The Theory of Insanity

by Rick Newberry

  Las Vegas, which means The Meadows in Spanish, is the largest city in the Mojave Desert—it’s also home to one of the most exclusive real estate developments in the United States. Queen’s Garden.

  “Do I detect a little jealousy?”

  No. Just curious.

  “How so?”

  Let me put it this way, if I had more money than the almighty, I would definitely seek out beach front property, not a stucco mansion where the temperatures rival Hell.

  Samantha giggles.

  The Gardens boast modern mansions, lavish castles, and palatial estates all bordering a three-hundred-acre artificial lake. Surrounded by steel gates, towering walls, and armed security,

  the property protects captains of industry, casino owners—and Morton Sully.

  Doctor Knight is more than a speaker, he’s a franchise—a global brand. And all credit is supposedly due to Morton Sully’s original vision and support of the young Anwar. Sully is more than Dr. Knight’s friend, he’s his agent, lawyer, and mentor.

  The full story of the early collaboration between the two is currently in production. A screenwriter and director have yet to be announced.

  Morton Sully’s total net worth is a closely guarded secret. It’s probably best I don’t know. Anything over a million, to me, is something worth shouting about.

  “Oo, sounds like envy to me.”

  Not in the least. Remember, because of Mexico City, Sully and his team will investigate every single angle of the incident, attempting to hang civil liability on somebody—anybody. If Sully decides my firm was at fault for what happened, we couldn’t begin to fight back. We don’t retain a team of lawyers. Hell, I’m probably the only one on the team who’s even seen the inside of a courtroom. So, no, not envious, just interested—trying to figure out what makes Sully tick. We’re about to question him regarding a bomb in the Vegas Arena and we’d better play it just right, or the ice I’m sure we’re on is going to get a whole lot thinner.

  No more giggles from Sam—no conversation at all. She understands what I’m thinking. Even though Sully is a suspect, he’s capable of making life miserable for me and my team—forever.

  I rent a black Mustang convertible, charge it to the firm, and anticipate Liz’s reaction. She won’t be happy. With the top down and the air on full blast, I follow Charleston Avenue west, deep into the Red Rock Wilderness. The bumpy two-lane road runs past Red Rock Canyon Scenic Drive. After two point three miles, a nondescript turnoff is marked by an iron gate, and protected by a uniformed guard. He’s armed and makes sure everyone knows it—pistols on each hip, a military style bullet belt, and a forty-six-inch tactical shotgun in his hands. He wears a black baseball hat with a shiny gold badge on the front panel.

  A four-wheel jeep is parked next to a squat octagonal guard shack. The guard puffs out his chest when I pull up to the gate.

  “Morning,” I use my “howdy” voice and throw in a smile.

  “What’s your business here?” He says using his “what the hell do you want” voice. No smile.

  “I’m here to see Morton Sully.”

  “Name?”

  “Brooklyn Davis.” I show him my ID. He disappears into the guard shack without a word. I can’t see through the black-out windows, but I’m pretty sure he’s on the phone.

  The outside of the guard shack boasts a series of CCTV cameras, half a dozen antennas for emergency communications, and two satellite discs. The gate is thick, more of a crash barrier to protect against high-speed storming, than for simple entry control. The same material runs left and right across the open desert for miles. I imagine the security package also includes buried motion detectors, night vision cameras, as well as drone coverage thrown in for good measure. The residents absolutely do not want to be disturbed.

  The guard emerges from the shack. He’s holding a white placard. “Put this, face up, on your dash.” I take the placard, imprinted with my license plate number, date, and time, and place it on the dash as instructed. The guard also hands me a map. “Your route is highlighted.” I study the map. A big black X marks the location of the guard shack. A series of blue dots indicate the road I’m to use to arrive at another big black X—Morton Sully’s residence. “Don’t deviate from the route.” Could this be a friendly suggestion, as in “it’s a big desert out there, don’t get lost?” No, this is an order. “Stick to this route, or else.”

  He marches back to the guard shack, waits a good thirty seconds then remotely opens the gate. On a motor that could be timed with a calendar, the gate inches open. As I wait, the gate on the other side of the shack pops open and a convertible leaves the safe confines of The Gardens. I swear I recognize the man in the silver Bentley Continental convertible GT as one of Hollywood’s current bad boys.

  When the gate is fully open, I cross onto The Gardens private road. The road is wider, smoother, and darker than the chunky gray county trail we bounced along to get here. Freshly painted lines invite a certain attitude for this road. I open up the Mustang and easily hit ninety without breaking a sweat. Warm air whips across my face, waking me up, invigorating me for my meeting with Morton Sully. I have yet to see a single structure but already think, man, this is living the good life.

  “You think so?” Sam comes over the ComLink.

  Wide open land, full throttle, and we haven’t even seen the homes, yet. You tell me what’s not to like?

  “Just keep in mind, Morton Sully may be a killer. If he did kill Knight, he’ll also be indirectly responsible for the death of billions more. May I suggest this is not someone you should envy.”

  I ease off the gas and sigh. You’re right, you’re right. I was just fantasizing.

  “Keep your mind on the job. On Anwar. On JoJo.

  All right, already. Time to get my head in the game.

  “What’s your first question going to be?”

  I don’t know…how’s tricks?

  She pauses, then scoffs. “Good morning, Mr. Sully. Sorry to interrupt you at home. Do you think we can go inside and talk?”

  Perfect. “Hey, look at that,” I say out loud, “is that a monastery? Who’d want to live in a place like that?” The road winds around a hill then falls toward a panoramic vista of the lake. The water is as smooth as a sheet of glass. I spot two sailboats off in the distance. We zoom past a towering mansion. “Wow, can you imagine what that place must cost? I wonder how many rooms—”

  “Brooks, remember why we’re here. We’re not house hunting, we’re shopping for a killer. And stop talking out loud, someone might think you’ve gone looney tunes.”

  You’re right, you’re right. Sorry again. It’s just, I’ve never been so close to this kind of money in all my life.

  “Well, put it out of your mind and focus on why we’re here. Besides, you’re dead, money should be the last thing on your mind. Eyes on the road. Stop sign. Follow the map.”

  Sam’s right—depressing, but right. I come to a complete stop, look both ways then ease down on the gas, driving past multi-million-dollar mansions without a second look. After all, in a few hours this Heavenly corner of the world will all be on fire, nuked along with the rest of the planet, and no amount of money or privilege will save them. That’s where I come in.

  “Brooks…”

  Go on, I can hear you.

  “Have you ever asked yourself why Gunther Burns chose Brooklyn Davis, Inc to provide protection for Dr. Knight?”

  So, it’s not just me, you’ve wondered about that, too. Of course I did. My company is understaffed, underequipped, and relatively new. Hell, If I were making the decision on who to hire for this gig, I sure wouldn’t have picked me.

  “Do you think Burns chose you for a reason?”

  Because it would be easier to kill Dr. Knight under my watch?

  “I didn’t mean it quite like that.”

  How did you mean it?

  She sighed. “Like that, I guess.”

  Listen, Sam, we’re here to interview Morton Sully. Let�
��s worry about Burns if, and when, he ever shows.

  “Any idea where he might be?”

  I haven’t even thought about that yet. Right now, we gotta—

  “Whoa, slow down.” Her voice rose. “There it is. Sully’s house is just ahead on the left.”

  3115 Lakeside Run. A three-story castle, complete with fake moat, iron bars on the windows, and a miniature forest of pine trees and willows towering over the right side of the property. I pull into the circular driveway, my tires crunching into the evenly raked gravel.

  When I step out and shut the door, a flock of at least twenty ducks fly overhead, whistling, cooing, grunting, and quacking. They head for the lake. I follow their flight and approach the house. Without warning, a blast sounds just yards from me. I crouch down, my heart racing. One of the ducks flitters, then dive bombs into the water.

  “Fetch.” The word is shouted, military command style. A golden retriever runs off toward the water.

  Morton Sully smiles. “That’ll be lunch.” He breaks open the shotgun and reloads. Keeping the gun pointed down, he approaches me and holds out his hand. “Sorry about the incident yesterday in Mexico. JoJo was a good man.”

  I feel like belting him across his smug, bearded chin. He knew nothing about JoJo Jackson. They never met, never talked. It would have been fine for Sully to simply offer his condolences. He didn’t have to add an ingratiating comment. If only more people could keep their mouths shut and just listen, it would make for a much nicer world—to paraphrase Dr. Knight.

  “Thank you, sir,” I say, “I wonder if we could go inside and talk?”

  “Nonsense. It’s a lovely morning, I’ll have some drinks and snacks brought out here.” He raises his hand and a gangly boy runs from the back of the house toward us. “Coffee or tea?”

  Of course. Why would someone like Morton Sully invite someone like me into their home? I take Dr. Knight’s advice to heart and keep my mouth shut. “Coffee, please.”

  “Eggs, toast, bagels?”

  I shake my head. “No, thanks.”

  He places the shotgun on a picnic table, then turns and faces the dog who is waiting patiently at his feet, duck in mouth. “Drop.” The dog places the bird gently on the grass. Sully turns to the boy. “Take that in to Mrs. Stewart and bring back a tray of coffee. Hurry, now.”

  “Yes, sir.” The boy says, his voice cracking. He picks up the duck and scampers off.

  The boy is at least eighteen years old. A nephew perhaps? A son? No, too obedient to be the relative of a wealthy old man. Probably an intern. Although, the way Sully examines the boy running back to the house—probably more than an intern.

  Time to prod the bull. “Mr. Sully, I’m here to talk about tonight’s speech. After Mexico, it’s clear there’s a plot by a well-organized group to harm Dr. Knight.”

  “Oh, it’s clear, is it? And you know this because…” He takes a silver case from his vest pocket, pulls out a cigarette, and lights up. He inhales deeply, blowing the smoke out hard. “What are you trying to say?”

  “Tell him you think it would be best if we cancelled tonight’s event,” Sam says through the ComLink unit. “See what he says.” Without hesitation I do as she suggests.

  “That’s impossible,” Sully fires back, “it would be a breach of contract. A lawsuit means negative press. They’d win, too. Take away half our gross—maybe more. You don’t know what you’re talking about. If you think there’s a real threat, then put a stop to it. That’s your job.”

  His attention is still on money. I wait for him to put it back on me. I want to study his face and get a read on his reaction. “There’s been a rumor about a bomb at the arena tonight.” He doesn’t budge, his gaze remains steady.

  “Is that what your girl, Miss Childs, called about? A bomb? Easy enough to sort out. Use dogs, use bomb-sniffing instruments. Examine every inch of that arena. Whatever it takes, do you understand? I’m going to be there tonight on that stage in support of my friend, Anwar Knight. My wife will attend as well, along with my children. For that reason alone, the arena had better be safe. If you’re company can’t handle it, I’ll hire someone who can. Well?”

  Well, I think we can cross Sully’s name off the list. He doesn’t seem like the suicide bomber type to me. He’d never put his wife and kids in danger.

  Samantha doesn’t say anything. I press my finger to the ComLink. Nothing.

  Sam? Are you there?

  “Well…” Sully persists.

  “Elizabeth Childs is not ‘my girl.’ She’s a vital member of my team—”

  “Just do whatever it takes.”

  The boy comes back with a tray of coffee, but far too late for me to want to drink it.

  I nod and stand. “I’ll be off then.”

  Morton Sully grunts. Another flock of ducks fly low overhead. He raises his shotgun. “Whatever it takes.”

  Bang-Bang.

  “Fetch.”

  XIX

  Richard Blaine stands, arms folded, on the smooth concrete floor of the U.S. Data Arena. Around him workers in dark blue jumpsuits unfold chairs and place them in rows facing an enormous stage at the north end of the multi-purpose amphitheater. The clack-clack-clack of their labor echoes through the cavernous stadium. Richard waves me over.

  I consider myself so lucky to have found him. He’s the most experienced employee at Brooklyn Davis, Inc. At forty-three, he’s also the oldest. Most in my line of work regard age as a liability—I consider it an asset. His exemplary service during four tours in Afghanistan reads like a “How To” of military strategies.

  “Morning, boss,” he says in his normal upbeat mode. “They’re just finishing the second sweep this morning.”

  “How many dogs?”

  “Three sets of EDD’s, boss. The company’s called NationalK9. Supposed to be one of the best in the business. They came up empty last night, and so far, same result today—twice.”

  One fully trained explosive detector dog and trainer isn’t cheap, and we’d already used three sets, three times. Liz is gonna have a fit. “What do you think, Richard? Be honest.”

  He put his hands on his hips and smiled. “Boss, there’s no explosive device in this arena, I’d bet my grandmother’s life on it.”

  “Is your grandmother still alive?”

  “Boy howdy, ninety-seven and going strong. Listen, I’ve been on every catwalk, opened every hatch, and shined a light in every nook and cranny of this damned domed stadium, and I’m telling you there just ain’t nothing here.”

  “You do know that’s a double negative, right?” I know nothing about NationalK9, but I know enough about Sergeant Richard Blaine. “Sorry. Tell the handlers to call it a morning.”

  “Sounds good to me. Why are you so hot for a bomb, anyway?”

  I didn’t know anymore. “Just a hunch.”

  “Listen, boss, these billion-dollar hotels along The Strip are all built on hunches. Maybe it’s time to let this one go.”

  “Copy that. Point me in the direction of the security office.”

  “Sure thing,” he says with a grin, “down that ramp and to the left. The man in charge is Benjamin Grossman. Call him Mr. Benny, he likes that. He doesn’t seem to like much of anything else, but Mr. Benny he likes.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  Richard waves a hand toward the ramp and smiles. “You’ll find out. Have fun, boss.”

  I make my way around the rows of chairs to the south end of the arena and down the ramp. The door to the security office is just to the left. It’s locked tight.

  “Come.” The terse, one-word command follows my knock, accompanied by an irritating buzz. The door clicks open. I look above the threshold into the polished lens of a CCTV camera. At least it’s good to know the security office is secure.

  I shut the door and stare at the smiling face of a seventy-something uniformed guard. He reminds me of a military gnome. Missing most of his teeth, he wears thick, dark rimmed spectacles, and approaches wi
th a distinct limp.

  “Mr. Benny?”

  A bone-white, weathered hand reaches out. “Pleased to meet you.” His crisp voice make the words come fast. “You must be Davis.”

  “Brooklyn, please.” For some reason, I almost ask him to sit back down. I don’t want to keep this poor old guy on his feet any longer than necessary.

  “Care for a nip, Mr. Brooklyn?”

  “Pardon me?”

  Mr. Benny pulls a gunmetal flask from inside his coat pocket and offers it to me. I should decline, but don’t. It’s a cheap Scotch that burns my throat and makes me wince. After clearing my throat, I return the container. He takes a good-sized pull, then lets out a long and satisfying, “Ah.” He wipes his lips and tucks the flask back in his pocket. “Now then, have a seat, Mr. Brooklyn.”

  He returns to the swivel chair behind his desk. I study the room, trying to ignore the struggle he’s having to get comfortable. To the left is a floor to ceiling window, probably a one-way mirror, offering an unobstructed view of the entire arena. To the right, a six by ten American flag hangs on the wall. Behind Mr. Benny is a bank of at least thirty color monitors. I study each screen, trying to decipher the corresponding Dymo tape labels.

  “You’ll never make any sense out of those codes,” he says. “MLB stands for main lobby. RD1 is receiving dock. L2A is level two, section A. It’s all pretty sophisticated, so you better let it go. You won’t be here long enough to figure it out anyway.”

  I smile. “That’s where you come in, Mr. Benny.”

  “Damn straight that’s where I come in. All communications go through my office. I got a team of sixty uniformed guards working for me.”

  “Are they armed?”

  “Nah. Damned lawyers. Too much liability—not like the old days. I got twenty full time staff—maintenance, housekeeping and what not. I also got seventy-five ushers and ticket sellers. Got something else you might be interested in, too.”

  “What might that be, Mr. Benny?”

  “You just come from Mexico, that right? They ain’t got shit down there. We got 33 zone metal detectors, full CCTV with facial recognition—even got a drone. How’s that?”