Diagnosis Murder 6 - The Dead Letter (19 page)

All the other necessities of life could be found at the Côte d'Azur. It even included a private medical facility that rivaled many of the nation's finest hospitals. Why recuperate from surgery in a drab hospital room when you could rest instead in a luxurious suite with a breathtaking view of the Las Vegas Strip? Why eat hospital food when you could dine on gourmet creations from the world's finest chefs? The hospital specialized in orthopedic, cardiovascular, and plastic surgery, though it dealt as well with the assorted ailments, accidents, and health emergencies of the resort's wealthy, privacy-minded guests.

As posh and elegant as Côte d'Azur was, there was one area where Standiford pandered to superficial, mass-market appeal. Throughout the hallways, garages, and elevators of the hotel, John Barry's brassy music from the first seven James Bond films played on a constant loop. It was tacky, but it worked. Standiford knew that every man, no matter how rich and powerful, wanted to think he was as smooth, capable, and dangerous as James Bond and every woman wanted to be the femme fatale who was his undoing.

If anybody who stayed at the Côte d'Azur thought the 007 music was silly or monotonous, they never said so. It became an almost subliminal part of the Côte d'Azur experience.

The exclusivity even extended to the parking lot, a showcase of the finest automobiles from around the world. Taxis and airport vans were not allowed on the property. Limousines were welcome, as long as they were luxury cars, unadorned with advertising, and gleaming.

When Dr. Mark Sloan drove up in his rented Ford Five Hundred sedan, the valet and the security guard both looked as if he'd arrived in a manure delivery truck.

"We don't accept vehicles of this nature on our property, sir," the valet said. He was only in his twenties, but already he was a master of smug superiority.

"I'm sure you can find a place to hide it," Mark said cheerfully, handing his keys to the valet. "Perhaps in employee parking? Or do you drive a Lamborghini to work?"

Mark turned his attention to the security guard, who was dressed in a suit and tie, a wire running from inside his jacket to his earpiece. "I'd like to see Roger Standiford, please."

"I'd like to see Jessica Simpson naked," the man said, "but that's not going to happen either. You can get back in your car, make a U-turn. Circus Circus is right up the street. Have a pleasant stay in Las Vegas."

"Tell Mr. Standiford that Dr. Mark Sloan is here."

"Don't make me insist, sir," the man said. "You wouldn't like me when I insist."

"I'm not terribly fond of you now," Mark said without losing any of his cheer.

The man started to take a step towards Mark and then abruptly stopped, as if stung by an electric shock. He touched his earpiece, listened for a moment, then looked up at a surveillance camera mounted on one of the marble pillars.

"Please follow me, sir," the security man said, plastering an insincere smile onto his face.

"My pleasure," Mark said.

The security guard led him into the massive lobby, with its marble floors, exquisitely carved columns, and soaring ceiling topped with a stained-glass skylight handcrafted in Italy. The walls behind the expansive mahogany check-in counter were adorned with original masterpieces by Gauguin, Matisse, and Cezanne.

Nate Grumbo, Standiford's head of security, was standing in the center of the lobby, waiting for them.

He was an ex-FBI agent with a buzz cut, square jaw, no neck, and a permanent squint he'd mastered by watching Clint Eastwood movies over and over again. Grumbo looked like a caveman who'd been professionally groomed and forced into a tailored silk suit.

Mark knew from experience that it would be a mistake to underestimate Grumbo based on his Neanderthal appearance. He took it as a given that Grumbo was well aware of the debt Roger Standiford owed him.

'Thank you, Dean." Grumbo dismissed the security guard with a glance, then offered Mark his gigantic paw. "Dr. Sloan, this is a surprise."

They shook hands. Mark was grateful that Grumbo chose not to pulverize his hand and ruin his surgical career.

"Mr. Standiford is in Macao and won't be returning until tomorrow," Grumbo said. "Is there something I can help you with?"

"Perhaps there is," Mark said. "Is there somewhere we can talk where I won't feel so underdressed?"

Grumbo gave Mark a thin smile. "Of course. Let's go to my office."

Mark followed Grumbo to the elevators. Once inside, Grumbo inserted a key into the control panel, typed a code into a keypad, and the elevator descended, which was odd, since according to the display, they were already on the lowest possible floor.

"Don't believe everything you read," Grumbo said, picking up on Mark's thoughts.

The doors opened to far less opulence. In fact, to no opulence at all. The underground corridor glowed with fluorescent light and was painted a flat white. The floors were linoleum. Casually dressed workers rushed to and fro, filled with intent.

Grumbo approached a door secured with palm-print and retinal scanners. He placed his palm on the scanner while a red laserlike beam probed his eyeballs. The James Bond mind-set of the casino clearly filtered down to the security system as well. A moment later the door hissed open, and Grumbo motioned Mark inside a vast, dark room that looked liked a miniature version of NASA Mission Control.

What little light there was in the control room came from strategically placed pinpoint halogens and the glow of the dozens of flat-screen monitors. Individual security agents sat in front of as many as four screens each. Three of the screens showed views of particular gaming tables, dealers, and players. The other monitor took screen grabs of players' faces, lifted from the surveillance camera feeds, and compared them with photos in a database of known cheaters, professional gamblers, and card counters.

Grumbo led Mark to an office a few steps above the control room, where a broad window allowed him to gaze down at the technicians below. On Grumbo's desk was another bank of flat-screen monitors. Some of the screens showed the casino floor. Others focused on individual technicians in the control room.

Even the watchers were watched.

Mark took a seat in a plush green leather chair across from Grumbo's desk.

"Feeling more comfortable?" Grumbo asked.

"Not really," Mark said, glancing at Grumbo's monitors. "They watch us. You watch them. I suppose someone is even watching you."

Grumbo gestured over Mark's shoulder to a tiny camera mounted in the corner of the room. "We're all being watched, Dr. Sloan."

"I don't know how you can live that way."

Grumbo shrugged. "You do."

"I'm not under surveillance all day."

"Of course you are, Doctor. From the instant you step out of your Malibu beach house."

Mark noticed the casual, and totally intentional, way Grumbo let it slip that he knew exactly where the doctor lived. Grumbo probably also knew what was in his refrigerator, how often he flossed, and what he had watched on TV last Thursday night.

"There are exterior security cameras on the house next door to you. There's also a traffic camera at the intersection of Trancas and Pacific Coast Highway, as well as multiple security cameras in the parking lot of the market across the street," Grumbo said. "Using intersection and freeway traffic cameras and tapping the feeds from cameras at the stores, ATMs, and parking lots that you pass, I could chart your drive all the way to Community General. Of course, once you're in the hospital, I have my choice of dozens of cameras I can watch you with. None of this includes the hundreds of video-enabled cell phones and camcorders, or an array of other cameras that could be trained on you, without your knowledge, at any given time."

"Nobody has any privacy anymore," Mark said. "And they don't even realize it."

'They realize it," Grumbo said. "The same way they realize that crossing the street is insanely dangerous and that a 747 is too damn big and heavy to fly. But they don't care. They ignore the dangers because the benefits are greater than the risks, the gains bigger than what we lose. There are some advantages to being able to gather so much data on a person."

"Funny you should mention that," Mark said. "I need a favor from you."

"What kind of favor are we talking about?"

"I need your help finding a dead man," Mark said.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

"I know you keep detailed files on high rollers, not just here but the ones who patronize everybody else's casinos, too," Mark said. "You know their hobbies, the foods they like to eat, the brands of clothes they like to wear. You know their favorite colors, how they like their drinks mixed, even the kind of shampoo they use."

"We know a lot more than that, Doctor," Grumbo said. "A lot more."

"Because you want to entice them to play in your casino and make them as happy as possible once they are here."

"We like satisfied customers."

"Especially when they're losing tens of thousands of dollars at your tables," Mark said. "I'm looking for one of those customers."

"We protect the privacy of our guests, Dr. Sloan," Grumbo said. "Surely you can understand that."

"This one won't mind," Mark said. "He's dead."

"What's his name?"

"James Cale," Mark said.

Grumbo swiveled around in his chair and worked his key board. After a moment, Jimmy Cale's picture came up on the screen, along with a bunch of information in print too small for Mark to read from where he was sitting. He didn't need to read it anyway. He knew what it said.

"Here he is. Used to play over at the Bellagio," Grumbo said. "Glad I could be of help."

"That's not what I need," Mark said.

"I had a feeling it was too easy," Grumbo said.

"There's another gambler—I don't know who he is yet— who showed up here for the first time about four years ago. He likes a lot of the same things that Jimmy Cale did," Mark said. "He smokes Partagas Salamones and Cohiba Esplendidos, but if you really want to be nice, you offer him a Padron Anniversario imported before the embargo. Either he lives in Las Vegas or spends at least half his time here. He pays for everything in cash and is very secretive about his past. Your efforts to find out more about him have come up blank."

Grumbo stared at Mark. "I thought you said you were looking for a dead man."

"I am," Mark said. "One who has come back to life."

Grumbo thought for a moment, came to a decision, and started typing on his keyboard. A few moments later, a face and a name appeared on one of the flat-screen monitors.

The man looked younger than Cale and had more well-defined features. He had a prominent chin, a neatly kept mustache, and capped teeth that gleamed unnaturally white.

"His name is Robin Mannering," Grumbo said. "He's single and lives at an estate out in Summerlin. He calls himself an entrepreneur and an investor, though I haven't been able to identify any of his businesses or investments. All his cash appears to come to his Las Vegas bank via offshore accounts. Mr. Mannering enjoys ménages a trois and has a suite at his disposal here for those encounters. He never takes a woman home. His gaming preference is poker, though he spends time at the roulette wheel and the blackjack tables. He has a two-million-dollar credit line and has played at Côte d'Azur almost every weekend since we opened."

"Who's ahead," Mark asked, "him or you?"

"He's a skilled gambler, though certainly not a professional. On average, we only make a couple of hundred thousand dollars off him annually. Over the years, he's lost nearly a million to us. At the moment, he's ahead $122,000, but in the end the house always wins."

"As long as he keeps playing." Mark said.

"That's why we make his visits as enjoyable as possible. He's comped in all of our restaurants and nightclubs, and while he's in the high-roller room, there's a beautiful hostess ready to offer him a fine cigar or whatever else he may desire."

"Can you find out if he has a private humidor at one of the local cigar stores?"

"He has one here." Grumbo said. "We have the finest tobacconist in the West."

Mark leaned over the desk and pointed at the picture of Jimmy Cale on the monitor.

"Can you take that picture of Jimmy Cale, and this one of Robin Mannering, and run them through that software of yours that matches cheaters on your surveillance screens with gamblers in your database?"

"Of course." Grumbo used his mouse to point and click his way through several menus of instructions. The images of Cale on one screen and Mannering on another were layered on top of each other on a third screen. They didn't match up.

"It's not a match," Grumbo said. "But their bone structure is pretty close. According to the computer, there are one hundred ninety-seven points of similarity. They could be related."

"I'm sure they are." Mark said. Now all he had to do was prove it. "This is where the favor comes in."

"I thought I just did you the favor," Grumbo said.

"I want to meet Mr. Mannering," Mark said. "I also need you to help me get his fingerprints and his DNA so I can send them back to LA for analysis."

"Is that all?" Grumbo narrowed his eyes at Mark. "Putting aside that extraordinary request for a moment, you can't even step into the high-roller room without a five-hundred- thousand-dollar credit line."

"Oh yeah," Mark said. "I'll need that, too." Grumbo's phone rang instantly and, as he picked it up, he reflexively stole a glance at the camera on the wall behind Mark. He probably wasn't even aware that he'd done it

But Mark was.

"Hello," Grumbo said and then listened for a long moment "Of course. Right away."

Grumbo hung up the phone and looked up to see Mark smiling at him.

"Mr. Standiford will see me now," Mark said, then turned and waved at the camera behind him. "How was Macao?"

Most people expected Roger Standiford to be as garish, aggressive, and obnoxious as his mega-resorts, but he was quite the opposite. He was exceptionally polished and polite, greeting guests with a genuinely warm smile, a firm handshake, and the bearing of a statesman.