Fallout

CHAPTER 11

Craig lingered in the swirl of people in the Excalibur lobby as Paige swayed gently out of the casino. The jumbled sounds of slot machines and laughter faded in the background as he concentrated on watching the set of her shoulders, the flow of her hair.

He still remembered the Livermore murder investigation, swimming at the Lab pool and watching the water glisten off her black one-piece suit, sipping a pint of Red Nectar Ale at the Lyons brewery, watching the wind whip her hair as she drove him in her red MG convertible.

The new case had placed them once again on a professional basis, and daydreaming about a relationship with Paige didn’t seem professional. Before, he’d always gone out with someone outside his realm of work, outside his circle of interests, someone with whom he had little in common —

Someone like his former girlfriend Trish.

Craig walked past the huge roulette wheel, the green-felt blackjack tables, people leaning over padded craps tables. He had not played those games, barely even knew the rules — but he enjoyed watching. A Federal agent had to be a good observer. Gray-haired women with pearl necklaces and artificial-looking perms walked by, followed by older men holding plastic buckets of change.

Despite his exhausting day, he felt too wound up, too frazzled, to retire to his room. Craig’s feet ached, but at least he was no longer hungry. Trish would never have agreed to eat in King Arthur’s Buffet. As a medical professional, she would have lectured him about cholesterol and saturated fat. Trish liked trying to improve him, “keeping him fit for his stressful life.”

Two years ago she had packed up and left him and the Bay Area, accepting a six-figure salary at Baltimore’s Johns Hopkins to study radiation effects on humans. As a medical student she had been fascinated with the victims of Chernobyl and had begun to specialize in treating exposures… though the demand for such specialists was relatively nil. So far.

His old flame was a continent away and had her own life. But a letter he’d received from her three days ago weighed heavily on his mind. We can still be friends.

Yeah, right.

But did she miss him… did she have second thoughts? And why now?

Petite, with dark hair, deep brown eyes, and delicate glasses, Trish looked quite different from Paige. She kept herself healthy through a carefully watched diet rather than physical activity. Pretty and bookish, Trish preferred quiet days at home, listening to music, doing crossword puzzles, when she wasn’t obsessively studying.

Paige Mitchell seemed just as dedicated to her job, just as intelligent — but she still found time to drink in life to the fullest. Bright-eyed, with a dry sense of humor, Paige was a joy to be around. Standing between a row of slot machines that extended out on either side, Craig smiled wistfully.

“Let me guess. You’ve got a woman on your mind… a brunette — no, a blond!”

Craig spun about, startled, and bumped a woman’s elbow. A scrawny lady in her mid-fifties wavered in front of him, dressed in fishnet stockings, a deep-cut scarlet corset, dyed red hair under a three-pointed Court Jester’s cap. She wore as much makeup as Paige would put on in a year. She carried an empty glass in one hand and a smoldering cigarette in another.

She looked him up and down, then batted her eyes. “I can sense these things, you know.” Her voice was rough from too many drinks and too many cigarettes. “I’m psychic, Sweetie.”

Craig noticed that her drink had spilled on the floor. “I’m sorry if I bumped you, ma’am. I apologize.” He reached out to steady her, and the woman slipped her arm through his.

“The name’s Maggie, not ma’am.” She grinned hugely at him. “Maggie the Mind Reader. Not one of those telephone psychic clowns — I’m a real performer. So was I right, a woman on your mind — blond or brunette?”

Craig laughed as he steered her to a corner table. “Both, I guess.”

“Oooh, dangerous. And her name is?”

“Trish,” he blurted before he could stop himself. “Hey, you were supposed to read that from my mind —”

“Trish, that’s what I was going to say.” Maggie batted her eyes again. She brought her glass up to take a drink, but found it empty. Without pause, she snagged a passing cocktail waitress in a scanty medieval-style costume. “This young man’s buying me a drink. Make it a double scotch, single malt, neat.”

Embarrassed, Craig smiled politely to the waitress. “All right. Let me pay for it now — I’ve got to be going.” He removed five dollars from his wallet, suddenly wanting to go back to his room after all.

Maggie patted the empty seat next to her at one of the slots. “Not so fast, Sweetie. Part of the deal is you have to join me.”

Craig started to protest, but gave up. He needed something after today’s turn of events. He looked to the waitress. “I’ll have a beer, please.” Then he thought of Paige. “Uh, what are your premium brands? Any microbrews?”

“Heineken or Corona, if you want premium.”

“Heineken, then.”

Maggie took a draw on her cigarette and blew smoke away from the slot machine. “You haven’t caught my show, have you? It’s one of the little floor acts, but they pay me extra to wander the casino and amaze the customers with my mind-reading abilities.” She stopped as if Craig should automatically know who she was, but he just shook his head. “I pegged you right, didn’t I? Thinking about a girl?”

Craig raised his eyebrows. “That would be a good guess for any single man, alone in Las Vegas, surrounded by these cocktail waitresses.”

“Yes, but you’re not just any single man in Vegas. You’re here on business. You’re not here to have fun.”

“Another score.” The cocktail waitress reappeared at his side and set the drinks on a small shelf between the two slot machines. Craig tipped his beer and turned back to Maggie. “No, I’m not here to have fun. You could tell that by my jacket and tie.”

“But you’re not an east coast executive — suit’s not a designer. I’d guess you’re from California, probably work for the government. Serious type. Wears a suit like a uniform, not a fashion statement.”

Craig smiled, impressed at her detective abilities, just like a Quantico-trained investigator. “Sounds like you’ve managed to become a pretty good psychic.”

Maggie took another drink. “Damn straight, Sweetie!” She lowered her voice. “You hear plenty of things, dropped conversations, people assuming no one else is listening in the bustle of the crowd. I file it away for future reference, and then if I see them again I amaze them with my talent!”

Craig took a long swallow and pushed his unfinished beer away from him. It was late, and Paige would be picking him up at dawn to escort him out to the Test Site. He couldn’t waste any time — June Atwood, Paige, the State Department, even the president were all counting on him to solve the Russian’s murder in three days, and he hadn’t even been to the scene of the crime yet. “Okay, I’ll try to catch your act before I leave, Maggie.”

“Friday night’s the big finale. Be sure to bring your girlfriend.” Maggie finished her drink with a huge swallow. “The blond one. She’s got you walking around in a daze.”

Craig nodded. Prescient or not, Maggie had hit that nail on the head. Until now, though, he’d thought it was Trish who had him walking around in a daze.