Smoke and Mirrors

88

Alexa took Jason Parr’s cash out of her purse in the elevator riding up to the eighth floor. She looked in at her Glock and her badge case and frowned. Most women her age had never touched a gun, much less fired one. How many of them carried one in their purse ten hours a day as they might a tube of lipstick? But since she spent most of her time behind a desk, the gun in her purse was hardly more than a little extra ballast, which she was quite accustomed to by now.

The wide polished oak doors opening into the suites were hand-carved. According to the signs, there were twenty-five suites on the eighth floor, reserved for high rollers. Eight-twenty-two was down the hall on the right. She did a double take as she passed 825, which had double doors inside a foyer protected by closed wrought-iron gates.

Alexa stopped at 822 and tapped gently. “Come in, Alexa!” she heard Jason Parr yell through the heavy wood.

From deep in the suite, Jason called, “I’ll be right with you, I was just getting out of the shower when you called. Make yourself at home while I get dressed.”

“Okay, Jason,” she yelled back as she walked into the living room. “I can only stay a minute.” No expense had been spared in furnishing the living room. Instead of a medieval theme, modern furniture was placed on an oriental carpet, which made a horseshoe around a marble fireplace. The curtains were open, revealing large sealed windows, the Delta growing dark outside. To her left was an open kitchen with light marble floors, stainless appliances, pickled wood cabinets, and granite countertops.

“I could grow accustomed to this,” she called out.

“We sure ain’t in Kansas anymore,” he hollered back. “I’m almost presentable.”

“I brought your money back. I can’t keep it. I appreciate the gesture though.”

“Whatever you say. Just put it on the coffee table, would you?”

Alexa walked into the room and stopped at the large coffee table. She was about to put the cash on the table when she saw, evenly spaced out in the center of the slab of frosted glass, four red toothpicks. She picked one up and smelled it.

Realization gave way to a thick disorienting fear. She let the currency in her hand fall to the table as she reached into her purse for the Glock. She knew-as she sensed a figure rushing up from behind her-that she’d never get it out in time.

She turned, registered that the man coming at her was narrower than Jason Parr, and felt a stream of cold liquid hit her face-searing her eyes. Even so, she almost got the Glock out.