Bite Back 05 - Angel Stakes

by Mark Henwick

  Yelena nodded.

  “Bellagio is one of the big casinos in Vegas,” Jen said. “Why that one?”

  “We found a Bellagio chip in Forsythe’s house in Denver.”

  Vegas.

  Forsythe was involved in trafficking.

  Cash and clients flowed through Vegas. Child prostitution. Money laundering. Big empty spaces.

  Did he split his operation? Half in LA, half in Vegas?

  But if LA was his public face, Vegas would be where his criminal dealings were. And somewhere in Vegas he would have a place. With a basement. Vegas would be where he’d move Tamanny.

  Everyone was waiting. Time for another leap in the dark. Another opportunity to get it completely wrong and miss some vital clue.

  “He owns something in Vegas,” I said. “That’s where Spiegler is heading.”

  “That jet cruises at 350 knots,” Yelena said. “We’ve got less than an hour.”

  “We might be lucky.”

  We needed to be.

  I was. I called Nick Grey. Lynch, the were-cougar who’d needed our help changing at the ritual, had returned to Vegas, and Nick had his number.

  Five minutes later, I had a surprised and eager Lynch on the phone.

  “Of course, Ms. Farrell. You don’t need to ask. I’m getting in the truck and heading for the closest airport now.”

  “It’s Amber, and I do need to ask. You’re not my pack and you don’t owe me anything.”

  “Except my life.”

  I snorted.

  “What about the local pack?” I said. “You weren’t in when you came to Denver.”

  I heard the background sounds of his truck starting.

  “The Vegas alpha is walking a line,” Lynch said. “The big pack around here isn’t Vegas, it’s Toiyabe. They claim all of Nye County from the Toiyabe Range right down to the edge of Vegas.”

  “They’ve got a problem with you?”

  “They might. They’re not Confederation, but they’re linked by family to Wind River.”

  The Wind River pack, one of the three founding packs of the Confederation. The pack that had gone down to New Mexico to try and challenge Felix for Colorado. The pack whose alpha Julie had killed the same night that pack had been mauled by a combination of the Denver, Cimarron and Cheyenne packs.

  The Vegas alpha wouldn’t want to flaunt his adoption of a were-cougar in the face of that. They wouldn’t be in a hurry to help us.

  Everywhere we turned, there were complications.

  “We’ll talk about packs some other time,” I said. “You said the closest airport. How many?”

  “Three. The main international—”

  “Forget that one. The other two.”

  “Henderson Executive. That’s where I’m heading. It’s the most likely, I think. Ten miles or so south of the city, and I’m fifteen minutes away. The other one’s North Las Vegas.”

  “Okay. Thanks, Lynch, and call when you’re there, please. This is strictly watching from a distance, got it?”

  “Sure.”

  I ended the call.

  “Matt says there’s no information directly linking Spiegler or Forsythe with property in Las Vegas,” Jen said. “He’s still searching.”

  “He could have it hidden through several levels of ownership,” I said.

  “Might not even belong to him?”

  “I guess, but it doesn’t feel right.”

  I did some math in my head. “Plenty of time.” I hoped fifteen minutes was plenty of time. “Now, we wait.”

  “And hope.”

  Keith was listening on the cell he was using to talk to the stakeout teams watching Judge Veringen. He held up his hand to get my attention.

  “Situation here.”

  Chapter 55

  He switched the cell to speaker.

  “…she’s back outside, on her cell. I tell you, she don’t like what’s in there.”

  “Hold it,” Keith said to him and turned to me. “Someone visiting the judge, cleaning service maybe, just let herself in, came straight back out and upchucked on the flowers.”

  Shit.

  Gut call said the judge was dead.

  I could see two scenarios. Either the judge’s conscience got the better of him, or Forsythe decided he was a loose end.

  “Pull the teams back. Now,” I said. “If any of them in the area have a police band scanner, listen in. Get them to meet somewhere at least a mile away and call when they’re all together.”

  Keith and Julie made the calls.

  A couple of them had scanners in the cars. Not a bad idea for werewolves keeping a low profile.

  They relayed the calls over their cells. Cleaning lady reporting owner deceased. Apparent gunshot wounds. Ambulance on way.

  The address went out and a patrol unit responded.

  I checked the map. They’d be coming up from Sunset. Our lookout teams would be well out of the way.

  We listened as it unrolled in slow motion.

  The squad car reported being on the scene. A minute later one of the patrolmen called in with code 11-44.

  Dead body. Coroner required.

  I could imagine the scene.

  The uniforms would tape the house off.

  Detectives and a Crime Scene team from the Hollywood Division would be on their way.

  The media listened to scanners as well, and they knew what code 11-44 meant. The address had gone out. Someone was going to put things together and realize Judge Veringen was dead in suspicious circumstances, and when they did, a TV crew would be on site minutes later.

  There was nothing more we could do except listen.

  Lynch called from Henderson airport. No sign yet of Spiegler’s jet. She was late, or we’d guessed wrong.

  Matt still couldn’t find anything indicating Forsythe or Spiegler owned property in the Las Vegas area. A couple of people who worked for Forsythe’s show did.

  I shook my head. Something so important that it had to be flown out of LA, Forsythe wouldn’t trust that in anyone else’s hands.

  A detective arriving at the judge’s house passed some coded banter over the radio with a colleague attending another scene elsewhere in the division. I was sure they’d just bet on who would get the homicide case. It was the sort of graveyard humor they needed to get through the day, and it might give us our first indication of what had happened.

  At the same time, the judge’s stakeout teams got together in the parking lot of a mall and Julie started talking them through what they’d seen, trying to find if there had been any suspicious activity.

  Then Keith found newsfeeds. KLOX, KCBS and KNBC all had crews at the judge’s house. The on-scene reporters were making statements identifying the victim as Judge Veringen. They were circling like vultures, eager to be the first to break the inside news, reluctant to be the first to get it wrong.

  In the background, a guy whose look yelled ‘detective’ came out of the house and spoke on his cell, ignoring shouted questions from the reporters.

  There was no tension or urgency in his movements.

  That might just be his style.

  Then the KLOX reporter who’d gotten there last took the plunge and called it apparent suicide.

  The others followed like ducklings.

  Was it suicide? The stakeout teams, for all their enthusiasm, weren’t experts. I could have gotten a whole platoon of Ops 4-10 past them and they’d never have known. If Forsythe wanted to get rid of a judge to tie up loose ends, he’d use a professional.

  Lynch gave up at Henderson and set off for North Las Vegas. We’d guessed wrong.

  Damn.

  “Amber.” Keith pointed at the screen.

  The woman from KLOX was practically hyperventilating, listening to her earbud and trying to present at the same time.

  “And in breaking news here on KLOX…” She nodded unconsciously at her invisible source and then gave all her attention to the camera. Her face became very serious. “Questions are being asked
as to whether the suicide of Judge Veringen this morning was in any way related to stories that are emerging linking him to events at the StarBright fashion show yesterday. A fashion show from which a young woman contestant in the Tomorrow’s Faces competition, Tamanny Harper, is alleged to have gone missing.”

  For a second her face registered that she’d either gotten way ahead of the news curve, or effectively shredded her contract. Then training took over.

  “This is Jay Portillo, for KLOX, your LA news as it happens.”

  The screen flashed back to the studio where the anchor was blinking uncertainly at the camera.

  “That was Jay Portillo, reporting on the…err…death of Judge Veringen in West Hollywood this morning. And we have…” Her eyes flicked to the side and her voice became stronger, more confident. “We have an excerpt just coming in of an exclusive interview offered to KLOX by Tanner Forsythe, the owner of the Tomorrow’s Faces show, and organizer of the StarBright fashion event. We will broadcast the full interview shortly, and clearly, we’ll be discussing this topic and any developments in full during the day.”

  Forsythe’s face was suddenly onscreen.

  The shock of it was like being punched in the gut.

  His grinning face is right in front of mine. Sweat on his face. Eyes bright and manic.

  Others shouting. “Close up! Close up!”

  “Fuck, yeah,” he yells.

  Pain. Screaming. I will never be free.

  Jen’s hand was on my arm. I was free. I chose to be free.

  He was dead. He just didn’t know it yet.

  “Yes, Judge Veringen was there, and of course I know him,” Forsythe was saying. “We’ve met socially on many occasions.”

  “Were you surprised by his presence at a teen fashion show?” he was asked.

  “I wasn’t surprised to see him, no. Very many well-known people attend my events. Maybe he was picking some dresses for his daughter. I really wouldn’t want to speculate on that, or his death this morning. It’s not constructive to speculate. We have no knowledge yet.”

  “But it would appear highly unusual that your star goes missing, and a day later a judge who was present commits suicide.”

  “We know nothing yet. From all appearances, Judge Veringen was a respectable family man. Meantime, this is obviously a tragedy for Tamanny’s family, and a disaster for my company. I spent last night doing my utmost to assist with the search for Tamanny. I will continue to do so. My only concern at the moment is her safe return…”

  We’d heard enough. Keith turned the volume down.

  The entire thing had been stage-managed. KLOX had been fed their story.

  My gut said Forsythe was running the whole thing, putting the entire blame on the judge without saying so. A judge who was now the proverbial dead end.

  Forsythe was staying ahead of us. Effortlessly.

  Where was Tamanny?

  What was in those suitcases, and where were they?

  “Boss,” Yelena said, listening to my cell and waving me over. “Problem.”

  Another one? What now?

  “Hold one second, Dominé.” Yelena looked up at me. “Dominé says Dante’s just gone to Lieutenant Reed and told him she can get proof Forsythe was involved with Tamanny’s kidnapping.”

  Shit.

  Chapter 56

  Traffic wasn’t as bad as the day before, but it still took us an hour to drive ten miles to the Major Crimes office in Downtown.

  In the time, we pieced together what had happened with Dante.

  It hadn’t even occurred to me that Dante might have actually picked up something useful working at the Tomorrow’s Faces’ studio. The “fashion show” Tammany escaped from hadn’t taken place at the studios, and if girls were being used for sex, Forsythe would have wanted as few witnesses as possible. No brand-new gofers who couldn’t be trusted to keep their mouths shut.

  But I’d underestimated Dante. Not only had she been keeping her ears open, she’d been doing some discreet digging as well.

  Forsythe had a driver, a guy named Willard Bryant.

  He’d been flirting with Dante. The more she pretended to brush him off, the bigger he made himself out to be. He was Forsythe’s main man. His go-to buddy. His fixer. The guy who’d been tasked to fix the problem down in South Central.

  All of which was no slam-dunk. Some guys might say anything they thought would get them into her pants.

  Dante had switched tactics. Said she wanted to move up in the industry and thought Forsythe would be the man to help her do it. Surely, Forsythe’s go-to buddy could arrange a meeting with the man. Only she didn’t want to make any mistakes. Not like that stupid girl at the StarBright. What would he advise?

  It seemed his main advice was to practice on Willard before trying Forsythe, but apparently he’d leaked enough detail that Dante had been sure he’d been one of the people who kidnapped Tamanny, and he only did what Forsythe told him to.

  There weren’t any other details, and Dante’s cell was turned off.

  Why go to Reed? Given her background working at sex clubs, I’d have thought talking to the police wouldn’t have been Dante’s instinctive move.

  Dominé thought it was all part of the same motive she’d had to try out this crazy idea anyway; that she thought it was what I would want her to do. Both Dante and Dominé had heard everything that was being discussed in the house, including what was being debated at the conference center. Dante had gotten the impression that we were in favor of the Athanate working with human laws. Then Elizabetta had talked of Lieutenant Reed.

  Dante had leaped to conclusions.

  For a while I was afraid we had a real security problem, but Dominé assured me that Dante would understand that she couldn’t tell the lieutenant anything about the Athanate, or why I was involved. This would be all about Forsythe.

  There was no more information. No calls.

  Reed wouldn’t take Dante seriously. Surely.

  What kind of a reception was I going to get?

  Juggling cellphones to talk to everyone, I got a good news update from Julie on the road downtown, and then to balance that, Lynch called just as we arrived at the police HQ: Spiegler’s jet had landed earlier at North Las Vegas airfield, but she was already gone by the time he got there. No one knew where.

  He was going to stay to see when she came back. I passed the cell to Yelena as I went into the station.

  The desk sergeant looked at me like I was a bug on his lunchtime taco.

  “You’re expected,” he said, and directed me to Reed’s office. “The lieutenant will be in shortly.”

  And he was.

  I was expecting a long wait to show me who was boss, but it was less than five minutes before he sat down at his desk. His suit was creased now, and it looked as if he hadn’t slept at all.

  “Level with me, Farrell, for God’s sake: who the hell are you?”

  “Exactly the same as I told you yesterday. Let’s skip that and you tell me if you’ve got something from Dante you could work with.”

  “I’m in deep shit as it is. You don’t look like you’re handing me a ladder, and what happens with your friend is police business. Why should I talk to you at all?”

  My luck hadn’t been so good today, until Julie’s call. I took a deep breath.

  “Because I may have a photo of the person who killed Judge Veringen.”

  He blinked. His pupils dilated and his heartbeat kicked up.

  His face remained completely blank. Almost bored.

  “Judge Veringen committed suicide,” he said.

  “You don’t believe that, any more than you believe Forsythe is a Boy Scout.”

  There was a tic at the corner of his eye, which he tried to cover with a fake yawn.

  “I don’t believe this. Didn’t we agree you would butt out of this?”

  “No, you said it. I didn’t agree.”

  “Spiegler is going to have your ass, and mine too.”

  “She’s
out of the office.” I snorted. “Spiegler, hey? Her real name is Fay Daniels, and she spent this morning ferrying suitcases to Las Vegas on her jet. Suitcases that Forsythe gave her.”

  The eye twitched again.

  “Proof?”

  “Her identity? Look at the Denver South High yearbook. Right next to Forsythe. The jet? Photos from Santa Monica Airport this morning, with suitcases. Las Vegas North three hours later.”

  I’d startled him, but he fought back. “So she changed her name after school, and she’s just taken a trip to Las Vegas. Big deal.”

  “We both know he’s guilty and those cases were full of evidence he wanted out of your jurisdiction in a hurry. Got that search warrant yet?”

  Twitch.

  No.

  Problems getting it signed, maybe.

  “A murdered judge might get that signature on the warrant.”

  “Evidence.” He ground out the word.

  “I have faith in your forensics team, if they’re not ordered to leave it alone.”

  Faking a suicide was incredibly difficult, especially in a hurry. There would be evidence, if someone looked hard enough.

  “What about that photo of Veringen’s killer?” he asked.

  “Photos of all the people who were anywhere near the judge’s house early this morning.”

  Reed’s eyes narrowed.

  Even if the photo showed the Mexican mafia’s top hitman strolling up the road, it didn’t prove the judge was murdered. But it could start the dominos falling. If the judge might have been murdered, who might have ordered it? Was it linked to Tamanny’s kidnapping? That might be enough to get a warrant signed to search Forsythe’s premises. The scope of the warrant might be broad enough. If Forsythe was anything like we believed him to be, it would be impossible for him to prevent us finding a trace of evidence of his activity. And a trace would be all that was needed.

  I could see him wavering.

  The door opened and Reed’s captain put his head around it.

  Crap.

  I’d been close to persuading Reed.

  The captain came in, calling over his shoulder. “Bailey. In here.”

  The woman who came in behind him might as well have had District Attorney’s Office tattooed on her head. And ADA Bailey was one pissed lady, from her sleek red hair down to her sharp black heels.