by Sharn Hutton
An hour or so passed in a tense silence: Dinwiddy filling in every last field he could; Greenway snacking from the vending machine and creaking in his chair. He looked over Dinwiddy’s work and made no criticism.
“Goddam lazy clerks,” he mumbled and punched a number out on his phone. “Detective Greenway, LVMPD. I need a status update on one male, Jeremy Brian Adler, possible John Doe.” He said it with such authority that Dinwiddy was sure that the operator at the other end of the line would just spit the facts right out.
“Admitted two nights ago… Yes, I am aware of your situation… Yes, I understand you have a backlog. I’m pretty damn busy here myself, but you don’t see me blaming it on the public.” Greenway flicked a look to Dinwiddy, who suddenly found his reel of red cotton exceptionally interesting.
“No. Thank you,” said Greenway tossing down the receiver. “Goddam medics think they’re above us all. If we can’t get anywhere over the phone, we’ll have to go down there and start knocking heads together.”
Dinwiddy was all for action, though slightly concerned about the physical contact.
“Come on, let’s get over to the Grand. You can drive, my car’s in the shop.”
~
Dinwiddy slid behind the wheel and commenced switch checks: wipers; indicators; hazards; ventilation flaps set horizontal; handbrake off and on and off again.
He looked over to Greenway. “Click clack, front and back,” he said and waited for Greenway to put on his belt before pulling away. They rode in silence and pulled up out front.
“I’m going to take a look at the crime scene. Check in with the manager and see if you can get me an interview room,” said Greenway. Dinwiddy could see that he’d made himself boss in their relationship and he supposed that would be alright, provided Dinwiddy could carry on with his own lines of enquiry too. He watched Greenway’s back disappear into the lift and made his way over to a smiling clerk in a convenient gap at the lobby desk.
“Ma’am, my name is Detective Dinwiddy of the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department and I need to speak with Donald Spink, resident on the 4th floor. It’s a matter of urgent police business.”
“I’ll check his room, officer.” The clerk tapped out the number and held a handset to his ear. Dinwiddy could hear the burr of the call: over and over and over. He drummed his fingernails against his teeth.
“I’m sorry, officer, but there’s no reply.”
Dinwiddy flopped open the ever present file, slid a hand-written card from a pocket and handed it to the clerk. “Please have him call me on this number as soon as possible.” He looked into the clerk’s eyes. “It’s a matter of urgent police business.”
“Will do.”
“I also have a note for Mr Jackson, more information required for my investigation. Would you see that he gets it please? It’s a matter-”
“—of urgent police business,” finished the clerk with a grin.
Dinwiddy looked at him blankly. “That’s right. In fact, I see him at the end of the counter. I’ll deliver it personally.”
Dinwiddy made his way along the smooth counter to stand before him. “Mr Jackson.”
Mr Jackson smiled and Dinwiddy passed over the envelope.
“Some more information required, if you would.”
Mr Jackson shrugged his assent and Dinwiddy continued. “Actually, sir, would you be able to arrange an interview room for the department’s use? We’ll need to get statements from housekeeping and the lobby staff and guests in neighbouring rooms. I will also require assistance viewing in-house camera footage, as reserved.”
“I’ll check to see who and what we have available. If you could give me ten minutes or so?”
“Of course, Mr Jackson. Thank you kindly.”
Dinwiddy was glad to have a little space to clear his head. The arrival of Greenway had settled over him in an itchy cloud that left him feeling edgy and oppressed so he decided on a breath of air outside in his ten minutes.
Twenty steps to reach the door, another thirty-three took him off the property and onto the street. By his calculations he could take another three hundred before having to think about turning around.
Arriving on The Strip, he saw the Monte Carlo: the façade of its tower blackened in waves up to the fifth floor and hoardings that ran the length of its frontage, hiding the activities behind from the pavement and prying eyes. He crossed the street for a closer look.
Burly security loomed by a makeshift entrance, staring down a hopeful news crew angling for a new lead. People came and went in teams, brushing the newsmen away. Dinwiddy walked alone.
They spotted the straggler and hustled over to meet him. The interviewer thrust a bulbous microphone to Dinwiddy’s chest. “Channel 6 News. Can you give us any more on the arsonists, officer? Was it a terrorist attack? Was it a casino heist?”
Dinwiddy stepped backward blinking, trying to put some space between them.
“What are the American public to deduce from the secrecy, officer? Should we be afraid in our beds?”
“No. No!” Dinwiddy said with a vigorous shake of his head, “I’m not involved in the investigation of the Monte Carlo people. I’m on a murder case.”
“A murder case!” The reporter’s eyes flung wide and he slapped at his cameraman to pay attention.
Their excitement reignited Dinwiddy’s own. He’d never been interviewed by a reporter before. He sure wasn’t in Wetumpka anymore. He supposed they got followed round by news crews all the time here.
“What’s your name? Can you tell us all about it, officer? Who’s the victim?”
Dinwiddy cleared his throat and looked into the lens. He spoke low and slow. “My name is Detective Dinwiddy. I am investigating the disappearance and suspected murder of one Jeremy Brian Adler, a British man.”
“Do you have any suspects, detective?”
“Well, I am still conducting my investigation,” he nodded over to the reporter then back to the lens, “But there are certainly some individuals I would like to interview.”
The reporter licked his lips. “Who? Who was it? Do you have any leads?”
Dinwiddy flipped open his folder and pulled out a photo. This was great: he could appeal to the public for assistance. He showed it to the camera.
“This is the victim, Jeremy Brian Adler, age forty-two. I want to find out about his movements on Friday and Saturday just gone. If anyone has any information I’d be mighty grateful to receive it at the LVMPD. Thank you.”
The reporter’s jaw was flapping.
“I didn’t figure on getting help from the TV people. Thank y’all.” He leaned in to shake the reporter’s hand, who had to fumble away the microphone to oblige. He nodded to the other members of the crew and turned away to head back to the MGM.
His ears buzzed with excitement. Things sure moved fast out here. The folks back home would never believe it.
SIXTY-THREE
ADAM PASSED GRITTY EYES AROUND THE ROOM’S UNNATURAL DARKNESS. A misshapen brown blanket, dangling from its corners, stretched unevenly across the window. Sunlight fought against its gritty fibres, but managed only to bring a dull amber glow to the squalor. As Adam’s eyes became accustomed, he picked out the form of a woman he recognised as Rita, but he was shaky on the detail of who she actually was. For now she was sleeping, fully clothed, head resting on her bag, puffing out great snorts of breath that rattled at her fleshy lips.
Adam pushed himself up onto one elbow, feeling the creak of his back and stiffness in his chest.
“You alive then,” said a toneless voice behind him and Adam strained his neck around to see Seb, standing over him and pulling on a joint. The sweet smoke drew at Adam’s gut and he covered his mouth to quell a retch.
“You had us all shitting it last night, man. Last thing I need is a corpse on my turf.” Seb shuffled from side to side.
“Thanks for your concern,” said Adam, sliding himself across the grubby linoleum to lean against the wall. He bent his legs up t
o stop from keeling over and hugged at his thighs.
This was a new low. A night spent abusing coke had paid him back with a catastrophic downer that left him wishing he really were dead. He leant his forehead on his knees and felt the sinking dread of revelations yet to be remembered.
“Where am I?” he managed and Seb laughed.
“You had some kind of a fit down in the lobby, man, and Rita wouldn’t let us leave you there.” He sucked on his teeth. “Besides, a fucked up homey in your hallway’s bad for business.” He punched Adam on the shoulder, but lost interest when he didn’t react.
Seb settled in a lawn chair in the centre of the room and tapped his joint into a beer bottle on the floor. “I suppose you feeling pretty fucked up and all,” he said and Adam thought that was a fair summation.
“I have to get out of here,” Adam muttered and struggled to his feet, scanning around for the exit.
Seb’s place was a studio dive. A mattress squashed up into one corner had a stained quilt flopped across its naked surface at an angle, draping through an overflowing ashtray on the floor. One other lawn chair, aside from the one that Seb was currently relaxing in, and a plastic patio table and chairs over in the kitchenette was the sum total of actual furniture in the whole place. The rest of Seb’s possessions seemed to be stuffed into black rubbish bags or tossed onto the floor. The air was thick with carbon dioxide, stale booze and bile. Adam needed to leave.
He headed for the only visible door, to the side of the kitchenette, pausing to lean against the counter top while his torso cramped in pain.
“You should go to the hospital, man. Last night you was proper fucked up,” Seb offered.
The hospital. An ambulance, and fire trucks: pictures started playing in Adam’s mind. Jerry. Jerry on the bathroom floor. Jerry on a gurney. The blood. “Oh God.” Adam’s hands rose to his face.
Seb got to his feet and strolled behind the counter to rattle around on the shelves beneath. “I got M,” he said, producing a zip-top bag of small white tablets. “You can have some on the house, seeing as I’d like to get you out of here and all.”
Adam dropped his hands away to look. “M?”
“Morphine. You in pain right? Here, take couple of these puppies. That’s right, get them down. And here’s a couple more for the road.” Adam swallowed away the rough chalk residue and grasped the remaining pills in his sweating palm. Seb gave him a gold-toothed knowing smile and swaggered over to the door. He pulled a thick metal rod up out of its cradle and swung it back, before sliding back a dead bolt and pushing back a latch. “Can’t be too careful,” he said, clearing the way for Adam to leave. And leave he did.
The hallway wasn’t much of an improvement on Seb’s. The air stank of piss and the walls were scraped and dirty, the only sign of fresh paint in the amateur scrawls of graffiti on the walls. The solid metal doors of the lift wore an ‘out of order’ sign so Adam started down the stairs, leaning heavily against the wall. The memories came thick and fast: Adora’s disappearing act; his anger at Jerry, at himself. How could he and Rachel be together now? His plans had come to nothing but trouble.
He stumbled down two flights, through a lobby area and finally out into the sun. His eyes smarted with the glare and he lifted his arm across his face to stop the shards of sunlight that dug into his brain. His head spun and his body felt ready to crumble.
A wide alleyway ran down the side of the block and a doorway stepped away to the side, which offered Adam a shady spot to gather himself. He slumped into its corner and threw back the other two morphine tablets. He’d just take a couple of minutes to let them kick in and then he’d get on his way.
He was kidding himself, of course. Adam’s poor abused body wasn’t going anywhere just yet. The only travelling he’d manage for now was in the leaps of reasoning in his mind. Jerry was out there, somewhere: a damaged witness to his madness. A witness to how out of control he had become. Adam had to find him, find him now and finish this.
SIXTY-FOUR
HE WAS WEARING A GROOVE INTO THE PAVEMENT when the manager showed up with her keys. She was somewhat less communicative this afternoon, but Dinwiddy had enough enthusiasm for the both of them. It took a while to fire up the systems and Dinwiddy paced the whole time. He’d left Greenway over at the MGM, waiting around for the arrival of potential witnesses and lining them up for interview later. That man had issues that Dinwiddy didn’t care to guess. Momma would have licked him into shape.
“Video’s up.”
Dinwiddy took up his position, flicked through the carriages until he found the right one and watched the thirty-minute journey.
For a while the subject sat alone, facing away from the camera, gradually slumping down over himself. He looked kind of despondent already and Dinwiddy started to wonder if he’d made a mistake. At one stop the carriage emptied out considerably and a suited man came over. He had an arrogant swagger and a sarcastic smile.
Looked like he was talking but, Adler didn’t want to listen. The new guy did some poking in his shoulder and leaned in real close, intimate. It was Adler that broke it up, but the back of his head didn’t give too much away.
The new fella was still talking with a sneery look on his face. He puffed out his chest and looked up along the carriage. Freeze frame. Dinwiddy had seen that face before. He scrabbled into his wallet to retrieve the picture of the business associate, Donald Spink.
“There you are.” He looked back to the screen.
Adler was up on his feet, the other guy laughing and pushing him around. There was a tussle and Adler got pushed to the floor. The other fellow, Spink, stood lording over him then made off ahead, leaving him sprawled there. Donald Spink, well, well. He had prime suspect written all over him.
Dinwiddy had the manager make a copy of the footage from carriage two of the 16:35 southbound and tucked the disk into a slim pocket in his folder.
He had something here that might even make Greenway smile.
SIXTY-FIVE
SPINK WAS ON THE INSIDE NOW, although he never imagined it would be like this. Unassuming swinging doors had taken him away for the trampled paths of the public’s ebb and flow, down quiet corridors and into a windowless meeting room. Dimensions that could easily have accommodated a hundred delegates stood mostly empty, save for a single long table, three red velour conference chairs lined up along each side. Together, they squatted in the centre of the gaudy carpet, spare chairs stacked in towers against the walls.
Spink sat alone at the table, tinkering with the fake Rolex on his wrist. It might be worth a few dollars to someone, might be enough to make a stake to get him rolling. Otherwise his money was all gone. The casino had chewed him up, but still held him captive in its bowels. He looked around the otherwise empty room and wondered why they wanted him here; how long he’d have to wait.
When one of the double doors finally swished open, it was a man in shabby civilian clothes that led the way ahead of a stiff, neat uniformed police officer, who pinched a smart document wallet under his arm. Dressed in the baggy black of a fat man, the shabby one reached out his hand across the table for Spink to shake. “Detective Greenway, this is my colleague, Detective Dinwiddy.” Spink shook the hand that was offered for the briefest of clinches, before it was snatched away by Greenway, who flopped down into his chair, like a soft bag of donuts.
Spink looked to Detective Dinwiddy, who busied himself unzipping his wallet, taking from it a small Dictaphone, a notepad and a pencil. He laid them straight, one beside the other, before lifting his head to meet Spink’s questioning stare.
“Good afternoon, Mr Spink,” he said with his southern lilt, finally addressing him.
Spink nodded, attempting a flicker of a smile. “Good afternoon, gentlemen.” He leaned his forearms on the table, trying to assert some dominance, “Now, what’s this all about?”
Dinwiddy clicked down a button on his Dictaphone. “We will be recording this interview for our files. It’s standard police procedure, ple
ase do not be alarmed.”
Spink’s eyes tracked down to the recorder.
“If you should answer any of our questions with a physical gesture, please be aware that it will be described for the recording.”
Spink nodded and, before Dinwiddy had a chance to describe him, added, “OK, fine.”
Detective Greenway spoke from his slouch. “Please state your name for the recording.”
“My name is Donald Spink.”
“Also present is Detective Greenway and Detective Dinwiddy, LVMPD,” he continued. “Now, Mr Spink. Can you tell me how you spent Friday and Saturday last?”
Spink looked into Greenway’s frowning eyes. It was clear he wasn’t going to tell him what this was about. Well, Spink was no fool—he’d keep his account basic.
“Friday was my first full day here. I got myself over to the Conference Centre bright and early. Stayed there all day.”
“You’re here for an event?”
“TEKCOM. I’m here to win new business for my firm.”
“Going well?” Greenway fixed Spink in a stare.
“Yes. Great.” Spink shuffled in his seat.
“What did you do after that?”
Spink thought about his ride back on the monorail: how he’d preened like a cat at his own cleverness; how he’d knocked Adler on his inferior arse. “I went back to my hotel; had a couple of drinks in the bar; spent some time in the casino.”
