“Hell no, you may not come in. You may, however, tell me what this is all about before I toss you off my property with my Doberman clinging to your sorry ass.”
“My name is Ham McCalister, Mrs. Fister, and this is Lieutenant Karl Neely from the Reno P.D. We just left Barton Bianchi at the place of your husband’s employment. We’d like to locate him and ask him some questions about a case we’re working.”
“And what case would that be?”
“You’re aware of the shootings on Virginia Street today?” Her shrug supplied a reply, so Ham pushed on. “We’re looking into it and it appears that your husband has some information that could prove useful to our investigation.”
“I think I’ll call my lawyer before I talk to you gentlemen anymore.”
From inside came a voice that rang a vague bell in Ham’s mind. “Where are your manners, Jennifer. By all means, let the gentlemen in.”
She tilted her head, an admission of agreement. “Well, come on then. Don’t just stand there,” she said as she stepped aside to permit entry.
She led them to the kitchen where an elderly man sat, erect as ever. His easy grin came mere seconds before Ham placed the voice. “Hello, Talbot,” he grinned. “Fancy meeting you here.”
“I might say the same.”
“I thought you were going to call me when you got in,” Ham reminded him. “Don’t tell me you forgot.”
“I thought you were going to wait for me to join you at Barton Mellows,” he retorted. “Or did you forget that?”
“Fine, we’re both busted. Let’s forget what we forgot and go from here. What brings you to Derek’s house?”
Before Talbot could reply, Jennifer jumped in. “Preston is my godfather. When I couldn’t get ahold of Derek, and Barton sounded so weird about it, I called on him.”
“Why him?” Neely asked. “Why not the police?”
“I can answer that,” Talbot replied. “It’s because I’m the one person she can count on to protect her at all times from any and all persons, dangers and situations.”
“Mama and Papa passed when I was young, a senseless car crash. Talbot has taken care of me for as long as I can remember.” She glared at Ham and Karl, sparing neither her contempt. “I damn sure trust him more than I trust the police.”
“You have a thing against cops?” Neely inquired, voice calm and polite. Her steely silence satisfied the question. “Asked and answered,” he grinned. “No worries. My ex-wives are not all that fond of cops either.”
Ham was impressed. Karl’s pleasant demeanor and understated humor bought a soft laugh and a loosening of the ice. The man was good, he’d give him that.
“Have a seat,” Jennifer invited. “I’ve got coffee on if you’d like some.” When they eagerly accepted, she turned to her task and asked over her shoulder. “So I take it you know Preston, Mr. McCalister. How did you meet?”
Ham, unsure whether she was attempting idle conversation or probing for something, deflected the question. “We ran into each other at a casino and talked a bit.” There, he thought, let the rest fall to Preston, see what he had to say.
“You needn’t be so coy, Mr. McCalister,” he castigated. Turning to Jennifer, he allowed, “He came to see me today, along with his partner, a very nice looking young lady, I may add. They wished to talk to me about the shootings today. Or rather,” he corrected, “they wished to accuse me of them.” Jennifer arched her eyebrows but otherwise made no reply. “And now,” he stated, looking directly in Ham’s eyes, “you’ve talked to Barton and you’re more confused than ever. Is that correct?”
“That is so much more than correct I can’t find the words for it,” Ham sighed. “Help me out here, if you will.”
“Start with this. Where’s Derek? He’s not at work where he’s supposed to be, he’s not here at home, which is where he should be if not at work. So, he’s where when he shouldn’t be?”
“And Barton claims to know nothing, except that the tape is erased and Derek must be the culprit. He accuses Derek of making a money grab.”
“Is that right, Mr. Talbot?” Neely probed. “Could Derek be reaching around you and in the employ of another, maybe rival group seeking the same advantages you want here in Reno? Another group, like yours, willing to kill to get the edge?”
Talbot stared at, into and through Neely, his gaze a sword of steel. “You forget yourself, sir. Please remember to whom you are speaking.”
Karl’s face took on the hue of a fire hydrant, one freshly painted at that. “I’m a cop,” he snapped, “I don’t need to remember to whom I am speaking. It’s actually the other way around, especially in my city.”
Ham jumped in, a broker for peace. “Come on, people, let’s not crap all over each other. All that will do is deflect us from the one thing that brings us together, which is the hit on Virginia Street. A hit that got your boss,” he reminded Talbot, “and a hit that got my partner’s husband, not to mention the greatest living rock and roll legend in the world. So come on,” Ham repeated, “less personality, less testosterone and more thinking and reasoning.”
Talbot and Neely granted the points, appearing a touch abashed, if not ashamed. “I have the privilege of maintaining a file on you,” Preston informed Ham. “I see now why you are as well respected as you are. Rudyard Kipling, remember? ‘If you can keep your head when all about you are losing theirs,’ etcetera, etcetera. You seem to have mastered that, by all accounts, and I would say by this account. Well done, sir. My apologies. I assure you I am back in the game, the only one that matters.”
Neely blushed still deeper, emphasis to an expression that might have been a want to snicker, or maybe a wish to have stated it first. “What he said.”
Jennifer joined the conversation, unwilling, it appeared, to let her godfather have the last word as regards the situation her husband might or might not be in. “If Derek’s missing,” she claimed, “it’s only because he’s scared.”
“Oh, he has a right to be scared,” Talbot replied softly.
Jennifer flushed and snapped a plaintive rebuttal. “You never really liked him, did you? You hope he’s gone after Liam so you have an excuse to make me a widow. I won’t have it, you hear me, Preston? I will not have it.”
“Calm down, my dear. Actually, I have always rather liked your husband, in the way a man might an adopted stray pet.”
“That’s my point. You don’t think he’s smart enough to be with your people. You never have.”
“No,” he admitted, “that’s true. I never have. Which is why I’m inclined to trust that Derek is not only not involved in this tape thing, I also deem he’s not even involved at all in any way in Liam’s assassination. That boy simply lacks the necessary intelligence to put this plan together, nor does he have the courage to hold himself together in the face of this investigation.” Pointing at Ham and Karl, he added, “Look at them. If Derek wore guilt, he’d shed it the moment they walked in and asked for his coat.”
Ham leapt into the breach, taking the opening to ask the question he’d asked himself out on the porch. “He must be more than that.” Throwing his arms wide to include all the tasteful surroundings, he affirmed his own guess. “I mean look at this. Look at your goddaughter’s dress, her hair, her demeanor. Derek must be doing well for himself, and to do that he’s got to have more brains and guts than you’re apparently willing to credit to him.”
Preston chortled, softly and without genuine mirth. “I must assume your question is an act of deliberate naiveté.” He spread his hands and queried, “Why not just ask what it is you wish to know? Which is where did the money come from for this house and the opulence therein. Is that correct?”
Ham grinned, not at all perturbed to be caught and called out. “That’s exactly right, yes. That was my attempt to be a little less offensive, a little less invasive of proprietary information, than I normally would be and normally am. Call it my polite side, a thing that seldom emerges from the shadows.”
P
reston lifted his mug in acknowledgement. “Derek loves my Jenny, so I tolerate Derek. I provide them a small measure of support that enables them to avoid monthly worries over what are, after all, trivial expenses.”
Ham nodded to himself, kept the poker face in play. “I pretty much had that one nailed,” he agreed. “What I’m wondering is, how much? Maybe not enough to keep Derek from wandering off on his own, perhaps? Or maybe,” he rushed on as Jennifer opened her mouth to jump in, “it’s not that. Maybe you symbolically castrate Derek, rub in his face the fact that you’re the one who supports his wife, that he’s that big a failure in not just your eyes, but in hers as well. Could that maybe be it, and is that what you yourself now wonder, and is that why you yourself are now here?”
If Ham possessed a poker face, it melted in the face of the master, Ham mused as he waited on Talbot’s reply. Instead, even as Talbot sat rigid, giving away nothing, Jennifer angrily pounced. “You don’t have a clue what you’re talking about. You’re just another stupid lawman incapable of adding up a clue, let alone two. Derek is neither small and petty nor so lacking in self-esteem that he’d bite the ass of one who befriends him.” With more venom than Ham had been the recipient of in more than a little bit of time, she spat what he assumed represented her ultimate affront. “You’re just another, a typical, blue suited son of a bitch asshole. Get out of my house.”
Preston place a calming hand on her arm, a hand she started to shake off then presumably remembered whose hand it was. Which perhaps reminded her of her place.
“My Jenny has her father’s temper,” he explained. “I always warned him about it. To my sorrow, I never got through to him. It was that very temper that was the proximate cause of the accident that caused his death and the death of my sister-in-law.”
“I’m not here to insult you or your husband,” Ham assured her. “I’m trying to find out where he’s gone and most especially whether he’s in hiding or he’s been taken or maybe, I’m afraid to say, incapacitated in some way.” Turning back to Talbot, he inquired, “Preston, tell me something. If Derek’s gone rogue, is she,” pointing at Jenny, “a widow?”
The lopsided grin told Ham he’d hit the mark. “What do you want me to say to that? What can I say to that? What,” turning to his goddaughter, “can Jenny say to that? We all live by rules. And Jenny and Derek and I know those rules. They are what they are.”
By Jenny’s silence and glum look, Ham heard the truth and acceptance of those words. “And if he isn’t? What if someone is using him?”
“Then someone has reason to be running scared. More than that, to be panicked beyond all rational thought. And I think they know that.”
“Are you going out to Barton Mellows?” At Preston’s affirmative nod, Ham pressed further. “Will you keep me abreast of developments? Understand,” he quickly pointed out, “I’m not acting on behalf of the police. Whatever you do or do not do you will decide for yourself whether to tell them. I will not. My interest in this is to take down the bastard that took down Russ. And that bastard,” Ham assured them all, “has every bit as much reason to be panicked by my investigation as he should be by yours.”
“And if you get him first?” Preston grinned. “What am I to do about that?”
Ham understood the unstated demand. “We’ll do it together. How’s that?”
“Fine,” he agreed. “But what about Mr. Police over here? What’s he going to do about it?”
Karl studied his fingernails, pausing for emphasis. “Sometimes, and only sometimes, mind you, police investigations take longer than we all would wish. If, for instance, our perp should find himself in a bad way and, if our perp chooses not to ask for our help, well then, cases close and that’s life.”
“If the perp does ask?” Talbot pressed.
Karl spread his hands in a “what can I say” gesture. “Let’s hope he has the correct phone number. It can be a bitch to get through to the right department, know what I mean?”
Ham’s cell exploded into action. He answered but before he could speak, muffled words emerged. He listened, eyes wide with amazement, nodding at no one, until the voice stopped. He snapped the phone off and shook his head, more wonder than denial. “Well, the proverbial plot thickens.”
“What?” Karl demanded.
“The cabbie that’s been driving me around? The one I saved from a false arrest all those years ago in Vegas?” Karl nodded and Ham continued. “He runs security at one of the smaller casinos here in Reno, drives the cab a couple of times a week. Well, get this. He’s not some bank guard, he’s a former Navy SEAL. One of the toughest sons a bitches on earth. Well versed in infiltration, exfiltration and all firearms, big and small. How’s that for a freaking coincidence?”
“No wonder he’s in security,” Karl responded. “Who’s going to screw with someone like that?”
“More to the point, why keep it so close to the vest? I point blank asked him about himself, he mentioned nothing about this or even anything resembling this.”
“Who is this guy?” Talbot asked. “I’m not being nosy. I have a reason for asking.”
Ham regarded him curiously, finally shrugged surrender. “Name is Jesse—”
“Spencer,” Talbot interrupted. “Jesse Spencer. I know him well. He’s a dangerous man in his own right, not somebody you want to go up against if you don’t have to.”
Ham’s surprise showed in his eyes and on his face. “Are you saying he’s connected?”
With a small twisted grin, Preston acknowledged the question. “You could say that. Or you could be more accurate and say he is the connection.”
11
RUN FAR, RUN FAST
The bomb dropped and, while Ham waited for the explosion, he studied Preston’s face, looking for, hoping for, some hidden meaning, a secret wrapped in a riddle. Nothing. Not one damn thing.
While Preston sat, a statue in effect, eyes fixed on the nothingness around him, Karl and Jennifer exhibited more energetic miens. She, with an attempt to project calm, studied the sparkle of the diamonds in her tennis bracelet, for all the world fascinated with the series of twinkles. Twinkles she encouraged by twisting her arm back and forth in an effort to catch different and varying sources of light.
As captivated as Jennifer seemed with her baubles, Karl displayed even greater enthrallment with his well clipped fingernails. Nails that he appeared to see shine in the light with as high a gleam as if waxed by the master.
Ham, being a man himself, instantly recognized that one. No male of the species would exhibit such care about tedious personal grooming. Not to mention the nails themselves appeared to have been bitten from time to time. A fashion slave the man was not.
Ham mentally shook his head, a flash of anger coursing through his veins, just long enough to increase the blood pressure hammering his forehead. A deep and calming breath allowed him to let it go, to prepare to turn this new knowledge to his favor. Starting with, don’t admit the obvious, which was that this information had been known to all at the table save the man who spent the most amount of time with the ninja cabbie. Ham himself.
Experience braced Ham to resist squirming his discomfort as he anticipated more admissions or, failing that, at least a response of some kind. Nothing. Apparently, he sat among a table of experts, including Jennifer herself. Which in itself pinged Ham’s curiosity radar.
He contented himself with a silent wait. He’d perfected that approach an unspeakable number of years before, a method of letting the suspect enduring interrogation time to outthink, outsmart himself. When the silence became too much for the guilty to bear, nine times out of ten the suspect would jump in and make a statement intended to deflect but which laid a path directly to the final nail. Literally, nine times out of ten. It represented a statistic and a fact that boggled his mind. Such stupidity, this inability to wait.
Ham stood, stretched tired limbs, less for comfort than effect, and began the ritual of pacing out his thoughts. Here, in the home of one susp
ect, sat another, more dangerous one, one who just announced that Ham’s latter day ally is the connection. Whatever the hell that meant exactly. Discovery of that interesting tidbit likely would lead to a trove of newfound clues and/or outright solutions. Should he break down, simply demand explanation? If he did so, he imagined Preston would either tell him to go to hell or give him an esoteric proclamation apropos of nothing he understood to date. So scratch that.
As for Karl Neely, the man had some secrets that clearly he was unprepared to share, at least with Ham. He could threaten with Governor Stephens again but he’d done it earlier and, though it appeared cooperation occurred, Karl had not folded. He still kept the cards close to his chest. With what, a winning hand? Or a bluff for the ages?
That left Jennifer, an enigma if he’d ever met one. Feminine one moment, angry and gruff the next, deferring to authority only to override it. Sometimes looking and sounding panicked at her husband’s disappearance, other times nonchalant and unconcerned.
And all of them knowing Jesse is connected. Scratch that, he thought. All of them knowing Jesse is the connection.
Somebody screwed with the security feeds, or the tapes of them anyway. Well, had to be the tapes. Can’t screw with the live feed. Unless, of course, it was set up. A thought which he found of more than just a touch of interest.
Who could have done that? Who could have done either one? Not Derek, the manager with the habit of disappearing at inopportune times. The man had been at Barton Mellows during the hit. Or at least he claimed to have been, Ham realized with self-castigation and anger at his laziness. The type of idle inattention that led to Russ being hit in the first place. For in truth, if Ham had been doing his job, had even the tiniest amount of self-awareness, he would never have missed the approach, would not have been blind to the danger, could have and would have cut down the perp.
And now and still he continued down that road of incompetence. He had taken Derek’s word that he’d been on duty during the shooting, had accepted his act of innocence without question.
The Biggest Little Crime In The World Page 15
