Ben shrugged. “It’s probably in a totally different part of the building. We won’t even know it’s there.”
We found the bank of elevators, which as it turned out was next to the ballroom, where a large sign on an easel announced the presence of the Western Regional Firearm Enthusiast Exhibition. I wouldn’t be able to go to my room without walking past it.
I didn’t like guns. I had recently learned more about them than I ever wanted to know, including learning how to shoot as a matter of survival. But I didn’t carry one with me. I didn’t
Ben was edging toward the ballroom, craning his neck like he was trying to look in.
“I probably know some people here,” he said. “I may have to hang out and see if I spot anyone.”
“And how many of those people are walking around with silver bullets?” I couldn’t tell by looking. Most of the people walking past looked entirely normal. Without the gun-show sign I’d never have suspected any of them of being gun-toting maniacs. Dangerous people ought to have signs on them, facial tattoos and studded collars, that sort of thing. Named something like Brutus.
Ben tilted his head thoughtfully. “At least a few, I’m sure.”
Oh, this weekend was not starting out well. “I really doubt you know anyone here. Let’s just concentrate on the tasks at hand.”
Then a voice called across the hallway. “O’Farrell? Ben O’Farrell?”
Approaching us from the ballroom was the kind of figure I expected to see at a gun show: linebacker big, bald, wearing worn jeans and a ton of leather. A tattoo of barbed wire in black ink crawled around his neck and disappeared down his shirt. Chains rattled from his jacket and leather boots. He probably had a Harley in the parking garage.
Disbelieving, Ben said, “Boris?”
At least it wasn’t Brutus.
I might have expected a hearty handshake between old friends, smiles, school-reunion-type conversation about the job and kids and such. None of that happened. Instead, Boris approached, stopping about five paces away from Ben. Just out of arm’s reach. They sized each other up. I could almost hear tumbleweeds blowing in the background.
Nearby, the elevator door slid open. I tried to inch toward it, and to will Ben to do likewise, so we could sneak in and make our escape. But the two remained deeply involved in their standoff. Ben wasn’t going to budge, and I wasn’t going to leave without him. The elevator door closed, shutting off our escape.
“How you doing?” Boris said. “It’s been a while—since that job in Boise , wasn’t it?”
“That sounds right. That was a pretty bad scene,” Ben said, clearly unhappy. But Boris smiled, like he was proud of the memory.
That was when Boris noticed me. I was standing a little behind Ben, off to the side, trying to be unobtrusive because this was his gig. But Boris recognized me, and I could tell from the way he narrowed his gaze that he didn’t like me. He didn’t have to know me to not like me. This was a guy who didn’t like werewolves. And here I was. I bet he had a box of silver bullets somewhere.
Ben, astute as he was, noticed the glare. “Boris, this is Kitty Norville.”
“I know who she is. May I ask what you’re doing hanging out with a werewolf?”
If only Boris knew. . . I was out of the so-called lycanthropic closet, but Ben wasn’t. I kept quiet so I could see how he’d play this.
“I’m her lawyer.”
That was exactly how I thought he’d play this. I gave what I hoped was a neutral smile.
Boris crossed his arms. “That’s pretty funny, considering some of your other clients.”
“Trust me, I know.”
“Speaking of which, I heard Cormac went to prison. Maybe he should have had a different lawyer.”
“Maybe it was his lawyer who got him four years for manslaughter instead of life for murder one.”
The matched stares between them were challenging. I wondered how Ben’s wolf was taking this. I couldn’t tell by looking at him—his exterior was calm, his expression showing vague amusement.
Cormac was a bounty hunter, an assassin, and his targets of choice were supernatural. Werewolves, vampires, other strangeness the mundane authorities barely knew about, much less had the ability to handle. He was also Ben’s cousin, and my friend. That Boris knew him, or at least knew of him, said something about Boris and the circles he moved in. Now I was sure he had a box of silver bullets stashed somewhere.
Then the tension broke. I thought it was Boris who blinked. At any rate, he gave a thin smile. “Maybe you’re right,” he said.
“It was a run of bad luck,” Ben said, which was closer to the mark of what had happened to Cormac. “Could’ve happened to anyone.”
“You here for the show?”
“No. I’m here for her show. How about you? You always seem to have an angle cooking at these things.”
“I certainly do,” he said, without elaborating. But he kept giving me that look, like he was wincing at me through a gun sight. It made my skin crawl.
“We should probably get going.” Ben turned to me, raised a questioning brow, as if I’d had any part of this conversation.
“Probably,” I said.
“Well, then. Maybe I’ll see you around. You take care,” Boris said.
We watched him go, walking through the lobby and out the front entrance of the hotel. Ben let out a sigh.
I said, “Who the heck is that and how do you know him?”
“That’s Boris,” he said. “Same line of work as Cormac. It’s a pretty small circle, everybody knows everybody. I’ve represented half of them in court at one time or another.”
That’s my honey, lawyer to the scary. “Have you represented him?”
“Hell, no,” Ben said, frowning. “He’s bad news.”
And Cormac wasn’t? Never mind. “So he does have a box of silver bullets somewhere.”
“Several, probably.”
“I knew it. I knew it just by looking at him.”
“That’s just the thing, that look is kind of an act. Boris is the front of the operation. He’s got a partner who does most of the real work. It’s sleight of hand. People are so busy worrying about him, no one pays attention to the other.”
“Who’s his partner? And do you see him lurking about?” I studied the lobby, searching for suspicious figures hiding behind neoclassical statuary.
“Her. Sylvia. And no, I don’t see her. That’s probably the point.” He glanced around, over his shoulder, like he was suddenly worried. Paranoia was, after all, contagious.
Someone was going to take a shot at me before the weekend was over, I just knew it.
“One other thing: you’re my lawyer? Not my fiancé?”
“That would have taken way too much explaining. You know that.”
“Yeah. But you’re not even officially my lawyer anymore.” Apparently it was unethical for lawyers to sleep with their clients. This from a man who offered legal representation to assassins.
“Your point?”
“I’m just giving you a hard time. Mostly.”
Finally, I steered him into an elevator.
Our room was almost a suite. Ozzie had been generous making our reservations—he could have put us up in a flea-bitten budget dive on the edge of town—but not that generous. We had the typical hotel-room layout: a big comfy bed stood against one wall, staring down a TV and dresser set on the opposite wall. The patterns on the curtains and bedspread were vaguely Italian, floral and classical, in shades of green and blue. We also had a sofa and a couple of armchairs grouped around a coffee table, a well-stocked minibar, and a wide desk in the corner. Because I was supposed to be working. Drat.
I had to contact the producer; set up a meeting with her; confirm the guests we’d lined up; sort out the box of
Then there was sharing space with the gun show to worry about. . .
Once again, coming to Vegas started to seem like a bad idea. The window in our room overlooked the pool—a fabulous grotto containing millions of gallons of chlorinated water. Completely ecologically irresponsible, but so attractively decadent. Padded lounge chairs. Palm trees. Poolside bars with handsome bartenders beckoning me with smiling eyes. The people sunning themselves, with mai tais in their hands, looked like the most relaxed beings in the universe.
Phone in hand, I looked out the window at the pool and almost cried.
Ben was unpacking and watching me and the pages of notes and schedules I’d spread on the desk. “Are you sure there’s nothing I can do to help?” he said.
Rub my back, nibble my ears, drag me away from all this. . . I sighed and shook my head. “Not really. It’s all legwork, and most of the list is in my head. But thanks for asking.”
“Maybe I could just keep you company.”
As nice as that sounded, his presence made it less likely I’d get any work done. I smiled. “You’ve been itching to check out the casino. You should go do that now, because after tomorrow night I’m not going to give you a chance.” I raised a brow at him.
“All right. But for the record, it’s now officially your idea that I go play poker.”
“Or maybe you could go have a drink by the pool for me.”
But he already had his room key and wallet in hand, clearly ready to go. “Call me if you need anything.”
“Okay.”
He kissed the top of my head, squeezed my hand, and left the room. Again, I sighed.
Ozzie’s producer friend had booked a smaller theater at the Olympus . A half an hour before our meeting, I wandered down to the lobby to look for it.
There were still too many people. I wondered if I’d ever be able to calm down in this town enough to really relax. Even from down the hall, the casino lights and noises overwhelmed my senses, and Wolf didn’t like that at all. How would we know if something was after us? But that was silly. Nothing was after us. This was just Vegas trying to batter me into submission so I’d spend lots of money.
I still had to slink past that damned gun show.
Not everyone who came to Vegas for a gun show was like Boris. They couldn’t all be in Cormac’s line of work. Edging down the hallway from the elevators until the doors of the main ballroom came into sight, I watched the comings and goings of people. Know your enemy, after all. For the most part, the convention-goers were completely unremarkable. More men than women by a good factor, but there were some women. Most were casually dressed: jeans, shorts, T-shirts, tennis shoes. Of all ages—a few people even had kids along—the stream of people leaving and entering the ballroom seemed an unremarkable cross section of middle America . Firearm enthusiast. That didn’t sound so dangerous. These were hobbyists, people who went target shooting at the range and collected rare guns. Perfectly innocuous. Surely I didn’t have to worry about bounty hunters or assassins, not in the middle of a casino with its intense security. Especially not any who had a thing against werewolves and might take an opportunity—like, say, me sitting onstage under bright lights—to use me for target practice.
