Sin City Wolfhound

by Rick Newberry

  Hendrickson grinned. “You’re the best cop I know, Marco. That’s why I put you in charge of this task force. I can trust you.”

  “I’m a little confused—”

  “Hear me out. When I ran for sheriff, you were right behind me all the way. I appreciate that, but never showed my appreciation. You heard there’s going to be an opening for deputy chief in a few weeks. I want you to consider it.”

  Ramirez didn’t answer. “You mentioned a favor.”

  “There’s someone I want you to talk to.” The sheriff leaned back in his leather chair and locked his steel-gray eyes on Ramirez. “Sonny Russo.”

  “Say again?”

  “He wants to talk, that’s all.”

  “What does that thug want to talk about?”

  “C’mon, Marco, the control board gave him a clean bill of health.”

  “Yeah, and before that he couldn’t set foot in Vegas. We used to talk about cleaning up all the low-life filth in this town back in the day when we rode together, remember? And now you want me to talk to this crook? What gives?”

  “Nothing. Look, I know how you feel about Russo and his pals. Sure, I used to feel the same way, but you have to admit, we were pretty green and naïve back in the day. He speaks for the owners on The Strip now and that carries a lot of weight in this town.” Sheriff Hendrickson stood up, sauntered around his desk, and perched on the edge of it. “The owners are nervous about this situation, and Russo needs to make it look like he’s doing something about it. I understand your position, but these are the kinds of things you’re going to have to deal with down the road.”

  “Listen, about that opening for—”

  “Hear me out first. Russo didn’t want to talk to anyone but you. He has a real interest in the progress of the investigation. I think you’ll change your mind about the man once you meet him. Listen, tomorrow I’m doing an interview at your girlfriend’s…uh, ex-girlfriend’s station. I’ve been doing so many damn interviews lately so I could really use your help.”

  “Okay, okay,” Ramirez said, hands up in mock surrender. “I give up. When and where?”

  “Good, six p.m. tonight at The Grotto.”

  Ramirez stood and turned for the door.

  “Thanks. I’ll call Sonny and tell him you’re coming.”

  Sonny? Strange bedfellows, indeed.

  ****

  Two days ago, Dixie and I chatted as we ate dinner. My first date. I often wonder what my life would be like if I were fully human; no transformations, no pain. Now I know. I want it to be just like that night with Dixie: dinner with a friend, good food, conversation. She’s definitely gotten under my skin, and I can’t wait to see her again.

  She’s standing in the newsroom with her back to the wall under the big red, white, and blue KLVA banner: News You Can Trust From People You Can Trust

  I know it’s just a slogan, a sign designed by an ad agency for the station, but I tend to look for those kinds of signs. I don’t know if I believe in a higher power—a God, or Supreme Being—but I do believe in nature, in instinct, and in the universe. This looks like a clear sign to me, an indication that I’m on the right path: People You Can Trust—I like this sign.

  “Hello.”

  “Well, if it isn’t the elusive Mr. Steel. Nice of you to drop by.”

  Dixie seems calm enough, but my natural instincts are on alert. She’s upset about something, so I take a guess. “I have to apologize. I’m sorry I had to leave so abruptly after dinner the other night.”

  “Abruptly? No, not abruptly, you took off so fast I thought you were being chased by Metro. Speaking of which, how are things down at Metro? How’s the task force?”

  Before I can answer, she darts away from the People You Can Trust sign. At first, I think she’s going to her office, but she makes a left down the hallway and we wind up in the middle of a big control room filled with people. The lights are dimmed, and my eyes have to adjust to the darkness. Conditioned air rushes in through large vents in the ceiling filling the room with a whooshing sound. I feel like we’re surrounded by faceless eyes examining us over computer monitors.

  “Well, mister,” she whisper-shouts, her eyebrows raised, voice shaky, “what’s the deal?”

  “The deal?” I whisper too, following her lead. “What do you mean?”

  “I spoke to my boss yesterday and told him all about the latest theory the task force is working on, you know, the coyote theory. He originally had me scheduled to interview Sheriff Hendrickson tomorrow night, one on one—an exclusive—great exposure. But since I opened my big mouth, he wants me to follow up on the coyote theory instead. He gave the sheriff’s interview to Peter Hudson.”

  “That’s okay with you, right?”

  “Oh sure, great, fine and dandy.”

  I swallow, hard. This is leading somewhere and I don’t think it’s a second date. I once watched a documentary on The Discovery Channel about a volcano on the island of Pago; everybody knew it was going to erupt. Still, some of the locals were so stubborn they refused to evacuate. Right now, I feel like one of those locals. They all perished.

  “Detective Ramirez called me this afternoon, and guess what?”

  Uh-oh, she’s about to blow.

  “There is no coyote theory. He’s never heard of you. I called the Department of Wildlife and guess what else? They’ve never heard of you either.” She pulls her phone out of her pocket. “Did you think I wouldn’t check your story out? I’m a reporter—it’s what I do. Last chance to tell me the truth before I call the police. Who are you?”

  “I’m…uh…”

  “Cat got your tongue?”

  I glance around the room. “What do you mean by that?”

  She hits a few numbers on her phone and brings it to her ear.

  I back up a little.

  “Running away again?”

  “No.” I stop and face the molten lava. “I need to tell you something. I wanted to the other night, but…”

  “But what?”

  “I didn’t tell you because…because I’ve never told anyone who I really am.”

  “Don’t bother. Mr. Steel, I know who you are.”

  She must be a very good reporter.

  “You’re a stalker—a fraud—a news groupie.”

  “What? No, that’s not even close.” I need to say something, anything that’ll make her hang up the phone and listen to me, so I just blurt it out in a voice that turns everyone’s attention my way: “I know who the Werewolf Killer is.”

  She eases the phone down from her ear in one smooth, calm motion. Her eyes bore into mine as she says, “Go on.”

  “Nine-one-one.” A faint tin-can voice rises from the phone clutched in her hand. “What is the nature of your emergency?”

  “Hang up the phone first. Please.”

  Dixie ends the call with the swipe of a shaking finger. Her eyes lock onto mine. “Okay, who’s the Werewolf Killer?”

  She’s nervous, unsure of me and hesitant. But she’s a reporter and wants a story—she wants this story—and she’s not going to let fear stand in her way. I admire her conviction. Now the tricky part: avoiding mine. “I’ll tell you everything, but not here.”

  “Why?”

  Because you’d panic and call the police and I’d be locked up. “Because those are my terms. We go someplace private and talk, or I don’t talk at all. Period.”

  Her eyes become cold, icy slits. It takes a few seconds before she says, “You don’t know anything. Period.” She brings the phone back up and redials.

  “Believe me, you’ll want to hear what I have to say.”

  “This is Dixie Mulholland calling from KLVA. There’s someone here who’s wanted by Metro. His name is Adam Steel.”

  I bolt out of the control room.

  “It’s too late,” she yells after me. “The police are on their way. If I were you—”

  Her voice fades into the background as I hustle down the hallway to the exit. I can’t believe she ratt
ed me out to the cops. What happened to PEOPLE YOU CAN TRUST?

  Sometimes humans talk in code, they say one thing, but mean another. They tell mis-truths, untruths, and half-truths. They make up names for lying, names like deceptions, white lies, or fibs. In the canine world, that can get you into a lot of trouble. Maybe I shouldn’t have lied to Dixie when I first met her. That must have been my human side. I still need her help now more than ever, but next time I’ll have to rely on the canine in me to get it.

  Chapter Four

  Detective Marco Ramirez stepped out of the private elevator into the chilly air of the penthouse suite. Stainless steel doors eased shut behind him. The massive floor to ceiling glass walls offered a postcard view of the Las Vegas valley forty floors below; a dizzying mix of multi-colored neon, endless lines of yellow streetlights, and the sun’s orange glow as it dipped behind the Spring Mountains. Ramirez felt queasy and sucked in a lungful of cold air to clear his mind. From this height, the city seemed quiet. A serene, peaceful place where crime was unknown and killers didn’t exist, a sinless city.

  Classical music drifted through the cavernous room. It was a familiar melody—one he’d heard a thousand times before, but would never be able to name. His steps echoed on the bone-colored tile as he made his way toward a white settee in the center of the room. His fingers ran along the smooth leather.

  “Picked it up in Italy,” a coarse voice said. “Italy” came out “Itly.”

  Ramirez turned to face the speaker. His gaze bounced off Sonny Russo and landed on the woman standing beside him. The blonde could have been a model, dressing the part in an iridescent evening gown hugging her body like plastic wrap. Her bare shoulders were tanned, her tanned feet bare.

  Russo chuckled. “If you want, I can get you one, too.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The couch. Gorgeous picked out the color. I woulda preferred brown myself, it hides the stains better, but she said white complemented the room. What the fuck is that, huh?” He turned to the woman and with a finger stroking her naked shoulder said, “Listen, Gorgeous, we guys gotta talk. Why don’t you go do your face?”

  With that, the woman called Gorgeous slipped out of the room. Ramirez kept his eyes on her until she strolled out of sight.

  “So, what about it, Detective…you want one?”

  “The couch? No thanks. No place for it. My house is too small, in fact there’s hardly enough room for me.”

  “Hah.”

  The sound could have been a lot of things, but Ramirez decided “hah” was a laugh.

  “That’s too bad, Detective. The thing hugs your ass like a pro. Go on, give it a try.” Russo motioned toward the settee, then strode around a baby grand piano to a massive bar near a mirrored wall. The mirrors reflected the glass walls opposite, giving the room the illusion of an open rooftop patio. “Whiskey, Detective? Or, maybe you’d prefer a shot a’ tequila?”

  “Are you profiling me, Mr. Russo?”

  “Sonny, please. Everybody calls me Sonny.”

  “Whiskey’s fine.”

  “Hah.”

  Another laugh? Ramirez sat on the settee. It felt like Memory Foam wrapped in butter-soft leather, amazing.

  “Whiskey it is.” Russo filled two tumblers and returned to the settee, holding out a glass for Ramirez. “Tell me about the Werewolf case.”

  With that, any small talk left the room. This was the first time Ramirez had spoken face to face with Sonny Russo. He knew him by reputation only as the most powerful man in Vegas. It was rumored he had ties to the Russians, Chinese, and Middle East. In fact, Metro had a running joke, if terrorists ever targeted Las Vegas, Russo’s casinos would be the only structures left standing.

  But the man’s unexplained rise to power had come as a surprise to everyone. Five years ago, Sonny Russo ran numbers for the gangs in Chicago. Now, he ran a publically-traded company on the New York Stock Exchange; a legitimate business as far as the Nevada Gaming Commission was concerned. Ramirez wasn’t convinced.

  “Thanks for the drink. As for the so-called Werewolf Killer, leads come in every day. Our team includes the top experts in all fields of criminology. The FBI is giving us all the support we might need and—”

  “Hah.”

  Maybe it wasn’t a laugh, maybe a grunt.

  “I’m not wearing a wire, Detective, save all that bullshit for the press. I want to know what’s really happening. You must have some idea who the fuck is pulling this shit in my city.”

  My city? Ramirez took a sip of whiskey.

  “That bad, huh? You know…” Russo marched to the window and faced the valley. “I’ve been looking at a lot of data lately; news reports, spreadsheets, stock prices—you know where this is going, right? Business is off because of that nut job. My people tell me it’s off maybe six percent.” He spun away from the window and scowled at Ramirez. “Do you know how much money that is, Detective?”

  Ramirez shook his head.

  “Millions every day…every day, Detective. I got three of the biggest casinos in the world sitting on that road down there and that nut job’s sucker punching me.”

  The music floating across the room filled the silence. Ramirez thought it might have been Tchaikovsky, but he wasn’t sure.

  Russo attempted a smile. “I assume you know I speak for the rest of the owners? We want this thing to go away. We need to get the numbers up. Sure the Toretta fight this weekend is gonna help, but we want this werewolf asshole caught first.”

  “I understand—”

  “Do you?” Russo’s tone changed in a flash. Any discussion that might have been considered cordial jumped out the window, or was it pushed?

  Russo pointed a finger at Ramirez. “You know why forty million people come out here every year? Why two million people live here? It’s because of my casinos. Without my hotels, this valley is just another piss stop in the desert. Vegas is a playground, one big friggin’ playground with twenty-four hour action—lose some cash, chase some tail, then it’s back to the salt mines. Only, lately, some of my guests ain’t making it back to the mines. They’re winding up on a slab. And that, Detective, is bad for business. We need to bring the players back to the playground again.”

  Said the bully who rules the schoolyard.

  “As I said, Mr. Russo, we don’t have a suspect yet, but we’re following every lead—”

  “But you don’t got no leads, do you?”

  “Mr. Russo, do you have information about this crime?”

  “Hah.”

  Definitely a grunt.

  “Look, Detective, I’m not trying to be a prick here. I’m just a concerned citizen.”

  “I understand, Mr. Russo.”

  Russo raised an eyebrow. “Do you? You know, shit like this woulda never happened back in the day. Back then this psycho woulda wound up face down in the sand. Fast.” He slid into the armchair across from Ramirez. “Now I know this ain’t the good old days anymore, but something’s gotta be done. What I’m suggesting is a little cooperation, that’s all. Share your files with us and maybe my people can help clean this shit up.”

  A light tap-tap-tap sound on the marble floor turned both their heads. Perfume drifted across the room. Both men stood.

  Gorgeous was taller in white high heels. “Sweetie, the show starts in an hour.”

  “Give us a minute, we’re almost done here.”

  She smiled before tap-tapping out of the room. Once more Ramirez bent his neck, following her every move. As she disappeared through the kitchen, he drew in the perfume—an odd mix of cinnamon and roses. He turned back to see Russo’s gaze locked on his.

  “She’s something, huh? Crazy ’bout them Cirque shows. Remember when Vegas used to have real entertainment? Now it’s all this circus shit…acrobats in tights, fire and water, what the hell is that, huh? But the suckers can’t get enough of that crap.”

  Ramirez looked at his watch. “Mr. Russo.” He moved his head from side to side as he spoke. “You realize what
you’re suggesting is against the law.”

  “Hah.”

  That’s it? Hah?

  “Look, we’re offering to help, that’s all. You say you’re following leads, that you got experts—experts in what, werewolves?”

  “You’re talking vigilantism. We don’t want—”

  “Vigilantes? No, just concerned citizens. It’s a legit proposition, just a few honest taxpayers that wanna lend a hand. Give me a call, here’s my cell.” Russo produced a card and slipped it into Ramirez’s hand as he ushered him to the elevator. “After all, there’s no crime against helping the law, is there?”

  “You do know Metro is just one part of a federal task force working this investigation? The team includes the FBI, Immigration, Homeland Security, state authorities—”

  “You know, Detective…” There was no laughter, no grunts, and no “hah.” “Like I said, there was a time in this city when nobody would’a pulled this kinda shit—back when the law had balls. Look, I get it, I feel for you guys, I really do. You’re hands are cuffed by all the bleeding-heart liberals, you know, search warrants and shit. Well, my people don’t gotta worry about that crap. Listen, all we want to know is what you got so far, and where we can help. Call me tomorrow.” It sounded like an order as Russo pressed the elevator call button.

  Ramirez couldn’t help himself. “This is a nice place you got, Sonny. But don’t you think it’s kind of isolated, like a prison? Do you ever worry about getting trapped up here, you know, like if the power goes out?”

  Russo narrowed his eyes and ran a cold gaze over Ramirez. “Backup generators. Emergency circuits. State of the art. Don’t worry about me, Detective. I’m safe here.”

  As the elevator doors shut and he dropped to earth, Ramirez felt an urge to punch the wall. Instead, he tried, with little success, to forget the scent of cinnamon and roses.

  ****

  Dixie called me a stalker. She’s partially correct. I’m a hunter, one of my crossover skills. I can track with the best of them. Not to brag, but my talent in that department is superb. I’ve found living in a crowded city poses no hindrance at all to my hunting skills. In fact, I’ve learned to use whatever’s available to assist me in tracking my prey.