by Mary Calmes
“At ease, Captain,” the man said, and then turned toward me, walked forward, and offered me his hand. I took it quickly, and since I’d forgotten to put on my gloves, noted his handshake was warm and dry. “You must be Marshal Jones.”
“Yessir.”
His smile was kind, and I noted the lines on his face, the glint in his pale-blue eyes, the strong line of his jaw, and the long, straight nose. He looked like he should have been on recruitment posters.
“I’m Colonel Chandler Harney, CID, and I’m here to escort Captain Doyle and the rest of the patrol that served with Kerry Lochlyn to Washington, DC. We are investigating said individual.”
“May I ask why, sir?”
“The deaths of Second Lieutenant Taylor Regan and First Lieutenant Edward Laird—who was, as you know, laid to rest earlier today—have officially been ruled homicides,” he concluded.
The ice that ran through my veins chilled me from the inside out.
“The Criminal Investigative Division is in charge of the inquiry until we can determine if the individual in question is a terrorist threat or a nonmilitary one.”
“Would it be possible to ask another question?”
“Of course.”
“You’re taking the whole team, including Marshal Doyle, to Washington, DC, right now?”
“I am.”
“And are you looking for Kerry Lochlyn, sir?”
“We are. Yes.”
“So you’re convinced that he’s murdering members of the patrol he was with the night that he had a breakdown.”
“We’re not convinced of anything, marshal. We’re merely gathering facts at this juncture,” he explained crisply. “As far as what happened on that patrol—that’s classified.” He looked sideways at Ian because clearly, he had no idea what had or hadn’t been explained to me. “These are two separate issues.”
Glancing at Ian, I saw his lips drawn into a hard line. Apparently he didn’t like me questioning the colonel in the least.
“Can you tell me what the process will be, sir?”
“CID, the JAG corps, and finally,” he sighed, “if it’s not deemed to be a military matter, then the FBI, as I’ve said.”
“And why is the bureau involved?”
“Because if Lochlyn is responsible, then these killings across state lines constitute a federal crime,” he informed me.
“How long will the men be questioned, sir? Marshal Doyle and I are supposed to fly to Las Vegas in the morning to transfer a witness.”
“We’ve contacted your supervisor, Jones, and marshals from the office in Las Vegas will meet you at the airport there when you land tomorrow to assist you in acquiring your witness. Then you’ll be able to return him or her to Chicago.”
I cleared my throat. “After the questioning, will Marshal Doyle be returning here, sir?”
“If he is not implicated or needed in the field,” Harney said coolly, “then of course.”
Which basically meant Ian could be gone, just like that, and this was the last time I’d see him for God knew how long… again.
“His unit just returned home, sir,” I said breathlessly, trying not to let the raw, pained, aching sadness bleed into my voice.
“Do you presume that Special Forces units take time-outs, marshal?” he asked me, his tone biting and clipped. Clearly he was not enjoying me questioning him. “That the enemies of our country ever rest?”
It was probably meant to shame me, being a civilian, but I didn’t care. The only thing I cared about was how Ian was perceived, and so I answered respectfully. “No, sir.”
“And are you prepared to do your duty, Captain?” he asked, turning to Ian.
“Yessir,” Ian almost shouted.
The duty part was meant for me, and I got it. I did. What Ian did was important, and I’d tied myself to a soldier. I knew that from the beginning and was so very proud of him. But… his job as a deputy US marshal was of paramount importance as well. Even if we were nothing else but partners at work, didn’t his current job matter just as much as being a soldier? The answer was a clear and resounding no.
“Grab your gear,” Harney ordered.
Ian had two bags packed at all times so that the second he got home, if he was called back to service that same night, he’d be prepared to leave. In the time he was gone, my job was to unload the pack he brought home, wash everything, and repack it so it would be ready. I knew most units came home from active duty and were off for months at a time. The difference for Ian’s twelve-man team was that they were Special Forces, deployed for retrieval or to subdue a target by any means necessary. It was guerilla warfare on the ground in a foreign country, and it was his duty, and he could… easily could… be going immediately out on an active mission after he was questioned about Lochlyn.
Again.
I was having trouble moving air through my lungs.
Again.
Just got home and could be leaving again.
Ian moved quickly to the house, opened the front door, and moments later, Chickie ran outside to me. He came fast and stopped at my side, eyeing all the men but not moving, keeping vigil over me, protecting my flank.
“This is the life,” Harney said to me.
My gaze met his, and I checked for any trace of disgust or judgment. Ian had told me that no matter how things changed on the outside—the death of Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell; the intolerance of slurs or prejudice—the Army still cultivated a mindset of non-acceptance. You just never knew when you were going to run into it. But as I scanned the colonel’s face, I saw him only making a statement of fact that he would to any spouse or partner of a soldier.
“Yessir,” I agreed.
It took Ian only moments and he was back. He didn’t say a word to me, didn’t even look at me, and I realized he was embarrassed. My questions, my obvious distress had shamed him in front of his superior.
“Marshal,” the colonel said to me before he walked away.
Ian’s eyes met mine only for an instant, but after he got into the car with the others and was gone, what surprised me and left me speechless on the sidewalk was how wrong I was. In that instant when he left me, I hadn’t seen anger or humiliation. He wasn’t judging what I’d said or done. I saw only longing.
He wanted to stay. I saw it clear as day. The yearning had been there, all over him, on his face, in the catch of his breath, the parting of his lips, the fist he made with his right hand, and the way he almost stumbled when he turned to follow the man who was taking him away. I was home for him, I knew I was, and leaving me was gutting him.
There was some small comfort in the knowing.
Chapter 11
I WALKED right by them, mostly because I expected them to meet me in the terminal at McCarran International, not on the concourse.
“Are you Jones?”
Pivoting, I faced… I wasn’t sure. I would have guessed surfer, maybe some sort of instructor—paddle board, scuba diver, hard to tell—but between the tan and the wavy sun-streaked dirty-blond hair that fell to his shoulders, the guy talking to me was not on the job.
“Yes?”
He took a step toward me, hand outstretched, a sardonic smile twisting his lips invitingly. “I’m Bodhi Callahan from the Vegas office, and this is my partner, Josiah Redeker.”
Callahan didn’t look like any marshal I’d ever met. I didn’t know cargo shorts and deck shoes were appropriate attire, or the T-shirt under a drug rug hoodie like I hadn’t seen since college. His partner looked like maybe he ran a bar. His straight dark hair fell around his face, and I noted the mustache and heavy stubble on his chin that could have been called a beard if it was filled in along the line of his jaw. As it was, he appeared artfully unkempt, with his beat-up jump boots, faded jeans, and long-sleeved gray Henley. The two of them together did not inspire fear. But maybe they didn’t need to in Las Vegas. Maybe it was low-key, though with all the drugs that moved through the state, I doubted it.
“Jed’s good,” Rede
ker told me, returning my focus to him, his hand out, ready for me to take the second I was done with Callahan. “Only my mother calls me Josiah.”
They made an odd pair. Callahan’s accent said California all the way, which helped the laid-back surf-rat vibe, and Redeker had a deep, rich cowboy thing happening in his voice. I wondered how they meshed together.
“How long have you been marshals?” I asked after I released Redeker’s hand.
“Five years for me,” he replied, “two for the kid.”
“Kid?” I asked Callahan.
“I’m twenty-seven,” he told me. “But apparently being eleven years older is a whole big amount of time that puts him out of reach.”
His wording was odd—out of reach—and made me wonder about them right off. Why was that important to Callahan? Did he mean just as a partner, or was there more to their story?
“Were you briefed on the witness that you’re picking up?” Redeker asked, taking my duffel without being asked, leaving me with my laptop bag.
I had been, so I knew that Josue Hess had run when he was supposed to stay put and enter WITSEC, thus moving him from the nice list to the naughty one. Lots of people did it, bolted instead of going into witness protection, but once the marshal service was involved, private citizens no longer got a say in the matter. The guy I was there to transfer to Chicago had left New Orleans for Vegas, but instead of disappearing as everyone had assumed he would, he simply changed locales and kept living his high-profile life.
“I read up on him on the plane.” I yawned, walking between them, feeling the tension now, smack dab in the middle of whatever their deal was. “He’s been working the club scene here, I understand. I watched some of his YouTube videos. He really can sing.”
“Yep,” Redeker agreed. “Our best guess is that he actually thinks he’s not in any danger anymore since he left NOLA. He never told anyone he wouldn’t testify, just said he couldn’t do protective custody because of his career and what he felt he owed the rest of the band.”
“So they all came out here together?”
“They did.”
“Well, I hope he’s not married to the idea of being a superstar.” Callahan rubbed the back of his neck as we walked and then pulled his badge out and let it fall on top of the zipper on his hoodie as we passed by a guard on our way from the secured area. “Because he’s got no choice. He’s going into WITSEC and that’s gonna kill any other kind of career for him.”
Hess, front man of the rock band Decoder Ring, had witnessed a murder. He wouldn’t need protection if it was simply one thug killing another, but it turned out it was Dorian Alessi killing his longtime rival in the opiate trade, Romeo Sinclair. They were both scary mean with dozens of felonies between them, and the Orleans Parish district attorney was happy to have Sinclair rotting in the morgue and Alessi in custody, remanded without bail, until his trial. Hess’s appearance in court was set for February.
Hess agreed to testify and initially said no to witness protection. He moved to Las Vegas from New Orleans, certain that between changing cities and using his mother’s maiden name, he’d be safe. But even though Hess was careful, the rest of his bandmates were not. They were all on Twitter and Snapchat, Facebook and Instagram, and he was the one they all took pictures of and shared, because he was the main draw… he ended up right back on Alessi’s radar.
Two weeks ago, he started seeing the same faces wherever he went. It was “freaking him the fuck out”—that was actually in my report. He liked his life and wanted to keep it, but lately he was having doubts it was possible. He thought Alessi’s men had made the connection and were in town to talk to him. He’d called the marshals office back in New Orleans—the Eastern District of Louisiana, because those were the men he’d started with—explained what was going on and asked if someone could come check on him. Newly alerted to his location, the marshals’ office in Vegas had decided to bring him in, forcibly put him in WITSEC, and transfer him across the country. When they asked where the next available opening was, the database chugged out the Northern District Office of Illinois, our office. Kage received the transfer order and put me on a plane to take the rock star into custody. Hess was in danger, so we were responding.
Even though no one could say for certain if Hess was seeing things, the threat was considered credible since the case was ongoing.
“The band is breaking up,” Callahan explained to me out of the blue. “Tonight’s show at Aces and Eights is supposed to be their last.”
“That’s lucky.”
He shrugged. “We’ve been watching Hess for two weeks now, and it’s pretty easy to see that he’s the only one with any kind of talent or work ethic. The rest of his band doesn’t take their music very seriously.”
“So maybe he won’t be all torn up to leave them.”
“Maybe.”
“Aces and Eights is a club, then, or a bar?”
“It’s basically a dive bar, similar to Double Down, but it’s smaller and hasn’t been around half as long,” Redeker answered.
“I’m from Chicago,” I reminded him. “I have no idea what that place is.”
He snorted out a laugh. “Have you been here before?”
“Yeah, but only on the Strip.”
“Then you haven’t ever really been to Vegas.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
Callahan grunted.
“What?” Redeker snapped.
“Just because you’re still drinkin’ till the wee small hours doesn’t mean the grownups do,” Callahan said, his tone snide. “Maybe taking in a show and having a good meal is Vegas for Jones.”
Redeker rolled his eyes, and I was left again feeling like I was in the middle of… if not a fight, something close.
“So Aces and Eights is on the Strip or not?” I asked Callahan.
“It’s east of the Strip over on Naples Road.”
I had no idea where that was, either, but they were there to take me.
We exited the terminal, got into an older-model Dodge Durango, and as he settled in on the passenger side, Redeker told me there was bottled water in the cooler behind my seat.
“You wanna eat?” Callahan asked.
“Yeah.”
“Is breakfast good?”
“Always.”
“Really hungry or only a little?”
“Starving,” I admitted, because I was almost nauseated. That was how ravenous I was.
“Hash House A Go Go it is.” Redeker yawned, rolling down his window and resting his elbow there before leaning his head back and closing his eyes. “Let’s go, Cal.”
“Maybe he’d like something more—”
“Just do what I said,” Redeker muttered, not opening his eyes.
“You’re hungover,” Callahan stated, and I heard the edge in his voice.
“And you care why?”
“I don’t care. You’re just supposed to take better care of yourself. You’re a grownup, after all, right? You’re not supposed to do that.”
“Do what?”
“Drink all fuckin’ night.”
Redeker grunted.
“How are you helping me if you can’t aim your gun?”
“I can shoot just fine, kid.”
Callahan growled.
Oh, this was fun. “So what do you guys work beyond the usual roundup stuff?” I asked, to stave off any further bickering.
“We mainly work the regular FIST Task Force,” Callahan answered, looking at his partner instead of the road. “We don’t normally do a lot of witness transfer anymore, but we just got a new boss and he likes to rotate everyone around.”
“We do that too,” I said, just to make conversation, pleased to see he started paying at least some attention to maneuvering out of the airport and getting on the freeway. “It’s all interagency with us, except in our own office. We don’t do undercover or stakeout unless we’re in charge.”
“We do a lot of crap with the DEA,” Redeker rumbled, shif
ting to get as comfortable in his seat as he could, considering the length of his legs. He had to be at least six three, with his younger partner about my five eleven. “But that’s to be expected, with all the fuckin’ drugs.”
I made a sound of agreement and settled in to watch the brown go by while trying Ian’s phone again. I’d called from home and O’Hare, I called when I took off and called when I landed before making my way down the concourse. It went to voice mail each time, and though I wasn’t surprised, it would have been nice to at least get a text with an update.
The trip to my hotel, Days Inn Las Vegas at Wild Wild West on Tropicana, was fast, being just three miles from the airport, and when we got there they waited as I checked in. It wasn’t on the Strip, but I couldn’t have cared less. The important part was that it was cheap and clean and, if I needed a car, the parking was free. It was perfect for me.
After I ditched my bags and the suit and tie I was wearing, we got back into the car and drove over to the Strip, to the Plaza Hotel and Casino and Hash House A Go Go inside it. It was busy, but Redeker had either called ahead or had an in with one of the managers, I wasn’t sure. I didn’t ask. I just followed when he told me to and took my seat in the booth across from him and Callahan.
“Don’t even look at the menu,” Redeker ordered. “Just have Andy’s Sage Fried Chicken Benedict. You’ll thank me.”
“It’s too big,” Callahan cautioned. “Take a look at the other—”
“Starving,” I reiterated, passing Redeker my menu. “I’ll have that.”
I had orange juice and coffee, and when my food came, what looked like ten pounds of chicken. I took a picture and was going to send it to Ian, hoping that it might spark a quick text in return, but then I realized that wasn’t me. I’d never done it before. Even if I felt that needy on the inside, showing the ache to Ian wouldn’t fly because it did nothing for either of us. I’d make him sad and then I’d feel guilty. It was useless on both sides, as was hoping for some word. When he was doing anything related to the military, there was never any word. I had to be better about reminding myself of that.
