“Good morning, all!” she cheerily announced as she squeezed Dr. Boychuck’s cheek. “I trust Woolie is treating you with a better dose of Vegas hospitality than you received at the Palace.”
“Yes. Yes. Yes,” Dr. Boychuck was quick to respond. “They’ve been fed our finest donuts and coffee. Most were sleeping, Mrs. Mayor.”
Mayor Carol Ann Silverman, affectionately known as Mrs. Mayor, had become mayor of Las Vegas as part of a political dynasty that dated back decades. Her husband had been the mayor until he turned eighty and, in a landslide, his wife was elected to office to take his place.
The two enjoyed an interesting relationship since she’d become mayor. Her husband liked to refer to himself as part-time queen consort and full-time ambassador for the city. On the day he turned over the reins of the city to his wife, he bragged how he’d redesigned the space with a balcony to enjoy a martini and cigar after a hard workday.
Her response was simple. You never worked here.
The daily banter between the two over the last decade was legendary. She often referred to him as a big buffoon, a phony, a narcissist and a snake-charmer in one breath followed by brilliant in another. Despite their gentle ribbing of one another, they’d enjoyed a great working relationship, promoting the City of Las Vegas while shepherding it through some difficult financial times following the 2008 real estate market collapse and the aftermath of the COVID-19 pandemic.
She smiled, and in a grandmotherly way, she brushed the fingers on both of her hands as if to tell the youngsters to go back to what they were doing.
“I’m sorry to interrupt your slumber,” she apologized.
Dr. Boychuck reassured her, “Mrs. Mayor, I haven’t yet informed our guests that you are the reason they were rescued from the evil clutches of the governor’s henchmen. Had you not come up with this brilliant strategy to arrest these fine people, they’d still be locked in that stuffy hotel.” Dr. Boychuck used his fingers to place the word arrest in air quotes.
“Say nothing of it, Woolie. When you called and explained what had happened, I was glad to help.”
She was impeccably dressed in a pricey blue Ann Taylor suit. She tugged at the jacket as she surveyed the team. “Who is Dr. Randolph?”
“I am, um, Mrs. Mayor. Is it okay for me to—”
“Yes, dear. Everyone does. Even my enemies. Well, they’re not really enemies. There are those around here who think they can run this city better than our family has over the last thirty years. They just refer to me with a little more snark than my friends.”
“I understand,” added Harper without disclosing her husband’s job.
“One thing they all understand, however, is this. If our fair city is threatened by a serial killer, or a sharknado, or the Yellowstone volcano, my first concern is for our visitors and those who rely upon tourism dollars. And make no mistake, that stupid antic pulled by our so-called governor last night was not helpful to anyone. It was purely a political stunt orchestrated by the governor’s puppeteer.”
Harper looked around to determine if the group was listening to the exchange. Only Becker was remotely aware of her encounter with the president on Air Force One.
“Mrs. Mayor, I have my theories as well.”
She provided Harper a knowing wink and a smile. “Well, don’t you worry your little head about it, young lady. Things are about to change, but I need to have a conversation with you about what’s happening on Fremont Street. Are you up for a chat?”
Harper looked around for Becker.
“You need Starbucks, don’t you?” She was standing behind Harper and startled her with her question.
Harper swung around. “There you are.”
“I’ll get it for you.”
Dr. Boychuck glanced at his watch and approached Becker. The two were standing toe-to-toe for the first time.
“It’s seven o’clock, young lady.”
“Okay. Starbucks is open, right? Isn’t this the city that never sleeps?”
“Yes. Yes. Yes. Very good. It is not New York City. However, there is no need for you to go. I will have the concierge make the arrangements.”
Becker scowled. “Well, la-di-da.”
The two faced off for several awkward seconds before Dr. Boychuck responded, “If you would like to make a list of everyone’s drinks, I will have them brought up to us. It appears everyone is awake again.” In fact, the entire team was milling about the loft, viewing Dr. Boychuck’s artifacts, all of which had a story behind them.
“Okay, Dr. Boychuck. You’ve got a deal.”
“Woolie, please.”
“Woolie what?”
“Please call me Woolie.”
Becker studied the medical examiner’s face in an effort to ascertain his intentions. She’d need more time to render an opinion of Dr. Wolfgang Boychuck. She retrieved her phone and began gathering everyone’s order.
While she did, Dr. Boychuck escorted Harper and Mrs. Mayor into his study and pulled shut the frosted glass doors that hung on a door track system above the opening. He tried to excuse himself from the room, but the mayor insisted he remain. The three of them were now alone and free to talk.
Harper immediately noticed a change in her demeanor, and it was completely opposite her jovial mood in front of the others. Harper sat in a chair offered by Dr. Boychuck. She gripped the arms until her knuckles were white as if she were bracing for an interrogation. Mrs. Mayor paced the floor and looked out the window toward Las Vegas Boulevard.
The mayor began first. Without turning, she said, “We’re about to have a very candid conversation.”
Chapter Thirteen
Soho Lofts
South Las Vegas Blvd. and East Charleston Blvd.
Las Vegas, Nevada
Mrs. Mayor had the floor. She was no longer the baby-kissing, one-line-joking jovial mayor pandering for votes. She’d turned into a battle-tested politician who was ready to vent about what had happened at the Fremont Street Experience without her knowledge or consent.
“Before we get to your conversation with the president and the truth about this supposed outbreak, let me tell you where we are on this thing,” she began while she paced the floor. To be sure, she would’ve preferred to be in the living area, where she had more space to place her feet. Dr. Boychuck’s study resembled one of the mini-warehouse units where the contents were about to be auctioned off on a reality television show.
He seemed to take the hint, so he scampered about, shoving stacks of books and piles of journals under his desk. She waved her hand, indicating he should stop.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Mayor. I really should get better organized.”
She laughed. “Then you wouldn’t be quite so charming, Woolie.” It was obvious to Harper the two admired one another.
Mrs. Mayor sighed. It seemed to relieve some tension. “My husband, the pompous windbag of a former lawyer, used to rely upon Woolie heavily. Back in the day, as they say.”
“Yes. Yes. Yes.”
Mrs. Mayor laughed and looked to Harper. “Agreeable, isn’t he?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Harper was beginning to like Las Vegas. The city was full of interesting characters, it seemed.