by Jeff Shelby
“No,” he answered. “I'll see you in an hour.”
TWENTY TWO
I got a text from Anchor fifty-eight minutes later, asking me to meet him in a bar at the MGM. I valet parked the car at the casino, a muscled-up kid in his twenties looking less than enthusiastic about taking care of my decade-old car. I gave him a twenty with the keys and he perked up a little as he handed me the claim ticket.
The MGM was one of those hotel and casinos that had never really decided what it wanted to be. They'd made a huge mistake when they'd originally opened, going for a movie theme tied to the old MGM Studios and making the main entrance a lion's mouth. They realized too late that in Asian culture walking into a lion's mouth – even just symbolically – was bad luck. Because of this, the big money gamblers from the Far East avoided the casino when they visited Vegas, putting a large dent in the casino's revenue. The hotel execs very quickly remodeled the entrance, but once they did, the hotel sort of lost its identity. It was still a popular venue with a great location on The Strip, but when you walked in, you weren't taken away to another place like you were at Bellagio or Mandalay Bay.
I found the bar just off the casino floor, a small duck-in room with oak paneled walls and high backed booths. Anchor was in one of the booths, tapping away at his phone. He set the phone down when he saw me and nodded in my direction. I slid into the opposite side of the booth.
“Not the greatest of meeting spots, but I was able to negotiate some privacy,” Anchor said.
I looked around. Besides the guy behind the bar, the only other person in the room was a guy perched on the very first barstool near the entrance. He was dressed in a business suit and I'd barely noticed him when I'd walked in. He stood and took a couple of steps toward the entrance when an older couple came into the doorway. He said something to them. They looked at each other, then shrugged and walked away. The guy went back to his stool, his eyes trained on the entrance. The bartender worked on polishing drink glasses, avoiding eye contact with us.
“We have friends here,” Anchor said. “It's ours for just a bit. Drink?”
“Actually, yeah,” I said.
Anchor held his hand up and the bartender hustled over to us.
“Ice water,” Anchor said. “Two limes.”
“Crown and Coke,” I said.
He nodded and hustled back to the bar.
“I was a little surprised by your call,” Anchor said. “I take it you have some information.”
“I need to know exactly what the fuck I'm in the middle of here,” I said.
Anchor raised an eyebrow. “In the middle of?”
“Who exactly is Carina Armstrong?”
He thought for a moment, then shook his head. “I don't know. As I told you, hers was a name that one of my men came up with. That's all I know.”
“She works for you, so I'm not buying that,” I said. “Worked, actually. Because she's dead.”
The bartender came and set our drinks on the table. I picked mine up and immediately downed half of it. Anchor waved the guy away, but didn't touch his water. He stared at the glass, seemingly transfixed by the two slices of lime floating on the surface.
“She was dead when you located her?” Anchor finally said.
I set my glass down and shook my head. “No. She was dead a couple hours after I spoke to her.”
“You know this how?”
“Because Las Vegas PD arrested me at her place.”
Anchor picked up his glass and sipped at the water. I killed the rest of my drink, caught the bartender's eye and pointed at the empty glass. He nodded and had another one on the table in under a minute.
I took another long drink, letting the alcohol burn down my throat. “So to summarize my day, here it is in a nutshell. Talked to a girl whose name I got from you, two guys followed me and weren't interested in Dennison, someone killed the girl and I got to spend the evening with Las Vegas homicide.” I lifted the glass in his direction. “Not exactly what I had planned.”
“I'm sure it wasn't,” Anchor said.
“So I want to know exactly what the fuck I'm in the middle of,” I repeated. “Because this now feels like a bit more than Dennison running off with some of your cash.”
“Yes, it does,” Anchor said, slowly stirring the red straw in his drink. “It certainly does.”
We sat there in silence for a minute, the muted sounds from the casino sounding about a mile away.
“Does the police department consider you a suspect?” Anchor asked.
“They said no, but I'm sure they're still looking at me,” I said. “They pulled my background, they figured out I was working for Dennison's wife and the detective wasn't an idiot, so I think he knows I didn't do it. But he doesn't know me and he'd be stupid to ignore me. They know I had contact with her and they found me in her home.”
“Inside?”
I explained what happened.
“You find anything of interest there?” Anchor asked.
“Not really,” I said. “But you still haven't answered my question. What exactly is this?”
Anchor's face remained impassive but a muscle twitched in his jaw. “I can make several assumptions, but I'm not sure they're correct. But let me be clear. When we spoke about this job, the only thing I was aware of was that Mr. Dennison had gone missing. I was not aware that anything else was at play here. After the photos you sent me this afternoon, along with what you've just shared at me, I won't disagree that there are other things going on. But let me be clear.” He stared at me for a moment. “I was not aware of them prior to speaking with you.”
It sounded like he was telling the truth. I didn't think he had any reason to lie to me or to pretend he didn't know anything. At the same time, though, it was hard for me to accept that anything was happening in Anchor's world that he was unaware of. Everything I'd seen in the past with him indicated that nothing happened without his knowledge.
“Who are the guys?” I asked.
Anchor took another drink and set the glass back down on the table. “It appears they are employed by a competitor.”
“Competitor?”
He adjusted his horn-rimmed glasses. “Mr. Codaselli's company and organization is a large one. Our interests and investments are varied and wide. In Las Vegas, we've focused primarily on men's entertainment venues, as well as acquiring commercial real estate that has not yet been developed. As I'm sure you can imagine, there is competition in those areas of business.”
“Similar types of organizations?”
Anchor nodded. “Yes. Based out of Los Angeles. We've attempted several times to facilitate a certain level of peaceful co-existence, but we haven't had much success. As a result, this other group is not pleased that we've established a foothold in Las Vegas. It's been contentious at times.”
“So why would they have an interest in Dennison?”
“Good question,” Anchor said. “My guess would be that maybe they made an overture to him at some point.”
“An overture?”
“Yes. To see if maybe he had an interest in a position with their organization.”
“Have they done that before? With other folks that work for you?”
“They have.”
“And what happened?”
Anchor smiled. “We discouraged it.”
“With both parties?”
“Yes.”
I didn't know what discouraging both parties entailed, but I was sure it wasn't polite conversation.
“Is Dennison the kind of employee who could prove...valuable to someone else?” I asked.
Anchor thought for a moment, then nodded. “Yes, I believe so. He had access to information that we wouldn't want to see shared.”
“Like?”
“Mostly financial,” he said, shrugging. “But, frankly, if someone reaches a certain level in our organization, if they choose to leave, our preference is for them to leave for something that doesn't directly compete with what we do.”
/> “I'll assume that preference is usually honored.”
Anchor nodded again. “Usually, yes.”
I stirred the bourbon and soda in front of me. “Would Dennison have considered jumping ship?”
“I have no way of knowing. If you're asking me if I know anything concrete in that regard, my answer is no. If I did, we would've dealt with it immediately.”
I was certain that was true. “So, it's a possibility then,” I said. “That they made a run at him. Maybe he told them he'd cross over or whatever you wanna call it. Then maybe he gets cold feet. Takes off.”
“Certainly plausible,” he said. “Especially given that they were apparently watching you. I'd assume that meant they were watching for him.”
I nodded. “Yeah. So. How worried do I need to be about these guys?”
“Looks like they should be more worried about you from what I saw in the pictures you sent me,” he said, smiling.
“Two guys who probably weren't hired to do much more than watch me,” I said, shaking my head. “Dumb, unskilled labor and low end of the food chain. You know what I'm talking about.”
Anchor gave me a begrudging nod. “Right. Well, I would say that there appears to be enough of an interest in Mr. Dennison that they identified you as a potential information source. I would certainly say that you need to be cognizant of that.”
I finished what was left of my drink and pushed the empty glass to the end of the table. The bourbon had calmed my nerves but had done nothing to dull my anger over the way the situation had changed. “I didn't sign up to get in the middle of some sort of turf war. That isn't what you asked of me. You asked me to find Dennison.” I paused, letting the rest of my assignment go unspoken. “You didn't ask me to negotiate with a rival organization or step into a murder investigation. I find people and that's what you hired me to do and I agreed to do it. I did not agree to the ancillary bullshit.” I leaned forward across the table. “I'll keep going for now, but if this gets uglier or if I feel this is somehow going to prevent me from going home to my daughter, then I'm out.”
Anchor stirred the straw in his drink slowly. “I'm not sure that's your choice to make at this point, Mr. Tyler.”
“Actually, it is,” I answered. “You can leverage me and threaten me all you want, but if this gets so deep that I'm not sure I can get back to my family? Then I'm out.” I leaned back in the booth. “And you and I can deal with the fallout.”
Anchor stared at me across the table, still stirring the straw.
I stared back.
“Let's hope it doesn't come to that,” Anchor finally said.
“Yeah. Let's.” I rolled my shoulders, trying to release some of the tension. “Back to the girl. You told me you don't know her, but she works for you.”
“I don't know every single name on the payroll, Mr. Tyler.”
That was probably true. “Okay. This rival group. It's possible that they could've taken her out?”
Anchor nodded. “Certainly. I'm not sure why, but yes. It's definitely possible.”
“Would they need a reason or would they just do it to do it?”
Anchor thought longer on that. “It's been my experience that it wouldn't be done carelessly. Now, you and I might differ on what might equate reason, but I don't believe that it would've occurred without a reason.”
I tended to agree, even without knowing who they were. Street gangs would kill just because. They didn't necessarily need a reason. But an organization like Anchor's tended to operate more professionally, which was to say that they killed for a reason or when they felt it was necessary. They weren't looking to draw the attention of the legal establishment. It was a gray area, but it was still a different area.
“Can you reach out?” I asked. “See what's there?” I wasn't asking as a favor to me and he knew it. We both needed the information, him probably more so than me.
Anchor finished the water and pushed his glass next to mine. “I'm not sure I want to do that at this juncture.”
“Why not?”
“Because if they have an interest in Mr. Dennison, I have no interest in striking a deal,” he said. “What I've asked you to do with Mr. Dennison is the only acceptable result I'm looking for. Involving anyone else might create the notion that I'm willing to settle for something less.” He paused. “I have no interest in turning him over to them for whatever their needs might be or anything along those lines. I also don't wish to help them if they are indeed looking for him. So reaching out is a bit problematic.”
I understood his reasoning. He didn't want to connect with anyone; he just wanted the problem taken care of.
“We can look into it quietly,” Anchor added. “But at this point, I'm afraid that's all I'm willing to do. I'll be around for the next few days if you need any assistance.”
I pushed out of the booth. “Let's hope that won't be necessary.”
“And Mr. Tyler?”
I looked at him.
Anchor smiled at me. It was cold and hard and sent a shiver down my spine. “I really hope you and I don't have to deal the fallout,” he said. “That would be very unpleasant.”
I had no doubt.
TWENTY THREE
The room Anchor arranged for me was at a swanky place at the north end of the Strip. I had no doubt it was a suite that cost thousands a night and had the potential to be the nicest hotel room I'd ever set foot in. It would be the kind of place featured on a travel show, only possible for most people if they won the lottery.
But I wasn't going to stay there.
I didn't trust anyone, especially Anchor. Things had gone a little off the rails and that made me uncomfortable. After the events of the day, I wasn't sure what was in play but I did know one thing. The only person I could trust was me. So walking into a hotel suite that had been arranged for me by someone pulling my strings stoked all kinds of paranoia in me. I didn't want or need to deal with that. I needed to be somewhere I could relax and clear my head and not worry that I was being watched or tracked.
I found the Monte Carlo in the middle of the Boulevard and parked in the parking garage behind the hotel. Monte Carlo was one of those places that paled in comparison to the monstrosities that surrounded it: not decadent enough to compete with Bellagio and not themed enough to compete with Paris or Mirage. As a result, many people forgot about it when they went looking for hotels in Vegas and the only way that most people visited it was when they used it as a pass-through as they walked The Strip.
Which suited me just fine.
I made my way to the check-in desk off the main floor casino and fifteen minutes later, I was standing in a room on the sixteenth floor, my window looking out across the neon lit drag. I tossed my wallet, keys and phone on the bed along with my backpack, stripped out of my clothes, and stepped into a blistering hot shower, attempting to wash the crap of the day off of me.
I toweled off when I was done, pulled on a pair of sweats and stretched out on the bed. It was late and I was exhausted but I hit the remote for the TV, clicking over to ESPN for background noise and pulled my laptop from the backpack. I connected to the hotel wi-fi, opened the browser and starting looking at campsites around the Salton Sea and Yuma.
The photographs I'd seen of Carina Armstrong on her camping trips had been recent; I was sure of it. Her hair looked the same and her face hadn't looked any younger, making me think that they'd been taken within the previous year. The corners in the travel guide were still folded over, suggesting those might've been recent trips or places she was considering traveling to in the near future. If she'd been involved with Dennison in the past year – which, given my conversation with her I believed to be true – then it stood to reason, at least in my own mind, that they might've taken one or several of those trips together. Camping was a smart get-away for people who didn't want others to know that they were spending time together.
I found multiple campgrounds in both places. They ranged from full-service to simple, no-frills areas that
were legal to camp in. Both Salton Sea and Yuma were desert outposts, places people didn't visit during the summer unless they wanted their shoes to melt against the asphalt. But outside of those months, those locales offered mild temperatures with ample areas to hike and explore. Yuma also housed a state prison. The Salton Sea didn't house much more than despair. They were both within a day's drive of Vegas, as well as San Diego. A long weekend trip to either was easily doable. The more I looked, though, the less I was able to distinguish between the two. They seemed like interchangeable desert playgrounds and I didn't know how either place could help me, especially now that Carina Armstrong was dead.
I shut down the computer and muted the TV. And my phone rang.
“Hey Dad,” Elizabeth said.
“Hey kid.”
“You didn't call or text so I just...”
Guilt stabbed at me. I'd forgotten to text her back. “I know. I'm sorry. Things have been a little hectic here.”
“That's okay,” she said.
“How was the run?”
“Slow. My legs felt like sand.”
“You probably need a day off.”
“Maybe. Did you run?”
“No. Haven't had time.”
“Did you find the guy you're looking for?”
“No.”
She sighed. “Okay. Was just hoping. Did you figure anything out?”
“Not really,” I said.
“Did you win a million dollars on the slot machines?”
I almost smiled. “Negative.”
“Las Vegas doesn't sound very fun.”
“Totally overrated.”
“Yeah,” she said and I could tell she was smiling. “Hey, did you ever read Gatsby?”
“Yeah, a long time ago. Why?”
“We're reading it in English,” she said and then launched into a ten minute explanation of how everyone in class thought it was lame, but how her teacher starting talking about the symbolism of the green light and she couldn't not seem symbols on nearly every page.
I listened, enjoying both the diversion and her enthusiasm. She was mostly a measured kid in terms of demeanor, taking after her mother. She didn't get too fired up or too down about anything, at least that I'd seen since she'd been home. She was easy with a laugh and a smile, but she wasn't over-exuberant. Unless, apparently, she was discussing Gatsby.
