What Happens in Vegas

by Halliday, Gemma

  While we crawled up the canyon, I worked the phone. First I called Detective Colbert. He seemed overjoyed to hear from me.

  “Just the man I wanted to talk to,” he said. “But I’m in the middle of something.”

  “I have a request.”

  “Can it wait?”

  “It’s a matter of life and death.”

  “Who’s life?”

  “Mine.”

  “It can wait,” he said, and hung up.

  Five minutes he called back.

  “We’ve got a body here,” he said.

  “Whose body?”

  “Kid named Bryan Barowski. We found your card in his wallet. You sure get around for an old guy.”

  But I wasn’t really listening and I had no comeback to that. My lungs had stopped working and something inside me seemed to sink down, way down, and it continued sinking.

  I heard myself saying: “He killed himself.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Call it a hunch. How did he do it?”

  “Gun to the temple. Left a note. Misses his brother, doesn’t want to live without him, made some horrible mistakes, tell his mother goodbye for him, yada yada.”

  The weight was still there on my heart, on my lungs, and I wanted to pull over and get out of the car and breathe and maybe throw up.

  Keep moving forward, King.

  “What I don’t understand,” Colbert was saying, “is why I have to tell his mother that he loves her. Why the fuck couldn’t he call her before blowing his brains out?”

  But Colbert’s merciless voice was getting smaller and smaller, and it was being steadily replaced by a tiny heartbeat. A fast and tiny heartbeat.

  “I think I know who killed his brother,” I said.

  “Who?”

  And so I told him.

  Chapter Fifty-three

  Colbert went silent. I thought maybe I had lost him. I checked the phone’s connection. I hadn’t. Traffic was stopped. Just ahead, a small tractor was slowly reversing into traffic, its scoop full of dirt and debris, busy clearing off the road. A man with a hard hat held up a crossing guard stop sign.

  “Miranda’s mother?” he finally said. “Dana Scott?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re high, King.”

  “Often, but not this time.”

  He didn’t laugh, nor did I expect him too. I walked him through Dana’s strange behavior, from when she caught me going through Miranda’s drawer of letters, to her hiring Keys to follow me, to her relieving Keys of his duty once he had established I made contact with the surviving twin, and to her desire to keep me permanently off the case. I also told him about the stunt the twins had pulled in their teens, which resulted in a rape.

  “That was five years ago,” said Colbert. “Why does the mother kill Flip Barowski now?”

  “He and Miranda were seeing each other again.”

  “And you know this?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ve been busy, King.”

  “I happen to be an ace detective.”

  “Whatever,” said Colbert. “So he’s dating her daughter again, big deal. That still doesn’t explain why she kills him.”

  I heard Dana Scott’s words again: “I told him that if I ever saw him or his fucking perverted brother again, I would kill them both.”

  And now they were both dead. As a parent, I knew I would have said the same thing. Hell, I probably would have followed up on it, too, especially after what the twins did to Miranda. Feeling like a rat, I told Colbert about the threat.

  “You think she followed up on her threat?” he asked.

  “I think so, yes,” I said.

  “And then she tried to hire someone to stop you?”

  “Appears so.”

  “So the mother kills the new boyfriend, who is actually the old boyfriend, and then a few days later the daughter disappears.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “I don’t see the connection,” he said.

  “There might not be one, at least not directly related.”

  “What the hell does that mean, King?”

  “I’ll tell you when I know more.”

  “When will you know more?”

  “Soon,” I said, looking at the LADSTER three cars ahead. “Very soon.”

  I heard him thinking on the line. I could almost see him shaking his head. Finally, he said, “Fine. Call me as soon as you find out anything.”

  “You’ll be my first call, unless I need an emergency pepperoni pizza from Dominos.”

  “Make it sausage, and I’ll spring for half,” he said, and clicked off.

  Chapter Fifty-four

  The tractor finished clearing the debris from the roadway, and the man in the hard hat flipped his sign around so that it now read SLOW. The long line of cars was moving again and I was giddy with excitement. Sitting in traffic drove me crazy, which is why I taught myself every side street in L.A. Now my motto is: all roads lead to home.

  We wound slowly up through Laurel Canyon, picking up speed exponentially as vehicles veered off to the many residential side streets. Good for traffic; bad for me. Bad because I would soon be exposed, and that’s never a good thing.

  When the last of the three cars between Ladd and myself turned into a long driveway, I immediately flipped on my turn signal. A moment later, I hung a right onto a random residential street. Ladd and his SL500 continued up the winding road.

  I parked in front of a house along this side street, knowing that Ladd was getting away, but that was okay. Back at the gas station, with some time on my hands and a belly full of Oreos, I had called in Ladd’s license plate and fifty bucks later I had his current address. Well, current at least to the DMV.

  Since I knew Laurel Canyon like the back of my hand, age spots and all, I knew he was heading home, or somewhere damn close to it. A decade or so ago I had dated a girl who lived up here. A trapeze artist who was just flexible but hyper-flexible, which means she could do the splits and then some. Yawza! Her home was up here, along with her practice equipment, and so on any given day neighbors could see her flying high through the air. I came up here and watched her practice as often as I could, and often caught myself drooling like an imbecile.

  Maybe I should look her up someday.

  I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel and wondered what I hoped to find at Ladd’s house. I didn’t know. I hadn’t done a thorough background check on the man. He could have been married with five kids. He could have been pleasantly gay with five adopted kids. He didn’t look gay, and he hadn’t been wearing a wedding ring, and there hadn’t been any pictures of kids or wives or girlfriends or boyfriends on his desk. Of course, none of that meant anything, but sometimes it did.

  Then again, I could have the wrong guy. After all, I was taking the word of a bum. A dying bum, no less. And was the word bum even politically correct these days? Residentially challenged?

  After ten more minutes, I put my car back into gear and turned back onto the main road, which led deeper into the canyon. Traffic was lighter now, and moving fast. Being an old duffer, I rarely did anything fast, and that included driving.

  Tough shit, folks. Reflexes aren’t what they used to be. Deal with it.

  And they did, by riding my ass all the way to my next turn-off a few miles away, a turn-off that just so happened to be Ladd’s street.

  Chapter Fifty-five

  I drove slowly up the street, which was narrow and curved and rose steadily up into the surrounding hills. My heart, admittedly, was hammering in my chest.

  The expensive homes up here were few and far between, their owners paying handsomely for privacy and acreage. Again, good for them, bad for me. As an investigator, sitting in my parked car, I would stand out like an old, wrinkled sore thumb. Well, maybe not that wrinkled.

  Most of the residences had long driveways, with the houses tucked far back from the road. Sometimes I could just make out some of the houses at the far end of long, cu
rved driveways. Big homes with great views. Big homes with lots of privacy. I understand wanting privacy. I get it.

  If a tree falls in the forest, and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound? Or, in this case, if someone screams, and no one is close enough to hear it, how much of an asshole is Ladd? Perhaps not the most elegantly presented philosophical riddle, but you get my point. Privacy meant Ladd could be doing anything out here. Anything he wanted.

  I continued up the hill, checking the addresses. Ladd’s house was coming up, just around the bend. I think I was holding my breath.

  The curve in the road came and went, and there, appearing at the far end of a sweeping driveway, was Ladd’s sprawling home, a home that could have doubled as a compound for a Colombian drug lord.

  I drove slowly past it, giving it only a casual glance, and immediately two things caught my eye. One, there appeared to be a guest house behind the main home. Two—and this was a big two—a white cargo van was parked in the driveway. I didn’t see Ladd’s Benz, but it could have been parked inside the garage.

  As I continued past, I noted the front yard of the property was not gated, and the house itself appeared oddly empty and devoid of life, but that was only my gut reaction to the place.

  I continued passed it and parked in a sort of dirt cul-de-sac at the top of the street. A handful of other cars were already parked here, and the cul-de-sac, I recalled, was actually the launching point to a fairly popular hiking trail down into the canyon. A trail that led away from Ladd’s home. The parked cars were a blessing. Now I could hunker down without drawing attention to myself.

  Good for me.

  I backed into an spot, and from this vantage point, I could look down onto many of the homes on the street below. But not Ladd’s. It was still hidden behind a dense thicket of trees and bushes.

  Damn.

  Laurel Canyon is comprised of a lot of hills, valleys and glens. This past winter had been a particularly wet one, and everything was still brightly green and verdant. That would all change once summer hit. Through my windshield, I watched a brown hawk slowly circle the sky. Somewhere out there something small and furry didn’t stand a chance.

  I continued sitting there in the driver’s seat, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel, wondering what the hell to do next.

  The hawk continued circling. The sun continued setting. I was parked directly above Ladd’s spacious home, but I couldn’t see into it, although I had a hell of a clear shot of the main house’s roof and guest house’s roof.

  Must be nice.

  Of course, this coming from a guy who once owned something called Graceland. Another life, another time.

  Another lifetime.

  The hawk suddenly swooped low and hard, and disappeared behind a copse of trees. A heartbeat or two later, it appeared again, this time with something small dangling from its talons. I think it was a cottontail. Poor Peter. The hawk and its dinner rose higher and higher, then banked to port and was gone.

  So what now?

  Plan B.

  And what was plan B?

  I didn’t know, but I sure as hell better figure it out quick. Now, if I couldn’t watch the house from the front, or from above, there was always the back, right? And, from where I sat, I could see the back of his house consisted of nothing but wooded wilderness.

  Good for me. I think.

  With Plan B taking shape, I stepped out of my car and went around to the trunk. There, I found a pair of binoculars and Mace in my emergency kit. I slipped the Mace into my front pocket, strapped the high-powered binoculars around my neck, and wondered what exactly I was doing.

  Plan B, of course.

  Oh, yeah. That.

  Off to the side of the dirt road was the popular hiking trail that led down into the canyon. I said a little prayer, and then started down the trail.

  Chapter Fifty-six

  The trail was actually wide enough to be called a small road. Not exactly roughing it out here. I was willing to bet a convenient doggie-poopie bag dispenser or two would be set up somewhere along the path, complete with convenient drinking fountains and bathrooms for the humans.

  Maybe even an espresso stand.

  I hadn’t planned on a hike today. Admittedly, I also hadn’t planned on coming across my number-one suspect. These things happen. You adapt, roll with it. Luckily, I had been dressed in my all-purpose crime-fighting gear. Superman has his blue tights. I had my blue jeans, sneakers and polo shirt.

  Good ’nuff.

  The sun was setting beyond the western foothills, and the sky was awash in pale yellows, oranges and reds. The air was filled with a heady mix of sage and juniper, and a dozen or so other scents that my uninitiated nose couldn’t distinguish.

  Scrubby trees crowded the trail. The occasional beaver tail cacti was mixed with barrel cacti and other succulents that I couldn’t name, either. Maybe I should invest in a Peterson’s Field Guide to Southern California Flora and Fauna.

  Or not.

  Other than the little critters that scurried off into the brush—mostly lizards, no doubt—I was alone on the trail. The hikers were no doubt much further along, or busy in the many port-a-potties.

  Five minutes or so into my hike, I was already dripping sweat and wishing I had brought a bottle of water. No doubt all those damned Frappuccinos had seriously dehydrated me. And just as I was wondering if these barrel cactus had any water in them, I came across a water fountain. Nice. Next to the fountain was a bowl for your dog, and next to the bowl was a blue plastic crate with a recycling sticker on it. The plastic crate was nearly full with empty water bottles and other plastic bottles filled with the latest, high-tech water. I wondered if they were going to recycle the plastic crate, too. Anyway, still grateful—and maybe a little cranky from the heat—I drank deeply from the water fountain.

  When I finally pulled away from the life-giving, stainless steel teat, water dribbling from my chin and down the front of my shirt, I took stock of my present location. To my right was some rather dense woodland, a rarity here in southern California. To my left, about a mile or so away, were the houses, including Ladd’s spacious estate. Straight ahead, the path continued down into the canyon, curving gently away from civilization.

  Time to rough it.

  I stepped off the main dirt path, stepped over knee-high grass and weeds, pushed aside a pathetic young scrub tree, and blazed my own trail.

  The setting sun still had some heat. Sweat was still on my brow and presently streaming down the center of my back. And, of course, the instant I had stepped off the main trail, a spur of some sort had worked its way deep into my shoe. As I paused to dig it free, dozens of pesky gnats appeared as if from nowhere, circling my head like so many satellites.

  I wanted a beer. Bad.

  I waved them away and set out on a course that would, ideally, lead me directly behind Ladd’s home. The closer I got to the homes, the quieter I tried to be, but I think I probably still sounded like a bear drunk on fermented elderberries.

  Davy Crockett I’m not.

  And soon, slightly out of breath and thinking that a cane about now would have been a hell of a good idea, I came up behind Ladd’s sweeping home.

  And directly in front of me was the guest house, where a light was on inside.

  It appears Ladd had a guest.

  Chapter Fifty-seven

  Admittedly, I had never done surveillance behind a house before, and probably never would again. Hey, life is full of firsts. At least, back here in the woods, there weren’t any nosy neighbors to contend with. Coyote poo, yes. Rattlesnakes, yes. Nosy Nellies, no.

  So far, other than the swarming gnats, which, I think, thought of me as their mother ship, nature was keeping herself at bay. Which was a very, very good thing.

  I positioned myself on a grassy knoll above the northwest section of the house. From here I had a fine view into the backyard. A six-foot, stone fence encircled the entire back lot.

  I figured I might be here
a while. Hell, I might here all night, which had me wondering what sort of man-eaters roamed these hills in the dark? Mountain lions? Coyotes? Sasquatches?

  So I hunkered down and took stock of the surrounding bushes and trees, feeling confident that I couldn’t be spotted by anyone inside Ladd’s house. Granted, a hungry mountain lion with a hankering for hound dog could be a problem.

  And, yeah, I’m all hound dog, baby.

  From my perch on the knoll, I lifted my binoculars and slowly scanned Ladd’s backyard. Ah, there was an inviting-looking pool and an equally inviting-looking Jacuzzi. A brick outdoor grill, two patio tables with blue umbrellas. The backyard was mostly paved, but there were small patches of grass here and there. An actual dog house was sitting on one of those grassy patches. A big dog house. Damn. Scattered throughout the grass like steaming land mines were so many dog piles. Big dog piles.

  So far there wasn’t any sign of the dog, although I seriously doubted this dog would turn out to be fake. Maybe it was inside with Ladd, or snoozing inside it’s spacious dog house.

  The main house was a single-story ranch with clapboards and vertical siding, concrete chimney and wood shingled roof. There was even an iron weather vane rooster on one of the cupolas. For someone I seriously suspected of having abducted another human being, Ladd was surprisingly exhibitionistic, as most of the curtains and blinds were wide open. Perhaps he never suspected someone would approach from the rear of the house. Perhaps he liked living dangerously. Or perhaps I was barking up the wrong tree.

  A coyote howled from somewhere.

  Bad choice of words. I suddenly felt very alone and very exposed out in the woodland. Granted, this wasn’t the deep, dark woods, but I was an old man with old knees, surrounded by hungry coyotes.

  Don’t be such a baby.

  Something scurried in the brush next to me, and I jumped like a schoolgirl. I whipped around in time to see a squirrel scurry up the twisted trunk of an ancient, dusty-looking tree.