Private Vegas by James Patterson Page A

the full-length mirror.
    “Okay, Sandy. Okay, now,” she said to herself. She looked really good. She twisted her body a little so she could see the elegant line of her back, her perfect ass, how long her legs looked from behind. Then she blew out her hair and returned to the bedroom.
    Turning her back on Harold Wiggens III, deceased heir to the Wiggens Cough Syrup fortune, Sandra pulled on some underthings and a small, clingy white dress.
    Then she sat down on the edge of the bed, put on jeweled sandals. She said to the dead man, “Harry, I’m sorry. We had a good time, didn’t we? I’m as sorry as I can be.”
    She lifted his eyelids, one at a time, then picked up the no-name mobile phone and punched in a number she knew by heart. After two rings, Lester answered and said her name.
    “Yes. It’s me. It’s done.”
    “How are you doing?”
    “I’m okay. So far.”
    “You should call the police.”
    “Right after we hang up.”
    “I’ll call you later.”
    “No. I’ll call you.”
    “Sandra?”
    “Don’t worry, Les. I’ll call you.”
    The newly minted widow closed the phone and mentally rehearsed what she was going to say.
    I thought Harry was sleeping. When I tried to wake him up, he was—dead. He was diabetic. I don’t know what went wrong.
    Sandra picked up the landline and called 911. As she waited for the operator to answer, she put her hand over her heart, which was just going crazy. She could hardly believe it was almost over.
    Without a doubt, this was the most exciting day of her life.

Chapter 39

     
    WAITERS ON SKATES whizzed by me as I stood in the shadows at the entrance of the Socket. Enormous cogs and gears from the original bulb factory had been burnished and highlighted to terrific effect. Iron pillars punctuated the concrete floor, and hundred-year-old light fixtures, tracks, and pulleys hung overhead.
    It was still early, about seven p.m., and the smartly dressed, twenty- to thirty-something after-work crowd were filling the club, cozying up to the Line, a forty-inch-long bar topped with a steel-and-leather conveyor belt in the center of the floor.
    Groups and couples, laughing and carrying on, gathered in the comfy conversation pits around the perimeter, and one young woman with a flashing tiara was having a birthday.
    Tonight’s music was swing, and it seemed to me that the boozy sound of the old instrumentals was putting the customers in a very nice mood.
    I looked for Tommy but didn’t see him on the floor, so I moved to the bar for a better view. A wannabe-actor barkeep came over with a smile and a frothy white drink, put it down in front of me.
    He said, “The game starts in a minute, Tommy—actually, I think it just started.”
    I was an accidental clubber passing as my brother, and I had not been briefed on the game.
    I sipped the drink, which looked like milk. It was, in fact, milk.
    I said, “Well, I’ll be a little late.”
    The bartender said, “Izzy asked after you, went down ten minutes ago. And there goes Billion-Dollar Bill. I hear he lightened your wallet the other night.”
    I swiveled on the stool, saw a guy in a pale herringbone sports coat and a good haircut heading toward the wide down-going staircase at the back of the room.
    I put a twenty on the bar, said, “I guess I’ll follow the money.”
    The bartender wished me luck, and, keeping the herringbone jacket in view, I went down the cantilevered, concrete slab stairs to the basement. The lower level was a dance floor set up for a DJ who hadn’t yet arrived, but recorded music pounded, and the crowd was getting thick, dancing in place, drinking steadily.
    I tagged behind Bill, and when we came to a green door at the rear wall marked Shipping, Mr. Bill turned and clapped me on the back.
    “No kidding,” he shouted over the music. “Good to see you, Tom. I was hoping you’d try to get your money back.”
    “I don’t scare off easily,” I said.
    I didn’t know what was behind the green door and