Dream Walk

by Melissa Bowersock

  Courtney stopped suddenly, a wordless gurgling sound coming from her throat. Lacey followed the girl’s line of sight. Across the park, a fourth man had joined the three at the picnic table. The three crowded around him.

  “That’s him,” Courtney whispered.

  “That’s who?” Lacey asked. She shielded her eyes from the harsh glare of the sun.

  “Willie. That’s him.”

  Lacey took a good look. Average height, a little heavy, with wavy dark hair. At this distance it was hard to tell, but she thought she could make out the large nose and a pockmarked pattern on the face.

  She slid her phone out of her pocket and took several quick pictures.

  The man turned his head and looked directly at them.

  A small squeak escaped from Courtney. She turned her back to the man and moved behind Sam. The man continued glaring their way, and Lacey got a good shot of his face.

  “Can we go now?” Courtney pleaded in a small voice.

  “Are you getting anything?” Lacey asked Sam.

  “No. Nothing.”

  “Okay. Let’s go.”

  They made their way to the car, noting that the man kept track of their progress even as he and his three buddies moved out toward the furthest reaches of the park.

  As Lacey pulled the car around in the parking lot and headed for the street, he was still watching.

  Courtney was visibly shaken. Lacey watched her in the rearview mirror and could see her eyes darting about, her throat working as she swallowed nervously. Earlier Lacey had assumed they would drop Courtney at home before they discussed the day’s progress over lunch, but she scratched that idea. The girl was too scared, and would feel safer with them.

  “Where’s the closest place we can get some lunch?” she asked.

  “Turn left up here,” Courtney said, relieved. “Back toward town.”

  ~~~

  Seated at a booth in a diner, they all scanned menus.

  “I’m hitting the salad bar,” Lacey said. “It’s too hot for regular food.”

  The decision was unanimous. They all shuffled through the salad bar, then returned to the booth where their glasses of iced tea were waiting.

  Lacey kept a close eye on Courtney, but luckily the girl seemed to be settling a bit. When someone in the kitchen dropped a tray, Courtney jumped violently and clutched her throat, but recovered fairly quickly.

  “So you’re sure that’s the guy?” Lacey asked. She laid her phone beside her plate and scanned the photos she’d taken. In her rush to get the shots, she hadn’t taken the time to zoom in, but as she expanded the photos on her phone, the resolution held up pretty well, giving a good view.

  Courtney looked at the last one—the direct frontal shot—from across the table and shivered.

  “Yes. I’m sure.”

  “Okay, good,” Lacey said. She’d show this to DelMonico, see if he could put a last name to the man, or an affiliation. Lacey noticed that Courtney pointedly kept her eyes averted from the picture, so Lacey put the phone away.

  “What are you going to do now?” Courtney asked. She put the question to Sam, but Lacey answered.

  “I’m going to the police station this afternoon. I’ve got a couple of contacts there, and I’ll see if they’ve found anything.” She glanced over at Sam sitting silently beside her. “What you got today doesn’t really give us anything new, does it?”

  Sam thought about it for a minute, then shook his head. “No. We know how desperate he was, and obviously for good reason, but nothing new to go on.”

  Lacey sighed. “Sure wish he’d give you more in your dreams,” she said.

  He nodded. “Me, too.”

  They ate in silence for several minutes. The lack of clues was depressing. For the first time, Lacey was beginning to wonder if they would ever find Kyle, or find out what happened to him.

  “I was thinking,” Sam said abruptly. “Why don’t I take the car? I can drop you at the station, then go back to the store and stock up on a few more things. When I’m done, I’ll come back and pick you up.”

  His plan startled her, first of all because she hadn’t even thought of what he’d do while she was at the station, but also because stocking up on food came with a clear assumption that they would be here for a few more days. Maybe Sam was feeling more hopeful than she was? Maybe he had a hunch?

  “I’ll go with you,” Courtney offered. “I—I don’t have anything to do and I can… help carry bags and stuff.”

  Lacey felt a prickle of the jealousy she’d felt last night. It was the first time she put a name to it. And it was stupid. She shoved it away. Hadn’t Sam said that nothing could change the way he felt? She’d been reassured by that, but now… She pushed the feeling aside but it didn’t go away. It just hunkered down in a dark corner of her mind.

  “Sure,” Sam said easily.

  Lacey stabbed at her lettuce with considerable pique.

  ~~~

  NINE

  After lunch, Lacey tossed Sam the keys and took the front passenger seat. She had to work to keep her resentment in check. With Courtney in the back and Sam pulling out of the parking lot, Lacey looked up the address in her notebook.

  “Do you know how to get there?” Lacey asked Courtney. “Or should I get out the map?”

  “I know where the street is,” the girl said. “It’ll be easy to find. Turn right here.”

  The Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department—or the Metro, as it was known—was indeed easy to find. It was a massive multi-story building with several rows of oversized square windows looking out over the parking lot. A gauntlet of palm trees lined the way to the front door. Lacey thought that peculiar. Palm trees, in her mind, meant vacations in the tropics, not incarceration.

  Sam pulled up in front and stopped. “How long do you think you’ll need?” he asked.

  Lacey calculated in her head. “Probably an hour. I can call you if it looks like it’ll take longer.”

  “Okay. That should give us enough time at the store.”

  Lacey got out and pulled her seat forward, allowing Courtney room to slide out of the back and sit in front. Courtney gave her a little wave as she and Sam pulled away.

  Feeling slightly resentful, Lacey turned her attention to the Metro.

  Inside, the building was bright and clean with high ceilings. Compared to the dingy, crowded New York stations often seen in films, it was day to night. Lacey found the front counter and greeted a uniformed black woman.

  “Can I help you?” the officer asked cheerfully.

  “Yes. I’m Lacey Fitzpatrick, a private investigator. I’ve spoken to both Pete McLeary and Adrian DelMonico about my case, and I’m wondering if either of them—or both—might be available for a few minutes.”

  The officer checked her computer. “Lieutenant DelMonico is on a call, but Detective McLeary is available. Let me tell him you’re on your way up. When you get back, I’ll try Lieutenant DelMonico again.”

  Per the officer’s directions, Lacey took the elevator up to the second floor and found the Homicide division. She pushed through the door and was met by a female assistant inside.

  “I’m here to see Detective McLeary,” Lacey said.

  “Right this way.” The woman led her down a hall to a private office. At the closed door, she rapped twice, then pushed the door open and motioned for Lacey to go inside.

  McLeary sat behind a cluttered desk in a cluttered room. No—clutter was putting it mildly. In any other situation, the man would be called a hoarder. Stacks of banker’s boxes leaned against walls or each other, some of the contents sticking out haphazardly. Behind those were metal bookshelves, crammed to capacity with smaller boxes, files and a few books.

  McLeary himself was not much neater. His grizzled hair was a mix of red and gray and was receding up his high forehead. He wore round metal-rimmed glasses that magnified his green eyes. He had a paunch on him, and the hands that rested on the desktop were pudgy.

  “Lacey Fit
zpatrick not-related-to-Fiona, I presume?”

  Lacey stuck out her hand. “Detective, nice to meet you.”

  McLeary regarded her hand with suspicion, then finally shook two of her fingers with two of his. He did not return the compliment. Lacey ignored the lack of courtesy and took a seat in the battleship gray guest chair.

  “I thought we said I would call you if I had any John Does that matched your missing person.”

  “Yes, we did,” Lacey said. “But I’m sure you’re very busy and it’s possible you may not have had time to check. I thought I’d stop by and just make sure it hadn’t fallen through the cracks.”

  McLeary stared at her silently, his eyes giving nothing away. “There are no cracks here, Miss Fitzpatrick. I run a tight ship.”

  Lacey had to steel herself to keep from laughing. As hard as she tried to hold herself—and her blank expression—perfectly still, a chortle threatened to escape from her throat. She tried to make it sound like a cough instead, but it didn’t work.

  McLeary’s eyes sparkled. “You doubt me?” he asked. The hard edge was gone, replaced with a surprising bit of amusement.

  “No,” Lacey said, daring to chuckle. “I’m sure that’s true…” She allowed her eyes to roam over the mess.

  “Mere details,” he said, waving a hand. “I don’t do filing. That’s someone else’s job description, not mine.” He closed a manila file folder he’d been perusing and tossed it to the side. Lacey was patently shocked to see him uncover another one from a pile, open it, and start to read.

  “Kyle James Arredondo, twenty-eight-year-old Hispanic-Native American.” McLeary lifted his gaze from the paper to Lacey, staring out over his glasses. “Still missing, I presume?”

  “Yes. Last seen a week ago last Friday.”

  McLeary nodded in what might have been a sympathetic way, closed the file with one meaty hand and tossed it aside.

  “Can’t help you. No John Does. No other reports. No clues, no evidence.”

  Lacey opened her mouth to protest, to offer something to refute his abject dismissal, but realized she had nothing with which to do that. She let out the breath she’d drawn, nodded and reached for her purse.

  “You’re right, Detective. I won’t take any more of your time. Thanks very much.”

  “Hell, the guy probably just skipped town, anyway. Betcha he’ll pop up in a week or two.”

  Lacey stood and smiled grimly. “No, I don’t think so. But thanks anyway.”

  “Why not?” McLeary barked. “What makes you so sure he’s dead?”

  She thought of all the ways she could answer that, but none made sense except the truth. The whole truth.

  “My partner, Sam Firecloud, is a medium. Kyle is his ex-brother-in-law, and has been appearing to Sam in dreams. He appears standing—floating—then that changes to him folded up in a box.” She paused. “We know he’s dead. We just don’t know where.”

  They stared at each other across the desk, green eyes to green eyes. McLeary leaned forward, planting his elbows on the desk.

  “Sit down, Fitzpatrick.”

  She sat.

  He pulled out the bottom drawer of his desk, angled back in his chair and propped his feet on the drawer. He regarded her intently.

  “Do you know how many people disappear from Vegas every year?” he asked. “Do you know how many miles of desert there are all around here? Not just miles; hundreds of miles.” While his questions were harsh, his voice was sympathetic.

  “Yes, I know,” she said. “And if he’s folded up in a box, he could be… anywhere.”

  “Exactly.” McLeary wasn’t going to sugarcoat this for her.

  She let out a sigh and flopped backward in the uncomfortable gray chair. “I don’t suppose there are any… ‘usual’ dumping grounds for the drug gangs? Places they normally dispose of people who cross them?”

  “I’ve never known them to use the same location twice. They can drive out a hundred miles in any direction and find a place no one else will ever go.” He looked at her over his glasses again. “You know that’s what it is? He pissed somebody off?”

  Lacey nodded. “Owed ‘em money and couldn’t pay. His girlfriend told us. They were really putting the screws to him, so much so that he was actually considering suicide.”

  McLeary’s eyebrows shot up. “So maybe he offed himself?”

  “No. He was murdered. Sam can tell.”

  “Dreams, huh?” McLeary pulled off his glasses and began to clean them with a dishwater gray handkerchief. Lacey figured that handkerchief had never seen bleach in its lifetime. “My granny had the second sight,” he said abruptly. “Knew when someone was going to die. She tried to warn people. Tried to warn her son—my dad. Didn’t do any good.”

  “I’m sorry,” Lacey said truthfully. “It’s not an easy gift to carry.”

  “No, it’s not. Your Sam struggle with it, too?”

  “Sometimes,” she said. “It’s tough hearing how people died. How they were abused, the hell they went through before the release of death.”

  “Yeah, I hear that. Here in Homicide, we only see the aftermath, but it’s too easy to imagine what went on before.”

  “I worked Homicide for eight years,” Lacey said. “LAPD.”

  McLeary’s eyebrows jumped up near what used to be his hairline. “No shit? A little bitty thing like you?”

  Lacey smiled. “I’d call that sexism if it didn’t sound so much like a compliment.”

  McLeary laughed, full and hearty. “I’ll say one thing for you, Fitzpatrick. You got balls.”

  Now the smile stretched into a grin. “Does that mean you’ll let me know if you hear anything?”

  “You got it,” he said. He tapped the file with Kyle’s name on it. “I still don’t expect much, but if I find anything, you’ll be my first call.” He leaned back in his chair. “Now get out of here and let me get some real work done.” The gruff voice was softened by the sparkle in his green eyes.

  “Yes, sir,” Lacey said. She stood up and beamed a smile at him. “Thank you, Detective. Nice talking to you.”

  He waved a hand at her, shooing her toward the door as he bent to his files.

  Surprising, Lacey thought as she made her way back down to the lobby. Here she fully expected McLeary to do nothing but blow her off, and now she had the distinct feeling she had the man fully on her side. Who knew?

  DelMonico was now free and Lacey made a similar pilgrimage to Vice on the third floor. When she was shown into his office, she was pleased to find a neat room—full, but neat—and DelMonico rising from his chair to come around the desk to greet her.

  “Ms. Fitzpatrick,” he said, smiling and extending his hand.

  “Lieutenant,” she responded, shaking his hand before taking the offered seat. She appraised him as he returned to his chair. Forties, dark curly hair, strong features. He had dark eyes and a wide mouth, which seemed to curve into a smile easily. He could stand to lose a couple pounds, but who couldn’t, she thought.

  “I’m afraid I don’t have any more information for you than I did when we spoke on the phone,” he said.

  “That’s all right,” she said cheerfully. “I do.”

  “Oh?” He sat forward and crossed his arms on the desk.

  “Kyle’s dealer, apparently, is a guy named Willie. No last name, but I got a picture of him.” She pulled up the photos on her phone and passed it over to DelMonico. “Anyone you’re familiar with?”

  DelMonico studied the photo. As Lacey watched, he swiped backward through the earlier shots, then returned to the most recent.

  “Yes, I think so. Willie Kent if I’m not mistaken. We’ve had him up in front of a judge a couple of times. Funny thing is,” and DelMonico tapped the small screen, “he always manages to show up with a high-priced lawyer, usually gets off on a misdemeanor.” DelMonico lifted his eyes to Lacey. “Someone else foots the bill for it. Someone with bucks.”

  Lacey digested that. “Drug lord?”

&nbs
p; DelMonico nodded. “Has to be. We’ve never been able to trace back to who it is, though. We have our suspicions. There are only about three guys that could throw money around like that, but we just don’t know for a fact who it is.” He handed the phone back to her. “Can you send that photo to me?” He laid a business card on the desk and she punched in the number and sent off the picture.

  “Who made him?” he asked when she was done. “And where?”

  “Kyle’s girlfriend, at the park near Nellis. She had seen him once, heard Kyle mention the name. She said Kyle owned him money and couldn’t pay.”

  DelMonico nodded. “Same old story. Is she a user, too?”

  “She said not. No obvious signs of use. I tend to believe her. Apparently she wanted Kyle to quit, so he was keeping a lot of his activity from her.” Lacey got out her notepad. “Can you give me the names of your big three?”

  “Sure.” DelMonico waited until she was ready to write. “Julian Hardy, Tony Federico, and Ramon Macias. Probably not the real names of any of them.”

  “Probably not,” she agreed. “I’ll ask you the same thing I asked McLeary. Any of these guys have a favorite way of getting rid of troublesome customers?”

  DelMonico steepled his fingers under his chin and stared thoughtfully at Lacey. “Oh, we have the occasional floater in Lake Meade or in the Colorado below Hoover Dam. Bodies found in the desert by hikers. But nothing I would call a pattern.”

  Lacey sighed. “Too bad. Oh, well. At least we both have more information than we had before.” She put her notebook away.

  “So how do you know Tommy?” DelMonico asked. He leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head.

  “I used to be LAPD,” she said.

  “Oh?” His eyebrows inched up. “Vice?”

  “No. Homicide. But my, uh, boyfriend at the time was Vice.”

  “What’s his name?”

  Lacey hesitated. She’d hoped to avoid this. “Derrick Nelson.”

  “Derrick Nel—” Memory dawned, cutting him short. “The one who was dealing on the—”