Chapter 22 — A House of Cards #2
She pulled out the old phone—the one with the cracked screen that she'd hidden in her purse, turned off so it couldn't be tracked by the car's systems. She turned it on discreetly, hiding it under her thigh.
A new message from Kyle.
Address changed. Don't go to the alley. Too exposed. Go to Solomon's Pawn Shop. 404 Industrial Street. Talk to Saul. Say you have “Glass.” He'll give you the money. You have 45 minutes.
Solomon's.
Maya knew Industrial Street. It was the backside of the Strip, the city's service area. Warehouses, second-rate strip clubs, auto repair shops. Not exactly the place for a woman dressed in Prada with a private security escort.
And it definitely wasn’t at the mall.
Cold panic washed over Maya. The original plan—selling at a chic pawn shop near the mall—had gone down the drain. Kyle, in his addict’s paranoia, had changed the game.
She needed to get rid of Miller. And she needed to do it fast.
“Frank,” Maya said, her mind racing a mile a minute. “Change the destination. Let’s go to Wynn Plaza first.”
Miller frowned.
“The plan was Fashion Show, miss.”
“I know, but I remembered the Chanel boutique at the Wynn has an exclusive collection I want to see. It’s right nearby.”
Miller assessed the risk. The Wynn was friendly territory. High security.
“Affirmative. Wynn Plaza.”
The car changed lanes smoothly.
When they arrived, the security routine was suffocating. Miller got out first, scanned the area, opened the door. He walked half a step behind her, a menacing shadow that kept anyone from even thinking about approaching.
They entered the Wynn. The air conditioning smelled of fresh flowers. The mosaic floor gleamed.
Maya walked straight to the luxury boutique area. Her mind worked frantically, mapping the exits she vaguely remembered from previous visits—back when she could only window-shop and dream.
She needed a place with multiple exits. Somewhere confusing.
The multi-brand department store on the second floor. It was a labyrinth of racks, mirrors, and interconnected sections.
She went in. Miller followed.
“I need to try on dresses,” she announced, randomly grabbing three haute couture pieces that cost more than her father’s annual salary. “And I need one of those large fitting suites.”
The saleswoman, seeing the purse, the clothes, and the giant security guard, smiled with dollar signs in her eyes.
“Of course, ma’am. We have the VIP Suite available. It’s in the back, very private.”
Perfect.
The VIP suite was a large room with velvet sofas, triple mirrors, and… a discreet service door, used by employees to bring in and take out clothes without going through the main sales floor. Maya had seen an employee slip out through it with a rack of clothes.
Maya entered the suite.
“Miller, you stay at the main door,” she said. “I’m going to be a while.”
Miller nodded, positioning himself like a statue in front of the suite’s entrance, his back to the store corridor. He blocked the view of anyone coming or going—but also blocked his own view of the room’s interior.
“I’ll be here, miss.”
Maya closed the suite’s heavy door.
Immediately, she dropped the dresses on the sofa.
She ran to the service door. Was it locked?
She turned the handle.
Open.
She peeked. A narrow, gray corridor, full of cardboard boxes and racks of clothes wrapped in plastic. The backstage corridor.
She looked back. Miller was on the other side of the main door. He would wait. He was patient. But he’d check in ten, maybe fifteen minutes if she didn’t make any sounds.
She needed a distraction to buy time.
She picked up the suite’s phone—a fancy landline on the side table—and dialed the store’s reception.
“Hello, this is the client in the VIP Suite,” she said, forcing an irritated socialite voice.
“The air conditioning stopped working. It’s unbearable in here.
Send someone from maintenance immediately, or I’m leaving and taking my money with me.
And tell my security guard at the door to go get me some ice water from the lobby bar. Now.”
She hung up.
Seconds later, she heard the muffled voice of a manager speaking to Miller through the door.
“Sir, the client requested water. And maintenance is on the way.”
“I don’t leave my post,” Miller growled.
“She’s very irritated, sir. She said she’ll call Mr. Vance if she’s not taken care of.”
Ethan’s name was the master key. Miller hesitated.
“Frank’s in the car. I’ll call him on the radio to bring the water.”
“She wants it now, sir. The bar is right there. Thirty seconds, tops.”
Miller cursed under his breath.
“Thirty seconds. Don’t take your eyes off that door.”
Maya heard Miller’s heavy footsteps retreating.
This was it.
She opened the service door and slipped into the gray corridor. She closed the door silently behind her.
She ran.
The corridor led to a fire stairwell. She flew down two flights, the sound of her heels echoing off the concrete.
She emerged at a loading dock behind the hotel. The heat and the smell of garbage hit her. Delivery trucks came and went.
She blended in with the employees smoking near the exit. No one looked twice at the woman in sunglasses and expensive clothes leaving through the garbage dock. In Vegas, stranger things happened every day.
She walked quickly to the side street and flagged down a taxi that had just dropped off a passenger.
“404 Industrial Street,” she said as she got in, tossing a hundred-dollar bill onto the front seat. “And step on it.”
The driver, a man with a turban and tired eyes, looked at the money and then at the rearview mirror.
“No problem, ma’am.”
The taxi pulled away.
Maya checked her watch. 1:35 PM. She had twenty-five minutes to get there, make the sale, transfer the money, and get back before Miller kicked down the VIP suite door and discovered she’d vanished.
Traffic was moderate. The taxi weaved through back streets, avoiding the congested Strip.
Industrial Street was a film noir set under the midday sun. Low brick buildings, barred windows, faded signs.
Number 404 was an unmarked metal door, sandwiched between a used parts shop and an abandoned warehouse. A security camera hung above the door, its dirty lens pointed at the sidewalk.
“Wait here,” Maya told the driver. “I’ll be back in five minutes.”
“Meter’s running,” he said, indifferent.
Maya got out. The air was dusty. She pressed the buzzer beside the metal door.
Zzzzt. An electric buzz, and the lock released.
She pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The interior smelled of cigarette smoke and polished metal. It was a small room, divided by thick, scratched bulletproof glass.
A man sat behind the glass. Bald, fat, wearing a Hawaiian shirt that seemed to scream in agony over his belly. He was cleaning his nails with a pocketknife.
Solomon. “Sol.”
He looked up. Small, piggy eyes that sized up Maya and the Prada bag in a single second.
“You Kyle’s girl?” he asked. His voice was a wet grunt.
“I have the glass,” Maya said, using the password Kyle had sent.
Solomon laughed.
“Glass. That’s what he’s calling it now? Show me.”
Maya approached the window. She opened her bag and unwrapped the scarf.
The choker slid onto the rotating metal tray.
Under the shop’s cheap fluorescent light, the diamonds looked out of place, like stars fallen into mud. The central emerald glowed with malevolent green intensity.
Solomon stopped cleaning his nails. He leaned forward and rotated the tray, bringing the jewel to his side of the glass.
He picked up the choker. His touch was surprisingly delicate for such thick hands. He fitted a jeweler’s loupe to his right eye.
He examined the central stone.
“Holy shit,” he whispered. “This is the real deal.”
He looked at Maya through the glass. The respect in his eyes gave way to fear and greed.
“You know where this came from?”
“It’s mine,” Maya said. “A gift.”
“A gift from who? The Sultan of Brunei?” Solomon mocked. “This setting… I recognize this work. Custom design. Vance.”
He dropped the loupe. The jewel fell onto the table with a heavy thud.
“This is Ethan Vance’s stuff. I know his pieces. He buys at Christie’s auctions.”
“Do you want to buy it or not?” Maya asked, her heart pounding in her throat. “Kyle said you’d pay.”
Solomon ran a hand over his sweaty bald head.
“Kyle’s an idiot. He owes me money too. But this here…” he pointed at the necklace. “This is radioactive, doll. If Vance finds out I touched this, he’ll bury me in the desert right next to Jimmy Hoffa.”
“He won’t find out,” Maya lied. “He… he got tired of me. Gave me this as severance to leave.”
Solomon studied her. He saw the fear in her. Saw the rush.