Las Vegas Crime

by Leslie Wolfe

  I could feel Holt’s eyes on my back, but I couldn’t turn to look at him. Not yet. Before I could say what I was there to say, Snowman had to trust me, at least in part.

  “You threw a big name to walk through that door,” Snowman said. “Would you mind if we check your story?”

  “Suit yourself,” I replied.

  Huber appeared with a digital fingerprint scanner, and I offered him my index finger. He disappeared after that, somewhere further in the back, probably to pull up my background.

  I walked casually, looking at the merchandise stacked up on the heavy-duty, gray shelving.

  “Plumbing,” I commented. “Out of all things, plumbing.” Then I laughed quietly.

  Snowman didn’t take the bait. He stared at me intensely, his jaws clenched, his eyebrows ruffled, ready to pounce.

  Huber walked back in and stopped behind Snowman’s chair, then whispered something in his ear. Snowman slouched an inch lower; I’d passed, at least for now.

  “Who are you?” Snowman asked quietly, shooting Holt a quick glance, based on the direction of his look.

  “Supply,” I replied. “You’re distribution, which makes the two of us a match made in heaven.”

  “Yeah, right,” he reacted, stiffening his upper body. I’d pushed it too far.

  “I bring you northeast metro, if you want it. If not, Dry Bones will jump on the opportunity. He’s already made a move on that sector.”

  “Whoa,” he reacted. “Any cop could set up a background, and I ain’t falling for it.” Huber stepped closer, his hand on his piece and a menacing smirk on his face. “Who can vouch that you’re who you say you are?”

  “Dry Bones himself,” I replied calmly. “I’m willing to bet you and he are frenemies, and his phone number’s stored somewhere handy.”

  “I got him on speed dial,” Snowman announced with a smug grin.

  I made an inviting gesture with my hand. “Go ahead, call him. While you do that, have one of your lackeys bring me a chair. We’ve got lots to talk about.”

  He snapped his fingers again, and Huber brought an office chair on wheels. The dark gray fabric was stained with something that had left a powdery, off-white residue. I crinkled my nose and remained standing.

  “Who sent you?” Snowman asked.

  “The Don,” I replied. “Want to call him too? It’s still early in Bogota, you’ll probably wake him, but he won’t mind. He likes low risk in his business,” I offered boldly, while silently praying that Fletcher had finished his homework, and that Nieblas wouldn’t pick that day to screw something up.

  Snowman started to dial a number on his phone, while I casually paced the space, this time approaching Holt. I stopped in front of him, observing every detail. The size of the blood pool at his feet. The pallor of his skin, where it wasn’t bruised or bloodied. The anguish in his eyes as he looked at me.

  I leaned forward, bringing our eyes on the same level, only inches apart. Then I winked quickly, and his jaw slacked.

  When I heard Snowman end his call, I turned and walked quickly until I was less than two feet away from him.

  “Hey, smartass,” I said quietly, “did you know that’s a cop you got there? He works Homicide on the Strip. What the hell are you people doing?”

  Snowman laughed, his cackles echoing loudly against the corrugated metal walls. “What, you thought I didn’t know?”

  I shook my head disapprovingly. “You touch a cop, and this place will be swarming with them in no time. I’m out of here.” I turned to leave and took a few brisk steps before he grabbed my elbow.

  I glared at his hand where it touched my arm, and he let it go as if it burned his skin.

  “There’s no rush,” Snowman said. “No one’s coming after this cop, trust me.”

  I stood my ground, clenched in a silent fight of wills with Snowman, staring him down despite his imposing stature.

  “I thought Dry Bones had that region already,” he eventually said, breaking eye contact. He returned to his armchair and let himself fall against the leather cushions with a satisfied groan.

  “Don’s not happy with his performance,” I replied coldly. “He believes you can do better. But with this…” I added, my words trailing as I pointed toward Holt.

  “Don’t worry about him,” Snowman replied, aggravation tingeing his voice.

  I walked toward Holt, studying him carefully, as the real Olivia would’ve done with a captive cop. I propped the tip of my shoe against his groin and pretended to lean on it with all my weight but I had leveraged my heel along the edge of the chair, barely touching him. I leaned toward him, letting my long hair fall around my face in a convenient curtain, and whispered, “Don’t say a word, just go with it. Scream, damn it.”

  Before I could pull back, Holt whispered, “Jeez, woman, you’re insane.”

  I removed my foot just as Holt was finally starting to groan and pull against his restraints, then I circled him a couple of times, a pretend predator pacing around its helpless prey, anticipating the thrill, calculating the right moment to strike.

  His hands were tied with wire, wrapped around his wrists multiple times. Cutting through that would take a while. Snowman was surrounded by three armed men, and another one stood guard outside, ready to barge in at the slightest sound of trouble. I only had one weapon left, loaded with ten, nine-millimeter rounds. Not early enough.

  “What are you going to do with this bucket of manure?” I asked, throwing Holt a look filled with disdain for Snowman’s benefit.

  “That’s none of your business,” Snowman reacted.

  “Oh, is that true?” I replied slowly, one word at a time, leaving an unspoken threat lingering in the air. “He’s seen our faces; there’s no turning back now. You have to kill him.”

  36

  Raid

  Fifty hours missing

  Captain Morales couldn’t remember the last time he’d strapped on a bulletproof vest. Once it was firmly in place, he stretched his arms to get used to the way it felt, the heaviness, the way it restricted his movements. Then he put on his tactical jacket with the initials LVMPD in bold, yellow lettering on the back, and joined the SWAT team leader by the armored truck.

  One bothersome question gnawed at the corner of his mind: if this was the address where Holt’s daughter was taken, how come Holt wasn’t already there, guns blazing? Fletcher would’ve shared his findings with the detective, no doubt.

  He shrugged the question away and focused on the mission at hand.

  The SWAT team had blocked the streets leading to the residence where they suspected Samuel Klug had taken Meredith Holt. It was an isolated property on the far end of Eveningside Avenue, built on at least two acres of land. The property backed against a hill, under Amargosa Trail, but that was far enough away to give the occupant the privacy required in the kidnapping business.

  Morales saw one of the SWAT officers approaching quickly.

  “We’re done, sir,” he announced, “ready to go.”

  That meant all the neighboring houses had been evacuated and all traffic contained; in the off chance that a shootout would ensue, Morales didn’t want any stray bullets claiming the lives of innocent people.

  He caught the eye of the SWAT team leader and nodded when the young man signaled everything was good to go. Snipers were in place, holding the target property in their unobstructed line of fire from multiple vantage points. All team members were ready to proceed, lined up behind the point man, weapons drawn. Satisfied, he gave the order.

  “You have a go.”

  The single-file formation set in motion and followed the masonry fence approaching the targeted property, watching for signals coming from the point man, the one at the front of the line they called a snake. They passed in front of the three-car garage and approached the door. Two team members took positions left and right of the massive, wooden door, while two more rushed forward with a battering ram.

  “Breach, breach, breach,” the team leader orde
red, and the battering ram busted the door open, sending wood splinters flying through the air.

  They entered the house and spread out quickly, taking immediate control of their respective areas of responsibility. They started to clear the rooms one by one, their voices confirming by radio one after another.

  Then a gunshot was heard, followed by an immediate burst of rapid fire.

  “Clear,” the officer announced, kicking the weapon away from the fallen man.

  He recognized the fallen perp whose blood pooled rapidly around his body; Morales had recently seen his photo on the BOLO released by Fletcher. He was one of the kidnappers, Jeremiah Foley, aka Greer. That meant they were on the right track to finding Meredith. He crouched with difficulty, the bulletproof vest making it hard to bend his spine, and checked for the man’s pulse, out of habit mainly, because Foley had been shot center mass at least five times.

  That was unfortunate, and Morales threw the shooting officer a disappointed look. The order was to capture the perps alive, a standing order for all kidnapping cases, until the victim was located.

  “Over here!” a man shouted, and the urgency in the officer’s voice had Morales scramble toward him. He rushed past the kitchen and the dining room and through the adjacent hallway leading to the garage.

  The first thing he noticed was the smell, a nauseating mix of blood, bleach, and gasoline. He saw the cages against the walls, most of them empty and with their doors open, but one of them was still locked. A half-naked girl lay on the stained cement floor, apparently unconscious; she hadn’t reacted when they’d entered the garage, hadn’t raised her head to look their way.

  “Get an ambo here, now!” he called, then rushed to the cage trying to pry the door open. A SWAT team member approached with a bolt cutter and severed the padlock shackle, then opened the door. Morales stepped inside and kneeled next to the girl, his fingers desperately searching for a pulse.

  “She’s still alive,” he shouted. “Where’s the damn bus?”

  “Two minutes out,” an officer replied.

  It was freezing in the garage. He picked her up gently and took her inside and laid her on the couch. “Someone, get me some blankets,” he called, as he started rubbing her hands between his to restore blood flow. The girl moaned but didn’t open her eyes.

  “Coming through,” he heard an unfamiliar voice, and saw the EMTs approaching with a gurney loaded with two, large, medical kits. He stood and moved to the side, making room for the EMTs. They worked quietly and effectively, barely saying a word among themselves. Within moments, they had the girl loaded on the gurney, an IV in her arm, strapped in, and ready to leave.

  “Will she live?” he asked, looking at the fragile shape under the heated blanket. She seemed so frail, so damaged.

  “Most likely, yeah,” one of the EMTs replied, a sturdy, freckled woman. “We’re listing her as critical for now.”

  “When can I speak to her?” he asked, although he feared he knew the answer.

  “Not now, that’s for sure,” the woman replied. “Do you know her name?”

  Morales shook his head. That girl wasn’t Meredith Holt.

  “We’ll find out and let you know,” he replied. Crime scene technicians were already on site and always carried a mobile fingerprint scanner.

  The technician scanned the girl’s index finger, then pressed a button and waited. A few moments later, a chime announced he’d found a match. “Krista Hatfield, fifteen years old,” he revealed, reading off the small display. “She was reported missing on January ninth. She vanished on her way home from school.”

  The EMTs loaded the gurney into the ambulance and took off with the siren blaring, leaving that place of horrors in its rearview mirror.

  Morales joined the SWAT team outside the house; their job there was done, while his was just beginning. He hadn’t found Meredith yet.

  He approached the SWAT team leader and extended his hand. “Thank you,” he said and shook the officer’s hand. “You guys did good today, you saved a life.”

  The officer smiled widely, showing two rows of perfect teeth. “Three,” he said, his voice boasting, upbeat.

  “Which three?” Morales asked, frowning.

  “We found those two upstairs,” the officer replied, gesturing toward an Interceptor SUV.

  Morales rushed to the SUV and opened the back door. He looked at their faces hoping to see Meredith’s long, dark hair and black eyes, but the two girls were strangers he’d never seen before.

  “What’s your name?” he asked one of the girls, feeling a rush of adrenaline. Maybe he still had a chance to find out what happened to Holt’s daughter.

  “Nadine,” one of them replied, sniffling quietly. She had auburn hair falling in rich waves over her thin shoulders.

  He looked at the other one. “Jean,” she replied, shooting him an angry glare. “You have no right to hold us, we didn’t do anything.”

  He scratched his head, realizing things weren’t always what they seemed. Jean might’ve been just as young as Krista, but she behaved more like a jailer than a prisoner. “Where is Meredith Holt?”

  “I don’t know,” Jean replied coldly, crossing her arms at her chest.

  “They took her—” Nadine started to say, but Jean cut her off.

  “Not another word, bitch,” Jean hissed.

  Nadine clammed up and started to cry softly. She wasn’t going to cooperate while the other one was present, intimidating her into silence. Morales repressed a sigh of frustration and grabbed Jean’s arm. “Let’s go,” he said, then handed her to one of the officers. “Load her in a radio car, will you?”

  Morales climbed in the back of the SUV, careful not to touch Nadine or come too close to her. Sexual abuse victims always reacted badly to the close proximity of a stranger, especially a male.

  “Do you know where Meredith Holt is?” he asked gently.

  “He came and took her,” she said, pulling at the sleeves of her sweatshirt to shield her frozen fingers from the biting cold, despite the strong flow of warm air coming from the SUV’s vents.

  “Who took her, Nadine?”

  “S—Snowman did,” she stuttered, looking left and right as if expecting to find him there, within earshot, ready to pounce on her for her betrayal.

  “Where did he take her? Do you know?”

  She shook her head, looking at him with pleading eyes. “Uh-uh, no, I don’t. They took Mindy right after that, but Homeboy took Mindy, not Snowman. I think he took Mindy to work, but Meredith, I don’t know. She wasn’t trained.”

  He frowned. “Trained to do what?” he asked, running his hand over his forehead.

  She shot him a sideways look filled with embarrassment. “You know, to make money, um, with men.”

  He gritted his teeth, looking at Nadine, noticing her pale skin, her sickly thin arms, her bony shoulders poking through the fabric of her sweatshirt.

  “How long have you stayed here, Nadine?” he asked gently.

  “Since December seventh,” she replied, starting to sob quietly. “That’s when they…”

  Her words trailed off, swallowed by a wave of sorrow.

  “We’ll take you home to your family, Nadine. It will be all right, I promise.”

  His kind words had the opposite effect. Instead of soothing her pain and giving her reassurance, it made things worse. Nadine’s sobs intensified, her shoulders heaving spasmodically.

  “No, please,” she said, grabbing his forearm with both her hands. “I can’t look them in the eye, not after this. Promise me you won’t tell them where I’ve been all this time… please.”

  He watched the girl crying, thinking of things he could say to give her the comfort she needed, but at a loss for words. As a parent, he knew what she needed to hear, but thinking of his own kids only made things worse, because he couldn’t bring himself to articulate any of those soothing reassurances. In his mind, only one phrase kept repeating, playing like a broken record, over and over, and that phra
se he couldn’t say out loud.

  When I find the bastard who did this, I’ll kill him on the spot.

  37

  Ransom

  Fifty-one hours missing

  “You don’t get to tell me what to do,” Snowman shouted, jumping off his armchair with unexpected agility and towering over me in an attempt to intimidate me. I hated to admit it, but I felt a little uneasy about the progress of our negotiations.

  He’d obviously called Don, and Nieblas had managed a reasonable job convincing him I was representing the Sinaloa Cartel in Las Vegas, but I wasn’t sure how far I could stretch that mile of good luck.

  I didn’t budge, didn’t lower my eyes. “You assume this cop will walk out of here and just forgive you? Is that what you think?” I saw a flicker of movement in his eyes as his pupils dilated, a sign of fear or angst. “I don’t know if Don will consider this good business practice for someone handling his product.”

  The muscles around his mouth tensed. “Why would he care? He’s in Colombia, we’re here in Vegas. We pay good money for the product he sends. It’s not like we’re doing each other any favors; this is business. And we’re choppin’ like none other.”

  “Why would he care?” I repeated the question slowly, pacing myself to make a point. “Because if you piss off the local five-oh, then you’ll become high risk to Don’s organization, and he’ll spit you out faster than you can say sorry. You could be infiltrated, and that could bring things tumbling down overnight. Don doesn’t like unmanaged risk.”

  “I’m managing the damn risk, aren’t I?” he raised his voice again, gesturing toward Holt.

  “No, you’re not. You’re creating risk for the overall organization, Snowman. It’s got to stop and never happen again.”

  He stared at me angrily, the tension in his jaw increasing with the levels of his bursting rage.

  “You’re part of a family, one that takes care of you if you get in trouble,” I offered a soothing piece of bait.