[Veritas]

A week had gone by and no suspect had been linked to the bomb scare at the Luxor. Detective Meridian had run into a dead end during the course of the investigation and he was beginning to feel the strain. In itself, the phony bomb in the cleaning cart was minor affair, as if someone was playing a practical joke that wasn't all that funny. It was the threat attached to it that concerned him; someone wanted Casey Worth to relinquish her claim to the Piccucci inheritance or else. From what he knew about organized crime, "or else" meant only one thing--a quick trip to the morgue.

Meridian reviewed what he knew about the case: Michael Piccucci, Jr., laid claim to the estate because he was the eldest son from Mick's first wife. Tina LaRue demanded a share because she was the second wife and mother to their daughter, Heather, despite the fact that Tina and Mick had been divorced for years. She was also thirsting for revenge because she got short-changed on the pre-nup. Junior had a reputation for womanizing and living high beyond his means, and was starving for cash. Both were contesting the will, with poor Casey caught in the cross-fire.

Casey Worth, on the other hand, was the timid type (he recalled how she always said "yes, sir," and "no, sir," when he questioned her), easily intimidated by those she believed to be more powerful than she was. If either Tina or Mike, Jr., kept up the terror tactics, she would no doubt break under the strain and give in. Meridian could only hope she was somewhere safe.

Meridian pulled out the Piccucci will from the file he had on his desk. He had subpoened a copy from Richard Close "for investigative purposes," he had told him. A subpoena was hardly necessary--Close obliged without question. Obviously he knew about the the threat on Casey's life and wanted to assist him in any way possible. As executor of the will, he had more than a personal interest in the safety of the sole heir to the estate.

After sifting through all the legal-beagle jargon with which all wills are burdened, the gist of it was that Casey was declared the sole heir to Piccucci's estate. Everything was hers, save for five hundred grand going to Daniel William Springer, Mick's friend and partner in crime. No mention of either Junior or Tina, nor of the daughter by Tina, or the two sons Junior had by Pamela. The whole family was left bone dry, not a penny to their names. No wonder everyone got so (bleeped) off. Meridian would be, too, if he got screwed like that, but he'd take it to court instead of threatening murder.

He looked at the will again. Aside from Casey Worth, Daniel William Springer--"Springs" to his friends--was the only person mentioned in the will. He got five hundred grand, a small token of friendship--not a bad sum considering how rich the last two surviving members of The Guys of Glitter Gulch had become after two decades of extortion and racketeering. How much was going to the Feds for back taxes, Meridian didn't know. It was ironic that gangsters and mobsters could kill, extort, embezzle and cheat their way to wealth, but the only crime the FBI could actually convict them on was tax evasion. Al Capone, Meyer Lansky, Bugsy Siegel, among others--all went up the river for cheating Uncle Sam of his due, straight to Leavenworth or Alcatraz. After the IRS and the FBI plowed through all of Mick's financial records, there probably wouldn't be much left for anyone to inherit.

Springs. He was obviously still in Las Vegas; a quick check of the records would reveal his address. Maybe Meridian could worm a few clues out of the old man regarding the will, or at least the bomb scare. It was worth a try, anyway. Who knew? The dead end he was facing now might just lead to a new turn he hadn't thought of yet.


Dear Dad.

Hi, how are you? I am doing okay in school. Kyle's being a big pain in the butt as ususal. Last week he tried to flush that little pink rabbit you gave me for Easter down the toilet. Why do boys have to be boys anyway? Why can't they grow up?

Anyway, we have a Youth Retreat coming up at school. It's a three-day trip to some monestary, and I'd really like to go. I just want to get away from Kyle for a few days, that's all. Considering what a brat he's been lately, even a monestary sounds good to me. The problem is it costs sixty-five dollars, and Mom's on a tight budget. Could you please send a money order to me? The church is kind of nervous about checks lately, it seems that a lot of checks they'd been getting have been bouncing. The retreat is a week from Friday, and I need to get it in ASAP.

Thanks so much for helping, Dad. Love to Dorrie and Missy.

Alicia.

That sounds pretty convincing, Alicia thought as she hit the Send button. Surely Dad would come through. She logged off the system and returned to her bedroom. The family PC was kept in the master bedroom, and access was by permission only, and then just for ten minutes a session and only for homework and emails to Dad or other family members. No chat rooms (too dangerous), no online video games (too violent and/or a waste of time), and no web-surfing (due to "inappropriate content" on the majority of them). As a result, Alicia was forced to go outside to log onto the fanboards, first at school, then at the public library. She wished she had her own computer where she could go anywhere she wanted on the Web. Instead, she had to sneak around to wherever there was an available terminal and where no one was watching. Maybe someday, she hoped as she flopped down on her bed. Maybe someday she'd finally be free enough to express her love openly and without fear of derision from anyone, family or church, and live her life the way she wanted to.

With the seventy-two dollars she had saved up plus the sixty-five she prayed would arrive in time, she would have one hundred and thirty-seven dollars to finance her trip to Loyalapalooza next Friday. In just seven days she would be winging her way to Criss Angel's waiting arms. Seven long, agonizng days separated her from the love of her life, each hour crawling at a snail's pace. If only she could fast-forward the time until then, like in that movie, Click. A press of a button and she'd be Vegas bound in no time. Even better, she could rewind the three days she would be there and live and relive Loyalapalooza over and over again for all eternity. But that was just a daydream; she was forced to live each passing day like everyone else on the planet.

The major obstacle, of course, was how to get there. She had no transportation, couldn't drive, and did not dare ask anyone to take her. To top it off, she had no alibi, no excuse, that couldn't be traced to the school if anyone found out. Her only options would be to sneak out or make other arrangements. She had the money; all she lacked was the means to get to Vegas without getting into too much trouble. How was she going to pull it off?

Alicia turned on her back and stared at the ceiling. It's just not fair, she thought. Why do I have to be restricted from doing everything I want to do in life? I'm not a little kid anymore! I'm thirteen years old, for God's sake! Why does everyone want to keep me from doing what I want to do? I can make my own decisions! Well, screw them! I'm going to Loyalapalooza--even if I have to run away from home! And I might not even come back, either!

[Veritas]

Casey lay back on the chaise lounge in the sunroom of the Springer home, exhausted after a morning of housework. It had taken her the entire week to mop, scrub, scour, buff and polish the six-bedroom mansion. Just doing the upper floor was like trying to clean an entire level of the Luxor, and she didn't even have the benefit of help from fellow staffmembers or even a wheeled cart for the supplies, either. Mr. Springer made no mention of a regular housekeeper. Indeed, the lovely mansion had suffered from months if not years of neglect: dust coated every horizontal surface, the linens had not been changed for so long they were almost cardboard stiff, and the marble-tiled bathrooms were grimy and tinged with mildew. Little wonder Mr. Springer was sick all the time, she thought.

As soon as Mr. Springer left for the hospital in a cab (he would not be allowed to drive until he fully recovered), Casey busied herself with the monumental task of conquoring the dirt, dust and grime built up over who knew how long. It gave her a sense of purpose, a feeling that she was earning her money instead of just living in the house. Besides, Mr. Springer deserved better than to recover from his operation in a dusty, dirty house.

Day after day, Casey tackled each room, dusting, vacuuming, washing and scrubbing, not stopping until every speck of dirt and dust was eradicated before moving onto the next. By the third day, she was sneezing and coughing from all the dust she stirred up and had to resort to covering her nose and mouth with a kerchief. The kitchen itself took up the better part of the fifth day, and the house had three and a half bathrooms to boot. Still, she preservered. Six days she labored to bring the mansion up to health standards, and finally, on the afternoon of the seventh day, she finally rested, collapsing on the chaise lounge in the sunroom, exhausted but satisfied over a job well done.

Casey had barely begun to relax when she heard the doorbell chimes. With a deep sigh, she pulled herself up onto her feet and crossed over the newly polished marble floor of the giant foyer to answer the door. Through the side window, she could see it was Detective Meridian. Casey felt her stomach tie itself in a knot, but she knew to make him wait would only make things worse, so she stiffened her back and pulled open the door.

"Hello, Detective," she said, trying to control her nervousness. "What can I do for you?"

Detective Meridian was a bit surprised to see Casey Worth at the Springer mansion, but soon realized that her being here made it more convenient for him. "Hello, Casey," he said with a reassuring grin, "I'd like to see Springer if he's here."

"I'm sorry, Detective, but Mr. Springer is in the hospital," Casey informed him. "He has stomach cancer."

"I see. Do you know which hospital?"

"St. Rose's."

"Okay, good," Meridian nodded. "So, what brings you here?"

"Me? I'm his caregiver now," Casey replied. "Just like I was for Mr. Piccucci."

"What about your job at the Luxor?"

"Oh, that?" Casey smiled ruefully. "They thought I was a security risk, so they didn't want me to come back. Besides, I was just a fill-in. Mr. Springer hired me the same day I got let go."

"And you've been here ever since?"

"Yes, sir, I have. In fact, I've just got done cleaning this whole house from top to bottom--took me the whole week. I'm beat!"

"I bet you are. So, did Mr. Springer tell you anything about the bomb in the Luxor? Any hint over who might have done it?"

"Mr. Springer is a very sick man, Detective," Casey said firmly. "He was more concerned with the doctors finding an organ donor to replace his stomach. He had nothing to do with the bomb or anything else. He never mentioned the will or anything. And I've told you everything I know about it already. I'm sorry I can't help you furthur, but..."

"It's okay, Casey," Meridian said. He pulled out his business card. "If you see anything suspicious, give me a call. And remember to keep the doors and windows locked, willya?"

"Oh, don't worry, Detective," Casey said, smiling. "Mr. Springer has the same electronic security system Mr. Piccucci has, so I know how to program it. I'm pretty safe here, so don't worry about me."

"Thanks, Casey. So long."

"Good-bye, Detective."

The heavy door closed noiselessly. Meridian turned and walked back to his car. So Springs was in the hospital; so much for questioning him about the case. At least he knew where Casey was, anyway. He should have been reassured about Casey's safety in the Springer mansion, but he knew that "pretty safe" wasn't good enough, not with nine million dollars on the line. The case had once again dead-ended, and there was nothing left to do but go back and go over the facts once again to see if there was something he missed. There just had to be.

[Veritas]

Huge blocks of styrofoam representing ice blocks were carefully arranged into position, creating a sort of throne. Two glass and steel braziers flanked either side of the blocks with wadded yellow and red cellophane to simulate flames. To one side, Criss Angel was conferring with his technical staff for the Fire and Ice demonstration to be performed for the finale of Loyalapalooza. Criss would sit on the ice throne, then a wall of flames would shoot up around him, and he would vanish the moment the flames receded. It wasn't a major, life threatening demonstration such as he had performed in the past, but Criss felt the Loyal deserved the best he could offer; without them, he was nothing.

The rehersal took place in Criss' secret warehouse somewhere in the Nevada desert. Only one cameraman was allowed inside to tape the run-through solely for the purpose of reviewing how well everything went. The act had to be meticuloulsy timed and flawlessly executed by everyone involved--one slipup and the whole illusion would be ruined, and Criss' reputation as a master illusionist would be irrevocably damaged. Thus the videotaping of the rehersal to point out whatever needed improving or correcting--nothing must be left to chance.

"Okay," Criss shouted to all assembled in the warehouse. "Places everybody! Fire and Ice run-through, take one!"

The camera rolled as Criss took his place on the "ice" throne, ignoring the styrofoam squeaking under his weight. For this first rehersal, yellow sheets took the place of the wall of fire, held up for the count of four, then dropped. Criss had to vanish without stepping over the orange spray-painted boundaries on the stage where the fire wall would be situated. To vanish behind sheets was easy for Criss; cloth couldn't burn him. Only when the flames were at their peak would he have to watch his step, so he had to discipline himself not to step over the boundaries.

The first run-through was good, he had disappeared on cue, but his foot had strayed past the orange line. Another run-through was called for, then another, then another, then still another. Criss wanted to get this down so perfectly that he could perform it in his sleep. Only when the crew began moaning about lunch did he consent to a break. His assistant, Jennifer, had taken care of ordering a few sandwich trays from the Luxor deli so Criss and the crew could would not have to order out , and so avoid revealing the location of the warehouse. Besides, a hungry crew was a rebellious one, and the last thing Criss wanted was a mutiny on his hands.

Criss sat with his brothers and cousin, George, around a packing crate for a table, eating the sandwich wraps from one of the trays. George looked up at Criss casually. "So, find any more bombs in your room lately?" he bantered.

Criss set down his sandwich. "That's not funny, George," he said. "If that thing had been real, God knows what would have happened."

"Well, it wasn't," George pointed out. "And it wasn't even directed at you but that housekeeper, the one who inherited that mobster's estate, remember? Either the ex-wife or the son are trying to intimidate her into giving it up--maybe both of them at the same time, I dunno. Either one has the incentive to do it. I mean, we're talking The Sopranos here. They'll get that money even if they have to kill her."

"How much was the estate again?" Costa asked.

"Nine million, give or take a few." Criss answered.

"That's a lot of incentive."

"I just hope she's safe where she is right now," Criss sighed.

"Where is she now?" Costa asked.

"With Springs, at his house."

"Who's Springs?"

"You remember. Danny Springer, Piccucci's, quote, business partner, unquote." Criss held up his fingers for quotation marks.

"Oh, him." George grunted.

"Yeah, him."

Costa, George and even JD looked skeptical. "Look, I know it's not the most ideal situation," Criss concurred, "but under the circumstances, what can you do?"

"Besides leave the country?" George suggested. "Or go into the Federal Witness Protection Program?"

"That's only if you witnessed a mob hit or something!" Criss argued. "Anyway, she's safe there if she's safe anywhere."

Costa looked at Criss with a Mona Lisa smile on his face. "You really care about this girl, don't you?"

Criss was taken aback by his brother's off-the-wall remark. "Well, yeah, I mean, I don't want her to get hurt or anything. She's a human being, too, you know. I'm not going to stand by and let another human being get killed for whatever reason."

The Mona Lisa smile widened. "I think your interest goes a little farther than just concern for a human life, Criss."

"Don't go there, Costa," Criss warned him.

"Hey, I'm just saying."

"I have no personal feelings toward Casey, Costa," Criss insisted. "I just don't want her to get hurt, that's all, so let's just drop it, okay?" Criss chomped down on his pita wrap sandwich, signalling the end of the conversation.

Costa held up a placating hand. "Okay, okay, fine, whatever you say."

No sooner did Costa silence himself than JD spoke up. "You know, Criss, all this talking about wills and estates got me thinking."

"Look out," George joked.

JD ignored his cousin. "Have you ever considered making out a will of your own? You know, if you haven't made one out already. I mean, with all the dangerous stunts you do..."

Criss swallowed his food. "Me? Oh, yeah, I made out a will a long time ago," he said. "I knew that someday I'd have a demonstration that would probably go wrong and I'd end up getting killed, and I wanted to make sure that all of you, and especially Mom, were taken care of. I even have a pre-paid funeral plan, just in case. In fact, before I did that hotel demolition demo in Florida, I took the time to make sure all my affairs were in order in case I didn't make it. Don't worry about me, man, I'm good."

"You have insurance of any kind?" JD asked.

Criss laughed. "What are you, a salesman? But seriously, there isn't an insurance company on the face of this planet who'd issue me a policy! Besieds, the Luxor covers my medical expenses--nothing catastrophic, just the basics, like exams, prescriptions, things like that."

"That's nice of them." said JD.

"Nice? They're not doing it to be 'nice' about it, JD, they're protecting their biggest investment--me! The longer I stay healthy, the more money I produce for them. They can't afford for me to get sick--me, neither."

"So what are you going to do if, God forbid, something should happen to you?" JD persisted. "Say, you got disabled or something and you can't perform magic anymore? What are you going to do for income? How are you going to cover the medical bills? We're talking thousands of dollars here."

"I told you, JD, I'm covered." Criss insisted. "Since I can't get standard coverage, I started my own little 'insurance policy', a secret stash of cash I invested for those very reasons you mentioned. Don't worry about me, I'll be fine."

"Well, you'd better check on that 'insurance policy' of yours to see if it didn't go down the crapper with the rest of the economy," JD told him. "In the meantime, I'm going to check out some policies for you, see if I can't get you a better deal. You can't put all of your eggs in one basket, Criss. The pre-paid funeral plan's a smart move, but if you end up like Christopher Reeve after that riding accident, you're gonna need more than that."

"JD, I'll be fine, really," Criss insisted. "Besides, didn't I promise no more dangerous demonstrations?"

"I'll be sure to mention that on the insurance form."

"Ha ha."

"Criss, I'm serious here. I don't give a damn what you leave me in your will. It's your welfare I'm concerned about. You may think you're the greatest magician since Houdini, but I'm still your big brother and it's my job to look out for you. It's been that way ever since you were born, and there's no way I'm gonna break from it now."

"Big Brother is watching you," Costa quipped.

"Damn right he is," JD snapped. "You know what Mom said to me once?"

"Don't talk with your mouth full," Criss joked.

"No, she said to me that she didn't want to outlive you. She didn't want to watch you die in some horrible accident of your own making. She made me swear to her that I'd make sure that you didn't kill yourself doing your demonstrations. I'm not just doing it for myself, Criss--I'm doing it for Mom. It's not your money we're after, it's keeping the family alive and well and all together. We couldn't save Dad from cancer, but we can save you from killing yourself. We're family, Criss--that's why I'm riding your ass about all this. You said you wanted to make sure we're taken care of after you die? Well, I'm making sure you're taken care of while you're still alive. Understand?"

Criss felt deeply moved by this speech. His brother's concern touched him to the core of his being. "Well," he said, choking back the emotions welling up inside him, "if that's how you feel..."

"That's how I feel," JD insisted. "Tomorrow, I'll call my agent and get some estimates on a few insurance premiums and I'll get back to you, okay?"

Criss nodded. "Fine."

"Good. Now, let's get back to work."

Criss was a bit miffed. "Hey, that's my line," he protested as he rose from his seat.

JD smirked at his famous brother while the crew reassembled around the styrofoam blocks for another round of rehersals. Criss sighed. It had never been easy for him being the baby of the family with two older brothers hovering over him all the time, but in retrospect it had been a blessing. The Loyal gave him adulation, but his family had given him life. Without his fans, he was nothing but a two-bit magician doing card tricks in the street, but without his family, he was nothing at all. They weren't like the Piccuccis, those greedy descendents of gangsters who would stop at nothing to get the old man's money. The Sarantakos clan stood by each other without questioning the reason why. All the money in the world could not divide them. For all of his material possessions, he thought as he climbed the styrofoam steps to the fake ice chair, his mother, brothers, aunts, uncles, cousins and niece were his greatest wealth, and double-damn if he'd let anything, or anyone, harm them.

[RACHEL02189]

That's insurance policy I'd love to look at

[Veritas]

The St. Benedict's Acadamy bus rolled to a halt by the curb, opening it's bifold doors only when deemed safe enough by the driver. Alicia and a few of her classmates clambered out of the bus, free for the rest of the day. Alicia trotted to the mailbox at the end of the driveway, hoping that her mother had not picked up the mail yet, and hoping even more for the money order she had requested from her father had finally arrived. Her departure for Loyalapalooza was just four days away, but she was still short on cash even with the twenty additional dollars she had earned babysitting the Fischer twins last Saturday night, a hellacious evening to say the least, but so worth it as far as Alicia was concerned.

Alicia opened the mailbox, and no, her mother had not picked up the mail, and yes, the letter from her father had arrived. Elated over this double stroke of good luck, she tucked the letter into her jacket pocket and carried the rest of the mail into the house, acting as casual as she could be. Inside the house, she laid the stack of letters on the side table by the door and proceeded to her bedroom to stash the money order with the rest of her savings. She was sure that her money was safe in her underwear drawer, but every time she so much as thought about it, there was always the nagging feeling that Kyle had somehow sneaked in, rifled through her things, found the money, and spent it all on videogames. Kyle, however, was too wrapped up in the latest doom-and-gloom creation from X-Box to even notice his sister was even home. Maybe he never found it after all. She vowed that she'd kill him if he did. No one must know about Loyalapalooza--no one.

Alicia made her way to her bedroom. She opened her underwear drawer and lifted the stack of panties where her money was hidden, breathing a sigh of relief to see it was all still there. She closed the drawer and opened the envelope. A folded piece of paper was inside. Did Dad refuse to send her the money? Alicia took the paper out of the envelope and unfolded it. There was no letter, just a blank piece of paper, but inside the sheet was a money order for sixty-five dollars signed by her father. The "payable to" line was blank, presumably to be filled out by the school for the Youth Retreat. To Alicia, it was as good as a blank check. She tucked the money order safely in the underwear drawer and let herself fall into a blissful fantasy of herself with Criss Angel in glittering, fabulous Las Vegas. She was dancing with him, staring into his beautiful hazel eyes, melting into his arms as they swirled and floated above the neon glow of the Strip, ascending into Heaven, together forever and ever and ever...

"Alicia?"

Her mother Nancy's voice brought her crashing back to earth. Alicia noticed the grim expression she wore on her face. Pulling herself together, she managed to speak, "Yes, Mother?"

"Alicia, I got a letter from your homeroom teacher, Sister Claudia," Nancy said. "It seems you've been neglecting your schoolwork lately. You've been missing assignments, or turning them in late. What seems to be the problem here? Is there something wrong? Is something bothering you that you can't concentrate on your studies? I can't afford to send you to a private school if you're not willing to do the work."

Alicia could only stare back at her mother. What should she say to her? What could she say in her defense? Well, you see, Mom, I've been so caught up with going to Loyalapalooza to see Criss Angel that I forgot to do my homework. Yeah, right, like that was going to get her off the hook. But she had to come up with something.

"Well?" her mother pressed. "I'm waiting for an answer."

Alicia sighed. "Well, you see, Mom, it's like this," she began.

"I'm listening."

"It's just that, well..." she took a deep breath. "I've been feeling depressed lately, you know."

Nancy looked concerned. "Depressed? About what, dear?"

"About, well, life in general," Alicia replied hastily. "I mean, Dad's gone, Kyle's a pain in the butt, and you...well, you have to work just to support us. It's depressing, know what I mean? I know you're doing your best, but still..."

Nancy stepped forward and laid a hand on her daughter's shoulder. "Look, I know that things are rough right now, but that is no excuse to neglect your studies. You have a bright future ahead of you, so don't let your father's absence or your brother's teasing bother you. Now, you have a chance to make up your work, so I suggest you pack up your frownies, get out the books and start studying. In the meantime, there will be no TV, no computer time, and no going out until you bring your grades up to speed."

Alicia was aghast. "But, Mom--" she protested.

Mom was adamant. "But nothing! You got to buckle down and get to work. Your education is more important than anything on television or the internet. Unless you want to go to summer school, you'd better crack open those books. And no daydreaming or playing around--I want to see some real progress, young lady! Understand?"

Alicia remained tight-lipped. "Understand?" her mother repeated more emphatically.

"I got it," Alicia muttered.

"That's not a proper response."

"Yes, Mother," Alicia replied through gritted teeth.

Satisfied that she had gotten her point across, Mrs. Rose left the bedroom. Alicia flung her bookbag onto her tiny desk, cursing inwardly. "It's not fair!" she stormed. "So I missed a few assignments! So what? Why did she have to ruin my life like that?"

She flopped down on the bed, tears streaming from her eyes. I don't care what she says! she said to herself. I'm going to Loyalapalooza, even if I have to run away! Screw her, screw school, screw everyone else! I'm going to Vegas--and I'm not coming back, not ever, ever again! I'm blowing this one-horse town and starting over again! I'll meet Criss and we'll be happy together, forever and ever and ever! Nothing, no one is going to stop me from seeing Criss--not even God Himself!




Michael, Jr., waited for the phone on the other end to pick up. Jessie said she'd be home today, and he planned to take her to the Alzado Motel, the one with the Seventies vintage marble tile hot tub. The image of Jessie's slim, tanned body in that teeny-weenie red bikini excited him more than a month's supply of Viagra. Even more exciting was the image of her without it.

"Hello?" came a girl's voice on the other end.

"Hey, baby, how about you and me checking into the Alzado for a little, uh, afternoon delight?" he crooned. "We can kick back in the hot tub--swimsuit optional."

Jessie laughed. "Throw in a pitcher of Margaritas," she cooed, "and you got yourself a deal."

"You got it, baby!" Michael, Jr., crowed. "See you in thirty!"

"Honey, I'm already there!" Jessie purred.

Hoo-hoo-hoo! Michael, Jr., gleefully hung up the phone, fished out his car keys from his pants pocket, and bolted out the front door to where his Maserati was waiting in the driveway. He hurdled onto the driver's seat, jammed the key into the ignition and started the engine.

The last thing he felt was himself engulfed in white-hot flames as the Maserati exploded into a huge fireball, reducing him to a charred skeleton in an instant. Thick black smoke rose into the clear blue desert sky like a funeral pyre, and the only noise was the crackle of the flames from the twisted ruin of the Maserati.

[RACHEL02189]

yikes

[Veritas]

This is Channel Six News!

Good evening. A car fire was reported in suburban Las Vegas this afternoon. The driver was identified as Michael Piccucci, Jr., who was in his vehicle when it suddenly exploded in his driveway, killing him instantly. Mr. Piccucci was the son of the late gangster, Michael "Mick" Piccucci, one of the so-called Guys of Glitter Gulch gang who extorted money from casinos and nightclubs during the Forties and Fifites. The explosion is believed to be caused by a car bomb. It is rumored that the bombing is linked to the late gangster's will, in which the entire estate was left to Mick Piccucci's caregiver instead of his son. Piccucci's ex-wife, Tina LaRue Piccucci, is contesting the will, as was Michael, Jr. Authorities are still investigating the scene of the blast, and are asking any and all witnesses to come forward and testify.

Casey snapped off the television set and huddled into a ball on the overstuffed sofa in the media room. Ohmigod! Ohmigod, someone killed Michael, Jr.! They blew him up in his car! Who could have done such a thing? He didn't deserve to die like that! No one does! How could anyone do such a thing?

Had it been Tina? It was logical to assume so, knowing that she wanted the inheritance so badly. Casey had never met Tina personally, but from what she had read in the paper about the will, she was angry enough to sue for it. Was she angry enough to kill for it? For nine million dollars, she probably was.

Had she been the one who sent that phony bomb with that warning for her to give up the inheritance? Again, probably. Casey's fingerprints were not on the bomb, and from what she had learned from Detective Meridian, no one else's matched up either--at least, no one in the police records. If not Tina, then who?

Well, worrying wasn't going to help matters, she said to herself. She had a job to do. She rose from the overstuffed couch and walked into Mr. Springer's bedroom. Mr. Springer would be home from the hospital tomorrow after his stomach transplant. He had barely checked into the hospital when the word came that a donor had been found. The ink was still wet on the insurance forms when he was prepped and wheeled into surgery. He came through remarkably well for such an old man, but he still had a long period of recovery ahead of him, and Casey was going to make it as comfortable as possible. Fresh sheets on the huge king-sized bed, fresh batteries in the remote, and fresh air circulating through the windows. The buzzer connected to her bedroom was in full working order, and the phone was within arm's reach on the nightstand. Yes, everything was ready.

Casey looked at the clock: Six-thirty PM. She decided to go down to the kitchen and fix herself some dinner, then call her mother to tell her she was all right. She had probably heard about the car bomb and was worried sick; her dad and brother were undoubtedly too focused on ESPN or some other sports channel to even know about it, let alone care. She trotted down the steps, into the foyer, and--shoot! Forgot to get the mail! Casey detoured toward the front door to where the daily mail lay on the marble floor under the polished brass mail slot. She picked it up and sorted through it. She felt a little silly going through someone else's mail, but she did it chiefly out of habit since she always picked up the mail at home. Oh, well, might as well toss out the junk and leave the rest for Mr. Springer.

Phone bill, utility bill, something from the hospital, ad, ad (toss those), another utility bill, something from the AARP, bank statement. Hold on a minute, what was this? She held up a blank envelope with the flap tucked inside. Casey hesitated for a moment. Was it for Mr. Springer, or was it for her? She stared at the mysterious envelope for a full minute, then with a bit of trepedition, opened it, pulled out the single sheet of paper inside and read it:

MIcK IS GonE &YOU *Re next!

Casey dropped the note and dashed for the phone. She had to call Detective Meridian and fast! Whoever killed Michael, Jr., was now after her. She found her purse in her bedroom after a frantic search, dumped the contents of it onto the bed, and scrabbled madly to find the detective's phone number. Dear God, where was that fricking phone number? It wasn't anywhere! No, wait, there it was! She grabbed the bedside phone and forced herself to remain calm as she dialed.

"This is Jim Meridian," the voice on the other line spoke."

"Detective Meridian!" Casey cried, "this is Casey Worth! I--"

"Sorry I can't come to the phone right now," the other voice continued. "I'm either away from my desk or on another line. Leave your name, number and a brief message and I'll get back to you as soon as possible."

Oh, great! Casey moaned inwardly. I got his voice mail!

The recorded message gave way to the standard voice mail instructions: "Please record your message after the beep. To leave a call back number, press pound twice. To page this person, press five."

Casey pressed five and hoped for a response. "Please enter your ten-digit phone number...now."

Phone number? What was the phone number? Casey looked down at the phone cradle. There it was, printed out behind a sliver of plastic. She knew the area code already, so she entered the number carefully and waited. "Thank you," the phone service said. "Your page has been sent. Good-bye."

A click, then nothing. All Casey could do was wait. Please hurry, Detective, she pleaded. I'm all alone in this house, and the killer knows I'm here! Please, please hurry!

[RACHEL02189]

Take a deep breath and sent the alarm

[Veritas]

Detective Meridian stood on the front porch of the Piccucci home, away from the smoking ruin of Michael, Jr.'s, car. Next to him was Pamela Piccucci, Michael, Jr.'s wife and now widow, fresh from a shopping trip downtown barely half an hour ago, dabbing her reddened eyes with a tissue. The fire department was hosing down the flaming wreck, good for the general safety of the neighborhood but bad for the CSI team--the water washed away any tangible evidence as to who installed the bomb, where it was detonated, and how. It was this bit of irony that made arson cases so difficult to solve.

Meridian turned to Pamela. "Are you sure you didn't see anyone near the car when you left to go shopping this morning?" he persisted.

"Detective, I swear to you, I saw no one," Pamela insisted. "I left around ten-thirty this morning, and I didn't see a soul for miles. I took my own car, that Prius you see over there, and didn't come home until just now. This is as much a shock to me as it is to you, Detective." She sank down on a brick planter by the door and sighed heavily. "What am I going to tell the boys?" she wailed. "I don't know what to do, Detective. I just don't know what to do."

"Just give me as much information as you can, Mrs. Piccucci," Meridian said. "I'm pretty sure this is tied to your father-in-law's will. Or it could be something else entirely."

Pamela looked up at Meridian, alarmed. "What do you mean by that, Detective?" she demanded.

"Do you know of anyone who has a personal grudge against your husband?" Meridian asked. "Anyone owe him money, or vice versa? A gambling debt? Or an extramarital affair, perhaps?"

Pamela shot up and glared at Meridian. "How dare you!"

Meridian held up a placating hand. "Ma'am, I'm just trying to conduct an investigation here," he demurred. "I just want to know if he had any enemies."

Pamela composed herself, smoothing her designer dress with her freshly manicured hands. "Well, I admit that my marriage to Mike's...been a little rocky lately, but you needn't go so far as to insinuate that my husband was having an affair with another woman," she retorted loftily. "As for enemies, well, Mike had his...detractors, granted, but none who wanted to kill him outright."

"What about Tina LaRue?" Meridian suggested.

"Well, she--" Pamela hesitated, thinking it over. "You know, you could be right! It had to be Tina! Who else could it be? She's been after Mick's money for years, even before he died. She must have planted that bomb in there. Well, maybe she hired someone to plant it in there, of course--I don't think she's that bright enough to know how to even make a bomb, let alone wire one inside a car. A phony bomb like in the Luxor, perhaps, but not a real one. But yes, I do believe Tina is responsible for this. It all makes sense when you think about it."

"Well, in some cases the theory that makes sense at first doesn't turn out to be the truth," Meridian told her. "I still need to examine the evidence, find any witnesses, and do a little legwork before I discover what really happened. In the meantime, don't leave town--I may have to contact you for more questioning."

"Leave town?" Pamela was startled that Meridian should make such a request. "Why should I leave town? The probate hearing is this Friday; I have to be there for that, if only to represent my late husband. I mean, I have the boys to think about, you know. Their future is at stake here."

Meridian nodded. "Of course. I am sorry about your loss, Mrs. Piccucci. I know you have a lot on your mind right now, so I'll be taking my leave. If you have any questions, or have any new information, give me a call. You have my number."

"Thank you, Detective," Pamela said graciously. "I am deeply grateful for all of your hard work--myself and the boys are in your debt."

"You're welcome, ma'am." Meridian left, crossing over the lawn to avoid the charred chassis of the Maserati being hauled off by a wrecker. The coroner's wagon was parked nearby, the officials wheeling Michael, Jr.'s, remains to the morgue for the official autopsy. Meridian drove back to his office to piece together what he knew about this new development into the puzzle that was the Piccucci case.

Back in his office, he went over his notes again. He crossed off Michael, Jr., as a suspect--no need to worry about him now, except as a victim. Tina LaRue was still the number one suspect, and it was perfectly possible that she did hire a hit man to do her dirty work. He would have to wait until the lab results came back for him to investigate furthur, and it was getting late, he was getting tired, and he hadn't had lunch, so he decided to knock off for the day and get some rest. There was a cold beer in the fridge in that hole-in-the-wall of an apartment he called home, and it was calling his name. After the day he had, he felt he deserved it.

Once home, he traded his suit for a more comfortable set of sweats and made himself comfortable with the longed-for beer in front of the TV. It was good to kick back and relax, have the pressure of work off his shoulders and let someone else take over for a while. He took a refreshing swig of beer and reached for the remote to turn on ESPN. Maybe he could catch the end of the UCLA game.

He was feeling mellow, the beer's effects swirling lazily in his system, when his pager went off around six-thirty. Cursing under his breath, he rose from the couch and fished out his cell phone to answer it. He didn't recognize the number, but if someone called, it was his duty to find out who it was and return the page. He pressed Return on his cell phone and waited for an answer. It picked up halfway through the first ring.

"Hello, Detective Meridian?" a woman's anxious voice that he quickly recognized as Casey Worth's spoke over the line.

"This is Meridian," he replied. "Is this Casey?"

"Yes!" she almost shrieked. "I got another one of those letters today! You know, the one with the cutout letters on it? It came with the mail! It says I'm next! What am I going to do?"

"Okay, okay, don't panic," Meridian told her. "I'll be right over. You still at the Springer residence?"

"Yes."

"Okay, I'll be right over. Just don't touch the letter any more. We need to get fingerprints from it."

"Detective? I'm scared."

"I know you are, but just sit tight. I'll be over in a few. Remember what I said, okay? And keep away from the windows, just in case."

"All right," Casey said. "But, please hurry, Detective. I'm really scared here."

"I know you are, but don't panic. I'm coming right over."

He hung up quickly and dashed to change into more suitable clothes, then grabbed his keys and ran out of the apartment, stopping only to lock the door behind him. Once in his car, he drove to the Springer residence, still quiet and untouched as if he had never left the last time he had been there. He arrived at the Tudoresque mansion and pounded on the front door, then realized he should have used a gentler approach because of the shriek of terror he heard inside. The heavy door cracked open, revealing a single eye, wide with horror, then relaxing when it saw who it was. Casey let Meridian in the house, then slammed the door behind her, fearful that the person who sent the letter would slip inside behind him.

"Okay, where's the letter?" Meridian demanded.

Casey pointed to the paper on the floor where she had dropped it. Meridian did not pick up the paper, but could read the message pasted onto it. "Mick is gone and you're next!" he read aloud. "When did you receive this?" he asked Casey.

"I saw it around six-thirty," she replied, still shaken. "I was going to fix myself some dinner, and I saw the mail on the floor, so I picked it all up and saw this blank envelope, so I opened it, and there was that note."

"What time does the mail come around here, you know?"

"Usually around three-thirty, four o'clock at the latest," Casey answered. "I was busy getting Mr. Springer's room ready when he comes home from the hospital tomorrow, so I forgot all about it until then."

Meridian carefully picked up the paper and the envelope in which it had been mailed, and slipped it into a larger interoffice envelope marked "Evidence". Casey stood by as he dusted the polished brass flap of the mail slot for fingerprints. "I'm gonna have a talk with your mail carrier," he said, "see if he or she saw anyone suspicious during the mail route. Meantime, stay put. Whoever killed Mike, Jr., is gunning for you, too, so watch your back."

Casey burst into tears. "Now, don't get all upset," Meridian said. "If you panic, you'll end up doing something stupid and getting yourself killed. Stay calm, and you'll stay alive. Go get something to eat, watch TV, read a book and take it easy. We'll catch this guy. I'll arrange for a stakeout around the house; if he shows up, we'll nail him."

"Should I tell Mr. Springer?" Casey asked timidly.

"I'll talk to Springer," Meridian told her. "Meantime, you get hold of yourself, do your job around here, and keep the security system on twenty-four-seven. You'll be safe if you do." He flashed one of his rare smiles. "We'll catch this guy--you and me together."





Criss carefully applied a fine line of black "guyliner" under his eyelid, preparing for his live show in his dressing room. He hoped the revisions in the show would draw better reviews and thereby draw more paying crowds to the theater despite the ailing economy. He had taken risks in the past to bolster his career, even going so far as to mortgage his mother's house to fund his original Broadway show, Mindfreak, and it had been a success. A&E took a risk to host his own series, and it had proven wildly successful.

Now, just when he had created what was supposed to be his crowning achievement, things began to go sour with the economy and the decline in tourism. He had tweaked and rearranged the act over and over again, and he was still playing to a half-empty house. All he could hope for was a major economic turnaround through the Obama adminstration to get people spending money again.

One eye was finished. Criss started on the other eye when a knock on the door interrupted him. "Yo, what's up, man?" he called out, still staring in the mirror.

A round head with shaggy black hair and a face accented with a nose ring popped into the room. "Hey, Criss, 'sup, dude!"

Criss could see in the mirror's reflection that it was Sully Erna, the lead singer of the group Godsmack and one of his closest friends. "Hey, Sully, what's up?" he said.

Sully entered the dressing room. "Just passing by, thought I'd catch your show," he replied. "Heard about it so much I thought I'd check it out."

"Glad to hear that," Criss said. "One less empty seat in the theater."

"Hey, come on, it's not that bad, is it?"

Criss set down the liner pencil. "No, it's not that bad," he retorted. "It's just that I worked so hard on it, and hardly anyone comes to see it. Tourism's down, just like everything else. I try to make it more appealing to everyone, but the only sellout was on opening night. After that, it's all downhill."

"Look, dude, don't sweat it, okay?" Sully encouraged him. "I know the economy's gone to hell in a handbag, but they're still coming in to see your show, right? You must be doing something right. Things'll turn around, just you wait and see. Hell, my own concerts are slow sellers, too. Everyone's hurtin' right now, but it'll change. It can't last forever, you know."

Criss smiled. "Thanks for the pep talk, Sully."

"No prob." Sully flopped down on a nearby couch. "So what's this about a fake bomb in your room?" he asked.

Criss picked up the liner pencil again and traced the edge of his eyelid. "Oh, that? Well, that wasn't for me, that was for...someone else."

"Someone else?"

"Yeah. Did you happen to hear about some old Nineteen-fifties gangster dying a few weeks ago who left his entire fortune to his caregiver instead of his son? Well, that bomb was for her. It was a warning for her to give up the inheritance or else."

"Oh, yeah, I heard of it," Sully replied. "In fact, it was on the news today."

Criss turned around. "It was?"

"Yeah. The son who got shafted in the will got blown up in his car this afternoon," Sully told him. "Right there in his driveway--boom! Blew him all to hell. So much for getting Daddy's money."

Criss sat there, stunned. "Oh, geez!" he muttered. "Poor Casey."

"Who's Casey?"

"She's the caregiver who got the inheritance," Criss answered. "If the son is gone, then that leaves only her and the ex-wife."

"The ex-wife's involved, too?"

"Yeah, she got cut out of the deal as well," Criss explained.

Sully pondered what he had just learned. "Damn," he breathed. "This is really turning into an episode of The Sopranos."

Criss finished lining his eye. "Damn straight," he said. "Look, I gotta get ready for the show. I'll catch you later, okay?"

Sully rose to leave. "Sure thing. Later."

"Later." Criss returned to his dressing table. Sully left the room, singing the opening theme to The Sopranos under his breath. "Woke up this mornin', got yourself a gun..."

[Veritas]

Tina LaRue Piccucci pulled on her Gucci jacket and picked up her matching Gucci handbag. "I'll be home early," she told her daughter, Heather. "Don't wait up. And lock the doors this time--I don't want any break-ins!"

Heather stood there, staring dumbly at her mother. The girl was a retard, Tina thought. Must have gotten it from Mick's side of the family. She watched as her only daughter seemed to fade away into her bedroom, her only refuge from her mother's tirades. Tina rolled her eyes and walked briskly to the door, stopping only to check her appearance in the mirror. She sighed; makeup could only do so much to hide the flaws in her complexion. She refused to acknowledge her real age, preferring to stick with thirty-nine for the past twenty years or so, but she did all she could to ward off the ravages of old age with frequent trips to day spas and salons. Despite all of her efforts, however, a few wrinkles cropped up here and there on her face, working their way down to her neck and under her chin. Once she got the inheritance, she planned to go to that Beverly Hills cosmetic surgeon who had been so highly recommended by aquaintances at the spa for a face lift. Maybe a boob job as well.

Tina stepped out of the penthouse apartment, took the elevator to the lobby of the complex, then stepped out into the street where, to her surprise and dismay, Detective Meridian was waiting for her. Sighing in exasperation, she walked over to him, the heels of her Manolo shoes clicking on the pavement like castanets. "All right, Detective," she said irritably, "what is it this time? If you're after me about that phony bomb again, you can forget it--I'm innocent."

"It's not about that, Tina," Meridian said quietly.

"Well, what is it then?" Tina snapped. "I got a show to go to in half and hour and you're making me late."

"Sorry, Tina, but there's been a change of plans for you tonight," Meridian retorted. "I need you to come with me to the station."

"For what?"

"For questioning regarding the car-bombing of Michael Piccucci, Jr.," Meridian told her firmly. "You wanna come quietly, or in cuffs?"

Tina went quietly, complaining about missing her show and the cost of the ticket for it. In the interrogation room, she sat in a very uncomfortable chrome-framed plastic chair across from Meridian, sipping from a plastic bottle of spring water, still fretting over the loss of her evening. No, she had not heard about Michael, Jr.'s, firey death today--she had been getting her hair done at the salon all afternoon, she claimed.

"What about this morning?" Meridian asked.

"You know me," Tina said, "you know I don't get up until around ten AM, and I never leave the house until noon at the earliest. Ask Heather." She took a dainty sip of her water and stared at him challengingly.

"You know, we can check your fingerprints with the ones we already have on file," Meridian reminded her.

"And you know I'm not giving you my fingerprints," Tina retorted. "I am completely innocent in this matter."

Meridian picked up Tina's bottle of water by the neck. "We'll have your prints in an hour," he said, his eyes glittering in triumph.

He handed the bottle carefully to the lab assistant waiting in the hall while Tina fumed over this act of deception. "I'm gonna sue you for entrapment over this!" she stormed.

"It's not entrapment, Tina," Meridian said calmly. "It's all part of the investigation." He leaned closer. "So, how about it, Tina? You wanna come clean over this, or do I let the lab results tell me what happened?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, Detective," Tina protested. "I had nothing to do with that bomb, real or fake! Someone's setting me up!"

"I wish I could believe you, Tina," Meridian said, shaking his head sympathetically. "I really do. But you're the prime suspect in this case, and unless the evidence we have proves otherwise, you're the only link we got. We all know you want that inheritance, badly enough to kill for it."

"So how do you think I did it?" Tina challenged. "Assuming I did it at all?"

"Well, (A) you're smarter than people take for granted and you planted that explosive yourself, or (B) you hired someone to do it for you. You're the only one with any motive to kill Mike, Jr., so the ball's in your court."

Tina leaned forward, staring Meridian in the face. "Wrong on both counts, Sherlock," she sneered. "I was nowhere near Junior's house, or his car. I was home in the morning, and at the salon all afternoon!"

"What salon did you go to?" Meridian asked.

Tina fished out a pastel pink business card from her handbag. "Here," she said, slapping it on the table. "Call them yourself, and you'll see who's telling the truth around here."

Meridian took the card and slipped it in his shirt pocket. "I'll do that," he said. "Meantime, stay put. I gotta go check the lab results on the car and the prints on file. If the prints aren't yours, you're free to go."

"They're not mine, Detective," Tina insisted.

"Then whose are they?"

"How the hell should I know?" Tina exploded. "You're the detective--you figure it out!" She sat down again with a smirk on her face. "Personally, I'd like to know who that guy was who blew up Junior."

"Why should you care about who killed Mike, Jr.?" Meridian asked.

"I don't," Tina replied. "I just want to know who to thank."