The Biggest Little Crime In The World (A Ham McCalister Mystery Book 3)

by Brent Kroetch

  “Right, let me jot that down.”

  A moment later he grunted success and Ham continued. “Tell him I work for you, that I’ve been interviewed by Neely, that I’m impressed with his professionalism and dedication and competence, you know, all that. Sweeten it up as much as you can.”

  “Can do,” Eric agreed. “Then what? Why am I doing this?”

  “Because I suggested you approach Reno brass and ask if you can hire Karl, for off duty, of course, to head up a security team for you, Duncan and Russ. Tell them he doesn’t have to personally be there if he can’t or doesn’t want to but that you need him to hire the best people he can find for round the clock protection and that this will be for the duration, until the case is closed. Can you do that?”

  “Of course, yes. This won’t be the first time I’ve used the superstar thing to get what others don’t want to give me, “he chuckled. “I think you can safely leave this part to me.”

  “He may well claim conflict of interest for his department, especially for Karl, due to the active investigation of the case. Remind him it’s not a conflict unless the members of Truckee River are suspects, which is ludicrous on the face of it.”

  “Ham,” Eric remonstrated, “you forget yourself. Hell, if I need to I’ll have Barbara Stephens call the PD brass. Now forget it and get back to your own business.”

  Wow, Ham, thought, another superstar super tantrum barely avoided. A superstar who could just pick up the phone and have Governor Barbara Stephens do his bidding.

  I have got to remember not to embarrass myself by mouthing off instructions to these guys on how to exploit fame.

  Without a word of goodbye, Eric, Ham guessed, tossed the phone back to Drew, probably in disgust, for her voice suddenly rang through with, “Anything else? Want to, for instance, tell Russ how to read music?”

  “Let up on me, why don’t you?” Ham asked. “I’m just being my usual dense self. It’s how I earn my money. Are you doing okay?”

  The sadness and worry in her voice denied her attempt at stoicism. “I’m hanging in. I’m more worried about the guys. They’re both about to collapse.” A deep sigh emerged when she finished with, “We’re all worried, Ham. But damn if I’m not hopeful for the best. God didn’t grant me my hero just to yank him away. I refuse to believe that.”

  “Keep the faith, Drew, and add a few prayers. I’ll dust off the rust and add my two cents worth, for whatever good that is. I doubt He even remembers me by this time.”

  Amusement and gratitude answered him, along with a soft chuckle. “It’s worth a shot. Anyway, keep in contact, Ham. Let me know everything. And,” she added, her voice dripping the acid of hatred, “you bring me that perp. Right here, right in front of me. And then you and Reno’s finest can go for a cup of whatever for, oh, say, a half hour or so.”

  “That’s a promise,” he replied as he broke the connection. “A goddam promise,” he repeated to no one listening.

  Ham worked his way around and through the lingering, curious onlookers until he found himself across the street and just down from the scene of the attack. His eyes landed on three tiny cameras, mostly hidden on the eave, pointing out and down. Out just enough, he suspected, to reach from the front of the store on into and across the street. His curiosity piqued, knowing that the cops would be starting with those high profile cameras aimed at the iconic arch, he decided to explore.

  He peered into the store for the first time, concentrating on the business inside instead of making a casual notation of its existence, as was his wont unless piqued with interest. A dry cleaner, rather on the large side for such a business, with four employees visible, and at least an equal number of customers demanding attention. And Ham would be just one more, and one of less interest at that given his lack of monetary commerce. Still, try he must.

  Ham entered the shop, where a bell tinkled him welcome. He figured the musical lilt fetched attention from the back when the counter stood unattended but of course today such was not the case. To prove the point, not one person working there bothered to glance up in welcoming acknowledgement.

  Standing just inside the door, hanging back so as not to intrude on transactions, and hopeful that his consideration would earn him some in return, he waited until a worker found herself free to help.

  “Is there a manager on duty?” Ham inquired. “I’d like to speak to him or her.”

  “May I ask what this is about?”

  Ham glanced at the name tag adorning her shirt and nodded. “Yes, Ms. Parson, you may.” He extracted a card from his wallet and handed it over. As she eyed it he explained, “I’m a private detective. I’ve been retained to investigate the shootings that occurred out here on Virginia Street. I assume you’re aware of them?”

  She regarded him as if pitying his inability to understand the world in any way, shape or form. “Yes, I am aware,” she drawled, slowly and with added pronunciation. “Everybody all over hell and gone is aware.” An unspoken accusation of “idiot” echoed through his mind if not throughout the store.

  Ham reddened, not just in cheek but in vision. “I apologize. I didn’t mean to insult you, it was merely introductory. So again, may I speak to your manager?”

  Her grin was feral in its intensity, apparently pleased with his discomfort. “You are doing so now. If badly.”

  Not sure he actually saw the smile or only wished it so, he let it go. “You have three cameras on your eave.”

  “Five,” she corrected him. “Interesting that you noticed. Few or maybe no people notice them. They’re well hidden, and that by design, as I am sure you can imagine.”

  Ham nodded appreciation. “Five, then. Why do you have them, may I ask? Is this a high crime area?”

  She regarded him curiously and shook her head. “You’re not local, are you?” When he shrugged the obvious, she continued, “No, this is not high crime, it’s high safe. We have the cameras because they were installed by the owners of this building before we moved in. They were way crazy security conscious.”

  Ham’s disappointment surfaced in his voice as he guessed an outcome. “So you don’t use them, they’re just relics of the past that you never bothered to take down.”

  “Of course we use them,” she replied. “Why wouldn’t we?”

  Eyes crossing with bewilderment, he all but stuttered confusion. “I don’t understand. If they’re not needed, why do you use them? Isn’t there expense involved?”

  The manager shook her head, less in negation than in irritation. “You sure you’re a private detective?” Before he could answer, she explained, “I would have thought that any detective worth his proverbial salt would know that while there is very little expense there is also a huge break on insurance.” Duh, Ham heard her think.

  “Okay,” he agreed. “Do you keep tapes here on the premises or are they relayed elsewhere? And how often are they repeated?”

  “Meaning taped over? Every other day. And no, they’re not on the premises, they loop to the security firm we use, Barton Mellows Associates.”

  Ham typed the name into his phone as he nodded for her to continue. Instead, she leaned around him and offered to help the next person in line.

  He might be less than Mensa material, Ham mused, but even he recognized a total brush off when he saw it. Exiting the store, he pulled his phone out, searched the address of Barton Mellows and hailed the first empty cab he spotted. Once the address was provided to the cabbie, he leaned back, eyes closed, and mentally reviewed the hit as he had seen it. Something, a nagging, ethereal something, danced at the corners of his mind and, with absolute firmness, refused to emerge out of the fog and into the sunshine of appreciable focus.

  Before Ham’s thought crystalized, the cab driver interrupted the process. “So, this your first time in Reno?”

  Ham, eyes still closed, still trying to grasp what his mind refused to connect, murmured, “Why would you ask that?”

  “You don’t look like a Reno dude,” the cabbie replied.
“More the Vegas type, if you know what I mean.”

  Now Ham did open his eyes and searched out the face of the man reflected in the rearview mirror. “No, I don’t know what you mean. Tell me.”

  “Oh, you know,” the driver shrugged. “Just the look, the way you dress. Clearly Vegas made.”

  Ham studied the man’s back, hairs tingling his neck. Something. “Do I know you?” he ventured, not sure why.

  “Used to,” the man smiled into the rearview mirror.

  “Okay,” Ham sighed, “I give up.”

  “You were the only one who believed in me. You saved me from being railroaded into the state pen. Fifteen years ago, it was.”

  Ham leaned forward, over the back of the seat and gazed intently at his driver. “I do know you. I just can’t place it.”

  “Jesse Spencer. And I have never forgotten you.”

  Ham snapped his fingers, memories flooding back. “Oh hell yes. That jewelry store you were busted on.” When the cabbie nodded, Ham continued, “You have to admit, though, with your juvenile record of petty larcenies it didn’t seem like much of a stretch. And you were picked out of that lineup.”

  “I well remember. And I remember I was scared shitless. I also remember you were the only one who gave my side a chance. If you hadn’t listened to me and found your way to the real thief I’d still be sleeping in a cell.” The man extended one hand behind his back and offered, “Did I ever thank you, shake your hand? If not, I’d like to now. If I did, I’d like to do so again. Every damn day I thank God for you.”

  Ham flushed scarlet, unsure how or if to answer. Finally, with a self-conscious clearing of his throat, he responded, “Well, I think that’s the first time I’ve heard that, but you’re welcome. I was just doing my job.”

  “A job too many of your kind are too lazy to perform. Look for the easy solution, go have a donut and boink the wife.”

  Laughter met the statement, Ham being greatly amused at the slur, even though at the expense of him and his fellow former workers. “Well, what can I say? Donuts and boinking, the life of a cop.”

  The cabbie swerved to the curb and braked to a halt. “Here we are. Barton Mellows.”

  Ham nodded his thanks as he reached for his wallet. “What’s the damage?”

  “No charge.” The cabbie quickly jotted something on a card and handed it to Ham. “Here’s my number, both work and cell. Call me directly on my cell, I’ll take you anywhere and everywhere you need. Never a charge for you.”

  “Thank you, Jesse,” Ham replied as he handed over a ten. “For your kids.”

  Jesse grinned his thanks and ran around to open the door before Ham could exit. “Anytime, McCalister. Night or day, you call me. Promise?” At Ham’s nod and a shake of the hand he roared away, waving out the window in affectionate goodbye.

  He grinned to himself as he turned to the building he was about to venture within and shook his head in amusement. Sometimes, he thought, just sometimes being a cop can bring about justice. And he never tired of those precious times.

  Through the tinted glass enclosed access, into a tastefully decorated waiting room and up to the reception desk walked Ham, his intent purposeful and reflected in his stride. Which would have made an impressive entrance, he mused, had the man at reception bothered to even look up, let alone watch. Officious little prick.

  “Ahem,” Ham stated, “hello, hello, officious prick?”

  The receptionist looked up, met Ham’s eyes and blinked his own. Either, Ham thought, the guy was an unusually cool customer, and one hell of an actor, or he was lost somewhere on Titan.

  “I’m sorry, can I help you?”

  “You’re supposed to, right?”

  Again the man blinked confusion, this time for several long seconds. “I’m sorry, can I help you?”

  Enough of the games. “Yes, you can. I’d like to speak to the manager, please.”

  “I’m the manager. Can I help you?”

  “You already asked that. Twice. I think I already implied that you can.”

  Again the man blinked. Either nervous habit, Ham guessed, or the mark of an airheaded misfit. It took all Ham’s self-control to let it pass.

  “I’d like to talk to you about the video feed from cameras at the dry cleaners on Virginia Street, going back three, maybe four hours. I’m a private detective working a case from that area. I’d like to see what you have.”

  The utter, complete and rapid change from blinking idiot to smooth calculator occurred so rapidly Ham nearly missed it. With narrowed eyes, suspicion his companion, he studied the manager across the counter as the man shook his head and spoke in response. “Any feeds we may or may not receive are strictly confidential. And very, very expensive.”

  Ham recognized a hit when it slapped him upside the head, and back and forth across the face. He pulled out his wallet and asked, “How expensive?”

  The manager cum receptionist narrowed his eyes, apparently sizing up what kind of a mark stood before him. “About $500, plus, minus.”

  The tight grin that split Ham’s face signaled a touch of danger. “Five-hundred dollars, no plus, no minus, I’ll give you that.”

  The man—Derek by his nametag—took a moment to study his pigeon before he nodded agreement. “Sold.” Once Ham forked over the promised corruption, Derek signaled with a jerk of his head. “Down here. Follow me. And if anybody sees you, you’re a new potential customer looking around the setup.”

  The manager led him down a darkened hall to a large room on the left that held multiple monitors, most of which currently provided feed. Near the storage area, Derek pulled out a chair, indicated a seat for Ham, and then disappeared for several long minutes. Just as Ham began to suspect the guy had duped him, had played him for a sucker and a fool, the manager reappeared, flipped on the feed and stood back.

  “These start from four hours ago. You’ll notice there are five views, one from each of the cameras at the location. I’ll stop, fast forward, rewind, whatever you need, but you’ve only got fifteen minutes. My associate is due back and I want you out of here.”

  “How the hell am I supposed to go through four hours of tape, from a busy street, in fifteen goddam minutes? There’s no way I can see everything.”

  “The cops were able to,” Derek shrugged. “You should be able to as well.”

  Ham regarded the man with interest. “You didn’t tell me the cops had been around to see these.”

  “You didn’t ask,” he shrugged.

  “They found nothing?”

  “Nothing. However, I wouldn’t say that’s because there’s nothing there.”

  “Well, that’s enigmatic,” Ham replied as he studied the manager more closely. Something he must have missed, he surmised. The man might be far cleverer that he’d guessed. And probably far more intelligent and dangerous.

  Derek’s smile matched Ham’s allegation. “Another $500 might get me to explain.” As Ham sighed exasperation and once again reached for his wallet, the manager added, “Remember I said ‘might.’ A thousand would change that to a definite.”

  Ham chuckled despite himself, softly and with admiration. This guy, he thought, had done this many more times than a few. “Here you go. And now that you’ve about tapped me out, which I suspect you somehow knew, let’s jump to the chase. Where is it?”

  The manager reached across the keyboard at which Ham sat and pressed a few keys that brought up the five feeds. In rapid succession, he froze feeds one and three, hit fast forward on two, four and five, watching the time as it flew by. Within a matter of moments, he stopped the tape and looked Ham in the eye. “You’re here about the hits on Virginia Street.” Ham nodded the obvious—he could see no purpose in denial—and Derek nodded in return. “Keep your eye fixed on the right side of the screen, crossing the street, in and out of traffic. Two men, only one of which you will ultimately find to be of interest.”

  Derek pressed the machine back into action but this time in slow motion. He pointed to
the two men he had referenced, one taller than the other. “See the bigger guy? I’d say he’s six foot four. That makes the shorter man about five feet four, maybe a little less.”

  Ham’s jaw dropped in wonder. “How can you tell that?” he demanded. “I see no points of reference that would allow you to make that calculation.”

  “Experience,” the manager smiled. “That plus the view begins at twelve feet above ground. Once you have that, you see the height of the cars and the arch, the rest is easy.”

  “If you say so,” Ham shrugged. “So what now?”

  “Now watch the shorter man. Look, right here,” he pointed and stopped the feed, “see where he’s headed?”

  “Yeah, okay, and—”

  Derek grinned down at the slack-jawed Ham. “I take it you see yourself in this frame. And that he’s headed right toward you.” Ham nodded and the man continued, “Good. Now watch the bigger guy. See him duck to the left? He’s headed out of shot. So unless gunfire erupted from behind you, which the tape doesn’t support, he’s not involved. Or at least,” he corrected, “if he is, he’s not your shooter.”

  Ham watched the scene slowly reveal itself. The shooter gained the other side of the street, just down and up from Ham and his party, and reached inside his suit coat. His exposed hand revealed a pistol, probably small caliber from what the detective could ascertain. He brought his hand up and two quick shots followed, though Ham only knew this from surmise. The shots, assuming they were there, were unaccompanied by sound.

  Liam Waterson, the casino investor whom Ham had never seen, a man reputed to be mobbed up, must have been the man ahead of him that fell to the sidewalk just microseconds before Russ Porter followed suit.

  “Stop the tape,” Ham ordered. “I don’t want to waste what time we have left, so tell me. Anything else important here, anything you think I should see?”

  “Nothing,” Derek shrugged, “at least not that I identified as a part of this.”

  Ham eyed the man closely, head tilted a bit as he studied his target. “Tell me, Derek, do you guys ever misplace feeds?”