“You’re a genius,” Bill said.
Clutching the receipt in his hand, Valentine walked down the hallway to the empty office where Gerry had parked himself behind a desk, his fingers dancing across the keyboard as he tried to access the computer. His son looked up expectantly.
“You find something?” Valentine asked.
His son nodded. “I think this was left for us. I’m printing it now.”
The laser printer sat atop a metal stand in the corner. Valentine grabbed the sheets as they were spit out and quickly read the manuscript. It had been co-authored by the gang, and explained in detail why they’d gone bad. Every criminal had a “reason” for committing crimes, and the reasons were all bogus. Everyone on the planet knew the difference between right and wrong; even the severely retarded. But this gang surprised him. They weren’t saying they weren’t guilty. They simply stated in plain English that they were fed up with how justice was administered in Las Vegas.
A hand tapped his shoulder, and he turned to face Bill.
“There’s an American Airlines flight to Acapulco out of McCarren that leaves at two-thirty, ” Bill said. “I called TSA, and told them to ground that plane.”
They went downstairs and climbed into Bill’s car. Bill started to pull the vehicle onto the street, then jammed on the brakes. Traffic had reached critical mass on Sahara, and the cars looked glued together. Bill called the Metro Las Vegas police on his cell phone. They weren’t much help, and he cursed after hanging up.
“The city’s roads and highways are at a standstill,” he said.
Valentine was riding shotgun. “Where are the cops?”
“The cops have been dispensed to the casinos to keep things under control,” Bill said. “Thousands of people have come in for the promotion. They’re fighting over seats at video poker machines.”
Valentine tapped his fingers on the dashboard, then turned around and looked at Gerry in the backseat. “How did you leave things with Nick?”
“What do you mean?” his son asked.
“You didn’t ogle his wife’s breasts or anything, did you?”
“Come on, Pop. I didn’t even meet her.”
“So you left on good terms?”
“Yeah, of course.”
Valentine took out his cell phone, and dialed Nick Nicocropolis’s direct line from memory. Twice in the past four years he’d saved Nick from going under, and he didn’t feel ashamed to call in a favor. The little Greek answered on the third ring.
“I need help,” Valentine said.
“Name it,” Nick said.
Nick showed up fifteen minutes driving a personalized white golf cart that looked like a pimp-mobile, with a frilly white curtain with pom-poms around the interior, and a shiny gold hood ornament of a naked woman leaning forward in a provocative pose. Valentine knew that Nick’s wife was six months pregnant, and could only wonder when fatherhood was going to catch up to the little Greek.
“Hop in, boys,” Nick said.
“I thought you were bringing your chopper,” Valentine said, climbing into the front.
“My pilot used it to take some big shots to the Boulder Dam,” Nick explained, flooring the accelerator once they were settled in. “Besides, this will get us there faster.”
“It will?”
“Yeah. It’s got a real tiger in the engine.”
Nick drove the golf cart onto the sidewalk and headed for the strip, his hand on the Harpo Marx horn hidden beneath the hood. The sidewalks were filled with tourists who didn’t seem to care if they got run over, and Nick screamed at anyone who stood in their path. Some people jumped out of the way, others didn’t, and more than once Valentine thought they were going to run somebody over.
“Slow down before you kill someone,” Bill yelled from the back.
“There’s plenty more where they came from,” Nick replied.
McCarren International Airport was a few short miles from the strip, its main runway visible to most hotel rooms on the south end of town. Nick drove his golf cart down the sidewalk on Tropicana Boulevard which ran parallel to the airport, then pulled into a gated entrance marked RESTRICTED/Airport Employees Only. As Valentine hopped out of the golf cart, he banged the hood with his hand.
“Thanks for the save.”
“All in a day’s work,” Nick replied. To Bill he said, “Mr. Higgins?”
“Yes, Mr. Nicocropolis,” Bill replied.
“You owe me, pal,” Nick said, then drove away.
Bill showed his laminated ID to the man in the guardhouse, and the gate was raised. They drove to Terminal A where a team of TSA agents were waiting for them. The agent in charge had straw-colored hair that he wore in a military buzz cut.
“Mr. Higgins, we’ve detained the American Airlines flight for Acapulco, per your request,” buzz cut said. “It’s at the gate loaded with passengers.”
“What reason did the pilot give for the delay?” Valentine asked.
“He told the passengers there was a mechanical malfunction that needed to be fixed,” buzz cut said.
“So no one knows what’s going on?”
Buzz cut shook his head. The key to nabbing Janet Haskell and getting her to talk was going to be the element of surprise: If she knew she was about to be arrested, she’d scream for a lawyer, and Valentine planned to put the fear of God into her before that idea crossed her mind. He said, “Do you have the plane’s manifest?”
The manifest was produced. Valentine opened it on the hood of the cruiser, and scanned the list of names. He didn’t think Janet Haskell was traveling under her own name, and had assumed a false identity.
“How long have you’ve worked with Haskell?” he asked Bill.
“Fifteen years.”
“She married?”
“Divorced a few years back. Why?”
“What’s her maiden name?”
Bill dredged his memory. “I think it was Bowen. No, Brown.”
Valentine ran his finger down the manifest and found Jane Brown. She was sitting in first class, no doubt already enjoying life on the lam.
“Got her. Let’s get her off that plane.”
Buzz cut got Haskell off the flight by having a filght attendant make an announcement over the plane’s P.A. system, and asking Jane Brown to come forward, and claim a personal belonging that had dropped from her handbag while it was being X-rayed. As they waited for Haskell to come down the jetway, buzz cut explained that he’d used this ploy successfully many times before.
“Most ladies have so much stuff in their handbags, that they don’t know when something’s missing,” he said.
Haskell came down the jetway with a bounce in her step and a glassy look in her eye, and Valentine guessed she’d started hitting the sauce the moment she’d boarded. She was dressed for Mexico, with a festive straw hat on her head, and a flowery skirt and matching silk top. A happier crook he’d never seen.
The happy look disappeared when she spied Bill. She did an about-face, and tried to beat it back to first class, only to have two TSA agents run down the jetway, and grab her by the arms. They lifted her clean in the air, and with cries of “Help! No!” coming out of her mouth, carried her off the plane, and into a windowless room beside the screening area.
Valentine entered the room to find Haskell wiping her eyes with a tissue. He started to shut the door, and saw Gerry standing outside.
“Get me two cups of coffee.”
By the time Gerry returned with two cups of Starbucks, Haskell had killed the water works, and was sitting with her back against the wall, her arms crossed defiantly.
“I want a lawyer,” she said.
She was in her late forties, with rings beneath her eyes and a sad face. Valentine guessed that she’d planned to start her life over in Acapulco. First she’d buy all the things that she couldn’t afford before — a sports car, house on the beach, maybe even a water craft — then go hunting for a male. This was the plan of most people who robbed and ran, and Valentine had tracked enough of these people down to know that it rarely panned out. But you couldn’t tell the Janet Haskells of the world that.