Running Scared Read online

  He should delegate more. He knew it. He just hadn’t gotten around to it.

  The third message made him smile. The new firewall he had recently set up around the computer nerve center of Tannahill Inc. had not only stopped four probes cold, it had sent a lovely little virus he had designed back along the same path the hackers had used to break in. Right now at least four hackers were looking at piles of trash that had once been expensive computers.

  Rot in hell, he thought cheerfully. He should have put the redesigned firewall in place months ago, but he hadn’t had time. He hoped nothing important had slipped through the old firewall.

  The programming/hacking skills he had learned from his father—and pursued later to get even with the bastard—often came in handy. If Shane hadn’t been more interested in people than electronics, he would have dived into a computer long ago and never surfaced. There was a Zen state about creating new ways to interface human and computer that fascinated him. The only things that appealed more to his restless intelligence were the quirks and pangs of humanity as revealed in timeless, eternal golden artifacts.

  “Shane!”

  Automatically he put away his hand unit as he turned in answer to Risa’s call. She was pushing through the crowd toward him, wearing the same clothes she had in L.A., which meant she had been as busy since they landed as he had. With the humorous recognition of one Type A+ for another, he made a mental note to tell her to delegate more.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  “My job. You’re not answering your pager.”

  She had also been curious as to why her boss had gone to his former lover’s Halloween party. Not that she would have admitted her curiosity aloud.

  Especially to him.

  “I turned it off,” Shane said. “In case you haven’t noticed, it’s past working hours, even mine. What’s wrong?”

  “I’ve been checking the provenance on that elegant gold torc you bid on.”

  In disbelief Shane looked at his watch. Quarter past three in the morning on Halloween, and she was checking provenance.

  “It must be bad news,” he said. “You never hurry with any other kind.”

  Impatiently Risa ran a hand through her short, tousled hair. She knew she must look as rumpled and shopworn as she felt. Unlike the maddening Mr. Tannahill, she needed more than five or six hours of sleep a night. Seven was her minimum.

  “Look,” she said, pitching her voice over the irritating howl of the crowd, “you hired me to check on—”

  “I know why I hired you,” he cut in. “Spit it out.”

  “The torc might have been part of the museum goods that the Germans confiscated while they occupied Paris during World War Two.”

  “Might have? That’s the worst you can do?”

  “Give me more time,” she said through her teeth.

  “With enough time the provenance of damn near everything in any public or private collection in the world is suspect.” Yet even as he was arguing, Shane was thinking. “All right, all right. You did your job. Now do the rest of it and get me that torc.”

  “But—”

  As Shane had expected, several people were leaning closer to hear what the infamous Prince Midas and his often-photographed curator were arguing about.

  “Provenance is only as good as the paper it’s printed on,” he said distinctly. “Show me the paper that says the torc was looted by Nazis from a French museum.”

  “I don’t have any paper.”

  “Then don’t waste my time. Possession is nine-tenths of the law, remember?”

  “What if I find proof after you buy the torc?” she demanded.

  “First find the proof. If you can.”

  From the corner of his eye Shane registered the knowing looks passing among the eavesdroppers. Along with the other headlines he had made, the Strip’s premier poster boy had picked up some well-chosen blots on his reputation. He was rumored to buy gold goods of doubtful provenance. Hot enough to burn his hands, if you believed gossip.

  Most people did.

  Including, Shane suspected, his curator.

  The thought both amused and irritated him. The amusement he understood. The irritation he didn’t. With the exception of two or three people, he didn’t give a damn what the world thought of him. He didn’t like the idea that somehow, against every intention and shred of common sense he possessed, Risa had become one of the people whose opinion mattered to him.

  His hand slid around her elbow in what looked like the polite gesture of an escort helping his date through heavy traffic. Risa felt the steely strength of his fingers and knew better.

  He bent close and said in her ear, “Let’s finish this in private. Or was it your plan to stand around and sling mud at my reputation in the most public place in Las Vegas?”

  Red flared along her cheekbones—anger, not embarrassment. “Listen, Golden Boy, it’s my reputation, too. I work for you.”

  “That could be remedied.”

  With an angry Risa in tow, Shane headed for the sliding walkways that connected the Wildest Dream and three other megacasinos. One of those was the Golden Fleece.

  Chapter 6

  Las Vegas

  Halloween night

  When Gail Silverado opened the door of her private office, she was reminded that Las Vegas and Hollywood had two things in common. The first was that, one way or another, people gambled a lot of money. The second was that women had a place, and it was on their back beneath men. A few women managed to claw their way into the top position, but not many.

  That was why Gail was the only woman at the meeting of the most powerful people in the Las Vegas casino industry—minus Shane Tannahill, of course. He was the reason for the meeting in the first place.

  Prince Midas just wasn’t a team player.

  That made life unnecessarily difficult for the rest of the megacasinos in town. Instead of dividing the gambling industry among themselves for the greater profit of all, Shane had introduced a costly element of honesty and balls-out competition for customers. He was winning, too. As a result, the new kid on the Strip was by far the biggest earner in Vegas.

  For the first year Gail hadn’t particularly minded the competition. She had been tied at a healthy second place. But now she was sliding into third place, and she had an expensive remodeling scheduled. That kind of outlay made stockholders nervous. Since she held only 45 percent of the Wildest Dream’s stock, she had to start turning a higher profit or look for another job.

  “Good evening, gentlemen,” Gail said as she closed the door behind her and looked at her four guests. “Or should I say good morning?”

  The men scattered around her plush office were in costume to the point that they wouldn’t have been recognized by their employees or closest enemies, which was the whole idea.

  French Henkle, manager of Say Paris!, was wearing the drab robes of a Franciscan monk. He had taken off his burlap mask and tossed the cowl back to reveal his thick blond hair. He was tapping the mask idly against the red Italian leather couch he was sitting on. At thirty-two he was the youngest man in the room and the only one with children. Shane Tannahill, along the way to becoming the most successful man in Vegas, had bankrupted French’s father. If French resented or applauded what had happened years ago, he hadn’t told anyone.

  The man sitting closest to French was John Firenze, who was dressed like a magician—or maybe he was supposed to be Zorro. It was hard to be certain of anything except that the costume hid everything relevant to his identity. John was Carl’s uncle, divorced, no children, and the CEO of Roman Circus, one of the first wave of huge resort casinos built in Vegas. Though the place had been revamped three times in the past thirty years, it never seemed to really click with the big money crowd. Roman Circus wasn’t a downscale grind joint by any means, but it wasn’t a primary destination for the national or international whales. Indelibly blue-collar, Roman Circus still made most of its money on slot machines and “feather shows” f
eaturing women wearing nothing else.

  Sitting alone, Mickey Pinsky was dressed like a hooker in skyscraper heels, a high-necked purple silk shimmy dress, major breast and butt prostheses, and a platinum wig that added inches to his height. Minus the costume and makeup, he looked like the graying world-class jockey he had been before his horse rolled over on him just out of the starting gate. Three times divorced, rumored to be hung like a mule and just as sterile, he represented the owners of a handful of “family resorts” that had bet serious money that family entertainment à la Disney World would be the coming thing in Vegas.

  Pinsky and his backers had learned the painful way that you make more money on liquor, slots, and sophisticated big-city shows than you do on bubble gum, skateboard contests, and apple pie. At huge cost the entertainment complexes had resurrected themselves a few years ago as “destination resorts” for singles who were feeling lucky. Pinsky’s bottom line was showing small signs of life, but he was still swimming hard to keep his head above the swamp of his past mistakes. Anything that sent some of the Golden Fleece’s standing-room-only action in his direction would be fine with him.

  The most powerful man in the room was also the oldest. At fifty-eight, Richard (“call me Rich”) Morrison, had been on and off the marriage-go-round four times. His present wife was a rich Texas bitch with political credentials that Rich was putting to good use. Tonight he went against type and dressed like a hippie. He was almost trim enough to carry it off. The shoulder-length black rasta wig he wore wasn’t quite 1960s, but it covered his own short silver hair admirably. A full and fully fake beard did the same for the rest of his recognizable features.

  Rich was president and CEO of Shamrock, the resort casino that was currently tied for second in the Las Vegas profits race. He had tangled with Shane years ago on a business and a professional level. Rich had lost both ways. He hadn’t liked it then. He didn’t like it now. But tonight he was here for business. Nothing personal. If that same business chewed up Golden Boy and spit him out like a bad taste . . . well, sometimes you got lucky. Rich’s only concern was that Gail had been reluctant to play her part in setting up Tannahil. Tonight he would see if she was still dragging her feet.

  “Since you’re all still here,” Gail said, “I assume you decided that nothing is being recorded by me.”

  A variety of grunts and grumbles answered her. The men sure as hell knew that they weren’t doing any recording of their own. None of them had liked being searched by Carl, but they had held still for it. No one wanted to be featured in a headline that shouted vegas biggies caught on tape conspiring against prince midas.

  Especially since a federal task force had been all over the big casinos like a rash, looking for dirty money from the Red Phoenix triad. The group had a lot of cash to launder. Rich—and, he hoped, Gail—was ready to help, but neither one of them wanted to get caught by the feds.

  That was why Rich had organized this meeting.

  “Anyone care to search me just to be sure?” Gail asked, holding her arms over her head. With the grace of the dancer she once had been, she turned slowly, insolently, in front of the seated men.

  Rich looked at the tight dress and abundant curves and was tempted to put his hands on her just for the hell of it. So were the other men. But no one got up.

  “You have more to lose in this than we do,” Rich said. “You’re making more than most of us.”

  “And a lot less than Tannahill,” she retorted. Tossing aside her mask, she leaned her glittering backside against the crescent-shaped black steel desk. She gave Rich a level look from eyes that had seen it all and done it twice. “This meeting was your idea. Deal the cards.”

  “I have a plan for breaking Shane Tannahill.”

  “So do I,” Firenze muttered. “One bone at a time.”

  Henkle rolled his eyes. “Jesus, not another chorus of the good old days. They’re gone, John. Shit, you’re too young to even remember when the Mob ruled Vegas. Only Rich is old enough, and he wasn’t even—”

  “Shut up, French,” Mickey Pinsky cut in mildly. “Let’s hear what Rich has to say.”

  Henkle smiled and mimicked putting tape across his mouth.

  “Every man has a weakness,” Rich said. “Tannahill’s is gold artifacts. He’s all wrapped up in this new show he’s going to open New Year’s Eve to take the steam out of the Wildest Dream’s Fabergé show.”

  “So?” Firenze challenged.

  “It’s not going well for Golden Boy,” Rich said. “He’s still looking to buy stuff. Gail has been getting in his way a lot, beating him to some really good pieces, buying before he even knows anything is on the market.”

  Gail’s expression didn’t change, but she wondered how Rich knew so much about what she had thought was her private competition with Shane. “What does that get us?” she asked.

  “While he’s chasing gold, he’s not watching business as close as he usually does. With a little nudge from us, he might get careless.”

  “How careless?”

  “Careless enough to be set up for the feds on a one-two punch. First we see that he gets caught with hot gold artifacts.”

  “How do we do that?” Pinsky asked, smiling, liking what he was hearing.

  “Gail should have a few ideas,” Rich said blandly. “Some of the places she bought gold objects weren’t exactly legal. They should know how to get more.”

  Her eyes narrowed at the extent of Rich’s knowledge, but she nodded agreement. “I’ve thought of sticking Shane with some hot stuff, but his curator is a lot more rigid than his reputation suggests. Everyone talks about how Shane buys shady goods, but no one can nail him at it and no one will as long as she has the inside track.”

  It was Rich’s turn to be surprised. “What’s her name?”

  “Risa Sheridan.”

  “I’ll look into her. When we get a twist on her, we have leverage on him.”

  “Fine,” Gail said impatiently, “but even if Shane is caught with burn marks from hot goods, he’ll never get arrested, much less go to jail. He’s had his hands smacked before. He just returns the goods, takes the loss, and keeps on hammering our casinos into the ground.”

  “Why wouldn’t he be arrested?” Henkle asked.

  She gave him a pitying glance. “You do remember what Shane’s real last name is, don’t you?”

  Henkle blinked. “Uh, no.”

  “Chrissake, French, don’t you ever tune in to anything but the porn channels?” Pinsky muttered.

  “What does that have to do with—” Henkle began.

  “Merit is Shane’s last name,” Gail interrupted curtly. “Tannahill is his mother’s maiden name.”

  Henkle looked blank, then pained. “Yeah, now I remember. He’s related to the Merit, as in Sebastian Merit.”

  “Jackpot,” she said with a slicing smile. “Shane is Merit’s kid. His only kid. Ain’t no way in heaven or hell that America’s premier billionaire would let his kid go to jail, even if they supposedly haven’t spoken for years. Unless yelling at your son in public that he’ll come crawling on his hands and knees, begging to be taken back in the family, counts as conversation.”

  Rich smiled thinly. That threat had made headlines around the world and fodder for tabloids and gossip news on Father’s Day, when everyone dusted off the clip of Merit cussing his son out in public.

  “Well, shit,” Henkle said, frowning. “If Shane has all that money, why did he bankrupt the Blue Mare on his way to making a few million? He could have bought Daddy’s casino outright for what Merit keeps in his safe at home.”

  “Shane walked away from his family money,” Rich said, rubbing his scalp beneath the itchy wig. “Apparently the price of putting up with Bastard Merit was just too high. But some things breed true. Tannahill got a full helping of his father’s business genius and a good share of the hard-ass, too.”

  “That’s the rest of the reason why hot gold artifacts aren’t enough to bring Shane down,” Gail said. “He’
s not going to run away and hide from some bad press. All the publicity would probably just increase traffic through the Golden Fleece. Tourists love to think they’re rubbing elbows with real live crooks. Hell, most of the people downstairs swilling free champagne believe we’re all part of the Mob.”

  “Still, getting caught dirty would take a lot of the shine off Tannahill’s Golden Boy image,” Pinsky argued. “The press will shit on him instead of sucking up.”

  “He’ll survive,” she said flatly.

  Rich nodded his agreement that bad press alone wouldn’t get Tannahill out of their hair.

  “You talked about a one-two punch,” Firenze said to Rich. “What’s the knockout?”

  “Between us screwing up his big gold show and sticking him with some hot goods,” Rich said, “Tannahill will be too busy to notice what’s really happening.”

  “Yeah? What’s that?”

  “That’s what he’ll be saying when the feds swoop down and indict him for money laundering.”

  Gail shook her head. “He doesn’t.”

  Rich smiled like the shark he was. “And I’m not a hippie. But if it walks like a duck and it talks like a duck, it’s fair game during hunting season.”

  She looked at Rich with new interest. “I’m listening.”

  So were the rest of them.

  Chapter 7

  Sedona

  Halloween night

  Headlights jerked and bobbed. The ten-year-old Ford Bronco was making heavy work of the unpaved road. The ruts wound up a dry ravine that fed water into Beaver Creek when there was enough rain. There hadn’t been lately. Runoff from autumn storms had barely slicked the streambed with mud.

  As though squeezed out by the weight of the harvest moon, shadows flowed from every rock and hollow. Sycamores loomed up out of the night like white-skinned ghosts. A stone became a huge tooth poking through the sun-hardened dirt of the road.

  “Watch it!” Tim shouted.