Ham’s grin widened to match Drew’s. “And he wants the guy’s dick on a platter. We might lose our licenses if we comply.”
Her humor instantly turned to ire. “We might. But let me tell you this. If I become a widow on my wedding day I will do just exactly what Eric asks. Just exactly.”
“You’ll have to beat me to it,” Ham promised her. “Anyway, I know you’re anxious to get back there so you go on ahead. I’ll start snooping around since there’s nothing I can do here except worry and stew. Keep in touch with me as much as you can. I won’t call unless it’s vital.”
“Thanks, Ham. I’m going to go pray. You go find our walking dead man.” With that she turned on her heels and took two steps before memory must have kicked in. She spun back toward him and her voice softened. “Charlie brought Dylan to say goodbye. I gave him a quick kiss and wished him well through our tears. That’s quite a kid you got there, Ham. He’s a hell of a looker, too.”
“Tell me,” Ham grinned. “A much improved version of me.”
“You flatter yourself. You’re not even in the same species as that kid.” With a soft smile, she reached up, kissed his cheek, then quickly disappeared behind the walled off emergency treatment room doors.
Once he’d lost sight of her, Ham exited the hospital, hopped in a cab and headed back to the vicinity of the attack. He had no more than buckled the seatbelt when the cabbie asked him, “Did you hear?”
“Hear what?”
“They shot Russ Porter. Shot him, right here in Reno, down by the arch. Can you believe that?”
Oh crap, Ham thought. So it was already out. He prayed his telling the news to Jarrod wasn’t the source of the leak. “Where’d you hear that?”
“Are you kidding?” the cabbie repliled. “It’s all over the news. Radio, TV, everything. It’s all they’re talking about, man.”
No way to keep a low profile now. The moment he asked about the shootings he’d be an object of curiosity and conjecture. He may as well be here in his beloved 1964 maroon Ford Mustang, the one with white stripes and matching leather interior. “Hey,” it would scream, “Ham’s here, investigating the Russ Porter case. Let’s all follow him, see where he goes and what he finds out.”
As he’d feared, the site was still manic. Police remained in the area to block off the curious and to preserve the crime scene. Yet, despite those efforts, people pushed forward on the edges and poured into the street. So much so, they had a sizable section of Virginia Street shut down. Even the cops had given up trying to clear it. Rather, they merely stood by and watched the watchers.
Ham recognized the futility of the moment and decided to retire to the pub just up the street. He figured on nursing a beer while the news blared from the television, hoping to pick up a nugget or two at least. Otherwise, his next step was to sit and wait.
The little pub, Irish by name, though dim, appeared pleasant enough, as if that mattered at all. The important thing for him was the television at the edge of the bar, set to the news and clearly being filmed at the scene. Ham grabbed a stool a couple down from the lone other customer, ordered draft ale and turned his attention to the news report. Before he fixed his attention on the excited voice of the announcer, his cell rang insistent attention. Jarrod, by the caller ID.
“Hey, yeah, what’s up?”
The detective paused before he answered. “Tell me, did you happen to run into a Reno police lieutenant on Virginia Street?”
Ham puzzled it, shrugged a non-reply. “Maybe. I don’t know. Why?”
“Because,” Jarrod responded, “when I made my inquiry they put me through to a Lieutenant Karl Neely. When I told him I was calling from LVPD he laughed at me. ‘Would this have to do with a retired homicide detective from your outfit by the name of Ham McCalister?’ he asked. I had to admit that I called at your request. We talked a bit, he’s a pretty nice guy, it seems, and he agreed to fill me in a bit provided I don’t leak it to the press, or anybody else for that matter except for you.” Ham could almost hear the smile in his voice as he added an apparent afterthought. “Oh, by the way, he wanted to know what nationality you are.”
Ham shook his head in confusion, not a rare condition at the moment, he mused. “My nationality? Did he say why he was asking?”
“Yeah, he did that. He couldn’t figure out the nationality of your name.”
“McCalister? That’s not so hard.”
“But Ham is.”
“Oh, okay, I get it,” he sighed. “What did you tell him?”
“I told him the story, that you were a big kid, they nicknamed you Big Mac, which naturally became Hamburger, which, in turn, became Ham. That it stuck and that’s it. He thought that was pretty cool.”
“So what did you find out?”
“The other victim is a guy name of Liam Waterson. He’s out of here and he’s bad news, if you know what I mean.”
“No,” Ham assured him, “I do not know what you mean. He’s out of Vegas? Then what’s he doing in Reno? Did they say, do they know? And what’s bad news about him?”
“He’s from Vegas, yes, and what he’s doing in Reno is a mystery to us and to them. As for the bad news part, he’s got an interest in one of the casinos here, over off The Strip.”
“So? I don’t get it. What’s bad about that?”
“The rumor is he’s connected.”
“Oh crap,” Ham sighed.
“Crap indeed,” Jarrod agreed. Too happily, in Ham’s view. “What are you going to do about it?”
“I don’t know. Maybe nothing. If it doesn’t affect Russ and Drew, I don’t give one flying damn’s worth of hell. He can mob up all he wants. That’s a problem for Reno PD, not for me.”
“Yeah, well,” Jarrod sighed, “he’s a problem for me, though, if true.”
“You think there’s a connection?”
“You’d have to assume that. And that he was the intended victim.”
“Meaning Russ got caught in the crossfire. Collateral damage as it were.”
“As it were that, yes.”
“And that’s what the Reno cops think?”
“They’re not ready to declare anything but they’re damn sure interested in that possibility. Mainly the concern is that if it should turn out to be true, it will likely cause some blowback. The thought of how much and how hard makes them more than a little nervous.”
“Yeah, I get that,” Ham agreed. “Still, I’m not ready to drop the notion that Russ wasn’t somehow, for some reason, the target himself.”
“Of course not,” the lieutenant concurred. “No cop worth his donut would make that judgment, not at this point, not so soon. But it does mean, if you take on this case, you’ve got to protect the interests of your client at the same time you climb into bed with the bad guys.”
“That’s a lovely image,” Ham grunted. “Makes my skin crawl.”
“Be careful it doesn’t make your blood flow. That’s a lot worse, Ham my man.”
“Alright, Jarrod, I hear you. I’ll keep in touch. Would you mind very much keeping me in the loop?”
“To the degree that I can without putting my ass on the line.”
“That’ll do. Thank you, my friend.”
He signed off, holstered the phone and turned his eyes toward the TV which, still and indeed, had nonstop coverage of the mob scene on Virginia Street. With the world famous sign as a backdrop, the mania clearly screamed Reno.
As did the reporter, who speculated as to the reason for Russ’ presence here in their city. “For it’s well known,” the man intoned, “that the reclusive Russ Porter seldom leaves the luxury and isolation of his Tahoe estate. What is also known,” she added, “is that two other members of Truckee River are here, as well. Bystanders state that both Eric Miller and Duncan Scott were spotted at the scene of their bandmate’s tragedy.”
Ham held up his glass and nodded to the bartender. As he did, he noted the man three stools over turning to study him, look back to the television, back to
Ham, and on and on. Ham signaled thanks for the new draft, took a sip and kept his peripheral vision on the curious customer. Finally, he set his glass down, not with a bang but none too gently and turned his eyes directly on the inquisitive stranger. “You’re him,” the man asserted. “I’m sure of it. You were there, protecting that lady and the kid. I saw you push them back.”
Ham’s raised eyebrows predicted the question. “And you are?”
“Sorry,” the man offered, “professional habit. Too curious, too fast.” He stood, brought his drink over to the stool beside Ham and sat, like an old friend reviving the days. “The name’s Quentin Wallace, Reno Gazette-Journal.”
“Ah. A reporter. So what are you doing in here?”
“I’m doing my job,” the reporter grinned.
“Your job is drinking? I take it you’re good at it.”
“Funny,” the reporter retorted. “Actually, with the mess out there I’m getting more information from the TV than I could by trying to interview cops who won’t talk to the press right now, or to bystanders who have less information and knowledge than I do.” Quentin paused to take a sip of his cocktail, all the while eyeing Ham over the rim. “My reporter instincts,” he continued as he set the drink back on the bar, “tell me you’re different.”
“Meaning?” Ham inquired.
“Meaning, my newfound friend and source, you have some connection to Russ Porter. That was obvious then, and it’s obvious now.”
Ham eyed the reporter, uncertain and suspicious. Then memory hit, flashed before him that instant of hysteria. “You were beside the other victim.”
The reporter nodded agreement. “Good memory.”
“So is yours.”
“Part of the job. I’d be useless otherwise.”
Ham, already growing tired of the dance, determined to dive right in. “Who is the other victim, do you know? I ask because I suspect you do. You might even have been accompanying him.”
“Actually,” he grinned, “I’m used to being the one to ask the questions. What were you doing with Porter? What are you to him?”
Ham eyed him, more curious that cautious. “Are you the one who broke the news that Russ was shot?”
He bowed his head in acknowledgement. “Guilty. And you’re deflecting.”
“Guilty. And you’re not answering my question.”
“Okay,” Quentin agreed, “how about we strike a deal? We’ll source each other.”
“Not for attribution we won’t,” Ham demurred.
“So it’s like that,” the reporter sighed. “You don’t want to be cited, is that it?”
“Nope. It’s more than that. I don’t want anything I tell you to see the light of day. No print, no television, no radio, no nothing.”
“Well, hell,” the reporter objected, “what good would that do me, then?” He turned away from Ham and nodded for a refill, eyes back on the TV reporter’s rants and speculations.
Ham pondered the question and the man as he kept half an ear cocked for a word from the newscast that could prove of more than idle interest.
And lord did it come.
The on-air reporter cupped a hand to his ear, probably attempting to hear more clearly through his earphone. As he listened his jaw dropped and his face, even in the glare of the midday sun, noticeably paled.
He turned troubled eyes to the camera and began to speak. “We have, just a minute, there’s more,” he declared breathlessly. “We now can state that a source who wishes to remain anonymous has informed us that Russ Porter, the famed guitarist and songwriter for Truckee River, has died from the gunshot wound he received here earlier, right here on Virginia Street, tragically almost directly under our city’s pride, the arch proclaiming our metropolis the biggest little city. Apparently, we are not so little, not so welcoming, not so friendly, no longer so joyous. For it is in our city that an icon has died, attacked on our streets, and as a result this unfortunate city of ours will forever live in infamy.”
There was more babble, hyperbole and speculation, to which Ham paid no heed. He jumped from his stool, threw a more than needed fifty on the bar and dashed to the exit. He nearly made it before his cell blasted a petition for consideration. He took a quick peek, his intention to ignore, until the ID revealed Drew’s number.
“Is it true?” Ham demanded.
“No, it is not true. I caught that asshole reporting his entirely fictitious story and knew if you were watching you’d be off on a killing spree. I repeat, it is not true. Eric, Duncan and I are sitting here next to Russ, we’re in his room as we speak. He’s out but he’s alive.”
“Well where the hell did this come from, then?” Ham raged. “The son of a bitch that triggered this ought to be prosecuted or sued or both. Mother-goddam-fucker. I almost keeled over.”
“Ham, take a breath. Russ is out of surgery, we’re with him. He’s still out, like I said, but stable I’m told. He’s got a chest tube in to evacuate air and residual blood from the chest cavity so he keeps his lungs inflated. They plan is to treat him with antibiotics to prevent lung and wound infections and then get him out of bed and sitting up. But it’s going to take a while.”
“I still want to know who put this out. So I can introduce him to his new sex.”
“So investigate. That’s what you’re supposed to be doing. Where are you?”
“I’m at—” He paused not wishing to take the time to explain. “Near the scene of the shooting.”
“Hang on,” she ordered, “Eric wants to talk to you.”
Seconds later the bassist got on the line. “Ham, I was serious about hiring you. Duncan and I will each put up $200,000. All you need to do is find the fucker that did this and kill his ass. In addition, I want you to investigate this crap about Russ dying. We’re going to sue the pants off that fool.”
Ham turned his eyes back to the reporter ensconced on the nearby stool, the one who stared intently at the newscast but, just as obviously, had his ears glued to Ham’s side of the conversation. “Whatever Drew wants in terms of arrangements is fine with me. Talk to her, I suspect she’ll tell you to stick the money where you can’t get mugged. But hell,” he teased, “I’ll take my half anyway. I’m not married to the band, I can do that.”
Eric’s answering chuckle died in his throat when he added, “Serious, Ham. McCalister and Thornton, $400,000 contract. I want the shooter in jail, preferably on death row, and I want the jackass that thought to make a name for himself with that bullshit about Russ being dead, I want him on ice. Either in the morgue or in court will do.”
“Right, Eric, stay a composed. I’m on this thing and I won’t let you down. Let me and Drew worry it through, you just take care of Russ. And you and Duncan might want to get some muscle, now that I think about it. Just until we know what this is all about, who is after whom and why.”
Ham imagined he heard the nod he expected. “Yeah, okay, that’s an idea. There’s a police presence here at the moment but I think I’ll get a couple of heavies with guns to do an around the clock thing.”
“Good idea. Tell you what, I’ll arrange it and get back to you within the hour.”
He broke the connection and returned to the seat he previously occupied. “Let me have another beer,” he told the bartender, then turned his attention to the wary-eyed reporter next to him. “Maybe we can strike a deal here. How about this. At the end of all this I’ll give you an exclusive.”
“If there is one.”
“Right that, if there is one.”
“Not sure I want to chance it.”
“I can sweeten the deal,” Ham chuckled. “I’ll give you an exclusive and so will Russ, Eric and Duncan.”
The reporter’s eyes popped wider than his jaw dropped and he appeared even more eager than the drool on his chin would indicate. “Mister, you got yourself a deal. Bang, dead on.”
“Good, excellent. Now, here’s how you can help me today. Snoop around, use your sources, find the dickwad who leaked that garbage about
Russ’ death. And you can level with me about Liam Waterson.”
“I wasn’t with him, if that’s what you’re asking. I am definitely not part of his world.”
“So why were you next to him when the shots rang out?”
Quentin shrugged, an explanation too obvious to need verbalization. “I was trying to get a quote. What brought him to Reno, who he was here to see, was it business or pleasure, that kind of thing.”
“So you know who he is.”
“I’d be a piss-poor reporter if I didn’t,” he snorted, amused contempt in his voice. ‘I mean, we’re not Vegas, true, but we’re not exactly innocent. He’s known in gambling circles.”
‘And you,” Ham questioned, “you’re into the gambling circles?
“Like the rest of the city, I’m not an innocent. I’ll get you what you want. And I can use whatever I uncover about Waterson, I presume. Let me amend that,” he quickly corrected. “I insist that I can publish the results of my work.”
“Of course you can,” Ham quickly agreed. “Just nothing about Russ, Duncan, Eric, me or Drew—or anything I uncover in my investigation—until I line up the promised interviews when this is over. Anything else, you’re a reporter. Have at it. Report.”
Quentin drained what remained of his cocktail, waved a credit card to secure the bartender’s attention and waited, mute and apparently anxious, as the man tallied and presented the bill. The reporter scribbled what to Ham looked like an illegible bit of nothing then turned to face him as he stood ready for departure. “Here’s my card. Call me anytime with whatever you need. I’ll do my best. God,” he sighed, “this has turned into an interesting day. I never dreamed I’d have a chance to interview the guys from Truckee River.”
“And me,” Ham grinned as he reciprocated with a card of his own.
Ham turned his attention back to the news reports as the journalist ran out the exit. He listened but a few moments before his dander got the best of him. He banged his glass on the bar, startling the man behind it. The bartender, eyes wide, wary and a touch panicked, muttered a hopeful, “Can I get you your bill?” At Ham’s nod, he hurried to his duty and at arm’s length gently dropped the slip in front of his enraged customer. “It’s just the few,” he offered reasonably.
The Biggest Little Crime In The World (A Ham McCalister Mystery Book 3) Page 3
