donât think heâd offered. Uh-oh.
I was following a stranger. Iâd presumed he was a cop but he could be many other things. He could be hotel security trying to look like an undercover cop; he could be an undercover cop trying to look like hotel security; he could be a crime boss executioner trying to look like either of the above.
âExcuse me.â I tapped his arm. âI have to go to the ladiesâ room.â
He hid his irritation by smiling. Practiced and perfect. I halfway relaxed again. âOf course, weâll find you one,â he lied to me, still listening to his caller and choosing a path deeper into the gardens instead of toward the reception desk and possible restrooms.
Hmm. I really didnât want to put him on guard by asking if he was really a cop. As much as I didnât like spending time with the cops, I probably would like spending time with someone pretending to be a cop less. The caller was apparently upsetting him, because he picked up his pace and forgot to keep me in front of him. It was perhaps my only chance.
I ducked behind the next palm tree. Why hadnât I thought to ask for any credentials? Because, you stupid girl, you were so convinced you could manipulate him you didnât consider he was already doing that exact same thing to you. Dumb, dumb, dumb. Considering Iâd found myself caught with the wrong person in the wrong place a few times too many on my last trip to Vegas, I shouldâve been more careful. Of course, if he was a cop, I was in bigger trouble than I was before. If he wasnât one, however, I was in even worse trouble, of an undefined variety. Why would a non-cop want to spirit me away anyway? My heart raced.
What was I going to do? I didnât know to which interrogation room the authorities had taken Ben after heâd chosen the exact wrong time to visit the potty (or so he said). Shana was still rolling around semiconscious in the arms of the hottie in the poker room. Frank was still in another state. I was on my own. I slid into the depths of a gardenia bush as my escort came marching back down the path, pocketing his phone and muttering obscenities under his breath while maintaining a poker face Iâd kill for. Oops, Iâd better not even be thinking that. The security at these casinos was so high tech I wouldnât be half-surprised if theyâd installed mind reading devices under the leaves. If my friend here had connections with the hidden cameras, he would soon know where I was hiding.
I sucked in a deep breath and did an inventory of what I knew before I was discovered. My escort wasnât wearing a badge but the Image wouldnât have stood for any uniformed rent-a-cops running around under their tony roof anyway. Each casino had a culture, I reminded myself, and my ability to properly play security would hinge on my understanding of those cultures. For instance, there was a certain casino on the south end of The Strip where they could back a paddy wagon next to the craps tables and none of the patrons would bat an eye. Now, a serial killer could be playing twenty-one in the middle of the Mellagio and they would still send in an undercover security dude in a three-piece suit to lure him into the basement before they cuffed him so as to not offend the sensibilities of the high-priced clientele there.
Suddenly I knew how to out my escortâIâd approach the concierge desk as a semihysterical woman and claim I was being stalked. Heâd have to identify himself if he were on the level or disappear if he were up to something nefarious. I crept through the garden toward the opposite side that dumped out near the hotelâs reception desk. The only problem was the lagoon between here and there, with only the very public bridge as the connection. I tiptoed through the leaves and plastic rocks to the edge of the water, which, unfortunately for me, was the only thing real about the Image lobby.
Michelle Pace, Andrea Randall