Harper’s statement was cut off by the sound of loud talking in the hallway. A hush came over the room, and everyone slowly walked toward the double doors to listen. Several voices could be heard, and then, after a moment in which they were raised, it became silent in the corridor.
Apprehension filled the group as they waited to see what was next. The knob turned on the doors and slowly opened. The burly National Guardsmen were replaced by an unlikely figure—Dr. Wolfgang Boychuck.
“You’re the cavalry?” asked Harper with a smile on her face that stretched from ear to ear.
The Clark County medical examiner returned the smile. He glanced over his shoulder to locate the two guardsmen and then sneakily raised his right index finger to his lips, indicating that Harper should be silent. With a barely discernible whisper, he mouthed the words trust me.
Harper nodded her head in agreement and turned to her team. They all seemed to understand. Her eyes grew wide when several uniformed officers of the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department entered the room. They immediately fanned out to encircle the CDC personnel.
An LVMPD sergeant entered the room and took the floor. “Who is Dr. Harper Randolph?”
“I am.” Harper kept it simple.
“Good. I have orders to bring you and your team into the DTAC for questioning,” said the sergeant. DTAC was an acronym for the LVPMD Downtown Area Command. “Now, you can come with us peacefully and bring your gear, or we can do this the hard way. We’ve got plenty of zip cuffs for everyone.” He glanced at his officers, who held up the zip-tie handcuffs for everyone to see.
“Are we under arrest?” asked Harper.
“Not yet. You’re wanted for questioning first. What happens next will be up to the bureau commander and the state attorney. Now, can we expect your cooperation?”
Dr. Boychuck had never averted his eyes from Harper’s. He barely nodded his head, signaling for her to agree.
She didn’t hesitate. “We’ll cooperate. Everyone, please grab your belongings and follow these officers’ instructions.”
There were a few grumbles among the team, but most seemed content with being released from the stuffy conference room regardless of the method.
The police officers organized the group in a two-wide line and surrounded them as they were escorted out of the conference center into the hotel lobby. The perp walk drew the attention of the frantic hotel guests, momentarily distracting them from their own angst.
The police led Harper and Becker, followed by the rest of the team, to the VIP entrance they’d used so many times during their brief time at the Gold Palace. Once outside, a collective deep breath was taken by the epidemiologists. It had been a horrible all-night ordeal. They were also fraught with uncertainty. Harper had a direct relationship with Dr. Boychuck, so she was confident in what he’d instructed her to do. The others were dutifully following her lead.
Harper and Becker were placed in the back of a squad car by themselves while the rest of the team was loaded into white, unmarked vans. They both sat in silence as the caravan of law enforcement vehicles exited the Gold Palace. After a moment, the officer riding in the passenger seat spoke to the driver, a young officer who easily could’ve been a rookie.
“Take a left on Bridger.”
“Why? It’ll be easier to go down to—”
“We gotta make it look good. If they’re paying attention, they’ll wonder why we didn’t head straight for LV Boulevard.”
Harper and Becker looked at one another. Why are they arguing about the route to this DTAC place? What has Dr. Boychuck gotten us into?
Becker was about to ask, but Harper grabbed her left hand and gave it a squeeze. She shook her head vigorously from side to side.
The officer in the passenger seat continued his instructions. “Take a right on Third. The entrance is on Fourth, but it’s one-way northbound.”
They drove several blocks, and then the officer driving pointed to a wide intersection. “If we go left on Coolidge, the next left should bring us right to it.”
Harper and Becker were looking around in all directions in an attempt to determine where the police were taking them. They turned again and passed the parking lot of a Mexican restaurant. The patrol car slowed as the driver checked his side mirror to confirm the rest of the caravan carrying the CDC personnel caught up.
He eased up to a tall concrete building stretching into the sky. An entrance to an underground garage appeared with two steel roll-up gates and several security cameras pointing in all directions.
Becker leaned into Harper. “This is an awfully tall jail.”
Harper grimaced. “I don’t think it’s a jail. With all of the concrete, it looks like one, though.”
The driver pulled the patrol car up to the gate and honked his horn twice. Suddenly, the steel gates clanked as they sprang to life, slowly rolling up into a large curl above the entrance. The officers quickly pulled in and to the end of the ramp, followed by the vans. Seconds later, they exited the car and opened the doors for Harper and Becker.
Harper was the first to emerge, and she allowed her eyes to adjust to the dim fluorescent light. An unmistakable silhouette appeared out of the shadows.
“Mi casa, su casa,” Dr. Boychuck announced. “Welcome to Soho Lofts.”
Chapter Eleven
Soho Lofts
South Las Vegas Blvd. and East Charleston Blvd.
Las Vegas, Nevada
It took two trips for Dr. Wolfgang Boychuck to lead Harper and the rest of the virus hunters team up the freight elevator to the fifteenth floor of Soho Lofts. Located in the heart of the Arts District of Las Vegas, this sixteen-story solid concrete structure rose two hundred twenty feet above Las Vegas Boulevard and was topped with a rooftop swimming pool. The interior hallways were decorated in elegant and modern art deco finishes befitting the glamour of Sin City.
Dr. Boychuck had admonished everyone to stay quiet as they made their way to his top-floor, two-story penthouse unit. Most of his neighbors were well-known gamblers such as Archie Karas, famously known for The Run, a winning streak in which he turned fifty dollars into forty million during the nineties, as well as the usual late-night partiers. Several of the penthouse units were owned by entertainers, including a member of the Blue Man Group, and comedian Terry Fator, who kept guests of the Mirage in stitches.
The weary epidemiologists moved slowly down the dimly lit hallway to the end of the building. They marveled at the minimalist-style décor. Once they entered Dr. Boychuck’s loft, their mouths fell open as they took in the view. His space was eye level to the iconic Stratosphere, now known as the Strat. The floor-to-ceiling windows also allowed a never-ending view of the famed Las Vegas Strip. The Strat was the tallest freestanding observation tower in America. It also contained hotel rooms, a restaurant, and perched atop the structure were amusement thrill rides that slung adrenaline junkies out and over the edge at high speeds.
“This is incredible!” exclaimed one of the epidemiologists.
Several others commented on the magnificent view as they dropped their gear and immediately wandered to the windows overlooking the Strip.
Becker stood next to Harper and looked around Dr. Boychuck’s loft. “What a mess. Does he really live like this?”