Cole nodded. “Sounds like a plan.”
“I gotta call Rog and tell him,” Deese said. He went back to the bedroom to make the call. As they had before, Cox and Cole slipped down the hall and listened outside the bedroom door.
They heard Deese say, “... called Show Boat, it’s a big mall. Seven o’clock, I’ll be at a table inside a Chipotle’s. It’s on the ground floor... Nobody’s gonna want to shoot nobody else in that place, they’d never get out with all the people around, the security guards with guns. Okay, well, you tell him... And tell him I got a gun, too.”
—
COX AND COLEslipped back down the hall when they heard the conversation winding up, with threats from Deese’s end, and probably from Smith’s as well.
Deese came out of the bedroom a minute later and said, “We’re all set. Seven o’clock. We’ll all go in early and scout the place.”
Cox had dropped onto a couch before Deese got out of the bedroom and now she bounced to her feet and mimed punching Deese. “Now we’re doing something. Now we’re getting there. Nobody gets hurt. And we’re out of Vegas, and fuck all those marshals.”
Cole said, “Sounds like Smith knew all about what happened.”
“Yeah, he did,” Deese said. “I gotta think on that. That motherfucker. Maybe get the money and eat his liver anyway.”
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
Tremanty was frustrated. Not angry, exactly, but unhappy, and as he sat next to Rae he was drumming his fingers on the tabletop. He had an overnight bag next to his shoe. His suit was rumpled and he hadn’t shaved. “You’re telling me that they know you’re here.”
Lucas nodded. “Probably. There are a couple of ways they could know, so we have to believe they do. Even if they don’t, Santos could have scared them off.”
“They could be most of the way to Idaho by now. Hell, they could already be there.”
“The Vegas cops might get Santo’s prints off the brass he left at the shooting. If they do, his ass is in a crack,” Bob said.
“Yeah, yeah, but I’m not holding my breath,” Tremanty said.
—
THEY WEREstill talking, arguing, when a call came in for Lucas. He checked his phone and saw that it was from the MarshalService’s district office. Lucas, Bob, and Rae had checked in with the Vegas marshal on the way into town. He answered, “Yeah? Davenport.”
“Davenport. This is Carl Young. Listen, we got a call, a woman trying to get ahold of you, and she asked for you by name. She said it’s a matter of life and death. She said I should tell you the name Deese. I understand that’s your cannibal guy. She wants your phone number and will call me back in two minutes. Should I give it to her?”
“Yes... Hell, yes! Tell her to call.”
Lucas hung up, turned to the others, and said, “A woman called, mentioned ‘Deese.’ She’s gonna call me.”
Tremanty yanked his phone out of his pocket and pushed a number on speed dial. A moment later he said, “I need to trace a call incoming to Las Vegas. I can give you the receiving phone, it’s on now. We need to know the location of the caller.”
Lucas showed him the screen on his phone, the number, and Tremanty recited it into his phone, then repeated it. When he hung up, his frustration disappearing like cigarette smoke, he said, “Been here less than an hour and got us a tipster. Am I good or am I good?”
“We don’t really know that yet, do we?” Rae said. Her tone was enigmatic, and they all looked at her for a moment before deciding not to press her.
—
TWO OR THREEminutes later, Lucas’s phone rang, an unknown number. “Davenport,” he said again.
“Is this Marshal Davenport?” A woman’s voice, soprano, but with some whisky in it.
“Yes. What can I do for you?”
“Clayton Deese will be in the Chipotle restaurant at the Show Boat mall at exactly seven o’clock. He’ll only be there for five minutes. He has a beard, and he’s wearing a gray shirt, blue jeans, cowboy boots, and a red-and-blue LA Dodgers baseball cap. You can’t call me back because I’m throwing this phone in the toilet.”
Click.
