“That way it looks like it’s been in your wallet. By the way, always keep your fake ID in your wallet—flags go up when people pull their ID out of a pocket. It’s too convenient. And keep your real driver’s license in a separate place so you don’t accidentally flash both licenses.”
“Got it,” Wes said, feeling a rush of adrenaline.
“Also, this is important—you can’t use it for twenty-four hours.”
Wes’s shoulders fell. “Twenty-four hours?”
“It’s the smell,” Mister said. “The heated plastic has a distinctive odor that’s a dead giveaway to the bouncers, but it wears off in twenty-four hours. Do not try to use it before then, capiche?”
“Yeah,” Wes groused.
Mister handed over the fake license like the gift it was. “You’re all set. You can go back up front.”
“Thanks, man.” Wes awkwardly made his way back to the front seat just as Nick was pulling the van to a stop at the same place where he’d picked Wes up. They had been moving the entire transaction.
“So long,” Nick said. “Tell Chance thanks for the referral.”
“Will do.” Wes opened the door, climbed out, and closed the door behind him. The van wasted no time in pulling away.
Wes turned to walk back toward the hotel entrance with a spring in his step. Even faced with a twenty-four-hour ban, the excitement of being in a poker game began to bubble in his chest. His hands itched for cards to hold. He’d been waiting for this—the chance to sit in a real Vegas poker game, with real money to back him up.
He stopped so abruptly, he got a headache. He pulled his hand down his Skrillex T-shirt as a blinding realization hit him. He’d left his jacket in the van—and all the money.
Wes spun around, sick with panic. Now what?
As he stood there trying to decide whether to shit his pants or puke on the sidewalk, the burgundy van reappeared next to him. “Forget something?” Nick called.
His jacket came flying out the window, landing on his head. By the time he clawed his way to daylight, the van was gone again. He frantically examined the jacket lining—still intact, ditto for the cash. Despite the heat, he put it on, weak with relief.
That was close.
Chapter 6
“WES SEEMED ON EDGE at the airport.”
Carlotta pulled her gaze from Jack, who was phoning hotel security to meet them at the crime scene, back to Coop, who was sipping on his club soda.
“I’m not surprised,” she said. “It’s one of the reasons I invited him to come with us. He’s been through a lot lately. And he’s upset because Randolph hasn’t let us visit him in jail. I thought a change of scenery would help.”
“So you still haven’t talked to your dad?”
The brief conversation they’d had when she and Hannah had infiltrated the prison didn’t really count, but she hedged with a shake of her head. “We still don’t have an explanation of why my parents left, or what happened to our mother.”
“I’m sorry. You must be going a little crazy. And now this stalker situation, too.”
“It doesn’t help,” she agreed. “But enough about me—how are things at the morgue?”
He shrugged. “Same. We’re supposed to get a new chief M.E. soon.”
“And how is Rainie?” Rainie Stephens was a pretty reporter for the Atlanta Journal-Constitution Coop sometimes kept company with.
“Rainie’s good,” Coop said with a smile. “Rainie’s always good. She’s…easy.”
As opposed to always being mired in drama, Carlotta thought dryly. Touché.
Jack hung up the phone and motioned toward the door. “They’ll meet us at the room.”
Carlotta went around the corner to let Peter know. He had stepped into his dressing room to take the phone call, and his back was to her.
“—she hasn’t talked to Randolph.”
Carlotta stepped back, out of sight, her ears piqued.
“To my knowledge, the son hasn’t talked to him either.”
Her heart pounded. Who was Peter talking to? And why was he reporting back on her and Wes?
Peter grunted. “The plan is to be here all week. Do whatever you have to do.”
She blinked—what did that mean?
“I need to hang up,” Peter said. “I’ll call you if there are any updates.”
She backtracked quietly, then tossed, “Let me tell Peter” over her shoulder as if she was just going to fetch him. When she stepped to the door of the dressing room, Peter turned with a smile, his hand over the phone’s mike. He must’ve made another call.