The Jack Frost Thrillers - Box Set

by Ray Hoy

  Just as I expected, Jilly had a dozen reasons why I shouldn’t go to Vegas, but he finally just nodded and dropped the subject.

  Jilly’s mansion seemed empty and almost foreboding now. He was a lost soul, and the past week had noticeably aged him. Vi’s ghost was there, and it always would be. Ripper felt it, too. He sat on his haunches in Jilly’s study, his head on a swivel. And now and then he’d cock his head as if he were listening to something—or someone.

  I hung around for a half hour or so, then finally got to my feet. Ripper was up and ready to go immediately. I motioned for Jilly to remain seated in his big leather chair, and he nodded his thanks. We shook hands and said our goodbyes. “I’ll be back in a week or so, Jilly,” I said.

  He nodded. “I sure hope so, Jack. Be careful.”

  * * *

  On the drive back to Lake Tahoe I called B.J. She answered her cell with a joyful laugh. “Jack! Are you okay?”

  “Sure. How about dinner tonight?”

  “I’d love to, but I don’t get off until midnight again. Will that work for you?”

  “It will, indeed. This time we’ll hopefully make it out of the parking lot without having to wear flak jackets.”

  B.J. laughed. “God I hope so, Frost! See you tonight!”

  When we got back to the lake, I spent a few hours tidying up the cabin, then drove into Zephyr Cove and gassed up the Jag and checked the oil. By the time we got back to the cabin, darkness had settled over the lake.

  As I walked up the steps and started to unlock the front door, my cellphone rang. I recognized Bill Johnson’s number on my Caller I.D.

  “What’s going on Sheriff Bill?”

  “I have some news, Jack. Meet me at Cave Rock about nine o’clock, okay?”

  The serious tone of my old friend’s voice had my complete attention. “I’ll be there.”

  I ended the call and stood on the steps for a moment. What’s this all about? I unlocked the door and Ripper pushed past me into the cabin and flopped on his mat with a huge sigh.

  I mixed myself a Rusty Nail, then sat down and proceeded to disassemble my .40 calibre Beretta PX4 Storm. I’ve done it hundreds of times, and could do it in the dark if necessary. It was already spotlessly clean, but I cleaned it again anyway. The sub-compact Italian pistol is my favorite weapon. It packs a helluva punch, and it hides well and rides well.

  I snapped the pistol back together and wiped it down with a light coating of gun oil, then buffed it dry with a soft rag. I slid it back into my concealed-carry holster and sat back, satisfied.

  I checked my watch: eight o’clock. I wondered what Sheriff Bill had to tell me that was so important.

  Chapter 22

  About ten minutes to nine, I pulled on to Highway 50 northbound and set off for Cave Rock, Ripper sitting in the Jag’s passenger seat next to me. Located about seven miles north of Stateline, between Zephyr Cove and Glenbrook, Cave Rock is a famous landmark in the Lake Tahoe basin. Years ago, two tunnels were bored through the mountain to connect Highway 50 to the Washoe Valley. The area is considered sacred ground by the Washoe tribe.

  When Bill asked me to meet him there, I wasn’t surprised; He’s a full-blooded Washoe Indian, and damn proud of his heritage. He would deliver his news to me—whatever that might be—on his sacred turf.

  As I approached Cave Rock, I slowed and waited for a southbound car to pass, then pulled into the parking area that overlooked the lake. During the day it was a favorite “park and shoot photos” spot with tourists.

  I spotted Bill’s big four-wheel-drive Chevy Tahoe at the far end of the parking lot, its lights off. Little warning bells went off in my head, and I brought the Jag to a halt while I gave his truck a closer look. Something bothered me. I noticed that Ripper was staring intently through the windshield, too.

  I turned the headlights off and eased the Jag up behind Bill’s truck. For some reason I wasn’t comfortable pulling up next to him, and that sent a little chill through me.

  I quietly got out of the car and eased my Beretta out of its holster. I walked cautiously up to the driver’s side of his truck. In the outside mirror, I could see the reflection of Bill’s head, slumped forward against the steering wheel.

  “Bill!” I called out softly.

  No answer.

  “Bill!” I said again and stepped forward and peered cautiously into the cab. What I found took my breath away.

  The handle of an ice pick protruded from Bill’s left ear. The pick was buried to its hilt in my friend’s brain.

  “Oh my God . . .” I heard myself say. I pressed my fingertips to his neck, hoping to find a pulse but knowing full well I wouldn’t. Gritting my teeth, I looked around, but saw nothing out of the ordinary.

  I took out my cell and dialed 9-1-1. I gave the operator my name and location, and told her what I’d found. When the call was over, I leaned back against the truck, filled with grief and rage.

  Who could have been so good that they could catch a guy like Bill Johnson totally unaware, and stick an ice pick in his ear? The idea of that even being possible was off my scale.

  It sure as hell couldn’t have been carried out by some clumsy, old-fashioned muscle like Tino. Whoever did this had to be someone several steps above exceptional, a Red Sleeves-type guy, maybe even better.

  But Red Sleeves was long gone, wasn’t he? Somewhere as far away as he could get from Giovanni’s relentless search for those he considered responsible for his daughter’s death.

  It couldn’t have been Red Sleeves, but it sure as hell took someone with extraordinarily lethal abilities like his to so easily have killed an ex-Special Forces man like Bill Johnson.

  Chapter 23

  Needless to say I did not have dinner with B.J. the night Bill was murdered, and I also did not leave for Las Vegas early the next morning, as I’d planned. Thank God most of the Douglas County Sheriff Department’s personnel knew that Bill and I were close friends, but police procedure is police procedure, and I cooperated with their investigation completely—or almost completely.

  Actually I told them what I thought they needed to know, and nothing more—the last thing I needed was to become embroiled in a long drawn-out murder investigation as a “person of interest.” I also let them know that I had to go to Vegas on business, and I was relieved when they gave me their official blessing.

  I decided against seeing B.J. before I left town, choosing instead to give her a call from my cell as I was pulling away from my lakeside cabin. She sounded disappointed, and a little grumpy, but she was fine after I explained what I’d been dealing with regarding Bill’s murder.

  “I’ll be back in a week or so, B.J. I’ll give you a call from Vegas.”

  “Okay, Jack. Be careful, you hear?”

  * * *

  The trip to Vegas on Route 95 was uneventful. The average October ambient temperatures for those miles and miles of Nevada scrub desert between Tahoe and Las Vegas are considerably lower than in the summer months, and I was happy to discover that on this particular travel day, the air was downright cool. Since the Jag has no air-conditioning, and Ripper is a giant pain in the ass when he’s overheated, I was thankful for the break.

  As Las Vegas came into view, I again found myself marveling at how the city has grown over the years, and how it continues to change so rapidly. She now sprawls across the landscape from horizon to horizon. At night she sparkles, but in the harsh noonday sun, not so much. It is a city that is home to simultaneous growth and decay, perfectly in step with many other American cities that are being victimized by the national economic mess we’ve created. It’s a sobering sight.

  The famed Las Vegas “urban sprawl” now stretches a long way out into the desert, and I drove for several miles before I began to get closer to the heart of the city.

  I spotted a decent looking restaurant and parked in a spot that I would be able to see from my table. I left Ripper in the Jag. The side curtains were off and the top was up, and it was cool enough so he’
d be comfortable.

  I sure as hell wasn’t worried about someone stealing my car.

  I grabbed a quick lunch, and ordered another one for Ripper. When I returned to the car, he was more than interested in what I had in the brown bag.

  “Not yet, big guy,” I said. I fired up the engine and cruised three or four miles before I selected a nice looking motel. I parked far enough away from the office so they couldn’t spot the toothy monster sitting in my passenger seat.

  I checked in, paying in advance for a three-night stay; I found myself hoping we wouldn’t be here that long. A few minutes later I hustled Ripper into a room in the back part of the property, away from the street.

  I gave Ripper some water and his brown bag lunch, then unpacked. After a long shower, I turned the TV on and sat down and took a deep breath.

  Tonight would be interesting.

  Chapter 24

  Carlos Giovanni slid his chair back and got to his feet with some difficulty. He placed one hand in the small of his back and then, with a little groan, slowly twisted his body from left to right, then right to left.

  “It’s a bitch getting old,” he muttered. He realized that all the money in the world couldn’t stop that relentless process. Still, everything considered, he was in pretty good shape. With the exception of those damn kidney stones, which had hurt more than anything he’d ever experienced, he was pretty healthy.

  He heard the electronic beep on the intercom, then, “Your car is ready, Mr. Giovanni.”

  “Okay, thanks Maria. You can go on home now, I’m done for the day.”

  “Okay, thanks!” she said enthusiastically. “See you tomorrow!”

  Giovanni could visualize the schoolgirl smile on her face. He wouldn’t be surprised if she were chewing gum and blowing bubbles on her way out the door. He shook his head. Maria was his nephew’s girlfriend, and she was damn near worthless—a looker, with enormous knockers, but damn near worthless.

  “Enough’s enough. Tomorrow I’m going to fire her ass,” Giovanni muttered. He walked to his office door and opened it. Two stocky, serious looking men nodded respectfully and silently walked with him to the elevator.

  As Giovanni’s limo pulled up in front of his sprawling mansion, he said, “Okay, this is good right here, Antonio. You don’t need to come in with me. Get out of here and go have a beer. You too, Felix.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Giovanni,” Antonio said, while Felix just nodded respectfully and smiled his thanks.

  “Pick me up about eight in the morning, okay?”

  Antonio nodded. “Yes sir, we’ll be here at eight sharp.”

  Felix got out of the passenger seat and hurried around the back of the car and opened Giovanni’s door. “Have a good evening, Mr. Giovanni,” he said.

  “I always do.”

  The two men waited until Giovanni reached his front door, unlocked it, and disappeared inside. Then they drove slowly away.

  * * *

  I heard Giovanni close the front door behind him, and lock it. Then there was silence. I knew he was standing just inside the door, listening to the house. After a moment or two I heard him coming down the hallway.

  I sat in a chair in his dark study. Giovanni walked through the door and crossed the room to an elaborate bar. He flipped a switch, which turned on a soft light over the bar, then mixed himself a stiff drink, his back to me.

  “A Rusty Nail works for me,” I said softly.

  Giovanni turned slowly at the sound of my voice. He didn’t appear at all startled. In fact, he appeared amused.

  “Brass balls indeed,” he said.

  “Your security system seems to be one upgrade behind,” I said. “You should get that fixed.”

  “I’ll do that, Frost.” He turned back to the bar. “A Rusty Nail you said, right? Well it just so happens that I have Drambuie and Scotch.” In a few minutes Giovanni turned and walked to me, a proper Rusty Nail in his right hand. He held it out, and I took it.

  “Damn nice of you,” I said.

  “Get lonely out there in Lake Tahoe, did you?”

  “No, I had company, actually, and he was a piss-poor shot.”

  Giovanni’s brow furrowed. “What are you talkin’ about?”

  “You know damn well what I’m ‘talkin’ about.’”

  “No, Frost, actually I don’t.”

  “Someone took a couple of shots at me in Harrah’s parking lot.”

  “Well it wasn’t one of my guys.”

  “Someone also killed a friend of mine, Giovanni—a friend who just happened to be the Sheriff of Douglas County. Stuck an icepick in his left ear.” I waited to see what kind of reaction I was going to get—it wasn’t what I expected.

  Giovanni’s face darkened. “You silly bastard. Do you think I’m stupid enough to have one of my guys kill a lawman just to get to you? I could snuff your ass out any time I wanted, and I wouldn’t have to take a chance on killing a lawman to do it. If I wanted you dead by now Frost, you’d be dead by now, you understand?”

  I got to my feet. We stood there, a foot or so apart, staring at each other. Finally I said, “I’m reluctant to say this, but I think I believe you. So now I have to believe you have a loose canon running around.”

  “No, hell no! My guys do what I tell ’em to do, and no more!”

  “And I think that loose canon’s name is Tino. He’s been in Lake Tahoe asking about me.”

  Giovanni glared at me, but I could see that I had succeeded in introducing a little doubt into his head.

  “I think your man Tino shot at me just to let me know he could have killed me if he’d wanted. But I don’t think he has the brains or the talent to have killed Sheriff Johnson. To me, that means someone else in your employ did.”

  Giovanni gave me a long level look, his eyes hard. “I-gave-no-orders-to-kill-a-lawman. Is that clear enough for you?”

  And with that, Giovanni sighed and dropped painfully into a chair. “I have a proposal, Frost.” He motioned toward a nearby chair. “I think you’re gonna like this, sportsman that you are.”

  I took a seat and waited.

  Giovanni leaned forward. “Here’s the way it is. Your time’s up. I’ve been playing with you, letting you stew for a while, but you know . . . I’m the kinda guy who gives credit where credit’s due . . . you didn’t cave under the pressure. Frankly, I’m tired of the game.”

  He settled back in his chair again. “So I’ve decided to set up a little contest, Frost . . . you against my guy. You can think of it as a sporting event, if you like. Visualize a big, ‘Winner Lives, Loser Dies!’ banner. If you win, you walk away free and clear, and I’m done with you. If you lose . . . well, I’ll celebrate. You interested?”

  “Damn right.” I sat back and waited to hear the rules for his little life and death contest.

  Giovanni set his drink down and leaned forward in his chair, staring at me now with abject hatred. When he began to speak, his voice was low, his words measured, hard, cold: “I can only imagine the terror my daughter felt as she fell toward the Colorado River. But I will have the pleasure of knowing that you are going to feel the very same thing, Frost, because my orders are for you to go over the side of the dam—alive. I want you to feel that same terror as the Colorado rushes up to meet you.”

  Before I could answer, Giovanni got to his feet. “Hoover Dam, midnight tonight on the center span of the old road over the dam. Neither one of you will have weapons, understand? Just you and my guy, hand to hand. Got it?”

  I didn’t say a word, I just nodded. Hand to hand? Hell, I can live with that!

  “Come alone, no weapons and no ‘Superdog’—agreed?” Giovanni said.

  “Agreed,” I said.

  “Now get out of my house,” Giovanni said. “And here’s something for you to think about until midnight . . . you don’t have a chance against my guy. Goodbye, Frost. You-are-a-dead-man-walking.”

  I stood and gave Giovanni a long, level look. “Obviously, you don’t know Jack,” I sa
id, and with that I turned and walked away.

  Chapter 25

  I was actually smiling as I left Giovanni’s house and walked briskly down the dark street toward my car. Hand to hand? How in hell did I get that lucky?

  When I reached the Jag, Ripper was sitting on his haunches in the passenger seat, waiting for me with a not-so-patient look.

  “I knew you’d be happy to see me,” I said. I started the engine and pulled away.

  * * *

  Jilly’s voice was incredulous. “You’re going to fight their best guy on top of Hoover Dam, with no weapons and no Ripper to back you up? Have you lost your mind, Jack?”

  I thought about that for a moment. “Possibly,” I said. “But I want to get this over with, Jilly. I want to get on with my life.”

  I heard Jilly sigh. “Jack, I—”

  “—Giovanni’s ‘no weapons’ rule is okay with me, and it applies to both of us. And I’m to keep Ripper out of it, too. Just their enforcer and me, hand-to-hand—I’m fine with that! But can I trust Giovanni to honor his word?”

  “Oh hell yeah. He’s a ruthless bastard, but he has an old-fashioned sense of honor, thank God.”

  “Do you know anything at all about his enforcer?”

  “Not a damn thing,” Jilly said. “Except I know he exists. I first heard about the crazy bastard a year or so before I retired.”

  Jilly paused, then sighed heavily.

  “Jack, you still have time to back out of this. Don’t let your pride get you killed. Go back to Tahoe—make him come to you! Right now you’re playing Giovanni’s game, and that’s like a gambler playing the house—it’s too damn one-sided!”

  “I’ll keep you posted, Jilly.”

  There was a long pause, then: “Okay, okay . . . I can see there’s no talking you out of this.

  “I’ll be careful, Jilly.”

  “Yeah, well, World War Two didn’t produce a single 20-mission Kamikaze pilot, Jack. You can only be so careful—beyond that you need a shitload of luck.”