Casino Girl: A Gripping Las Vegas Thriller

by Leslie Wolfe

  “What, you’re saying it’s my fault, now?” Holt snapped.

  “Whoa, guys, we’re all after the same thing,” I intervened. “We want TwoCent to pay for what he did. Let’s find a way to get us there.”

  They both agreed; Gully with a rather hopeless undertone, and Holt still visibly fuming.

  “Detective, I need to prep you for tomorrow. Please come by my office in about two hours,” Gully said, looking straight at me, and then he walked away.

  We drove back to the precinct in silence, a grim, loaded silence that neither of us dared to break. I was afraid of the questions that could arise, the truths that I wasn’t prepared to share, the suspicions I was harboring myself. As he pulled over in his parking spot and cut the engine, he let out a sigh and turned toward me.

  “Thanks for everything, for having my back,” he said. “I’m really sorry for all this.”

  Bollocks… Bloody, hairy bollocks the size of Volkswagens. We’re still in the game, partner.

  I wasn’t ready to lay down and die, not yet. I wasn’t defeated, and if I wasn’t, neither was Holt. I still had plenty of fight left in me, and that infatuated arse, Volo, was going to regret the day he ever put my name on a bloody witness list. And I knew, right then and there, that whatever I chose to do, Holt would be right there with me, fighting all the way. But he’d better not ask me what I was planning to do; some things are better left unsaid.

  “Nothing to be sorry about, Holt. We haven’t lost the war; we just saw the enemy draw closer and shoot one across the bow, that’s all.”

  I felt a strange wave of excitement as I kept thinking of the challenge ahead. Instead of being afraid of the looming testimony scheduled for the next day, I was exhilarated, crazy as it seemed, because I knew one thing for sure: I could never take that stand.

  The corner of Holt’s mouth stretched in a tentative smile, but a phone call interrupted it.

  He took the call on the car’s media center. It was Fletcher. It was about bloody time we heard from him.

  “Hey, guys, have I got some news,” he said in a chipper voice. “Guess what the cat dragged in? The piece of work is waiting for you in Interrogation Two.”

  A few minutes later, we found Norm Chaney cuffed to the scratched table, cussing and kicking like a blabbering plonker when he saw us walk in. The small room reeked with the smell of his sweat, of his fear.

  I laughed and propped my hands on my hips. “Well, hello, Mr. Chaney.”

  Holt requested a Crime Scene tech with a mobile fingerprint scanner and then he leaned against the wall.

  “Want to do us all a favor and give us your real name?” Holt asked, but he only got grunts and oaths in response. Chaney, or whatever his real name was, had stopped trying to fool anyone about his true colors.

  “We know you’ve done hard time,” Holt continued calmly, “only we don’t know for what. We’ll know in about ten minutes, when the tech gets here and scans you in. But that’s when I’ll also mark your file as ‘noncooperative.’ You know what that does for perps like you?

  Chaney glared at Holt with murder in his eyes, his mouth gaped open, frozen in a snarl.

  “Nothing much for now. That will only come into play at sentencing. The judges tend to give noncooperative felons the maximum sentence, for each item on their list of charges. Concurrent, huh, partner? Or…?”

  “It’s consecutive sentences for noncoops, always consecutive,” I replied with feigned indifference. “Come on, let’s get out of here. Crime Lab will sort this out. I’m hungry.”

  I wasn’t even lying. The events of the afternoon had made lunch impossible and the adrenaline jolt I got during Holt’s testimony had left me ravenous.

  Holt smiled and opened the door for me. As I stepped outside, the perp made a guttural noise and we stopped.

  “Kemsley,” he muttered, spraying saliva between his chipped front teeth as he spoke. “Bill Kemsley.”

  “What were you nailed for, Bill?” Holt asked.

  He chewed on a dirty, stained fingertip for a second or two. “Sex with a minor,” he finally said, mumbling the words so badly we could barely understand what he was saying.

  “How old was the minor?” Holt asked with a certain dark intensity in his voice. Kemsley lowered his gaze under his scrutiny.

  “She was eleven, but she looked—”

  “Don’t even bother,” I snapped at him just as the Crime Lab technician walked in.

  His nametag read, “Shawn,” no last name. He didn’t smile, barely acknowledged us, and proceeded immediately to scan the perp’s right index finger with his device. A few moments later, a chime announced the record had been found.

  Shawn looked at Holt and me, waiting for permission before sharing his findings in the presence of the suspect.

  “By all means, go ahead, I’m sure he knows everything you’re about to share,” I said.

  “William Kemsley, forty-two. Long rap sheet, starting with a couple of B&Es and drug charges to aggravated sexual assault. Early release after three years served on the last sentence. Active warrant; wanted for skipping parole.”

  “See? I told you,” Holt said cheerfully. “I can smell a con a mile out.”

  The technician gathered his stuff quietly and disappeared.

  “Thank you, Shawn,” I said while he was closing the door behind him. “So, Mr. Kemsley, why did you kill Crystal Tillman? She made you, didn’t she? She was threatening to drop a dime on you, is that it?”

  A look of pure terror appeared in his eyes. “What? I didn’t kill Crystal, I swear!”

  “Then why were you fleeing the state?” Holt asked. “And why did you lie to us about your job?”

  Kemsley had been constantly shaking his head, as if to repel a resilient nightmare.

  “I saw the way you looked at me last night,” he said, wringing his hands. The movement made his cuffs rattle.

  “Then why not run last night?”

  “I thought maybe I’d pulled it off, you know, thrown you off my scent. But I saw you at school.”

  “What were you doing at that school, anyway? You don’t strike me as the concerned guardian of a minor,” Holt asked.

  Kemsley lowered his eyes, mumbling something I couldn’t understand. I slammed my hand against the table’s surface. “Louder.”

  He didn’t say another word, his lips pressed closely together, and his fists clenched, white-knuckled.

  “I see,” I said, “you like hanging around schoolyards, don’t you?”

  He didn’t reply; he just shot me a glare filled with hatred and curled his lip in a snarl.

  Holt grabbed a pen and paper and slammed them on the table, in front of him.

  “Start writing,” he ordered, while Kemsley still stared at his handcuffs, shaking his head.

  “What?”

  “Everything,” Holt replied. “The entire story of your miserable, good-for-nothing life. Who sold you the fake ID. Everything you did, said, or thought of doing to Tina. All your interactions with Crystal, and how you killed her.”

  Then he opened the door and invited me to go ahead. “Come on, partner, we’re late for dinner.”

  “Hey, wait a minute,” Kemsley shouted, tugging violently at his restraints. “I didn’t kill anyone! I swear I didn’t.”

  I waited for Holt out in the hallway, while he turned and said to Kemsley in a conspirative whisper accompanied by a wink, “Go ahead, write. Convince me.”

  24

  Suggestion

  We didn’t have the time to grab dinner, or lunch for that matter. I was due in the ADA’s office for court prep, and it was already past six. In passing, I swiped an apple from a fruit basket neatly wrapped with a silk bow and a card that had been delivered to the attention of our sheriff, knowing he wouldn’t mind. Holt followed suit and helped himself to a pear.

  Wolfing that crispy apple in front of Holt’s desk, I read quickly through my emails. A note advised me I now had my own desk, only a few feet away from Holt’s
.

  “I’ve got to run; Gully’s waiting for me,” I said, talking with my mouth full. My mother, a formally educated British woman, would’ve slapped me right there, in front of a bullpen full of cops, if she saw me do that. Embarrassed, I swallowed the half-chewed bite and smiled apologetically.

  “Are you coming back here after court prep?”

  “Probably not,” I replied, knowing I absolutely wasn’t going to come back. I had other things to do, like making sure I didn’t have to take that damn stand the next morning.

  “I’ll follow up with Fletcher then, see where he’s at with his lip-reading friends.”

  “Sounds good, see you tomorrow,” I said, then rushed out.

  The Clark County District Attorney’s office was located in the Regional Justice Center building on Lewis Avenue, a short drive away. When I entered Gully’s office, I was still chewing on the last bite of apple, but I made sure I didn’t speak with my mouth full again.

  The ADA seemed tired, drawn, and had a deep ridge across his forehead, all explicable after the turn of events during the earlier court proceedings. A box of Papa John’s pizza was open on his desk, atop file folders and scattered paperwork, a couple of slices untouched. The smell of stale pizza filled the room with the promise of artery-popping, empty calories, and I could think of nothing tastier I’d rather eat, but my stomach had already twisted in a knot, anticipating the ADA’s questions.

  He lifted his eyes from the multipage document he was revising with a red pen in his hand. He barely sketched a smile.

  “Thanks for coming in, Detective. Please give me a few seconds here.”

  I nodded and sat in one of the two chairs in front of his desk. “Sure, take your time.”

  He continued reading, while I observed the details of the small office: the family photos pushed to the side of his desk to make room for case files with archive date stamps on the covers, his jacket thrown casually over the back of a chair by the window, his shoes discarded next to his desk. He’d probably been working sixteen-hour days for a while.

  It was already dark outside, and, in the distance, the colorful world of the Las Vegas Strip barely lit the sky, although the heart of South Las Vegas Boulevard was only a couple of miles away from there. I kept my eyes riveted on the dark, winter sky, wishing I was out there, free, over and done with the ADA and court prep, wishing it were tomorrow and all the nightmare safely behind me.

  I wondered whether Lieutenant Steenstra had already visited with Gully, and if she’d been there, what exactly did she find suitable to share. It occurred to me I could be the one asking questions, at least some of the questions that weighed on my mind, in the hope of avoiding having to share too much with the ADA.

  Because, if my plan was going to work, no one would have to hear my testimony in open court, nor Steenstra’s.

  Gully set aside the document he’d been reading and buried his face in his hands for a moment, massaging his forehead. Classical sign of migraine onset.

  “Hey, do you know what this is about?” I asked. “I wasn’t involved in the case, nor in the arrest. I actually met Holt after he’d collared TwoCent; I’m sure you knew that already.”

  “Yeah,” he replied, while his frown deepened, putting the seed of early wrinkles on the man’s brow. “Chances are you’re being called as a character witness for Detective Holt.”

  “Did you already speak with Lieutenant Steenstra? I’m curious what she—”

  “Let’s focus on you, Detective,” he replied, and that trace of a tired smile disappeared from his lips, replaced by a hint of tension in his jaw.

  “All right,” I replied calmly, crossing my hands neatly in my lap, while the familiar pang of anxiety wreaked havoc in my gut. What the hell had the woman said? Had she filled his ear with her witch hunt suspicions about Holt and the missing kilo of cocaine? She probably did, that twat!

  “Are you aware of any information about Detective Holt that could come out during tomorrow’s proceedings and jeopardize this case?” the ADA asked, pulling me into the present moment.

  There it was, the million-dollar question. But I wasn’t under oath yet, so I gave the answer I’d carefully rehearsed on my short drive over. “No, I am not. I only met the man last week, Gully.”

  He sighed and ran his hands through his thinning hair. If I were anywhere else, and the man in front of me were anyone other than the Clark County ADA, I would’ve sworn he seemed relieved. It was in his body language: in the softened line of his jaw where I’d seen the ripples of tension just moments earlier, in the slouched shoulders, in the relaxed line of his eyebrows.

  I breathed. Okay, that was unexpected. I had an ally I didn’t anticipate I’d find, even if he didn’t know it yet.

  “For tomorrow, Detective, do as you always do when you take the stand. Give short answers to the point, don’t speculate, don’t assume, don’t be emotional, and definitely don’t argue.”

  “Understood,” I replied with a bit of a smile, loaded with all the charm I could throw behind it.

  “Have you been cross-examined by Volo before?”

  “Once or twice,” I admitted, trying to retain my innocent smile when nasty memories invaded my brain.

  “So, you’re familiar with his antics. That’s good.” He leaned back in his chair and seemed to think for a while. “Don’t sweat this, Detective. If you don’t know anything, they’re just wasting the court’s time and yours.”

  I allowed my smile to bloom a little. It was time to make my move, the move that my entire plan hinged on.

  “Hey, Gully, I just had a crazy idea.”

  His eyebrows popped, and a glimmer of interest lit his pupils. “Shoot.”

  “This case barely stands, right? We’ll probably lose?”

  He pressed his lips together for a moment, avoiding my eyes, but then said, “Thank you for the vote of confidence, but yeah, pretty much.”

  “What would be the plea deal you’d offer, if you had all the aces in hand?”

  “First degree homicide, twenty-five to life. He gets to avoid the death penalty.”

  “What if you made TwoCent a plea offer? I mean, tonight? It almost certainly won’t work after tomorrow.”

  “What… now? He’ll laugh in my face, moments after my boss will doubt my sanity and have me committed. I know you want this cop killer behind bars for good, Detective, but he’s not stupid.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I’m not following.”

  “They know what you’re doing tonight, right? Prepping the witnesses that they called to the stand, not you? That’s the norm, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, and?”

  “What if, when seeing the plea deal, they assume you’ve uncovered something during witness prep that gives you the upper hand? TwoCent knows he’s guilty.”

  “Then why would I offer them the deal, instead of crucifying them in court tomorrow?”

  That was an excellent question. I knew the answer from my point of view, but that wasn’t going to do the ADA any good.

  “Why do you normally offer plea deals, and how do you sell them?”

  “We horse trade to get suspects to testify and help us catch bigger fish, or because it saves the state a lot of money. And we like playing the risk down. The sale is quite easy if our case is strong and the death penalty is an option.”

  “All of the above apply here,” I said, thinking hard. “Plus, this is Vegas.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Sometimes, when your hand is crap, all you need is a decent poker face and a good bluff.”

  He scratched his head while mulling over the idea. I could see it in his eyes, he was starting to like it.

  “What do you have to lose?” I asked serenely. “Worst that can happen is they’ll say no.”

  He took a deep breath and rubbed his palms together, energized. “Okay, I’ll do it.”

  “Make sure it expires at eight tomorrow morning, and good luck!”

  I rushed out of there i
n such a hurry, I didn’t bother to close the door behind me. My work was far from done for the evening, and the tricky part was just starting.

  25

  Recon

  From Gully’s office, I stopped briefly by a convenience store and picked up a few items, including some life support in the form of a caffeine-heavy chocolate bar that set me back several hundred calories. I swung by the Scala and left my car somewhere on the busy, third-floor parking garage. Wearing oversized shades and my hair in a loose ponytail under a baseball cap, I exited the hotel and hailed a cab.

  While waiting for the driver to make his way through the tourist-heavy traffic jam, I turned off my LVMPD-issued cell phone, then my personal one. A few minutes later, I was staring at the second-story windows of a mid-rise apartment building in Spring Valley that the smartest geek I’ve ever worked with called home. There was a flicker of TV lights coming from the living room window. I was in luck; Fletcher was home.

  Moments later, I rang the doorbell and was invited in by the surprised techie, dressed casually in shorts and a loose T-shirt; the man likely didn’t own a single clothing item in his own dress size.

  He stood there in the doorway, scratching his head and pushing his thick, unruly curls to the side so he could see where he was walking.

  “May I come in?” I asked, although technically I was already in. He nodded and closed the door behind me. “Oh, I thought that was the TV,” I reacted, noticing a layout that included four immense monitors hooked up to a huge computer lit with colorful LEDs.

  “Nah, that’s just my gaming station.”

  “Could you spare one of those?” I asked, pointing at the empty bottle of Bud Light guilty of leaving wet circles on his desk. “I need to ask a favor.”