by Jim Heskett
“If that’s true,” Olivia said, “then why are the two of you here in Michigan? Why are you visiting plastic surgeons who happen to turn up dead right within minutes after talking to you?”
“Oh, we already discussed that,” Jeremy said, “while you were out getting the soda. They’re here to see the sights. Right, Frank?”
“What we’re doing is none of your concern. You wanted to know if Micah is involved with his old people, and I’m telling you he’s not. There ain’t shit else to say about it.”
Olivia put a hand to her face and tugged at her lower lip. Chest slightly expanding and falling, her eyes narrowing at Frank.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The morning sun pierced through the break in the motel room curtains, slowly shifting a patch of light across the bedspread. Micah searched Frank’s phone, trying to think of who he could call. He almost dialed Anita Mueller but didn’t know how she would be able to help.
He dropped Frank’s phone and rubbed his face. Probably, Micah’s boss had gone out in the middle of the night to get a soda or something, and had been snatched. And given the way Frank had burst from the back door of the mall yesterday, it made sense that someone from that Crossroads gang had located them and kidnapped him. They’d only seen Frank, not Micah.
He had no choice but to return to the Dort Mall and get access to that casino. They might recognize him and they might not, but Micah had nowhere else to look. He couldn’t sit around here and wait for Frank’s lifeless body to be flung from the back of a car as it sped past the motel.
He left Frank’s phone on top of the television and grabbed the rental car keys. The thickness of the springtime humidity greeted him as he opened the door and stepped into the air. Denver was like the surface of the moon compared to Michigan.
He raced across town and connected with the Dort Highway to reach the mall. As he came near it, a fast food place caught his eye. Big John Steak and Onion. Must have been a local spot, because he’d never heard of it before.
Through the restaurant’s glass window, he spotted the three guys from the day before. Rourke, the big guy Ethan, and the long-haired blond one whose name Micah hadn’t caught. The three of them, sitting at a booth inside, holding sandwiches in front of their faces.
Maybe they all lived in this neighborhood, this wasteland of shady porno shops and gentlemen’s clubs. Maybe they were big steak and onion fans. Either way, whatever they wanted with this mall had nothing to do with Micah.
He drove into the parking lot and wasted a little time thinking about where to park. There was an exit to the casino leading out from the back of the mall, but entering that way would probably expose him too quickly. He needed to be inconspicuous if he wanted to learn anything.
Had Frank said how to access the casino from inside? If he had, Micah didn’t remember.
He parked on the front side of the mall and palmed the steering wheel, watching that pale ruffled awning sway in the breeze. He felt the nub of Boba Fett in his pocket, ran his fingers back and forth across it.
“Don’t know what we’re going to find in there, Boba.”
Boba Fett said nothing.
Micah ran a hand over his stubbly head, pushed the glasses up his nose, and left the car. When he pulled back one of the glass doors to enter the mall, he was immediately struck by the immense amount of crap everywhere. Hundreds of things were hanging on the walls, suspended from the ceiling, standing out in the open. Sports equipment, street signs, wooden statues. It was like the inside of some pawn shop owner’s garage.
“Holy crap, what is this place?” Micah said to no one. Literally no one, because he seemed to be the only person in the open area of this shopping mall. There was a little fast food joint to his right, but every other shopping space seemed to be closed.
Some voices echoed down the hall to his left, so he headed that way. A thin layer of dust coated the floor. Did no one even sweep?
A set of stairs in the middle of the wide hallway led down, so he followed them, but the door at the bottom was boarded up. No basement access that way. He thought about yanking the boards off and busting through the door, but that wouldn’t be inconspicuous, either.
The voices led him back up the stairs and to the end of the hallway, where he found one business actually open, a hockey sporting goods store. The red wheel-and-wings logo of the Detroit Red Wings everywhere. Lights on, employees walking around normally as if the rest of the mall weren’t on life support.
Micah entered the store and a kid in a polo shirt with a lanyard around his neck jogged up to him.
“Morning, sir. Can I help you?”
Micah had to make a quick decision. He had no idea how to find this entrance to the casino on his own, and maybe these employees knew about it. Maybe this hockey business was some front to keep the cops at bay.
“I’m looking for something you can’t find in the store.”
The kid raised an eyebrow and chirped an uncomfortable laugh. “Do you mean you want us to order something? We have a pretty big selection, maybe you should look around first.”
“No. I’m not looking to buy something. I’m looking to win something, if you know what I mean.”
The kid’s brow continued to crease further, and Micah started to think this had been a terrible idea. Maybe they didn’t know about the casino downstairs, as weird as that seemed.
“I’m not sure I understand,” the kid said.
“Yeah, I can see you don’t. Sorry to be all weird and cryptic. It’s just… is there someone else I can talk to, maybe someone who’s worked here for a long time?”
The kid frowned, then looked at the back and waved someone over. A man with a salt and pepper beard approached, and then shooed the kid away.
“Can I help you, sir?” the bearded man said. He had suspicion etched in the lines of his face.
“Yes. I’m looking for something you keep in the basement. Do you know what I’m talking about?”
The man’s expression fell. “You need to be a little more specific, sir. And I need to know who told you about what it is you’re asking for.”
Micah struggled to remember the name Frank had said, the guy who runs the casino. Harry? Henry?
Harvey.
“Harvey sent me,” Micah said. “I’m just looking to have some fun.”
“Are you with law enforcement?”
Funny how people asked that question and expected an honest response. Maybe that was some television myth that cops were compelled to identify themselves when asked. Like they had some contractual code of truth they’d agreed to live by. Curses. You’ve foiled my undercover operation because you were smart enough to ask, so now I have to tell you.
Micah shook his head.
The bearded man pursed his lips, breathing in and out as soft pop music warbled from unseen speakers. Eventually, he nodded. “Okay, sir. After me, please.”
Micah’s shoulders fell as the tension bled out of him. He followed the bearded man to the back of the store and into a gigantic office room. More random Americana piled everywhere in here, too.
The man pointed to a door in the back. “Right that way, sir.”
The employee disappeared back into the main store and shut the door behind him. Micah approached the door on the far side, his heart thudding against his rib cage. Trouble swallowing. He didn’t have much of a plan. Get in, find Frank, and then get out. But how? He didn’t have a gun, and he hadn’t brought anything else to use as a weapon, because he had to assume they would search him.
If Frank was being held in a back room somewhere, how would Micah get access to it? This was a casino, so they would obviously have lots of eyes everywhere.
Micah would have to figure something out in real time. If Frank died, then nothing else would matter. They had to reunite so they could get on with the business of figuring out who killed the lookalike and why. And also, so he could stop kicking himself for letting his mentor be kidnapped in the middle of the night.
He had to do
something.
His tennis shoes made no sound descending the stairs, and then he turned at the bottom to find a man sitting at a desk. Older, gray hair, broad chest and a solid wall of belly. Bushy eyebrows, like slugs hovering above his pupils. Looked like one of those old mafia tough guys.
The tough bushy-eyebrowed guy stood, and Micah could see the bulge of a gun underneath his suit coat.
“Are you lost?”
A self-conscious fear gripped him. Micah was wearing the fake contacts and glasses, but if his face sparked any amount of recognition, it wouldn’t take long for them to piece the rest together.
“No, I know where I am. Feeling lucky, wanted to turn that into more luck.”
“Do you mind if I ask how much money you have with you?”
“Um, sure,” Micah said as he reached for his wallet. Bushy Eyebrows flinched as Micah’s hand moved behind him, and Micah held up his free hand to show he meant no harm. “Just getting my cash.”
“Of course, sir.”
Micah pulled it out, not sure what he was going to find inside. The wallet answered back: two twenties and a few spare singles. He didn’t think that was quite enough to qualify him as a high roller.
“I’m mostly checking it out today,” he said as he flashed forty-three dollars at Bushy Eyebrows. “Some friends of mine and I are looking for a new spot since our last one went under.”
“And where was your old spot, sir?”
Micah cursed himself under his breath. Should have known the guy would ask that. “Not around here. Back in Denver. My friends and I are in town for a few weeks, and we need something fun to pass the time.”
The bouncer lifted his sleeve to his lips and whispered, then he tapped against a Bluetooth sticking from his ear. Nodded.
“Okay, sir, the password today is counterfeit.”
Micah almost laughed. Counterfeit, like the man lying on a slab, the one who had Micah’s same face. Had to be a coincidence, didn’t it? Or had this man already figured out who Micah looked like?
“Got it,” he said as Bushy Eyebrows stepped aside and motioned to the door. Micah didn’t give him another look as he proceeded beyond the tough guy and met the second level bouncer, who eyed him and asked for the password, then searched him before letting him pass through yet another door. The real casino was on the other side.
A wave of tobacco smoke made Micah’s eyes burn as soon as he entered the main room. Smelled like the musty brown stench of cigars. At least, the lights in the casino were so low that it didn’t seem like anyone would see his face.
Neither of the bouncers had looked at him with raised eyebrows, so perhaps they weren’t involved in the lookalike’s murder. Or maybe these people had never had anything to do with it. Micah was only here to find his boss, and anything else was secondary.
He took stock of the room. He didn’t care about the roulette tables or poker tables, the blinking lights of the slot machines, or the women escorting trays full of drinks. His eyes were on the walls and any doors he would find there. If Frank were here, he’d be in a back office somewhere.
A dozen men in suits with coils sprouting from their ears lined the walls and milled throughout the forty or fifty people gambling in clumps at various tables. Aside from the mechanical sounds of the slots and some chatter from the card dealers, it was relatively quiet. No music came from overhead speakers.
A young woman with bright blue eyes appeared out of nowhere, pushing a set of barely-contained fake breasts in Micah’s face. “What can I get you, hon?”
Micah had had plenty of experience saying no to alcohol in the seven months he’d been sober, and it was getting a little easier every time. Still made his mouth water, though. He still wished he could get angry at the girl for tempting him, but she didn’t know any better.
“Nothing for me.”
“You sure, hon? It’s on the house.”
“I’m sure. Thank you, though.”
She shrugged and left him, then Micah started to plan how he was going to slip near the outskirts of the room to investigate. All the gamblers in the room were at the tables or the slots, which were clustered in the center of the room. No one was hanging out on the fringes. Most of the wall area was shrouded in darkness. But Micah knew he couldn’t just walk the length of the room with impunity, trying to open locked doors. Someone would notice.
His best bet would be to try to make it look like he was surveying the tables, trying to discern which one was his best chance to make money. If they questioned him, that’s what he would say.
The room was spacious. It appeared to run most of the length of the mall. It might take him a couple minutes to circle all the way around. He started at an illuminated area with a cashier behind a locked cage, and he asked for twenty bucks worth of chips.
The middle-aged woman behind the counter frowned at him. “Are you sure, sir? The lowest limit at the tables is ten. Maybe you would like the quarter slots better.”
“I’m just taking it all in. If I like it, I’ll be back later.”
She glanced over Micah’s shoulder, and he resisted the urge to peak around to see what she’d been looking at. If they were on to him already, he’d have to make a hasty exit.
She handed two white chips to him, and Micah held them up, smiling at her. But he had to force the smile because he felt increasingly stupid for having come down here into this basement casino. Someone was going to question him, and soon.
When Micah turned around, he found out exactly how soon.
Before him stood a giant of a man, with shoulders that seemed wide enough to give him trouble walking through doorways. Head clean-shaven, beady eyes, and the tiny hint of a faded tattoo of a swastika just above the collar of his shirt. Prison type tattoo. Micah had seen a few of them applied in his short stint in the protective custody wing of the prison where he’d done his time.
“Hello,” came the man’s deep and booming voice. “Are you enjoying yourself, Mr…”
“Templeton,” Micah said. “Roland Templeton.”
“Well, Mr. Templeton, my name is Harvey. This is my room.”
A little pause followed, and Micah realized he was supposed to say something. “Well… thank you for having me here.”
“I don’t mean to be rude, but something tells me you’re not here to gamble.”
Micah froze, didn’t know what to say. And while he was thinking, he noticed Harvey flexing his giant Aryan hands, the veins on his wrists turning into rivers.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Olivia opened the door of the motel room as she ended her phone conversation. If she didn’t have to spend so much time checking in and explaining herself to her superiors, maybe she could get some real work done. Always left a bad taste in her mouth.
Jeremy was still leaning against the dresser, gun in his hand. Frank was in the bed. His hand at his side, a grimace on his face.
“Everything okay?” Jeremy said.
“More or less,” Olivia said as she set her phone and purse on top of the air conditioner. “We’re good.” She gave Frank a look. “What’s going on with you? Why are you making that face?”
“Pain in my side, like a Doberman biting me every few seconds. Got serious a couple minutes ago.”
Jeremy cleared his throat. “We didn’t poison you, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“I didn’t say that you did. But since you didn’t, do you have any Pepto? Maalox?”
Olivia shook her head. “I don’t think so. But you can go get your own.” She stepped away from the door, leaving Frank a clear path to it. “Jeremy will drive you back to your motel. If you’re ready to go, that is.”
Jeremy stood and slipped his gun into a dresser drawer.
Frank chewed on his lower lip, eying the space between the bed and the door. “That’s it? Even though I know who you people are, you’re just going to let me go?”
“We’re not bad people, Mr. Mueller,” she said. “You’ve convinced me that Micah Reed isn’
t back to his old ways, and so we don’t have anything further to ask you about. Now that we’re done here, you can get back to seeing the sights.”
Jeremy forced a smile. “We appreciate your time this morning. I know we must have put a scare into you, but as one professional to another, I hope there are no hard feelings.”
Frank mulled this over, then he tossed back the bedsheet and stood. The grimace on his face turned sour. He moaned and swayed on his feet, teeth clenched.
“Maybe we should skip the motel and take you to the hospital,” Jeremy said.
Frank held up a hand. “No, I’m fine. Probably all those donuts I ate yesterday. Should have known better.”
He gave one last glance at the both of them, still not trusting it. Olivia stepped further away from the door to help him understand that she wasn’t going to bum rush him when he tried to leave.
As Frank lurched to the door, Jeremy opened it for him. “I’ll meet you down in front of the motel office. Give me two minutes.”
Frank put his head down and then slipped out to the breezeway, and waddled down to the stairs. Jeremy watched him go.
Olivia shut the door. “What’s up?”
“Do you want me to actually take Frank back to his motel?”
“Sure. I don’t see any reason to kill him. I’ll check out here and meet you back at our hotel in an hour.”
Jeremy scrunched his face. “Then I’m not sure I understand why we bothered to pick him up. Seems like an extra variable that could complicate everything.”
“Possibly, but I think it’s more likely it works out to our advantage and speeds up the timeline. If Micah is clean, then we move on to phase two.”
His face relaxed, realization brightening his eyes. Jeremy could be a little slow to catch on sometimes.
“Do you think Frank bought it?” he said. “Our motivations for investigating Micah, I mean. We did lay it on thick with those questions about Tyson Darby. Seemed like a bit of a reach to be so curious about his criminal past.”
Olivia hitched her purse over her shoulder and checked to make sure the safety on her pistol was engaged. “It doesn’t matter what he believes. We need to keep in mind two things.” She held up a finger. “What we’re doing here is important. When it’s all said and done, our actions are going to save lives.”
