“Top floor,” Stella replied. “And I’m sure the guest elevators are well guarded. I know where the ser vice elevators are located however.”
Pizarro stepped aside to allow Stella to pass. “Lead on,” he said, almost civilly.
11. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 10 P.M. AND 11 P.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME
The call Don Driscoll had been waiting for came near the end of the evening shift. He reached his meaty hand into the orange jacket, then placed a cell phone to his ear.
“This is Driscoll.”
“It’s Wildman. We’re outside. You ready to rumble?”
“Go to the back of the casino. Follow the building until you find a steel door marked High Voltage. I’ll be there in five minutes to let you in. Be ready to go…”
Driscoll slipped the phone into his pocket. The pit boss looked for someone to spell him, spotted Chick Hoffman closing his roulette table. Like the big casinos, dealers at the Cha-Cha worked twenty minutes, then had twenty minutes off. While that was a lot of break time, casino management had learned that an inattentive dealer could cost the casino a lot of money. Since the crowd was so light, Driscoll had given the okay for Chick Hoffman, Frank Ross and Bud Langer to close down their tables for the break. Now he approached Chick.
“Play pit boss for fifteen minutes,” Driscoll asked. “I need to take a dump.”
“Will do,” Chick replied, cooperating for once instead of giving him lip. Driscoll figured Hoffman was still jazzed about the vig Jaycee was slipping him for collaring the cheat.
Instead of heading for the employee break area, Driscoll went behind the bar and hopped into the freight elevator. He rode it down two floors to the beverage room. Passing stacks of untapped kegs, cases of the hard stuff, he entered the dingy hall.
The click of his leather heels bounced off the cinderblock walls as he walked to the remote storage room. The place seemed undisturbed, the air musty. Just to be safe, Driscoll checked on the corpse.
Ray Perry was right where he left him. Driscoll had stabbed Ray to death in the security cell where he’d killed Max Farrow, then rolled the body here on a freight handler. He knew he’d have to come back to this room, to the circuit box to cut the alarm on the back door. It was as good a place as any to stash a corpse.
Driscoll approached the steel circuit box, opened the hatch and threw several switches. He deactivated the alarms at the back door, and cut the juice to all the security cameras in the basement.
Driscoll pulled out his cell phone, dialed the number to the observation booth.
“Morris here,” O’Brian answered.
“It’s Driscoll. Where’s Jaycee?”
“He’s downstairs, in the security cell,” Morris replied. “Seeking clues about the unexpected demise of our guest, I suspect. Do you need to talk to him?” “Nah,” Driscoll replied. “It’s nothing.”
In the hidden catwalks over the dealer rooms, Morris O’Brian hung up the phone at his security control station.
“Over here, Jack,” he called.
Jack Bauer peered over his shoulder.
Morris flipped a switch and a security screen came to life. They were looking at a view of the subbasement hallway. While they watched, Don Driscoll stepped through the storage room door.
“You were right, Jack. Driscoll’s the turncoat. He sold you out to Hugo Bix. Poor slob doesn’t know I bypassed the camera control system. Thinks we can’t see him.”
Bauer nodded. “I knew it had to be Driscoll, or Chick Hoffman. I would have bet on Don, though, and I would have been right.” Jack paused. “What did you tell him?”
“What you told me to tell him,” Morris replied.
“That you were in the security room. Look, there he goes. He’s heading for the back door.”
“What’s outside?” Jack asked.
Morris threw another switch, and a third television screen sprang to life. Jack saw six men on the screen. They didn’t look like truck drivers, cowboys, housewives or military personnel on leave — the Cha-Cha’s usual clientele. They looked more like gang bangers from South Central, with dark, oversized hip hop clothes and plenty of bling.
One man, sporting cornrows, clutched a sawed-off shotgun. Another with an Oakland Raiders cap pulled low over his eyes, reached into his hooded sweatshirt. Morris adjusted the camera and a close-up revealed his hand resting on the stock of the Uzi tucked into his stretch pants.
Morris whistled. “Those guys are gunning for bear.” He looked at Jack. “How’s that make you feel, Smoky?”
Bauer frowned. “I’m going to be busy for a while.”
While Morris watched, he stripped down to his black Levis and charcoal gray undershirt. With cold, calculating precision, Jack slipped the Glock out of his shoulder holster, fed a fresh clip into the handle.
“Cut the power to the freight elevator right now. I’ve already locked the other doors. The only way in or out of the basement is the door Driscoll is going to open. Let the hit team enter the building. Let them go down the stairs. When I give the signal, cut the electricity to the subbasement.”
O’Brian nodded. “What’s the plan, Jack?”
Bauer slipped the Glock back into its holster. “I’m going to do to them what they want to do to me.”
“You can page Mrs. Ankers if you want to,” Stella Hawk told the security guard. “But if these floral arrangements aren’t on the dessert table in five minutes, Evelyn is going to raise holy hell — and somebody is going to pay.”
The guard, mid-twenties and pimply-faced, chewed his lower lip. He’d stopped the trio at the restaurant’s ser vice elevator, demanded to see their employee identification cards. Stella produced hers — then challenged the man.
“Look,” Stella said in a reasonable tone. “Evelyn sent me down here to find the guys with the flowers. I found them. Now unless you want to help me carry these arrangements upstairs, I suggest you let them pass. You don’t want to make Mrs. Ankers angry…”
The security man was new to the job, but even he’d heard about the banquet manager’s legendary temper. The guard weighed his options and stepped aside to allow the men with the flower pots to pass. Stella, Pizarro and Balboa moved into the elevator. As the doors closed, Stella flashed the guard a flirtatious smile.
“See you later, Tiger,” she purred.
The car began to rise, Stella faced the brothers.
“This elevator is express to the banquet floor. We’ll exit near the kitchens. Follow me and keep your mouths shut.”
”Watch you tone,
“Enough,” Pizarro cried, silencing his brother. “This woman has helped us so far. She has earned our respect.”
Balboa sneered, but said nothing. A moment later the doors opened onto a long hallway. At the end of the corridor, an open door revealed the restaurant’s busy kitchen. They heard voices, the clatter of pots and pans.
“Come on,” Stella whispered. “And be quick about it.”
She led them to door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY. They entered an empty break room, and an adjacent room with a coffee pot, microwave oven, and vending machines lining the wall. Stella took them to another door. Seemingly unused, it was blocked by a row of fiberglass chairs.
“It’s a dead end,” Balboa grunted.
“Wrong, amigo,” Stella said. She slid the chairs aside with her dainty foot and pushed the door open, just a crack. The room beyond was small, filled with white starched chef and wait staff uniforms hanging on metal racks.
