last week to bang some chick over at Circus, Circus. Maybe that’s where he is now…”
Driscoll’s voice trailed off, his eyes still glued to the corpse on the other side of the glass. “Hell of a way to die…”
“What?” Jack demanded.
“I said that’s a hell of a way to die,” Driscoll replied. “Suicide, I mean…”
Jack and Curtis exchanged glances, neither convinced the death was a suicide.
“When you find Ray Perry, I want to see him. Immediately,” Jack said through gritted teeth.
“You got it, Jaycee.”
Then Driscoll tapped the glass. “What do we do about him.”
“I’m going to seal the room for now. Nobody comes down here until I say so. Nobody…”
“Why don’t I have the guys dump this stiff in the desert. Nobody will be the wiser—”
“No,” Jack shot back. “I’ll deal with the problem my way…”
Don Driscoll raised his arms in mock surrender. “Whatever you want, Jaycee.”
In his mind, Jack had already decided to summon a CTU forensics team to examine the scene and perform an on-site autopsy, even if their arrival aroused suspicion among the staff. He’d find some way of explaining it all. Right now he only suspected Farrow’s death was homicide. Before he could make his next move, he had to know what really happened, because if Max Farrow was murdered, there was a traitor in his ranks. And that traitor had to be weeded out as soon as possible, before the turncoat did more damage.
4. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 3 P.M. AND 4 P.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME
The streets surrounding Mesa Canyon, a sun-washed residential development on the outskirts of Las Vegas, were deserted. Paul Dugan parked his Dodge Sprinter right outside the gate of Compound One, on the corner of Smoke Ranch Road and North Buffalo Drive. He opened the truck’s door, and immediately knew why. With nothing but concrete and sand all around, there was no shade, so the residents had taken refuge from the punishing heat and relentless sun inside the air conditioned comfort of their mock adobe townhouses.
Fair-haired, tall and lean — despite hours of relative inactivity spent behind the wheel — Dugan retained his boyish good looks late into his third decade. That’s precisely why he was hired by Fit-Chef on the very day he filed an employment application, before he even passed his background check. Ric Minelli, FitChef’s smooth talking Las Vegas regional manager, was a former salesman himself. Ric understood his company’s clientele and realized immediately that Dugan’s home-spun charm would play well with his customer base, which was ninety-six point five percent female.
Paul had been with for Fit-Chef for a year now and liked his job. Fleeing a massive layoff in the blighted northeast, he left Johnstown, Pennsylvania and his shrew of an ex-wife, hoping to relocate to Los Angeles where he had friends. But the transmission on his car failed just shy of the California border, and while Paul waited in a Las Vegas garage for repairs, he met another driver for Fit-Chef. The man told Paul that the most popular food ser vice in Nevada was always looking for an experienced delivery driver. Now Paul was another transplant to the fastest growing urban area in the United States.
Feeling the burn on the back of his ruddy neck, Dugan unlocked the back of the white panel truck, checked the manifest on his electronic pad. “T. Baird” was his next delivery destination. Paul grinned in anticipation. Tiffany Baird played a scantily-clad vampire at the new Goth extravaganza at the Castle Casino. Though he’d never actually seen the show, Paul couldn’t help but notice the ubiquitous ad campaign, in which Tiffany’s figure was prominently displayed. Of course, in reality Tiffany was nothing like her showgirl persona. She was actually rather sweet.
In the shade of the truck’s interior, Paul fumbled around until he located the right order. Hefting the box, he closed the truck. As an added precaution, Dugan primed the alarm system. After what happened this morning, he knew it was wise to be careful.
Whistling tunelessly, Paul carried the boxes to the gate, pressed the buzzer. The intercom crackled immediately. “Yeah? Hello…”
“Fit-Chef,” Paul replied. The lock clicked and he pushed through the metal gate, entering a circular plaza surrounded by townhouses. In the center of the complex, the blue waters of a swimming pool shimmered invitingly, though the poolside was as deserted as the streets outside.
Tiffany’s was the fourth door to the left, but Paul didn’t need to press the doorbell. She stood outside, awaiting her delivery. Even without makeup, Tiffany Baird was a stunner. Today she wore a baby blue nylon kimono that ended mid-thigh. Her long legs were naked, tiny feet slipped into matching blue plastic flip-flops. Her red hair was pulled back into a ponytail that spilled down her shapely back, held in place by an elastic hair band. Once again Paul noticed the third finger of her left hand lacked a ring.
Tiffany Baird greeted him with a smile that was tempered with surprise. “What are you doing here?”
“Hello, Miss Baird,” Paul replied. “I guess I got lucky.”
“I thought that Mexican kid was delivering today.”
Paul frowned. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were disappointed to see me.”
“Not at all,” Tiffany cried, pushing an unruly lock of hair away from her face. “It’s just that the delivery is coming so late and all, I figured something must have happened.”
Dugan handed her the package. She set it down on a plastic lawn chair, signed the electronic manifest he presented.
“Actually, Ignacio’s day turned to crap,” Dugan said. “His truck got jacked a couple of hours ago. The punk who stole it pistol whipped Iggy, put him in the hospital.”
Tiffany ripped the lid off the box. “Jesus. Ain’t nobody safe?” she grunted.
“Apparently not,” Dugan replied. “It’s crazy, too. It’s not like he’s driving a Brinks truck, just a shit load of diet food — er, pardon my French.”
Tiffany sniffed, frowning at the contents of a plastic container. “Edamame again. They call
Paul watched her rummage through the box, realized she wore nothing under the thin kimono.
“If you ever get sick of that rabbit food, let me know. I’ll buy you a steak at Smith and Wollensky’s.”
The bold invitation had come out of Paul’s mouth before he realized what he was saying. Now, face flushed with embarrassment, he waited for the polite rebuff — and felt like kicking himself.
Tiffany licked teriyaki sauce off her fingers. Then she grinned. “Fit-Chef is a real full ser vice company, huh?”
“I… I’m sorry,” he stammered.
“Don’t be,” Tiffany replied, tapping his nametag with an ebony enameled finger. “In fact, you better watch yourself, Mr. Dugan. I might just take you up on your offer.”
Dugan blinked. “How about this Saturday?”
Tiffany’s grin broadened. “How about Sunday. I work Fridays and Saturdays.”
Paul nodded, speechless.
“You’ve got my phone number in that little computer of yours,” Tiffany said, hefting her delivery. “Give me a call on Friday and we’ll set a time.”
Dugan stood blinking in the sun for a full thirty seconds after Tiffany Baird closed her front door. Finally he turned and, whistling again, headed back to the truck.
Crossing the sidewalk, Paul Dugan was too distracted to notice the late-model black Ford Explorer with tinted windows parked across the street. Still lost in a fog of euphoria, he deactivated the alarm and unlocked the door.
A shadow suddenly crossed the sun, then something exploded inside Paul Dugan’s head. A sharp jolt of pain roiled his spine. His knees gave out and he dropped to the hot asphalt. Seemingly in slow motion, he reached out to steady himself — only to have the truck’s keys snatched out of his semi-limp fingers. Paul grunted in protest, and another blow came down on the back of his head, slamming him flat.
He moaned as someone stepped over him. Hot tar burned his cheek. The wheels right next to his head spun,
