23
MELISSA SHAKER WAS crying so hard she nearly tripped down the steps leading into the garage. It had been two days now but she still couldn't believe it, didn't want to believe it. That damned ex-wife of his had held a dip-shit little memorial service, no actual funeral because there'd been nothing to cremate or bury.
Louey was gone, just simply gone, and nobody cared. Except her. She tripped again, grabbing the handrail to steady herself as she stepped into the underground garage. A car horn honked loudly. She felt its hot exhaust as it whooshed past her, the driver yelling at her to pay attention.
She wiped her eyes. There was nothing to do. Just nothing. Her father had sworn he hadn't killed Louey, but she'd looked into his eyes and seen guilt. She would never forgive him, ever.
"Miss Shaker."
She didn't want Greg anywhere near her. She wanted to be alone. She wanted to drive out into the desert and let the sun burn into her. She kept walking toward her car.
"Miss Shaker! Please, wait up. You know your father's orders, particularly now."
She waited for him simply because she didn't want to get Greg fired when all he was trying to do was his job.
She stopped by her BMW roadster, painted James Bond blue. It was exactly like the one he'd driven in a movie, except hers was more powerful. She loved that little car.
"Thank you," Greg said as he trotted up to her. "Listen, Miss Shaker, I'm really sorry."
"Thank you," she said, and got into the car. Greg came around the other side.
"Don't try to lose me, Miss Shaker. It's important that I stick close to you, particularly during the next week."
"They gave him a measly memorial service," she said, and turned the key.
The car exploded into flames.
IT came on the local Las Vegas news brought in via satellite at twelve-twenty in the afternoon.
Melissa Shaker, twenty-three, daughter of Rule Shaker, Las Vegas casino owner, was killed at ten A.M. this morning when she and a friend were in an explosion involving Ms. Shaker's car that was parked in the underground parking lot beneath the Sirocco Casino.
Arson experts say a bomb was involved. Police haven't yet said if there are any suspects. Details at five o 'clock.
Ramsey dropped his fork, sending the thin slice of ham slithering off onto his plate. He'd heard the TV playing from the kitchen, wondered why it was even on, wondered why it was turned up loud enough to hear in the dining room, wondered why it was on satellite to get a local Las Vegas station, and now this. And now all his questions were answered.
Obviously someone had known it would make the local
Las Vegas noon news. Obviously someone had been waiting for this.
There was an instant of shocked silence, then everyone was talking. He heard Eve gasp, heard her say something, but he couldn't make out her words. There was a crash of a pan that Miles must have dropped in the kitchen. At the head of the table, Mason Lord continued to eat his casaba melon, not missing a beat. There was a slight flush on his cheeks, but he said nothing, did nothing out of the ordinary at all.
Molly had been saying something to Emma. She stopped in mid-sentence. She looked over at her father and said quietly, "An eye for an eye, Dad?"
Mason Lord chewed on the bite of melon, gracefully laid down his fork, and looked at his daughter. "I suggest you refrain from such talk, Molly, particularly in front of your daughter."
Emma, attuned to the change in the most important person in her world, pulled on her mother's sleeve. "Mama? What happened?"
Ramsey watched Molly pull herself together for Emma's sake. She banked the horror in her eyes and smoothed her expression into nothing more than a soft smile for her daughter. She turned to Emma, hugged her close for a moment, and said, "I taste something strange in Miles's quiche. What do you think?"
Emma gave her that weary adult look. "The quiche has bacon in it, Mama, and fresh spinach. I watched Mr. Miles make it. He even let me add the eggs. The quiche is just fine."
Molly looked as if she'd just been smashed on the head with a cannonball. She was having a tough time getting it together. "I'm sorry, Emma. You're right, of course. I don't know, love, I guess I just don't feel well."
Molly looked over at Eve Lord, who sat to her right at the foot of the table, her face tight, as white as the tablecloth. She was staring at her husband. Then, suddenly, Eve turned to Emma, and her face was again as smooth as a Madonna's. "I gave the quiche recipe to Miles. My mother was an excellent cook. I'm sorry your mother doesn't like it."