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At first, I just sensed it, the air electric and alive, as soon as I switched on the lights. Rather like a dog, I thought I smelled someone—something—unfamiliar, and I pulled my pepper spray from my purse, hugging the wall as I walked, the Mace before me like a gun, my eyes soft as if I were atop a horse, scanning the whole of the room. Each time I reached a lamp I turned it on, and soon my suite was brighter than it had ever been at night. My bedroom had a walk-in closet with two louver doors, and the slats were down. For a moment I held my breath, my heart thumping in my ears, as I stared at them. If someone was here, they were behind those doors. I considered backing out of the suite and texting Nigel or Bud. But I told myself I was paranoid because of the deaths of the Morleys, two cadavers that really had nothing to do with me.
Except they did, didn’t they? If Futurium was buying the casino and my sister was with Futurium…
I hooked two fingers of my left hand through one of the knobs on the door, prepared to mace anyone behind it, and flung it open.
And, of course, no one was there.
Of course.
Just my clothes.
I sat down on my bed, at once relieved and uneasy. I was alone in my suite, and I wanted to believe my fears had been unfounded. But I couldn’t.
And then I saw the proof. There it was, propped up against the pillows as if it were a room-service breakfast menu to leave outside my door before bed. It was an envelope-sized color brochure—one page, two folds, three panels—for a resort in Grand Cayman. It was called the Maenads, a reference to the women who followed Dionysus, and the resort’s logo was a drawing of a nearly naked woman with a lyre. The Maenads were known for their passion, but the photos suggested a rather stately, conservative, and exclusive ocean resort—or, to be precise, club. It boasted twenty guest cottages behind a tall concrete wall painted peach, rows of royal palms, a spa, an on-site chef for members only, and one of the most gorgeous infinity pools I’d ever seen. There were no people—guests or models—in the photos.
There was also no number to call for information. There was no website or email address.
When I googled it, I came up with nothing.
I called the front desk and told the night manager that someone had been in my room, and he said he’d look into it. He said to check to see if anything was stolen. I texted Bud the same thing, and he said he was on his way.
I supposed the Maenads was where Tony Lombardo wanted me to resurrect Lady Di for Oliver Davies. While I waited for Bud, I called Nigel to tell him what had been left on my bed. After I hung up, I saw that my hand was shaking.
* * *
When I awoke the next morning, it was instant. Usually the Valium would allow me a few minutes of somnambulant torpor, but not today. I had managed to sleep well, thanks to the amount of diazepam and THC I had mixed.
Me and Elvis. I had no Dr. Nick. But no one could self-medicate the way I could.
In all fairness, I had also managed to drift off because Bud had scoured my room and assured me I was safe. Also, nothing seemed to be missing: no jewelry, no credit cards.
I reached for my phone on the nightstand and saw I had so many texts my first thought was that someone had died. I had chains from Nigel, Betsy, and Yevgeny. Betsy had sent four texts, agreeing to lunch and offering a time and place. Nigel had sent three to ask whether I knew where and when we were dining. And my Russian American friend texted that his schedule had changed and he had checked the cabaret website. He could fly in the night before my upcoming days off and said he might go for a hike out at Red Rocks, while I decompressed in my cabana. And so I suggested, joking, that it would be much more fun for him to take a walk through Futurium’s Vegas computer farm. And he texted back:
Smoke and mirrors. Now you see it, now you don’t. Futurium will be right at home in Las Vegas.
I stared at the text. If anyone could get involved with a business model that was all smoke and mirrors, it was Betsy.
* * *
The lunch went all to pot the moment Nigel and I pulled into the parking lot of the restaurant. It was five blocks from the Futurium warehouse, part of a chain that specialized in all-you-can-eat pastas and garlic bread. It’s perfect if you’re a lineman for the Las Vegas Raiders, or you want to carb up to throw up.
We never got inside, however, because when we emerged from my Mini onto the surface of the sun—a newly paved parking lot in Las Vegas at midday, the black deeper than squid ink—Betsy had arrived with backup. She had brought with her Frankie Limback and a fellow I didn’t recognize. Both men were wearing khakis and polo shirts, which were untucked as if they were about to promenade on a beachside boardwalk.
Meanwhile, Betsy was wearing a T-shirt that was designed to replicate the iconic Lady Di red sweater with rows of white sheep and a single black one. Her eyes were hidden behind sunglasses with ruby frames that were eerily reminiscent of ones the princess had worn in the late 1980s. I had a pair like them myself. And, strangest of all, her hair was dyed the exact same shade as mine—and the princess’s—and she had chopped a lot off.
Frankie greeted us, while my sister and the other fellow held back, standing in the sweltering heat beside her beau’s Tesla.
“Before you say one word, Frankie,” I began, ignoring his game-show-host smile, “did you actually drive here from Futurium? It’s a quarter mile, max.”
“It’s also one hundred and two degrees,” he said.
“Betsy,” I called over to her, “I thought it was just going to be you and Nigel and me?”
“Your sister mentioned you were having lunch, and so I thought I’d tag along,” Frankie said, answering for her.
“And the lad over there is your muscle in case I try something funny?”
He rolled his eyes. “That’s Rory O’Hara. I think Rory could become your biggest fan, if you let him. He saw the show last night and loved it.”
