"The definition of being human," Dixon said. "Everybody thinks they're going to be the one."
Then O'Donnell showed up. Same suit, different tie, maybe a fresh shirt. His shoes shone in the lights. Maybe he had found a polishing cloth in his bathroom.
"Thirty million visitors a year," he said.
Reacher said, " Dixon already told me. She read the same book."
"That's ten percent of the whole population. And look at this place."
"You like it?"
"It's making me see Sanchez and Orozco in a whole new light."
Reacher nodded. "Like I said before. You all moved onward and upward."
Then Neagley stepped out of the elevator. She was dressed the same as Dixon, in a severe black suit. Her hair was wet and combed.
"We're swapping guide book facts," Reacher said.
"I didn't read mine," Neagley said. "I called Diana Bond instead. She got there and waited an hour and went back again."
"Was she pissed at us?"
"She's worried. She doesn't like Little Wing's name out there. I said I'd get back to her."
"Why?"
"She's making me curious. I like to know things."
"Me too," Reacher said. "Right now I'd like to know if someone scammed sixty-five million bucks in this town. And how."
"It would be a big scam," Dixon said. "Prorated across a whole year, it would be close to three percent of the total revenue stream."
"Two point seven eight," Reacher said, automatically.
"Let's make a start," O'Donnell said.
43
They started at the concierge desk, where they asked to see the duty security manager. The concierge asked if there was a problem, and Reacher said, "We think we have mutual friends."
There was a long wait before the duty security manager showed up. Clearly social visits were low on his agenda. Eventually a medium-sized man in Italian shoes and a thousand-dollar suit walked over. He was about fifty years old, still trim and fit, in command, relaxed, but the lines around his eyes showed he must have done at least twenty years in a previous career. A harder career. He disguised his impatience well and introduced himself and shook hands all around. He said his name was Wright and suggested they talk in a quiet corner. Pure reflex, Reacher thought. His instincts and his training told him to move potential trouble well out of the way. Nothing could be allowed to slow down the cash flow.
They found a quiet corner. No chairs, of course. No Vegas casino would give guests a comfortable place to sit away from the action. For the same reason, the lights in the bedrooms had been dim. A guest upstairs reading was no use to anyone. They stood in a neat circle and O'Donnell showed his D.C. PI license and some kind of an accreditation note from the Metro PD. Dixon matched it with her license and a card from the NYPD. Neagley had a card from the FBI. Reacher produced nothing. Just tugged his shirts down over the shape of the gun in his pocket.
Wright said to Neagley, "I was with the FBI, once upon a time."
Reacher asked him, "Did you know Manuel Orozco and Jorge Sanchez?"
"Did I?" Wright said. "Or do I?"
"Did you," Reacher said. "Orozco's dead for sure, and we figure Sanchez is, too."
"Friends of yours?"
"From the army."
"I'm very sorry."
"We are, too."
"Dead when?"
"Three, four weeks ago."
"Dead how?"
"We don't know. That's why we're here."
"I knew them," Wright said. "I knew them pretty well. Everyone in the business knew them."
"Did you use them? Professionally?"
"Not here. We don't contract out. We're too big. Same with all the larger places."
"Everything's in-house?"
Wright nodded. "This is where FBI agents and police lieutenants come to die. We get the pick of the litter. The salaries on offer here, they're lining up out the door. Not a day goes by that I don't interview at least two of them, on their last vacation before retirement."
"So how did you know Orozco and Sanchez?"
"Because the places they look after are like training camps. Someone gets a new idea, they don't try it out here. That would be crazy. They perfect it someplace else first. So we keep people like Orozco and Sanchez sweet because we need their advance information. We all hook up once in a while, we talk, conferences, dinners, casual drinks."
"Were they busy? Are you busy?"
"Like one-armed paperhangers."
"You ever heard the name Azhari Mahmoud?"
"No. Who is he?"
"We don't know. But we think he's here under an alias."
"Here?"
"Somewhere in Vegas. Can you check hotel registrations?"
"I can check ours, obviously. And I can call around."
"Try Andrew MacBride and Anthony Matthews."
"Subtle."
Dixon asked, "How do you guys know if a card player is cheating?"
Wright said, "If he's winning."
"People have to win."
"They win as much as we let them. Any more than that, they're cheating. It's a question of statistics. Numbers don't lie. It's about how, not if."
O'Donnell said, "Sanchez had a piece of paper with a number written on it. Sixty-five million dollars. A hundred grand, times six hundred and fifty separate occasions, over a four-month period, to be precise."
"So?"
"Are those the kind of numbers you would recognize?"
"As what?"
"As a rip-off."
"What's that in a year? Almost two hundred million?"
"Hundred and ninety-five," Reacher said.
"Conceivable," Wright said. "We try to keep wastage below eight percent. That's like an industry target. So we lose way more than two hundred million in a year. But having said that, two hundred million in one specific scam would be a hell of a large proportion all in one go. Unless it was something new, over and above. In which case our eight percent target is shot all to hell. In which case you're starting to worry me."
"It worried them," Reacher said. "We think it killed them."
"It would be a very big deal," Wright said. "Sixty-five million in four months? They'd need to recruit dealers and pit bosses and security people. They'd need to jinx cameras and erase tapes. They'd have to keep the cashiers quiet. It would be industrial-scale scamming."
"It might have happened."
"So why aren't the cops talking to me?"
"We're a little ways ahead of them."
"The Vegas PD? The Gaming Board?"
Reacher shook his head. "Our guys died across the line, in LA County. Couple of sheriffs out there are dealing with it."
"And you're ahead of them? What does that mean?"
Reacher said nothing. Wright was quiet for a beat. Then he looked at each face in turn. First Neagley, then Dixon, then O'Donnell, then Reacher.
"Wait," he said. "Don't tell me. The army? You're the special investigators. Their old unit. They talked about it all the time."
Reacher said, "In which case you understand our interest. You worked with people."
"If you find something, will you cut me in?"
"Earn it," Reacher said.
"There's a girl," Wright said. "She works in some awful place with a fire pit. A bar, near where the Riviera used to be. She's tight with Sanchez."