Fortunately, the coffee shop was almost deserted. Kate bought a latte with a triple shot and sat in the rear with her back to the door. Linear thinking. First step: get my car off the street. From the angle Polhouse had on her when he fired, she didn’t think he would have seen the license plate, but obviously police would be looking for a woman in a white Ford Fusion. Second step: find a place to stay. She’d have to call her friend again to help her check into a hotel somewhere. Third step, she had to get back to work as soon as possible to build her case against Rick Stark.
Step one. Before every law enforcement officer in Clark County was looking for Kate and her car, she had to move. The heat seemed even more oppressive than when she’d walked into Starbucks less than a half hour before. It wouldn’t drop below 100 for hours.
Kate thought the best hiding place for her car would be one of the huge hotel parking structures on the strip. Back on Boulder Highway she continued north and turned on Flamingo. Westbound on Flamingo she stopped at a signal at Pecos Road. She’d been so careful looking for police cars, but she missed the police SUV that stopped behind her, one lane to the left. She saw its outline in her peripheral vision but didn’t dare turn her head. Would attorney Mauser fly down to Vegas? But evading police meant she likely wouldn’t get bailed out. Shit. When the light changed, the left lane inched ahead first. The police cruiser coasted past her, the driver looking straight ahead.
Instead of driving directly to the strip, she turned off Flamingo at the next intersection and zig zagged along back streets. Less traffic to hide in, but fewer black and whites. Having worked at two of the giant strip hotels, Kate knew Vegas back streets. This boosted her comfort level up from scared to death to just partially petrified.
When she finally pulled into an underground parking space in the crowded Venetian/ Palazzo Hotel and Casino, she realized her shoulders--and her whole body--had been tensed up. She relaxed, looked over her shoulder, just to be sure, and took the escalator up to the Venetian.
Marble columns with gilt capitals, elaborately painted frescos, and glistening floors with an Escher-like design make the lobby of the Venetian as ornate as any European palace. Kate barely noticed. Background noise, albeit unique in the world, for someone who did Vegas strip promotion every day for ten years. Kate did notice the people--the reason she was there. In the middle of summer, the hotel buzzed, filled with tourists who wandered about gawking at the colorful ceilings and holding cell phone cameras at arm’s length. Kate was just one of thousands. Hiding in plain sight.
From the lobby she headed to the Grand Canal, a real indoor waterway complete with gondola rides that wound through the hotel under high ceilings painted light blue with white fluffy clouds. Kate found a relatively quiet spot around the corner from a version of St. Mark’s Square. She sat on a woven iron bench and pulled out her disposable phone.
Nina. She was the key to everything. Kate called Busick Motors. Nina Ortega, the receptionist told her, had gone home sick that morning. When she and Nina had had their head-to-head, Kate managed to extract Nina’s cell phone number. She tried that and it went to voice mail.
She didn’t particularly want to call her attorney because she knew what she would say, but Henrietta Mauser was looking more and more like Plan B, and Plan B was starting to look like Plan A. Kate needed to know she was still on her side.
“Kate, where are you?” Mauser said.
“I know who killed Al Busick. It was his stepson, Rick Stark.”
“The police talked to him. Kate where are you? We should talk. The district attorney--”
“Henrietta, if you don’t know where I am, then you can’t be compelled to tell anyone.”
“Our relationship is protected.”
“Just the same, this will make it easier for you.”
Mauser was silent. Kate had made her point.
“Stark is going to flee the country. He’s got a classic car sale set up that’s going to gross $2 million.”
“Why is he--”
“He’s leaving because he doesn’t want to get arrested for Busick’s murder.” Kate thought she said the last word a little too loud. She looked around the indoor made-to-look-outdoor walkway. Everyone was too engrossed in the faux Venice ambiance to notice. She debated whether to tell her about being shot at. Likely it would be on the news.
“Detective Polhouse shot at me today.”
“What?! Where? Are you okay? What happened?”
Kate explained that she was just driving out of her hotel when Polhouse came out of nowhere firing at her.
“This is serious,” Mauser said.
No shit. “I know. A little uncalled for, don’t you think?”
“Outrageous. They’ll hear about this. He should be disciplined, or worse.”
“I hope the media gets it straight. A Reno cop shot at an unarmed woman.”
“I can see to that. Now, when are you coming in?”
“Very soon, I hope. We just need a little more evidence and we’ll have enough to prove Stark did it.”
Attorney Mauser pleaded with Kate to come see her right away so they could prepare her case and then go to the police. But Kate wasn’t going back there without Rick Stark on a platter. She thanked Henrietta and rang off.
Hours later, settled in a Venetian room that made her previous hotel look like Motel 6, she called Lyle.
“Did you get an appointment to see the car?”
“Yes, I’m meeting him at the lot at twelve thirty.”
“You flying?”
“No, I’m going to drive. It’s no more than four hours. And this way, I can bring with me everything we might need.”
“You at home?”
“Yeah, I’m trying to remember what I learned today about automobile provenance. Oh, and I have news about Stark’s provenance--his record. Some minor scrapes, arrests for assault and battery, and he has a conviction for battery. No surprise. Proves what we already knew.”
“But it’s one more piece of evidence.”
“Yeah. So how was your day?”
Kate knew she should tell him, but she didn’t know how.
“Kate?”
“It was a fine day, aside from being shot at by police.”
“What?!”
“I didn’t mean to say it like that.” Kate explained the details and after several minutes of piling on reassuring words to a distressed Lyle, she told tell him about her conversation with Mauser and attempts to contact Nina.
“I even took a cab to her apartment. I knocked and knocked and didn’t get an answer.”
“We’ll camp out on her door tomorrow if we have to,” Lyle said.
“And I had an idea today about how we might get some physical evidence on Stark.”
“So, things are looking up, a little. You sure you’re okay?”
Chapter 52
Lyle recognized Rick Stark immediately from his photo. Stark waited for him on the steps to the Pony Car office as he got out of his car. Lyle had two goals in mind for his visit: First, obviously, to tempt Stark with the possibility of a higher price for his Alfa and thus delay his departure for Reno. Second, Lyle wanted simply to take the measure of the suspected murderer. He was not a shrink, but Lyle had seen plenty of people who had committed violent crimes, for a multitude of reasons. Kate’s description of him fit the profile, but Lyle wanted to see for himself.
Interstate 40 and US 93, over the Colorado River near Hoover Dam, had brought Lyle into Vegas just in time. He parked his Mustang in front of the dealership, listened to the end of “One of These Nights” by the Eagles, and walked toward Stark’s office.
“Larry Daniels,” Stark said stepping down from the office entrance.
“Good guess,” Lyle said, shaking hands. He was on time, dressed professionally, and carried a notepad.
“Would Moreau like a nice Yenko Supercar?” Stark said.
Lyle hesitated too long. He had no idea what a Yenko was. Sounded like a Yugo. Hardly a collector car. Lyle
shook his head.
“Really? We have a nice one.”
“Mr. Moreau is just interested in your Alfa right now.” Was this a test? Did he pass? “Unless you have a Packard.” Lyle hoped to God they didn’t have one.
Stark smiled. “Afraid not. So you just want to see the D’Angelo Alfa.”
D’Angelo Alfa. Lyle knew what that meant. The car had been owned for a short time in the 1960s by Gianna D’Angelo, an Italian-born, Hollywood actress.
“Yes, Gianna’s ride.”
Stark led Lyle into the office. One man sat at a desk across the room. He looked up only briefly when Lyle and Stark came in. “I suppose you’d like to see the paperwork first,” Stark said.
“Normally, but I think I’d like to see the car.” Lyle thought he’d be more comfortable looking at the car first, then deciphering the provenance.
Stark smiled and gestured broadly with his arm to direct Lyle back to the garage behind the office. He made friendly small talk as they walked. He didn’t sound like the Stark that Kate had described. Was he just confident his $2-million car would impress Lyle?
Even though he’d studied pictures of the car, the Alfa Romeo stunned him. Its elongated hood, sweeping fenders, and tapered trunk gave it an old-world grace. At the same time, the car represented a projection of the future as seen from 1939. Lyle tried nonchalance.
The car sat in the first service area of the L-shaped garage. Bright lighting came from a combination of florescent and LED bulbs, presumably providing color balance. Light reflected off the shiny, sealed floor, appropriate for a classic car facility. Rather than demonstrate or call attention to the car’s features, Stark stood back against a workbench, arms folded on his chest. He was not selling a used car; Lyle was not a tire kicker. “We think it’s the finest example of this model in existence,” he said. “Its Hollywood connection and collectors’ history make it really one-of-a-kind.”
Lyle nodded, then started a slow walk around the Italian street antique. He’d planned ahead how he would approach the car: a full circle or two, then slow, close inspection. He crouched down and sighted along the edge of the body looking for irregularities, wavy portions of sheet metal. It looked flawless. Lyle stood looking down at the hood. Staring at the almost translucent green paint was like looking into a pool of water and not seeing the bottom. He glanced over at Stark. He’d just met the man, but Lyle could recognize a smug smile.
After looking down the seams between the body and the hood and along the doors--all perfectly parallel--Lyle pulled open the driver’s door and stuck his head inside. The carpet looked as if a shoe had never touched it. He turned his attention to the chrome rings around the gauges and the gauges themselves. Were they original?
Stark stood on the other side of the car. Lyle looked up at him momentarily through the car’s side window. The smile was still there--but it darkened immediately when a man dressed in a shop coat came out of the office. He mumbled a few words to Stark, then walked on.
“Want to see the engine compartment?” Stark asked.
“Yeah,” Lyle said. Now where was the hood release? Should he know that? Lyle casually walked toward the rear of the car, still checking it out, and stepped up toward the passenger door. He hoped Stark would open the hood. After a moment, he did, lifting it up from the side. As Lyle looked at the spotless engine, Stark walked slowly back toward the office door.
“Take your time,” he said. Stark smiled and gave a low wave as he went through the door.
Lyle knew what the Alfa’s engine should look like from the many pictures he’d seen online. The carburetor sat on the right side. To the rear, thick gold spark plug wires spread out making the distributor look like a six-tentacled octopus. He flipped open his notepad to refresh his memory about the power train. A man in work clothes came out of the office, paused to glance at the Alfa, then walked toward another service bay.
As he examined the engine, Lyle heard steps behind him. A second or two later someone hit him on the back of the head with a baseball bat. At least that’s what it felt like. He didn’t lose consciousness, his head just exploded in pain and he fell forward on the fender. Two sets of hands quickly grabbed him up. One arm went around his neck and held him fast as two other hands forced his arms together behind his back and cinched his wrists together. Lyle vaguely made out the rapid clicking sound of a zip tie and felt the pinch on his skin.
“Don’t move, you bastard, or we kill you,” said a deep voice--in an Eastern European accent.
Chapter 53
Dressed in black and white horizontally striped shirts and wearing straw hat boaters adorned with red ribbons, the Venetian Hotel gondoliers sang as they steered guests along the faux Grand Canal. Kate admired their voices. Did they hope to be discovered for a singing career? Was this a floating version of American Idol? Nice looking guys, too.
She looked at her watch. Lyle said he would call if he was going to be later than their arranged time to meet at the gondola ride. She didn’t want to disturb him by calling while he negotiated with Stark. She’d give him a few more minutes.
That morning, she’d called Bruce to let him know she was okay. She owed him that. She couldn’t have called the night before; she’d still struggled with bitterness. After all, Bruce’s stupidity had almost cost Kate her life. She felt relief when the call went to voice mail. She first told him she was unhurt. She said she hoped he realized what he had done and she knew he wished it hadn’t happened. She honestly believed he would be sorry, remorseful, and primarily concerned about her condition. She said she was still working to exonerate herself but thought she might return to Arizona. The last bit included simply to throw off anyone besides Bruce who happened to hear the message.
Shootings in a city the size of Las Vegas were not unusual, so the story Kate saw on the local news the night before was handled in routine fashion by the anchor person. The truncated story said Las Vegas Metro Police were investigating a shooting by an off-duty Reno police detective. The detective reportedly fired shots at a suspect wanted in connection with a murder investigation, the story said. Kate remembered the words, off duty, long after the news ended.
Kate looked at her watch again. Lyle was overdue. She’d risk a call. On the third ring, someone answered Lyle’s phone, but there was no sound. Then a distant voice said, “Let him talk.” A scraping sound followed, then the call went dead. She waited a moment to see if Lyle would call back. After two minutes, she headed to the parking garage. She’d risk driving to Stark’s car lot, to heck with the police.
***
Lyle hadn’t passed out, but his head pounded. His chin rested on his chest and he remained motionless. He sat beside a desk in the Pony Cars office, his arms bound painfully behind his back. He faced the windows at the front. Straining, he could just make out low voices behind him.
“What do ve do with him? What does Mr. Rick want?”
“Shut up, stupid.”
Lyle heard a muffled sound like someone slapping someone else on bare skin, followed by a groan. The voice continued in some Eastern European language. Russian, Chechen? He listened carefully, but could make out nothing. The second voice seemed to be giving orders or criticizing, but then it was all gibberish to Lyle. The Chechen thug could have been ordering a pastrami sandwich.
A strange musical sound cut through the air. A cell phone.
“Hello. Yes. Lucky he come here.” The voice that had been giving orders was speaking. “Yes. We be ready tomorrow morning. Yes, seven thirty. I know, long drive to Reno. Truck be here. Alfa all ready. What you want done with--Okay...Yes, we do it.”
Apparently the man finished his phone conversation because he then lapsed into his other language. From the number of voices, Lyle decided three men sat in the office somewhere behind him. After a moment, conversation stopped and Lyle heard the sound of chairs scraping and someone walking. The door to the garage opened and closed. Now Lyle only heard two voices. The men talked slowly, deliberately.
&nbs
p; Soon both men walked toward Lyle. One of them grabbed his hair and pulled his head back. Lyle gazed up into dark eyes shaded by heavy brows. Holding on to Lyle’s hair with one hand, the man slapped his face.
“You come around? Mr. Rick want us to have little talk with you.”
“About the Alfa? What in hell’s going on here? I came here to look at the car--”
The man laughed, then slapped Lyle’s face again, harder. Lyle’s attacker wore a dark gray suit and appeared to be in his late forties. He loosened his silk tie with one hand and looked down at Lyle. His square face didn’t smile. The other man, who Lyle had noticed in the garage, sat in a chair a few feet away. He held a revolver in his hand.
“Now, Lyle,” the man in the suit said, “we gonna talk.” He jerked Lyle’s head farther back until he grimaced in pain.
Immediately, the man let go of Lyle and took a step away. Lyle saw someone in a wheelchair rolling up to the office door. She struggled for only a moment, then opened the door and coasted in.
“Alex,” she said smiling. “I just had a few more questions for Mr. Stark. Do you think he’d mind?”
Lyle stood up. He tried to turn his body so Kate could see his bound hands. “If you’re busy, I can leave,” he said.
“You need stay,” the man she called Alex said, pushing Lyle back into his chair. Lyle flashed a warning expression to Kate. She was his spark of hope, but she was putting herself in danger, especially since the strap around Lyle’s wrists limited his ability to help.
The man seated opposite Lyle put his gun in his shop coat pocket when Kate rolled in. He sat with his hands on his knees, unsure of what to do.
Lyle saw Kate acknowledge his warning, but she focused on Alex.
“Mr. Rick not here,” Alex said. “Not going to be here all day. Sorry. We are busy now. Maybe tomorrow.” Alex took two steps toward her.
Kate wasn’t wearing her dowdy dress. She had on slacks and a dark blouse with the sleeves rolled up. With her plastic glasses, she still looked the part of the handicapped writer. “Please, Alex,” she pleaded as she rolled slowly forward. “Can’t you help me?”
Desert Kill Switch Page 21
