Skin Game

by J. D. Allen

  He made it out to the casino floor. The clanging of the slots, the tacky carpet, and the weird unnatural lighting always made him uneasy. Walking away was the right thing to do. Being around Erica made him want things. Things long dead.

  He passed rows of machines and gaming tables but stopped before a bank of particularly vulgar slots arranged in an oval. Their lights were blinking, flashy and tasteless. On a platform just above eye level sat a fancy sports car. A whole car was displayed, as if someone could win it with a dollar. He didn’t care what the make was. It was something he’d never own in his line of business. Stood out too much. Jim liked to blend in.

  He dug in his pocket and found his change from breakfast. He didn’t care for the slots. Things he couldn’t control rarely fell in his favor.

  He inserted a single bill. Sullivan’s Fortune it said across the top of the machine.

  He pushed the blinking yellow button.

  The missing case file, though. It made no sense.

  Two limes and a golden oval.

  Loser.

  Put in another bill. Zant had to be involved. That meant if Zant caught him poking his nose into things, there would be far-reaching complications. Other lives involved. His deal with Zant was done, favor rendered. Zant was not particularly fond of people going back on him. People died for less. That would be a big gamble. He pushed the button again.

  A purple ape. A lime. A double red heart.

  Loser.

  His last bill. And what was that thin man doing checking out her room? Towels? Bullshit. Erica was in big danger. Chris was probably already dead. These boys didn’t play for fun. Jim had to walk away. This time he used the old-fashioned pull bar. Found he enjoyed the feel of it in his hand. Real. Better than a dingy, worn-out button. Felt like he had more control. A trick of the mind. With a good yank, he set the barrels spinning. Of course they were all digital, but they still looked like barrels.

  Double heart. Double heart. Double heart.

  Fuck. Winner.

  With an exasperated sigh he listened to the music the modern casino played out like an anthem. The sound of hundreds of coins falling into the steel bin below the machine. The clanking was accompanied by bells and whistles announcing a winner. This slot had a flashing blue beacon that spun like a searchlight through the fake lighting of the cavernous room. Several people stopped pushing their own buttons, risking losing their own mojo, to inspect his winnings.

  When the hoopla finished, he was able to generate a ticket to cash in for winnings. Six hundred and thirty-seven dollars and twenty-two cents. What kind of new math figured that, he didn’t know. Didn’t really care.

  8

  He’d cashed his ticket and eased into a stool near the end of a remote bar. He could see most of the room. More slots here, built right in the bar top, flashing at him from under the flat soda he’d ordered. You could lose money even in this out-of-the-way corner of the casino. A couple sat at the other end. They looked like they’d been up all night and were still going strong. Dressed up, drinking, and draped over each other. Lovers. Maybe newlyweds.

  Jim pulled out his phone and called Noah Miller.

  “What do you want?” The answer came quick. The detective’s temperament the same as usual—impatient and annoyed.

  “Missing case file.” Jim answered. “Wondering if that’s a common thing in your system.” He knew it was not.

  Erica slid up next to him, running her hand over his shoulder as she took the seat on the far side of him. He wasn’t exactly hiding, but he’d picked a far location, off the normal throughways of the casino. She’d managed to figure out where he was. Her hair was still damp. Her clothing businesslike.

  “Not so much.” Miller was somewhere loud, construction noise in the background, maybe a front loader. “In the middle of a crime scene, Bean. Is it urgent?”

  Miller was a good egg. Big, fit, smart, everything a cop should be. He didn’t care much for Jim’s methods. “Floyd. Christina Floyd. Missing person. Regular channels say no file.” He looked at Erica. She understood his comment to Miller. “I have a good informant who says there was.”

  “Chris Floyd. The social worker over at Protective Services?”

  “Yeah. You know her?”

  “We work with that department on occasion. Abandoned kids. Juvies.” Someone yelled for Miller over the sound of a diesel engine. He didn’t respond for a moment. “I’ll check. Call you when I can.”

  “Thanks.” The line was already dead.

  Erica was sitting quietly, worry creased in her eyes, nibbling on her thumb. “Thank you.”

  “Don’t get too excited. I’ll look into a few things. Make a few calls. There are some very unsavory characters involved in this little drama. I have to tell you, I’m not optimistic, Erica.” He tried to make it soft. But how you do that?

  “You think she’s dead?”

  He tried to meet her gaze but failed. “I’m afraid after a week missing and the places she’d frequented, it’s hard to imagine a scenario that ends differently.”

  Her body stiffened, but she didn’t cry. She didn’t try to refute his account. “Where do we start?”

  “What do you know?” He did look up at her. “Everything. Even if you think it’s insignificant. Start with how you found out she was gone.”

  “I got a call from her roommate. She’s in L.A. on business. Has been for three weeks. Said she’d been trying to get Chris on her cell for days. No answer. No returned calls. She called Chris’s office. No answer there. She got a hold of someone else there who said Chris hadn’t been to work in four days. The girl in the office told Chris’s roommate that there were three messages on her desk. One was from Edmond Carver. He didn’t have a case file with the office, so she figured it was personal and gave me the number.”

  “So you flew here and tracked him down.” He was impressed. And Carver had to be the one guy Jim was tailing at the moment. What were the odds?

  She took a sip from his glass. Old habit. He guessed she didn’t even think about it. “I did. First thing.”

  “And he sent you to the Peppermint Pony?”

  Her eyebrow sported a nasty bruise, but the little cut had closed and was covered with a small bandage. Now she looked upset. It was a serious situation. Maybe she was considering what he’d said, that Chris was probably dead. “He said he thought she was working there, nights and weekends, that she’d contacted him to get the job a month or so ago.”

  She looks so vulnerable. Jim shook the thought away. “How did she know Carver? Did you ask?”

  Erica nodded. “Chris helped him once. He didn’t elaborate. I presumed it was with a child custody or something. That’s the kind of work she does. Child welfare, family stuff, lost girls.”

  She meant like runaways, but the implication that Chris was now a lost girl hung in the air like the smell of burned popcorn. “Did Carver say anything else?”

  “Like?”

  “I don’t know. Best to ask. Anything.”

  “He just apologized for not knowing any more. Said he liked her.” She looked down.

  “Sounds like he knew her fairly well.”

  “You know how she was. Never met a stranger. Always helping everyone. Loved the underdog.”

  “Even me.”

  They sat in silence as he drove Erica’s screaming-yellow rental car back to Shalamar Avenue. He passed his townhouse and two other streets and parked by dumpsters tucked behind a brick wall. From the main road of his neighborhood, you couldn’t see it. He handed her the keys. “Did you see the drugstore we just passed?” She nodded. “Good. Program Adair’s number into your phone. If things get dicey, if you get separated from me and I don’t answer a text, if I die, whatever the first sign of a problem is, call him. Have him drop you behind that drugstore. Come through the fence here.” He pointed to a small opening. “The
n you go straight to the airport.”

  She shivered. “How’d you know he gave me his card?”

  “He’s a businessman. I plopped you in his cab. You’re in a hotel. Chances are you’d need his services again. Chances are he’s right.”

  He walked away. She followed.

  He hesitated next to a little sedan parked on the side road of his townhouse. The thing was beige, had no pin striping, only light window tint, and its wheels were dull. There was nothing about the car that would stand out, not one sticker or identifying mark. Perfect for surveillance. “You need anything before we go?”

  “Just the bathroom.”

  Shit. “Oh. Follow me.” He continued on and unlocked the door with a remote key that looked just like a car fob.

  “I don’t remember that from last night. I don’t remember much after that Banks character busted my head until …” A flush of pink covered her face and a wave of guilt hit Jim.

  “About last night,” she said as she followed him into the open door.

  They were crowded close in the hall that led from his office to the main part of the townhouse. “Forget about that. We got carried away. I was drinking, you were stressed. It won’t happen again.”

  She laughed, but he saw the hurt. “Sure. Stress.” She nodded. He could see she was trying to stay strong under the circumstances. Still no tears. It was a good start. “I need you to help with Chris. If that means I have to swallow some hurt feelings, so be it.”

  Jim didn’t want to even talk about not talking about feelings, hurt or otherwise. He gave her a curt nod and headed to his equipment room. “Leaving in three minutes.”

  9

  Jim kept his eyes on the road as they made their way to the nicer part of town. The part where rows of four- and five-bedroom houses with well-groomed rock garden yards lined up like dominos. Close together and mostly looking as if the developer lost imagination after designing a couple of them. Chris lived in a tidy little apartment complex at the back of the development.

  Three separate buildings with two stories each made a U shape around a sparkling pool with a landscaped waterfall. The rear of the complex was closed in by a high stucco wall with large metal pieces of Mexican-American artwork properly spaced out between sections. Large palms and colorful flowers were dripping from pots around the pool. Fairly safe setup for occupants. Any intruder would have to come through the open area by the pool.

  They made their way to the address Erica had in her phone. Apartment 232. Right-hand side of the pool. Top floor. End unit. “You wouldn’t happen to have the key?” he asked as he knelt and fumbled for his pick set. This one would be hard. It was broad daylight too. Neighbors didn’t like seeing people picking locks.

  “I don’t, but shouldn’t we ask the property manager?”

  “Managers like to say no. Especially when you want to get into their residents’ property uninvited. Bad for business,” Jim said, not bothering to turn around as he strode to Chris’s apartment door.

  “I’m her sister.”

  “How would he know if she liked you or not? You could be estranged. Maybe the roommate—you have her number? See if they hid a key.”

  She tried the knob. It opened. Erica looked as surprised as he was to find it unlocked. She shrugged and opened the door.

  The main room was tossed. Not much had been left unscathed. “Wait here. Don’t touch anything.” He stepped in, taking care not to make any unnecessary noise. This was a pro job. No one would still be lingering, but he poked his head into all six rooms just in case. Only one of the two bedrooms was turned. The kitchen and bathroom had all the drawers and cabinets emptied.

  Erica came up behind him. He felt her as she neared. “Still think she turned to a life of prostitution and stripping?”

  No. From the looks of things it may have been better for her health if she had. “When you talked to the cops, what did they say?”

  “They had opened a case. Checked her work and her apartment and nothing seemed out of the ordinary.”

  He looked around the ransacked apartment. That was definitely out of the ordinary. Guess it happened after the police checked in on Chris. “When was that?”

  “Roommate said she reported it Saturday. I called them Tuesday afternoon, right after I talked with the roommate.” She was making her way into Chris’s room. His phone rang. The number was blocked. He hit the answer button but didn’t speak.

  “Bean?”

  “You called me.”

  “Miller.” Calling from a different phone. One that wasn’t owned by LVMPD. Interesting. “New situation. We’re at Chris’s apartment. It’s been turned. Professionally.”

  “You would know.” True. More than once, Jim had looked for things in a very quick-and-dirty manner.

  “And the case file?” Jim passed Erica as she looked through what remained of a small work desk in Chris’s room. He went into the bathroom. The mirror in there had been smashed too. The contents of the makeup tray strewn here and there. On the medicine cabinet there were several smudges of blood. A small spatter on the wall.

  “It’s been deleted, erased. I can’t find shit. Not even a skip in case numbers. Something stinks here.”

  “Something rotten in cop town? Say it ain’t so.”

  “You want this or not? I’m doing you the favor.”

  Jim bit his lip. “Yeah. Sorry. Couldn’t resist.”

  Miller grunted. “I asked a couple guys I trust. Neither of them had any recollection of her case. I stopped asking before I hit on the right person and made the situation worse. No need to tip off whoever made the file go away that someone is looking for it. This kind of shit is hard to do these days. Someone was working that case. And that someone had to agree to lose his memory.”

  Jim looked behind the bathroom door. More blood. A fingerprint.

  “I got blood over here. Two separate places. Even a print.” He saw Erica look up at him. Saw the fear in her eyes. “If I take the samples, it will be out of evidence.”

  “It will.”

  “You’ll want it to be in at some point. I presume.” Erica started his way. He held up his hand. She stopped. He wanted to be able to talk to her before she got in a twist. It was blood, but it was not enough to jump to any conclusions.

  “I might.”

  “The door was unlocked when we got here. It won’t be that way when we leave.”

  “I got a dead John Doe right this minute. Can’t get there for a while, but I will. Bean, who’s your client?”

  Jim started to answer. He’d worked with this guy before. He seemed pretty straight up, but as much as he’d like to believe Detective Miller was the good cop in this scenario, deep down, Jim trusted very few people. Erica had taught him that. “Confidential. I’m not going to block your way here, Miller. I need the same answers you do. We’ll play an easy tennis match. Back and forth.”

  “I’ll call you.”

  “I’ll answer.”

  He hung up. Changed his demeanor. Tried for reassuring. “It’s just a couple little smears. No more than you’d get from a shaving cut.”

  She let out a sigh. She once again looked like she was going to ball up and cry. It was Chris’s shit on the floor. Her baby sister. He needed to remember it was hard for civvies to see a room tossed. Seemed violent, invasive. It was just business to bad guys.

  She nodded.

  He wanted to reassure her. So she didn’t cry. “Could be the guy cut himself breaking the mirror. Could be hers. We won’t know for a while.” He pulled a surgical glove from his case. Handed it to her. “Don’t touch much. One of Las Vegas’s finest is coming. Off case since the file has been hijacked. The less we disturb, the better.”

  She understood. Put it on her right hand. It was a little too big.

  “I know you’ve never been here, but look around. See if there’s som
ething you know to be way out of place for her life. Anything. I’m going to check the fridge.”

  “What? You hungry?”

  He smiled at her. “People put stuff on the fridge all the time. Schedules. Reminders. Numbers. Their whole lives. Don’t you?”

  She thought. Shook her head. “Not a thing. It’s all in my phone.”

  He glanced back. She was leaning over Chris’s desk. Most of its contents were on the floor. She squatted down and moved a few papers around, trying to touch as little as possible in the process. She held an envelope up and studied it.

  “She drew this on everything.” She tilted it so he could see from the counter. “She called it Crazy Child.” It looked like a stick figure with a big head stuck on a body drawn of squares with flailing arms and legs. The thing almost looked like the art on the wall outside the window, kind of Aztec, like a cave painting or something.

  “She started in high school, making fun of some guy. It stuck with her over the years. I never got a birthday card, Christmas card, nothing that didn’t have Crazy Child on or in the envelope.” Her hand trembled.

  “She needs you to be strong now. Keep looking. I know it sounds harsh.”

  “You’re right. No time for softness.” She turned in a circle. “The condition of this apartment makes everything more urgent. How am I supposed to see anything in this mess?” She went farther into the bedroom. He couldn’t see her, but he heard her. “What were they looking for?”

  “I don’t know, but my guess is they found it.”