Kill Her Again (A Thriller) Read Online Free Page A

phone chirped.
    Pope grabbed the remote, hit the pause button, then snatched the phone up off his nightstand and squinted at the screen.
    Just what he was afraid of.
    Sharkey.
    Pope debated letting voice mail pick it up, but knew that would only stall the inevitable, forcing him to call Sharkey back. And he certainly didn’t want to have to do that.
    He stared at his image on the TV screen, saw himself frozen in motion, wearing that ridiculous glittery black tux, thinking he should seriously consider revamping his wardrobe. Flashy costumes were more or less cultural de rigueur in a Vegas-style lounge show, even a low-rent show like his. But why not let his assistants, Carmen and Feather, handle the glitter? A good half of the tourists only came to stare at their tits anyway.
    Pope sighed, then finally clicked the phone on and put it to his ear. “Hey, Sharkey, what’s up?”
    “You’re actually awake at this hour?”
    “You must’ve figured I would be.”
    “Nah, I was just gonna leave a message. But I like this better. I always feel like I have to be polite on voice mail.”
    “I don’t think anyone would ever accuse you of that.”
    Sharkey barked. It was supposed to be a laugh, but didn’t quite qualify. “You’re a funny guy, Danny. Maybe you should consider a change of format. Put a little comedy in your act.”
    “It’s already got some,” Pope said.
    “Yeah? Color me stupid, but I don’t think a bunch of idiots bouncing around onstage is all that funny.”
    “Did you call to offer me a critique, or is there a point to this conversation?”
    Sharkey got quiet a moment, then said, “Troy wants to see you. And he’s pretty upset.”
    “About what?”
    “About you, that’s what.”
    Pope quickly ran a list of possible fuckups through his slightly stoned brain, but only came up with one likely suspect.
    “The session?”
    “Bingo. He’s thinking maybe you got something wrong. Got some wires crossed, made a mistake.”
    “It doesn’t work that way,” Pope told him, staring again at the TV screen, looking at his face, noticing that his expression was frozen in a grimace—an accurate reflection of how he felt about the subject of Anderson Troy.
    “I won’t even pretend to know how it works,” Sharkey said. “But then I’m not paid to be curious. The man gets pissed, I gotta do what I can to calm him down. Even if it means dealing with a bullshit artist like you.”
    “What’s the matter, Sharkey? You don’t believe in hypnosis?”
    “I don’t believe in anything.”
    That made sense. But Sharkey wasn’t Pope’s concern at the moment. “So Troy’s not happy with last night’s little rendezvous. What does he want me to do about it?”
    “Get your ass up there, that’s what. Pronto.”
    Wonderful. Just the good news he needed at two in the morning. “Why? It won’t change anything. The past is the past.”
    “Right now you’d better start thinking about the future,” Sharkey said.
    Then he hung up.
     
    T HE ELEVATOR IN the residential section of the Desert Oasis Hotel-Casino had to be the slowest in the world. But then everything was a little slower out here, and Pope liked it just fine that way.
    Forty miles outside of the city proper, a last-chance gas and gambling stop near the California state line, the Oasis didn’t even attempt to capture the high-gloss hustle and bustle of the “new” Las Vegas.
    Walking into the casino was like stepping through a time warp. The 1970s all over again, only a little grungier and faded this time around. The booze-and cigarette-stained carpet and dusty-looking wallpaper hadn’t been changed in decades and the slot machines could actually be cranked by hand.
    Anyone who was used to the glamor of the Strip, or even the refurbished beauty of the Nugget downtown, would take one look at the Oasis and immediately start reaching for the Sani-Wipes.
    It was what the tour brochures called charm .
    All this changed, however, once you got to the