Private

Chapter 100

"A GOOD LAUGH always helps," Justine said as they entered the bar.

Since Justine had last been at the Whiskey Blue, it had undergone a modern makeover. The lounge was swathed in earthy neutrals; there were angular couches in chocolate and umber, and soft lighting over the bar. Techno music pounded out of the speakers, making real conversation impossible.

The place was jammed with young execs and wa

Justine felt an u

For too long she'd been working this case as though the murdered girls were her own children. It had been months of frustration and grief, hearing the indelible cries of the girls' parents etched into her mind like the grooves of an old-fashioned vinyl record.

She and Nora had given themselves a difficult but critical task. If they pulled it off, they might shut down a heinous fucking killer-but there were so many ways this could go wrong.

Chapter 101

JUSTINE SIGNALED to Nora with her eyes, and they inched and edged through the crowd.

When they got to the bar, Justine said to a big, bluff twenty-something red-faced guy wearing a shirt that matched his complexion, "Mind if I slip in there and order a drink?"

"What are you having?" said the guy, checking her out from the neck down.

"My girlfriend and I, we're together."

The large guy looked at Nora, then quickly back at Justine. This time, her eyes. He sneered, but he backed away.

Justine nabbed a stool, put a hand around Nora's arm, and pulled her close. She leaned in and whispered, "Got a clear view of him?"

"Yeah. Crocker's asking for a refill. The bartender just took away his glass."

The bartender was in his early thirties, sandy hair thi

"What can I get for you ladies?"

"Pinot Grigio," said Justine.

"Perrier," said Nora. There was a jostling movement at Justine's back, someone bumping into her.

"What the…?"

"Don't look now. Crocker's got company," said Nora. "Ski

"I can't hear what they're saying," Justine said.

"Doesn't matter," said Cronin. "As long as we can see them we're cool."

The bartender put their drinks on the bar. Justine paid with a twenty, told Buddy to keep the change. The bartender palmed the bill, took a bowl of nuts out from under the ledge, and placed it in front of her.

Justine lifted her eyes and watched Crocker in the mirror behind the bar.

He had the stand-out ears, the memorable nose. The rest of the picture was just un-freaking-believable: how could a guy this ordinary be vying with legendary psychos for a top spot in the killer lineup?

The busboy brought a rack of clean glasses to the back bar, and the bartender took a few orders. Crocker's friend had a beer from the tap, and the two of them talked without looking around.

Justine dropped her eyes when Crocker signaled to the waiter for the check. She watched him sign it, then both men got off their stools and left the bar.

Buddy moved to clear away the glasses, and Nora slapped her badge down on the bar in a fraction of an instant.

"Don't touch the glassware," she said to Buddy. "I need it. It's evidence."

"Evidence of what?" the bartender asked.

"I think that pretty girl over there is looking for another drink," Justine said to Buddy. "Why don't you go give one to her."

Nora and Justine each wrapped a paper napkin around a glass: the one belonging to Crocker and the one belonging to his friend.

Only when they were out of the bar, sitting together again in the Crown Vic, did they allow themselves to smile.

Justine opened her phone and tapped in some numbers.

"Sci. Can you meet us at the lab in twenty minutes? I think we've got something good."

Chapter 102

AS YOGI BERRA would have said, it was "deja vu all over again." Rick was sitting beside me in the Cessna. We landed at the Las Vegas airport at dusk and rented a car.

Then we drove out past the sandy lots of stillborn subdivisions that had gone silent in '08. Eventually, a gray wall appeared, blocking the view of the gated community from the street.

We stopped at Carmine Noccia's front gate.

Rick pressed the button, and a voice answered, then someone buzzed us in. We crossed the bridge over a man-made recirculating river that could only have existed in Las Vegas, or maybe Orlando. We continued past the spotlit stables and came into the forecourt with its island of date palms outside the massive oak door.

Squint your eyes and you were in Barcelona or Morocco.

The Noccia goon we'd last seen wearing a red shirt was now in a tight black pullover and leather-like jeans.

He opened the door for us, then took Rick's gun and mine and put them on top of that double-wide gun safe masquerading as a Moorish armoire in the hallway.

The goon took the lead as he had before: through the billiards room, filled with the clacking of colored clay balls, to the great room where Carmine Noccia sat in his leather chair.

This time Noccia wasn't reading. He had his eyes on the ginormous screen over the fireplace, watching a rerun of the Titans' flat-out massacre of the Raiders a few hours ago.

He shut off the TV and, as before, offered us seats without shaking our hands.

I was feeling heady.

On the one hand, we'd been warned off by Carmine Noccia and his "family," and they had good reason to dislike us. I'd snubbed his lawyers, beaten up his guys at Glenda Treat's whorehouse, and I'd been disrespectful to Carmine's father, the don.

Now I was back with Del Rio, my loosely wrapped bodyguard buddy, wanting to make a deal. Took some nerve. I had asked Rick to keep his mouth shut, his eyes open, and his ass on the sofa. He'd said, "Yeah, boss," and I could only hope that he'd firmly chained his loose ca

The pool outside the glass doors reflected waving bars of light across Noccia's face, making his expression unreadable.

Would he tell me what I wanted to know? I sure hoped so.

"What is it now, Morgan?"

"You saw the game?"

"Call that a game? More like a turkey shoot."

"I've brought something to show you."

I took the packet of still shots out of my pocket and handed them to Carmine Noccia.

He took the photos with his cool, manicured hand and flipped through them. His eyebrows lifted minutely as he recognized the people in the pictures and realized what they were doing and what it meant to his business.

"How did you come by these photos? If you don't mind me asking."

"I shot them myself. But here's what matters. The game was rigged, and it's been going on for a while. If we hadn't intervened, money was going to keep hemorrhaging out of the bookie joints, and you might have bled to death.

"Instead, the Marzullos got it in the teeth. It should set them back for a while. Keep them out of sports betting on the national level. That's what I think. What do you think?"

Carmine put the pictures down on the table between us. He leaned back in his chair and watched my face. I watched his.

I tried to imagine what he was thinking. Did he believe that I'd done something this enormous that actually benefited him? Was he mapping out a war against the Marzullos? Or was he simply composing a way to tell his father how narrowly they'd avoided a calamity that could have sunk a very important component of the family business?