Sin City

by Max Allan Collins

  “Such as?”

  “Female between thirty-five and forty-five, weighing one-ten and standing five-four…who does that remind you of?”

  Brass shrugged one shoulder. “Sure, those figures fit Lynn Pierce…but how many other missing women?”

  Slowly, Grissom said, “Factoring in the birthmark, and the episiotomy scar?…Not another in Nevada.”

  Silence stretched in the little office.

  “Well…” Brass sighed. “We already knew it was Lynn Pierce, didn’t we?…And yet we still don’t have a thing to hang on that bastard husband of hers.”

  Grissom held Brass’s eyes, and then slowly moved both of their gazes over to Nick, standing on the sidelines, leaning against that file cabinet.

  Wearing a tiny enigmatic smile, Nick straightened. “We may have him…. You tell me.”

  “I will,” Brass said. “Go on.”

  “I’ve been working on the Lynn Pierce computer and credit card records.”

  “Any movement since her disappearance?” Brass asked.

  “Nothing on the e-mail front. She’s still getting them, a few friends, church announcements, spam; but she hasn’t answered any of ’em, since the day before she went missing. And nothing new on the credit cards or ATM.”

  “What woman does not use her charge card?” Grissom asked.

  “A dead one,” Brass admitted.

  Nick said, “Hey, I got more—something really interesting. Going through the old credit card receipts, I found this.” He stepped forward holding out a slip of paper.

  Brass took the slip and studied it. “A receipt for a box of forty-four caliber shells…” His head went sideways. “Didn’t Pierce say…”

  “…that he never owned a gun?” Grissom finished. “Yes he did…. Gentlemen?”

  Somehow, Brass managed to arrive in front of the Pierce home in less than ten minutes. The sun had long since dipped below the horizon, leaving the sky the purplish hue of a huge bruise. The evening was cool and only a few lights were on in the castle-like house. Grissom and Nick hurried to keep up with Brass who moved onto the porch, skipped the bell, and pounded on the front door with his fist.

  Pierce, in an open-neck navy Polo shirt and dark blue jeans, opened the door displaying the same hangdog expression they’d seen on their last visit. He had not shaved; perhaps, Grissom speculated, the physical therapist had stayed home from work again today.

  Brass held out the photocopy of the receipt like a bill collector demanding a payment way overdue. He didn’t even wait for their reluctant host to speak. “You lied, Pierce! You told us you never owned a gun—so how do you explain a receipt for bullets you bought?”

  The detective kept walking as he spoke, backing Pierce inside the house with the force of his words and forward motion. Grissom and Nick followed them in, the former even shutting the door behind him, as the group gathered in the foyer by the winding stairway.

  “And don’t bother feeding us some bull about buying them for a friend,” Brass ranted. “This time, I want the truth.” Finally, when the detective stopped to take a breath, Pierce got a word in.

  “All right!” the therapist said. “All right, I admit it…. I…I had a gun in the house…for awhile.”

  Brass seemed ready to blow again, but that statement brought him up short. He looked hard at Pierce. “Had a gun?”

  “Had a gun,” Pierce repeated.

  Brass’s open hand shot to his right temple, as if he were either fighting off a vicious migraine or a sudden stroke. Neither option struck Grissom as positive.

  The therapist held up his hands in a fashion that was equal parts surrender and calming gesture; then he led them into the living room, gesturing to the rifles-and-flags sofa. “Please, please…sit down. Let me explain.”

  In a stage whisper in Grissom’s direction, Brass said, “This should be prime.”

  But Brass took a seat on the couch, while Grissom again sat at the edge of the maple chair opposite; Nick hovered in the background, while Pierce settled in chummily beside the skeptical detective.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Pierce said, reasonably, with a tone usually reserved for children. “Cocaine in the house, gun in the house, Born-Again wife…he had to have killed her.”

  “Now that you mention it,” Brass said.

  Running a hand over his unshaven face, the therapist sighed in resignation. “Okay. I had a gun. A .44 Magnum I bought from…an acquaintance.”

  “And of course it wasn’t registered.”

  “Your negative attitude, Captain, doesn’t keep that from being any less true.”

  “The name of the acquaintance?”

  Pierce hesitated.

  The sarcasm in Brass’s tone had been replaced with matter-of-fact, almost cheerful professionalism. “One of you is going to jail this afternoon, Mr. Pierce—either you or the person who sold you an illegal weapon. You make the call.”

  “I can’t tell you, Captain.”

  “Can’t? Won’t, you mean.”

  “I bought it from the man I was buying cocaine from. He doesn’t even know my wife—he’s no suspect in this.”

  Brass frowned in shock. “And you’re protecting him?”

  “I’m protecting myself and my daughter. Do I have to tell you that these kind of people are dangerous?”

  Grissom said, “You were friendly enough with this person to purchase a weapon from him…what, to protect your family from the likes of the man you bought it from?”

  “You might say…Guys, fellas…this is hard to admit.”

  Brass smiled an unfriendly smile. “Try.”

  Pierce sighed. “For a while, I was…when Lynn got involved with her church, gone all the time…well. She used to be…God!”

  Grissom said, “Mr. Pierce, if you are innocent, you need to be frank us, so we don’t waste our time going down your road. Do you understand?”

  Pierce swallowed thickly, nodded. “My wife used to be a wildcat…in the bedroom? Do I really have to say more?…Anyway, when she…got religion, certain things suddenly seemed…perverted to her. We hardly…had relations at all, anymore…. I need something to drink. Just water.”

  “Nick,” Grissom said, and gestured toward the kitchen.

  Nick nodded and went away.

  “I’m not proud of it,” Pierce said, “but…I started seeing prostitutes. They’re not exactly tough to hook up with in this town. Sometimes I brought them to my office, sometimes to a motel, and sometimes…I brought them here.”

  The son of a bitch was confirming the next door neighbor’s story!

  Nick delivered the glass of water, Pierce took it, saying, “Thanks…You know how some of these girls, these women can be. How they sometimes bring their pimps or whoever around…and my…my coke connection said I should be careful. Said I needed protection in the house…. So I bought the Magnum.”

  Brass said nothing; then glanced at Grissom, who shrugged. It was a good story.

  “Okay, Mr. Pierce,” Brass said softly, “then where’s the gun now?”

  Pierce looked at the floor, then at Brass, and back at the floor. “I had second thoughts about having it around the house, and, anyway, I stopped seeing those kind of girls.”

  “You haven’t answered my question.”

  “I threw it away.”

  Grissom, wincing, said, “You threw the gun away?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  “Lake Mead.”

  Grissom felt as though he’d been slapped; he glanced at Brass, whose expression said he felt the same.

  Brass asked, “You own a boat?”

  “No. I went out on one of those excursions. Just tossed the thing overboard when nobody was looking.”

  Grissom said, “Don’t suppose you kept the receipt for that ride?”

  “No. Why should I? Wasn’t deductible.”

  Brass rose, reaching for his cuffs. Grissom, still seated on the edge of the chair, touched the detective’s elbow, th
en—with his head—signaled for Brass to come with him.

  Rising, Grissom said, “We’ll be right back, Mr. Pierce. If you don’t mind, we’re going to borrow your kitchen for a moment.”

  Pierce sipped his water. “Be my guest.”

  The three of them adjourned to the kitchen.

  “Lake Mead?” Brass said, eyes wide with fury, though he kept his voice low. “He’s rubbing our goddamn faces in it!”

  “No, that’s good,” Grissom said, with a hand gesture and a little smile. “He’s cute. He thinks he’s smarter than us.”

  “Maybe he is smarter,” Brass said.

  “Than some of us…maybe.” And Grissom grinned sweetly, while Brass shook his head in utter irritation—only some of it at Pierce.

  “You are going to arrest him for the pistol?” Nick asked Brass, also keeping his voice low.

  “Damn right,” Brass said. “That much we do have on the son of a bitch.”

  Now it was Grissom shaking his head. “It’ll never hold up, Jim—you know that. There’s no gun. All we really have is a receipt for bullets dated six months ago.”

  “He confessed to having a gun!”

  “Remind me—which one of us read him his rights?”

  Brass’s face was red; he was breathing hard. “I can’t believe this! It’s crazy. Insane…That evil bastard killed his wife, cut her up and dumped the pieces of her in the lake. There’s gotta be something here! Where’s the justice?”

  “No justice yet,” Grissom said, gently, touching the detective’s sleeve. “But there will be. Now, let’s get out of here before we screw something up.”

  They took their leave quietly, and let Pierce have the last word.

  At the doorway, he said, “I hope I’ve been of some small help.”

  Nick Stokes parted company with Grissom and Brass at HQ, and headed into the lab where Warrick had been working. He found Warrick practically spotwelded to the monitor of a computer.

  “What’s up?” Nick asked.

  “I’m trying to track down that red triangle we found on the bag of dope at Pierce’s.”

  “Timely,” Nick said. “Pierce just copped to getting not just coke from a dealer, but a gun as well.”

  Nick filled Warrick in on the latest visit to the king of the Pierce castle, including the therapist’s refusal to I.D. his connection.

  Nick asked Warrick, “Getting anywhere?”

  “Not yet…but I just know I’ve seen that signature somewhere, it’s ringin’ a bell…a distant one, anyway. I’m gonna keep diggin’.”

  “All right.” Nick yawned. “I’m fried—Grissom had me in early today, to keep at those computer records…I gotta go home and catch some z’s.”

  “It’s a plan…. Later.”

  “You may want to try getting some sleep one of these days yourself,” Nick said, at the doorway. “Latest thing—they say it’s really catching on.”

  Warrick expended half a smirk. “Not around here.”

  Warrick Brown stayed with it, going through file after file looking at drug dealers the LVMPD had busted in the last few years. An hour later, he was still rolling through files looking for the odd little red triangle.

  A knock at the doorframe took him away from his work, and he turned to see one of the interns, a young, dark-curly-haired guy named Jeremy Smith, slight of build, in a black UNLV sweatshirt and blue jeans. A criminal justice major at the university, Smith had been working part-time for the last few months, sometimes days, occasionally nights.

  “Hey, Jeremy,” Warrick said, mildly annoyed to be interrupted. “What’s up?”

  Smith stepped gingerly into the lab, as if not sure he had permission. “I talked to every glass company in the metro area—remember, to see if they replaced the driver’s side window of a ’95 Avalon?”

  “Right. And?”

  The young man shook his head. “Zip zally zero.”

  Warrick muttered a “damn,” but the kid was stepping forward, more sure of himself now.

  “Then I thought I better check the car dealerships too.”

  “That was good initiative, Jeremy—any luck?”

  “Not really.”

  “Yeah. Well. Good thought, though. Thanks.”

  “All right, then…Warrick?”

  Warrick sighed to himself, suddenly sorry he’d told the kid to call him by his first name.

  Smith was beside the computer, now, bright-eyed as a chipmunk. “Anything else I can do for?”

  Why not tap into all this energy? Warrick considered the offer for a long moment, then said, “Junkyards, Jeremy—try the junkyards.”

  Smith nodded, grinned. “I’m on it.”

  The kid was halfway out the door when Warrick called out, “One more thing, Jeremy! You ever see this before?”

  The intern came back over and Warrick passed him the evidence bag with the baggie of coke inside.

  Turning it over and over, Smith studied it, then handed it back. “Yeah, I’ve seen this mark.”

  Warrick knew the intern had been working a lot of days, and gave him the benefit of the doubt. “Bust you were in on?”

  The intern shook his head, saying, “No, this is something I’ve seen on campus…. Small-time dealer, sells mostly grass. I don’t know if he’s been in the system or not.”

  “He wouldn’t have a name, would he?”

  “Well, I don’t know his real name—his street name is Lil Moe. Supposed to be once you’ve tried his stuff, you always want…a little mo’.”

  Warrick just looked at Smith.

  Jeremy gave him a quick nervous smile and patted the air with his hands, like an untalented mime. “Hey, that’s just what I heard.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Honest, Warrick!”

  Smith used some of his nervous energy to haul his ass out of there, and Warrick immediately tried “Lil Moe” in the database, coming up blank. He checked pending files and struck out again. Finally, he went in search of Jeremy the intern and found him in the break room with a phone book in one hand and a phone in the other, a notepad and pencil before him.

  The kid looked up, saw Warrick, and said, “Starting on the junkyards. Some of ’em work at night, y’know. Anybody I can’t talk to, at least I can have a list of numbers ready for tomorrow.”

  “Table that. Would you know Lil Moe if you saw him?”

  “Sure.”

  “Help me know him.”

  “Five-nine, -ten maybe, a hundred twenty-five or thirty. Real skinny. He’s got dreadlocks to his shoulders and always wears this big Dodgers stocking cap.”

  “Stocking cap in Vegas?”

  Smith shrugged. “Makes him easy to find.”

  “Find where?”

  “He kind of bounces around the edges of the campus…but he’ll probably be somewhere around the Thomas & Mack Center.”

  Easy for students to find him, Warrick thought, and nodded. “Thanks.”

  “What now?”

  “Junkyards.”

  “Junkyards,” Jeremy said, and got back to it.

  Warrick found Brass in his office and shared his new information.

  “Lil Moe, huh?” Brass said.

  “A little is better than nothing at all.” Warrick stood with his hands on his hips, his eyebrows high. “You wanna go for a ride, and see if we can score?”

  Brass was already on his feet. “Let’s do that—even a drug dealer’ll feel like a step up from Owen Pierce.”

  The home of the Runnin’ Rebels basketball teams squatted on the far southwest corner of the UNLV campus, but the Taurus came at the Thomas & Mack Center from the campus side. The detective made the trip just below the speed limit, but not too slow. The Taurus stuck out enough without them crawling along in an obvious search. It wasn’t midnight yet, and the campus hadn’t quite yet gone to sleep.

  People (kids mostly) dotted the sidewalks here and there, quiet students heading to their dorms, louder ones off to the next kegger, the occasional professor walking wit
h briefcase and sometimes a young teaching aide, a few joggers working off the stress of the day in the cool of the night…

  …and another strata more in the shadows, harder to see, unpredictable, even dangerous, some searching for drugs, and—more important to Brass and Warrick—some selling. On their first lap, as their eyes probed the shadows and recesses of doorways, they didn’t see anyone fitting Lil Moe’s description…and not on the second lap, either, or even the third.

  By lap four, midnight had come and gone, the sidewalks had thinned, and they hadn’t gotten even a whiff of Lil Moe.

  “Maybe he’s not out tonight,” Brass offered.

  “Or maybe he’s making the car. Just ’cause it’s unmarked, that doesn’t mean Moe doesn’t know a police car when he eyeballs it.”

  “We could disguise ourselves,” Brass commented dryly from the wheel, “as cheerleaders.”

  “I got a better idea…. Let me out.”

  Brass just looked at him. “You have your weapon, Brown?”

  “No—I don’t wear it around the lab.”

  “We’re not in the lab. You’re asking to do some kind of half-assed, impromptu undercover dance, and that’s not—”

  “C’mon, Brass! I’m not saying leave me alone. Just back me up from a distance. Let me see if I can smoke this guy out.”

  “You’re a criminalist, Brown—not a cop.”

  “And you’re a middle-aged white guy. Which of us stands to score easier?”

  Brass considered that. “Well, it’s plain this plan isn’t working.”

  “All right then—Plan B.”

  Hopping out at the corner of Harmon and Tarkanian Way, Warrick ambled down the street named after the legendary UNLV basketball coach. Taking his time, not wanting to appear anxious or in a hurry, Warrick strolled toward the arena, enjoying the cool evening. In the dusky light he could barely make out the sign for the Facilities Management Administration Building (whatever that was) across the street. Passing the single-story building, he continued inexorably toward the Thomas & Mack Center.

  Warrick turned left, keeping the basketball arena on his right as he circled the building. The street-lights spaced their pools of light about every ten yards, giving a sense of security to a gaggle of passing coeds, but only made Warrick feel more like a moving target. The shadows deepened and became fathomless in contrast to the spheres of white.