“You
have
been out of touch, haven’t you?”
“Don’t play games with me, Granger. Tell me where he is!”
“No, that wouldn’t be prudent.”
I swore under my breath. Then I swore over my breath, several times. “You’re still sulking because I wouldn’t suck your dick that time at Gordy’s, aren’t you?”
“Jesus Christ, that was what? Ten years ago? Before you hooked up with David? I’d just met you.”
“Yeah, but you haven’t forgotten. Who was drunk
that
night?”
“I think you should go now, Susan.”
“I think you’re right. The smell in here is getting intense.” I bolted for the door. “Have fun playing detective, Granger. If you need any help-go fuck yourself.”
I slammed the door-
my
door-just for dramatic effect.
“How’d it go?” Lisa asked as I slid into the passenger seat.
“Fine. Swell.”
“No problems?”
“Nah. They were all very kind. Glad to see me. Granger and I embraced.”
“Granger?”
“Yeah. Who’da thought?” Well, if I couldn’t live the fantasy, I could at least make Lisa think I did. While she drove to the house where Rachel was staying, I used her cell phone to call Eleanor, one of the young girls in Dispatch. She was nice, I thought she liked me, and I also thought she was gullible enough to believe anything.
“Eleanor? Susan Pulaski. I’ve got some lab reports for O’Bannon. Is he still at the crime scene?”
“Yeah,” she answered. I heard a dozen other lines working in the background. “But I thought you-”
“He brought me back in. Said he needed my expertise on this one. So he’s still out there?”
“Far as I know.”
I noticed a light drizzle on the dashboard. “You think I should bring him a raincoat?”
“Nah. He’ll be inside the hotel.”
Getting warm. “And still working in that… that-what do they call it?”
“The Edgar Allan Poe Ballroom?”
“Right, right.” That would have to be the Transylvania. One of the newer “family” resorts on the Strip. “Dumb of me. I never paid much attention in English class. I was thinking of that other guy. Hawthorne.”
“No, it’s Poe.”
“Okay, thanks.” For more than you know.
Annabel Spencer gazed nervously at the mirror-paneled walls, the smoky glass ceiling, the translucent corbels. Cameras behind every one of them, she thought. She had read that the camera positions were changed regularly to prevent anyone from knowing for certain what the security people could and could not see. Men on metal catwalks hidden behind the ceiling peered down 24/7. There was no telling how many people were watching her right now. Did they know she wasn’t supposed to be here? How long would it take them to figure it out? And once they knew, what would they do to her?
As soon as she passed through the front doors of the casino, she knew her face was scanned by a computer running facial recognition software-developed at MIT, of course-which converted a fluid digital image of her face into mathematical data, translating facial landmarks into algorithms, then comparing the results to the millions of faces in a shared database. She didn’t know if anyone had her cheekbones on file yet. In this day and age, it was impossible to be certain. The latest hot cyber-rumor held that Big Brother was constantly scooping up people’s faces, taking them off Web sites and newspapers and airport security scanners. Today, almost anyone could be identified by an entity with the financial resources to pay for the data. Privacy was an illusion, or perhaps more accurately, a luxury that many big businesses could no longer afford. So the casino hard drives must be whirring away, she mused, trying to come up with a match, determining if she was a player or a patsy, a tourist or that most dreaded of all evils: a card counter.
Given the famous hatred of casinos for card counters, the minor detail that she was underage might seem negligible-although it would certainly give them a
have
been out of touch, haven’t you?”
“Don’t play games with me, Granger. Tell me where he is!”
“No, that wouldn’t be prudent.”
I swore under my breath. Then I swore over my breath, several times. “You’re still sulking because I wouldn’t suck your dick that time at Gordy’s, aren’t you?”
“Jesus Christ, that was what? Ten years ago? Before you hooked up with David? I’d just met you.”
“Yeah, but you haven’t forgotten. Who was drunk
that
night?”
“I think you should go now, Susan.”
“I think you’re right. The smell in here is getting intense.” I bolted for the door. “Have fun playing detective, Granger. If you need any help-go fuck yourself.”
I slammed the door-
my
door-just for dramatic effect.
“How’d it go?” Lisa asked as I slid into the passenger seat.
“Fine. Swell.”
“No problems?”
“Nah. They were all very kind. Glad to see me. Granger and I embraced.”
“Granger?”
“Yeah. Who’da thought?” Well, if I couldn’t live the fantasy, I could at least make Lisa think I did. While she drove to the house where Rachel was staying, I used her cell phone to call Eleanor, one of the young girls in Dispatch. She was nice, I thought she liked me, and I also thought she was gullible enough to believe anything.
“Eleanor? Susan Pulaski. I’ve got some lab reports for O’Bannon. Is he still at the crime scene?”
“Yeah,” she answered. I heard a dozen other lines working in the background. “But I thought you-”
“He brought me back in. Said he needed my expertise on this one. So he’s still out there?”
“Far as I know.”
I noticed a light drizzle on the dashboard. “You think I should bring him a raincoat?”
“Nah. He’ll be inside the hotel.”
Getting warm. “And still working in that… that-what do they call it?”
“The Edgar Allan Poe Ballroom?”
“Right, right.” That would have to be the Transylvania. One of the newer “family” resorts on the Strip. “Dumb of me. I never paid much attention in English class. I was thinking of that other guy. Hawthorne.”
“No, it’s Poe.”
“Okay, thanks.” For more than you know.
Annabel Spencer gazed nervously at the mirror-paneled walls, the smoky glass ceiling, the translucent corbels. Cameras behind every one of them, she thought. She had read that the camera positions were changed regularly to prevent anyone from knowing for certain what the security people could and could not see. Men on metal catwalks hidden behind the ceiling peered down 24/7. There was no telling how many people were watching her right now. Did they know she wasn’t supposed to be here? How long would it take them to figure it out? And once they knew, what would they do to her?
As soon as she passed through the front doors of the casino, she knew her face was scanned by a computer running facial recognition software-developed at MIT, of course-which converted a fluid digital image of her face into mathematical data, translating facial landmarks into algorithms, then comparing the results to the millions of faces in a shared database. She didn’t know if anyone had her cheekbones on file yet. In this day and age, it was impossible to be certain. The latest hot cyber-rumor held that Big Brother was constantly scooping up people’s faces, taking them off Web sites and newspapers and airport security scanners. Today, almost anyone could be identified by an entity with the financial resources to pay for the data. Privacy was an illusion, or perhaps more accurately, a luxury that many big businesses could no longer afford. So the casino hard drives must be whirring away, she mused, trying to come up with a match, determining if she was a player or a patsy, a tourist or that most dreaded of all evils: a card counter.
Given the famous hatred of casinos for card counters, the minor detail that she was underage might seem negligible-although it would certainly give them a
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