Prologue
Officer Rob Sullivan of the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department is responding to a possible 413 when the second call comes in. It’s a Hispanic woman on the line with 911 this time, but the details are the same: white male, late teens to early twenties, wandering the streets in broad daylight with a weapon in his hands. The first caller, who hung up after giving a description, mentioned an assault rifle. “Big gun” is the second caller’s phrase. The suspect is supposedly six blocks from Officer Sullivan, who’s roaring into his second shift on twenty milligrams of Adderall and half a diet Red Bull. His mind circles the dispatcher’s description as he scans the streets. Sullivan has a two-year-old white male at home, and twelve years from now his kid will enter Ed W. Clark High School, where the LVMPD has responded to two bomb threats in the past three years. The school has monthly active shooter drills, and Sullivan wonders what makes these teenage gunmen snap. Their parents seem normal enough when they go on TV asking for America’s forgiveness. There’s only so much—Jesus Christ, Sullivan thinks, fucking focus. This is why he takes the Adderall. And how it works against him. Sullivan draws his pistol and pulls the slide back to reveal the bright brass of a chambered round.
*
SARA KOH, emergency services dispatcher with the LVMPD, gets her nails done near the first reported sighting of the gunman. She’s friendly with the salon’s manager, Shannon Jacobson, who comped Sara’s last French manicure. Sara does something she’s not supposed to do on shift and sends Shannon a text: Hey stay inside if ur at wrk … smthng may b going on by u
*
SHANNON JACOBSON is not at work. At 4:25 p.m. she’s halfway through the line for a boozy Sunday pool party hosted by Encore Las Vegas at the Wynn hotel and casino. A Swedish DJ goes on in an hour, and it seems like half the UNLV student body is crammed inside the velvet rope that snakes toward the entrance. Frat boys in tank tops and flip-flops share to-go cups with sorority girls wearing almost nothing over their bikinis. Shannon loves the music and tolerates this hormonal day-drunk mob of people half her age. In the coin pocket of her jeans is Ecstasy shaped like a hand grenade, a gift from her coworker at the salon. Shannon dry-swallows the pill and tilts her head back to draw it down her throat. Her phone buzzes with a text.
*
THERE’S A white male walking north on Fairfield with something in his hand, but Officer Sullivan can’t tell what it is at fifty yards.
“Dispatch, this is one-six-two, possible suspect heading north on Fairfield toward Chicago, over.”
The suspect is loping down the sidewalk in an oversize Steelers jersey. If he hears the car, he pays no mind. When he stops suddenly, Sullivan taps his brakes. His hands feel hollow as he puts the car in park and grips his pistol. The suspect turns. In his right hand is a leash attached to a small dog.
Another cruiser rolls through the intersection of Fairfield and St. Louis, ignoring the stop sign. It’s Russell Pratt and his partner, the newish guy from Phoenix. Windows come down.
“You call something in?” Pratt asks.
“Guy walking his dog.”
“Where is this asshole?”
Sullivan shrugs.
“Nobody’s seen shit except whoever made those calls,” Pratt’s partner says. “You’d think this guy’d be hard to miss.”
*
SIX BLOCKS west of the Wynn, a fifteen-foot U-Haul pulls over on a quiet stretch of Lisbon Avenue. The driver, in a black leather racing suit and full-face helmet, jumps down from the cab. At the back of the truck, he throws up the container door, lowers the loading ramp, and disappears inside. The thin walls of the trailer shake as engines cough and growl inside. Two motorcycles roll slowly down the ramp and into the street. Each bike holds two riders and all four wear full-body racing leathers, their faces hidden behind tinted visors. Both passengers wear backpacks and they crouch down as the motorcycles pick up speed until the riders resemble giant insects with pebbled skin and gleaming eyes. The truck, stolen but still unreported, is abandoned with open doors and hazards blinking weakly in the golden afternoon light.
*
KAI PRESTON and Anna Levine drove from L.A. to the Wynn Las Vegas last night on a whim. The young, blond, dreadlocked couple won next month’s rent at blackjack before losing it at craps. At 4:36 p.m., Kai reminds his girlfriend that they haven’t eaten anything since breakfast. They leave the casino floor and wander the Wynn Esplanade, a gently curving corridor lined with luxury boutiques.
“Holy shit,” Kai says. “Baby, check this out.”
In the window of Graff jewelers is a brooch shaped like a peacock with plumage made from precious stones. Anna smiles at her boyfriend.
“Can’t hurt to look,” she says.
The marble floor inside looks clean enough to eat from, and jewels in the display cases sparkle like flitting fish as the couple moves around the store. Anna is examining engagement rings when a petite woman with a platinum bob appears beside her.
“Welcome. Can I help you?”
“I’m in love with that one,” Anna says, tapping the glass.
“It’s a lovely piece. Would you like to see it? I’m Cynthia, by the way,” the woman says, pulling on a thin white glove to unlock the case and extract a six-carat yellow diamond set in platinum. These whiskey-breath surfer kids do not strike Cynthia as likely buyers, but she’s seen stranger things here. Anna slips the ring onto her finger and stares down at her hand.
“It’s unusual to find a yellow stone in that size and clarity,” Cynthia says.
“What’s the color from?”
“Trace elements of nitrogen.” Cynthia leans in. “You know, for a long time, colored diamonds were considered flawed. But Mr. Graff spent years educating people about stones like that one. They’re much rarer than white diamonds. And now they’re much more valuable.”
Kai laughs. “What’s that expression? One man’s trash?”
“Well,” Cynthia says, “that’s one way to think about it.”
“How much are we talking here?” Kai asks.
“I believe that one is $225,000, but I’ll have to double-check.”
Anna holds the ring up to her face.
“Not bad for the flawed stuff,” Kai says.
*
BRIAN DALMORE, valet attendant at the Wynn, is ten dollars richer thanks to the driver of a red Corvette who asked Brian to take special care of “Cindy” when he slipped him the bill. Brian is about to duck into the driver’s seat when he sees his colleague, Marty Stetson, locked in conversation with a tall man in a motorcycle helmet. The scene strikes Brian as tense.
“Marty,” he calls out. “Hey, Marty, everything okay?”
Marty nods enthusiastically. Brian puts the car in drive, still unconvinced. He adjusts the rearview mirror for one last look, but Marty vanishes behind an Escalade packed with kids dressed for the pool party. Brian is dreading their release five hours from now. That, he thinks, will be the worst part of my day.
*
MARTY STETSON expected a question about parking when the helmeted rider hopped off the back of his friend’s bike and approached the valet stand. Instead, the man lifted the backpack slung over his shoulder to give Marty a glimpse of the compact assault rifle hidden underneath.