Brass in Pocket

by Jeff Mariotte

  Dawson Upson paced in the shade, in a clear, flat stretch near the foot of the opposite hill. Skinny and anxious, he had dumped the blazer he wore in the surveillance video, and his porkpie hat was no-where to be seen. Melinda Spence was bound with rope and duct tape, lying on her side near a low shelf that marked the beginning of the rise on the canyon’s other side. She was conscious, wriggling and writhing but not really fighting hard against her bonds. Her cheeks and forehead had been cut. Fine red lines traced against her brown flesh and fresh drops dampened the soil beside her.

  A stainless-steel razor blade knife glinted in Upson’s fist, the kind you cut open packages with.

  Nick was surprised—he had expected Upson to use more exotic tools. He muttered as he walked, more to himself than to Melinda. Nick only caught snatches of what he said: “… cut you. Cut you up. Gonna make you bleed, make you bleed and beg and cry and bleed…”

  Abruptly, he spun around and dropped to his knees beside Melinda, between her and the rock shelf. She whimpered as he brought the blade close to her face again. “Shut up just shut your mouth!” he cried, brandishing the blade before her terrified eyes. He sounded like he might cry. He had been screwing up his courage all this time, Nick realized. All the animals he had killed, the women he had abducted… they were just setting the stage for this moment. Now that it had arrived, he was facing the fact that murdering a human being wasn’t like those others at all.

  Still, he couldn’t be allowed to make another cut.

  Nick drew his service pistol, steadied his aim with his left hand, and shouted: “Las Vegas Police! Put the knife down and step away from her!”

  Startled, Upson let the knife fly from his hand. He stared up the hill at Riley and Nick. His mouth fell open and he started to raise his hands.

  But a smile that Nick didn’t like spread across his face, and as his hands elevated past his waist, he snaked one arm behind his back. When he brought it back out, he had a black steely pistol in his hand, pointed at Melinda’s head.

  “Don’t be stupid, Upson,” Riley said. “Put the gun down before you hurt someone.”

  Nick believed he could drop Upson with one shot. But Upson was still partially shielded by Melinda’s trussed-up body, so if he missed, a stray round or a ricochet off the rocks could injure the person he was trying so hard to save.

  “You put yours down,” Upson said. “I will kill her if you don’t. A shot to the skull isn’t exactly what I had in mind when I started all this, but it’ll have to do. I’ll live with it, anyway.” A nervous giggle burst from his lips. He wiped saliva from his chin with the back of his left hand, struggling to bring his laughter under control. “Even though she won’t.”

  “You won’t live for long,” Riley warned.

  “Please. You won’t kill me. You’re all about the law. You’ll want me to stand trial, and all that happy nonsense. Justice, you call it. But me… I’ve been waiting a long time for this. A very, very long time. One way or another, today I will kill a human being. I’m beyond anything your justice can dish out.”

  “If the prospect of dying doesn’t bother you, then I might as well shoot,” Riley said. “I mean, you’re calling the play, right?”

  He’s not going to shoot, Nick told himself. Yes, he had shot some of the animals found in the pit. But those were early ones. All the later ones had been killed with a blade. He had tried both methods, and he still carried a gun, but only as backup. He hadn’t used one on the women in Boston, according to the reports. A gun was meant primarily for distances, and it was the proximity of Upson’s victims that excited him, the feeling of the creature dying in his hands. Maybe he even thrilled to the warm, wet splash of blood on his slender fingers.

  Shooting would wipe away the things that appealed to him about killing. It wasn’t simply the final result he was after, it was the process. Killing someone with a gun was easy enough, but he hadn’t done it yet.

  Nick believed he wouldn’t shoot. But could he take that chance? Or should he and Riley shoot first, hoping they didn’t accidentally hit Melinda?

  It was Melinda who provided the answer for him.

  33

  BOUND AS SHE WAS, Melinda still had some freedom of movement. In an effort that must have taken unimaginable courage, bound and gagged and with the madman who had abducted her pointing a gun at her head, she kicked out with her duct-taped legs. The impact didn’t hurt Upson, but it knocked him off balance. He threw both arms out to steady himself. The instant the gun barrel veered away from Melinda’s head, Nick made his move.

  He took a couple of skidding steps on the rock-strewn slope and jumped, aiming for the low shelf right behind Melinda. Upson saw him coming, whipped the gun around, and squeezed off a single panicked shot. The round took a bite of the cliff face behind Nick, spraying dust and rock chips.

  Then Nick crashed into him, hard, bringing his arm down solidly against Upson’s wrist. Upson cried out and the pistol flew from his hand. Nick, still off balance, got a grip on Upson’s T-shirt and fell backward, pulling the thin young man with him. The two of them rolled over Melinda and Nick landed on his back on the hard canyon floor. Upson’s bony knee dug into Nick’s chest and sharp rocks stabbed into his kidneys.

  With the breath squeezed out of him, Nick lost his purchase on Upson’s shirt. The young man pushed off Nick’s solar plexus, gained his footing, and broke into a sprint. Nick scrambled to his feet as Riley reached the bottom of the hill, having taken a considerably more sensible route to the bottom.

  “Make sure she’s okay,” Nick told Riley. He took off after Upson, his calves still smarting from the jolt they had taken upon landing.

  Upson was lithe and fast. His long legs scissored, eating up desert ground and carrying him away in a hurry. Nick raced behind him. He kept thinking he was making up ground, but every plant he encountered seemed determined to slow him down, tearing and clawing at his pants and shoes. Upson led him deeper into the canyon, across a narrow valley, and toward higher, steeper hills on the far side. Nick didn’t know if Upson was familiar with this area, or if they had left his comfort zone behind, but he showed no signs of uncertainty.

  On the flatter ground of the valley, Nick was able to pour on more speed. Upson’s breathing became increasingly ragged. Nick was starting to feel the same way, as if his lungs might burst, leaving him shredded, popped balloons in his chest. But he kept the pressure on, kept gaining. Dirt that Upson kicked up pattered against Nick’s legs. Finally, Upson stumbled as he descended a few inches into a wash and Nick took advantage of the moment, launching himself into the air. The instant of flight and the collision with Upson’s running legs brought back fleeting memories of Nick’s high school football days in Texas, where high school football was a major event. He remembered roaring crowds, anxious parents, lissome cheerleaders shaking pompoms with abandon, and city officials, teachers, administrators, and what seemed like every kid in the city packing the stands.

  Then he and Upson went down in a tangle of kicking legs and flailing arms, flying dust and rocks with keen edges. Nick held on to Upson’s legs and clambered to his knees. Upson writhed and twisted, managing to turn around and release a series of punches to Nick’s stomach, ribs, and chest. At the same time he kicked like a wild burro. Nick tried to apply downward pressure to keep him put. But when he reached for the handcuffs on his belt, Upson kicked him in the solar plexus, his hikingbooted foot feeling like a cannonball to the gut, and squirmed right out of his grasp.

  Nick sucked in the pain, dropped the cuffs, and lunged after him.

  Upson wasn’t backing away, though. He pulled a knife from someplace, either a switchblade or a gravity knife, and lashed out with it. The sharp blade ripped through Nick’s shirt, and a moment later a sharp sting burned into him. Blood soaked the torn edges of fabric, a thin line at first, but spreading quickly. Nick fought through the sudden distraction, but he lost his hold on Upson once again. The world took a crazy tilt, and someone started to draw a curtain acr
oss the sun.

  Upson shot to his feet and started running again.

  He only made it inches before his high forehead collided with the barrel of Riley’s gun. He staggered and fell to his knees. The gash that her gun barrel opened up bled ferociously.

  Nick grabbed Upson and turned him facedown in the dirt. He wrestled Upson’s hands behind his back. When he leaned over to retrieve his cuffs, the world threatened to spin out of control, but he blinked and righted it again. He snapped the handcuffs over Upson’s scrawny wrists.

  Riley extended a hand and helped Nick to his feet, and Nick, still holding on to the chain linking the cuffs, brought Upson along. Since Upson couldn’t reach the wound in his head to mop away the blood, it flooded into his eyes.

  Nick couldn’t bring himself to be too concerned. He looked at Riley. “I thought you were staying with Melinda.”

  “And let you have all the fun? You said to make sure she was okay, and considering what she’s been through, she seems to be. Anyway, she’s not going anywhere, and there’s no way I was letting this creep get away from us.”

  “What were you gonna do, shoot him?” Greg had told Nick how angry she’d been about finding those animal skeletons, and he’d seen glimpses of that while searching Upson’s room and the desert with her.

  “If absolutely necessary, yes. But I was hoping he would see the weapon and stop. Who knew he would dash headlong into it?”

  “Hey, I’m bleeding here!” Upson complained. “It stings my eyes!”

  “And we’re supposed to feel sorry for you?” Riley asked. “After what you’ve done?”

  Nick turned him around and started marching him back toward Melinda and the vehicles. “What I’ve done? I haven’t done anything,” Upson complained. “I tied a girl up and scratched her a little. Big deal.”

  “It is a big deal,” Nick said. “A very big deal. Which you’ll find out at your sentencing, if you don’t clue in before that.”

  “And we know about the rest of it,” Riley added. “We found the animals you killed and buried. We know about the abducted women in Boston. We know you drugged Melinda’s drink at the Palermo.”

  Upson blinked blood from his eyes and stared at her. “You… you can’t know… How could you…”

  “If I were you, Dawson Upson,” Nick interrupted, wanting to make sure this case went to trial with no complications, “I would keep my mouth shut until I had a lawyer present. You ever hear of the Miranda warning? Because you’re about to become very familiar with it. You have the right to remain silent…”

  34

  AN ANGRY BUZZ, like giant wasps defending a hive, emanated from the Clark County Raceway. Crowds of people flocked from the parking lot into the stands. Inside, at ground level, the noise was almost unbearable, as race cars ran practice laps, pit crews used pneumatic tools, and people shouted at one another just to be heard over the general din. Heat waves rising off the black pavement of the track shimmered the air, lending it a thick, liquid quality that partially obscured the cars on the far straightaway. The air was tinged with oil and racing fuel, burnt rubber and tobacco and spilled beer. No wonder Victor Whendt’s wife, with her sensitive nose, didn’t like it here.

  Catherine wasn’t crazy about it, either. But Desert Palm Hospital had already released Greg, and Nick and Riley had brought in Dawson Upson and returned Melinda Spence to her grateful family, so it was going to take a lot more than some stinky air and unpleasantly loud noise to ruin her mood.

  Emil Blago stood on the tarmac just outside his team’s pit area. He was a short, heavyset man, with silver-streaked black hair that curled around his collar and receded from the top of his head at the same time, as if it had always been the same length but was shifting down under the pull of gravity. Sun blasted down on his scalp, where a deep tan didn’t hide the age spots. He wore a white tracksuit with red and green stripes, white sneakers, and wraparound shades, and he stood with his feet spread apart, his hands clasped behind his back, like he expected a gust of wind to try to knock him over. His attention was riveted on the cars speeding past him.

  Catherine Willows and Jim Brass badged their way onto the track. As they made for Blago, a couple of bruisers blocked them, big guys who could have worn refrigerator cartons for coats, and who looked about as intellectually proficient as the cardboard that made up those cartons.

  “Where you going?” one of them asked. The smaller of the two, he wasn’t much taller than a mature oak tree, and probably weighed marginally less. He had lost most of his teeth along the road of life, and many of those remaining were clad in gold.

  “To see Blago,” Brass said. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

  “Nobody bothers Mr. Blago on the track.”

  “And anything that happens here is our business,” the bigger one said.

  “I’m not nobody,” Brass said. He showed his badge. Catherine did the same. “And I will bother him. You can watch me if you want. From a distance.”

  “No,” the bigger guy said. Trying to keep both of his shoulders in view at the same time was like trying to watch a tennis game. He had more teeth than his smaller friend, but adolescent acne had left his cheeks patchworked with black scars. Catherine wasn’t sure which thug was less pleasing to the eye. Sometimes life gives us hard choices, she thought.

  “Yes,” Brass countered. “You see these badges? They’re like all-access passes. We go anywhere we want, and people who try to interfere with us only go one place.”

  “He means prison,” Catherine said, because it didn’t look like the two men understood and she didn’t want them to strain themselves trying to figure it out. She was pretty sure neither one was the attorney that Paul the estate manager had mentioned.

  “Maybe you can see Mr. Blago after the race. He don’t like to be disturbed before, while he’s concentrating.”

  “We’ll see him now, thanks,” Brass said. He offered one of the least sincere smiles Catherine had ever seen and put away his badge. As he did, he flapped his jacket back and showed his gun. “I don’t think he’s driving today, anyway.” He started toward Blago.

  The smaller giant reached a meaty paw toward Brass’s chest. Brass put up a warning hand, blocking him. “You’re going to want to think long and hard before you lay a hand on me,” he said. “Because if you touch me, I’ll consider it assault. And once you’re in the system—I’m guessing not for the first time—then we’ll turn over every rock you ever stepped on and we’ll see what else we can find out about you. My guess is you’ll be back on the street by the time you’re ninety, so maybe you’re not too worried about it. Ninety’s the new eighty, from what I hear.”

  The huge hand hovered for another moment, then fell away. Brass smiled again, this time almost seeming to mean it.

  The giants stepped aside. As Brass and Catherine passed between them, Catherine thought she knew how the followers of Moses felt walking on the floor of the just-parted Red Sea.

  “Mr. Blago!” Brass shouted.

  Blago turned around. The wraparounds were pitch-black, but those parts of his face Catherine could see were without expression except for the slightest jutting of his lower lip. He didn’t speak.

  “I’m Captain Jim Brass, Las Vegas Police Department,” Brass said. “This is CSI Supervisor Catherine Willows. We need a minute of your time.”

  “I don’t even know why you bother with a badge,” Blago said. “An infant would know you were a cop with a single glance. A blind infant, at that. You smell like a cop.” He eyed Catherine; she could feel the laser beam of his eyes even through the shades. “You, not so much.” He returned his attention to Brass. Catherine already wanted a steaming shower, in spite of the day’s increasing warmth. “Me, I’m always happy to meet law enforcement officers of any sort,” Blago continued. “What can I do for you folks?”

  “I need to talk to you about Antoinette,” Brass said.

  “My wife? Have you met her? She’s lovely.”

  “I know. I ha
ve met her.”

  Blago’s lips parted and a wedge of pink tongue swept across them. “I got it. So you’re the guy.”

  “Which guy is that?”

  “The one who got away.”

  “That’s not exactly how I’d put it.”

  “It’s how she makes it sound. You’d be amazed how it makes a guy feel to hear his wife constantly saying, ‘If I had only stayed with James, things would be so different.’”

  “That doesn’t sound much like the Antoinette I knew.”

  “Maybe.” Blago did the tongue thing again. “But you knew her a long time ago, right? People change.”

  “I’ve heard that. I don’t see much evidence of it in my line of work. Once a scumbag, always a scumbag, that’s my experience.”

  A couple of race cars, one red and one black, roared up the straightaway toward them, and Blago raised his voice. “I feel like we’re getting kind of personal here!”

  “We definitely are,” Brass replied. “And we’re going to get more so!”

  “Maybe we should go into my office.”

  The cars disappeared around the first turn, and the noise level dropped again. “I think we’re fine right here,” Brass said.

  “Have it your way. Why don’t you tell me what you want?”

  “Right to the point,” Brass replied. “I like that. Here’s the thing. Antoinette’s leaving you. She’s already gone. You will never see her again.”

  “Should I be calling my lawyer?” Blago asked. “Alienation of affection or something like that. I can sue you for that, right? In civil court? All I have to do is show that you moved back into her life with your badge and scooped her right into the sack.”

  “I’m not sleeping with her, Blago. That’s not what this is about.”

  Blago grinned. “I thought you knew Antoinette, but maybe not. If it’s not about sex, then what the hell is it about?”