The Biggest Little Crime In The World

by Brent Kroetch

  “I’d run that one past Russ,” he suggested. “He might be thinking more in the way of monetary and other rewards, access to fame, a ticket to a live concert, a ride on his plane, something like that, for instance.”

  “Yeah,” she nodded, “he’s pretty selfish, if you ask me. I mean, come on, the doctor wouldn’t rather get a little than take the cash and run?”

  Ham’s gratitude at her little girl happiness in turn warmed his insides. “Thank you, God,” he whispered to himself. “On behalf of her, on behalf of me, hell, on behalf of the entire damn world. Though that’s probably not appropriate language in a prayer, but no mind. You know what I mean. Let there be light.”

  10

  CONNECTED

  Ham leaned back against the leather in the rear of Jesse’s cab, watching but not seeing the passing neon lights that littered the inner city of Reno. His mind, what there was of it, he mused, refused to admit the evidence of his eyes and instead remained fixated on his recent conversation with Lieutenant Karl Neely over at Reno PD. Despite his off duty status, Neely had, at Ham’s insistence, agreed to meet up with him at Barton Mellows.

  Though Ham had not revealed a lot, preferring to do so in person rather than impersonally over a phone, he had let slip that Larry Pendleton may not be the bad apple cop they had feared. That little tidbit, the bait used to lure him in, had pushed Neely out the door and on his way to the late night meet.

  As per habit, Ham let his mind wander over the case, the highs and lowlights thereof, in search of a hidden clue. So concentrated were his thoughts that he nearly missed it.

  “Wait,” he shouted over the din of the radio, the traffic and the bustling activity of the thriving downtown. “The news. Turn it up. What did she just say?”

  “Repeating, one of the victims of the downtown shootings earlier today has died from his wounds. Captain Reynolds, speaking for the Reno PD, issued the following statement.”

  We are aware of the death of Liam Waterson from the assassination attempt on Virginia Street early today. Mr. Waterson was a well-known figure in the gaming industry in Nevada and elsewhere, and while we at this time are pursuing several leads, we have no suspects in custody. We are asking the public, anybody who may have been at the scene of the shooting and witnessed anything, anything at all, no matter how big or how small, to give us a call, to come in and make a statement.

  The newswoman spoke again at the end of the captain’s announcement with a continuation of her own report. “The captain took no questions and details of Mr. Waterson’s death are as yet unknown. No information has been released, either by the hospital or the family of the deceased. We will, of course, cut into this broadcast if any additional specifics are forthcoming. In other news—”

  Jesse snapped off the radio and sighed. Over his shoulder, he remarked to Ham, “Lord, are the bullets going to fly. There’ll be nowhere for those punks to hide. It’s gonna be war now for sure. Whoever ordered that hit also placed a hit on the peace and reputation of our good state, by god in heaven.” He spat out the window, then spat out the words. “Mother-loving sons of bitches.”

  Curiosity bit at Ham, forced him to ask. “I take it you know who Waterson is. Have you ever met him?”

  Jesse regarded him in the rearview mirror for a few seconds, seeking what, Ham did not know. Maybe nothing, maybe just curiosity of his own. “Why do you ask?”

  “You seem perturbed at his death but not agitated by it like it’s a personal loss. Strikes me as something else.”

  “You’re a good cop, McCalister,” he grinned, “or were, whatever. Anyway, yeah, I met him, ran up against his boys a few times.”

  “Well, that’s enigmatic.” When no response was forthcoming, Ham took a hint and spoke into the deliberate silence. “How long have you been in Reno?”

  “Moved here a couple of years ago. Decided Vegas was uncomfortably hot, if you catch my drift.”

  More enigma? I hear the alarm bells but can’t see the fire. So follow the smoke. “Been driving the cab since then?”

  “Nah, I do this once or twice a week for a little extra cash. I work over at the casino on North Virginia Street.”

  Then it hit. “Let me guess. Security.” As Jesse replied with a small nod of acknowledgement, Ham pulled up Lieutenant Jarrod Grayson on his cell. He typed out a quick message to his Las Vegas PD pal and confidant. Get everything you can find on Jesse Spencer, resident of Las Vegas until two years ago. Now Reno. Mixed up with Liam Waterson.

  Jesse had been talking but Ham missed the gist of it. “I’m sorry, I was checking to see if there were any messages about Russ Porter. Say again?”

  “I asked if you’re expected at Barton Mellows. Most of those places won’t answer knocks in the night. I could make a call if you want. I know the owner.”

  I bet you do, Ham thought. “Got it covered, thanks.” Speaking of which, he thought, Preston Talbot should be arriving before too very long. Perhaps he was already at the shop. If so, he might already have found the person or persons behind the tape fake.

  The driver interrupted Ham’s musings with an offer. “I’ll drop you off and circle around. There’s usually parking available just down the street. Call when you’re ready.”

  “Thanks, Jesse. I can’t tell you how grateful I am. This is pretty much over and above what with it being so late. You’ve got to be tired.”

  “Not much more than you, I’m guessing,” Jesse pointed out. “You yourself have had one hell of a day. And it looks like the fun is going to go on and on for the foreseeable hours.”

  “That it is,” Ham agreed as his driver pulled to the curb fronting the security firm. “I don’t know how long I’ll be. You sure you want to wait?” When Jesse grinned the obvious, Ham jumped out and watched as his cabbie friend pulled away in search of a place to park and wait.

  From the shadows Karl Neely emerged, hand outstretched in greeting. Almost comical in appearance, at least to Ham, the man presented the stereotypic bearing of old time detectives from the Dragnet days, sporting a plain grey suit, white shirt and very narrow black tie. Not missing were the wingtips and the light brown trench coat. That despite the clear night sky and stifling heat therein.

  “My name is Joe Friday. I’m a cop.” He didn’t actually say that but that’s what Ham heard in his mind. His mirth apparently startled the lieutenant, as a look of concern crossed his face.

  “I’m sorry, something funny?”

  “No, of course not,” Ham replied, feeling but not admitting being sheepish. “The cabbie told me a joke and every time I think about it I have to laugh. Are we ready?”

  “Yeah, they’re expecting us. One of the owners, Barton Bianchi, is coming in.” Glancing at his watch, Karl added, “He should be here now.”

  Neely pressed the buzzer beside the closed and curtained door. Almost instantly a disembodied voice asked his business. “My business is none of yours. Is your boss here? If so, tell him it’s Lieutenant Neely.”

  Not more than a few seconds lapsed before a buzzer announced the key to entry. Neely opened the door, ushered Ham in before him, and followed close on his heels. “Where’s Bianchi?”

  A voice floated up from behind. “I’m right here, Lieutenant.”

  Ham turned to watch him approach, disappointed to note that Preston Talbot had apparently not yet arrived. He resolved to keep his knowledge of their relationship to himself until he had Talbot here for support.

  “You got the tapes of the feed ready?”

  Barton flushed, either with anger or shame, Ham could not decide which. Until he spoke. “I don’t know what to tell you, Lieutenant. The tapes have been erased.” He spread his hands in supplication. “I can only apologize and ask forgiveness.”

  Neely’s eyes flashed anger, his voice and eyes joining the chorus. “What the hell are you talking about? You told me, not a half hour ago, that the tapes don’t erase for seven days. What the hell are you pulling here? And let me tell you, mister, you’d better have a da
mn good answer if you don’t want to find yourself in handcuffs in the back of a squad car.”

  Ham realized the lies. Derek had handed him the only copy of the feed. There wasn’t one left to erase. Or had Derek lied about that, for whatever reason he may have had? Either way, someone was lying.

  Before Ham could interject, the owner sighed, exasperation evident. “I don’t know what happened. All I know at the moment is that they were taped over and that it was deliberate. I have no proof to offer as to the how and when but I have a guess as to whom.”

  “Really. Well, why don’t you just fill us in on that little mystery.”

  “Our day manager, Derek Fister. It had to be. I don’t think anybody else has the expertise to pull that off without getting caught.”

  “Is Fister here?”

  “No, he is not.”

  Neely pulled out a two-way radio and clicked it into action. “Where will we find him, do you know?”

  Bianchi appeared abashed, embarrassment coloring his cheeks. “No, I do not know where he can be found. What I do know is that he’s missing.”

  “Missing? What do you mean, missing?”

  “I called his home, talked to his wife. She voiced her concern that something was wrong, that Derek hadn’t come home after work and she hadn’t heard from him. That was less than twenty minutes ago. I asked her to call if she heard from him but nothing yet.”

  “This is what I meant when I told you that Larry Pendleton may not be a cop on the take,” Ham explained. “He may not have lied about Derek not telling him about the tape feed, let alone showing it to him. It may in fact be Derek who lied.” He deliberately did not voice the fact that Bianchi may himself be lying. Save the ammunition, he reminded himself.

  Neely studied Ham a long moment, apparently as confused as the obviously anxious owner. “Then why would he have shown it to you?”

  “That’s the question,” Ham shrugged. “He had to have his reasons. What those are I can’t yet see.”

  “I think I do,” Bianchi offered into the silence that followed Ham’s statement. “There’s only one reason, and that would be to hide a face, or faces. For money. Probably a large amount given the stakes here.”

  “You said he has the expertise to erase the tapes and not get caught. Does he also have the ability to fake the feeds?”

  Bianchi blinked surprise. “I’m not sure what you mean. Fake them how?”

  “I don’t know,” Ham shrugged. “Like superimposing a face on an individual walking down the street, or maybe even insert somebody who wasn’t there?”

  Bianchi thought a moment, shrugged but also nodded slightly. “If anybody does, it’s Derek. He’s a master with those things, which is why we hired him. He’s truly magic, the best I’ve ever seen.”

  “So maybe Preston Talbot told the truth,” Ham affirmed. At the question in Neely’s eyes, Ham told him, “Security director for Liam Waterson. Probably made, if you catch my drift.”

  Neely nodded, clearly clued in. “Caught and understood. He was the shooter on the tape that is now erased and can’t be verified?”

  “He’s the one.”

  “Well,” he guessed, “then maybe our Mister Fister is being paid by him, a cover for him. Is that a possibility?”

  “I don’t see how,” Ham responded. “I mean, why put his face on the altered feed and then…”

  “Right,” Neely agreed, apparently the thought hitting at the same time the light dawned on Ham. “Extortion.”

  “So he puts Talbot’s image on the feed, leads me to him, and makes a side deal with Talbot to erase the feed—a feed that, despite what he told me, was not the only copy, probably not even the original—for some agreed upon sum. Meaning we can never prove whether Talbot was there or not, nor can we identify the real shooter. Pretty damn clever,” Ham spat, fury informing his tone and action. “And he makes it all seem real to me by charging a fortune for the ‘only copy’ he had. That son of a bitch led me right down the path he wanted me to find. Son of a bitch.”

  “He may have done that,” Bianchi admitted. “But I know Liam and I know Preston. If Derek pulled this shit on them he’s a walking dead man. And maybe his family, too. If I were you, that’s where I’d start. With his family.”

  “Alright,” Neely sighed, “I guess we’re through here. Write down Fister’s address for me. Ham, you want to come along?”

  “Damn right I do. I’ll even drive.”

  “Sorry,” Neely replied. “I’m not looking to lose my pension.” With a twinkle in his eye his added, “And no playing with the damn siren.”

  Ham had the grace to play abashed. “Dag nab a duck. They never let me play with the sirens in Vegas, either. Everywhere I go, party poops, nothing but party poops.”

  “The poop, the whole poop and nothing but the poop,” Neely agreed with a smile. He accepted the address Bianchi wrote on the card and nodded to Ham. “Let’s move.”

  As soon as they exited the business, Ham grabbed Neely by the elbow, held a finger to his lips for silence, and led the detective a short distance down the street, out of sight of the cameras fronting Barton Mellows. If local stores with the feeds he knew were aimed on them now were sent to Barton Mellows, they’d at least not know for a time.

  “Isn’t this a bit too easy?” he asked.

  Neely peered at him, the question in his eyes, waiting while Ham pulled his lip, a long-standing nervous habit when his mind raced ahead of understanding. Finally, he shook his head, a dog ridding water from its fluff, and shagged a thought. “I’m not sure I’m completely buying his story. I mean, think about it a second. Maybe it’s Bianchi who alters the feed, which I’m sure he’s quite capable of doing given that he owns it all. Then he extorts money from Waterson’s people, fingers Derek as the perp and bang, he’s rich and off the hook with the mob. Either he offs Derek himself or waits for Preston Talbot and his men to do it for him. You have to admit, that’d be pretty slick.”

  The detective regarded him with renewed interest and obvious intrigue. “That’s one hell of a thought. He’d have to be one cool customer to have pulled that off and then taunt us with a lie.”

  “You got any files on him? Anything at all?”

  Karl used his two-way to contact someone at the station and asked them to dig up whatever they’ve got or can find. “Sooner rather than later,” he ordered before he clicked off. “Okay, what else?”

  “Let’s do as Bianchi suggested. Let’s go drop in on Derek’s wife and family.”

  “Don’t you think that will be a waste of time? If Bianchi is behind this, he’s not going to hand us anything useful.” He thought it over a moment, then nodded. “But then again, if he is on the level we’d be missing a trick, so yeah, I’m in.”

  “More than that,” Ham added, “the hairs on the back of my neck stood to attention when Bianchi mentioned the danger for Derek’s family. I’m hoping we don’t find something we don’t want to see.”

  The lieutenant gazed at him for a second, pursed his lips and nodded. “Hop in and I’ve changed my mind. Go ahead and play with the siren.”

  Ham had barely buckled up, had not yet settled in when Karl floored the unmarked, swerved into traffic, barely avoiding both a passing and oncoming car, all before the siren cut in to warn drivers that a lunatic was among them, cutting through and watch the hell out. With hopes that he had not used the moniker ‘lunatic’ in more than his mind, he blew out breath he’d been holding in hopes of deliverance, and offered advice. “You might want to cut the siren before we get close enough to Derek’s house that it warns them we’re coming.”

  Karl chanced a quick glance at Ham. “Wow. Impressive. You must have watched a lot of cop shows or something.”

  “Okay,” Ham announced. “I get it. I’ll leave you to your own well developed devices for the duration.”

  Less than seven minutes into the ride—if you can call a car out of hell a ride, Ham thought—Neely dropped the siren and slowed to a civilian’s temperate
speed. Aware they must be close, Ham prepared himself, checking his weapon on a just in case basis.

  Neely pulled to the curb across the house from their target and pointed it out to Ham, silently, as though a whisper might alarm the residents within.

  They exited the vehicle, closed the doors softly and padded across the street to a tasteful ranch style home perched on a lush landscaped plot of land. Derek clearly spent time and tender love on his hobby, Ham figured. Either that or major money.

  Lights behind the curtained windows and the car in the drive indicated somebody home. As they approached the door, Karl checked his weapon, tucked it back away and pressed the ringer. When no response occurred, he tried again. And yet a third time. Finally, an attractive and very well dressed woman answered their summons, exasperation written on her face.

  Not much more than five feet tall, she sported short blonde hair poking out from under a floppy hat, and a pair of black rimmed glasses that accented the obviously expensive green dress which clung to her well-proportioned physique. A dress that, in Ham’s opinion, probably cost more than his car. Which meant Derek had access to more money than a mere manager should. Or she did, perhaps. Whichever, he would find out the who and the how.

  “What is it you want?” she demanded. “Can’t you take a hint? When nobody answers, go away. Who the hell are you, anyway?”

  Neely showed her his identification. “Are you Mrs. Fister?” Her nod confirmed the guess. “Your husband is Derek Fister?”

  This time she ignored the question in favor of one of her own. “Why are you asking me this?”

  “We’d like to talk to you, if we may,” Ham interjected. “We have a few questions. May we come in?”