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any luck locating William, the helicopter pilot?”
    “I wish. The whole world wants to talk to him. I keep calling him on the radio. I’ve even tried his cell, but he doesn’t respond.”
    I knew the answer, but I had to ask. “Why are you calling him? Isn’t he back yet?”
    “He never came back.”
    Ever hopeful, I asked, “Does the FAA have any reports of a crash nearby?”
    “No, ma’am.”
    Bummer. Of course Willie couldn’t have just crashed and burned, saving me the trouble of tracking him down. He never was helpful that way.
    I glanced at my watch—12:35 A.M. A bit under four hours since Lyda Sue hit the lagoon. I didn’t know how much fuel Willie’d had onboard the helicopter, but it couldn’t have been more than three hours’ worth. I thought I remembered Willie explaining they usually went light on the fuel so they could carry more paying customers.
    Willie the Weasel had vanished.
    And he took our friggin’ helicopter.
    AS the elevator doors opened and I headed for Delilah’s Bar, a wall of sound hit me. The night in full swing, gaggles of folks wandered about, drinks clutched tightly. Of course, it could have been any time of day or night in the windowless, hermetically sealed casino. Casinos are designed to trap gamblers and keep them wagering until they dropped, and, in our case, that strategy seemed to be working. With flashing lights, snippets of music, and an occasional siren, the slot machines vied with each other for players. The tables were all in play, with people packed at least two deep around each. Other folks wandered between the tables and the machines.Glasses in hand, they ogled the other wanderers, apparently looking for a different kind of entertainment. Energy shimmered off the crowd.
    The air was so full of smoke it amazed me anyone could breathe the stuff and actually survive. My eyes watered, and my lungs screamed. Ah, Vegas!
    So, how was I going to find a missing helicopter? I hadn’t a clue, but I knew it wouldn’t be easy. Vegas was a tiny oasis in a vast desert. The Weasel could have refueled and be halfway to L.A. by now.
    Think, O’Toole. How would the FAA look for a missing aircraft?
I had no idea, but I knew who might. As I navigated toward the bar, I keyed my Nextel. To be heard over the din, I held it close to my mouth. “Dane, are you there?”
    His response was quick. “This is Dane, over.”
    “Lucky, here.”
    “Lucky me.”
    “Truer words were never spoken. You’re a pilot, right?” I thought I remembered Jerry telling me something about Dane’s military service that included flying. I hoped I remembered right.
    “Yeah.”
    “Would you have any idea how to find a missing helicopter?”
    “I’m already on it. I figured the guy might get scared and bolt. I’ve put in a few calls and am waiting to hear back. Shouldn’t be long. Can you give me fifteen minutes or so and I’ll get back to you?”
    “Sure. I’ll be in Delilah’s with Mr. Fujikara.”
    “Roger.”
    DELILAH’S Bar was a comfy oasis set on a raised platform smack in the middle of the casino. Here, surrounded by palm trees and trellises of trailing bougainvillea, one could rest from the rigors of wagering, slake thirst, fortify resolve and hit the ATM. The stench of the tropical flowers diluted the natural, organic purity of the cigarette aroma, and hit me in the face as I teetered up the steps. Someone had definitely gone a bit overboard on the flowers.
    Mr. Fujikara and his three friends rose as I approached. Theywere all short men. In these heels, their eyes were level with my chest. I think that was part of the game we played. Standing there surrounded by short men reminded me of junior high school; I was an Amazon and everyone else, especially the boys, were pygmies. I stifled that familiar feeling of awkwardness as I dropped into a small bow. “Mr. Fujikara, how nice to see you again.”
    “Ms. O’Toole,” he said as he bowed in return then motioned to the chair next to