Stepping out of the elevator on the main floor, she came face-to-face with a life-sized poster advertising a nearby stage show. A spectacular showgirl in a scanty costume and elaborate plumed headdress smiled and posed against a glittering backdrop. That showgirl could have been Lila a dozen years ago—a single mother supporting her child any way she could. Desperate to save that child, she’d broken up Frank Culhane’s contentious marriage. Frank’s money had paid for ten-year-old Gemma’s lifesaving heart surgery. Lila had repaid him with eleven years of wifely devotion. But his first family, to this very day, had never forgiven the woman who’d displaced them.
“I see her, Darrin!” Simone, dressed as a blackjack dealer in a magenta satin shirt, black pants, sunglasses, and a black visor, spoke into her phone. “She just stepped out of the elevator. It looks like she’s going toward the casino.”
“Are you sure it’s Gemma?” Darrin, in cowboy clothes and a redMAGAcap, spoke from the stairwell below the floor where Mariah had told them Lila would be staying.
“It’s her, all right,” Simone answered. “I’d know your drab little stepsister anywhere.”
“Keep an eye on her. Let me know if she heads back to the elevator. Whatever happens, don’t let her recognize you.”
“I’m not stupid, Darrin.”
The two of them had been keeping watch for several hours, hoping to get Lila alone. The next step of the plan would be up to Darrin. He had never killed anyone before. His hands perspired inside his latex gloves at the thought of what he might have to do.
The trick would be to make Lila’s death look like an accident. He’d watched enough crime drama on TV to know that wouldn’t be easy. That was why he had the gloves and a mask in his pocket, and a piece of pipe under his leather vest. He could push her off the balcony, although he might have to knock her out first. He could even slice her wrists to make her death look like suicide. Or shove her head against the bathroom sink to make it appear that she’d struck it when she passed out. But the balcony was by far the best option.
Darrin was no Superman. Weak as Lila would be from that snakebite, he should be able to overpower her. But, as a backup, he carried a chloroform-soaked rag zipped into a plastic bag. The chloroform, which might be detectable in her lungs, was a last resort, but he couldn’t be too careful.
As he came out of the stairwell onto the floor, a horrific thought struck him. If Jasmine had talked to her lover, this could be a trap. Lila might not even be there. He could open the numbered door to find the FBI waiting for him.
A woman with a cleaning cart was coming down the hall toward him. She appeared to be about forty, tired-looking, maybe with a family at home. She could probably use a little something extra.
Slipping a fifty-dollar bill out of his wallet, he held it up where she could see it. “I’ll give you this,” he said, “if you’ll knock on the door of room 1545 and wait until it opens.”
The woman hesitated. She looked up and down the hall,then approached Darrin and snatched the bill with an outstretched hand. After tucking it into her pocket, she moved down the hall to the door and tapped politely.
“Louder! Damn it,” Darrin snapped, his nerves crackling like frayed wires.
The woman pounded on the door. Seconds passed. There was no response.
“You’ve got a passkey,” Darrin said. “Open it.”
She shook her head. “If I do that for you, I could lose my job.”
Darrin held out more bills. “Just open it.”
After a nervous glance around, she grabbed the cash from his hand and used her key. Keeping clear of the security camera, Darrin watched the door swing open.
The room was vacant—the beds neatly made, every surface swept and wiped clean, with no sign of luggage or other possessions. As the woman fled down the hall, Darrin studied the number he’d written down. It was the number Mariah had given him.
Stepping back into the stairwell, he called Simone on his cell phone. “This was a trap, but I knew better than to spring it,” he said. “Can you still see Gemma?”
“She’s in plain sight, watching people play the slots.”
“Follow her wherever she goes,” Darrin said. “Don’t take your eyes off her for a second. If you stay sharp, she’ll lead us to her mother.”
CHAPTEREIGHT
There wasn’t a great selection in the gift shop, but Gemma picked up some chips and dip, a packet of Oreos, and some red licorice strings. She added a couple cans of Diet Pepsi, paid for her purchases, and stuffed a few free napkins into the plastic bag the clerk handed her.
As she crossed the lobby, moving toward the elevators, her instincts began to tingle. She paused, glancing around. Was her imagination running away with itself, or was someone watching her?
The idea seemed foolish, but with her mother in danger, she couldn’t afford to ignore her intuition.
Screening herself behind a posterboard display, she scanned the crowded lobby. People were going about their business, some lining up to register at the desk, some headed for the casino, others wandering aimlessly, much as she had done. No one appeared to be paying her any attention.
A flash of bright color caught her eye. A petite, blond woman in a purplish-red, poly-satin blouse stood half-turned away from her. Gemma recognized her outfit. The blouse, worn with black pants and a black visor, was the uniform of a card dealer.
The visor was worn by some dealers to shield their eyes from the glaring lights of the casino. But why would the woman need to wear it in the lobby? And if she worked in the casino, what was she doing out here?