Sin City Wolfhound

by Rick Newberry

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Sin City Wolfhound

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  I should have left Las Vegas after the first murder. How far would I have gotten in seven days? It’s too late to think about that now. I’m what the locals call: all-in.

  I approach Dixie Mulholland in her office at the Channel Six television station as if she’s expecting my visit. My steps are certain and steady—as practiced. She needs to accept me right away. I’ve heard being accepted is the same as being unseen. I hope so.

  A couple of taps on the open door gets her attention. “Hello, my name is Adam Steel. They told me where I could find you.”

  Her office is stuffy, pale green, and windowless; a light flickers overhead. With a phone in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other, she studies me across a cluttered desk. “They who?”

  “The girl in the lobby.”

  “Listen, leave your number with her on the way out. I’m late for a meeting—”

  “I’m with the Nevada Department of Wildlife.”

  It’s red-hot outside, over a hundred degrees, and my shirt is sticking to my skin. There doesn’t seem to be a working A/C vent in the office. Her short blonde hair dances in the breeze of a small circular fan. “The department of what?”

  “Wildlife. I’m working with Metro on the Werewolf Killer task force.”

  She smiles. All at once she’s forgotten about her meeting. “Mr. Steel, is it? Come in, what can I do for you?”

  Sin City Wolfhound

  by

  Rick Newberry

  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, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Sin City Wolfhound

  COPYRIGHT © 2015 by Richard Arthur Newberry

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com

  Cover Art by Debbie Taylor

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Black Rose Edition, 2015

  Print ISBN 978-1-5092-0360-4

  Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-0361-1

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  For Betty and Sam

  Chapter One

  I should have left Las Vegas after the first murder.

  How far would I have gotten in seven days? It’s too late to think about that now. I’m what the locals call: all-in.

  I approach Dixie Mulholland in her office at the Channel Six television station as if she’s expecting my visit. My steps are certain and steady—as practiced. She needs to accept me right away. I’ve heard being accepted is the same as being unseen. I hope so.

  A couple of taps on the open door gets her attention. “Hello, my name is Adam Steel. They told me where I could find you.”

  Her office is stuffy, pale green, and windowless; a light flickers overhead. With a phone in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other, she studies me across a cluttered desk. “They who?”

  “The girl in the lobby.”

  “Listen, leave your number with her on the way out. I’m late for a meeting—”

  “I’m with the Nevada Department of Wildlife.”

  It’s red-hot outside, over a hundred degrees, and my shirt is sticking to my skin. There doesn’t seem to be a working A/C vent in the office. Her short blonde hair dances in the breeze of a small circular fan. “The department of what?”

  “Wildlife. I’m working with Metro on the Werewolf Killer task force.”

  She smiles. All at once she’s forgotten about her meeting. “Mr. Steel, is it? Come in, what can I do for you?”

  She puts her coffee cup on the desk and holds out a hand. When we shake, I feel an instant connection. She’s attracted to me. I always know right off when someone likes me; it’s a natural instinct. In any case, I don’t mind her interest—it’s mutual. I’m attracted to her scent: the hint of sweat, the trace of excitement on her skin.

  My well-rehearsed smile makes an appearance. “I’m new to this type of thing.”

  “What type of thing is that?”

  Lying to someone I’ve just met, pretending to be someone I’m not, and saying lines I’ve memorized. “Field investigations. I’m normally stuck behind a desk. I met with Detective Ramirez this morning, and he suggested I talk to you.”

  “Ramirez sent you?” She slips her cell into her pocket.

  “Yes, ma’am, the task force is looking into the possible involvement of coyotes in the attacks. It’s a theory, anyway.”

  She waves to the chair in front of her desk. I sit down, but stay on the edge of the seat. The small room reminds me of a cage. Nothing about it is friendly except for her.

  “Do you have any ID?”

  “Sure.” I check my coat pocket as planned. “Damn, I left my wallet in the car. I could go get it if you want—”

  “No, don’t bother. Tell me about this coyote theory first.”

  I dazzle her with my knowledge of all things canine: where they live, how they hide, and what they eat. I even break down the possible motives a wild animal might have for attacking humans in a crowded city: encroachment by civilization, lack of food, an attraction to pets…

  “You think they’re after pets?”

  “No, not necessarily. But a small pet can sometimes catch a larger animal’s attention, and a chase could lead them into a crowded area. If that larger animal felt threatened, it might attack.”

  “Interesting.”

  I nod. “It happens more often than you think.”

  “You know, Metro has never mentioned anything about the involvement of wild animals and, to be honest, the location of some of the attacks, like the one last week on The Strip, makes it kind of hard to believe—”

  “The task force is working on so many theories right now; this is just one of them. I was called in sort of last minute.” I check over my shoulder to make sure the door is still open. Are reporters always this suspicious, or is it just her? I force another rehearsed smile her way.

  She’s silent for a moment then picks up the desk phone and dials. “This is Dixie Mulholland at Channel Six. I need to speak to Detective Ramirez, please. He is? Ask him to call me later, would you? Oh, and tell him thanks. He’
ll know.” She hangs up and stares at me with wide eyes. “Coyotes,” she says with a nod, “sounds like an interesting theory, and you really do know your stuff. What else can you tell me?”

  “Oh, I’ve only scratched the surface. You know attacks on humans in populated areas are not without precedent.”

  “I don’t mean to be rude,” she says as she rises, “but do you mind if we continue this in the coffee shop next door? It’s almost noon and I’m starving.”

  “Sure, no problem.” I like the idea. At least if the detective calls back she’ll be away from the telephone.

  When I stand up and turn for the door, the phone rings.

  “I gotta take this, won’t be a minute.”

  I lean against the wall just outside her office. It’s called eavesdropping. Finely-tuned hearing is not one of my natural abilities so I listen as hard as I can while shooting a glance down the hall to the exit sign. It’s about twenty feet away.

  “This is Dixie. No, I can’t make the meeting today. Yes, I read the e-mail about the hotel room. Yes, I know it’s reserved for VIPs only. I gotta go.”

  She steps out of her office and smiles. “Ready?”

  “I could come back if you’re busy. That sounded important.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about it. There’s always so much drama around this place it reminds me of a high school play. Apparently, the station has reserved a suite at the New York New York hotel for VIP guests for the fight this weekend. They want to remind us “little people” it’s not for our own private use.” She laughs and nods toward the exit. “C’mon, are you hungry?”

  We talk at length in the coffee shop—well, she does most of the talking sometimes speaking so fast she has to force a breath. That’s fine by me. Maybe I’m too hard on myself, but my social skills are rusty at best, especially the ones I haven’t rehearsed. So I sip an excellent cappuccino, munch on a sweetly glazed scone, and wait for the opportunity to steer the conversation my way.

  “Everyone in the country is watching Vegas right now. I don’t know if you know this, but I’m the one who coined the term Werewolf Killer. The networks love it—everyone’s using it. And now the police are starting to see the light.”

  “You mean they really are looking for a—”

  “A werewolf? No, of course not,” she says with a laugh. “What I meant was, the media shouting Werewolf Killer every five minutes has quite an effect on everyone, especially the task force.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “Well, why do you think they called you in? The network buzz is so powerful the police are starting to look into any crazy theory, even coyotes. Sorry, no offense.”

  “None taken. So, is that what you want? To work for a network?”

  “Absolutely. I mean I like what I do, and I’m good at it. Sure, I’ve got my eye on the network. It’s the nature of the beast, right?”

  “The nature of the beast?”

  “Oh, right.” She laughs. “Department of Wildlife—beast. Yeah, the network’s my goal. Why do you ask?”

  This is my chance. “Well, I saw your report on TV yesterday, and it was outstanding. You seem to have a solid connection to the task force, more so than any of the other reporters. You must have a great relationship with Metro. Do they ever tell you things, you know, off the record? Information the public doesn’t hear?”

  Her smile fades, and she straightens up. “Hey, what’s going on? Who are you with and why did you want to see me?”

  “I’m with The Department of Wildlife.”

  “No one feeds me information. I’ve got my sources just like every other reporter. What are you accusing me of?”

  “I’m not accusing you of anything, and I’m sorry it sounded like that. I think you’re a great reporter, that’s all. No wonder Detective Ramirez wanted me to see you.”

  It takes her a moment to calm down, and when she does, the excitement in her eyes is gone. “I’m sorry, I have to apologize. It’s just that this case has made everyone jumpy, even me. I mean, when I stop and think about going on camera to report another murder night after night, almost like I’m giving the weather…it freaks me out, you know? And then when the networks use our station’s feed—and all I can think about is what a great opportunity it is for my career, God, that’s a bit twisted isn’t it?”

  I smile. Her honesty is genuine. She’s definitely attracted to me; pheromones are a powerful force. “It sounds like you want this nightmare to end like everyone else.”

  She nods and takes a sip of tea. “It may do wonders for my career, but it’s hell on the nerves.” Her eyebrows rise. “So, the task force is seriously looking into coyotes, huh?”

  “Yes, or possibly wolves.”

  “I didn’t know there were wolves in Las Vegas. I’m from LA.”

  “Wolves used to inhabit most of the United States until they were nearly hunted into extinction. Gray Wolf packs are now common even in parts of California, and, on occasion, they’ve been sighted in southern Nevada.” Googled it.

  “Really? You sure do know your stuff.” Her enthusiasm returns. “I’m glad Detective Ramirez suggested you talk to me. What about an interview? You have been interviewed before, haven’t you?”

  “Me? No. Like I said I’m stuck behind a desk all day.”

  “Nothing to be afraid of. It’ll be over before you know it.”

  That’s what I’m afraid of. “I don’t think I’m allowed to give an interview unless it’s approved by the department first.”

  “Nonsense. Detective Ramirez will approve it. He sent you to me, right?”

  “Right, but I really should check with him first.”

  “Okay, Mr. Cautious. But I don’t want you talking to any other stations.” She holds out her hand again. “Deal?”

  Before I know what’s happening, she suggests we have dinner later tonight. She insists we go “Dutch” which excites me. I love to taste as many different foods as I can. I’m aroused by the way people prepare food using seasonings and spices, textures and colors. I’d never eaten Dutch food before and so I promise to meet her although, for me, promises are difficult to keep.

  It’s the nature of the beast.

  ****

  Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. I heard someone say that once and so I say it now, too. Downtown Las Vegas is a twenty-four-hour magnet, attracting every type of individual you can think of: crowds of gamblers, sight-seers, entertainers, and, of course, people like me, with no place else to go. It’s the perfect spot to blend in—to observe and imitate.

  There’s a small notebook and pencil with me at all times. It’s second nature for me to draw anything and everything I find intriguing. Relaxing on a bench on Fremont Street, the pencil and notebook come out automatically and the drawing begins. Without thinking about it, a likeness of Dixie appears. It’s in black and white, of course, but the colors are there, in my mind: lightly tanned complexion, pink lips, and bright green eyes.

  After hours of browsing through gift shops, wandering in and out of casinos, and observing people, the neon signs spark to life, holding back the night. I relax under the giant canopy covering Fremont—known as The Fremont Street Experience. The light show under the covering goes on for hours; bright colors race by with accompanying music blaring from dozens of speakers. The show is amazing and sparks my senses with wonderful fantasy-like images—a wide-awake dream.

  I glance at a sign above a gift shop that reads Time 5:45—Temp 102. My dinner with Dixie awaits and I head down Las Vegas Boulevard (it’s not called The Strip this far north) at a quick pace.

  We meet as arranged, outside Arnold’s, just a few blocks south of Fremont. She pulls up in an outrageously gaudy pink and blue striped Hummer. The colors are amazing and a smile spreads across my face.

  “I know it’s a bit much,” she says, glancing back at the Hummer, “but I like it. Gets me from point A to point B in style. Where’d you park?”

  “Uh…garage on Fourth. Shall we?”


  We walk into the restaurant. It’s smallish by Vegas standards, nothing showy, but the smells wafting from the kitchen grab my attention.

  “Were you finally able to talk to Detective Ramirez?”

  “Never got a chance. The case keeps him pretty busy.”

  Good. “That’s too bad.”

  I keep one eye on Dixie and the other on the patrons around us. Having never been on a date before, I copy what they do: smile, sip water, and flip through the menu. It looks like basic American food to me, no Dutch treats at all. Not wanting to make Dixie feel bad, I don’t say anything about it. She orders a glass of white wine. I stick with a cold glass of water.

  “Can you imagine?” she says. “Seven murders one after the other. And the way it happens—the victims ripped to shreds, not one bit of evidence left behind. To be honest, I hope it really does turn out to be a coyote or a wolf. I mean, I can’t imagine a human being killing like that.”

  Neither can I.

  When the waiter arrives, I order New York Strip with baked potato. She goes with the salmon and rice and another glass of wine. I thoroughly enjoy the meal, despite the odd looks Dixie gives me when I snatch a few bites of salmon from her plate. I hadn’t spotted any other people sharing meals so I apologize. She laughs it off. Just like that, it’s no big deal.

  She says I’m being too gentlemanly by trying to pay for the dinner.

  “No, I said Dutch Treat so let’s keep it that way.” She pulls out her wallet.

  I finally understand what Dutch treat means and feel a little foolish. As we leave, she tucks her hand through my arm, and we stroll outside as natural as can be.

  “That was fun,” she says. “What about a night cap? There’s a place we go to sometimes after work just down the street. We can discuss that interview.”

  “I’m really sorry, but I have to run.”

  She stares at me. To break the awkward silence I say thank you, put my arms around her, and give her a quick hug. She hugs back.

  I want to stay and try a night cap, whatever that is, but I really do have to run. The familiar tingling in the back of my neck and the wet paste of sweat across my forehead has begun. I want to put my arms around Dixie again; feel her warmth, breathe her in, but it’s too late. So I run.