Chapter 104
LESTER OLSEN EXITED the freeway onto West Tropicana Avenue and drove past the faux-medieval Excalibur Hotel and Casino on the right. He stopped at a light and then resumed his drive, feeling pretty good, actually, glad that he was taking action and that, very soon, he was going to be enjoying the life he deserved.
Val was quiet in the trunk, probably thinking about how much air she had in there, how hot it was, and rehearsing what she was going to say to him when he finally stopped the car and opened the trunk.
Well, she had to be thinking how she would get away, right?
Olsen kept going on Tropicana, took a right on South Eastern Avenue, passing McCarran Airport and the busy runways on the right. Then he crossed East Sunset Road, rehearsing a few things himself, choreographing his next moves.
The entrance to Sunset Park was just past the northwestern corner of the intersection, and he made the turn, driving the blue Taurus into Sunset Park. This place was frequented by hikers and dog walkers during the day and on weekends.
But this was a weekday and the sun was down. He should have the park to himself.
Olsen took the narrow road that skirted the large pond, looking for just the right place. He found an incline under a clump of trees, pointed the nose of the car toward the lake, and put on the brakes.
There was an island in the middle of the water with some Easter Island–type heads on it, and there were some geese. That was all. He got out of the car, went into the backseat, removed his briefcase, go-bag, Val’s handbag with her wallet and phone, and put it all on the ground.
Then he went around to the trunk, patted it, and said, “Val, I gotta be going. I just wanted to say nice try and good-bye.”
Her voice was muffled.
“Can you give me some water, please?”
“Okay. Sure. Just a minute.”
Olsen did a cursory search of the grounds, found a nice flat rock, weighed about ten pounds. He got back into the car, rolled down his window. He started up the engine, and, keeping it in neutral, he placed the rock carefully on the accelerator. Then he released the hand brake.
The car didn’t budge, so Olsen got out of the car, slammed the door, and gripped the doorframe with both hands. He dug his feet in, pushed, got the car rolling, and ran with it a couple dozen yards down the slope.
When the car had a good steady momentum, Lester reached through the window, grabbed the gear shift on the right side of the steering wheel, and threw it into Drive—and the car shot straight ahead.
Winded, Olsen put his hands on his knees and watched as the car bumped over the lip of the pond and drove well into the water before the engine stalled out and the car began to float.
He watched the car settle unevenly, then sink in twelve feet of pond water until there was no trace of it at all.
The car would be found, of course, eventually. But by the time that happened, before Val’s body was identified, he’d be long gone, in another country, with a new identity.
He was looking forward to that.
Olsen stood in place for a moment to reassure himself that no one was going to come running out of the bushes yelling for the police. And when he was sure he was in the clear, he walked to the edge of the pond, hurled his unregistered gun as far as he could throw it.
Then he gathered the small bags and began the three-mile walk to McCarran International.