by Lee Goldberg
"Yes," Grumbo replied. "Do you think he'll be able to find the others?"
"Dr. Sloan is a very resourceful man. It's quite possible that he will," Standiford said. "Have we heard from the hired help?"
"One minute after Dr. Sloan left the office," Grumbo said. "We received an E-mail requesting the remainder of funds owed on Stuart Appleby."
It had taken years for Standiford's avenger to prove himself, but now he was definitely living up to his reputation. The hired help knew about Mark Sloan and, as the doctor predicted, was even using him as his unwitting messenger. Standiford wondered what other surprises his employee had in store for him.
"Wire the money to his Swiss account immediately," Standiford said. "Add a ten percent bonus."
Standiford turned and could see something in Grumbo's implacable expression. Perhaps it was an infinitesimal crinkle at the edge of his mouth, or a slight dilation of the pupil. Whatever it was, Standiford registered it unconsciously, because it was nothing anyone would have noticed with the naked eye.
"Is something bothering you, Nate?"
"The scanners in the elevator picked up something," Nate grumbled. "The circuitry of Dr. Sloan's cell phone was altered. I think somebody's put a bug or a tracking device in it."
"Do you think Dr. Sloan knew?"
Grumbo shook his head.
Standiford nodded and allowed himself a little smile. He didn't have to wait long for the hired help to surprise him again.
"Things are going to get interesting."
"You're a doctor?" Patsy Durkin asked groggily, standing in the doorway of her apartment at the Desert Sunrise.
"Yes," Mark said. The doorbell had awakened her and she still seemed a bit dazed, her eyes puffy, her lips dry. Patsy wore a faded, oversized, sleeveless T-shirt and baggy sweats, and her breath smelled of alcohol and cigarettes.
"Is Jason sick?" Patsy Durkin was a showgirl at an off-the-strip hotel, and she worked three shows a night and slept through much of the day. Five years ago, she had been Jason Brennan's girlfriend.
"I don't know," Mark said. "I'm trying to find him. I think he could be in some danger."
"From, like, a disease or something?"
"No," Mark said. "Nothing like that."
The Desert Sunrise was a two-story, L-shaped block around a parking lot and a tiny fenced-off pool. The place was a motel that had been converted to apartments. It appeared to Mark that the conversion mainly involved scraping the word MOTEL off the sign and replacing it with APTS. The faded image of the old letters still remained under the new ones.
"It's about the kidnapping and murder of Connie Standiford," Mark said. "I'm assisting the police in their investigation."
"So you're like a doctor private eye," she said, adding with a smile, "Dr. Barnaby Jones."
Mark wanted to get past the introduction and get to the point of his visit, so he gave up.
"Yes, that's it," he said.
"My parents loved Barnaby Jones, though I couldn't figure out how that old guy could chase anybody without croaking on the spot. No offense."
"None taken," Mark said. "Could I come inside and talk with you for a few minutes?"
She shrugged and let him in.
The air was stale and smelled of old cigarettes and beer. Beyond that, the tiny, boxy apartment was surprisingly neat. There was a kitchenette, a linoleum-floored dining area, and a doorway in the back leading to what looked like a small bedroom and bath. Mark took a seat at the Samsonite dinette table. In the center of the table was an arrangement of plastic fruit and fake flowers.
"I understand you were living with Jason at the time of the kidnapping."
She sat down across from him and rubbed her eyes with the index finger and thumb of one hand. "Not here, that was back in the day."
"The day?"
"When I was still dancing at the MGM Grand. Jason was working construction, so the money was good," she said. "We had a nice place in Summerlin. They had a pool and a hot tub there."
"Do you ever hear from him?" Mark asked.
Patsy shook her head. "Every year or so the lady from the FBI comes and asks me the same question. Nope, haven't heard from him since the kidnapping."
"What do you know about his family?"
"They thought I was a slut," she said.
"Who did?"
"His stuck-up sister," Patsy said. "Lived in Chicago, married an insurance salesman, had a couple bratty kids. She doesn't hear from him either."
"How do you know?"
"A, because he hated her prissy guts, and B, because the FBI lady told me," Patsy said. "Jason came out here to get away from his family, so I don't think he ran back there with his million bucks."
Most of the details about Jason's life could be found in Standiford's files. Mark was looking for something else; he just didn't know what it was. For now, he was just adding color to the stark facts in the files, hoping that somewhere down the line he'd hear or see something that would bring the disparate pieces of information together into a clue about Jason's new identity.
"What did he like to do when he wasn't working?" Mark asked.
"You mean besides lay around with me?" She scratched under an armpit while she thought about it. "Well, Jason liked to drink beer and watch sports or The Simpsons. He liked going to buffets a lot, especially ones with fried chicken. Sometimes he'd play basketball with his friends."
"Any characteristic behavior?"
"Huh?" She gave Mark a blank look.
"Things he'd do that were uniquely Jason," Mark said. "The little things that define a personality."
"He pissed like a horse twenty times a day and never put the toilet seat down," Patsy said. "He'd pick food out of his front teeth with the edge of a piece of paper. Didn't shave on weekends. Chewed his nails when he was upset. He was thirsty all the time, always had a Big Gulp in his car. Liked to put catsup on rice, which is pretty disgusting, if you ask me. And he wore lots of tank tops and sleeveless shirts."
"Which leads me to my next question," Mark said. "How would you describe him physically?"
"Great," she said.
"Could you be more specific?"
"Buff, tight, in good shape," she said. "How much more specific do you want me to get?"
"Any defining characteristics?"
"Oh yeah," she said, grinning.
"I meant tattoos, scars, birthmarks."
"He had a little scar on his forehead from a construction accident," Patsy said, scratching under her armpit again. "A few two-by-fours fell on his head. Other than that, he had dry skin and calluses on his hands from working. Jason hated putting on skin lotion, but I wouldn't let him touch me with those sandpaper hands."
"What did he dream about?"
"Me," she grinned.
"What else?"
"Me with big knockers," she said, "which he missed, because I didn't get the implants until after he left."
Mark may not have known what the information was that he was looking for, but he knew that wasn't it. "What I meant was, how do you think he would have spent his share of the ransom?"
"He didn't spend any of it on me, as you can see," she said, with a sweep of her hand to take in the apartment and her existence in it. "He probably did what all men would do with big bucks. Bought a sports car, a Playboy Playmate, and a penthouse apartment someplace."
If he'd learned anything useful, Mark wasn't aware of it. All he wanted to do was leave. He smiled and rose from his seat. "Thank you, Miss Durkin. You've been a big help."
She got up, too. "You said you're a doctor, right?"
"Yes."
"My armpit won't stop itching. Do you mind taking a look?" She raised her left arm and leaned toward Mark, making sure he got a nice close-up view. "My medical insurance is kind of nonexistent right now."
There were worse places she could have asked him to look, so Mark figured he was getting off easy.
"Sure," Mark sighed, taking his glasses out of his pocket. "Let's see what the
problem is."
After examining Patsy and determining she was suffering from an allergic reaction to one of the deodorants she was using, he advised her to change brands and buy a simple over-the-counter cortisone cream to ease her discomfort.
He then drove out to Henderson, an endless sprawl of new tract homes and big box stores just outside Las Vegas. The town had no main street or discernible character; its identity, if it had ever existed to start with, was subsumed in favor of the sterility and sales-tax revenue provided by Costco, The Home Depot, Sportsmart, Wal-Mart, and Barnes & Noble. What those stores were to shopping, the Lost Trails Hotel & Casino was to gambling.
The Lost Trails was as big as any other casino, without the bloated, amusement park vulgarity or vacation-resort aspirations. Architecturally, it looked like a massive reinterpretation of the Mediterranean-style tract homes and condos that surrounded it, which seemed at odds with the Western theme of the casino. The parking structure wasn't filled with rental cars but with down-market SUVs and sensible mid-sized family sedans with bumper stickers like PROUD PARENT OF A VIEWPOINT SCHOOL HONORS STUDENT! The casino didn't have a showroom, a circus-in-residence, or any fancy restaurants to entice guests through its doors. Instead, it had a twelve-screen movie theater with stadium seating and a twenty-four-hour Chuck E. Cheese outlet.
Mark met Karen Cooper, during her break, at a table in front of Panda Express in the Lost Trails "Chuck Wagon" food court. All the restaurants storefronts, from Sbarro Italian to Mongo's Mongolian BBQ, looked like covered wagons, in keeping with the "Wagon Train of Good Eatin'" motif. Little placards on the tables offered free slot machine spins, movie tickets, and VIP player status to people who cashed their paychecks at the casino.
Five years ago, Karen had been a cashier at the T-Rex with Diane Love, her best friend. Now Karen Cooper worked as a cashier at the Lost Trails. She was dressed in her frontier cashier uniform, a red-checked cotton shirt with the Lost Trails logo stitched on the chest and a pair of denim jeans held up with a Lost Trails imitation silver belt buckle.
"I couldn't stay at the T-Rex after what happened," Karen said, idly moving her chow mein around her plate with her fork. "I just couldn't face the people there."
"But you had nothing to do with the kidnapping," Mark said.
"With Diane gone, who were they gonna take it out on? Me. Her best friend, her roommate. The one who should have known."
"Did she ever express any resentment toward the Standifords before?"
"She resented anyone with money because she never had it herself," Karen said. "It always struck me as kind of ironic she ended up counting cash all day."
"Did Diane ever tell you anything about her past?"
"You mean about her old boyfriends and stuff?"
"I'm more interested in her family."
"She grew up in Vegas. She was an only child. Her mom was a maid at the Trop. Her Dad was a pool man. Supposedly, there's lots of work for a good pool man in Vegas."
"Was he a good pool man?"
"I suppose so," Karen said, studying the orange chicken chunks on her plate as if they were ram gems. "But he was a lousy card player. Diane said he was always in debt to somebody, until he just disappeared one day. Her mother told her he ran off, but Diane always thought some pissed-off loan sharks planted him in the desert somewhere. She'd read in the paper about some new housing development breaking ground and would say, like a joke, 'I wonder if they'll find Dad.' I never thought it was very funny. Kinda sad, actually."
Mark looked past Karen at the gamblers. The majority were middle-class whites, with a scattering of retirees.
There were a few people in wheelchairs parked in front of the slot machines, pumping in quarters. He knew these weren't tourists. These people lived here. And instead of depositing their paychecks in a bank like everybody else, they thought it was a good idea to cash them at a casino instead. After all, the bank didn't give them free movie tickets or a VIP player membership card. Mark wondered how many men like Diane's father there were in the casino, feeding their mortgage into a dollar slot machine.
"Where's her mother now?" Mark asked.
"Not driving around in a Mercedes, if that's what you're getting at," Karen stopped her exploratory poking at her orange chicken and switched to shaping her fried rice into a neat square with her fork. "Last I heard, she was still cleaning rooms."
"What were her relationships with Stuart Appleby, William Gregson, and Jason Brennan like?"
"I didn't know she had relationships with any of them until the FBI knocked on my door and told me what they'd done," Karen said. "I couldn't believe it. I was in a state of shock for days. Connie Standiford was a good kid. How could anyone, how could Diane, do that to her?"
"Did you know any of the kidnappers?"
"Sure, I knew Stuart," she said. "He was Standiford's flunky at the T-Rex. We'd see him around. But I never heard of the other two. Diane had this whole secret life. The woman I knew was just a lie. The only thing about her I know was true was the stuff about her parents. I gave the things Diane left behind to her mom. You know, like the stereo, her clothes, a TV. Her mom was just devastated by the whole thing."
Mark looked at the perfectly arranged, neatly segregated portions of her untouched combination plate. The conversation had ruined her appetite but not her sense of order. She was probably a great cashier.
"Did Diane ever talk to you about her dreams?"
"How do you mean?" she asked.
"I'm looking for something that might point me toward where she is today and who she might be," Mark said. "If she could reinvent herself as somebody, who would it be?"
"She loved to ski, water or snow, didn't matter," Karen said. "So I suppose she'd find some way to make a living off it. Maybe she's in Tahiti or the Alps. She dreamed about going to both those places someday."
Mark asked Karen a few more questions, and learned that Diane had a scar from a dog bite on her left hand, and wore glasses for nearsightedness.
He left the Lost Trails Hotel & Casino feeling no closer to finding Diane Love than he'd been before he got there.
Karen Cooper was wrong. Diane Love did send her mother some money. Every year on her mother's birthday, Diane sent $5,000 in cash in a manila envelope. Wyatt knew this because every year he intercepted the parcel before it was delivered and kept the money.
Actually, he intercepted all of her mother's mail before it was delivered, passing it on only after he'd screened it for any clues to Diane's whereabouts. So far, he hadn't found anything that might help him locate the fugitive.
The money was sent from a different major American city each year. Seattle. San Francisco. Phoenix. Boston. New York. Wyatt doubted Diane was moving that frequently. He assumed she traveled to those cities simply to mail the parcel from a spot as far away from her actual location as possible.
Wyatt had scoured airline, train, and bus manifests covering the two or three days of arrivals to each city in advance of each postmarked parcel, looking for any names that recurred among the thousands on the lists, Of course, she also could have driven to each of the cities, but there was no way he could think of to track that.
He found a few recurring names on the airline and train manifests and spent a few weeks searching those people out. He followed the women and sifted through every detail of their personal lives until he was absolutely certain none of them was Diane Love.
During the time Mark talked with Karen Cooper, Wyatt was sitting a few tables away, his back to them, eating a slice of pizza and eavesdropping on their conversation through an earpiece that received transmissions from the listening de vice in Mark's cell phone. He'd kept his eyes on the gamblers, never turning to look at the man he was following.
Wyatt had known, of course, that Standiford's security system would detect the devices he'd put in Mark's cell phone. He also knew that they wouldn't tell the doctor anything about it. The discovery would only underscore to them that Wyatt was on the job and earning every cent
that he was being paid.
Although Wyatt didn't hear what Standiford told Mark, he knew everything that the grieving father could possibly say. The only thing Wyatt didn't know was whether or not Standiford would reveal that he'd hired someone to do what the FBI had failed to accomplish.
It didn't make a difference to Wyatt one way or another. Mark Sloan already knew somebody was out there and who was paying for it or the doctor wouldn't have arranged the meeting. And Standiford didn't know who Wyatt was, where he came from, or what motivated him to pursue his line of work. There was nothing Standiford could say that could harm him.
So far, Mark hadn't learned anything Wyatt didn't already know. Wyatt was deeply disappointed. His expectations of Mark Sloan, especially after the doctor's performance in Kauai, had been high. Unfortunately, since Mark returned to the mainland, he'd been bumbling around aimlessly, learning nothing even remotely useful.
Wyatt was beginning to wonder whether his surveillance of Mark Sloan was a valuable use of his time, if he might get closer to Diane Love, Jason Brennan, and William Gregson using his tried-and-true methods.
Then again, as far as those three targets were concerned, Wyatt's methods hadn't produced any results.
He decided he had nothing to lose by sticking with Mark Sloan for a few more weeks.
Wyatt was a patient man. It was just a matter of time be fore justice would be done.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
United Furniture occupied a busy corner on a street it shared with Garrett's Furniture, Thomasville Furniture, Ethan Allen, Kales' Furniture, Levitz Furniture Showroom, and Ron's Bar Stools & Dinettes.
If there was a furniture war in Nevada, this was the front line.
Mark parked in front of United Furniture and walked into the store, where he was assaulted by blasts of cool air and elevator music so intense he wanted to run back to his car. But he bravely soldiered on, down the long row of recliners, to a huddle of salesmen who looked like they'd bought their suits a Wal-Mart. One of the salesmen, a pudgy, slightly balding man in his forties, peeled off from the rest and approached Mark, his arm outstretched, an impossibly large, joyous smile on his face. It was as if Mark had walked in with the cure for cancer in one hand and a signed agreement for world peace in the other.
