No luck. Block after block I walked, the sun getting oppressive now, but no sign of cop or conveyance. But hope came, finally, in the form of a ramshackle Seven-Eleven, which I hoped would have one of those old-fashioned things in it called a pay phone.
It didn't. But when I explained to the clerk that I needed to call the police, he did so himself and a squad arrived in less than three minutes.
I explained what happened as quickly as I could, but that effort backfired. By leaving out some of the details, such as being towed by a truck full of human waste, I had left gaping holes in my story that made it even more confusing.
"Can we go for a ride?" I asked. "I'll show you."
Officer Listecki, a middle-aged but buff bulldog of a man, shot a skeptical look at his partner, a very tall young woman with red hair and fair skin.
"Whaddya think?" he asked.
She shrugged, unimpressed. "I don't want to blow our morning on this," she said, as though chasing a would-be murderer was a waste of her time.
"We'll give you a ride," Listecki said. "Just point us where to go."
When we turned off of Tropicana, I pointed. "There!"
"What?"
"See that porta-potty?"
"Yeah, what about it?" The female officer was still hostile, for some reason.
"It's not supposed to be there," I said.
"Well, obviously," she said. "It's in the middle of the freakin' street."
"I mean, it's supposed to be about five blocks back. I went to the guy emptying the tanks for help, but he drove off."
Listecki slowed the car down and looked back at me. "He drove off with the thing still attached to it?"
I nodded. "He must have detached it just now and driven away. It was only about fifteen minutes ago. Anyway, the point is, we have to keep going. I'll show you the crash."
I directed them toward the site, and all that remained was about half of my crumpled Audi. There was no sign of a dark gray truck, much less a bloodied guy roaming around with a murderous look on his face.
"So you're saying he did this on purpose? He followed you around, waited till you were in a deserted area, and then rammed you." Her tone was distinctly of the stop-wasting-my-time variety.
"That's what I think," I said. "I saw him yesterday at Nordstrom, and I know I've seen him somewhere else before."
Listecki spoke up. "And you offended him so much in these few encounters that he—"
I interrupted. "There's more to it than that. I'm a private investigator, working a murder case. Obviously, I think there's some connection there."
This was too much for Officer Bitchy Face, who snorted. "I think what happened is, you're drunk, you crashed up your little car here, and you're trying to collect some insurance on it."
"Give me a breathalyzer," I insisted.
Listecki put his hands up. "Let's cool it a minute. I assume you don't have any ID on you? That would be too easy."
I nodded toward the car. "It's in there. Maybe I can fish it out, though."
The three of us climbed out and they watched me try to get inside. It was all but hopeless. And then I remembered the hole in the roof. I climbed up and took a look. It had been narrowed by the last crash, but it was still a manageable space, so I jimmied myself in. The airbags had completely deflated, so I was able to contort myself into the passenger floor space to pick up my handbag, and even my phone.
Getting back out proved harder, but Listecki climbed up and offered me a hand while his underling stood diffidently by, not lifting a finger.
"Thanks," I said. When we got back down I pulled out a business card and my ID.
"It checks out," he said. "She's a private dick. Disreputable, yes, but crazy, no."
The female officer—Jackson was her name—grunted in defeat, unwilling to concede the point but equally unable to put up any more of a fight.
I gave a description of the man to Listecki, and they patrolled around the area for a good ten minutes with me in the back seat. After we spotted no sign of the guy or his truck, they dropped me off at home and promised they'd write a report and continue the investigation.
"You really live here?" Jackson asked, eyeing my building's lavish lobby and drop-off area. "On a PI's salary?"
I shrugged. "I'm really quite in demand," I lied.
Listecki let out a little chuckle, and then he jumped out to open the door for me from the outside.
"May I keep your card?" he asked.
I winked at him and limped off into the building.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
I stopped by my building's security desk and informed the guard that I was not expecting any visitors and asked him to be on the lookout for anyone who didn't look right. He gave me the once-over, probably wondering, like Sergeant Jackson, how the hell a disheveled, dusty, and probably smelly bimbo like me could afford to live in such a nice place. But he nodded gruffly and said they would keep watch. I wasn't so sure.
Back in the safety of my own condo, I lay down on my bed and decompressed. I had been getting into too many dangerous situations lately, and being only a second or two from getting rammed by a truck was not sitting well with me. And who the hell was the guy driving the truck? Had Kent and his friends hired someone else to do what they couldn't do themselves?
I was exhausted, both physically and mentally, which meant all I wanted to do was shower and sleep. But showering and sleeping wouldn't get rid of my problem, which was that a number of people apparently wanted to kill me. Sleep could wait, but showering couldn't, not after I'd been on such intimate terms with a porta-potty. I turned the water up hotter than usual, allowing the steam to collect in luxurious clouds in my bathroom, the nearly scalding water relaxing my muscles and finally allowing me a moment to think.
Nothing was coming to me. It was all a confusing mess of people and schemes and angles. Just when I couldn't take the heat another minute, I remembered my ace in the hole, Kent's cell phone. If he was still using the same account, I could keep up with his movements and maybe even uncover exactly what was going on. Assuming the battery still had any juice, that is. I jumped out of the shower, dried myself off quickly, and ran to the kitchen, where I found his phone in the drawer. I tried to turn it on, but it was dead. Not even enough power to turn on the little battery picture.
I returned to the bathroom, where it was still a sauna. Naked and still wet, I stared at myself in the mirror. In my haste, I had done a crappy job drying myself off, and I was leaving a pool of water beneath me. I dabbed at my face with the towel, observing for the hundredth time that my black hair always seemed to look blacker when it was dripping wet, even though I knew that was impossible. And that's when an involuntary shudder took hold of my body, and I began feeling a chill, despite the actual temperature. For some reason, peering at my dripping wet face had brought a vivid image of my bloody attacker to the forefront of my mind's eye, and in an instant I finally knew where I'd seen him before. He had been wet the first time I met him, and now I knew I was really in trouble.
My heart was thumping in my chest, my body's defense mechanisms already two steps ahead of my slow-witted brain. I got myself dried off and dressed, trying to think of a way to diffuse the situation, to outwit the danger that seemed pointed like a crossbow at the life I had come to know. As I paced around, frenetically fidgeting and murmuring to myself, the vague wisps of a theory began forming in my mind. I tried to connect the dots. What did all of the events and people have in common? Not bloody much, that's what. But there was one thing that had bugged me the entire time, even if I hadn't explicitly recognized it until now, and I needed to find a way to confirm my suspicions. My brain was running on overdrive, causing my fists to clench and unclench involuntarily, the all-too-familiar beginnings of a tension headache creeping into my temples. I kept returning to Kent's cell phone. I had to get that thing charged up again if I wanted any chance of getting ahead of events rather than constantly playing defense. But that would require a new battery, and the
re was no way I was leaving my apartment again, not with that lunatic out there.
Golf. I had forgotten about the driving range, about meeting Carlos to hit a few balls. He was free. He could bring me a cell battery and get the phone going, I reasoned, but my heart sank with each ring of the phone that went unanswered. He wasn't picking up, so I left a message. Crap.
I started down at my phone again and then pulled up Plan B.
"Mike? Are you free?"
A pause. "I had a feeling you might call," he said.
"Why?"
"It's been a few days. Normally you're more needy than this."
I sighed. "Seriously, Mike, I need help. You need to buy a cell battery and bring it over here. I want to get Kent's cell phone up and running."
"What kind is it?" he asked.
"It's an iPhone, but it's got a different charger than mine. It's a 6."
"Ok, I can do that. I think maybe getting a charger would be safer, though. I'm not sure a new battery has much charge in it, and then it would just die out again anyways."
"Good point," I said. "Whatever. I just need it soon."
"Not that I mind dropping everything and going shopping for you, but why can't you do it?"
"I'll tell you when you get here," I said, losing my patience.
"Consider it done," he said.
I spent the next forty-five minutes mauling a bag of pretzels in an all-world performance of anxiety binge eating. Mike arrived about halfway through a box of Cheez-Its.
"Here you go," he said, proudly, handing me the plastic bag.
I ripped open the box and hooked up the phone. While it began to charge up, I filled Mike in on the morning's events.
"You have a way about you, it seems," he said. His tone was light, as though he was trying to brighten my mood.
"And what do you mean by that?"
"Well, you've been at this how long? A few months? In eight years I've only gotten into danger maybe a half a dozen times. And you seem to have a talent for it, right out of the gate."
"Maybe that's why…" I trailed off, thinking better of my comeback.
"Why what?"
"Why the good clients are coming to me," I said. "I'm putting it on the line."
He laughed. "Yeah, I'm sure that's it!"
I sighed. "Let me check the phone," I said. I pressed the "on" button and hoped for the best. It came to life, making all kinds of noises in the process, and then promptly flashed me a warning that it was low on battery life. Well, duh, I thought. I kept it plugged in and pulled up Kent's email, which showed only four unread messages.
"He's only got four unreads, so he's got to be checking his email some other way," I said. "Maybe on the computer, or maybe he got a new phone."
"Anything good in there?" Mike asked.
"Not sure yet. There's a lot to go through."
I clicked on every message that looked remotely interesting, and even a few that didn't. Nothing was jumping out at me, until finally, I found one I could use.
The plan was crystallizing now, and my adrenaline was coursing through me due to something other than fear, which was as refreshing as it was exciting. But I needed some help.
CHAPTER THIRTY
"You want me to do what?" asked the young man in front of me. He was standing in the doorway of a ratty hotel room, arms across his chest, dressed for this Sunday afternoon in green underwear and a T-shirt.
"Remember, I can get you deported," I threatened.
Thomas Q. Dyson looked up at the ceiling. "And how am I supposed to do what you want, anyway?"
"I think I know where they are," I explained, trying to keep the urgency out of my voice. I needed him, this man who had pretended to be Kent at Melanie's funeral, and I didn't want to frighten him off. "All you have to do is talk."
"And who's this guy?" he asked, nodding at the silent Mike.
"Never mind," I said. "He's with me."
Dyson grimaced and scratched his left ear nervously, rolling the idea over in his mind. "Can I at least put some clothes on?"
I chuckled. "By all means. But class it up a little bit. We're going to the Bellagio."
After two minutes of shuffling around, gargling, and toilet sounds, Thomas Q. Dyson was ready. It was an enviable trait he shared with all men: the ability to go from disgusting to presentable in two minutes flat.
We double-timed it there, picking up a glisten of sweat under the hot early evening sun, and made our way to the poker area. I had been babbling to Dyson the whole way there, with him limiting himself to grunts and nods. I explained what had happened to me that morning, and how we had just come from the hospital to visit the bruised and battered Detective Weakland, who was on the mend. He looked as if a cement truck had run over his face, but he was going to pull through. I wasn't sure Dyson understood fully, but he knew what to do. Whether Mike would play his role was another question.
"There he is," Dyson said. He pointed at a table deep in the poker room, where the weekly $1,000 Texas Hold 'Em tournament was in full swing. Kent was sitting with his profile to us, a blue soccer cap on his head.
"That's the easy part," I muttered. I had known from his emails that Kent was playing in this tournament. It wasn't Kent I was here to see.
We wandered around the area, trying not to look as if we were looking for anything. But there was nobody there. No one was at the rail watching the poker tournament, just a throng of men hooting and hollering at the NFL games showing in the sports book nearby.
Deflated, I slumped against the rail. "She's not here."
Mike fidgeted, not sure what to do or how to react, and Dyson seemed downright relieved. Not that I blamed either of them. My idea was somewhere between a mild possibility and a long shot.
Dyson nudged me. "There she is," he whispered.
I followed his line of sight but came up empty.
"Yellow baseball cap, ponytail," he said, sensing my confusion.
"Aha! You're right. I didn't expect she'd be playing in the tournament." It was a surprise, but something we could work with. "Tommy," I said, "I guess we'll just have to wait until there's a break."
Dyson coughed. "It's Thomas, actually. But yes, I suppose we must wait."
Mike sighed, almost imperceptibly. His heart wasn't in this plan—I could tell. "There's a bank of slots right over there," he said. "We can sit down there so we don't stand out so much."
I checked the board in the poker room, which indicated that the blinds were now 800 and 400, with antes of 100 chips. It said there were about seven minutes left in that round, with a break to follow.
"About seven minutes," I said. "We can handle that."
We all agreed and found spots sitting in front of a bunch of one-dollar Blazing 7's slot machines, waiting for the break in the poker action. My willpower being what it was, I slipped a twenty into the machine, pushed max play, and promptly won two hundred and forty bucks.
"How about that?" I asked, to no one in particular.
Mike grunted, but Dyson seemed impressed.
"Quit while you're ahead," he muttered.
"Done," I said. "I'm going to go hit up security."
I asked a waitress where the security desk was, then followed the edge of the casino around the corner to a wide desk with two uniformed guards propped up on a dais overlooking the slots and roulette area. I flashed my ID and asked for a manager, and, after a few shrugs, they told me to wait.
Eventually a stern-looking oak of a woman emerged from the back. She had two bars on her epaulettes, and her nametag read "Lisa."
Lisa heard me out, silently assessing whether I was a crackpot or whether I had legitimate business to discuss. When I threatened to involve the LVPD, she perked up and assured me of her support, whatever that meant.
I strode past the poker room on my way back to our slot machines. Forty-one seconds to go.
"Places, people," I purred, trying to keep things light.
Mike whipped out a few papers from his pocket, and I pu
lled out a baseball cap from my handbag. I would remain in the wings, but I didn't want to queer the deal by being recognized.
There was no mad rush out of the poker room. When the clock stopped, it meant that any hand still in progress would be played out to its conclusion, which could take several minutes if there was heavy action. Finally a few groups of guys started meandering out, their faces glued to their smartphones, finding their way, somehow, to the bathrooms near the sports book bar. The ratio of men to women was probably twenty to one.
"She's coming," Dyson whispered. He looked at Mike, and they walked purposefully over to her. I hung back, close enough to hear but not close enough to be recognized.
Mike gave her an authoritative tap on the shoulder. She spun around, surprised, probably expecting to see Kent.
Mike cleared his throat and held out a sheaf of official-looking papers. "Caroline Weston? I am a process server licensed by the State of Nevada, and you are hereby served with this summons and complaint."
"What's this all about?" she asked, confused. And then she noticed Dyson.
Dyson was clearly nervous, but he kept to his lines. "I'm suing you for interfering with my estate. My wife left me with ten million when she died, but you've—"
Caroline sniffed. "Your wife? Give it up, man. Melanie was never married to you, she was married to…" she paused, looking around. "Him!" She was pointing at Kent, who had emerged from the poker area.
Mike chimed in. "And you've known this the whole time?"
She shrugged, defiantly. "Melanie showed me his picture. So what? You're going to try to scam us out of millions of dollars by pretending to be her widower?"
"Then why didn't you say anything at the funeral?" Mike asked. "You just played along."
I moved out from behind the corner's edge, where I'd been lurking. "I think I can answer that," I said. Caroline had already said enough for me, but I wanted to get it all out there.
Royal Flush Page 21
