by J. D. Allen
Beyond that, across the camera’s purview and on the other side of the back entrance, was a table. A fancy one like you’d see in someone’s upscale back yard. Heavy iron and glass topped, it had a nice big umbrella and chairs with thick cushions. Next to it was a makeshift serving bar. No one was enjoying the outdoor seating at the moment, but Jim found it odd.
Expensive stuff for the unimpressive location, back of the house, view of the trash. Not the employees’ smoking area. Maybe the strippers brought men out for outdoor entertainment at times. Maybe that was why the camera was focused on the door and not any of the area out back. Wouldn’t want customers to fear being filmed. He snapped a picture of it and the big dumpster.
Behind the furniture, up against the building, was a stack of crates. Plastic crates with metal grating. To avoid the camera, he swung wide, back toward the golf course, and then came at the crates after a wide loop from the west. Dog crates. Big ones. Three stacks of them, four high. Was Chris investigating dogfights?
He snapped several pictures. Then saw one of the crates had a set of handcuffs attached, looped through the metal grate close to the bottom of the cage. Inside.
Dogs wouldn’t need cuffs.
He leaned in closer. There were crumpled towels on the floor of the crate. One looked to have dried-up blood on it. But it was dark.
Several more pictures.
Nothing else out there to see.
Time to get the hell out.
18
He knew it was Erica in that cheap chair as soon as his headlights shone down his alleyway. That plastic piece of shit was his sit-and-think-with-a-cigar chair. And she was in it. Instead of at the hotel. Where he had left her. Safe.
Her head slumped forward, her hands in her lap. He jammed on the brakes, worried she might be dead, left here by Zant as a warning. His heart bounced in his chest like it was bungee jumping. Only one way to know.
He eased forward. Her head popped to attention as he pulled close to his little garage door. Asleep. Relief washed over him. Anger. He wanted anger. “What the fuck are you doing here?” He slammed his door shut and marched up to her.
“I was going to ask you that very same question.” She stood up to him. Nose to nose. She had to rise up on her toes to do it. “You’re quitting, aren’t you?” She looked so smug. Like she’d solved some great mystery. “I knew it. I stood in that shitty motel for all of about four minutes before I decided you were going to bolt on me.
“I called Adair. Like you said. ‘Follow the plan.’ But I have no intention of going home, Jim Bean.” She sank off her toes, but the venom was not subsiding with her height. “I sat in that cab straddled between mad and sad. Mad that you left me. Sad that we’ve come to this. I considered if I should just go back to my cushy room at the Paris and call Noah Miller. I considered going on without you, back to the Showgirl. Then I got scared. And then I got tired.” She eased back, paced, and settled back in the plastic chair. “I’m heartsick with worry over my sister, all this craziness about strippers and bouncers—it’s hard.
“I’m tired. I don’t have the energy to fight with you. But there’s no way I’m leaving Las Vegas until I know where my sister is.”
He’d let her go on to get it out of her system. Little did she know how close he had come to bolting. But he hadn’t. He’d given her one more opportunity. “I asked you to trust me. But obviously, you’re incapable of that.”
She sat in the chair and nodded, her whole body swaying with her head. “You’re right. I should have trusted you back then. But I don’t trust you now. I saw it in your face. You were done with me, with this. Something you figured out as soon as we walked in the Showgirl has you nervous. Did you even go back out there?”
He pushed past her and put his key in the door lock. “Did it occur to you that sitting your ass out here in the open was monumentally stupid? You are now a target.”
“Another change of subject. You dodged again without answering a direct question.”
“Not successfully.”
Erica followed him in without invitation.
He spun on her in the narrow hallway. “Why are you here?”
“Why are you here?”
He scowled at her. “My house.”
“I want to know what was back there. Was she back there?”
Jim let out an exasperated huff and made his way to the kitchen and tossed his keys on the counter. “No. She’s not dead.” The cat was winding in and out of his legs as he moved. He grabbed the cat food and filled Annie’s bowl. Erica slid into one of his kitchen chairs, her hand on her chest, her eyes closed in relief. “I mean. I don’t know that she’s not dead. I just didn’t learn anything more from that club. There were no bodies stacked up behind the building.”
“Nothing? Those women were fairly insistent without coming right out and begging me to look back there.”
“I don’t know what I found. It didn’t make any sense. I’m at a dead end.” He leaned back against the kitchen counter, crossed his arms, doing his best to not look at her. Not give her the satisfaction of knowing he was considering leaving her on her own or in his tired state confessing the sins he committed in the name of Zant. She mimicked his position in the chair. Stubborn woman. “I need some sleep.” Avoidance was one of his best attributes.
“I need to know if you’re in this with me.” She gave him her best business glare, locking her eyes on his, not giving him a chance to look away.
It didn’t work. He laughed. “Just like I needed to know you were in it with me in Ohio?” He pushed away from the counter, cruised past her, heading toward the stairs. “I don’t owe you shit.” He stopped at the bottom, turned to face her again. “You show up here with your high-dollar suit and your sad eyes and you expect me to drop what little is left of my life, ignore my current clients, and put my ass on the line for you after you left me alone and rejected in a prison cell? And you’re mad when I tell you I’m out of answers. That’s priceless.” He shoved his hands through his hair.
If he could piss her off maybe he could convince her to go back to Miller and let Jim off the hook. He decided a little downplaying was in order. “This is over my head, beyond my meager capabilities. I investigate cheaters, liars, and hacks. My biggest case this year was a car thief I helped a lawyer get off on a technicality. This is a murder case if just for Edmond Carver. Go back to Detective Miller and tell him everything you know. Let the proper authorities handle it. Leave me in peace.”
He walked away.
“Lock up on your way out,” he barked as his bedroom door slammed closed.
Jim watched her marching away from his house from his bedroom window. She’d stood silent in his kitchen for a good five minutes before she had decided he wasn’t coming back out.
She made the turn safely to the spot where her car was tucked. She got in it, started it, and drove away with a tiny squeal of tires. She’d go to the Paris, sleep for a while, and then leave after talking with Miller again. He’d convince her that there was little she could do here but get hurt. Then the case would slowly disappear as Zant made any and all evidence of whatever he was up to go away. Erica would be in Boston and safe. As long as she wasn’t here causing problems, Zant would forget about her.
Chris’s fate was sealed. Nothing Jim did at this point would save her. She’d been gone too long. She was, sadly, a statistic. Jim putting himself, his cousin, and her son at risk wouldn’t change that.
Erica was out of his life once again. And once again he felt a sucking emptiness in his chest.
The sun was peeking over the horizon as he glanced at his phone. Five a.m.
He went through the motions of showering before he crawled into his uncomfortable bed. Again. As he did every time he lay in it, he grumbled and thought to call tomorrow to order a different one from the furniture rental company. He drifted off with thoughts of dog crates
in his head.
Jim Bean woke up exactly three hours later, sweating, twisted in his sheet, and wishing he was a different man. He’d dreamed of strippers, Banks, the Thin Man, and painting dumpsters, all with Erica Floyd looking on disapprovingly. He’d dreamed of Chris cuffed and cramped inside a dog crate.
He grabbed his phone and texted Double O.
Coffee Girl. 11:00?
Jim lay there and waited for a response.
It came two minutes later.
11:30 Okay?
19
“Get dressed.”
Erica yelped like a little girl and sat up, clutching her breasts. She looked at the clock. Nine thirty a.m. She shifted. Rubbed her eyes.
“How’d you find me? I was sure I did everything right. Extra tip. Fake name. Fake address. I didn’t even go back to the Paris for clean clothes.”
“There were only two rooms with a light left on. Reflects under the drapes in the window.”
“And?”
He looked over to the cheap vanity that made up the back wall of the room. She’d left the light on over the tub, and the door separating the bath area from the vanity was pulled almost closed. A little light to find her way if she’d needed to pee. Not much. “You always leave the bathroom light on.”
“So you had a fifty-fifty shot and broke in?”
He shrugged. She’d nailed him. “I was wrong the first time. Old guy. Snoring. Not you.”
“I suppose that’s better than young guy, heavily armed, and not amused.”
He almost chuckled.
She shook her head, waved her hand. “Anyway. I meant this hotel. How did you know I drove back out here instead of the Paris?”
She was in her shirt and underwear. She indicated for him to turn around. He did. He heard her gather her clothes. Head to the bathroom.
He turned just in time to catch a glimpse of her ass. “You’d paid for the room. Made sense to come back out here.” He was quiet for a moment. “I figure your plan was to go look around the Showgirl in the daylight.” He knew her. That was her plan. “And I hope you thought it might be safer staying out here.”
She came out of the bathroom, stopped at the sink, rinsed a washcloth, and wiped her face. She gathered her purse and put some lip balm on. “Two-fifty in cash for a couple-hour nap.”
“Happens all the time in my line of work.”
He led her wordlessly through the breezeway behind the office to the back parking lot. There was a nun entering as they exited the open area. Other than the clerk in the little office, she was the only person he’d seen at the hotel. The old woman was in full habit, big hat and all. Not so bad in November, but Jim figured that wool would be an absolute misery outside in a Vegas summer.
Jim opened the back door of the truck for Erica and plopped into the front. He was in his seat with the motor running by the time she was settled and buckled in.
“You’re cranky.”
“I’m here.” They made eye contact through the rearview.
She nodded. He hadn’t abandoned her to the police.
“What about my car?”
He glanced at the little yellow Fiat. “It’s okay here. Maybe even better than in the city.”
He drove in silence and at a high rate of speed.
“You look tired. Your brows are doing that scrunchy thing they used to do when you were pissed.”
He didn’t look at her.
“In business it pays not to ask questions you don’t want the answer to …” She stared out the window and watched the landscape for a moment. He knew what she wanted to ask. He wasn’t sure he wanted to answer either.
“When you don’t want to deal with the answers in a negotiation.”
Maybe thirty more miles passed before curiosity got the best of her. “What was back there? Behind the club?”
“I told you I didn’t find any bodies, but I don’t know exactly what it is I did find. I said it before—this far out … missing so long … you have to know it’s probably not positive.”
She closed her eyes tight, gave a minuscule nod. “But knowing it and accepting my sister might be gone are two different things. I’ll choose to keep my head in the sand for the time being. Thank you.”
The landscape flew by in a blur. Jim blinked and Vegas appeared on the horizon, an island of glass and steel shimmering on a sea of sand. The themed megahotels shining in the sun were the epitome of life and vibrancy. His bones felt as heavy as steel rods, his mind as dull as river rocks. The sway of the car seemed to pull more than it should as he motored on.
Jim navigated back to Shalamar Avenue as if on autopilot.
“I need to go to the Paris and freshen up. I slept in these. I have no makeup and I need a toothbrush.” She sounded as broken as he felt.
“Yeah, you do,” he said as they parked in front of his condo.
“Funny man.”
“But we have a meeting in ten minutes.” He waited for her to get out, then indicated the direction of the café.
20
The truth was Jim did have a good idea what this was all pointing to. All the driving back and forth to Coyote Springs gave a man time to think, consider, add things up. It was new math. Bad math that gave him an idea what Chris was doing in the clubs and what had become of her. But he needed Oscar Olsen to confirm those suspicions, and Jim didn’t have the balls to be the one to break it to Erica.
Coward?
Yes, sir.
He watched her face as the big man rolled into the parking lot and pulled himself off his bike. Oscar replaced his heavy flag-painted helmet with a ball cap with the American flag printed on it, turned backward.
Sandy showed up with the extra mug and menu. She glanced at Erica’s bruised eyebrow. “You need anything for that?”
Erica smiled. “Some makeup to cover it up would be great. But it’s fine. Looks worse than it is now.”
Sandy poured her some more coffee. “He didn’t do that, did he?” She tilted her head Jim’s way.
“He probably wished he had by now, but no.”
She filled Jim’s mug too. “By special request”—she tilted her head toward the big man coming toward the door—“I was able to convince the boss man to order some real bacon. Well. Turkey bacon. But it’s meat. You want some of it?”
“How’d he rate that kind of VIP treatment? I come here almost every day, offer you a real job, and all I ever get is that tofu shit?”
She shrugged. “He’s not an ass.”
“I’m downright sweet to you.”
“He gives me kisses.” She winked at Jim.
“I tip. You’d rather have kisses?”
She gave Jim that same look most women eventually gave him. The one he really didn’t understand. Was it constipation or consternation? “Hardly.”
She turned to go greet Oscar as he came in the door.
“She’s certainly fond of him,” Erica said. Her face said she was unconvinced by his appearance. “He’s going to help?”
At times Oscar did look more like a criminal than most of the criminals he tracked down. The man was even taller than Jim. His hair was long and pulled back in a braid that hung past his shoulders. When he wasn’t working as a bounty hunter, Oscar rode an ancient motorcycle that he’d cobbled together from nuts, sprockets, and odd parts. He lovingly referred to it as Franken-bike. Damn thing could outrun anything around and probably survive being run over by a tank.
Today Oscar’s clothing choice was a sleeveless denim shirt—sleeves torn out, not cut; jeans faded by wear and time, not chemicals; and a thick leather choker that Jim was sure the man always wore. His chunky arms were a collage of tattoos. Some Jim knew the meaning behind, others he didn’t.
“Best man I know,” was all Jim said before Oscar stopped and gave Sandy her peck on the forehead and a giant smil
e.
A little huff escaped Erica. “Good enough for me.”
Oscar dragged over a chair from a nearby table and spun it around backward at the end of the booth. He managed to ease into the seat with a genuine sort of coolness Jim did not possess. Oscar flashed Erica that perfect smile that had just melted the waitresses. Jim watched her respond. If he wanted to, Oscar could look like a giant lion on the verge of ripping someone to shreds, but once he turned on that charm, everyone flocked to him.
“Hombre.” He nodded to Jim.
Erica sat tall, stuck out her hand. “Erica Floyd.”
Oscar shook it. “Erica.” He crossed his arms over the top of the metal-backed chair. “I presume this is not about lightening my caseload.”
Jim wished it were now more than ever. But he’d driven that broken road back out to Coyote Springs and brought Erica here for a reason. If he was right, if this was what he suspected, Double O would want in on it.
“I have a couple pictures I’d like you to take a look at.” Jim brought the picture of the crate with the cuffs up on the screen, but didn’t turn to share just yet.
Sandy had appeared to pour Oscar’s coffee. She took everyone’s order although it was unlikely anyone would be eating any of it once this discussion got underway.
Oscar’s eyes lost some of their lightness as he glanced to Erica and back to the camera. Jim pushed it over to his longtime friend. “Found this out behind a strip club. What do you make of it?”
Oscar glanced at the camera for just an instant. He didn’t need to study the photo. His eyes closed. He took in a long breath. Straightened his back. He looked at Erica. “Who are you?” His voice turned cold.
She blinked at his sudden change in demeanor and looked to Jim. He nodded. “Tell him what he wants to know.”
Her gaze darted back to Oscar. She bit her lip. “My sister, Chris Floyd, works for the department of welfare here. She suddenly started working part-time in strip clubs. Now she’s missing.”
