by J. D. Allen
Banks made his way through the six oblong tables and came to a stop, leaning his big ass causally against the edge of the one closest to the wall. Even here, he fit in. No one questioned his authority to be in such a restricted area. He crossed his arms.
“We have an issue, you and me.”
They did. Was it the same issue Jim was having? He suspected not. Banks sucked air between his front two teeth as if he had some ham stuck in there from breakfast. Jim kept his trap shut.
“I had a job to do. Someone got in the way of my successfully completing that assignment.” He made the kissing sound again. He ran his tongue over his teeth, Jim saw it move like a fat slug under this his lip. “And now I have this headache and a long shift ahead of me.”
“Hate you’re not feeling well. Maybe you should see a doctor.”
“I’m saying if this girl is a client, you’d be better off to let her find other assistance. Not only would that make my head feel better, but Zant will be happier with you.”
“I’ll send him some flowers. Flowers make everybody happy.”
The moose closed his eyes for a moment. Took in a breath. He was trying to compose himself. Jim considered laying off the sarcasm.
Banks leaned in close. His breath was hot and stale, his face pockmarked and scarred—badly—the lumpy skin a glaring contrast to the sleek suit. Maybe he’d been beaten with some brass knuckles or something. Maybe more than once. Shit like that had to have hurt.
“You’re a funny man, Bean.” He pulled back, adjusted the jacket, and checked his button. “How about I say that I am aware of your personal obligations to Zant?”
Fudge.
He made that noise again and finally scraped a meaty finger between the teeth and came out with something. He flicked it to the floor. “You keep playing the tough guy. No skin off me. I was just trying to avoid a bigger mess.” He shrugged. “Either way, I will fulfill my obligations. Cleanup is cleanup. Don’t matter to me how messy things get first off.”
Well. Shit. Banks did know about Alexis. His cousin was the reason he’d picked Vegas as a place to land. She welcomed him into her home. He had needed a quiet place to think over his future. Jim never left, instead got his name changed and his life going on its crappy track. She had stuck with him through everything.
When she fell into her own problems, Jim had stuck his neck out. Made a deal with Zant. Alexis and her son were in hiding, deep hiding, and she was depending on him to keep his end of the agreement with Zant no matter how much he hated it.
The bitter bile of self-loathing churned in his stomach every time he thought about it. It’d been three years since he stood in Zant’s office and sold his soul. Several “small favors” later, his tally card with Zant was nowhere near even. And one of those “small favors” could have landed Jim in trouble for evidence tampering or even worse. Zant hardly considered those jobs fair compensation for letting Alexis leave Vegas.
The question remained: did Zant actually know what was going on with Erica? Was he involved with Chris and the dog crates or was Banks the man in charge and using his knowledge of Alexis for his own game?
Banks didn’t seem smart enough to be dealing with the kinds of people Oscar said were involved with the human trafficking ring. But he was dumb enough to be working for two masters. Maybe he had a second employer and Zant was not the ringleader. Always paid to consider all the angles.
Jim looked around the Paris. No one was worried about the pair of them in the high-rollers area. Jim looked down to his shoes and kicked the side of Erica’s suitcase. Either way, it didn’t matter if Zant or someone else was pulling Banks’s strings at the moment. Banks was going to put the preverbal screws to Jim with his knowledge of Alexis. He wanted Jim to drop Erica as a client.
If Jim kept his nose in this mess, Banks and Zant would make sure Alexis’s life was back on the line. If he walked away, went back to his shitty little agency, Erica was on her own.
An effective strategy Banks had there. If Erica Floyd was any client off the street, he’d just drop the case. But she wasn’t just anybody.
Jim was truly and wholly fucked. “I’ll see what I can do.”
23
Jim heard Oscar pull the Franken-bike up beside the townhouse. He gunned it once before shutting it down. So it didn’t surprise Jim when the man entered the office. Without knocking. For such a big guy, he was quiet and moved like a trained athlete. He eased himself into Jim’s chair. It creaked as Oscar spun toward the big board and stretched his legs. In that position, he took up most of the room.
Jim should have treated this situation with some seriousness from the beginning, but he’d been blinded by anger and hurt pride. Now he was charting it up. Pictures. Information. Working the board. The way he had learned in his investigative classes, the way he did most all his cases. But he’d cleared the board of his other cases for this one.
“So … Korey. What the fuck is the deal with the chick?”
No way the bounty hunter missed Erica calling him by his real name. So here it went. He hadn’t done this in years. Not once since he changed his name. Not since coming to Vegas.
“I changed my name. Six years ago.” He hesitated. Felt sweat start to bead on his back. “Eight years ago, in Ohio, I was accused of sexual assault with a weapon.” He watched Oscar’s face. The cringe came. It always did, even though it was just a slight twitch of muscle under his dark skin. Even those who knew him, when he said the words aloud, they flinched like he’d thrown a punch. Everyone made the face.
“And kidnapping.” It was the face that haunted his dreams. Almost as much as Erica’s rejection.
It didn’t matter that the charges were all dropped. Didn’t matter that he had never done anything to begin with. The charges were so inflammatory. The words so distasteful. Sexual assault.
The mere combination of syllables frightened women. The idea of it angered men. Disgust always crossed once-friendly faces. Always would. That was why Alexis had urged him to come to Vegas, to start over. Everyone here had a past, but no one cared what it was. No one would have to know his.
“Holy shit, dude.” Oscar sat up. The disgust fell away quick. After all, he was in the business. He knew the system well. Understood the ramifications of a false accusation.
“Falsely. Of course,” Jim still felt the need to add. “But I’d have been better off if it had been murder charges.”
Oscar nodded in agreement. “Hard to pick up the ladies with that out there, huh?”
Jim huffed. “Lost more than the ladies. I lost a bundle of money and my spot with the FBI. Not to mention my dignity.” Somehow it felt good to say it again after all these years with no one to talk to about it. And Oscar would understand. He’d seen it happen as a bondsman. Every now and then the wrong guy did get arrested. “And the girl.” Jim looked toward the front of the townhouse.
“Aren’t too many times the wrong guy gets nailed, but it’s hell when it happens. Sorry, man.”
“After a year hanging out in Florida trying to face it, live past it, I decided to ditch that life. New place. New name.” And by doing so he could bury unwanted feelings in the bright lights of the Strip and drink away the shame.
Oscar nodded. “A fresh start never hurt anyone.”
But that wasn’t what it had been. A fresh start. Nope. It had been running away, abandoning who he was. Letting that night eat away at his character and his self-image.
“The shame is the worst. When I’m sober and bored, I feel like … It was all out of my hands.” He held them up. Like he’d find something there. “It’d all been done to me. There was nothing I could grab a hold of, take responsibility for. Nothing I could fix. No way to change the outcome.”
“I’ve seen it happen, of course. But I guess I never thought about later, what happens after the urgency of getting out of jail, getting charges dropped.”
“Yep. My name was eventually cleared. Took about a year. Charges dropped, record expunged. But you can’t expunge the look people gave me when it came up. And it came up every time I met someone I hadn’t known before or interviewed for a new job. Conversation is a glass ceiling when you carry around skeletons. Sooner or later, it had to come up. I felt compelled to tell people why my apartment was a tiny hellhole. Why I was broke and working two or three jobs at a time to make ends meet.”
O nodded. “Bail bonds and PIs ain’t cheap or refundable. Neither are lawyers.”
“Shit no.” He shook his head, twisted the lid on the pen he was holding. “My life was a pile of crap in my eyes even if it wasn’t to others.” His pride and ego were busted. His career trashed. What did he have to offer anyone? But that was enough. Oscar didn’t need more than that.
“Sucks, bro. The woman, Erica Floyd, was your girl?”
He gave Oscar a slow nod.
“And she came and found you when her sister turned up missing.”
Jim looked at the board. To the picture of Edmond Carver. “Nope. I stumbled on her when she went looking for him.” He pointed to the dead man.
Oscar chuckled. Slapped his knee. “Life sure has a way of sneaking up and sticking it to you, doesn’t it?”
Jim saw the tattoo on Oscar’s fingers. C-H-L-O-E. His late wife. The one who’d disappeared into the trafficking ring. Who’d lived and died by the horror Oscar had described to Erica in the diner. A horror beyond Jim’s comprehension. “Maybe I need to keep things in better perspective, brother.”
“Sometimes perspective is helpful. Sometimes it doesn’t make a shit. Don’t discount your own misery ’cause you’re thinking it’s easier than mine. Pain is pain. Loss is loss.”
There was an awkward moment when Jim had no clue what to say. He glanced at his list on the board. It was missing lots of things. Things Oscar might know. “So who are the major players in the ring?”
Oscar turned his attention to the case as well. Sharing time was over. “Short list. Most are stupid and expendable, like your friend Carver likely was.” He stood and paced to dingy windows that used to be part of the converted garage door. “There’s a couple cops on the line, but I don’t think they know what they’re protecting. Just getting supplemental income to make things disappear. I do think we have a mayor who got his ass mixed up in it and can’t get out.” He turned back to face Jim. “I have some evidence that he’s being blackmailed. Pictures with some of the girls.”
Oscar studied him. Jim wondered what the big man was debating about telling him.
Eventually O spoke. “Andrew Zant is the main man, the connection to the out-of-country buyers. I can’t prove shit yet, though. Bastard is like a new frying pan—slippery and hotter than hell. Their locations change, people change. I’m starting over at square one constantly. Anybody who might have a loose tongue dies before I can nail it down.”
Jim knew that was coming. Knew he’d been fooling himself in the Paris when talking to Banks, hoping that freak wasn’t involved. But this kind of weird-ass megalomaniac scheme had Andrew Zant’s name written all over it. His palms were starting to sweat. No-man’s-land. He was screwed no matter how he turned. Again.
O didn’t know about Jim’s self-made conflict of interest with Zant. He’d probably shut Jim out if he did. “They’re taking them to Mexico in small groups. Not far over the border. Then someone from a European group gets them. It’s run as a big entertainment company, very modern gangland. New faces every trip. New men. My guess is they don’t live long enough to share their tale once they get to the final destination.”
He leaned back in Jim’s chair, stretched out. “I do have one guy in the FBI who throws me bones in exchange for whatever I gather.”
Jim pinched the bridge of his nose as a headache bloomed behind his eyes. This was huge.
“I almost always lose them in Mexico. Small-town federales don’t have the time or resources to help trace a few missing girls here and there. Too many drug operations to chase down in order to keep the politicians happy. On both sides of the border.”
Jim nodded. He was still trying to figure a way out of a Zant-contrived death trap. No clear option jumped to mind.
“I have a few names. Not many faces. A Russian and two men from Dubai. But I know I can’t touch them. Not enough resources, not enough firepower. No way I’m going overseas again. Can’t make an impact there. I have to get Zant and the men here. I have to stop it on this end. In my back yard.”
Dubai? Russia? It was all bigger than Jim imagined. The kind of thing he would be working on had he gone to the academy. The exact kind of thing he’d wanted to work on. But he was no agent. And there was no team. Nope. Korey Anders was now a washed-up PI with a drinking problem and major debt to the bad guy.
More shame.
Maybe he should come clean to Oscar about Alexis and his deal with Zant. Or better yet, he could just give Oscar all his intel and let the big bounty hunter chase down Chris and get his man. Jim could be left out of it. Alexis would be safe, everybody won. Sounded like a plan.
A chime rang out. Oscar’s phone. He checked his text, frowned, and looked up at the board. “Share the rest, Bean.”
Jim looked over to the board:
The instructions to stop surveilling Edmund Carver.
A dead Edmond Carver.
Cops deleting a case file.
The Thin Man.
Chris’s tossed apartment.
The three blood types.
Missing twenty-two-year-old stripper.
The man in the yellow shoes.
A fake FBI agent.
Missing Social Services files.
And the picture of the dog crate with Chris’s doodle inside.
24
A slight movement drew his attention to the hall. She was there, lurking in the shadows. Listening. How long?
“You didn’t sleep much.” Jim tossed the pen he’d been using to point at his board back on the desk.
She jumped. Stepped into the office. “It was enough.” She was clean and in fresh clothes.
Had she heard him tell the tale to Oscar? Dammit. That was all he needed, her pity levels to be cranked up as high as her fear levels.
“Thanks for getting my things.”
He nodded. Anger. He found that happy place again and could go with that. Better than the shame and the hurt.
Oscar leveled her a stern look. “I would like you to go home, hire a guard, and stay out of this mess.”
Erica stood there and appeared to consider it. “With everything on that board, the bruise on my forehead, and the body count getting higher, it would be prudent.”
“Good.” O stood.
“But it’s not what’s going to happen.”
He tucked his phone back in his pocket. “Okay, kids. I’ll be on my way, then.”
Jim couldn’t believe his ears. “You’re out?” He didn’t want O to be out. Jim wanted himself to be out.
“Not worth it.”
Her mouth dropped open. “What do you mean? My sister’s not worth it?”
And now Jim had a pissed-off girl full of fear to deal with. Oh. Hell. No.
“Not at all. I’ve got a long time in on this, lady. I’m close to nailing the big players. You have no experience; therefore, you’re dangerous to me. He”—Oscar indicated Jim with his thumb—“won’t carry a gun. That adds up to two big liabilities.” He moved toward the door. “I can’t afford liabilities at this stage.”
“I can fund it. All of it. Whatever you want.”
That was rich. She was going to bargain with a man who’d lost his wife to the ring. Use him no matter his pain, his progress in the case. Erica Floyd wants, she buys.
“Sure, thr
ow money at him, baby. That’ll fix it.”
Her snakelike glare was reward enough. She was pissed. But she refrained from getting into that battle with him at the moment. Her attention was back to her prey.
Oscar had hesitated. His body language changed. His thick brow twitched. Jim knew this much—if someone stopped to consider an offer, even for a second, they could be bought. He used that knowledge to get info all the time. All Erica needed was to bait her hook with the thick wiggly worm of cash. “You need equipment, manpower … what?” She was beating the man with her skills, her brain.
O shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. Your money can’t reduce your riskiness.”
Jim should shut this down. Toss her. Oscar had said she was a risk, and he was right. Jim knew that. But he wanted her out and he was not above nudging Oscar in the direction of the inevitable. “There’s a chance Chris Floyd was leaving a trail. Breadcrumbs. She knew Erica would come looking for her.”
“This chick left you, Bean.” He grabbed the door. “You’d best remember that, buddy.”
“I have ten grand. In cash. Right now,” Erica blurted.
Oscar stopped.
“I’ll consider it a first donation to your cause. Stopping this insanity.”
He turned slowly. Swallowed hard. “Your sister is more than likely dead, lady. Probably dumped in the desert. Never to be found.”
She winced but nodded.
“If she’s not dead and we find her, she may well wish she were.”
At that, Erica shook. She balled her fists. “If she left us a trail, I’ll find it.”
“If they’re all little doodles like that … I can follow that on my own. Go home.”
“I won’t. Jim.” She turned to him. “I’ll give you the ten grand. We’ll track her on our own.” She nodded.
