Private Vegas

Chapter 111

 

 

 

 

 

THE RIDE FROM the airport to Mountain View Hospital was swift and silent. Justine and I arrived just after one in the morning and went straight to the ICU, where a dozen hysterical parents were waiting for news of their kids, casualties of a bus plowing through the doors of a nightclub.

 

There was no getting to see Val.

 

I stalked Dr. Steven Ornstein, the attending physician, until I cornered him. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a week. He told me he was sorry, but only family members could see Val.

 

“I’m her father,” I said.

 

He gave me a tired smile, said, “Yes, I see the resemblance. What’s your name again?”

 

He found my name on Val’s admissions forms, then took me into a niche in the hallway and summarized her situation.

 

“She nearly drowned,” he said. “That’s not a figure of speech. She was half dead when she was brought in. Right now, she’s undergoing tests of all kinds. That means chest x-rays and CT scans as well as a neurological assessment. If her brain was deprived of oxygen for too long, she could have seizures or permanent damage.”

 

I said, “You’re saying she almost drowned in Las Vegas? In what? The Bellagio fountain?”

 

“She was found semiconscious on the bank of a pond, her hands bound behind her back with plastic ties. She had lacerations from the ligatures,” the doctor said, indicating his wrists. “There were abrasions on her thighs, and she’s got a pretty good contusion on her forehead. She could still die. It happens. But she fought like hell.”

 

I said, “Are you saying she was dumped in this pond?”

 

“There’s a car in there. I understand divers are going in when it gets light,” the doctor said.

 

I wanted to curse the paint off the wall, bang my head against it. I thought of Val, terrified, bound inside a car trunk, the water coming up around her face. Christ. I wanted to kill whoever had done this to her.

 

I thanked the doctor, then Justine and I took up a vigil in the waiting room outside the ICU.

 

During the following hours, we put down several quarts of coffee. At around four, I went to shake down the snack machine, and when I returned with Bugles and Doritos, Justine was laughing.

 

She said into her phone, “Three against one? Are you some kind of ninja? I’ll tell him. Yes, I’ll call Caine. Get some sleep.”

 

Justine hung up, still smiling.

 

“You okay, princess?”

 

She said, “You bet,” and filled me in.

 

“Lester Olsen and Barbie Cooper were about to kill Bryce Cooper with an injection of potassium chloride. That would have been fatal in a couple of seconds, but Scotty was waiting for them. He shot Olsen twice. Not fatally.”

 

“Damn. That’s a damned shame,” I said. “How did Scotty miss?”

 

“Jack.” She laughed some more. “Anyway, Olsen is hospitalized under guard. Barbie is in lockup. Scotty was released after the APD questioned him. He said—” Justine cracked up again. She was a little manic, but still, she was enjoying herself.

 

“Scotty said to me, ‘I don’t know if Bryce Cooper is going to press charges against me for breaking and entering or if he’s going to throw me a parade.’”

 

I laughed with her, then shared my salty snacks as we talked about Olsen, that psycho with the twenty-four-karat-gold balls. Scotty hadn’t known about Val’s encounters with Olsen, but we were sure that before Olsen flew to Aspen, he had tried to kill her.

 

He’d almost done it.

 

How had Val survived?

 

I desperately wanted to know.