Copyright Information
Kill Game
Copyright © 2015 by Dean Wesley Smith
First published in a different form in Smith’s Monthly #6, March, 2014
Published by WMG Publishing
Cover and Layout copyright © 2015 by WMG Publishing
Cover design by Allyson Longueira/WMG Publishing
Cover art copyright © Fergregory/Dreamstime
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
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PART ONE
CHAPTER ONE
May, 1992
Downtown Las Vegas, Nevada
THE IDEA JIM HAD on a warm early-summer evening was to find the rumored place for afterhours dancing called “The Path.” Jim had just graduated high school, the proud class of 1992. He was headed next year to Stanford, full academic ride, and he was really looking forward to getting out of the desert in a couple months. He had been born and raised here and was excited about living somewhere else. Anywhere, actually.
Jim stood barely five-nine, had long brown hair, and a moustache he was doing his best to grow and mostly failing.
Sharon, his girlfriend over the last six months, also now graduated, wasn’t happy he was going so far away. She had been offered a scholarship at UNLV and had taken it. So between them there was a tension of the coming split.
Sharon was actually taller than Jim, with long blonde hair and skinny legs that seemed to always be stuffed into jeans a size too small. She had also done some light modeling and as she aged, she just got better looking.
Jim had no idea what she saw in him, but they always had such a good time together. They had two hobbies: Dancing and having sex in every place they could imagine or risk.
Tonight they were thinking of doing both at the same time. They had heard how really crowded the dance floor at “The Path” could be. Sharon had suggested, with a smile, that it might be fun to try a little “fooling around” on the floor while dancing.
Jim was game if she was. With Sharon, he would try just about anything. Logic often never played a part.
So they parked down on Paradise Road, about two blocks from the club, and headed down the sidewalk along the row of low warehouses, holding hands and laughing, the coming separation only a distant thing to ignore on such a wonderful spring night.
The club had an entrance off an alley into a large warehouse, but until two days ago, on Sharon’s birthday, both of them hadn’t been eighteen and old enough to get in, so they hadn’t tried to find it.
Paradise had street lights and even though the area felt rough, both of them were native to the city and knew this really wasn’t a bad area. They were as safe as they could be at midnight in Las Vegas.
Cars lined the street on both sides, so they knew they were in the right area even though they didn’t know exactly where the club was. And between traffic on the street, if they listened hard, they could hear the pounding beat of the music echoing through the one-story buildings of the area.
“Maybe it’s down here?” Sharon asked, pulling Jim into the first alley they came to.
Jim could tell at once they were in the wrong place.
And then the smell hit them.
The putrid smell of something rotting in the heat. It was a cloying smell that seemed to make the air thicker than it actually was, and fill every sense. It turned his stomach instantly. He knew it was a dead person instantly. He had smelled that before. He had no idea how police who worked around dead bodies ever got used to the smell.
“What is that?” Sharon asked, stopping and covering her mouth and nose. After a moment she started to back toward the street, her eyes round and her skin pale.
Jim stood his ground. He had been with two friends last year up on Lake Mead when they found a floater near the shore. He knew that smell. Someone had died.
But there was no body in the alley. Just walls of warehouses. Not even garbage cans.
He stepped toward one wall and the smell decreased.
“Jim, get out of there,” Sharon said from the sidewalk behind him.
He motioned to her that he would be right there, then stepped toward the other wall. Originally a white stucco wall, it was now stained with years of grime and lack of paint that he could see even in the dark shadows.
And the smell got much worse.
There was no door in the wall, just a nearby high window that was cracked slightly.
Someone was dead in that room beyond that window.
He turned and went back to Sharon, taking her hand. They went around to the front of the building, took down the address, then said, “We have a phone call to make.”
He could see a pay phone a block away on the outside wall of a closed grocery store, so he started off in that direction.
“I thought we were going dancing?” Sharon asked, scrambling along in her high heels, working to keep up with his fast strides.
“We are,” he said. “But we have to call the police first.”
“Why?” she asked.
“That smell,” he said.
“You are going to report a smell to the police?” she asked. “It was bad, but not a criminal offense I’m sure.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” Jim said, letting go of her hand as they reached the phone and he started digging into his pocket for change.
“What do you mean?” Sharon asked, looking worried. There was one thing he really liked about Sharon. She was smart and knew he was smart, so they trusted each other on a lot of things.
“I’ve smelled that smell before,” he said, as he dropped the coin into the phone and pushed zero for operator.”
He glanced back at her puzzled expression.
“Near the body I found up at Lake Mead.”
She put her hand over her mouth and even in the strange lights of the street, he could see she had lost most of her tan very suddenly.
The operator answered and he was connected to the police. He gave them his name, his location, and the address of the building.
Then he said clearly, “I want to report a dead body.”
CHAPTER TWO
September, 2014
Pleasant Hills
Las Vegas, Nevada
RETIRED DETECTIVE BAYARD LOTT had just arrived home from the grocery store when the doorbell rang. It actually startled him, the high, ding-dong sound. It had to be someone trying to sell something, since no one he knew ever rang that doorbell. He didn’t even know the stupid thing still worked.
He had his arms full of paper sacks of snacks and soft drinks for the evening’s poker game. Plus a tub of Kentucky Fried Chicken he planned on having for dinner and to snack on the next few days as well. It smelled wonderful and made his mouth water as it filled the kitchen with promise.
He loved KFC. Never seemed to grow tired of it. A couple of his friends had said he was going to turn into a giant chicken leg if he wasn’t careful and didn’t balance the KFC with something green.
He only ever shrugged at that. As a detective, he’d seen worse.
It felt good to be inside in the cool air out of the heat of the early evening. It had to still be over a hundred degrees outside, far too warm for the middle of September. The fall cooling hadn’t really started
yet. Even being in an air-conditioned store and car, just getting between places was hot.
He dropped the supplies for the game and the chicken on the counter near the sink. The Cold Poker Gang met every Tuesday night downstairs in his basement poker room. He lived for Tuesday nights, he had to admit.
Usually there were four or five playing, all retired Las Vegas detectives. They got together, played cards, told stories about whatever, and worked on cold cases for the city.
At sixty-three, he felt he still had a lot to give to police work and solving cold cases made him feel useful again. He liked that.
All the members of the Cold Poker Gang did. And he enjoyed the poker games as well.
And KFC.
Didn’t get any better than a poker game with friends and KFC. His version of heaven.
The doorbell rang again.
“Yeah, coming,” he muttered to himself. “Not buying anything anyhow.”
He made sure none of the sacks would tip off the counter and glanced at the clock on the stove. It was still a good hour before the game started. His best friend and former partner, Andor Williams was the only one who ever came early. He knew it wasn’t Andor because his old partner never rang a doorbell. It seemed to be against his religion, if he had one. He liked pounding his fist on doors for some reason.
Lott headed out of his kitchen and across the formal dining area and then the front room. His wife, Connie, had died three years before, and the living room looked like she was still here, sitting in her big recliner, watching the nightly news.
He hadn’t really touched a thing in that room. It had been her favorite room in the house and now he hired someone to keep it clean, but mostly stayed in the kitchen and the basement and watched television downstairs in his remodeled gaming room.
Trying to watch television in the living room just got him thinking of Connie too much and he did enough of that as it was.
Damn he missed her.
As he headed for the front door, he ran a hand through his still-thick gray hair and made sure his badge and gun were close by on the end table near the door.
He opened the door and was surprised to see retired detective Julia Rogers standing there, a Yankee’s baseball cap pulled down over her light brown hair to shade her face. She wore her standard tan slacks and white blouse under a light dress jacket. At first glance she looked like a middle-management worker on her way home from work. But the baseball cap didn’t fit that image at all.
Rogers had joined the game two months before on the recommendation of his daughter, Annie. He liked Rogers a lot. More than he wanted to admit to himself at times. He found himself thinking of her out of the blue.
But Connie had only been gone for three years and he just didn’t feel ready to have another relationship, even though Annie was at him all the time to get out more and relax.
Annie had been the one to suggest he remodel the basement game room a year ago to make it all his. She was worried about him banging around in the house all alone with only the memories of her mother.
He understood that worry, but he still missed Connie every minute of every day. Nothing he could do about that. Connie was gone, he knew that. He was doing his best to move on with life. That was one reason he liked the Cold Poker Gang games so much.
Rogers actually had been a detective in Reno and had retired after having a bone in her leg shattered by a gunshot in a firefight with some drug dealers. She now walked with a slight limp that was hardly noticeable. She was only in her mid-fifties and had moved to Las Vegas to get to warmer weather and to play poker. From what Annie had told him, she was a good tournament player and had won her share of tournaments around town.
Rogers had bright green eyes that didn’t seem to miss much and her sense of humor often kept all of them laughing. She seemed to have no trouble at all being the only woman in the Cold Poker Gang.
“Sorry to come early, Lott,” she said, smiling as he opened the door to let her into the coolness.
He could tell her smile really didn’t reach her eyes. Something was really bothering her.
“No problem. You can help me with the snacks and drinks.”
“Love to,” she said.
She followed him back into the kitchen where he grabbed a cold bottle of water from the fridge and handed it to her as she pulled off her baseball cap and shook out her long hair. Usually she kept it tied back, but for some reason today she hadn’t done that.
Compared to his six-foot frame, she was almost tiny at five-two. But he had no doubt she was the toughest five-two you would ever want to meet in a fight. And he and Andor had taken her to the gun range off Las Vegas Boulevard and she was a better shot than both of them.
“Wow, that smells good,” she said, indicating the chicken as he worked at the sacks, suddenly feeling very odd. Besides Annie, Rogers was the first woman who had been in the kitchen since Connie died. He glanced around, actually looking at the room.
He or Annie or the housekeeper had put away most of Connie’s things from the kitchen, leaving it just kind of bare. Standard white appliances, gray stone counters, and a big stone-topped dining table with six chairs around it.
His cleaning service kept the kitchen cleaned and sparkling. But he seldom cooked much of a meal in it. And the fridge was full of take-out leftovers, usually boxes of KFC.
“The chicken does smell good, doesn’t it?” he said. “You hungry?”
“I could use a piece. What can I do to help?” she asked as he unloaded sacks of chips onto the counter near the stove, plus a large bag of Peanut M&Ms for Ben “The Sarge” Carson. Sarge loved the things, but he often left most of a bowl full behind. Lott couldn’t keep away from them no matter how hard he tried. So every week Lott had to buy another large bag.
“How about just sitting there at the table, work on a piece of chicken, and tell me what’s bothering you?”
He slid the bucket of chicken over onto the table, then dug out some napkins and plates.
She laughed. “That obvious, huh?”
“I think the hour early sort of gave you away,” he said, smiling at her.
“What?” she asked, smiling back at him with a grin he could really come to enjoy. “Can’t a friend just come to talk with another friend without there being something wrong?”
“Of course,” he said, shaking his head and going back to unloading the sacks of chips and pretzels. “But that’s not the case this time.”
“Got me on that one, detective,” she said as she dug into the bucket and put a chicken breast on her plate, licking her fingers off after touching it.
Then she sat there in silence until he joined her at the table and took a leg and thigh for his plate. The smell was heavenly and he had half the leg gone before he glanced up at her.
“Not sure how to say this,” she said.
“Quickly usually works for me,” he said, “Like pulling a bad tooth.”
She shook her head and laughed. “That’s one way of thinking about all this.” Then she looked him right in the eyes.
He sort of jerked. She really was better looking than he had thought and those intense green eyes seemed to just look through him. He had noticed her a lot over the last two months and had even admitted to his daughter that he enjoyed the games even more since Rogers had joined them. But until now he had never been alone with her and really looked at her.
Clearly there was a connection between them.
“I’m wondering,” she said. Then stopped again and looked down at the bottle of water in her hands and the chicken on her plate.
“Wondering what?” he asked, not really pushing. Just trying to help her get it out. He kept working on his chicken, giving her time.
She again looked him directly in the eye. “I’m wondering if the gang might take on my husband’s case.”
“Your husband?” He finished off the leg and then wiped his hands. He had no idea about her past, but he had a hunch he was going to find out a lot more fairly quick
ly. And that idea actually excited him. He suddenly wanted to know a lot more about the beautiful woman sitting across his kitchen table from him.
“He was killed here in Las Vegas in May of 1992,” she said. “Never solved.”
That surprised him more than he wanted to admit. “What was his name? I don’t remember a Rogers in the cold case files and I had just gotten my shield in 1992.”
“Rogers is my maiden name. His name was Stan Rocha.”
It was as if she had punched him in the gut. He pushed back slightly from the table. The chicken he had eaten suddenly seemed like a lump in his throat.
The Rocha case had been his first case as a homicide detective. He remembered clearly there had been no leads, nothing. Not solving that case had really set him back mentally early in his career.
She leaned forward, staring at him with a puzzled look. “You know the case?”
She must have been able to read his reaction as easily as he read her discomfort with coming here early for something.
“I do,” he said. “Let’s call Andor and get him over here early and see what he says. He’s the one that gets the files from the Chief of Detectives each week.”
She nodded and sat back.
“Are you sure you want this opened again?” he asked, looking at the worry on her beautiful face. “You know how cold cases can sometimes dig up things often far better left buried.”
She nodded. “He and I were basically separated when he was killed. No real marriage left, not that there ever was one. But not knowing who killed him has eaten at me for twenty-two years now.”
“I know that feeling,” he said.
She frowned.
“Your husband’s case was my first case as a homicide detective.”
“Oh,” was all she said.
CHAPTER THREE
September, 2014
Pleasant Hills
Las Vegas, Nevada
JULIA WAS STUNNED at how attracted she was to Lott. Over the years, since her husband’s death, she had dated a few times, and even had one relationship that lasted for a few years. But mostly the relationship part of her life had been shut off for a long time. She had just assumed it would always remain that way. There just weren’t a lot of men looking for fifty-some-year-old retired police detectives with a limp.
Kill Game: A Cold Poker Gang Mystery Page 1
