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38
The Sovereign
Las Vegas
SATURDAY AFTERNOON
The monolithic tower of The Sovereign speared eight stories above the two casinos flanking it, a paean to Las Vegas extravagance. Its windows glittered in the late-afternoon sun, its fountains flashed high in the air and cascaded down into wide koi pools. Half a dozen doormen dressed in black with gold bow ties ushered taxis and rental cars toward the entrance, helped arriving guests out of their cars, and passed off their luggage to bellmen.
When their limo driver had let them off at the curb in front of the Sovereign to avoid the crowd, Elizabeth Beatrice’s eyes nearly popped out of her head. She stared. “Goodness me,” she said.
They walked toward the entrance on a sidewalk beside the curving driveway. They knew Shaker was in residence, as the concierge put it to Mason when he’d called, on the top floor, in his huge apartment with its view of the Strip and the endless miles of desert and rugged barren hills beyond.
Mason stopped beside a gorgeous blooming wisteria, took Elizabeth Beatrice’s hand in his. She’d insisted on coming along and meeting Rule Shaker herself and, she’d pointed out, she’d never seen Las Vegas. He’d resisted at first. “What is it, Mason? You’re afraid a crazy gambler is going to throw dice at me?” and she leaned up and nipped his earlobe. He’d looked over at Ramsey and Savich. Both men wore stone faces. She added, “Stop your worrying. Nothing’s going to happen to me. Who knows, maybe I’ll be able to help.” Mason thought about that. Maybe she was right. At the very least she’d help him control himself when he met with the Shakers. He would have killed Rule Shaker and his daughter, Eve, six years ago if Molly herself hadn’t stopped him. Maybe he’d need her to stop him again. It was still clear as day in his mind when Eve had betrayed him, nearly killed him. Talk about being a fool. She had killed Emma’s father, Louey. He remembered his rage. Only Molly had put a stop to everything. She’d saved his life and Eve’s and her father’s lives as well. From him.
He lightly rubbed his knuckles over his wife’s smooth cheek. “All right, but stick close to me.”
Elizabeth Beatrice looked now out over the huge fountains and the beautifully manicured flower beds that surrounded them, and said again, “Goodness me,” then added, “I have to admit to feeling speechless when the limousine turned into the Strip as you call it, Mason.” She grinned. “I had only a snooty Brit’s view of Las Vegas—a degenerate wasteland designed to take money from people who can’t afford it. That may be true, but to me it looks like an adult Disneyland, and, yes, I did visit Orlando when I was a teenager.”
Savich hadn’t been to Las Vegas in a couple of years and wondered if he and Sherlock would ever want to come back here. The sidewalks swarmed with tourists, many dressed in exquisite bad taste, women in tight short-shorts and potbellied men in Bermuda shorts, tight T-shirts, and sandals with white socks. A few came to see the shows, but most came here to gamble, and most would lose; a precious few would win big bucks and spend them on a Prada bag for the missus or a strapless Givenchy gown for the mistress. The women who won would buy the Prada bags for themselves.
He thought of Sherlock again, swallowed. He would do whatever he had to do to find her and Molly. He’d beat the truth out of Shaker, kill him if he needed to. The thought stilled him, made him wonder whether he was in control of himself, if his rage was too close to the surface. It didn’t matter. Savich knew in his gut if he didn’t get Sherlock back safe and unharmed, Shaker would die here in this make-believe city, his fiefdom. He simply couldn’t imagine telling Sean his mother wasn’t coming home. No, it wouldn’t happen, he wouldn’t let it happen.
Ramsey hated Las Vegas, hated this man who’d made a fortune here off people’s endless optimism and greed. He was so afraid for Molly, so afraid of what might happen to her, he knew he’d have to hold back when he saw the little bastard, or he’d kick Shaker’s kidneys through his back. He looked over at Savich. He looked calm, controlled, but Ramsey knew Savich would race him to get to Shaker. He remembered being with Molly the last time they were here six years ago, never once since. But Molly wasn’t here with him, Molly was gone. He thought of Cal, Gage, and Emma. Mason’s jet was flying them to Chicago, then flying back. They’d soon be safe at Mason’s compound with Gunther and Miles. If something happened to their mother, what would he tell them? How would any of them go on?
As tourists flowed around them, Mason said, “If Shaker is behind this, his thugs will contact you, Ramsey, and demand the evidence against them that Molly has kept safe with her lawyers in San Francisco for six years. If it has nothing to do with Shaker, if this is about something else entirely, killing Molly would send Eve and Shaker to prison regardless because Molly’s lawyers have been instructed to release all of it to the police if something happens to her.”
“What evidence, exactly, Mason?” Elizabeth Beatrice asked.
Mason said, “Six years ago Molly put together enough evidence against us all—the Shakers and me both—to end what had turned into a war between us. The Shakers started it, by arranging to kidnap Emma.” He paused. “Someone in both our families was killed after that—Emma’s father, Louey Santera, and Shaker’s younger daughter. They tried to kill me, too. Molly put an end to it by putting everything that had already happened in writing and forcing us to attest to it.” Mason shook his head, squeezed Elizabeth Beatrice’s hand. “I was enraged when Molly told me exactly what I was going to do, enraged she would give me orders. My own daughter was threatening to go to the police with everything she knew about me if I refused. Her biggest threat, the one that stopped me in my tracks, was I’d never see her or Emma again. I signed, and so did Rule and Eve. For six years there’s been no trouble.” He shook his head at himself, laughed. “That was when I finally realized how smart and strong Molly was, and well, how manipulative she could be when necessary.” He smiled. “I saw her in a new light from that day on. I realized I was proud of her. She’s impressive, my daughter. I want to tell her that when we find her and Agent Sherlock.”
Ramsey could only stare at his father-in-law. He said, “She would like for you to tell her that, Mason.”
Savich said, “Obviously something has changed. Do you know what it could be, Mason?”
Mason shook his head. “I’ve thought but I just can’t pinpoint anything. I mentioned Rule has had some problems in his casinos, croupiers leaving, money missing, cocktail waitresses quitting for no apparent reason. But I don’t see that those pissant problems would make him want to restart the war.” He shrugged. “But it is possible Rule has decided he’s waited long enough to get his revenge on me. As long as we get Molly and Sherlock back, believe me, I’ll be happy to let him try.”
A doorman spotted them and rushed to open a shining glass door for them. Mason slipped him a five.
They stepped out of the sun-exploding heat into the immense lobby with air-conditioning blasting out cold air. The reception area was even larger, glittering chandeliers hanging from fourteen feet above, yards of green-and-gold-veined marble floors polished to a high shine. The walls were covered with three-dimensional floral glass sculptures, so exquisitely done you recognized each flower and wanted to see what the petals felt like. Trails of new arrivals slowly walked from one sculpture to the next, talking and pointing.
There were at least thirty beautiful young people manning the long, beautifully carved mahogany reception desk, but Mason didn’t go there, he walked to the discreet VIP concierge desk in a private corner. In a few minutes he was back, a key card in his hand. “This way.” He led them through one of the casinos toward a private elevator.
Elizabeth Beatrice had played baccarat in Monte Carlo’s incredible casinos among the glitterati, but they were nothing like The Sovereign casino floor. Here the men weren’t in tuxedos, or the women in strapless evening gowns, dripping with diamonds. People were dressed informally like those strolling on the streets, mostly in shorts and T-shirts. The noise level on the floor astounded her, with the hum of underlying conversation, the beeps and whistles and jingles from the slot machines, and the occasional cheer when someone won. It was a different world. She realized it could be midnight or high noon but it wouldn’t matter, not in here where it was endless daytime.
Mason slid in a key card and the elevator doors opened. They soared silently upward, so fast Elizabeth Beatrice had to clear her ears. They stepped out into a wide hallway, not onto carpeting, but highly polished oak floors. They walked to the end of the hall. Mason nodded to a set of rosewood double doors in front of them. “Only the best for Rule,” he said, and rang the doorbell.
The door was opened at once by Eve Shaker, now Eve Doulos, Mason’s former wife, and Rule Shaker’s elder daughter. For six years Eve had been Rule’s only child. Mason hadn’t seen her in person during that time, though he’d seen some photos of her when he’d glanced at the big spread in the Las Vegas Review-Journal about the Shaker/Doulos over-the-top wedding Miles had printed out for him and slipped under his coffee cup. She was thirty now, as gorgeous as ever, her thick blond hair falling free around her face, down past her shoulders. She was wearing a tight-cropped white top showing lots of smooth tan skin, and tight white jeans. She was barefoot, her toenails showing a perfect French pedicure. She was still built like a showgirl only more beautiful. Mason said, “Eve. You’re looking well.”
She wasn’t surprised, of course. Mason knew the minute he’d spoken to the concierge, the man had called up to Rule’s apartment. Eve looked him up and down. “For an old man, you don’t look bad either, Mason.”
“Thank you.”
Eve eyed the young woman beside him, gave a small laugh. “You’re such a cliché, Mason. Like most rich men you like to go younger every year. But you’ve never brought a toy to meetings.”
Elizabeth Beatrice smiled at the woman beautiful enough to be a Victoria’s angel. “I would say rather we’re each other’s favorite toys. I’m his wife. My name is Elizabeth Beatrice,” and she stuck out her hand.
Eve took her hand without thinking. She hated the feel of the smooth young flesh. A perfect eyebrow arched. “I see you held out for a wedding ring. Good for you. Mason gave me a seven-carat marquise diamond, but who’s counting carats? You’re a Brit. Where did Mason find you? Not in some little out-of-the-way village, but maybe playing a bit part in a show on Shaftsbury?”
