[Veritas]

In the computer lab at St. Benedict's Acadamy, Alicia sat before her assigned terminal ready to log onto the Criss Angel fanboards. She hoped her recently posted poem had received postive reviews (except for that snooty Veritas who always had to nit-pick everything. What was she, an English teacher or something?), or that some juicy bit of gossip found its way onto the General Discussion forum, or the latest developments on Loyalapalooza.

It had taken a great deal of courage and cunning, but Alicia did succeed in selling Little Women for fifteen dollars at the used book store, and Kyle's "obsolete" video games for thirty at Play it Again, a secondhand game store, which bought the total to forty-five dollars. Adding the twenty-seven she had already saved up, she was seventy-two dollars closer to Loyalapalooza. Maybe she could convince her dad to come up with more, using the Manresa Youth Retreat as a cover. She still had to figure out how to get there without raising suspicion from her mother, or even her brother who would squeal on her in a heartbeat. And how long would it take to get there from Iowa, anyway? Would she have to leave early? And how much would it cost? She had to factor in food as well; she didn't want to starve while she was there.

Oh, well, she still had two more weeks, plenty of time to plan her trip. In the meantime, she had some serious business to attend to on the boards. She logged onto the Internet as usual, then waited for the AOL homepage to appear on the monitor. After a few seconds delay, the famliar AOL logo appeared with little windows of ads and newsclips. Normally, Alicia ignored the whole thing and went directly onto the fanboards, but Criss Angel's name in the news section caught her eye. Curious, she read the blip of a head line: "Bomb found in Criss Angel's suite..."

A bomb?! Alicia hastily clicked the headline and waited anxiously for the article to download. The plain black text on the blindingly white screen next to a standard press photo of Criss told her the whole chilling story:

March**. A time bomb was discovered in the hotel suite of illusionist Criss Angel at approximatly seven AM (PST). The device was allegedly brought into the suite by a hotel maid in her cleaning cart, and discovered by Criss Angel himself. The hotel maid, whose identity has been withheld by local police, claims she had no knowledge of the bomb in her cart, nor had witnessed anyone placing it there. The bomb squad was able to retrieve the bomb and disable it after guests and staff were quickly evacuated from the hotel. No injuries were reported. Rumors are circulating that the attempt may be linked to organized crime, but authorities will neither confirm or deny such allegations.

Alicia was shocked. Someone had tried to kill Criss! Who would do such a thing? And why? What did that maid have against Criss in the first place? But maybe she was innocent. Had that maid been bribed by someone? How could that maid not have seen a bomb on her cart in the first place? Wouldn't the ticking give it away? The mind boggled.

Frantic with worry, Alicia logged onto the Loyal Community Message Board, her only trusted source for all things MindFreaky. She clicked onto the General Discussion forum and scanned for any mention of the bomb. There was none. With grim determination and a sense of duty to her fellow Loyals, she clicked on New Topic and began to type her message:

RoseRed13: General Discussion > Bomb in Criss's room!!!

THEY FOUND A BOMB IN CRISS'S ROOM!!!! Some maid sneaked a bomb in Criss's room today and tried to kill him! Soem maid who worked there bought it tin his room but Criss saw it and they had to get everyone oru of the hotel so the bomb squad cold get in and get rid of it. No one got hurt but itwas scary all the same. anybody got andy ideas what happened?


Alicia clicked Post and sent her message on the way without even bothering to check what she wrote. All that mattered to her was that the Loyal knew what happened. She had to protect her beloved Criss at all costs; nothing must happen to him.





Criss and Casey sat side by side in the interrogation room at the LVMPD headquarters. Hammie the cat lay on the cold metal table before them, totally unconcerned. Criss held Casey's hand to comfort her while Detective Jim Meridian questioned them both. Meridian could see that Casey was nervous, but it was an honest nervousness, not the type someone showed when they were concealing something. She had obviously never been in a police station before. Angel, on the other hand, was calm and cool as a pond in summer. For a guy that found a bomb in his room, he didn't seem to rattled about it. Meridian reasoned that a guy who made a living trying to kill himself for entertainment, the fear factor must have diminished.

"Okay, let me get this straight," Meridian said to Casey, "you came in to Angel's suite around seven in the morning to clean up, and you had no idea that there was a bomb on your cleaning cart, right?"

"It's true, Officer," Casey responded with a nod. "I just grabbed my cart and went up. I swear I didn't place that bomb there! I don't even know how to make one!"

"Okay, okay, I'll give you the benefit of the doubt for now--at least until the results from the lab show up." Meridian turned to Criss. "How long has she been cleaning your room?"

"About a week now," Criss answered. "She's just a fill-in for the regular housekeeper."

"You didn't notice anything unusual during the week?"

Criss shook his head. "Nope, nothing at all. Nothing stolen or out of place. Casey's a really nice girl. But I think this has to do with the Piccucci estate."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning that Casey here was Mick Piccucci's caregiver before he died," Criss explained, "and the old man left her the whole estate, cutting out his own son and his ex. Piccucci was an ex-gangster with mob connections."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know who Mick Piccucci was," Meridian said dismissively. "So whoever planted that bomb wasn't after you, but Casey here, right?"

"Makes sense to me," Criss retorted.

Meridian thought about it for a moment. "I'm gonna call down to the lab to see if we got any results yet," he said, rising. "You two stay put for a while. And don't let that cat make a mess--the chief will have my jewels on a platter if he finds out I let you bring 'im in."

Criss nodded, and Meridian left. Casey turned to Criss with her eyes shimmering with tears.

"Criss, I'm sorry I got you into this," she sniffled. "I didn't want you to get involved."

Criss smiled. "Hey, it's okay," he said softly and with a smile. "If that bomb went off while we were still up there, who knows how many innocent people would have been killed besides us." He brushed her tears away with his fingers. "Now, don't worry about a thing, Casey," he whispered.

"You do believe me when I said I didn't put that bomb there, don't you?"

"Of course I do. You're not the type to go around killing people." He laughed a little. "Your former boss, maybe, but not you."

Impulsively, Casey threw her arms around Criss, then, realizing the inappropriateness of such an action, quickly withdrew. Criss laughed again at her embarrassment. "You are the bashful type, aren't you?" he said.

He leaned back. "So, tell me about yourself," he said casually. "You married? Single?"

Casey smiled, blushing. "No, I'm single," she said, beginning to relax a little. "I'm just trying to support my family, that's all."

"You support your whole family?" Criss asked.

Casey nodded. "Yeah. My dad's on disability because of a work-related accident--he was unloading some crates from a freight car, and somehow he got sandwiched between some machine parts and crushed half his spine. He's in a wheelchair now."

"That's too bad," Criss said sorrowfully. "What about your mom?"

"Well, she's got a part-time job in a liquor store now, but that barely covers the cable bill. She wants Dad to have a TV to keep him company."

"Any brothers? Sisters?"

"Well, I do have a brother, Benny. He's older than I am and, well, he...hasn't found a job yet."

"Because he can't?" Criss wanted to know. "Or because he won't?"

Casey sighed. "I don't know. Benny doesn't have much...ambition...beyond TV and strip clubs. I can't say what his real talents are because he just...doesn't do anything. He never had any career goals or anything like that. He's just seems...discouraged. And with the economy the way it is..."

"How old's Benny?" Criss asked.

"Thirty-two."

"He's not 'discouraged', Casey," Criss said, shaking his head, "he's just too (bleeping) lazy to get off his ass and do something with his life. He's got no ambition because he'd rather sponge off your dad's disability and your paycheck than get a job. If he were a real man, he'd be pulling his weight rather than parking it in front of the tube."

He leaned closer. "You got to stand up to that pathetic excuse of a brother of yours and lay down the law. Tell him that you are sick and tired of being the breadwinner in the family--and I can tell that you are--and for him to get off his lame ass and get a job! You got a life to live, too, you know. You don't need Benny sponging off you for the rest of your life. He's a parasite, Casey--it's time you realized that. And him, too. He wants money, he's got to earn it himself."

"How can I help him find a job?" Casey asked timidly.

"You can't," Criss replied. "He's got to do it himself. He's got to make the effort on his own. The economy's no excuse. He's the only thing holding himself back."

Casey was about to respond when Detective Meridian strode into the room. "Okay, we got good news," he said. "First of all, that 'bomb' was a total fake--just some road flares, some wire and an alarm clock."

Criss and Casey were dumbfounded. "A fake?" Criss exclaimed. "You mean we called nine-one-one, cleared out the whole hotel, and got everybody panicked over a fake?"

"Well, it seems that way," Meridian said calmly. "Bomb squad gets a lot of false alarms. You did the right thing, though. And the fingerprints don't belong to Casey, here, or anyone else in the files, for that matter."

Casey breathed a sigh of relief. Criss massaged her shoulder in congratulations. Meridian, however, wasn't through yet.

"We did find this wrapped around the 'bomb', however," he said, laying a sheet of paper with cut-out letters glued onto it like a ransom note:

This iS a wARNING ! gIVE UP The InherITance Or Else !

Criss read the note with wide eyes. "Who the hell sent this?"

"Well, we got two prime suspects already," Meridian said. "It's just finding out which one it is."

Casey began to cry, and Criss held her close.

[Veritas]

The Bomb Squad had long since left, the guests had returned to their rooms or went back to whatever they had been doing before the alarm went off, and the staff returned to their posts, but the press remained in the hotel lobby waiting for Criss Angel to return from the police station so they could get a statement regarding the bomb scare in his suite. Felix Rappaport, the president of the hotel, was doing his level best to keep order among the journalists, cameramen, photographers and newspaper reporters crowding the atrium. No, there had been no injuries, he said, and the Bomb Squad had handled the emergency with calm, professional efficiency. He was not going to point fingers at anyone, least of all the housekeeper who brought the cart with the bomb in it, until the police had issued a formal warrant for her arrest; in fact, she was at the station now with Criss Angel, offering her testamony about the incident. There was nothing to be afraid of, Felix went on. Everything was under control. The hotel management and security division were working in full co-operation with the police regarding this matter, and he was confident that the truth would soon be revealed.

Felix had just about reached the threshold of his patience when Criss walked into the atrium, holding his cat, Hammie, in his arms. The press did a one-eighty turnaround to meet him, barking questions and flashing cameras in his face.

Criss handled the press with practiced ease. "First of all, the 'bomb' found on the cart was a fake," he stated. "It was just a digital alarm clock tied to some road flares with piano wire--completely harmless. Second of all, the housekeeper who bought it in is completely innocent of any criminal charges. The fingerprints on the fake bomb weren't even hers, or anyone else's in the police files. They're still looking for the person or persons responsible. I can't say if it was a prank or what it was, but I thank God it wasn't a real bomb. That's all, thank you."

The media, however, weren't satisfied. They kept yammering away for more information, but Criss brushed them aside as he headed for his room. Felix Rappaport, however, met him halfway.

"Good job, Criss," he said drily. "So where's the housekeeper?"

"I dropped her off around back," Criss told him. "She said employees weren't supposed to enter through the front."

Felix couldn't help but smile a little. "If you see her, tell her I want to see her in my office," he said. "Both of you. I want to know just what the hell happened."

Criss nodded. "She's probably back with the housekeeping staff," he guessed. "Lemme drop Hammie off and I'll get back to you."

Felix agreed. Criss rode the elevator back to his suite, released his cat inside, then closed the door and rode down to the level where the president's office was located. It was then he remembered that he was still in his workout clothes. Should he go back up and change? Well, it was too late now, he figured, because he was already there at the office. Felix wouldn't mind, he thought. So long as he was wearing something at least halfway decent there would be no objections. He entered the office foyer and asked to see Felix. The secretary let him in without demur. Felix welcomed him inside and offered him a seat. "Casey should be here soon," he told Criss. "I contacted housekeeping to send her up."

Criss could only guess what poor Casey must be feeling at that moment; no doubt the same fear and dread a kid would feel when being told to report to the principal's office at school. He hoped she wouldn't get fired over this; it really wasn't her fault. In fact, she was the victim, not the perpetrator.

There was a gentle rap on the office door, and Casey timidly entered the president's spacious office. She was offered a seat next to Criss, which was some consolation for her. She didn't want to face whatever the president had in mind for her alone.

Criss explained the whole situation to Felix: the fact that Casey was the sole heir to the Piccucci estate, cutting out the son and ex-wife out of the deal, causing them to file a suit against her; the mob connections Mick Piccucci had in life; the threatening letter attached to the fake bomb ordering Casey to give up the inheritance or else; Casey's innocence proven by the results from the police lab. Felix listened attentively, then leaned back to ponder his next move. Casey sat there, clutching and unclutching her hands nervously.

Felix finally spoke. "Well, the important thing is that no one got hurt," he said. "And you are just a fill-in, aren't you, Casey?"

"Yes, sir," Casey squeaked. She cleared her throat and tried again. "Yes, sir," she repeated more clearly.

"How long are you filling in?"

"This is supposed to be my last day for this week, sir."

Felix leaned forward. "Well, I am convinced that you are innocent, Casey," he said, "however, due to this whole estate situation that you are in right now, I think it best that you stay away from the Luxor for the time being."

Criss sat bolt upright. "Hey, wait a minute--"

"Now, Criss, I'm not firing her," Felix told him. "It's just until the probate court decides the matter and if Casey gets the inheritance or not. When is the court date, Casey?"

"Two weeks from today, sir."

"Okay, I don't see any need for any fill-ins among the housekeeping staff for the next two weeks, but all the same, I'd advise you to seek some private employment, so you won't be a danger to the public. I'd like to keep you on, but I have the safety and the security of the guests to consider. You understand, don't you?"

Yeah, I understand, Criss thought angrily. You want to cover your own ass at the expense of Casey, don't you, Felix?

"It's all right, Mr. Rappaport," Casey said quietly. "I have a caregiver job lined up for a friend of Mr. Piccucci's."

Felix smiled, relieved that she had taken it so well. "Good. Then that's settled. Just remember to hand in your keycard to the office before you leave, okay?"

"Yes, sir," Casey replied, rising.

Criss rose, too, still a bit angry over Felix's seemingly crass behavior. He's just looking out for the bottom line, he thought nastily. It's not the safety and security of anyone, it's the insurance he's worried about! It's all about the bottom line!

He strode out of the office without another word. Casey nearly shrank when she saw how angry he was. "Mr. Angel?" she ventured timidly. "Is anything wrong?"

Criss turned to Casey. "No, it's not you, Casey," he said. "It's just that I think Felix is more worried about his insurance rates going up than he is about your safety."

"Don't feel that way, Mr. Angel," Casey said comfortingly. "I don't want to put anyone here in danger--especially you. It's better this way, really it is. I got a job taking care of Mr. Piccucci's friend, Mr. Springer. He'll be going into the hospital soon, and he'll need a caregiver to stay with him."

Criss turned to Casey. "A friend of Mr. Piccucci?" he repeated. "Was he a gangster, too?"

"Well, yes, he was, as a matter of fact," Casey replied. "But he's the last surviving member of The Guys, and he's retired, too."

"'The Guys'?"

"The Guys of Glitter Gulch," Casey explained. "They were quite notorious back in the Forties and Fifties."

"Yeah, I bet they were."

"Anyway, now that Mr. Piccucci is gone, he's the only one left," Casey went on. "And he's sick with stomach cancer, and he knew me when I took care of Mr. Piccucci, so he's going to hire me on."

Criss sighed. Out of the frying pan, into the fire, he thought. She leaves one mob family only to get mixed up with another. This is going to make her situation worse. "Well, okay," he said with a shrug, "if that's what you want to do. Just be careful, okay? I'm not going to be around to protect you, you know. Just watch your back, okay?"

Casey nodded. "I promise."

"Can I walk you to the door at least?" he offered. "Just to make sure you're safe and all."

Casey smiled, flattered over such a gallant gesture, but insisted she had to turn in her keycard and change into her regular clothes, and would he mind waiting if it wasn't too much trouble? Criss said he didn't mind, and waited patiently while she took care of business. She was a bit reluctant to exit through the main lobby--employees were supposed to enter and exit through the service door out back. "But you're not an employee any more, right?" Criss reminded her.

"Well, no..." Casey replied hesitantly.

"Then we go this way," he insisted.

The atrium buzzed with the usual activity of any busy hotel; the press had finally been dispersed by the security detail. Criss and Casey walked across the huge atrium to the main entrance, the latter looking wide-eyed around herself. Such luxury! Such spaciousness! She could not imagine staying in a place like this, even for a single night, even if she did receive her nine million dollar inheritance. And to think that Criss Angel actually lived here, day after day, night after night! Just how rich was he, anyway? she wondered.

"Hey, sweetheart!" a gruff but familiar voice spoke up beside her.

Both Casey and Criss turned to see a stocky old man in a decent grey suit, fingering a cigar. Criss had no idea who he was, but Casey recognized him immediatly.

"Hello, Mr. Springer," she said cheerfully.

[Veritas]

Criss stared at the old man in the tailored suit and faded fedora. He wasn't Marlon Brando, granted, but he certainly looked the mobster type. He wondered what he role had been when The Guys of Glitter Gulch were in their heyday. Hit man? Enforcer? Who knew? He might have been a dangerous criminal in the past, handy with a machine gun or something more subtle--a stilletto, say, or even a thirty-eight. Should he let Casey go to work for this guy? he wondered.

"I heard about what happened here this morning," Springs said. "Quite a scare, there, wasn't it?"

"You know anything about it?" Criss asked casually, with a tinge of suspicion.

"Me? Eff no," Springs replied. "Heard about it on the radio in the car." The corner of his mouth turned up in a half-smile, half-sneer. "Couldn't help but remembering that's what Shorty Hyneman used to do back in the day."

"Who's Shorty Hyneman?" Criss wanted to know.

"He was one of The Guys," Springs replied. "Little guy, four foot eleven--jockey's height. Used to be a jockey, but got suspended for throwing a race at Belmont. He used to be a munitions expert during the war, so he came in handy when there was a job to do. Being such a little guy, he could hide anywhere, even a drain pipe. The bomb in the cart was his M.O.: he'd slip into some fancy hotel, hide a bomb in a food cart or something, then slip out without anyone seeing him. Bellhop'd take the cart up, leave, then five, ten minutes later, boom. He was a little guy, but he was big on smarts. That's why we let him join up. Better to have him working for us instead of against us."

"You think Shorty Hyneman had anything to do with this?" Criss asked.

"He ain't got nothin' to do with nothin' anymore, pal," Springs retorted. "Shorty's been dead for almost ten years now. Drank himself to death. I'm the only one left of The Guys, now that Mick is gone. Ask her." He pointed his cigar at Casey, who nodded in agreement.

"Anyway, Cassie here--"

"Casey," she reminded him.

"Whatever. Anyway, Casey here got the gold mine while Junior and the ex-wife got the shaft," Springs went on. "Now they're both hot under the collar about it and are taking it to court. She tell you about that?"

"Yeah, she did," Criss replied. "It was in the paper, too. Nine million dollars."

"And that ain't peanuts." Springs took a drag on his Havana.

"But why would Mick leave Casey all of his money instead of his son?" Criss asked. "I can understand the ex-wife getting cut out of the will, but wouldn't his son be the legal heir?"

"Junior's got a reputation for being the playboy type," Springs explained. "I know he's seeing another woman behind his wife's back. He's also up to his eyeballs in debt--living beyond his means, know what I'm saying."

"Him and a million other Americans," Criss retorted.

"Anyway, just between you, me and the lamppost, I think Mick's trying to bump off Cassie here," Springs said conspiritorially, "so he can get his meathooks into his old man's money."

"It's Casey," Criss corrected him, "and I gotta admit, that makes sense. But let's let the police handle it, okay? In the meantime, we gotta protect Casey here. The probate hearing's in two weeks, and that's more than enough time for Junior to bump her off, know what I mean?"

"I know what you mean," Springs nodded. "So I'm hiring her to do the same thing she did for Mick. I got stomach cancer, you know, and if I don't get a stomach transplant, I'm gonna be joining Mick, Shorty and the other Guys in the Great Beyond before you know it. And I'll make damn sure that Cassie here doesn't get her pretty little self killed, okay?"

Criss turned to Casey. "You really want to work for this guy?" he asked her.

Casey smiled. "Let's just say Mr. Springer here's made me an offer I can't refuse."

Criss shrugged, conceding to her wishes. "Well, I got to get back," he said. "Just be careful, okay?"

"I will," she promised.

Criss shook Springs' hand. "Nice meeting you, Mr. Springer."

"Springs," he said. "Just call me Springs."

"Springs. You can call me Criss."

"Criss. Nice to meet ya. Well, come on, Cassie, let's get outta here."

"It's Casey, Mr. Springer."

"Whatever."




A fake bomb! Michael, Jr., laughed out loud after Detective Jim Meridian explained the whole situation to him during his investigaton of the incident. A fake bomb in some hotel maid's cleaning cart! What a joke! Couldn't have been Shorty Hyneman; he'd been dead for years. And anyway, he would have used the real thing instead of road flares. Who the hell could have pulled such an asinine stunt like that? And why?

"That's what I want you to tell me," Meridian said to him, without laughing.

Michael, Jr., held up his hands to halt the interrogation. "Waitaminit, waitaminit. You think I had something to do with this?"

"Either you or Tina LaRue," Meridian said, handing him the warning note that had been attached to the fake bomb. "Read this."

"'This is a warning!Give up the inheritance or else!' I had nothing to do with this," Michael, Jr., protested. "I'd been out of town these past few days. Business trip. Ask my wife."

Meridian nodded skeptically. Out of town. How many times had he heard that old chestnut? Out of town doing what, he wondered. Long experience had taught him that "out of town" either meant hiding out, shacking up with some broad, or just covering his tracks. Well, there were ways of uncovering those tracks.

"Well, from what I can see, you got a couple of choices," Meridian told him. "You can come down to the station and co-operate with us, give us a few fingerprints for our files, or I can arrest you on suspicion of attempted murder and haul your sorry ass into custody. Your call."

Michael, Jr., held up his hands again, this time in surrender. "Okay, okay, don't get ugly," he said placatingly. "Let's get this unpleasantness over and done with. But I assure you, Detective, I had nothing to do with all this."

Meridian escorted Michael, Jr., to the plain, unobtrusive navy-blue Crown Victoria, with the pivoting spotlight next to the rear view mirror on the driver's side the only hint of it being a squad car. Michael, Jr., entered it with all the casualness of a passenger getting into a taxi cab. Meridian slammed the door, circled around and slid into the driver's seat. Soon the dark blue vehicle was quietly driving down the streets of Las Vegas to the police station. Meridian suspended all judgement as he drove his suspect to headquarters, but he narrowed it down to three possible scenarios: Michael, Jr., did it; Michael, Jr., paid someone to do it; someone else did it. Only the fingerprints on file would tell him for sure.

[Veritas]

LUXOR 'BOMB' A FAKE

read the headline in the next day's edition of the Sun. Tina LaRue set down the paper and laughed uproariously. She had heard about the bomb scare yesterday on the news. The fact it had been hidden in a cleaning cart tipped her off as to who was responsible; she had heard stories of Shorty Hyneman and his incendiary exploits from Mick and the other Guys when she was still married. The cart bomb was a Hyneman classic.

It had to be Junior, she reasoned. Who else could it be? But why a phony bomb instead of a real one? Because Junior didn't have the smarts, let alone the wontons, to build the real thing, plant it on the cart and not get caught, that's why. And didn't that little nurse, Cassie or Casey or whatever the hell her name was work there at the Luxor? She did, Tina recalled; she had seen her in uniform when she was trailing Junior. It had to be her cleaning cart he put that bomb in. Maybe to scare her? Probably. It sure scared the hell out of everyone else, that was for sure. Yeah, that was it! He put a phony bomb in her cart to scare her off so he could claim the estate. Junior was smarter than Tina took for granted.

Smarter, but not intelligent. No doubt he left his fingerprints all over that thing, and the cops would have busted him by now. Tina laughed again. Junior, it seems, had fallen into his own trap. Wait until the probate judge gets a load of this! she said to herself. Junior has just undermined his chances of getting Daddy's money with this stunt. He can't claim his inheritance sitting in jail.

Or could he? Tina's humorous mood faded. Knowing the legal system, Junior might just get off on probation or something. That might throw a monkey wrench in the works. And even if he did go to jail, there was still his wife to consider. If only there was some way to get rid of them both.

In two weeks the probate hearing would take place. That (bleeper) lawyer Close would tear into her testamony like he did the pre-nup she had signed before marrying Mick. She didn't stand a chance unless drastic measures were taken.





Alicia Rose sat in her Science class that morning, hardly listening to Mr. Waring's lecture on the solar system. She was still shaken about the bomb found in Criss Angel's suite. Why? she asked herself over and over again. Why did she do it? Why did that hotel maid wheel a time bomb into Criss' hotel room? What did she have against him, anyway? If she was innocent as she claimed, why didn't she detect it before going up to his room instead of going up there with it in the first place? Was she a psycho or something?
I have to stop thinking about it, she told herself. I have to stop thinking about it or I'm going to make myself crazy!

She turned her attention to Mr. Waring's demonstration of the movement of the planets using a small scale model on the desk.

"Mercury, the planet closest to the sun," Mr. Waring droned, "orbits the sun every eighty-eight days, while Venus, the second planet, orbits every two-hundred-twenty-four-point-seven days. Of course, Earth, our planet, circles the sun every three-hundred and sixty-five and a quarter days, which is why we have leap year every fourth February. Now, Mars..."

Alicia tuned out again. It takes Mars eighty-eight days to circle the sun, and Venus to circle it in over two hundred. Bee-eff-dee! Who the hell cared? She wasn't going to NASA.

The bell clanged, signalling the end of class. Everyone rose with a rumble of gathered books and headed for the door. Alicia followed with the reflexive response of a sheep in a herd. Study period was next; maybe she could log on in the computer lab and get more details about the bomb in Criss' room.

"Oh, Alicia," Mr. Waring spoke. "I'd like to see you for a moment."

Alicia halted in her tracks. What did he want now? she wondered irritably as she turned around to face him. "Yes, Mr. Waring?" she responded with forced acadamy-drilled courtesy.

"Alicia, I haven't received your homework assignment from yesterday," Mr. Waring said. "Did you remember to do it, or did you just forget it?"

A sense of foreboding crept over her. Homework assignment? What homework assignment? She racked her brains trying to remember receiving any science homework assignment yesterday, but she couldn't recall any. She had to come up with an alibi, and fast, or she wouldn't get into the computer lab in time. She knew the old dog-ate-my-homework line wouldn't work, so she feigned surprise and bemusement. "That's funny," she said. "I'm sure I handed it in. Are you sure you didn't see it?"

"I'm sure," Mr. Waring said. "It wasn't with the others. However, I am giving you a chance to make it up. Have it ready by tomorrow, and you'll still get a passing grade. In the meantime, I'll look to see if it was mislaid by chance. You may go now."

"Thank you, Mr. Waring," Alicia said. Oh, God, I am so screwed! she said to herself. I don't even remember what the assignment was! I got to get hold of someone in the class and find out! If I don't, then I'm gonna flunk and Mom's gonna kill me! God! What the hell was that assignment again?

She trotted to the computer lab and found an available terminal. She was about to log onto the system when a warning popped up on the screen: Due to unauthorized use by students, this terminal is for study purposes only. NO outside Internet sites are permitted on school computers.

Alicia was aghast. She wanted to cry. She wanted to scream and rip out the monitor from the desk on which it was anchored. They cut her off from the fanboards! How was she to find out about the Luxor bomb now? How was she to communicate with her fellow Loyals? How was she to survive without that vital link which was her only reason for living?

Maybe she could get away with it, she thought after she calmed down a bit. No one needed to know. It would be just for a few minutes, and if anyone came by, she could close the link temporarily and pretend to be researching. She entered the web address to the Loyal Community as usual and held her breath as she waited for a response. The message was the same: Due to unauthorized use by students, this terminal is for study purposes only. NO outside Internet sites are permitted on school computers.

It was all Alicia could do to keep from swearing aloud in the computer lab

[Veritas]

Casey carried her battered green Samsonite suitcase down the stairs. In the living room, her father and brother were watching sports on ESPN, cheering and cursing the Raiders as they took on the Bruins somewhere in California. It was no use telling them good-bye. Indeed, it was no use telling them anything; television dominated their lives to the point of exclusivity. Casey couldn't remember her father saying anything to her besides "Not now, the game's on, wait for the commercial." during her entire childhood. Over time, Benny followed in his father's footsteps (which only led to the refrigerator and back), and turned into a couch potato just like his old man. Maybe that was why he never bothered to find a job, Casey thought.

She left the house without a word to either of them. She hadn't bothered telling them about her new job with Mr. Springer, nor even about the warning left in her cleaning cart. In fact, she had told them nothing about the inheritance, nor had they read it in the paper or seen it on the news, something Casey considered a blessing in disguise; if they ever found out about the nine-million dollar estate Mr. Piccucci left her, they'd be sponging off her for the rest of their lives, and she'd never have a life of her own. Ignorance was bliss as far as she was concerned.

Her mother waited for her in the rusty old Ford Econoline van, the only mode of transportation the Worths possessed. Casey shoved her suitcase into the back next to the wheelchair lift and climbed into the passenger seat. Mrs. Worth backed the van out of the driveway and onto the street. The muffler had rusted away with the rest of the vehicle, so Casey and her mother had to shout over the noise of the engine.

"You sure you gonna be all right with Mr. Springer?" Mrs. Worth shouted.

"I'll be fine, Mom," Casey shouted back.

"Good."

The van reached the main road leading to the better part of Las Vegas. "Any word about the inheritance?" Mrs. Worth asked.

"Besides that fake bomb and that warning note, no," Casey replied. "The probate hearing's in two weeks. You sure Dad and Benny don't know about it?"

"Not a blessed thing," her mother replied. "You know them--they only read the sports section and the TV listings in the paper and toss everything else aside, and they never watch the news. Hell, I had to tell them who won the election two days after it was over! Believe me, they don't know a thing about it! If they did, they'd both be carrying on like they won the lottery."

"I wish Benny would pick up the classifieds every once in a while," Casey griped. "When is he going to get his butt off the couch and make something of himself? He's thirty-two, for God's sake! He should be living on his own by now! Me, too, for that matter."

Mrs. Worth patted her daughter's knee affectionatly. "Don't worry, hon," she consoled her. "We'll muddle through somehow, with or without that money. In the meantime, you got a nice place to stay with that Mr. Springer, and you'll be making good money. And don't forget to put a little aside for yourself--you need to build yourself a little nest egg if this inheritance business falls through. We'll get along just fine with what we got."

Casey couldn't help but smile at her mother's optimism. It seemed she had spent her entire married life muddling through, first through her own family's hardships, then with early married life and two children to raise, then Dad's disability. Just once, Casey wanted her mother to have a taste of the good life without having to worry about bills due or when the disability check would come through. It would be nice if she did inherit that nine million dollars, but she knew it was hopeless, even as a daydream; she was certain that Michael, Jr., would get it after all, father and son disagreement or no.

The rusty van pulled up to the curb of the street where Mr. Springer lived--it wouldn't do to go up the driveway in such a wretched vehicle, Mrs. Worth thought. Casey kissed her mother good-bye, promised to write, retrieved her suitcase and got out of the van. Mrs. Worth drove away, leaving her daughter on the curb. She couldn't wait around to see Casey safely to the door--the van would stall if it idled too long. Casey trudged up the sloping drive to the Tudoresque mansion around the bend. She had mixed feelings about being a live-in caregiver. On the one hand, she was reluctant to leave her poor mother to fend for herself with her cranky father and shiftless brother. She hoped Mom had the good sense to hide her pocketbook; Benny had the habit of helping himself to whatever cash was lying around, even in Casey's own purse on occasion. Times without number she had reached into her own billfold to pay for something only to discover it empty. When confronted with the theft, Benny, of course, would deny everything.

On the other hand, she found it a relief to be living away from home. No more thefts from her purse, no more stench in the bathroom, no more putting up with Dad's crankiness or Benny's sloveny habits, and no more being hit upon for "a little loanski" from either Dad or Benny, who promised to pay it back and never did. She was tired of being the family breadwinner and ATM. She wanted her own life, and as she stepped up to the front door of the Springer residence, she had a sense that it was beginning at last.



As Casey was starting her new life, someone in the distance was planning to end it. Through a pair of powerful binoculars, every move she made was carefully noted. So, she wasn't working at the Luxor anymore. She was moving in with Danny Springer. The reason why didn't matter, only that she was there. This would make the job more difficult because of the advanced security system in place. It would have to wait until a more opportune time when Casey was away from the house and somewhere less guarded and more open. There was still plenty of time to plan. For now, it was best to observe, get a sense of her daily routine. It was all in the planning. Nothing must be left to chance.



Detective Jim Meridian stepped into the interrogation room where Michael, Jr., waited impatiently. "Okay, we got the lab results," he said, slapping down the file in his hand.

Michael, Jr., shrugged. "So, what's the verdict?"

"The prints aren't yours, and the receipts in your wallet confirms your alibi," Meridian told him. "Tell me, do all of your business trips involve strippers and one-night stands in cheap motels?"

"Hey, salesmen do it all the time," Michael, Jr. replied indifferently.

Meridian nodded grimly. Adultery in Sin City wasn't a vice, it was a favorite pastime, like gambing and getting drunk. "Okay, you're free to go," he said. "Just keep in mind you're not off the hook just yet. Anything happening to Casey Worth, and I'm gonna drag your sorry ass back here, understood?"

"Fine," Michael, Jr., mumbled as he left the room. Just then the flimsy plastic office phone in the interrogation room rang. Meridian picked it up.

"Meridian, here."

"Jim? It's Janice."

It was Janice O'Connor, the AV tech for the department whose job it was to decipher, dissect and detect images on film and videotape for evidence. "I got something for you on the tape."

Meridian hung up, rose from his desk, strode into the AV lab and lowered himself to computer monitor level. "Whaddya got?" he mumbled.

Janice rewound the hotel security tape given to the Bomb Squad from the Luxor. "Here we go," she said, pointing to the monitor. "At seven-thirty, we got someone coming in through the service corridor from the front who looks like a housekeeper, and she's carrying a shopping bag of some sort. At seven-forty, she goes back through the corridor and leaves the hotel through the main entrance--without the shopping bag."

"A housekeeper? Are you sure?" Meridian asked.

"Same uniform, hair up in a bun," Janice confirmed.

"Can you zero in on her face?"

"I'll try." Janice zoomed in on the mystery housekeeper's facial features on the monitor. "Hard to get anything clear," she said, "she's got her head down, and she's wearing sunglasses."

Meridian mulled it over. "Zoom back for a bit, willya?"

Janice zoomed out, restoring the video to its normal dimensions. Meridian thought for a moment. "Now, zoom in on the shopping bag."

The monitor brought the bag into focus. It wasn't a plastic grocery bag, but a large square boutique bag with handles, the kind found in the upscale shops along the Strip. "Can you highlight the printing on the bag?" Meridian asked.

With a few clicks of the mouse, the lettering on the bag stood out clearly: GUCCI.

Meridian stood there, deep in thought. Where would a housekeeper get a Gucci shopping bag? Discarded, maybe? Or had she racked up one hell of a credit card debt?

Or picked it up from her former employer?

But no, Tina LaRue and Mick had been divorced for years, and he knew that Mick would never shop at Gucci's or any of the other high-end stores; he was more of a Brooks Brothers type. Besides, his caregiver's fingerprints weren't on the device, but someone else's was. But whose?

Meridian rose and left the AV lab. He was going back to the Luxor and interview every housekeeper on that shift until he got an answer, even if he had to interview them all. After that, he was going to pay a little visit to Tina LaRue Piccucci.

[Veritas]

That afternoon, Criss sat with his production crew in his suite, ostensibly to go over the final details of the new MindFreak episode, but the usual banter had faded into a more sober tone. The morning bomb scare had everyone rattled, and things did not improve when Criss told them about what the crime lab had discovered.

"So the bomb was a fake?" Criss' brother, Costa said.

Criss nodded. "It was a warning to Casey for her to give up the Piccucci inheritance or else. My guess it was the son, Mike, Jr., who put it there."

"How the hell could he sneak a bomb, even a phony one, into a hotel that has three-hundred-and-sixty degree video surveillance, put it in a cleaning cart, then take off without anyone noticing?" George Strumpolis, Criss' cousin, wanted to know.

"Well, that three-hundred-and-sixty-degree video surveillance either missed something, or the guy wore a disguise," Criss retorted. "All I know is that it has to do with the will, and Casey's in danger."

"Where is she now?" Costa asked.

"She's got a job as Springs' caregiver."

"Springs?"

"Danny Springer," Criss explained. "He was one of Mick Piccucci's 'business associates' with The Guys of Glitter Gulch. He's got stomach cancer and he'll be in the hospital for a while. Meantime, Casey's safe with him--if she's safe anywhere."

"Oh, geez," George groaned, "she goes from one mob family to another. Really smart move there, Criss."

"Hey, it wasn't my idea," Criss protested. "Felix didn't want her coming to the Luxor anymore because she posed a security threat, and she needed a job to support her family, and she already knew who he was, so she took him up on it."

"You think they're gonna try again?" Costa asked.

"Nine million dollars?" Criss retorted. "Yeah, like hell they're gonna try again."




Jim Meridian never realized just how large the Luxor Hotel houskeeping staff was--over a hundred people serviced the giant pyramid in a single shift. The management did its best to make his investigation easier by providing the list of maids on duty that morning, along with their personal files that contained each employee's fingerprint for security reasons, but there was still the questioning to go through. Jim eliminated those who didn't appear to fit the profile from the video: medium height, slender, dark hair tied in a bun. The few who did had not reported for duty until their appointed time; the keycard entry record from the service entrance verified it. Could it have been one of the off-duty employees? he wondered.

But wait--the video surveillance tape showed the mystery maid entering through the front of the hotel. From what he gathered from his questioning of the housekeeping staff, all employees were required to enter through the back of the building via the service entrance. Obviously, this mystery employee either didn't get the memo, or...

Meridian gathered up the employee files and handed them back to the housekeeping manager with a brief word of thanks. There was one more stop he had to make before the day was out.




In a small, cheesily decorated but comfortable motel room somewhere in the outskirts of Vegas, Michael, Jr., lay naked in bed with his current paramour, Jessie, a drop-dead gorgeous twentysomething with champaign blonde hair and a toned body developed from endless months in the fitness center. The sex had been good, better than when Pamela and he had been first married. Pam had been quite a knockout when they met; now she had grown tiresome with her constant demands for the latest fashions, trips to Europe, and endless rounds of parties with people with whom he had no desire to aquaint himself. She had become a social climber, aspiring to reach the pinnacle of high society so she could look down her reconstructed nose upon everyone else.

With Jessie, it was different. Jessie just wanted pleasure, especially in bed, bless her nymphomanic little heart. Despite his advancing age ("Past the speed limit but still in the race," he often joked to himself and to others), he gave her what she wanted and more: a small apartment in North Las Vegas, nicer clothes, even his silver Lexus--after he bought the Maserati, of course. Jessie was overwhelmingly grateful; she was so easy to please, unlike Pamela who demanded the best of everything no matter how much it cost.

Now Jessie lay dozing beside him under his arm, curled up like a little tan kitten. Michael, Jr., lay awake, staring at the ceiling. If only Pop had left him the estate like he should have instead of to his caregiver, what's-her-name, he mused. Then he and Jessie would be in Cabo by now, soaking up the sun and drinking Margaritas for the rest of their lives. Now all he had to look forward to was a court battle with that mad-dog (bleep) Tina LaRue.

He had no idea who really put that phony bomb in that cleaning cart, but he reasoned Tina had something to do with it; she wanted the money as badly as he did, the greedy (bleep). Now that the cops knew about the will and the upcoming probate hearing, Michael, Jr., decided to lay low for a while. If anything happened to her, they'd trace it back to him no matter who did it. Well, maybe he couldn't kill the caregiver, but he could intimidate her into giving it up--she seemed timid enough. There was no sense killing an innocent girl who, personally, had never given him any grief. Tina, on the other hand, had been a thorn in his side ever since Pop married her; more than anything, he'd like to deep-six that gold-digger to the bottom of Lake Meade.

But maybe he wouldn't have to resort to murdering anyone. Maybe the court would rule in his favor after all, since he was legally the only legitimate heir. Tina and her daughter, Heather, had no claim to it. Oh, sure, the judge might throw them a bone just to keep the peace, but the chances of Tina getting a dime out of the estate were zero. No, that money was his and his alone, and to hell with that (bleep) Tina, her (bleeper) daughter, that caregiver what's-her-name, and to hell with Pamela herself. To hell with them all! He was going to fight for that inheritance, horse, foot, and artillery--even if he did have to resort to murder.

[Veritas]

Here is thy gold, worse poison to men's souls
than these poor compounds thou mayest not sell.

Shakespere, Romeo and Juliet.

************************************************** **********

The bomb was a fake! Alicia forced herself to refrain from shouting aloud with joy and relief inside the public library's computer lab. After two days of frantic worrying over Criss' fate, the news of the false alarm felt like a huge boulder rolling off her shoulders. In her joy, she posted a reply to the same thread she herself had posted two days earlier, expressing her relief and her curiosity over who planted it in the first place. "If this is someone's idea of a joke, I don't think it's funny," she typed.

Though the library's policy restricted her access to sixty minutes, it was a relief for her to log on without someone looking over her shoulder. She checked the timer on the computer: fifty-three minutes left, just enough time to compose and post her latest poem as well as catch up on her overdue science assignment. Alicia had discovered that she could post and receive messages on the public library's system as easily as the ones in school with no restriction save that of downloading pornography, and she had no desire to do that, for God's sake. She also found that the library's computers were high-speed, much faster than the ones at school.

The poem was completed in record time. The timer read forty-six minutes left. Alicia decided it was best to get started on her homework or she'd receive a failing grade and Mom would ground her. Thankfully, a classmate leant her a copy of the assignement so she could just fill in the blanks and hand it in. As she slogged through her homework, she thought it curious that she could compose poetry on the spot but it took forever to do schoolwork on demand. Maybe that was the price of being an artist, she thought.




Tina laughed in Detective Meridian's face when he told her she was being taken in for questioning about the phony bomb in the Luxor cleaning cart. "You honestly think I had anything to do with such a lame-assed stunt as that!?"she exclaimed, falling back on the overstuffed sofa in her penthouse living rooom. "What do you take me for, a moron? If you think I planted that thing in the hotel, well, you'd better phone your village, Sherlock, because I think they're missing their idiot! Besides, Junior's the one who's guilty! Ask him!"

"I cleared him already," Meridian told her. "It all comes down to you, Tina. Tell me, did you pay someone to do it, or did you disguise yourself as a housekeeper, sneak in with the Gucci bag containing the bomb and slip into the hotel without anyone seeing you?"

Tina rolled her eyes. "Oh, for the love of God!"

"Listen, Tina," Meridian growled, "you can come with me, get printed, and co-operate with the investigation, or I can have you arrested as a suspect. Your call."

"I'm not going anywhere with you, Sherlock!" Tina snapped. "I am completely innocent. Besides, I have an alibi."

Meridian braced himself. "Okay, what is it?"

"I was at the day spa all day that day," she replied loftily. "You can check their records if you wish."

"You were at a day spa," Meridian echoed skeptically. "At seven-thirty in the morning?"

"Oh, don't be ridiculous," Tina said dismissively. "You know I don't get up until after ten in the morning."

Actually, Meridian didn't know that Tina didn't get up until after ten in the morning, but it didn't satisfy his need for answers. "Can anyone verify this?" he asked. "Your daughter, perhaps?"

"Heather!" Tina shrieked. "Get in here!"

A skinny girl with blackish brown hair wearing a mid-calf green skirt and a baggy sweater timidly walked into the living room, her eyes darting between her mother and the floor. "Tell Sherlock here I was home until noon two days ago," Tina ordered her.

Heather eyes darted up to Meridian's face. "Mother was here until noon," she muttered. "She never leaves the house before then, sir."

Meridian nodded, still a bit skeptical. "Okay, I'll give you the benefit of the doubt, Tina," he said. "But don't leave town for the next two weeks. I'll be watching you."

Tina just smirked, gloating over her victory.

[RACHEL02189]

That Tina is a pain in the butt

[Veritas]

Evening fell upon Las Vegas. The night was when Sin City came alive, ready for action. While the rest of the country was winding down after the nine-to-five routine had ended, the Entertanment Capital of the World was just getting started. Evening performances in the theaters and resorts were set to go on, clubs prepared to greet the night's partygoers, and casinos restocked their chips, cards and cash for the next round of gamblers. Restaraunts prepped for the dinner shift while bars restocked their supplies. For the millions of tourists, gamblers and conventioneers who arrived by the busload into Vegas, the night was a magical time, of swirling lights, dance tunes and endless pleasure in every shape and form. For those who worked there, it was just another day at the office.

One person in particular who worked at the Luxor Hotel was up in his top floor suite, getting ready for a night of those selfsame pleasures. Criss Angel slipped on the last of his massive collection of rings onto whatever space he had left on his fingers, shoved his keycard into his pocket and headed out the door. He decided to go to LAX tonight--he hadn't been there for a while. LAX was one of the Luxor's premiere clubs, just off the atrium. Criss found it very convenient--if he had a little too much to drink, he didn't have to worry about driving home while under the influence. He could just walk (if he could still stand up, that is) up to the elevator and go straight up to his room. No problem.

Criss rode down the inclining elevator to the lower level without a single stop, pretty rare in such a large hotel. He got out of the elevator and walked into the atrium. Unfortunatly, he also walked straight into a group of fans who recognized him on the spot. They squealed while Criss sighed resignedly. The lack of privacy was yet another price to pay for stardom. He posed for a few pictures, signed a few autographs, gave a few hugs, and received a gift of three linen handkerchiefs with the circle-A logo hand embroidered upon them. He thanked the giver with a hug and a kiss and went on his way to the club, the group of fans chattering excitedly about meeting their idol.

Once inside the relative safety of the club, Criss settled back with a Martini. On the giant screen television over in the corner, the evening news was broadcasting the latest developments on the economy and other issues completely ignored by the patrons. They were there to have fun, not be reminded of world events. The music was playing at ear-splitting levels, the lights spun and twirled all around the dance floor. Criss felt the tensions of the past two days melt away--no bomb threats, no mobsters, nothing. Casey was safe with Springs, the bomb had been a fake, no one got hurt--nothing to worry about, just relax and have fun.

The song playing over the massive banks of speakers ended. The partygoers cheered and applauded. Criss got up to dance with the rest of the crowd, but he stopped in his tracks when he heard a nasally familiar voice speak behind his back: "Volunteer Number One-thirty-two, report to the assistant supervisor."

Criss spun around, startled at first, then delightfully surprised. "Rachel!" he cried.

"How ya doin', Criss?" Rachel laughed, embracing him.

Rachel Goldfarb had been the FEMA assistant supervisor for the DWD volunteers assigned to clear away debris after the Las Vegas earthquake, the group with whom Criss had served for one day until his falling out with the supervisor, Mel (Criss never learned his last name) forced him to quit. Rachel had been the only FEMA worker who seemed to have a heart, sympathizing with the workers when they were tired and hungry and angry enough to kill both her and Mel. Criss was surprised at how lovely she looked, dressed up in a royal blue gown with pearls, and her hair was done up rather stylishly, a far cry from the khaki uniform and yellow hardhat that Criss had first seen her in. (1)

Criss laughed, too. "God, Rachel, I almost didn't recognize you without your hardhat! C'mon over to the bar; I'll get you a drink."

"Don't mind if I do," Rachel said.

They found a couple of barstools to sit down upon and made themselves comfortable. Criss ordered another Martini, while Rachel ordered a vodka gimlet. "God, Rachel, I haven't seen you since the earthquake," Criss said, still shaking his head in disbelief. "So, what brings you back to Vegas?"

"My nephew, Erik," Rachel replied. "It's his bar mitzvah."

"Your nephew is having his bar mitzvah here in the Luxor?"

"No, he's having it at Circus Circus. You know, all the rides, and the elephants, and all that."

"Sounds expensive."

"Nah, his folks got a good package deal, what with the economy and all," Rachel told him. "We'll be catching the evening performance, then going to the banquet hall for a nosh--if you can call a mile-long buffet a nosh."

Criss laughed. "You still throw in the Yiddish words, don't you, Rachel?"

Rachel shrugged helplessly. "What can I say? It's what I grew up with."

"So, you still working for FEMA?" Criss asked.

"Oh, yeah, but not as assistant supervisor," Rachel replied. "And especially not with Mel--remember him?"

"Like I remember the quake itself," Criss answered a bit grimly. "Is he still a...well, you know..."

"A putz?"

"Yeah." Criss had had something stronger in mind, but he kept it to himself. "He still around? With FEMA, I mean."

"Oh, yeah, he's still with FEMA," Rachel said, nodding. "He's really great when it comes to organization and engineering. It's just that he's not a 'people person'."

"He's a (bleep)hole, if you ask me."

"Look, I know the guy's a schmuck, but he did help get this burg back on its feet again after the quake. He practically rebuilt this hotel alone. Cut him a little slack, willya?"

"I'd like to cut him one right across the jawline." Criss growled.

"Anyway, he's down South checking on some hurricane damage," Rachel told him. "You won't be seeing him again anytime soon."

Criss raised his Martini glass. "Thank God for small favors," he said, and drained his drink in one gulp.

"Criss, let it go, willya?" Rachel pleaded. "I mean, look around you! When I was last here, the whole city was a disaster zone. A year later, it looks like it hadn't even been hit! If it wasn't for Mel and the rest of the FEMA crew, you'd still be stumbling over rubble. This city got rebuilt faster than New Orleans after Katrina!"

"That's because Vegas has more money invested in it than New Orleans," Criss told her. "A lot of people pumped billions of dollars into these hotels and casinos, and big insurance policies came with the deal. They could afford to build it back up like they did." He turned to Rachel. "Look, I know you and Mel and FEMA were doing your jobs, but...it seemed to me at the time you were like an invading army. That time I was on the DWD crew was the most dehumanizing experience of my life. Hell, I wasn't even a person to guys like Mel--I was just a number! One-thirty-two! You wouldn't let me go back into my own hotel room here at the Luxor, you housed us like prisoners in a single room which stank to high heaven, and you made me give up my cat, Hammie, and took him away to some animal shelter! (1) I had to quit that DWD crew if only to retain some sense of humanity!"

Rachel laid a hand on his shoulder. "Criss, we had to do what we had to do under the circumstances. We were there to help, not take over. We followed procedure for the safety of all concerned, including you. They gave us our orders, and we carried them out. I didn't make the rules, Criss, I just followed them."

"They said the same thing at Nuremburg," Criss retorted.

Rachel sighed in exasperation. "Look, it's all in the past now, okay? If there's one thing I learned from working for FEMA is that life goes on no matter how bad the disaster. You got your life back on track, and you got your cat back, didn't you?"

Criss smiled apologetically. "I'm sorry, Rachel," he said. "I didn't mean to take it out on you. It's just that, well, you just bought back some bad memories, that's all. No offense, I'm glad I got to see you again, really I am--better you than Mel, anyway."

Rachel nodded. "I know," she said sympathetically. "But, like I said before, life goes on. Build a bridge and get over it." She held up the last of her vodka gimlet. "L'chaim!" she cheered, and drank it down.

"What's that mean?" Criss asked.

"It means 'to life'. And we're both still living, so let's make the best of it!"

She led Criss on to the dance floor. The DJ played another dance tune in the booth, and more partygoers were crowding every available inch of space. The earthquake itself was forgotten, but the bass level from the DJ's booth registered eight on the Richter as everyone jumped, wriggled, waved and hollered over the loud, thumping music pulsating like a giant heartbeat.

(1) See Baptism of Fire.





In the Tudoresque mansion in the quieter section of Las Vegas, Casey Worth prepared for bed. Tomorrow, Mr. Springer would be going to the hospital for his cancer operation. If a donor could miraculously be found before then, he could have his stomach completely replaced. If not, then the tumor and all surrounding tissue would have to be removed. Mr. Springer seemed nonplussed about the ordeal he was facing. "It's gonna be one helluva tummy tuck, I can tell you that," he had joked.

Still, Casey feared for the old man's life. She couldn't help it; it was her nature to care for others. She had planned to go to nursing school after her high school graduation, but had put it off when Dad had the accident and was crippled for life, so she ended up as the breadwinner and went to work as an assistant in a nursing home, then an independent caregiver for Mr. Piccucci until he died. It seemed to her that she was constantly putting her life on hold for the sake of others, whether it was family or someone else. There were times when she wanted to just walk away from her needy family and declare her independence once and for all, but the thought of leaving her mother and father destitute when they really needed her help tore at her conscience. As for her brother, Benny, well, he could fend for himself--no way was she going to let him sponge off her! Thank God he never learned about the inheritance.

Casey looked out the huge window of her assigned bedroom. The lights from the Strip were just a faint glow on the horizon, and aside from the security lights, it was total darkness. She felt safe here, safe from Michael, Jr., and Tina LaRue and their plots to kill her for the money. All she had to do was wait it out for the next two weeks until the probate hearing, then she'd be a free woman, rich or poor. She began to wonder if nine million dollars was really worth all the worry and trouble she had endured lately. No amount of money was worth a human life, she thought to herself. If only this whole mess could be over, then she could get on with her life without worrying about someone trying to end it.

Casey walked away from the window, turned out the light, and went to bed. Tomorrow, she had to be up early to pack Mr. Springer's things for his hospital stay. A cab would come and take them both to the hospital, an arrangement she found comforting--she'd be safer in a cab than Mr. Springer's Mercedes; it was less conspicuous that way. The last thing she wanted was to draw attention to herself.




That light in the window went out, the driver in the car parked by the curb noted. That must be her bedroom window. Good. Now that Casey's room was located, it made the job that much easier. It wouldn't do to break in from outside; the whole house was locked down like a prison. Something more subtle was needed, a subterfuge, a disguise. Yes, gain her trust, then move in for the kill. But it didn't do to go off half-cocked. The better planned, the better the results. Nothing must be left to chance. One little screw up meant jail time, if not Death Row. No, it had to be clean and quick and quiet with no time for her to scream.

The driver pulled away from the curb noiselessly, slowly, so as not to attract the local police patrolling the area. High end neighborhoods like this were always heavily patrolled, the driver knew. The greatest challenge was to avoid detection from them. Not to worry, there was still plenty of time to plan. Patience and observation were keys to success. In the end, it would all be worth it. It would all pay off in the end.

[RACHEL02189]