ten minutes passed and Warren sat there watching. He slugged down the dregs of his cold coffee, and then the other donkey turd came through the chain-link gate.

Khezir Mazul had put bruises on Adrianna Grove’s thighs, had very likely raped her, and had definitely perpetrated an ear-to-ear slash across the front of her neck.

The word cutthroat suited this guy to a T.

Now Khezir Mazul looked around, saw the black car. A grin crossed his face. He got into the backseat next to his buddy, and as the door closed, the car shot away from the curb.