He saw patients stretched out on beds in their rooms as he passed through the maze of corridors. Nurses tending to them. Anxious family members sitting beside them. As he had done.

He got lost and had to ask for directions, and the nurse was pleasant and patient, pointing him to where he had to go. When he found it, the door was closed, and Stride hovered outside nervously, not sure if he should knock or go in or wait in the corridor. He wasn’t used to being indecisive, but places like this sapped his strength.

The door opened suddenly, and a man appeared in the doorway, almost filling it.

“I’m sorry,” Stride said, feeling stupid, holding flowers. “I was looking for Amanda Gillen.”

The man nodded. He was at least six-foot-five, and Stride had to confess he was one of the most strikingly handsome men he had ever seen, as if he had come to life from the pages of an Abercrombie & Fitch catalog. Early thirties. Perfect features. Clothes that fit as if they had been sewn for him.

“She’s in here,” the man said. “I’m Bobby.”

Stride tried not to gape. “You’re Bobby?”

He wasn’t sure how he had pictured Amanda’s boyfriend, but certainly not like some male god.

“Are you Stride?” Bobby asked. “It’s great to meet you.”

They shook hands. He had a rock-hard grip.

“I want to thank you for being so supportive of her,” Bobby said. “I don’t have to tell you, you’re the first.”

“She’s a great cop,” Stride said. He found himself adding, “A great woman, too.”

Bobby smiled. “That’s nice.”

“Can I see her?”

“Sure, go on in. I was going for coffee.” He added, “She’s better than she looks. It’ll take her a while to get back on her feet, but she’s going to make it.”

“I’m very relieved.”

“She’s a little groggy from the morphine, but she can talk.”

“I won’t stay long,” Stride said.

Bobby headed off down the corridor, and Stride noticed the nurses’ eyes following him.

Stride went inside. He was careful to close the door behind him. When he went around the other side of the curtain, his heart seized. He knew Amanda was going to recover, but the sight of her there, motionless and pale, was an instant reminder of Cindy. A battery of devices measured her vital signs and fed them back on LED monitors. A tube across her face blew oxygen into her nose, and another tube was buried in her chest. She had an IV drip taped to her hand. Her hair was limp against the pillow, and her eyes were closed. The wrinkled white sheet was bunched at her waist.

He sat down on the chair next to the bed. He didn’t say anything, because he didn’t want to wake her. Tearsfilledhis eyes. It was an automatic reaction. He choked up, consumed by the past.

“Hey.”

He saw her watching him. Her voice was weak, as if it were a struggle to draw the air into her lungs and push it out. She had tired, heavy eyes.

Stride reached over and squeezed her hand. “Bobby tells me you’re going to be okay.”

“Hurts like hell,” Amanda said.

“That’s God’s way of telling you to call for backup next time”

She was able to move her hand enough to give him the finger. Stride laughed.

“I hear two of the nurses fainted when they stripped you for the OR,” he added.

Her lips puckered into a smile. “Ha ha.”

“You had me scared.”

“Sorry.”

“Bobby told you we got him?”

She nodded and gave him a thumbs-up with a loose fist.

“There’s more,” he said. Stride glanced at the door to make sure it was closed, then spent the next few minutes explaining everything else that had happened. About Boni. About Mickey. About the confrontation that he and Serena had had with them the previous night. She deserved to know the secrets.

When he was done, Amanda pointed a finger weakly at him and whispered, “You got balls.”

“So do you.” Stride laughed so hard he thought he would fall off the chair, and he felt a surge of happiness and relief. It sank in. She was really going to be fine. Amanda couldn’t laugh, but she smiled along with him, enjoying it.

“Wanna see?” she asked, as she had asked him the first time they met.

“No thanks, Amanda.”

“Chicken.”

Her eyes were fluttering closed. She was getting tired. “I’ll let you rest,” Stride said, getting up to leave.

“Serena?” Amanda asked groggily.

“She’s fine.”

Amanda took a deep breath, and Stride saw her flinch in pain. A few seconds passed, and then she held herself awake long enough to say, “You?”

There were many ways to take that. How was he after nearly losing his life and coming face to face with the sins of the city? How was he after his lover slept with another woman? How was he in dealing with the choice that was eating away at his gut: to stay or go?

Stride didn’t answer. It was easier that way. He let her fall back asleep, her chest rising and falling, her heart rate slowing on the monitor behind her. He crept from the room silently, closing the door behind him. Bobby was seated in a lounge across the corridor, with a cup of coffee in one hand and a magazine in the other. He looked up as Stride came out, and Stride mouthed, “Sleeping.” Bobby nodded.

Stride heard his cell phone ringing. One of the nurses looked at him sharply, and he nodded in apology. “I’m a police officer,” he said.

He found a quiet corner to answer the phone. “Stride.”

“Detective, my name is Flora Capati,” a woman said, her voice bright and foreign-accented. “I run a senior care facility in Boulder City. The Las Vegas police gave me your number.”

Stride was puzzled. “How can I help you, Ms. Capati?”

“It’s one of my residents. Her name is Beatrice. She’s been beside herself the last two days, and I promised I would call you in order to calm her down. She insists you’re making a terrible mistake.”

“A mistake?” Stride asked. “About what?”

“Well, Beatrice claims she knew Amira Luz.”

FIFTY-FIVE

The crowd gathered like bloodthirsty witnesses to a hanging, ready for the Sheherezade to fall. Thousands of them trampled on the parking lot and green lawns of the Las Vegas Hilton, their eyes riveted on the old hotel across the street. They pushed and shoved for a better view and kept checking their watches. It was almost high noon. Hanging time.

The street was closed, traffic rerouted to the east and west a quarter mile away. The gawkers were cordoned off at a safe distance, away from the danger zone but close enough to see the action. Helicopters hovered overhead with their cameras poised, delivering a live feed for the lunchtime news. Stride could smell steak grilling and realized that dozens of people in the Charlcombe Towers were giving barbecue parties and staring at the spectacle from their balconies. Everyone was a voyeur today.

No doubt Boni was up there, too, alone on the top floor, with a drink in his hand, missing the spotlight. Waiting for his little girl. Saying good-bye to Amira one last time.

It was a beautiful day for an execution. The wind was still. The faces on the demolition team showed nervous excitement. They were pros who had done this dozens of times before, but the last few minutes before that little spark of electricity jumped through the wires had to be nerve-racking, no matter how much planning had gone into the job.

Radios chirped. The site was clear, ready to go.

“Where is she?” Serena asked, standing beside him. She looked around at the crowd with unease.

“She’ll be here,” Stride said. “It’s part of the show.”

As if on cue, a ripple of noise ran through the crowd. There was a car on the closed-off street, a limousine slowly rolling down the center of Paradise Road. It eased to a stop, and the driver hurried around to open the passenger door.

Claire climbed out of the limousine and blinked. Flashbulbs popped. Voices cheered. She seemed taken aback for a moment, and then she smiled and waved, looking every inch the performer. The new executive, cool and confident, who was probably wondering if she could make it to the stage without throwing up.