by Steve Brewer
Despite his throbbing headache, Shamu pounded his bound bare feet against the floor. He’d done that off and on all night, until his heel was raw, but no one ever responded. He’d concluded hours earlier that no one was home in the apartment below them, but you’d think the other tenant would come investigate the noise. What the hell kind of building was this? People didn’t care about their neighbors anymore.
This time, he heard footsteps in the hall. He banged on the floor some more. A few seconds later, a key rattled in the lock. Finally. Rescue.
The door swung open and a bushy-bearded man in paint-spattered white overalls carried an aluminum ladder into the apartment. When he saw the trussed-up men, he dropped the ladder and it clattered to the floor. He looked all around, eyes wide, as if he expected someone to jump out at him, tell him he was on “Candid Camera.” Shamu howled at him through the gag, and the painter snapped out of it.
He started toward Rex, but must’ve gotten a whiff of urine, because he did an abrupt turn and squatted next to Shamu’s head.
The painter casually pulled a folding knife from a breast pocket and flipped it open. He leaned over Shamu’s face, the knife headed for his throat. Shamu growled through the gag, then felt the sweet release of the bandana being sliced through and pulled away.
“Thanks,” he rasped. “Now get something to cut the wires.”
The bearded man rocked back on his heels and tilted his head to the side so he could look Shamu in the eyes.
“What the hell is going on here, buddy?”
“We were kidnapped,” Shamu said. “Please. You’ve got to cut us loose.”
“Kidnapped? I’d better call the cops.”
Shamu said through clenched teeth, “There’s no time. The kidnappers could be back any minute. Cut us loose!”
The painter ambled over to a toolbox and squatted next to it and rummaged around.
“I don’t want to rush you,” Shamu said tightly. “I’ve only been in this position all night—”
“Here we go.” The painter came back holding a pair of nippers with foot-long handles.
“Jesus,” Shamu said. “Don’t get any skin caught in those.”
“Relax. I’ll be careful.”
The painter went around behind him, and the cutters clipped through wire, and Shamu took a welcome deep breath, despite the pain of the expanding slice across his chest. The painter snipped the wires at his wrists and ankles, then went over to cut Rex loose.
Shamu sat up and gingerly pulled the wires from the places where they’d dug into his skin. His entire left side throbbed. The rest of him felt tingly as the blood returned. Every joint ached.
He slowly got to his feet and shook himself all over, like a dog freed from a bath. Lot of pain, but most of it was shallow, stinging pain. He could still move, and that was the important thing.
The painter stepped back from Rex and turned around, a bright smile etched into his dark beard. He was already pulling his cell phone from another pocket of his overalls.
Shamu put his weight into the blow, swiveling at the waist and swinging his shoulder into it. He hit the painter right on the ear with the heel of his hand, an old prison-yard trick. Hit a guy with your fist and he ducks into it, you’ll break your knuckles on his skull. But that meaty heel has the full thrust of the arm behind it.
The painter’s feet splayed into the air as he went down. Flat on his back on the floor, one eye closed, out cold.
“Jesus,” Rex croaked as he got to his feet. “Why’d you do that? The guy cut us loose—”
“He wanted to report the kidnapping to the cops.”
“What kidnapping?”
“Were you fucking asleep over there, piss-pants? Didn’t you hear what I told him?”
Rex covered his damp crotch with his Stetson. “Well, sure, but I—”
“Never mind. We’ve got to get out of here before more workers show up. Can you walk?”
“My legs are asleep.”
“You’ll be all right. Take those overalls off that guy, and put ‘em on.”
“But—”
“I’m not riding in the car all day with you smelling like that. Hurry up.”
Shamu went to the door and peeked out into the hall. Nobody. Still no neighbors checking things out. This fucking city.
He’d be happy to get back to Fowler, where people paid attention to their neighbors. The realization surprised him, but at some point he’d started thinking of the gusty, dusty town as home.
Chapter 42
The cops were waiting when Nick arrived at the Starlite at the crack of eleven. Two uniforms and a rangy plainclothes guy with a haircut like Opie Mayberry or whatever the fuck his name was.
“Mr. Papadopoulos?” The dry twang of a desert hick. “I’m Detective Elmore. We need to talk privately. It’s about Cindy Duquesne.”
“Have you found her?”
“Maybe your office would be better—”
“All right. Come on.”
He stalked across the gaming floor to the stairwell door, the three cops in his wake, giving everyone the eye. Cops on the premises made the gamblers jumpy. Made them take their business elsewhere. Just what Nick needed.
He was puffing by the time he reached the top of the stairs. The cops followed him past Monica’s reception desk and waited while he unlocked his office door. Like most first-time visitors, they drifted to the glass wall overlooking the casino floor.
Nick fell into the leather chair behind his desk, and lit a cigarette. The cops frowned at the smoke.
Detective Elmore took a seat facing him. He had a manila file folder in his hands. The two uniforms moved over to the door, thumbs in their gunbelts, as if guarding against the moment Nick might try to flee his own office.
“The hell is going on here?”
“I’m sorry to tell you this, sir,” Elmore said. “But Miss Duquesne is dead.”
“Aw, fuck.”
“A hiker found her early this morning. He, uh, saw buzzards circling and went to investigate.”
Elmore opened the file in his lap, displaying a color photo of Cindy Duquesne’s body. Her glasses were gone and her eyes were closed. Her blouse was ripped open and the plain-jane bra underneath seemed pitiful. Her slacks were dirty and torn at the knees. Bloody crescent-shaped gashes marred her face.
Nick swallowed. “Are those bite marks?”
“Yes, sir. Human, we believe. There will be an autopsy, of course. We’ll know more then.”
The picture looked obscene, the defenseless dead woman exposed in the cop’s lap like that, dried blood all over her face. Elmore caught Nick’s expression and closed the folder.
“Somebody was trying to make her talk.”
“That’s a possibility, sir—”
“And I’m guessing she would’ve told anything she knew, once some asshole started biting holes in her face.”
“I sure as hell would,” Elmore said. “The question is: What did she have to tell? What did she know?”
Nick let that one lie there steaming. He rocked in his chair, hands tented in front of his face, his gold wristwatch winking in and out of his black cuff.
“Maybe they thought she knew the combination to a safe or something,” he said, “then killed her when she couldn’t give them what they wanted. Maybe somebody else is planning to fucking rob us.”
“Mr. Papadop—”
“It takes three of you to tell me Cindy is dead? Why aren’t you out finding the guys who ripped off my casino?”
“The two crimes could be related. Perhaps Miss Duquesne knew something about the robbery, and someone wanted to keep her quiet.”
Nick shook his head. Fucking bozos. Did he have to spell it out?
“Those bite marks don’t ring any bells?” he snapped. “That’s never happened around Fowler before?”
Elmore stiffened. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“You never heard of that before? A biter?”
The detective sat silen
t. His face didn’t betray a thing, but he might as well have had “Owned by Big Jim Kelton” stamped on his forehead.
Nick sighed.
“I don’t have any reason to believe Cindy was mixed up with that robbery,” he said. “I can’t imagine why anyone would torture her.”
“Miss Duquesne was your financial expert.”
“She was a bookkeeper. She was privy to a lot of information, sure, but she couldn’t withdraw from casino accounts without my confirmation. She didn’t have access to my personal accounts.”
“Then why kill her?”
“Maybe it’s got nothing to do with money. Maybe she hooked up with the wrong guy in a bar. You’re the detective. I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”
Elmore pulled a notebook from an inside pocket and opened it to a fresh page.
“Let’s start over,” he drawled. “When was the last time you saw Miss Duquesne?”
Chapter 43
To Howard Beck, the casino office smelled like the back door to Hell. Whiskey fumes and cigarette smoke and rage mingled thickly in the air like fire and brimstone. Nick Papadopoulos looked like he’d been drinking a while, and it was barely afternoon.
The insurance investigator waved his arms at the thick smoke.
“Good God, man, are you trying for a heart attack?”
Nick blew a fat smoke ring and said, “Stop fanning it around like that. You’ll make me cough.”
Howard sat in a chair in front of the desk, still waving a hand before his face. “If I held your life insurance, I’d revoke the policy.”
“Since you don’t, my health is none of your concern.”
Howard, who started every day with a hundred push-ups, a hundred sit-ups and a raw egg, couldn’t let it go: “Your body is a temple.”
“Mine’s more like a whorehouse. Lot more fun.”
Nick sucked the cigarette down to the butt, then used it to chain a new one. He coughed a little, then said, “You’re here about Cindy.”
“Yes. Miss Duquesne provided us with the financials on the casino after the robbery. Now she’s turned up dead.”
“It’s a damned shame.” The casino manager took another slug of booze. Ice cubes rattled in the glass. “Cindy was a trusted employee.”
“What happened to her?”
“How the hell would I know?” The Greek’s voice rose. “She didn’t show up for work. I called her a dozen times. Even sent someone over to check on her. She was nowhere.”
“Did you report her missing?”
“An employee runs out on me, I don’t put her picture on a fucking milk carton. But my secretary did call the cops and tell ‘em she couldn’t find Cindy. We didn’t know what had happened to her until the police showed up here this morning with a photo of her body.”
Nick sagged in his chair. His necktie was pulled loose and his shirt was open at the collar.
“You don’t mind me saying so, you seem to be taking her death hard,” Howard said.
“You shoulda seen the pictures.”
“I did. At the police station.”
“Then you know what I’m talking about. Some asshole tortured and killed her. Ruined her face. That won’t stand.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Justice, that’s what. This son of a bitch must pay.”
“You mean the police? Prison?”
“Sure. Or maybe someone will save us all the trouble and put a bullet in his head.”
Howard’s pulse quickened.
“You a gun owner, Mr. Papadopoulos?”
“I’ve got lots of guns. A man in my position, working around cash, it’s better to have a gun handy. I’ve got one on me right now.”
“Is that right?” Howard looked him over, but didn’t see any telltale bulges. “How come you didn’t have a gun on you when those bandits robbed your casino?”
“Who says I didn’t?”
Howard gave him a level look. “Then why didn’t you shoot somebody? You’ve got experience, right?”
He’d been waiting for the opportunity to let Nick Papadopoulos know that he’d gotten hold of his past – the FBI files, the NYPD reports from years ago, the suspicions deemed unfounded by the Nevada Gaming Commission. All in the computers now. Papadopoulos thought he buried the old rumors when he arrived out here in the desert, fresh and welcome as a wildflower. But the trail was always there, if an investigator bothered to look.
“Maybe Cindy Duquesne knew about irregularities here at the Starlite,” Howard said. “Maybe she inflated the amount lost in the robbery. Maybe it’s all an inside job.”
Nick Papadopoulos pushed his Scotch glass to the side. He stabbed at the air with his cigarette.
“You make an accusation like that, you’d better have an airtight case. Because I can get a whole team of attorneys in here, tying you up in court for slander.”
Howard liked that. As if this deadly mobster had any reputation to ruin. He fought to keep the smirk off his face.
“Here’s what I think,” Nick said. “I think you fucking insurance companies will say anything, will do anything to avoid paying out a claim. We chip into your goddamned shell game our whole lives, but the minute you might have to hand over some of that money, you get squirrelly and cheap and send investigators to bother people in their time of grief.”
“It wasn’t my intention to—”
“I didn’t kill Cindy Duquesne. I had lots of reasons to keep her alive. Whoever killed her is in deep shit with me. You find out who did it, you let me know.”
Papadopoulos sat back in his chair, gently rocking.
“Any other questions?”
Howard Beck closed his notebook. “No, sir. I believe we’re done. For now.”
Chapter 44
Nick hated that Lola was driving him home. He was the man, and he preferred to be the one behind the wheel. Didn’t trust others – particularly Lola – to drive properly. But, shit, even that night-shift guard in the Starlite lobby, the one who never opens his fucking yap, had tried to take away Nick’s car keys. Everybody had an opinion. Majority rules. Whatever the fuck.
“Watch the goddamn road,” he said to Lola.
“I am watching the road,” she said tightly. “Just watch yourself that you don’t spew all over the dashboard.”
“I’m fine, Edsel Mae. Don’t you worry about me.”
“God. I wish I’d never told you the name I was born with.”
“You didn’t have to tell me.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Your background slips out sometimes. You get stressed, or a little drunk, and that hillbilly thing creeps into your accent.”
“I don’t have an accent.”
He laughed at her.
“You drunken asshole,” she said. “I should put you out on the side of the road.”
“That’s what I’m good for.” He looked out at the lightless desert. “Buzzard bait.”
The photo of Cindy Duquesne flashed in his mind. The bloody bites on her face, the odd sprawl of her legs. The indignity of being left out in the sand like fucking meat. Carrion for scavengers.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered.
“What’s the matter, Nicky?”
“Been a long fucking day.”
“You’ve had a lot to drink.”
“I know that. You don’t have to keep saying it. I’m letting you drive, right?”
“It’s the smart thing, Nicky.”
Sometimes, Lola made him want to spit.
“I know you had a hard day,” she said. “I understand. You and Cindy were close, and her getting killed like that.”
“Hell, that was just the beginning. I spent hours with cops, my least favorite people. Then that insurance investigator stopped by and made noise about Cindy’s death. They’re gonna try to screw me on my claim.”
“Can they do that?”
“The guy acted like Cindy was involved with the robbery somehow, but that’s only because he neve
r met her. You saw how she was. Cindy wasn’t brave enough to take any risk bigger than a slot machine.”
“Maybe,” Lola said, “her involvement came after the robbery. Maybe she’s covering something up.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
She gave him a nervous glance. “I’m just saying that’s what this guy could be thinking. You know, I’m just throwing it out there.”
“Well, throw it all the way out. I don’t want to hear you talking like that.”
“Let go of my arm, Nicky. I’m trying to drive here.”
He hadn’t even realized he was digging his fingers into her elbow. He let go and faced forward, squinting against oncoming headlights.
“That insurance guy already acts like I’m trying to stick him up,” he said. “We don’t want talk around town about anything fishy. We don’t want any delays. We want to quietly get our money and put this all behind us. Right?”
“Sure, Nicky. Sorry.”
He patted her thigh, where the hem of her short, flippy dress rode up. Damn, she still had chorus-girl legs. Nick ought to pay more attention to those assets. He pawed at her thigh until she pushed his hand away.
“Let’s get you indoors before you start anything.”
The car slowed, and she made the turn into Villa Mirage. The guard at the gate didn’t look twice at Nick’s familiar car.
Lola admired Big Jim Kelton’s house as they passed by. The whole place glowed. Lights edged the horseshoe driveway and the low eaves.
“I’d hate to pay his electric bill.”
“He can afford it.”
Nick glanced over his shoulder at Big Jim’s house. Through the frosted glass of the entryway, he caught just a glimmer of golden light from the rearing statue inside.
“The son of a bitch.”
Lola soon turned onto the broad concrete driveway of Nick’s ranch-style house.
“Here you go, Nicky.”
She jingled his keys. He took them from her, then got out of the car and lumbered up to the front door. Lola clacked along beside him on her stilettos, heeling like a fucking poodle. When he fumbled with the lock, she gently took the keys and unlocked the door.
