The voice of the man who’d killed his mother.
Lex lurched forward and punched the Open Door button, but it was too late. The car had started to climb again. He hit the button for the thirty-second floor instead. Pushing through the gap in the doors as they started to open, he dashed down the passage, twisting and turning through the mazelike layout, looking for fire exit stairs. He bashed through the fire exit door, an alarm going off as he clattered down two floors, hit the bar to open the door to the thirtieth floor. But his weight slammed solid up against the door. It was locked from the inside of the stairwell. A security measure.
He swore. Then he heard footfalls clattering down the fire escape stairs. He’d set off the alarm. They were probably watching him right now from the cameras up in the security room—the omnipresent Vegas eye-in-the sky. Lex squared his shoulders, and pulling his jacket straight, he began to calmly climb back up the stairs. Two security men stopped him. “Excuse me, sir—”
Lex held up his badge. “I’m on my way up to see Mrs. Epstein. Looks like I must have gotten off on the wrong floor.”
The security guards exchanged sharp glances.
“You can check with Mrs. Epstein’s receptionist if you like, she’s expecting me,” he said casually as he pushed past them. “I’ll just head back up the way I came.”
As Lex went back through the fire door the guards had left propped open, he heard one of the men key his radio, checking Lex’s story and clearing him with reception. He made for the private elevator, heart slamming.
He’d bet his life that the security head for the Desert Lion was the same man he’d glimpsed through the louvered slats of the closet, wielding the knife that had slit his mother’s throat. The voice, skin tone, age, hair, his association and current position with Epstein’s casino all fit.
And now he had a name—Roman Markowitz.
Lex wondered if Markowitz knew who he was—that Special Agent Lex Duncan was actually the child of Sara Duncan, the child he’d come looking for on that fateful day in Reno thirty years ago.
Even if Markowitz didn’t know, Lex had little doubt he’d be watching him right now via the security camera in the elevator, especially after the little incident on the stairs. And he’d be checking Lex’s credentials, asking himself why a federal agent was visiting Mercedes Epstein.
It occurred to Lex, as the elevator bell dinged on the penthouse floor, that either way, Markowitz probably felt safe. Because he had no idea that Lex had recognized him or even could. After all, Lex had not been able to describe his mother’s assailant to the police all those years ago. All he had was the memory of a voice. But no one understood just how indelibly that distinct voice had been burned into his brain.
The doors slid open, and Lex stepped into the penthouse lobby.
A butler showed him into a living room with elevated ceilings and a massive wall of tinted glass that overlooked the Las Vegas Strip below. The decor was all done in shades of cream and white. Even the orchids were white, the only contrast being the glossy black Chinese vases that contained them, and the black granite bar in the corner.
Mercedes was standing at the windows, her back to him as Lex entered the room. She was dressed in cream as if to match her decor—a sleek image of matriarchal elegance.
“Lexington,” she said, looking out the window. “I was hoping you’d come.”
For a second Lex was at a loss for words. No one had called him Lexington since his mother—and then the Lucky Lady.
She turned slowly, smiled, holding out her hand. “It’s so good to see you. Take a seat. Can I offer you something to drink?”
He ran his tongue over his teeth, stepped forward. “No, thank you. What do you mean you were hoping I’d come?”
“We have so very much to catch up on.”
“I beg your pardon?”
She nodded. “I understand, it’s confusing.”
An unspecified tension tightened like a wire around his chest. “I came to see your husband, Mrs. Epstein. But Frank Epstein was not available, so I was hoping you’d help me out by answering a few questions.”
She raised her elegant brow. “Is it a federal matter?”
“A personal one.”
She looked at him for a long time, something strange and unreadable in her features, something that made him real uneasy. “What is it that I can help you with?” she said finally.
“Did you once know a young woman, a croupier, by the name of Sara Duncan?” he asked. “She would have been working at the old Frontline Casino around the same time you were there.”
Several beats of silence thickened the air.