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

by Brent Kroetch

  Lydia ignored his protests, his threats and his whining. “Watch this,” she ordered, voice calm as always. “You’ll find it interesting. Karl, if you would?”

  Neely turned the laptop toward Pendleton and set the feed to just before the shootings. “This is taken from the files at Barton Mellows, the one you say you haven’t seen.” As the shooter approached his target, Karl paused and pointed at the perp. “Watch what he does,” he instructed as he restarted the tape.

  Through the eerie silence on the screen, a confused bedlam of activity burst forth. Set at slow motion replay, the screen clearly revealed the hits, with Russ the first to fall, followed almost immediately by Liam. Neely stopped the tape and inquired, “Do you see anything of interest there?”

  Ham had watched the cop’s face rather than observing the screen. Larry had paled perceptibly when Karl pointed out the perp but, to his credit as a cop, instantly went blank, giving away nothing more. But once had been enough.

  “Derek Fister is the manager at Barton Mellows. That’s where we got this. And he tells us an interesting story, one quite, quite different from yours,” Lydia informed him. “Would you like to hear it?”

  “Why would I?” Larry snapped. “What do I care what his story is. I don’t even know who he is.” Looking back at Neely, he reiterated, “You’re wasting my time here. You’re not only wasting my time, you’re wasting the department’s time and you’re interfering in the progress of the investigation.” With an emphasis and a snarl, he again mimicked, “Friend or no, you’re going to have holy hell to pay over this bullshit, believe you me. I will see to that.”

  Karl spread his hands wide in supplication, a sarcastic mea culpa. “I’m all atremble. Meanwhile, you sit there until I tell you to get up. And that may not be until I’m ready to put the cuffs on you.”

  Though his face remained stoic, panic flashed in his eyes, if only for an instant. But long enough for the seasoned investigator in Ham to recognize they had him. Handle him carefully, he thought. Gently enough to break him.

  Ham cleared his throat, indicating intent to cut in. “Here’s the deal, Larry. The manager, Derek, says that he showed you the feed. Our confusion, then, is that, one, you were there even though you claim you weren’t, and two, you saw this scene, saw the perp approach, and didn’t tell anybody.” Larry opened his mouth to speak, probably to protest more innocence, but Ham cut him off. “And there’s one more thing.” He paused for emphasis before adding, “Why do we have you on feed leaving Barton Mellows?”

  Lydia and Karl impressed Ham when he noted with relief that they reacted not a whit to his naked bluff. Unlike Larry Pendleton, who gasped, turned ashen and appeared near to fainting, all within the space of seconds. Then, like seasoned cops everywhere, he collected his nerve and his face paled to passive. “There is no such tape,” he averred. “And if there is, they faked it. Which can only mean they’re involved in this crime up to their eyebrows, and I will personally arrest their asses on just that belief. So fuck ‘em.”

  Karl sighed, sad or defeated, maybe both, Ham thought. “You’re going to stick with this story?”

  “Yes, Lieutenant, I am. I’m telling the truth and you, by damn, aren’t going to paint me as a dirty cop. I’ll sue your ass before I let that stand.”

  “You’ll sue my ass,” Karl repeated with a sigh. “Alright, Pendleton, you’re on desk duty until further notice. Take the call station at entry. I’ll drop off your shifts later.”

  Larry’s face flashed red, he jumped to his feet and snarled, “You can’t do this, Neely. I’ll appeal this to the captain, and to the union if I have to.”

  “It’s done, Pendleton. This is going to Internal Affairs and there’s not thing one you can do about it. Now get out of here and let some honest cops do your work.”

  Larry’s jaw clenched as hard as his fists, anger palpable as he stormed from the room, the slam of the door behind him a rattled emphasis. An emphasis that made Karl shake his head in disgust, and one that brought a tight smile of amusement to Lydia.

  “He’d done that to me in my station,” Ham announced, “I’d drag his ass back here and slam the door on his face. Might persuade him not to be so rude in the future.”

  “Maybe we’re a little kinder and gentler form of law here in Reno,” Lydia replied. “Though I must admit the idea does have merit.”

  She may have had more to say, Karl may himself have added his two cents, but nobody had the opportunity. For at that moment a loud crash against the door boomed throughout the tiny room as the door itself shook to the point that Ham worried it might fly from its hinges, directly across the table and into his unprotected face. Or at least it was vulnerable before he threw hands into place to protect himself from the obscene perceived danger.

  A danger that proved real. Obviously so when the door flew open, banged against the wall and ricocheted back to closed.

  Following which the door gently opened and a tight-faced Drew let herself in and pointed over her shoulder. “Is that piece of trash one of yours?”

  “Karl, Lydia, let me introduce my partner, Drew Thornton. We served together on the force and now have the agency in Vegas. I take it,” he accused Drew, “that this was your work.”

  “What did you do?” Lydia demanded, her eyes shining with pleasure. “Did you do what your partner wanted to do, smash his face into the door?”

  “You should teach him to hold the door for a lady and, most especially, not to run her over in his rush to exit. Maybe when he regains consciousness you can explain the desirability of that to him.”

  Karl left to tend to the wounded, or maybe just to gloat, Ham knew not which, but at that moment he also didn’t care. “What are you doing here?” he demanded of Drew. “What about Russ? And the other guys, and Derek? Is anybody with them? Why didn’t you call?”

  Before she could reply, Karl returned, laughing softly. “Lady, I really like your style. He’s still out cold. I called for medics, told the brass he slipped on some soap in the hall. Probably dropped there by the cleaning crew. I also told them he hit his head pretty hard and he may misremember what actually occurred. I’ve seen it happen.”

  Drew smiled her thanks and added, “I can return the compliment. Pretty good style yourself.”

  “Drew?”

  “Yes, Ham, I’m not ignoring you. Derek told us all what happened. Nice kid, scared to death, though. Anyway, in order of importance, Russ is awake. A bit loopy, no surprise, both because of the injury and the medication. Nevertheless, he’s sharp as always. And pretty well pissed, let me tell you.” Ham opened his mouth to demand more but she forestalled him with an upraised hand. “Second, three off duty cops are with him as we speak, as are Eric, Duncan, Gary and Derek. Nobody’s getting anywhere near Russ without a major shootout.”

  “I sent my best,” Karl affirmed. “I’d stake my own life on any single one of them. Against them as a group nobody has a mite’s chance in hell, so you can let that one lie.”

  “Three, as I said, Russ is some kind of pissed. Mostly,” she giggled, “because it’s his wedding day and he, as he puts it, shouldn’t be in bed alone. I suggested he invite the doctor but he didn’t think that was funny.”

  “Drew?” Sometimes, he sighed inwardly, getting her to stay on point took more effort than he had available to exert. “About Russ?”

  “He ordered me, you won’t believe this, he actually ordered me, I guess because I’m his wife now and he thinks he’s the big husband and all, and...”

  “Drew!”

  “He ordered me to get over here, drag your ass out of the station and go locate the perp who shot him, this Preston Talbot. And then,” she said, her voice stone and cold as she drew her weapon, the one she’d refused to surrender at the desk, “and then,” she repeated, “he told me to shove this thing right up his nostril. Just before I pull the trigger.” She glared at each in turn, and Ham noted neither of the others seemed inclined to argue. Apparently satisfied, she nodded, pointed at
Ham and led the way to the door. “So by damn and by god, let’s go find us a nostril to shoot.”

  With not even the nicety of a goodbye, they hurried out, intent on their task and even more on keeping their own counsel. Ham, despite his anxiety, waited until they’d left the others behind, waited until no ears would overhear. When satisfied their words would remain confidential, yet still cautious, he whispered, “I take it you know something that neither I nor Reno PD are aware of yet.”

  “You may so assume,” she affirmed. “Jesse is waiting for us out front.” Grinning at Ham, she added, “Don’t be so surprised. How did you think I’d gotten here so fast? Anyway, he’s waiting out front, he’ll take us to the airport. We’re taking Russ’ plane, it’s all been set. It’ll be ready by time we get there.”

  Arched eyebrows presaged the question. “And we are going where?”

  “Vegas, of course. Catch up, Ham. Loop in for god’s sake.”

  Ham had to hurry to keep pace, she moved so fast through the bullpen and on to the exit. “You’re acting very smug. What have you got?”

  She paused long enough to ask, “You remember Kay Morrison?”

  “Your friend from the force,” Ham nodded. “What about her?”

  Drew resumed progress and tossed over her shoulder, “What about her is that she’s got a file on our shooter.”

  “She’s still there? I’d would have thought she’d be retired by now. Isn’t she older than you are?”

  “Never ask a woman’s age, Ham. I knew your mother and I know she taught you better than that. Such shame you bring on her.”

  Ham let the comment pass. “Jarrod Grayson’s still there. I’ve already talked to him. What could Kay add that he wouldn’t have?”

  Again she stopped, this time to look him in the eyes. “You didn’t tell me you’d talked with anybody on the force.”

  “It wasn’t important, given everything else going on. Just some background on Liam Waterson, and his reputed ties to the mob.”

  “It’s a hell of a lot more than reputed,” she insisted. “Anyway, that’s not the point. The point is, our shooter is back in Vegas. He was seen entering one of the casinos that Waterson holds interests in.”

  Ham grabbed her arm, forced her to stop. “When was this? Why didn’t you tell the Reno cops? Didn’t it occur to you that they’d be interested? That this is something they really need to know?”

  Drew yanked her arm away and resumed walking. “We’re wasting time, McCalister. As for when, it was less than twenty minutes ago. It was the impetus for me leaving Russ, it was his impetus for sending me, and it’s our chance to grab the guy and do some questioning of our own before we turn him over to the law. Simple, no?”

  “Alright, I guess that’s a plan. In fact, a really good one, assuming you’ve got somebody watching the scene. Otherwise, what if he slips away and we haven’t reported it? Goodbye cooperation, at the very least. Hello handcuffs, at the very most.”

  “You’re a worry wart. Let it go. I got it covered.”

  They barged through the door into the early evening neon glow of the city. Jesse, who had been slumped against his cab, straightened up, doffed a nonexistent cap and as he opened the backseat door announced, “Your chariot awaits, good sir, good madam.”

  The short ride to the airport passed in silence, with Drew pointedly staring at concrete and neon scenery. A habit, Ham well knew, she exhibited when troubled beyond the willingness of words. And he needn’t be a psychic to figure out why.

  But even understanding why, what, if anything, could he possibly express that would ease the pain, the panic she must be feeling if not avowing? Though his heart ached, his ability to touch and pat away the grief was far less than his ability to just be there, be a friend in need, to be one indeed.

  He watched her watching nothing and his soul cried for the loss of celebration and exhilaration that the day, once dawned, had promised and failed to fulfill. Ham wiped a telltale tear or two away as he wondered how to imagine what she was going through, what she must be thinking, feeling as she rushed to find Russ’ would-be killer—while still in her wedding dress.

  Unable to think of what else to do, he reached across the seat and took her hand in his, a tender embrace of lifelong friendship and trust. Without looking at him, she squeezed back and sighed, “You’re a good man, Ham McCalister, and I want you to know that, to feel it, to accept it without embarrassment. It is what it is and there’s no use blushing about it. You’re as good a man as I’ve ever known and I include Russ and my father in that category.” And still she wouldn’t look at him, preferring, he supposed, to keep her tears for herself.

  His supposition was answered with a hammer when she sighed, “What do you do when you run out of tears? Answer me that, Ham. Answer me that.”

  With a tear of his own, and none left to lend, he shrugged into lost and inadequate silence.

  8

  ANOTHER DAY, ANOTHER MISTAKE

  Russ’ plane touched the sky and they were off. On their way to where or what, Ham could not be certain, only that before this day ended he’d either find his perp or he’d knock a few heads on Russ’ behalf. Heads that would eventually tell him what he needed to know. Either that or heads that would roll, heads that would be lost to their unhappy owners.

  He tried to shake off the foulness of his mood, tried to relax and enjoy the ride, but the giddy joy he’d experienced each of the few times he’d flown in such rich grandeur this time absented itself from the plush, quiet interior. All he felt was pain. Grief for a day begun with promise and joy, and now ending in anger and lament. He could not have stopped the crime, nor Drew’s grief, he knew and admitted that, yet somehow, for some reason, his guilt rose to bile in his throat. Since they’d been children he’d considered it his duty to protect and defend what had become his partner in all aspects except for bed.

  Which brought a sad smile to his lips as it evoked perhaps his earliest memories of her in his life. He must have been all of five years old, they’d been playing football on the front lawn—she outshone all the boys by yards—and they’d had so much fun the day slipped away before he’d noticed it closing. Not wanting the excitement to end, he’d asked his mother if Drew could spend the night and she’d refused, explaining that it was improper for little boys to have little girls spend the night. He hadn’t understood that one until he was a teenager.

  And now that sad little girl, all grown up, married as yet in name only, with celebratory exuberance still in virginal state, stared out the window, at nothing in the sky, seeing what he could only guess. Either reliving the ceremony, or reliving the moment her happiness got shot out from under her. He hoped, though doubted, it could be the former.

  For the first time in his limited experience in flights of opulence, no server graced the aisle. No food, no drink service, though a full bar sported anything he might wish to fetch himself. A drink might calm him, might lighten the darkness descending all around, but as for food he cared less than naught. Nothing at this moment could stoke his hunger, not tonight and maybe not for days to come.

  He rose and strolled the short distance to the bar and as he did he noted that Drew didn’t bother to glance up. If she’d noticed his movement she apparently cared less about what he was up to than Ham did about the lack of food service on the trip home.

  Ham filled a glass near to the brim full of wine, a California cabernet, which meant nothing to him personally given his illiteracy of the grape, but it was red and would do. Though he would have preferred a beer, his usual beverage of choice, wine filled his stomach. In this case, that was wise, he knew, because he’d need to keep his wits about him, not about alcohol.

  Back in his seat, he sprawled out in its generous confines and again studied his friend as he sipped at the drink in his hand. She had not moved nor altered her frame of vision as far as he determined. Almost, no, make that totally, immobile, a tranquil trance-like state one would think. At least one would think that if one didn�
��t intimately know Drew. Like he did.

  His mind evoked more images of their childhood and in their teens. He saw her dressed for her first date, her face afire with excitement, while his heart melted at witnessing her in such delight. He loved her, maybe more than anyone else in his life, and he’d wished her that happiness for each and every day of what he hoped would turn out to be a long, successful life.

  The image dissolved to her high school graduation, a year before his own. Though they were of the same age, she had been born with a bit more upstairs. Hell, face it, he grinned to himself, one hell of a lot more. So much so that she’d skipped the eighth grade altogether, hence her one year advantage in education.

  From there, to his surprise, she chose the University of Nevada at Las Vegas over such schools as Stanford, UCLA, Colorado and University of Washington. Which made his own decision easy once it was his turn and once he’d been offered a football scholarship at that same UNLV.

  Ham sighed, tried to wash away memories, both good and bad, of their lives since then. Of meeting Blake Garrett and Russ Porter for the first time during the case in Hawaii. Of learning about Drew’s affair with Russ and his intent to marry her during a case in Santa Cruz. Of walking her down the aisle, onto the street and into an assassin’s gun.

  He’d let her down. He’d let Russ down, and Blake down, and himself and everybody else who depended on him down, now and throughout a lifetime of blunders, errors and missteps. He tossed back the remainder of his wine, nearly the full glass, in one swallow, a useless attempt to rinse away the taste of shame and failure.

  Oh, for god’s sake, Ham, knock it the hell off. One more thought like that and you’ll break into wracking, boyish sobs. Oh man, yeah, that’ll help Drew. And Russ. And everybody else. Here’s a dollar. Go buy a backbone.