24 Hours. Greg Iles

interior of the Beau Rivage was built on the colossal scale of post-mafia Las Vegas casinos. A fantasy recreation of the ante-bellum South, with full-size magnolia trees growing throughout its lobby, the casino hotel struck Will as a cross between Trump Tower and Walt Disney World. He picked his way through the gamblers in the lobby and walked over to the long check-in desk. When he gave his name, the hotel manager came out of an office to the left and shook his hand. He was tall and too thin, and his name tag read: GEAUTREAU.

      “Your colleagues have been getting a little nervous, Doctor Jennings,” he said with a cool smile.

      “I had a long surgery this afternoon.” Will tapped his computer case. “But I’ve got my program ready to go. Just get me to a shower.”

      Geautreau handed over an envelope containing a credit card key. “You’ve got a suite on twenty-eight, Doctor. A Cypress suite. A thousand square feet. Dr. Stein instructed me to give you the red carpet treatment.” Saul Stein was the outgoing president of the Mississippi Medical Association. “Are you sure I can’t have a bellman take those cases up for you?”

      Will strained to maintain his smile as he realized that his privacy had been violated. He could hear Dr. Stein telling the hotel manager about his arthritis, warning Geautreau not to let Will carry a single bag upstairs. All with the best of intentions, of course.

      “No, thanks,” he said, tapping his case again. “Sensitive cargo here.”

      “Our audio-video consultant is waiting for you in the Magnolia Ballroom. You’ll find the VIP elevators past the jewelry store and to the right. Don’t hesitate to call for anything, Doctor. Ask for me by name.”

      “I will.”

      As Will crossed the lobby, making for the elevators, a heavyset man in his forties shouted from an open-air bar to his left. It was Jackson Everett, an old medical school buddy. Everett was wearing a Hawaiian shirt and held an umbrella drink in his hand.

      “Will Jennings!” he boomed. “It’s about damned time!” Everett shouldered his way across the lobby and slapped Will on the back, sending a sword of pain down his spine. “I haven’t seen you since the scramble at Annandale, boy. How’s it hanging? Where’s Karen?”

      “She didn’t make it this trip, Jack. Some Junior League thing. You just get here?”

      Everett laughed. “Are you kidding? I flew in two days ago for some early golf. You’re giving the speech tonight, I hear.”

      Will nodded.

      “Hey, without Karen, you’ll have to hit the casino with me. High rollers, stud!”

      “I’d better pass. I had a long surgery, and then the flight. I’m whipped.”

      “Pussy-whipped, more like,” Everett complained. “You gotta live a little, son.”

      Will gave an obliging laugh. “Let’s get a beer tomorrow and catch up.”

      “How are your hands? Are you up for eighteen holes?”

      “I brought my clubs. We’ll just have to see.”

      “Well, I hope you can. Hey, don’t put us to sleep tonight, okay?”

      “But that’s my specialty, Jack.”

      Everett groaned and walked off gulping his drink.

      As Will waited for an elevator, he saw a few more faces he recognized across the lobby, but he didn’t make an effort to speak. He had twenty-five minutes to get dressed and down to the meeting room, where he would still have to set up the notebook computer for his video presentation.

      On the twenty-eighth floor, he opened the door to his suite and found his bags and golf clubs waiting for him. The manager had not exaggerated. The suite was large enough for permanent residence. He set his cases on the sitting-room sofa, then walked into the marble-floored bathroom and turned on the hot water. As the bathroom filled with steam, he unzipped his suit bag, hung a blue pinstripe Land’s End suit in the closet, and unpacked a laundry-boxed shirt, which he laid out on the coffee table. Then he stripped to his shorts and lifted his sample case onto the bureau beside the television. From it he removed a bound folder and laid it on the desk. The title on the cover read: “The Safe Use of Depolarizing Paralyzing Relaxants in the Violent Patient.” The paper summarized three years of work in the laboratory and in clinical trials, as well as in the conference rooms of pharmaceutical companies. The culmination of that work—a drug that would trade under the name Restorase—represented potential profits on a vast scale, enough to make Will a truly wealthy man.

      Nervous compulsion made him check the other contents of the sample case: a video-adapter unit, which would allow his computer to interface with the hotel convention room’s projection TV; several drug vials, some of which contained prototype Restorase; and some high-tech syringes. Will counted the vials, then closed the case and hurried into the steamy bathroom, pulling off his underwear as he went.

      Hickey and Karen sat facing each other across the kitchen table. A few moments before, Karen had picked up the .38, and he had made no move to stop her. She pointed it at his chest as they talked.

      “That gun makes you feel better?” Hickey said.

      “If you tell me we’re not taking the insulin to Abby, it’s going to make me feel a lot better. And you a lot worse.”

      He smiled. “The Junior League princess has guts, huh?”

      “If you hurt my baby, you’ll see some guts. Yours.”

      Hickey laughed outright.

      “I don’t understand why we have to wait until tomorrow,” she said. “Why don’t you just let me empty our accounts and give you the money?”

      “For one thing, the banks have closed. You can’t come close to the ransom with automated withdrawals. Even if the banks were open, just pulling out the money would cause a lot of suspicion.”

      “What will be different tomorrow morning? How do you plan to get the ransom money?”

      “Your husband is going to call his financial advisor here—Gray Davidson—and tell him a great little story. He’s just discovered the missing centerpiece of Walter Anderson’s largest sculpture. It’s a male figure with antlers called Father Mississippi. Only one photograph of it exists, and many people believe it was stolen from Anderson’s house. The value is—”

      “Higher than any painting he ever did,” Karen finished. “Because he didn’t do much sculpture.”

      Hickey grinned. “Pretty good, huh? I do my homework. These goddamn doctors, I tell you. Every one of ’em collects something. Cars, boats, books, whatever. Look at this kitchen. Every gadget known to man. I bet you got eighty pairs of shoes upstairs, like that Filipino hog, Imelda Marcos. You can’t believe the money these guys piss away. I mean, how many freakin’ gall bladders can you take out in a month?”

      “Will’s not like that.”

      “Oh, no, he doesn’t spend more money on paintings every year than he pays all his employees put together. These guys … a slip of the knife, somebody dies, and it’s ‘Gee, sorry, couldn’t be helped. Wish I could stick around, but I’ve got a two o’clock tee time.’”

      Karen started to argue, but she sensed it wouldn’t help her situation. Hickey knew a lot about their lives, yet there were huge gaps. Abby’s diabetes. Will’s work. Will didn’t even use a scalpel. He was an anesthesiologist. He used gases and needles. She watched Hickey closely, trying to get a handle on the man beneath the bluster. One thing she knew already: he carried a chip on his shoulder the size of the Rock of Gibraltar.

      “Anyway,” Hickey said, “tomorrow morning, Will’s gonna call Davidson and tell him he needs two hundred grand wired to him in Biloxi. He’s got a onetime opportunity to buy this statue, and the owner wants cash. And just in case Mr. Tight-Ass Gray Davidson is suspicious, Will’s lovely wife Karen is coming down to the office to authorize