Quinn left the rum and Coke untouched along with a ten-dollar bill and a nod at the waitress. Wanting to stay ahead of Drake’s date, he walked quickly back under Cleopatra’s wooden cleavage, through the Palace casino, and around the corner to Diamond VIP registration. Thankfully, there was no line. He badged the girl with a Croatian accent behind the desk, explaining that he was conducting a routine advance for a protective operation on an Air Force three-star general. She was professional enough that she didn’t mention the Capitol Police detail already on site.
“The general is very averse to the media,” Quinn said, hoping she’d afford him the same restraint when she spoke with any other protective agents.
“Of course, sir.” The girl, whose name was Cetina, gave a conspiratorial nod and pointed to a map on the marble counter. “We have three vacant suites at the moment. I can get security to show you any or all of them if you wish.”
Quinn took a deep breath, feeling a twinge of guilt for lying to this sweet girl. “That won’t be necessary,” he said. “I just need to take a few photos of stairwells, fire escapes, and whatnot. We’re still in early stages.”
“Very well.” Cetina slid a key card across the counter. “This will give you access to the elevators around the corner.” She smiled, a splash of freckles accenting the pink skin of a button nose. “Be careful taking photos of our guests. Like your general, most are not very fond of publicity.”
Quinn made it around to catch the elevator in time to see a flash of red as Drake’s buxom escort passed the restrooms down the hall, coming toward him. She was alone.
Quinn got on the elevator without looking back and punched the button for the twenty-seventh and the forty-sixth floors to make certain the car would continue up when he got back on. He stepped off immediately at twenty-five, but held the door and watched the floor numbers above the adjacent elevator, which surely contained Drake’s date. They flashed past him and on to thirty-nine before stopping. Quinn stepped back on and inserted the card again. He made it to thirty-nine as the red dress disappeared into her room, four doors down from the elevator.
What happened in Vegas did indeed stay in Vegas, often for a great length of time, recorded digitally on cameras in virtually every casino, lobby, and hallway. Thankfully, guest floors were not places where the casinos lost money, so Quinn knew it was unlikely a live set of eyes would be focused on the particular cameras watching the thirty-ninth floor.
Quinn smiled broadly as he gave a knock on the door. The woman opened almost immediately, tilting her head sideways when she saw it wasn’t Hartman Drake.
Quinn held up his room key. “I think you dropped this,” he said. When she turned instinctively to look at the desk where she’d put her own key, he shouldered his way in, pinning her arms and putting a hand over her mouth before she could scream. The door clicked shut behind them as she began to rake his shins with her feet.
Over the years Quinn had dealt with more than a handful of women involved in prostitution. The reasons they got into such work were as varied as their hair color and descriptions. Some were sad sacks. Some did it because they wanted to make a lot of money fast, but nearly all of them shared at least one particular trait. They were almost impossible to intimidate. Unlike most men in modern America, the vast majority of hookers had been punched in the face, many times. They knew what it felt like, and they also knew it took more than a smack to kill them.
“Police!” Quinn hissed in the woman’s ear. He arched his back to make it harder for her to get at his legs with the hard edges of her pedaling high heels.
Her body arched with him, trying to get away, but she stopped kicking.
Quinn moved his hand away from her mouth, careful not to let her bite him. He prepared to slap it back down if she began to scream.
“I knew it. Secret Service,” she spat. “That bastard told me it was okay. He said I wouldn’t get in any trouble.”
Quinn didn’t correct her. In the minds of the American public, the Secret Service protected everyone. For all he knew, Drake had told her just that. Instead, he took a pair of handcuffs from his back pocket and snapped them around the woman’s wrists, behind her back. Knowing Drake could arrive at any moment, he gave her a quick pat-down for hidden weapons. The tight dress left little room to hide anything, but Quinn had seen firsthand how Veronica Garcia could secret a pistol away under some pretty flimsy bits of cloth.
The call girl’s mouth hung open when he spun her around and set her on the bed. A flicker of terror sparked in her brown eyes. Her lower lip trembled slightly. The handcuffs and the dawning reality of her situation had finally staggered her confidence.
“You don’t look like no Secret Service agent I ever saw.”
“How well do you know your client?” Quinn said.
Apparently satisfied Quinn didn’t mean to rape her or beat her to death, the woman fell back onto the bed, looking up at the ceiling with a tired groan. “I don’t know, seven, eight months. My friend says to me, ‘Dolores, you should meet this guy. He’s some big shot in politics and he pays very well.’ ”
“Does he talk to you?” Quinn kept an eye on the door.
“Hell, yes he talks to me,” Dolores said. “He won’t shut up. Mostly about himself and how buff he looks. I think he only hires me so he’s got somebody to brag to.”
“Anything else?”
“Every man I know gonna brag some.” She rolled sideways a little to take the pressure off her wrists. Her face remained passive as if she was used to being handcuffed and thrown on a bed. “Drake, he brags a hell of a lot more than most. Like he can’t help himself, you know. Says he’s gonna be the most powerful man in the world someday. He’s always going on about how he could save the world or destroy it if he wanted to, just like God himself.” She blinked up at Quinn. “No shit, I ain’t lyin’. He actually says stuff like that.”
Quinn took her by the arm and helped situate her in a more comfortable position against the headboard. “Did he say how he might save or destroy the world?”
She batted her eyelashes and stuck out her bottom lip, pouting. “I don’t suppose you could loosen these cuffs a little?”
“Maybe in a minute,” Quinn said. “Did Drake ever give you any specifics?”
The pout vanished. “To be honest, I usually just tuned him out. If you guys knew the things that go through a woman’s mind while you’re breathing in our ears—”
“But you heard something.”
“He talked about the Bible all the time,” Dolores said. “You know, all that whirlwind, fire, and pestilence crap and how he would be a modern-day Moses.”
“What else,” Quinn prodded every time she fell silent.
“No kidding, I really did tune him out.” She shrugged, eyes wandering around the room trying to find something more interesting than this conversation. “You can ask him. My meter’s running and he don’t like to pay me to just sit here in the room, if you know what I mean. He’ll sneak away from his agents pretty soon.” She looked up at Quinn, dark eyes shifting to the pistol that was now visible under his open jacket. Her voice was strangely detached, as if she’d seen this sort of thing many times before. “Are you gonna kill him?”
Quinn shook his head. “No,” he said.
Not right away, he thought.
CHAPTER 9
Dolores said she had no great love lost for Drake. She swore she would cooperate but didn’t have much else to give in the way of helpful information.
The far end of the suite was a sunken living area with plush sectional couches to match gold drapes. A glass coffee table and long oak chest of drawers with a big-screen television rounded out the décor. Quinn left Dolores in handcuffs and sat her on the far couch so she could lean against the corner with her back to the door.