Private Vegas by James Patterson Read Free Book Online Page B

in the background, both directions. When the road was clear, a figure got out of the backseat and ran toward Jack’s Lambo.
    “Here we go,” said Cruz.
    Scotty tried to refine the image, but no amount of fine-tuning brought up the shadowy figure’s face. Still, they could see what he was doing: making chiseling motions on the rear flank of the car.
    “He’s doing something with the gas tank,” said Scotty.
    “I see that. And now where is he?” Cruz said.
    Scotty reversed the clip, played it forward, saw the guy linger near the tank, then duck behind the car and disappear; he was out of sight for four seconds.
    “I think he’s putting a charge under the chassis. This was planned,” Scotty said. “Well planned.”
    “So was this a plan to torch
a
car?” Cruz mused. “Or a plan to torch
Jack’
s car?”
    “Look here, Emilio. There’s your fire,” Scotty said as flames flashed from beneath the car.
    The dark figure fled from the Lambo and ran to the car waiting for him on the shoulder, which started up before he’d closed the rear door. A moment later, the sedan was gone, and the fire was lapping over the fenders of Jack’s quarter-million-dollar car.
    “Shit,” said Cruz. “There’s Jack.”
    The two men stared, mesmerized, as Jack came out of his house and watched his car burn. He just stood there until, moments later, the car went up and Jack was blown off his feet.
    “Some kind of timing device. What do you think?” Scotty said, stabbing the Stop button.
    Cruz said, “I think if there’s any evidence on the remains of that Lamborghini, it’s going to be a miracle.”

Chapter 17

     
    DR. SCI ARRIVED at Private’s underground lot at just after two in the afternoon. He nosed his 1967 Spider into his spot, then extracted his silver Halliburton case from the passenger seat and went to the back door to Private’s forensic lab that ran underneath half of the building.
    Standing at the entrance, Sci reached up, touched the mezuzah in the doorframe, then pressed his hand to the biometric plate. The doors opened, admitting him to the airlock, and closed with a whisper behind him.
    The metal and explosives detectors scanned him, and after Sci had spent twenty seconds under the UV light, the second set of doors opened and he stepped into the clean, cool, well-lit lab.
    He paused inside the entrance, did a quick check of the various stations around the perimeter of the large room. Criminologists wearing lab coats worked in their bays, which were equipped with the best forensic tools in the world.
    Sci waved to Mo-bot, who was crossing the room with a sound tech, then entered his glass-walled office at the hub. His computer recognized him and flashed on. He set his briefcase on a tabletop, removed the flask he was transporting, and read his e-mail.
    About ten years earlier, when Dr. Sci, whose given name was Seymour Kloppenberg, was twenty, he had graduated from MIT with a PhD.
    LA County, still recovering from the humiliation of the O.J. Simpson trial, had refurbished its forensic lab to the tune of a hundred million dollars, and Dr. Sci was hired right out of school.
    Sci was rotated around the numerous forensic disciplines—DNA, trace analysis, toxicology, ballistics—so he could find his niche. But during this training program, Jack Morgan heard about Sci and offered him a job as chief forensic scientist and head of Private’s lab. He told Sci that he wanted the lab to become a profit center.
    Sci had been dubious. No independent lab could match the county’s facilities.
    Jack said, “It’s yours to outfit, Sci. I want only the best of everything. And I’ll make you an equity partner.”
    Sci was sold on this rare and terrific opportunity. He equipped and staffed Private’s new lab one division at a time. He cut no corners. And soon, law enforcement departments from all over the country hired Private’s lab when they required impeccable work done fast.
    Of course, Private’s clients came