Skin Game

CHAPTER 4

Gerard Serrano gazed out over the skyline. From his penthouse, he had an excellent view of the Vegas lights. He should have felt some degree of satisfaction over what he’d achieved. Thirty years ago, he’d been a kid with nothing, coming to the Strip looking to make his mark. From there he’d clawed his way up to the top, stepping over a few bodies along the way.

“Like they say,” he muttered, “you don’t make the omelet without breaking some eggs.”

Until a few months ago, he’d been feared and respected. That had all changed the night Rachel Justice humiliated him in his own casino. Serrano clenched his jaw against the remembered burn of it. That wasn’t even her real name, of course. She wasn’t a kindergarten teacher. She wasn’t Presbyterian.

Kyra Marie Beckwith had played him for a fool like nobody had managed in twenty years. It didn’t help that his chief of security, Foster, had suggested he run a background check on her, months ago. If he hadn’t been so stu pidly infatuated, he would have listened. If Foster had his way, everyone would be fingerprinted before they were allowed to talk to him, Serrano thought with amusement.

That faded slowly as he recalled his problem. If he’d listened to Foster, he’d have known who “Rachel” was before things escalated and he could have taken care of things quietly. Now that was no longer an option. He had to make an example of her.

She’d used her position as his fiancée to disgrace him completely. If he hadn’t been out of town on business, she never would’ve been able to convince the cage cashier to pay out her money in large bills. She’d even gotten them to do it especially for her, not needing his approval because he’d told them to treat her word as his own. He’d intended to make her queen of his kingdom, the mother of his children.

He turned from the window as his security chief let himself into the office. Serrano recognized the cat-soft footfalls; nobody else who worked for him moved quite like Foster. He half suspected the man had a background in stalking and killing, but to Serrano’s mind, that made Foster more suited for his job, not less. He was a tall, slim man of indeterminate ethnic background. Sometimes Serrano thought he was Nordic, other times, German, but Foster had no discernible accent.

“Any word?” Serrano asked.

Foster functioned as the go-between in communication with the pro they’d hired to make the problem go away. Serrano didn’t dirty his hands with such things, and it wouldn’t be smart to leave a trail. The money that paid for the hit came from various hidden accounts, and not even from the same one.

The security chief inclined his head. “He caught up with her in Louisiana. When he has information regarding the whereabouts of your money, he’ll finish the job.”

“That’s good news.” Serrano smiled. “I want to get this wrapped up. I’m heading to St. Moritz in a few days.”

“I thought you hated to ski.”

“I do, but the women there are fantastic.”

His top man had the restraint not to say that his penchant for women had gotten them into this mess in the first place. Sometimes it was good for people to think they knew all about you. In some ways, this debacle could be turned to his advantage. It might be interesting to see who came snapping at the injured wolf’s throat. When the time came, he’d handle all challenges in the same way he always had—without mercy.

Foster didn’t know everything; he just thought he did. And the real reason Serrano was heading to Europe was a lot more interesting than he’d let on, even to his security chief. He didn’t think it was smart to trust anyone with the big picture.

“How long will you be gone?”

“A couple of weeks, I’d say. Can you handle things here?”

“You can rely on me.”

Something about Foster’s cool, neutral tone set off alarm bells. Serrano had never been able to pinpoint it, but he always had the feeling his security chief didn’t like him, not that it stopped the man from doing his job or cashing his paycheck. Maybe he was paranoid, but he hadn’t survived so many years in a dirty business by being a trusting SOB. One of his competitors might see his humiliation as a golden prospect to take him down, and any employee could be bought.

That was why he’d started thinking about a family, a son to inherit what he’d built. It would take the right kind of woman to give him what he wanted. He’d thought Rachel Justice was that woman, but she was just a con artist’s creation. That stung more than he liked, the fact that he’d been so cleanly taken. But Serrano didn’t let his temper get away from him. It wouldn’t do to show weakness, not even in front of Foster—maybe especially in front of Foster.

“Keep me posted, will you?”

“Absolutely, sir.” Foster turned to leave.

“How long have you worked for me?” He knew the answer; he just wanted to measure the man’s precision.

“One year, ten months, and twenty-seven days.”

“When was the last time you had a raise?”

“Not quite a year ago.”

“Was it a good one?”

He damn well knew it had been. Serrano rewarded efficiency. Foster was a solid, reliable employee who never asked inconvenient questions and always offered the best solution to any problem. In his experience, that meant something would break soon. Men like Foster weren’t content nibbling at the edges of somebody else’s pie. They wanted the whole damn bakery for themselves.

At least, that had been his experience in the past. Serrano was starting to think maybe he’d never met anyone quite like Foster before.

“Twenty percent increase,” Foster answered, expressionless.

“Excellent. I’ll see what I can do for you this year, too.” With that, he turned, dismissing his chief of security with his back. Though he heard no movement, he knew the moment the man left by the nearly silent snick of the door.

He’d entrusted a great deal to a man nobody knew much about. Serrano had stolen him from a rival casino because he came so highly recommended and because Foster was dispassionate as a shark. The security chief didn’t invite confidences any more than he shared them. He did his job and he went home, which as far as Serrano knew was a simple one-bedroom out in Green Valley, even though Serrano paid him enough to afford something ten times as nice. Foster could live in a penthouse if wanted, but his security chief wasn’t motivated by money. Serrano wouldn’t feel entirely at ease about the man until he knew just what did motivate him. In nearly two years, he still hadn’t figured it out.

Still, he had no concrete basis for his suspicions. They were reflexive more than anything else. He hadn’t kept his position by letting people put things over on him. If he really thought the guy was up to something, he wouldn’t have put him in charge of cleaning up the Justice debacle.

Serrano shrugged into his suit jacket. He’d be damned if he was going to change his routine. Tonight his cronies would be showing off at an exclusive club, where the drinks were overpriced, the women wore very little, and the men came in one shape: powerful. Ordinarily, he’d be the first one there. Since his humiliation, he hadn’t shown his face, but he couldn’t hide forever.

On the way down, he called for his driver, Tonio, who met him at the front doors of the Silver Lady. The casino was a blowsy whore, but he loved every inch of her from the red carpet to the silver neon that ran the length of the electric bombshell that had made the place famous. There was a healthy crowd in there, he thought, as he climbed into the limo. Lots of blue-collar Joes like he’d once been, begging Lady Luck for a break. He could’ve told them all to go home and invest their money in a good IRA, but that would be bad for his own bottom line.

Serrano poured himself a drink. He didn’t have to tell Tonio where he was going. Most of the time, his life ran like a Swiss watch. The driver dropped him off outside the club, seventeen thousand feet of pure luxurious debauchery. At the door, the bouncer waved him in and he took the VIP elevator up to the private suite. He didn’t like mixing with all the drunks on the main level.

When he arrived, he found two guys waiting, Lou Pasternak and Joe Ricci. They had drinks in hand, watching the greater floor show. It wasn’t just the dancers, but the way the men reacted to them. From up here, you could get the big picture, which was one of his favorite things about stopping by the security room at the Silver Lady. Sometimes he liked keeping a finger on the pulse of the place.

“So you finally crawled out of your hole,” Joe said, raising his glass. “I think I’d just kill myself, if I was you. Nobody’s ever gonna forget this.”

Pasternak showed his teeth. “You know one of your guys put that thing on YouTube? When she held up the sign, I thought I’d piss myself laughing. Have you seen it?” The big man threw his head back and laughed.

Serrano froze. Son of a bitch. He’d known rumors would get out, repeated by those who were there that night. There was no avoiding that. He couldn’t have imagined this would end up on the Internet. Somebody at the Silver Lady, somebody who worked in security, had copied the footage, sneaked it out, and put it up to disgrace him further.

He’d find out who was working that night, identify the culprit, and make an example of him. He hadn’t dumped a body in years, but he still knew how to go about it. They had to see he wasn’t soft.

A sick feeling overwhelmed him. Killing her might not be enough. He needed to do something big to make people in this town remember why they’d feared him.

Something big . . .

Addison Foster returned to the security room precisely ten minutes after he left his boss. The guards came to attention when he slid inside. They always became more conscientious by virtue of his presence. If he hadn’t been distracted by other things, he would have found their nervousness amusing, not that it would have found any outlet in his expression. Foster prided himself on his inscrutable mien.

Where Gerard Serrano was concerned, it had saved his ass more than once.

“What’s the situation on the floor?” he asked.

Rodriguez gave the report. “Making money almost everywhere, but table eight is losing steadily to a guy in a porkpie hat. I haven’t been able to ID him yet.”

Amateurs.

“Did you figure out his system at least?”

“Not yet.”

He’d have to do it himself before their losses got big enough to piss Serrano off. “Show me the footage on the backup screen.” Obligingly, Rodriguez sent the images over where he could examine them frame by frame. Foster sat down, and within forty-five seconds, he said, “Bring me the blond at the slots behind the table . . . and the guy in the hat. She’s signaling him.”

“Right away,” the other guard said.

With a sigh, Foster let himself into the interview room. He could do without these idiots who were so sure they had a foolproof way to beat the house. There was no such thing as money for nothing. The guy in the porkpie hat didn’t come quietly. It took four security guards to get him up there, and his blond accomplice wouldn’t stop crying.

After conducting the required disclosure and confiscating their ill-gained goods, he turned the would-be Bonnie and Clyde over to the cops. It amused him how much play Serrano got out of the local authorities when he was probably the biggest criminal on or off the Strip. The only difference was, nobody ever caught him.

The rest of his shift passed quietly enough, but it was 4:00 A.M. by the time he clocked out and headed for his gold Nissan Altima. It was two years old and in excellent condition. Foster had learned to take care of his possessions as a child, and it didn’t matter their actual value. He safeguarded what belonged to him.

So very little did.

It was a fair drive to his apartment so late at night, but he wouldn’t live near the casinos. That brought back too many memories. Once he reached his apartment building, he checked the lot out of long-ingrained habit. Though it had been years since anyone had tracked him down, he never knew when the past would come calling again unexpectedly.

No shadows, no telltale signs of pursuit. Not even a car passing to another residence. That was good. At this hour, everything should be quiet—and it was—another reason he liked working this shift. It made it easier to spot things out of order.

Foster got out of his vehicle, hit the lock button on his remote, and kept an eye on the landscaping. It was impossible for him to walk to his building without constantly scanning side to side. As it always did, his heart pounded a little harder in going up the stairs to the third floor. If anyone had chosen tonight to try and kill him, this would be their best chance.

But as it had been for the last six hundred nights, he made it to his apartment unimpeded. Sometimes he almost felt disappointed in the ones hunting him. In that regard, he had some sympathy for the woman against whom they’d dispatched a professional. But if they’d only tried a little harder, they might succeed in making his life interesting. Instead he’d slipped into the skin of this nonentity, Addison Foster. Doubtless this man had grown up in New Hampshire and summered in the Poconos. He’d attended all the right schools.

Most days, he hated the son of a bitch, even as he was forced to live his life.

But not entirely.

The woman was waiting for him, as she was paid to, three nights a week. He did not speak to her as he hung his jacket in the closet. As instructed, she was already wearing the blindfold. She’d chained one of her wrists to his bed-post, and he took care of the other one himself. Then he left her that way, anticipation flooding his veins. He took a slow, leisurely shower, washing off the smoke and stench of a night at the Silver Lady.

The prostitute knew better than to make small talk. She was slim and lithe, younger than he wanted to think about, most likely, but not too young. His tastes didn’t run in that direction. At his request, she had no body hair, just the dark mane on her head. It was dyed, of course. She’d been a mousy blond the first time she came to him, but in Vegas, you could have anything, if the price was right.

Just looking at her cuffed to his bed made him hard. She didn’t move when he opened the table beside the bed and produced a condom. He rolled it on with the ease of practice, and she lay sweetly still and passive as he came down on her. The good girl had already lubricated herself, so he slid in easily.

Foster found it easier to do this with whores, who didn’t question his preferences. Regular women always wanted to know why when he said, don’t look at me, don’t talk to me, and for God’s sake, don’t touch me. He’d given up on that type of exchange years ago. In many ways, this was cleaner and more honest.

Holding himself away from her on his arms, he began to thrust. They touched nowhere except this point of penetration. He could tell by her breathing when she started to like it. That was the thing that surprised him most about their arrangement. He found it strange that a working girl could take pleasure in his very particular tastes, but this one did, no question. She came almost as silently as he did—with a soft exhalation and a nearly imperceptible tightening of muscles.

It was exercise, nothing more.

As soon as he finished, he rolled away from her and unfastened one of her arms. He went to the bathroom and shut the door. She knew her cue. While he washed and disposed of the condom, she would dress and disappear. She’d never once seen his face.

That was the way it had to be. If she ever found out who he was—or more important—who he had been, things would change for her—and not in a good way.

By the time he came back into the bedroom, she was gone. Doubtless she envisioned he had some kind of hideous deformity, something he didn’t want her to see or touch. Maybe she even got off on the thought that she was fucking a circus freak. There was no accounting for kink.

The truth was, his difference lay beneath the skin, nothing that could be measured or quantified. He merely accommodated it as best he could. Foster shrugged into a silken robe. The maroon dressing gown would surprise Serrano, he thought. He reckoned Foster a complete ascetic or possibly a homosexual. That too was part of the plan.

Then came the next part of his nightly ritual. Foster checked all the traps in the apartment, tiny cues that would tell him if something had been moved or touched. If the girl had shown signs of letting herself in and prowling in his things, well, they would not have continued their association. But she only did what she was paid to do, the consummate professional. He respected that in a woman.

He had a downright soft spot for the one who’d humiliated his boss on closed-circuit TV. Giving one of the guards the idea about YouTube had been priceless. Foster didn’t think Serrano had seen that yet. The fireworks would be spectacular.

When he was content the apartment was still clean, he drew a titanium case out from its hiding spot. Inside, there was a laptop. He powered it up and input eight different passwords, taking him through various layers of encryption. He waited for a connection, then two words popped up on the black screen:

KNOCK KNOCK.

Despite his general distaste for the drama, he typed: WHO’S THERE?

MOCKINGBIRD.

Ah, he’d gotten lucky then. Foster smiled as he input, SHRIKE HERE. I KNOW HOW WE CAN TAKE HIM DOWN.