Terminal Justice: Mystery and Suspense Crime Thriller

by Lyle Howard

  TERMINAL JUSTICE

  Lyle Howard

  Copyright © 2013 by Lyle Howard

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Contact Information: Lylehoward1@aol.com

  For Riva,

  My one true love, inspiration and the reason I persevere.

  For Tali, Nave, Eric and Jeff

  Who make dreams come true.

  Also by Lyle Howard:

  Mr. Sandman

  A Thrilling Novel

  Trouble in Paradise

  A Thrilling Supernatural Mystery

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  1

  Las Vegas, Nevada

  12:10 A.M.

  One hour to live

  Isaac Berger stood in front of the mirror and tried to admire himself in the uniform. It wasn’t easy: he thought he looked like a scarecrow. His hair had fallen out months ago, and all that remained were a few valiant strands here and there, sticking out like weeds on a sidewalk. He’d thought about shaving his head, but that would have been like giving into his affliction. He wanted the hair to grow back … prayed that it would. He longed for the feeling of his wife’s fingers running through it. Oh, that seemed like such a long time ago...

  The photograph on the security badge made him laugh. The face was his, but the hair was thick and dark. He hated wearing the toupee, but it would only be for an hour.

  They had even given him a name tag. Jerry. Jerry the waiter. Thirty years at the head of a successful hosiery factory on the lower east side, and this is what his life had boiled down to—Jerry the waiter! Berger squinted to read the full name printed on the security badge. Jerry Smith.

  “Smith? Just look at this face,” he muttered as he manipulated his sagging jowls in the mirror. “Does this look like the puss of a Smith? Maybe a Shapiro, or even a Blume, but a Smith?”

  Two years ago, they would have needed an extra-wide lens to fit his entire face on the badge, but now, with his body withered down to a measly 110 pounds, it fit with plenty of room to spare. He shrugged sadly at that thought, and clipped the identification badge onto his jacket’s breast pocket as he had been instructed.

  He had pleaded for slip-on loafers, but they told him that all the waiters working the room would be wearing the same style laced shoes. They wanted him to be just another nameless face in the crowd. Security would be tight they had told him, and even something as unpretentious as shoelaces could jeopardize his cover. But he could barely cut his steak, let alone tie a shoelace. It had taken him what seemed like an eternity to accomplish this elementary task, and, as he stared down at his shoes, he felt as proud as a climber who had just scaled Everest without a Sherpa.

  The belt was last, but before that he had two more things to do. The manila envelope containing all of his instructions lay next to the phone. On the bed, a week-old newspaper lay scattered across the tussled sheets. The large bold headline that read “Salvatore Mangione Found Not Guilty” was all he could decipher without his trifocals. He knew the details of the article by heart.

  He took the folder and a pack of matches with him into the bathroom. Lifting the lid of the toilet, he tried over and over again to set the envelope ablaze. His hands were so bloated and his knuckles so gnarled by arthritis, it took him nearly the entire pack to ignite a single match. His hands trembled as the corner of the envelope turned grey and then to black as the fire finally engulfed it. Once he was secure in the knowledge that the information was destroyed, he flushed the toilet and watched as the embers circled out of sight.

  What else was left? Ah, yes … he couldn’t forget this!

  Berger chose to store his dreaded toupee in a plastic bag. Every time he slipped it over his scalp, it made his skin crawl. Tipping his head from side to side in the bathroom mirror, he thought he looked ridiculous, like one of those old farts who strutted across the casino floor with a big-breasted chippie on each arm. Who were they kidding? This wasn’t hair. It was a beaver pelt!

  The belt was stretched across the foot of the bed. Size 28, black leather with a fancy square brass buckle. The disease had shrunk him to a mere size 28 from a heftier size 36. As he stared down at the short strip of leather, he tried not to think about being half the man he once was.

  Ignoring his hopelessly crippled hands, he lifted the belt cautiously off the bed and carried it to the mirror like a surgeon transferring a heart from a donor to its recipient. One loop at a time, he intently slid the belt around his waist, careful not to touch the bottom of the buckle as instructed. He didn’t realize it until he had finally secured the buckle, but he had been holding his breath the entire time.

  One last glance in the mirror, an adjustment to the toupee, and he was as ready as he would ever be. He checked his pocket for the six quarters he would need for bus fare and the $78 cash they’d given him to pay for the room. Still there. He folded the old newspaper, and tucked it away under his arm. He would find a trash bin to toss it in later.

  Out of habit, he patted down the rest of his pockets. Why was he bothering? Money no longer had any meaning to him. His identification was a sham. Isaac Berger no longer existed.

  He took one last hard look around the room. Everything seemed in order. He took a deep breath and flipped off the lights. The darkened room turned into a carnival of blinking colors reflected from the street below. As his eyes welled up from the awe-inspiring kaleidoscope of lights dancing across the walls, he heard his father’s disembodied voice whispering something to him from his distant childhood:

  Happiness is the only good.

  The place to be happy is here.

  The time to be happy is now.

  Twenty-five minutes to live

  Standing outsid
e the employee’s entrance to the Stratosphere Tower, Isaac Berger craned his head back and gaped up at the endless spire of concrete. Standing 1,149 feet high, the Stratosphere Observation Tower is the tallest free standing structure in the United States. A futuristic needle stretching skyward from the desert floor, it boasts the world’s highest roller coaster encircling its roof, a daunting amusement ride, some 100 stories above the ground. Against the starless void, the base seemed to rise into oblivion, the blinking red antenna atop the observation rotunda piercing the night like the tip of a bloody needle.

  According to the information Berger had been supplied with, the ride as well as the 360° viewing deck should have been closed to tourists for more than an hour now, and only one restaurant up there would still be serving food, a very special catered affair.

  The doors before him opened as a Mexican-looking fellow wearing a stained apron and cook’s cap carried out two bags full of garbage. “Señor?” he asked, as he courteously held one of the doors open by leaning his back against it.

  Berger patted the worker on the shoulder cordially, and stepped inside. A cleanup crew was busy mopping down the dimly lit hallway leading to the service elevators. Watch your step, he warned himself: all you need to do is lose your footing and fall! What a catastrophe that would be!

  Like a child learning to ice skate, he plodded along the slippery corridor, one hand continually glued to the wall for support. The closer he drew to the elevators, the more he began to sweat. Was it suddenly hot in here, or was it just him?

  The lift was being guarded by one of Mangione’s bodyguards. Everything was exactly as they told him it would be, except for the enormous size of this man! Berger reached to press the “up” button, but the guard immediately grabbed him by the wrist. “Just where do you think you’re going?”

  Isaac kept his eye on the elevator switch, preferring not to make eye contact with the no-necked gorilla. “Top of the World.”

  The guard unbuttoned his coat so Berger could clearly see his shoulder holster. “The Top of the World Restaurant and the observation deck are closed tonight for a private party.”

  Berger didn’t know how his legs were still supporting him. “I … know all about it,” he stuttered. “I’m … supposed to be working the room.”

  The flat-nosed brute perused the peculiar-looking waiter skeptically. “But the whole kitchen staff was checked in over two hours ago.”

  “Yeah, I had some problems …” the old man quickly interrupted.

  The guard reached into his coat … and Berger was sure it was all over. It wasn’t until the huge hand came out holding a walkie-talkie that Berger regained the ability to swallow. “What kinda problems?”

  They had told him not to use illness as an excuse! Mangione was a well-known hypochondriac. They’ll never let you up...

  “First, I … couldn’t find the jacket to my uniform, and then I had to hunt all over my apartment for my security badge, which by the way, my dog ended up hiding under the couch with some of his chew-toys. Then, I missed my bus—”

  The goon shook his head that he had heard enough. “Alright already. Lemme have your badge.”

  “Excuse me?”

  The security badge was yanked from Berger’s uniform. “Hey Pauly, you there?” the guard said into the handset. “Come in, Pauly.”

  “This is Pauly,” the radio crackled. “What’dya need Tony?”

  Tony held the badge up in the indistinct light. “You got a Jimmy Smith on your list of cleared employees up there?”

  Berger closed his eyes and prayed. Nothing counted unless he was upstairs.

  “He’s a no-show,” crackled the reply.

  “Not no more, Pauly. He’s down here. Had some problems getting here. You still need him up there?”

  “Yeah, it’s okay. We can always use the hands. Send him on up.”

  Berger didn’t know how his heart was holding up under all of this stress. One more incident like this, and someone would have to scrape him off the floor with a putty knife! “Everything okey-dokey?” he asked.

  Tony nodded as he handed Berger back his security badge. “Yeah, you can go, but I gotta pat you down first.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Up against the wall. Mr. Mangione can’t be too careful these days. There’s a lotta crackpots who’d like to see him dead.”

  Berger put his palms flat against the cold concrete wall. “Do I look like a crackpot to you?”

  The bodyguard raised a bushy eyebrow. “Rules is rules, pal. You could look like the Pope, but I’d still have to pat you down.”

  Tony began frisking Berger head to toe, but paused at his chest. “Your heart is really racing. You feeling okay?”

  Isaac stared straight ahead at the bleak gray wall. “All this rushing around takes its toll on someone my age.”

  Tony’s hands crept slowly downward, further exacerbating Berger’s sudden palpitations. The old man could almost hear his own heart trying to burst through the wall of his chest. The bodyguard was just about to check around the old man’s waist when they were both distracted by a voice echoing from somewhere down the musty corridor.

  “Excuse me.” She was trying to balance herself against the damp wall, a cloud of steam partially obscuring her. She held a broken shoe in one hand, a stiletto heel in the other. “I seem to have lost my way, and now I’ve broken my shoe as well.”

  Berger recognized her instantly. Like the cavalry, she had come because she knew he would need her help. He wondered how she could have gotten there ahead of him, but he didn’t dwell on it for long. He knew nothing about her, not even her name. She was a shadow, an apparition, and something told him this wouldn’t be pretty.

  Tony stood up stiffly and straightened his tie. He had never seen such humongous breasts before. She looked like she had been poured into her outfit. “You need some help, sweetheart?”

  Berger instinctively took a few steps away from the guard.

  “Can you please give me a hand?” she said in her soft, enticing accent. “This is my first day on the job, and I got lost trying to find the casino. And now I’ve gone and shattered my heel as well!”

  Tony brusquely palmed Berger against the wall. His fragile body hit the wet concrete with a soggy smack. “You wait here, old man. I got me a damsel to save.”

  Berger nodded and watched as Tony followed the buxom cocktail waitress back into the cloud of steam and out of sight. There was a clattering of dishes from somewhere down the corridor as Berger waited. Steam hissed from beneath the door of the laundry room, and dryers and presses slammed and whirled. Isaac Berger seemed to be soaking up every sight, every sound, every sensation, like a dry sponge. But even over the cacophony of grinding machinery, there came an unfamiliar sound. A horrifying sound.

  Coughing. Gagging. Someone struggling for breath. Wheezing. Gurgling. A heavy thud, as though a bag of laundry had been slammed to the ground. Then eerie silence.

  Berger looked around. The corridor was gray and seemingly endless in both directions. He wasn’t sure of what to do. Sweat streamed down from beneath his ragged hairpiece. He took two steps in the direction Tony had gone … and then stopped.

  She came around the corner in her stocking feet. As she approached, she was slipping her shoes into her shoulder bag. From the purse she withdrew a handkerchief and blotted away a few speckles of blood from her cheek and neck. With the same piece of linen, she lovingly wiped down her trusted switchblade, holding the gleaming edge up to the light to make sure the blade was pristine once again. With a flip of her wrist, the knife retracted and she lifted the hem of her dress, slipping the slim weapon into a leather scabbard strapped to her thigh.

  Berger stared at her as she walked by, barely acknowledging that he was standing there, gawking at her. She had almost vanished down the long, dark hallway when she nonchalantly turned to him and smiled indifferently. “Elevator’s free, love.”

  Fifteen minutes to live

  Riding an express el
evator over 100 stories in less than 20 seconds is like being shot out of a cannon. For a robust person, the quick ascent might be described as exhilarating or perhaps even terrifying, but for Isaac Berger, the only word that came to mind was excruciating.

  The pressure inside his head was unbearable! His skull felt like a helium balloon that some unseen sadist was inflating beyond the bursting point. He forced his hands over his ears to fight the torture, but the higher the elevator climbed, the deeper the invisible hand drove the spike into his brain. He wanted to scream … anything to relieve the pounding! Forty … fifty … sixty stories the lift rocketed upward. Staring at his distorted reflection in the elevator doors, the normally white sclera of his eyes were now a road map of crimson variegations.

  Ninety … ninety-five … Top of the World. He didn’t think he was going to make it!

  When the elevator finally jerked to a stop, Berger was so queasy he thought he might lose what little of his dinner he had managed to keep down. With his eyes still unable to focus and his vision blurry at best, he grabbed for the handrail inside the compartment to steady himself. As the doors slid open, harsh kitchen light rushed into the elevator compartment assaulting his incapacitated eyes with its glaring intensity. Just hang in there a little longer; it’ll all be over soon!

  “Hey, Smith. What’s the matter with you?” The voice came from an indistinct silhouette standing between the opened doors. Berger assumed that this was the Pauly that Tony had been speaking to on his two-way radio.

  “I just got so sick all of a sudden.” It was all Berger could think to answer.

  An arm cinched around the old man’s waist and helped him into a chair. “Lemme have a look at you here.” He felt a finger under his chin, lifting his head up. “Whoa! Look at them peepers! They look like a pair of three-balls from a pool table! I ain’t never seen nothing like that before! Can you even see me?”

  He wondered how he was supposed to get close enough to Mangione if he couldn’t differentiate someone standing two feet in front of his face? “I … I just need to rest a minute. That elevator ride takes it out of me every time!”