Dark Sundays

by Donn Cortez

  “I was just—do you always wear that blanket?”

  The man chuckled. “I get cold sometimes, especially in the morning. Then I forget to take it off. It’s a silly habit, I know.”

  “Have you been working all day?”

  “Sí. I have.”

  Catherine pulled out a picture of John Bannister and Theria Kostapolis. “Have you seen these two?”

  The gardener’s eyes widened with recognition. “Ah! Yes, the lovers. They were very sweet—a little strange, but sweet.”

  “What happened?”

  “They approached me as I was working. They asked me if I was—how did they put it?—if this place was my home. I laughed and said I spent so much time here, it might as well be.”

  “Did they ask you for anything?”

  The gardener smiled. “Oh, yes. They asked me to marry them. I tried to protest that I was not a priest, but they were very insistent.”

  “So. Did you?”

  The man shrugged. “I thought, what was the harm? All they wanted was a few words, and words are free. So I laughed, and I put my hands on their heads, and told them they were married.” He shook his head. “They seemed very. . . troubled. I thought maybe I could make them smile.”

  “Don’t be too hard on yourself. They weren’t looking for happy.”

  “Oh, I make the man smile. The woman, she still seemed sad.”

  “Did they tell you anything about where they were going next?”

  The gardener frowned in thought. “Not really. I made a joke about the honeymoon, and the man said they had high hopes for it. That’s all.”

  “High hopes?” said Catherine.

  “Sí.”

  She wished she had the same.

  17

  NICK DUSTED THE INSIDE OF the crane’s cab for prints and lifted a bunch. He’d have to call the construction company for exemplars so he could eliminate anyone on the work crew.

  Greg collected all of the shards at the impact site, then bagged the cut chain on the gate as well. They took it all back to the lab.

  They surveyed everything they’d collected, laid out on the light table: white plastic fragments of various sizes and shapes, the chain, the empty tanks.

  “Well,” said Nick, “tests on the cylinders confirm that they held hydrogen and helium, which supports our theory of the dirigible being launched from the construction-site roof. But these fragments of pipe are the only evidence of an air cannon.”

  “They must have just dropped it from the roof and picked up whatever they could from where it landed,” said Greg. “There’s so much other junk lying around, they probably figured no one would notice a few pieces of shattered plastic.”

  Nick frowned. “Still, it’s a little sloppy. Considering how elaborate this whole setup is, it’s hard to believe they’d slip up on something like this.”

  Greg shrugged. “Doesn’t surprise me, actually. People with grandiose schemes never want to think about cleaning up afterward; they’re all about the ‘big picture.’ Good thing, too—makes our job easier.”

  “Let’s hope so.”

  They went to work, examining every shard for evidence. Greg carefully dusted each piece, hoping to find a usable print; Nick concentrated on looking for transfer or tool marks.

  “You know, I used to love the circus as a kid,” said Nick. “I always wanted to be a trapeze artist.”

  “Not me,” said Greg. “Actually, I always found the whole thing kind of creepy. When I think of circuses, I think of bearded women and guys with no legs.”

  “Those are carnivals, not circuses. Circuses haven’t done freak shows in a long time.”

  “Really? I wouldn’t be too sure about that. I just read about a circus in Italy that was using two Bulgarian women as live bait in animal acts.”

  Nick put down his shard. “Live bait?”

  “That’s the best description I can come up with. Two sisters, one nineteen and one sixteen. The circus owners forced one of them to swim in a tank with live piranhas and the other to handle snakes. One had to be treated for snake bites and constriction injuries; the other one had a medical condition that meant she had to avoid swimming in cold water. That didn’t stop the owners from forcing her head underwater in a tank they kept just above freezing.”

  Nick shook his head. “That’s not a circus. That’s just human cruelty on display.”

  “More like indentured servitude. The sisters’ parents worked for the circus, too, and all of them were paid virtually nothing and given tiny, filthy living quarters. Most of their wages went to what their employers called ‘operating expenses.’ ”

  “Wish I could say I’d never heard a story like that before,” said Nick. “Young girls from a Third World country, made to perform dangerous or degrading work for little to no pay, given a place to live that was little more than a dirty cage? Unfortunately, I’ve seen that play out a few too many times.”

  “Human trafficking,” said Greg. “Yeah. And when they busted the owners, they actually seemed surprised. Like, ‘Hey, it wasn’t like we’d put them on the street or anything.’ ”

  “Guys like that just don’t get it. Not until guys like us catch them.”

  “Which is why I’d much rather be in a lab than under a big top.”

  Nick smiled. “That’s hard to argue with. Guess I picked the right profession after all.”

  They found no usable prints, but the shards did yield a number of tool marks, as did the chain. “Looks like they used a Dremel tool to cut the pipe to size,” said Nick.

  “The lock was snipped off,” said Greg. “Metal shears of some kind. If we can find either the shears or the Dremel, we’ve got a case.”

  “I think I’ve got a pretty good idea where we should look for them, too. The only problem is getting a judge to sign off on a search warrant based on this evidence. I mean, even I have a hard time believing in this theory.”

  Greg shrugged. “All we can do is try.”

  The Honorable Judge Alden Mayerling was not known for his patience. A tall man with ebony skin and a lean, bony face, he was called Judge Skully behind his back by both prosecutors and defense attorneys alike. It had as much to do with his attitude as his appearance—Judge Mayerling was about as skeptical as they came.

  He stared at Greg Sanders and Nick Stokes where they sat on the long, black leather couch in his chambers. He put down the warrant request he’d just finished reading, then pushed it away from him with one finger. “Gentlemen,” he said, his voice as deep and serious as a grave, “I have to congratulate you.”

  Greg swallowed. “Thank you?”

  Nick cleared his throat, then said, “Your Honor, I know our evidence is a little. . . unusual, but—”

  Mayerling held up a skeletal hand, and Nick stopped.

  “Unusual? Let’s see if I have this right. You want to search a circus trailer.”

  “Well, yes—” Nick answered.

  “Because you believe you’ll find tools and/or supplies linked to an arson in a Las Vegas parking lot.”

  “That’s right,” said Greg.

  “So far, all eminently within the domain of sanity. Now, the arson; this was caused by a small-scale zeppelin—piloted by a robot clown—that crashed and burned. Said zeppelin was launched from the roof of a nearby construction site, for the express purpose of distracting the attendees of a rooftop party at the neighboring building.” He paused and looked at them, one at a time. Nick did his best to smile, while Greg coughed and looked away.

  “Yes, sir,” said Nick.

  “Distracting them from the human cannonball.”

  “I know how it sounds,” said Nick.

  “The human cannonball being fired a hundred and fifty feet through the air, twenty stories up.”

  “It’s really not that far-fetched,” said Greg weakly.

  “Thereby landing in the pool at the party without being noticed, allowing him to give two of his accomplices entry to said party.” The judge paused, looking
at them expectantly.

  “Correct,” Nick managed.

  “Well, you’ve laid out all the details quite thoroughly—up to that point. Afterward, it gets a little vague. Perhaps you could clear up the reason for all of this elaborate subterfuge on the part of your suspects?”

  “Not. . . really,” Nick admitted. “We’re still working on the reason for the crime itself. I mean, as CSIs, our job is to find facts, not uncover motivations—”

  “The reason for the crime? I thought it was intended as a distraction.”

  “Well, yes,” said Greg. “That’s why the arson was staged. But that’s only an incidental crime—the case is actually much bigger.”

  One of Mayerling’s thin eyebrows went up. “Oh? And what sort of crime do you think this is ultimately leading to?”

  “We. . . don’t know,” said Nick.

  There was a moment of silence.

  “And there were bears,” Greg blurted.

  Mayerling’s other eyebrow joined the first. Nick put his head in his hands.

  “As I said,” Mayerling continued, “congratulations. When it comes to getting a search warrant issued, I have seen attempts that were half-assed, attempts that were desperate, attempts that were based on logic so flimsy they could have been the basis for a Hollywood movie. I have also seen attempts at humor. This particular document, though, is the first time I have seen such a bizarre, completely improbable, thoroughly unbelievable set of circumstances so diligently and painstakingly documented. You two are either the most brazen con artists the Nevada legal system has ever seen, or just had the bad luck to draw the strangest case ever to cross my desk. In either case, I can’t find fault with your facts—they may be outlandish, but you’ve supported your conclusions every step of the way. I’m going to give you your search warrant.”

  Nick raised his head. Greg opened his mouth, then shut it again. “You are?” he said.

  “I may be a hard-ass, Mr. Sanders, but that doesn’t mean I have a closed mind. Good luck.”

  Sara took another bite of her veggie burger, grimaced, then put it down on the passenger seat next to her. “These things were definitely not made to be eaten cold,” she muttered.

  She was in one of the lab’s Denalis, parked down the street from the souvenir shop Barry the tattoo artist had pointed her at. She’d been watching the place for a while, seeing tourists come and go. Every now and then, someone would wander in who didn’t seem to belong; sometimes these people would come back out in a few minutes, sometimes they stayed longer. One didn’t come out for almost an hour, and he hadn’t appeared to have bought a thing. She knew these customers were probably going upstairs, to the real business the souvenir shop was only a front for.

  Sitting in a vehicle and observing wasn’t all that different from her old habit of monitoring the police band on a scanner at home, something she used to do as kind of a hobby. But observing was about all she could do without a warrant, and a few sketchy-looking customers wasn’t enough to call a judge.

  So she’d called someone else instead.

  She needed to find whoever had rented that hotel room in the Panhandle. Locating them, Sara suspected, would uncover even more—including a motive for the whole chain of events.

  But so far, all she had were suspicions. She needed evidence.

  A rap at the window got her attention. She turned to see Jim Brass standing there, bending down. She rolled down the window.

  “Hey, sailor,” said Brass. “New in town?”

  She sighed. “No, but I am a little out of my depth. Thanks for coming by.”

  He opened the door, picked up the burger from the seat, and got in. “You kidding? Grissom would have my brain in a jar if I let anything happen to you. So where’s the plastic factory?”

  “A few doors down. Over Les Vega’s Gift and Boutique.”

  “Les Vega? Cute. Barry steered you here?” Brass eyed the burger and said, “You know, these are terrible cold.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t have a lot of experience when it comes to stakeouts.”

  Brass shrugged. “Waste not, want not.” He took a bite of the burger. “So, I take it you have no real reason to bust the place.”

  “Not a one. I was hoping you might have an idea.”

  “I might. You know what’s good on a stakeout? Pizza. Keeps forever, good cold, lots of protein. Easy to eat with one hand. You can even get it delivered, though I wouldn’t recommend that while sitting on someone’s house. Tends to be a bit of a giveaway.”

  “I’ll remember that for next time.”

  Brass popped the last bite of the burger into his mouth. “Hey, you ever do that thing where you order a bunch of pizzas to somebody else’s place? The height of college humor. Nothing says funny like wasting a bunch of cheese, dough, tomato sauce, and the delivery guy’s time.”

  “No, I don’t think I ever did.”

  Brass mock-frowned at her. “The pizza gag’s an evergreen, but even an evergreen needs updating now and then. Can you hang on a second? I’ll be right back.”

  By the time Sara opened her mouth, he was already shutting the door. She watched him walk up to one of the men lining the sidewalk handing out cards that advertised local escort services and hold out his hand.

  Brass did the same thing for every one of the card vendors, walking to the end of the street and then turning around and coming back. He got back into the car and fanned them out in front of him like a magician displaying a trick. “Hey, this is just like collecting baseball cards,” he said. “Except a lot cheaper, and every player is an All-Star. Well, okay, they only have stars over certain parts, but those are pretty important parts—”

  “Jim. What does this have to do with a Russian identity-theft ring?”

  “Identity theft? Oh, no, I think you’re mistaken. What’s going on above that souvenir shop is obviously a house of ill repute—which, despite the beliefs of certain uninformed tourists, is still illegal in Clark County. Why, I’m sure I saw five—no, six—obvious prostitutes all go in there at the same time.”

  He studied the handful of cards critically as he pulled out a cell phone. “Now, the question is, which six. . . how about this one? She looks friendly.”

  Sara grinned.

  The cards all promised prompt service, most within twenty minutes. They waited until the last one arrived—a tardy twelve minutes late—before they got out of the Denali and walked over to the souvenir shop. By that time, the people over the shop had figured out what was going on and had escorted the confused escorts back down the stairs, where they milled in an irritated, scantily dressed knot in the doorway, complaining loudly about cab fare and waving their cell phones in the air.

  “Ladies, ladies,” said Brass, holding his hands up for calm as he approached. “There’s obviously been some sort of mix-up. Maybe I can help?”

  Their reaction was varied. A few tried to gauge his value as a replacement customer, one or two immediately transferred all blame—quite rightly—to him, and the others tried to bolt. Brass stopped them by pulling out his badge. “Hold it, ma’am. You, too. Did you all just come from upstairs?”

  The replies were both loud and contradictory, but Brass just nodded. “I see. Well, clearly, I’ll have to check this out as a possible unlicensed and illegal establishment. If you girls wouldn’t mind waiting here, I’ll be right back.”

  He nodded to Sara. She pulled out her gun, and so did Brass.

  By the time they set foot on the stairs, most of the girls had vanished; the ones too clueless to leave were being dragged by the arm by those with more experience.

  The stairwell was dim, illuminated only by a single flickering fluorescent. They were halfway up when the door at the top opened and a large, bearded man appeared in the doorway. “I thought I told you whores—” he began.

  Brass leveled his gun at the man with one hand and put a finger to his lips with the other. He’d slipped his ID into his outside breast pocket so the badge was visible.

&
nbsp; The man stared at them for a long moment. Brass took another quick step up, hugging the far side of the wall while Sara stayed flat against the other.

  The man dove backward, out of sight.

  “Las Vegas Police! Nobody move!” Brass yelled, leaping up the last two steps. Sara was right behind him, and when she reached the top of the stairs she stayed low, throwing herself prone on the floor.

  Quick scan of room: table heaped with cellophane-wrapped bundles the size and shape of decks of cards. Several open laptops, some kind of machine like an oversized waffle maker. Couch with torn upholstery against one wall, galley kitchen in back, thin man with glasses and surprised look on face standing beside fridge. Bearded man snatching something lying on chair—

  Gun.

  Brass fired first. The bullet took the man in the chest, knocking him backward. The gun, a machine pistol, tumbled from his hands, landing at the feet of the thin man. He had a sandwich in one hand.

  “Don’t move,” snapped Brass.

  The man swallowed. “Can I put my sandwich down?”

  “Sure,” said Brass. “See, that’s the advantage of a stakeout versus a criminal enterprise. We get to send out for pizza, while they’re stuck in here making sandwiches. What is that, baloney?”

  “Corned beef.”

  Sara got up carefully, covering Brass while he cuffed the man still standing. She moved to the bathroom door—it was open, and there was nobody inside. “We’re clear.”

  “Well, corned beef is pretty good,” Brass admitted. “Come on, we’ll go down to the station and discuss the relative merits of French mustard versus German. You’re Russian, you should have an interesting perspective.”

  “I’m not Russian. I’m from Carson City,” the man said.

  “Yeah? Well, welcome to Vegas.”

  Illarion Shayduko yanked open the door to his trailer and glared at Nick and Greg, a cigarette dangling from his lips. “What now?”

  “Mr. Shayduko,” said Nick. “I’ve got a search warrant for your trailer and workshop. Can you step outside, please?”

  Shayduko squinted at Nick, took a long drag from his cigarette without moving his hands, then exhaled the smoke through his nose. “I wondered when you would be back,” he said. “One moment.” He slammed the door shut.