Private Vegas (Private 9)
Her voice was muffled.
“Can you give me some water, please?”
“Okay. Sure. Just a minute.”
Olsen did a cursory search of the grounds, found a nice flat rock, weighed about ten pounds. He got back into the car, rolled down his window. He started up the engine, and, keeping it in neutral, he placed the rock carefully on the accelerator. Then he released the hand brake.
The car didn’t budge, so Olsen got out of the car, slammed the door, and gripped the doorframe with both hands. He dug his feet in, pushed, got the car rolling, and ran with it a couple dozen yards down the slope.
When the car had a good steady momentum, Lester reached through the window, grabbed the gear shift on the right side of the steering wheel, and threw it into Drive—and the car shot straight ahead.
Winded, Olsen put his hands on his knees and watched as the car bumped over the lip of the pond and drove well into the water before the engine stalled out and the car began to float.
He watched the car settle unevenly, then sink in twelve feet of pond water until there was no trace of it at all.
The car would be found, of course, eventually. But by the time that happened, before Val’s body was identified, he’d be long gone, in another country, with a new identity.
He was looking forward to that.
Olsen stood in place for a moment to reassure himself that no one was going to come running out of the bushes yelling for the police. And when he was sure he was in the clear, he walked to the edge of the pond, hurled his unregistered gun as far as he could throw it.
Then he gathered the small bags and began the three-mile walk to McCarran International.
Chapter 105
FOUR HOURS AFTER leaving Las Vegas behind forever, Lester Olsen disembarked from the small plane at Aspen–Pitkin County Airport. He walked through the concourse, glanced at CNN on the TV screens, and saw no mention of a Ford Taurus with a body in the trunk found in Sunset Park’s pond. With luck, the car wouldn’t be discovered for at least another twelve hours, or maybe for days, but either way, by morning, he would be traveling as Jay Darnell in the first-class cabin of a jet heading to Tokyo.
A car was waiting for Olsen at National Car Rental, and he paid for it with Jay Darnell’s Visa card. He punched Cooper’s address into the GPS, then got onto Colorado 82 East toward Aspen.
When he was in the inside lane, Olsen turned on the radio, listened to music without really hearing it. He was thinking ahead, making plans as he stayed on the highway that narrowed and crossed a bridge, still heading toward town. From the bridge, he could see across the valley and into the mountains surrounding Aspen, where he would close the biggest deal of his life.
He called Barbie and told her he would be there soon.
“I’m having drinks with Bryce right now,” she said. “We’re going to bed early. Right, sweetie?” she called out. “Want to go upstairs now?”
“How could he say no to that?” Olsen said. “See you soon.”
Olsen took directions from the voice on the GPS; it brought him to West Main, where he continued along a residential, tree-lined corridor and from there through the commercial area of town. After passing the historic Hotel Jerome on the left, Olsen turned onto North Mill Street, which wound up the hill toward Bryce Cooper’s home.
It was a beautiful drive, but Olsen was working. He had always been able to play multiple hands of poker, and he’d done the same with Love for Life. Barbie and Tule had been in play at the same time. He’d hoped to add Val to the array of games on the table, but he’d always known he might have to cash in his best hand on short notice.
He thought about his contract with Barbie, locked away in his box in Zurich. It implicated her and indemnified him against the possibility of Barbie getting weak or greedy after the fact.
Olsen tuned back in as the GPS voice said, “Turn right in one-quarter mile.”
He turned off the radio, slowed the car, and switched off the headlights as he turned up the long drive to Bryce and Barbie Cooper’s house. He saw the gleam of lights through the trees, then, as he rounded the turn, he saw the enormous mountain-style house that was cantilevered out over the hill, overlooking Independence Pass, Aspen Mountain, and the entire valley.
The syringe of potassium chloride was in Olsen’s shaving kit, a shot he’d be able to deliver while Cooper was asleep. The drug stopped the heart without a trace. Cause of death would be written up as cardiac arrest, and it was inconceivable that anyone would contest it.
Olsen was thinking of the millions he was about to receive as he pulled the car up to the Coopers’ garage. He shut down the engine and called Barbie.
“There are so many doors, Barbie. Where should I go? Give me a hint.”
“Where are you?”
“Between the guesthouse and the garage.”
“Stay right there. I’ll come get you. I cannot believe it,” she said breathlessly. “My prince has arrived.”