Edge of Crime: A Collection of Crime Stories

by John Moralee

  One ufologist with short blond hair and an intense stare called him a fraud.

  “He’s not a real doctor,” he told Nolan, spilling champagne on the carpet. “He’s not a psychiatrist like it says on his book jackets. He doesn’t even have a medical degree. He trained as a therapist. That’s like training to flip burgers. Look at him, showing off.”

  Swanson was walking around shaking hands like a president – one hand over the other, making it easy to pull away. The man had perfect teeth and a deep tan, reminding Nolan of the actor George Hamilton. He was one of the few men wearing a tuxedo. Nolan felt an affinity because of that. There was an extremely beautiful woman with Swanson, possessing rich, lustrous caramel-coloured hair. Her strapless white dress caught Nolan’s attention.

  “Who’s that with him?”

  “That bimbo is his wife Lucinda. She’s only twenty, half his damn age. She’s his third wife. Lucky bastard.”

  “What’s lucky about having three wives?” Nolan said. “Think of the alimony.”

  The blond man sniggered, then excused himself in a hurry, like a man fleeing from a lion. The reason for his retreat was that Swanson was coming in his direction. Before the blond man disappeared into the crowd, he pointed at Toby Dane, saying Nolan should talk to him about Swanson if he wanted to know more. Nolan would not remember Toby’s name until the next day, but he walked over and introduced himself, intrigued by what the other man had said. Nolan was drinking too much free champagne to have a clear memory of their full conversation. Maybe Dane introduced himself, maybe not. They just started talking about the convention.

  Dane’s lecture subject was false memory syndrome.

  “I have done research to prove alien abduction experiences are not real memories, but the result of bad therapy. I have interviewed hundreds of Dr Swanson’s so-called alien abduction victims and found out that they did not have memories of being abducted until they started seeing him. They came to him with other problems, which he convinced them were caused by alien abduction. I intend to show that he’s deliberately created false memories so that he can sell more books. I’ve videotaped some of his patients under hypnosis, showing how easy it is to create false memories, even how to de-programme them. Dr Harlan Swanson is in for a shock when I do my lecture. I’m going to ruin his reputation.”

  “At least I have a reputation to ruin,” Swanson said. For the last minute, he had been standing behind Dane, listening to him. Swanson smiled at Nolan, ignoring Dane. “Geoffrey Nolan, what a pleasure.”

  “Dr Swanson,” Nolan said, accepting the presidential handshake. He then shook Lucinda’s small hand when Swanson introduced her.

  Flushed with embarrassment, Dane excused himself, finding another group to join.

  “He’s jealous,” Swanson said. “My wife liked your book. She read the review copy I was sent.”

  “Thanks,” Nolan said, noticing Swanson didn’t say he had liked it. “I’m afraid I’ve never read any of your books.”

  Swanson bristled at that. He recovered quickly. “I’ll have to give you a copy of my new one.” He then began talking – about himself. According to Swanson, he was the greatest ufologist and psychotherapist of all time. He would have bored Nolan to death, if not for the subtle intervention of his wife, who had remained silent for five minutes. She had sensed Nolan’s discomfort and broke up the so-called conversation.

  “Harlan, I could do with another glass of champagne, will you get me one?”

  “Uh – of course. Excuse me.”

  Swanson walked away, leaving Nolan facing Lucinda. She gave him an apologetic smile. “Harlan likes to talk about himself. He doesn’t realise not everyone wants to listen.”

  “How did you meet him?”

  “I went to see him for therapy. I was suffering insomnia and panic attacks until he treated me. We ended up falling in love. He’s a sweet man – when he’s not talking about himself. He’s a brilliant psychotherapist. Under hypnosis, he discovered the Greys took me to their mothership for sexual experiments. That was why I could not sleep – I was scared of being raped by the Greys.”

  She seemed totally serious.

  He thought of what Dane had said.

  “Oh,” he said.

  “You think I’m mad, don’t you? It’s all right saying it. I wouldn’t believe me either. But Harlan showed me his files. There are thousands of victims like me. He’s helped me deal with it. I can sleep all night.”

  After that, Nolan felt uncomfortable around Lucinda. She was a nice woman, which made him feel guilty. Other than the belief in aliens, she seemed rational. He assumed other people thought so too, because she was a lawyer for an environmental-protection organisation called Earth First. She battled against wasteful, polluting companies. She was not a bimbo, like the blond man had said.

  “Looks like my husband has forgot to get my champagne,” she said, sighing with humour, as though she had already known he would forget. “He’s talking to Professor Randal. I think the poor man needs rescuing. Excuse me.”

  Nolan watched Lucinda go, thinking she deserved a better therapist and husband than the egotistical Swanson. He wondered if Swanson had hypnotised her into loving him. It seemed the only explanation. Nolan wandered around the party, mixing with different groups, meeting some seriously eccentric people. Nolan got drunk. Things became confusing. He remembered someone telling him that President George W. Bush had been the head cheerleader at his school. The thought of a cheerleader with a finger on the red button had made them both laugh like lunatics. Another person told him that casinos in Vegas pumped extra oxygen into the air to make people drunk without becoming unconscious, so that they could spend more money on gambling. Judging by the amount of champagne he had consumed, and the fact he was still standing, Nolan could believe it. In the morning, he woke up with a dry mouth, a hangover, and not much memory of the night before ...

  “You didn’t see Toby again?” Gina asked.

  “No. I dropped 200 dollars at the craps tables … then I went to bed before I lost more. I think.”

  “Two years ago, Toby wrote Roswell Autopsied. His detailed research destroyed the credibility of some of the major witnesses. He showed there was no evidence of an alien crash, just government incompetence over misidentifying a weather balloon, mixed in with conspiracy theory paranoia. The title for Toby’s unfinished book is Abductions Autopsied. He’s going to expose people like Swanson as quacks with their own agenda. What if Swanson has done something to Toby because of the lecture?”

  “I don’t think that’s likely,” Nolan said. “But I could talk to Swanson. He might have talked to Toby.”

  “I’d appreciate that,” Gina said. “I keep telling myself there is probably a simple explanation for his disappearance, but without knowing …”

  “You look tired,” Nolan said. “Why don’t you rest in your room?”

  “What about Toby?”

  “I’ll look for Toby. With any luck, he might call your room to let you know where he is. If I see him, I’ll tell him you’re here.”

  Gina pushed her coffee to one side and slowly stood up. Nolan walked with her to the elevators.

  “Thank you,” she said, as the doors closed.

  Nolan checked his programme book.

  1.00-2.00 p.m.: ARE ALIENS HERE?

  Your chance to question the experts in a live debate.

  He and Swanson were on a panel, starting in five minutes. The convention room was filled with an audience of strangers. They mostly looked like people he could see every day, but some looked like they’d just arrived from Pluto. He saw trekkers in full Klingon costumes. Men in black. Hare Krishnas. It was like that scene in Blade Runner when Harrison Ford chased the replicant. He walked onto the stage to join the twelve panellists, naturally called The Majestic 12. He had a seat next to Swanson. Toby’s seat was conspicuously empty.

  “I see we have a quality audience,” Swanson said under his breath. “Don’t you just love the general public?” />
  “I will if they buy my book,” Nolan said.

  “They’ve already bought my book. I suppose they’ll expect me to sign them all. God, I hate that. Signing sessions are a nightmare. My hand always gets cramp. You’re lucky you’ve not experienced that particular joy.”

  “Hmm,” Nolan said.

  “Speaking of my book, here’s that copy I promised.”

  It was a thick hardback with an alien on the front cover, a black and white portrait of Swanson on the back, posing in a black leather chair. The title was in futuristic silver lettering Dreamland Exposed. The brilliant new bestseller by Dr Harlan K.L. Swanson. It would be a useful brick, Nolan supposed.

  “Have you seen Toby?”

  “Toby who?”

  “Toby Dane.”

  “Oh, him? No. He is probably suffering a hangover. He was a real jerk last night. You would have thought the man had never tasted champagne before.”

  “Did you talk to him?”

  “Me? I wouldn’t waste time on him. He’s written one book that sold a few hundred thousand copies. My last book sold over twenty million copies in America alone. He’s probably not shown up out of embarrassment.”

  “You’ve had arguments in the past then?”

  “When you are as successful as I am, you can’t avoid them. Is it my fault people actually want to read my books?”

  Nolan was saved from replying by Benjamin Turco beginning the debate.

  During the whole hour, Toby Dane did not show up. Afterwards, Nolan asked the other panellists if they had seen him today. They had not. They remembered seeing him at the party up to eleven. They were not very helpful.

  Determined to solve the mystery, Nolan approached the reception desk. “Some of my luggage has been mislaid. Can I speak to the bellboys on duty last night?”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  There were ten bellboys on duty that night. “My suitcase could have been delivered to the wrong room,” he lied. “Has anyone moved a suitcase between six last night and this morning?”

  None of the bellboys wanted to get in trouble for mislaying the suitcase. They shook their heads. “There’s a reward for anyone who remembers taking a suitcase from a room on the third floor.”

  Nobody remembered anything.

  It was what he expected.

  But once the group had broken up, one bellboy approached him, making sure the receptionist was not looking. “Sir, I didn’t know that was your suitcase. The gentleman said it was his. If this is something to do with the police, I didn’t have anything to do with it.”

  “The police won’t hear from me,” Nolan said. “I just want to know about the suitcase.”

  He slipped the bellboy some money. The bellboy recalled something odd. That morning, around eight, the man in room 307 had asked for his suitcases to be taken down to his car. The suitcases had been very heavy, requiring a baggage trolley. The man had gone down to the parking lot with the bellboy, locking them in the trunk of a silver Lexus. It was odd because the bellboy remembered taking the man’s suitcases up to his room just the night before and he wasn’t checking out. The suitcases had seemed much lighter then.

  “What was the name of the man in room 307”

  “Dr Swanson,” the bellboy said. “He’s the dude writes them cool UFO books.”

  *

  Nolan decided not to tell Gina of his discovery until he knew more. He took the elevator to the underground parking lot. It was cold and echoed his footsteps. Nolan could see nobody around. The Lexus was parked in space 17-B. He thought of ways to open the trunk using force. The alarm would go off if he didn’t have the key. He could try to get the key off Swanson, but he didn’t think pickpocketing was one of his better skills. It would be better if he arranged a legal warrant to look inside. He flipped open his phone and tried to make a call inside the parking lot, but it was too far under the ground to receive a signal. He took the elevator up to the lobby and walked outside onto the boulevard. It was a hot, clear day. He called his friend Harry at Quantico.

  “Harry, here’s the situation. A man’s gone missing – nobody has seen him since yesterday. His wife says his suitcase isn’t in his room. It looks suspicious. The suitcase might contain valuable information that could ruin the reputation of another man, a man who might have the suitcase in the back of his car. Could you get the local Feds to get a warrant to look inside?”

  Harry sighed. “Is there proof it’s the other man’s suitcase?”

  “Not really. But the stolen suitcase could be inside the other suitcase. The bellboy said it was heavier than when he came in.”

  “That’s not enough for a warrant,” Harry said. “The guy could just have put some hotel towels in the thing. You got any more?”

  “What if a hypothetical person broke into the trunk for a look?”

  “That hypothetical person would go to jail, Geoff.”

  “What if –”

  “Yeah?”

  “Hell. The car’s coming out of the hotel. Taxi!”

  *

  “Nobody’s ever told me ‘to follow that car’ before,” the driver was saying, smiling like it was his birthday. He was a thin black man wearing a gaudy Hawaiian shirt. “What’s he done?”

  “I don’t know yet,” Nolan answered. “That’s what I want to find out. Just don’t get too close. Don’t let him see you.”

  The silver Lexus was six vehicles ahead, moving north through the heavy traffic on Las Vegas Boulevard. Several tourist coaches were keeping the traffic-flow down. A taxi following someone on The Strip could stay unseen … but the Lexus was heading out of the city. It joined the I-15, then turned off onto US 93, heading north.

  It was soon driving through the desert, with hardly any cars between it and Nolan’s taxi. The driver was worried about payment for the drive – so Nolan showed him the hundreds in his wallet, money he’d brought along for gambling. Nolan asked the driver to stay back, which was probably a mistake because he lost sight of the Lexus. When the driver speeded up, the Lexus wasn’t there.

  They drove on for a few miles, seeing nothing. Reluctantly, he asked to be taken back to the hotel.

  It was time to tell Gina. She was in her room, resting, when he called her. She came down to the bar. When he explained everything, she started hyperventilating.

  “What if Toby’s in that trunk? What if he’s dead?”

  He couldn’t answer her. Suddenly, Gina folded as if punched in the stomach. He didn’t like the flush to her face. She grabbed his hand, hard. “Geoff, I think … I think I need a hospital.”

  *

  Gina looked pale, like a marble statue. Her eyes were closed. Nolan stood by her bed, listening to the ER doctor promise she would be looked after. She and the baby were out of danger. The rise of her blood pressure had put her at risk, but she was stabilised now. It was best if she was not disturbed for several hours. She would have to stay in the hospital for the night, at the very least. The doctor asked him if he could contact her family, then left him alone in the room. Nolan looked through Gina’s bag for the phone number of her parents. He also took her hotel key, thinking he might want to look into her room. He made a call to her mother, telling her Gina was in hospital. Her mother said she would get a flight to Vegas to be with her. She would arrive in a few hours, with luck.

  Nolan was finishing the call when he saw a young woman walking towards him. She was wearing a grey jacket and white shirt. Her hair was black and short, making her pretty face androgynous.

  “Are you Geoff Nolan?”

  “Yeah, that’s me. You are?”

  “Judith Linebacker. Harry asked me to see you. I tried the hotel – they told me you were here.” She showed her FBI ID. “Harry says there’s a man missing. Toby Dane, some kind of UFO writer. I guess that makes me Dana Scully. What’s the situation?”

  Nolan updated her. She was interested. “I wish we’d had a helicopter following that Lexus. I’d love to know where he drove.”

  “What can
you do?”

  “The hotel has cameras at the exits. I’ll persuade them to show us the tapes.”

  “How will that help?”

  “Maybe Toby Dane left with someone and never came back because something happened to him. If we can identify that person or persons, we’ll have something to go on. Anyway, we’ll see what the tapes reveal. I’ll need a photo to match up.”

  “You’re in luck,” Nolan said, producing his programme book. “There’s a colour photo of him here. And there’s another of the prime suspect, Swanson.”

  They returned to the hotel. Judith asked for the manager. He wasn’t eager to let them into the surveillance room. He wanted a warrant. Judith stepped up to the man, invading his personal space. It was an effective way of intimidating him. “I want to look for this man, sir. The faster I have an answer, the less likely your hotel will get embroiled in my investigation. And any legal actions that could result if I am delayed.”

  “It’s this way,” he mumbled.

  The surveillance room was a high-tech room above the casino. A group of security people was busy at consoles. Banks of monitors showed everything going on below. Nolan was shocked to see how many cameras were hidden above the tables, watching the players, watching the dealers, watching the floor managers. The operators could zoom in on the action, change angles, track people. There were also cameras in the lobby, stairways and elevators.

  “What about cameras on the third floor?”

  “There’s only cameras in the casino area,” the manager said. “We don’t spy on our suites.”

  No, Nolan thought, but you spy on everywhere else.

  “Mario, pull up the lobby tapes for the last 12 hours.”

  They watched the lobby’s tapes. Toby Dane wasn’t on them. He had not left the building - unless he left in the trunk of Swanson’s Lexus.

  They then tried the elevator tapes at around eleven. It was possible to show all of them playing at once. They watched it in fast-forward. The images hurt Nolan’s eyes, giving him a headache.