He turned that word over in his mind, chewed on it like an appetizer. A classic way to deflect. Charge a conspiracy, that bugaboo of all seemingly straightforward but high profile investigations. Call it machinations in order to distract, to further hidden means, or just for fame and attention. No matter the motive, the repercussions always stretched beyond and up to possible police incompetence. Or out and out collusion.
As would be charged should it be disclosed that Reno police were acting in cooperation with a known gambling organization, one reputed to enjoy a long criminal arm to boot. To say the least, the cops would suffer heat and exposure, an explosion in the media that at least a few would not survive. Probably to include Captain Saul Hanson, since all pitchfork events require a high-level sacrifice. Lord knows the governor would dodge the worst of it, what with her ordering cooperation by local officials in the Russ Porter investigation. What a perfect curtain from which to hide behind, he mused. Maybe, just maybe, she directed behind the scenes, the puppet master calling the shots, while others danced to her tunes. But why? Could Liam Waterson have something on her? Maybe blackmail on the line? That would cover the motive issue. Or maybe…
He mentally slapped his forehead, even as “great, you’ve become one of those” echoed throughout his mind. Meet Ham McCalister, a goddam conspiracy theorist, previously a student of the Kennedy assassination, looking to prove a shot from the grassy knoll. He’s here to demonstrate his amazing skill for all to value and applaud, and thank you, you lucky folks, he’ll be here all week. If the governor doesn’t have him offed first.
Enough, he commanded himself. While wallowing in self-pity or ire, clues become lost in the mindless boundaries of that mental hell, where thoughts and solutions cloak themselves in invisibility until eventually, as they must, they give up and die. A loser’s game, one he damn well refused to play.
He might have paced some more, continued more or less upon that line of thought, but at that moment Preston holstered his phone and pronounced himself satisfied. “Jesse, on your way. Remember, everything you can get me on the Vicante family. Meanwhile, Mr. McCalister, Ms. Thornton—pardon me, Ms. Porter—and myself will call on your husband, Jennifer. You stay by the phone,” he added, “your home phone. I will call you within an hour or two, at most.”
Wringing his hands together, almost like a gambler expecting to hit big, he stood, adjusted his coat and tie and nodded to the door. “Let’s do this.”
“You sent my driver off on a series of errands,” Ham reminded him.
“Not a problem,” Jennifer offered. She tossed over the keys and added, “The Cadillac Escalade parked in the garage. It’s all yours.”
Ham regarded her with a touch of suspicion and unease. To his mind, she’d given in a little too fast to the order that she remain behind while they put her husband through the wringer.
A glance at Drew, with her narrowed eyes and stoic face, informed him that she reasoned the same. A minute shake of her head told him now was not the time.
The garage stood doors ajar and they piled into the gleaming, monstrously large Escalade, Drew driving, she having stolen the keys from Ham’s hand before they’d exited the house proper. He knew better than to argue. The drive would be wild enough without additional impetus from him. And an argument from him over driver status would surely provide just that, impetus for recklessness. As if such incentive were needed.
Preston recited an address which Drew punched into the GPS before backing out and onto the fronting street. Only moments later she announced what nobody found surprising. Somebody followed.
“That may well be Saul’s people,” Preston guessed. “We’re friendly, he offers respect, but he’s not for sale. He has his own agenda.”
“And that agenda would be?” Drew asked.
Ham imagined the spread hands that would indicate lack of knowledge, for indeed Talbot merely smiled. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Ms. Thornton. Or Porter,” he corrected himself. “So far as I understand, his interest is purely in his station.”
“Then again,” Ham interjected, “it could equally be one of yours. I’m still not certain where you come down in all this. With all due respect, of course.”
“Of course,” Preston dryly repeated. “But as long as we’re guessing, why not an ally of Derek’s? Or Barton Bianchi’s?”
Into the answering silence, Drew added, “Or even yakuza.”
It struck Ham as more than a little bizarre, and a lot more than a little scary, that nobody laughed.
14
A FAMILY AFFAIR
Drew pulled to the curb that fronted Barton Mellows, where somewhere inside Derek Spencer was imprisoned. And awaiting a grilling from no other than the biggest little crime boss in the state.
Not that he’d utter that description out loud, at least to nobody but Drew. Yet the image made him smile, the courtly old-world charms of a man that stretched to a height of maybe five-feet, four inches when he sported his highest heeled cowboy boots. Add the requisite hat and he’d be the latter day picture of a miniature Wyatt Earp, mustache and all.
He shook the image away, firm and forced, and turned his attention to the matter at hand, which, for him, amounted to playing supporting actor to the leading man. A mute Joe Friday whose lines consisted of a sage nod after each of Preston’s assertions of facts. No matter how fanciful those facts may in truth be.
From behind, Preston voiced a clipped order. “Open the door. I’m here,” he snapped as he exited the vehicle and holstered his phone. Without bothering to ascertain whether Ham and Drew accompanied him, he marched to the now unlocked door, waited but a microsecond for someone inside to pull it open and strode on through. Much to Ham’s amusement, the door started to close before he could step aside for Drew and before she had the chance to enter. No emphasis on the gentlemanly arts among this gang, he thought, not now, not under these circumstances.
Once inside, he hung back, near the tinted door that so adequately shielded him from passing prying eyes. He studied the street for a moment and observed what he’d expected. A car pulled up to the curb just about a half block up the street, cut its lights and sat, no one emerging from the darkened interior.
So they were here. But exactly who “they” might be still proved enigmatic. Reno cops? Waterson’s people? Yakuza? Take your pick, name your poison. It was all the same to him. No matter which, no matter what, his interests were likely unaligned with theirs. His interest was Russ. Bam, period, over. Their interests, their desires, no doubt would be entirely self-oriented and, as understandable as that may be, it would still probably set him at odds with an invading and dangerous foe.
Movement behind caught his attention, reminded him to focus on the purpose of this late night meeting. The elusive and mysterious Derek Fister, manager of the very storehouse they now inhabited.
Ham turned just in time to see a deflated looking Derek enter the room, though perhaps “enter” did not describe it so well given that he was surrounded by four of what he assumed must be Preston’s men. One led, two flanked the ashen manager, and one trailed, presumably to discourage a run to the rear.
Ham shook his head at the overkill and with a stab of pity deliberately stepped forward, cutting the men from their prey. “Nice to see you again, Derek. How are you doing? All things considered, I mean.”
Derek gazed into his eyes, maybe wondering if Ham was having him on, maybe looking for an out, a protector, an outsider. “Are you serious?” he all but stammered. “Do you know who these people are?”
Okay, Ham thought, the stare must have been one of contrived contempt. He almost laughed at Derek’s bravado but the silent threat emanating from Preston Talbot caused him to reconsider. Instead, he nodded his reply and offered a modest, “Perhaps we can help each other out.”
“Where did you find him?” Preston asked the man leading the parade.
“Airport. Waiting on a flight to Vegas.”
Preston’s eyes widened a bit but he
otherwise indicated no physical reaction. “Is that a fact? How inscrutable.”
“I was trying to get to you. I tried to get through, nobody would tell me squat or even admit that you were in town.” A brave and very obvious forced smile touched his lips. “I take it my persistence finally wore them down and, lo, here we is.”
Talbot grinned, a lopsided indication of displeasure. “It would behoove you, Derek, to sheath that tongue of yours. The fact that you’re married to my goddaughter does not carry a lot of weight with me at the moment.”
“Can I call her? I’d like to let her know I’m okay.”
Preston shook his head, an amused expression on his face. “Two things, Derek. Number one, you may not call her, not at this time. Maybe later, that will depend on you. Number two, you are most assuredly not okay. I don’t know why you’d think you are.”
Drew pushed forward, past Ham and into view of both Preston and Derek. “What he says,” she assured Derek, “is absolute truth. What he does not say is that you are far less okay with me than you are with him. Which means,” she added with menace in her voice, “that whether or not you get to call your little wife very much depends upon how I feel about it once I’ve beaten a few answers out of you.”
Derek’s attempt to appear calm and unflustered died when he backed up and blinked clear alarm. Nevertheless, he attempted bluster. “And who the hell might you be?” To Preston, he asked, “Why the hell is she here?”
Drew backed up by no more than inches and as she did, Ham, who recognized the step and the precursor to mayhem, laid a restraining arm on her shoulder, stopping the Mawashi Geri, her favored Karate roundhouse kick, dead in its tracks.
But he knew better than to stop there. “Derek, back up four feet and don’t move a freaking muscle. You can thank me later.”
Obviously startled, Preston’s men parted to let Derek retreat, though not without one remaining at his back. Preston moved forward to match the movement and grinned at the discomfited manager. “You fear me, I’m told, but the fact is you should fear her. She’s much more dangerous, much more lethal. And she’s the other victim’s wife.”
“He survived, at least so far,” Drew informed him. “But that matters not a whit to me. You still have to pay.” Her smile matched the ice in her eyes. “I won’t kill you. I’ll leave that pleasure to Preston, an amusement he can enjoy after I’ve had my fun and maimed you.”
Derek lifted his hands in surrender and perhaps in supplication. “Listen, lady, I don’t know what you want from me. I don’t even know what Preston wants from me. All I did was show Mr. McCalister the feed and after that all hell broke loose. Why do you want to harm me? I didn’t do anything to you, and I didn’t do anything to your husband.” He turned his eyes to Preston and nodded the obvious. “Nor did I have anything to do with Liam Waterson’s death. And that’s the god’s honest truth.”
Preston folded arms across his chest and cocked his head, apparently to better take the size of the man. “Why did you screw with the tape of the feed, Derek? Explain that to me, then we’ll talk.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he protested. “I didn’t screw with the feed. Screw with it how?”
Preston’s voice dropped to little more than a whisper, which Ham assumed came across as a threat to Derek. His face turned ashen, even more than it had been, and his eyes flew wide in obvious fright. “You placed me at the scene of the shooting,” Talbot replied. “Explain that to me, please.”
“Preston, I swear, I didn’t screw with the tape. And I never saw you on it.”
“That,” Ham announced, “is a bald-faced lie. I saw the feed, remember? Right here in your shop. I saw Talbot, I just didn’t know who he was until I met him later in Vegas. So you can drop that crap, Derek. You’re busted.”
Derek pleaded with wild eyes, wide with panic. “Preston, I swear to god, he’s lying. I never showed him any feeds. He’s screwing with you for some reason, probably to take you down for cash. An extortion scheme, don’t you see?”
Talbot smiled, a weird twisted grin, and sighed. “You disappoint me, Derek. I would have hoped you’d be a little quicker on the uptake.” His grin turned to a frown. “Perhaps worse than your lack of imagination is your apparent opinion of me. I take it you think old Preston is a fool. That angers me. I’d think about that for a second.”
Derek dropped his head, left it in place for several long seconds before looking back up, a resigned expression on his face. “I needed the money.”
“See how easy that was?” Preston pointed out. “Now tell me why you needed the money.” More fiercely, though still dangerously soft of voice, he demanded explanation. “Why would you want money, you dumb son of a bitch? Don’t I give you and Jennifer all you need, for whatever you need, whenever you need it? Why would you betray me like this, betray me for mere pittances of coin?”
With a shrug of the shoulders, an admission of inexplicable guilt, he answered. “It’s not like that, Preston. I never meant any harm. I knew I could fix it if the law came after you. And I would have, too, I would have made it right, I swear. This was just a chance for me to make something on my own.” Sounding almost out of breath, he pleaded, “You got to look at this from my perspective. You give Jennifer everything. Hell, you even gave me this job. You’re her hero, she thinks you’re the greatest, the most powerful and generous man on earth. How am I supposed to compete with that, stuck here in this dead-end job, with no prospect that you were ever going to bring me into the real business?” He spread his hands, an apology of sorts it looked. “I love Jennifer, I really do. I just wanted to be able to give her something from me, show her I could make it, too. That she didn’t need to turn to you for everything. That I could be her hero. That’s not so hard to understand, is it?” He spread pleading arms wide. “Well, is it?”
Preston let several moments pass before he shook his head. When he finally replied, his voice arose indulgent and sad. “Derek, you continue to insult me, to underestimate me. I am not, was not, fearful of the law. I can take care of myself, and as Mr. McCalister and Ms. Thornton can attest, I did. It’s Liam’s people that would take their anger and retribution out on me. That’s the danger you put me in, that you did not give a thought to, plain did not care about. And that disappoints me further, which I had not thought possible.”
Derek blinked perceptible confusion. “Hey, wait, no, hold on a second. What are you running on about? What is all this? You’re next in command, aren’t you? The one who takes over now, right? How could anyone come after you? Nobody would dare, that would be suicidal, it would be crazy. If I thought it could be otherwise, I never would have gone along with it.”
“With Barton Bianchi?” Ham guessed.
A curt nod confirmed it. “He swore he’d keep me out of it.”
“Where is he?” Preston gently inquired. Too gently, in Ham’s opinion. Like a shark taking a gentle nip from a swimmer’s thigh.
Derek’s eyes popped with surprise. “Don’t you know? He’s in Vegas, working with your guys, trying to determine who killed Waterson. At least that’s what he told me,” he asserted.
Preston eyed him with a curious mixture of pity, anger and contempt. And Ham couldn’t begin to guess which might be worst.
“What am I to do with you, Derek?” He sighed, deep and troubled, apparently truly at odds and consumed with indecision. “Really, what am I to do?”
Drew supplied the answer. “You’ve got a cop on the force that you trust. Is that right?” Talbot nodded and she continued, “Why don’t you see if you can call in a favor? Have this little piece of magpie held for obstruction of justice, at least until we do decide how to kill him.” Ham noted the laughter in her eyes as Derek shrank back and, as had become his wont, paled again and yet some more.
Preston’s pursed lips indicated consideration and an abrupt nod indicated agreement. “Not bad, Ms. Thornton. Not bad at all. That’ll keep him out of my hair and out of further trouble for the time be
ing. Plus,” he grinned, “I’ll be able to tell Jennifer he’s not dead. Yet.”
While Talbot directed his attention to his cell phone and the necessary arrangements, Ham returned to the door, searched for and found the car he’d spotted earlier, still in its same spot, two heads barely shadowed within. As he watched, he felt rather than saw Drew sidle up beside him.
“What’s got your attention out there? Something I should know?”
“Yeah,” he nodded toward the direction of the car. “See the Chevy up the block, dark blue I think, maybe black, with the two people barely visible inside? They’re the ones who followed us here. Presumably, they intend to continue with their shadow assignment once we leave.”
“Well, hell,” Drew grinned, pulling out and caressing her weapon, “why don’t we just go ask them?”
“Why not?” he shrugged. “It looks like we’re not needed here anymore and, what the hey, I always like to meet new people.” With a grin of his own, he nodded toward the door. “Let’s do it. You take the other side, I’ll take this one and we’ll meet at the car.”
“Right, let me tell Talbot what’s going on. He can either wait for us to return or call and let me know where we can meet up. If we even need to meet up, of course. Now that I think of it, he may be useless to us from here on out.”
“No, I don’t think so, Drew. I think he’s so solidly in the middle of this, for better or worse, that he’s the answer in waiting.”
She strode up to Preston and spoke in a whispered voice, too low for Ham to hear. Instead, he studied the car as he searched for further details, maybe some clues as to the who and the what.
A study which didn’t take long for, within a few seconds, the passenger door popped open and a man emerged from the neon glow and stepped into the deep of the shadows. Ham strained to see, to turn night into day, panic setting in when he completely lost sight of his quarry.
The Biggest Little Crime In The World (A Ham McCalister Mystery Book 3) Page 20
