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It was close to one in the morning, but when he reached the Las Vegas Strip it blazed with light. Shops were open; people were everywhere. There was a frenzy to the place, a kind of circus atmosphere of gaiety Karim didn’t quite buy into.
At the hotel, a valet took his car. Karim handed the kid a twenty-dollar bill, said he was fine with carrying his own things, and headed into the lobby.
The metallic sounds of slot machines assaulted his ears.
He made his way to the reception desk through a crowd of shrieking and laughing revelers. The clerk who greeted him was pleasant and efficient, and soon Karim was in an elevator, on his way to the tenth floor along with two women and a man. The man stood with an arm around each of the women; one had her hand on his chest, the other had her tongue in his ear.
The elevator doors whisked open. Karim stepped out.
The sooner he finished his business here, the better.
His suite, at least, was big and surprisingly attractive.
Within minutes he’d stripped off his clothes and stepped into the shower. He let the hot water beat down on his neck and shoulders, hoping that would drive away some of the weariness.
It didn’t.
Okay. What he needed was sleep.
But sleep didn’t come. No surprise. After two weeks of coming into cities he knew would hold yet additional ugly truths about his brother, sleep had become more and more elusive.
After a while, he gave up.
He had to do something. Take a walk. A drive. Check out the hotels where Rami had run up enormous bills—this place, he had made certain, was not one of them. Maybe he’d drive by the flat his brother had leased. He could even stop, go inside, take a quick look around.
Not that he expected to find anything worth keeping, but if there was something personal, a memento that said something good about Rami’s wasted life, their father might want it.
Karim put on jeans, a black T-shirt, sneakers and a soft black leather bomber jacket. Deserts were cold at night, even ones that arrowed into the heart of a city whose glow could be seen for miles.
He opened his attaché case, grabbed the key and noted the scribbled address. A tag that read “4B” hung from the key itself. An apartment number, obviously.
The valet brought him his car. Karim handed him another twenty. Then he entered the address into the GPS and followed its directions.
Fifteen minutes later, he reached his destination.
It was a nondescript building in a part of the city that was as different from the Las Vegas he’d so far seen as night from day.
The area was bleak and shabby, as was the building itself …
Karim frowned. He’d connected to global positioning satellites often enough to know that when they worked they were great and when they didn’t you could end up in the middle of nowhere.
Yes, but this was the correct address.
Had Rami run out of the ability to talk himself into the best hotels at some point during his time here?
There was only one way to find out.
Karim got out of the car, locked it, and headed toward the building.
