by A. C. Fuller
The Crime Beat
Episode 4: Las Vegas
A.C Fuller
Copyright © 2019 by A.C. Fuller
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of quotations in book reviews, articles, academic work, or other contexts where brief quotations are warranted.
Contents
Important Note to the Reader
The Crime Beat: Complete Series List
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
The Crime Beat: Complete Series List
Author Notes, October 2019
About the Author
Other Books By A.C. Fuller
About Gary Collins, Consultant on THE CRIME BEAT
Important Note to the Reader
The Crime Beat is a nine-episode novella series, designed to be read in order and in its entirety. Although each episode tells a complete portion of the story, the nine novellas—read together—weave one unforgettable tale. Flip the page for the complete series list.
Thanks for reading,
-A.C. Fuller
The Crime Beat: Complete Series List
Click the image to reach the series page for The Crime Beat, or find individual titles below. Prior to the spring of 2020, some of the later episodes may be on pre-order.
Episode 1: New York
Episode 2: Washington, D.C
Episode 3: Miami
Episode 4: Las Vegas
Episode 5: London
Episode 6: Paris
Episode 7: Tokyo
Episode 8: San Francisco
Episode 9: Los Angeles
1
Saturday
Cole’s hands shot up to cover her mouth, a scream caught in her throat. The Truffle Pig fell, his bottle of iced tea shattering beside him on the oil-stained pavement.
A man had emerged from a silver SUV and stopped ten feet from the gas pump. He’d taken four large strides toward the assassin, then shot him once in the chest and once in the head. It happened in a surreal instant.
Still sitting in the passenger seat of the stolen airport shuttle van, Cole froze. She stared at the blood that streamed slowly from the dead man’s chest, pooling around the broken glass.
Warren opened the door suddenly.
“Wait,” Cole said, grabbing his forearm. “No.”
He closed the door.
Thirtyish, the man who’d shot The Truffle Pig was tall and handsome in a black suit with a white t-shirt underneath. A large gold cross hung from his neck. After standing over his victim for only a moment, he slid into the back of the SUV before it pulled out of the gas station and turned right.
The gas station attendant ran out of the store and stood over The Truffle Pig’s body. A woman a few yards away filmed the scene on her phone, narrating like a reporter. Another woman spoke into her phone rapidly. Still another walked in circles around her car, talking to herself.
Cole had seen plenty of crime scenes, plenty of dead bodies. She’d been to gruesome murder scenes within hours of the crimes, but she’d never seen anyone killed in front of her. It was all so fast, it didn’t seem possible. The man they’d tracked from Washington, D.C. to Miami, then found only minutes before the fatal shot on Ana Diaz, had walked out of the gas station holding an iced tea—the same brand she drank. Now he was losing blood by the pint. He was gone, just like that. She’d never forget the sound of the gunshot, followed by the shattering glass. Never be able to unsee the pink brain matter splattered on the gas pump. Her mind went fuzzy—spinning—the gray static ready to take over.
She pressed her feet into the floor to steady herself. “We have to follow. We’ll be back in cell range as soon as we exit the park.” She turned to Warren, whose eyes darted back and forth between the body and the SUV as it disappeared around a curve a couple hundred yards away. “We have to follow,” she repeated. “I don’t think they noticed when you opened the door, but I have to think that, if they were following him, they noticed us following him as well.”
Warren shifted the van into gear and turned right, allowing it to drift out over the center line. “They’re up there. Maybe five cars ahead. ”
“The hell?” Cole said. “I mean, you’re a cop. What the hell is going on?”
Warren opened his eyes wide. Steering with his knee, he pressed both hands into his face and let out a long breath. Cole had seen him do this before. It was his pressure release valve, his way of getting his emotions under control. Surely his mind was racing with the possibilities, as hers was. All he said was, “Cell signal?”
“One bar.” She tried calling 9-1-1, but it wouldn’t connect.
“Gas station attendant probably called 9-1-1. There were enough people there that I’m sure someone called. You did the right thing telling me to stay in the car. Instinct was to run at the guy who fired. Without a weapon, he’d have taken me down. What the hell was I thinking?” He sighed. “When you get the bars, call Gabby.”
“Why?”
“Just call her.”
They passed another gas station, then a series of signs for locations in southwest Florida, and finally a sign thanking them for visiting the park. The bars on Cole’s phone moved from one to two. She dialed Gabriella Rojas, Warren’s former training officer who worked for the Joint Terrorism Task Force in New York City. Though they’d never met, Cole trusted her. Mostly because Warren trusted her, but also because of their shared loathing of Joey “The Stallion” Mazzalano.
“Put it on speaker,” Warren said as it rang.
“Hello.” Gabby answered right away, but sounded out of breath.
Cole held the phone between them.
Warren tilted his head, eyes still on the road. “Gabby, it’s War Dog.”
“Hey...I’m jogging...what’s up?”
“This morning, The Truffle Pig killed Ana Diaz. A few minutes ago, he was gunned down at a gas station in the Everglades. We’re on the tail of the killers. I need your help. Fast.”
Rojas breathed heavily into the phone, then said, “Rob, seriously, what the hell are you doing?”
“Please, Gabby.”
For a few moments, all Cole heard on the line was Gabby’s breathing. When Gabby spoke at last, her voice was back to normal. “I heard about Diaz right before I left for my run. What can I do?”
“That was hours ago.”
“I go on long runs.”
“The dude who shot The Truffle Pig looked like a professional. Plates on the SUV were Georgia.” He let the car drift left again, squinting to see the license plate number. “Hold on.” Waiting for a gap in traffic, he pulled out and passed two cars, then changed lanes so the airport shuttle was now two cars behind the SUV. “Got a pen?”
“Told you, I’m running, but I’ll remember it.”
“Georgia plates.” Warren gave her the plate number. “Get back to me ASAP, okay?”
“I’m two miles from my house. It’ll be twelve minutes.”
“You can run two miles in twelve minutes?” Cole asked.
“Ten minutes, but it’ll take me an extra two to get upstairs.”
When they hung up, Cole dialed 9-1-1 and reported what they’d seen, recited the plate number, and assured the woman on the phone they weren�
�t putting themselves at any risk by following it.
They merged onto Interstate 75, heading north up the west coast of Florida. After a few miles, a black sedan overtook them, then pulled in front of them, still two cars back from the SUV. “Local police,” Warren said. “Undercover.”
“How can you tell?” Cole asked.
He pointed at the rear window. “See the bars between the front and back seats? And the two disc things that look like hockey pucks on the roof? Antennas.”
Through the window, Cole saw heavy-duty crossbars that separated the front and back seats. She never would have noticed the black antennas had Warren not pointed them out. “Why aren’t they pulling them over?”
“Waiting for backup, probably. Likely got three calls in five minutes. They know these guys are armed and dangerous. Can’t exactly blame them.”
Cole grew uncomfortable as they rode in silence for what felt like an hour. It was probably five minutes. As a crime reporter, she’d spent most of her time either in the courthouse watching trials or trying to get police, witnesses, and suspects to talk, often by text or Twitter messages. A week ago she’d yearned for excitement—anything to pull her from her routine and off Twitter. But now she was genuinely terrified. As ridiculous as it was, she kept imagining the SUV pulling over and the man hopping out and shooting her.
They passed an exit dotted with fast-food restaurants, and Cole broke the silence. “I’m hungry.” She hadn’t eaten a bite since the half bag of microwave popcorn at 2 a.m. in Little Havana.
Warren said nothing.
Cole’s phone rang. “It’s Gabby.” She held it to Warren as she accepted the call.
“Rob, Cole, you want the good news first, or the bad?”
“The good news,” Cole said quickly. She needed something positive.
“Local police and FBI are all over the car. I don’t know the details, but, apparently, the FBI was already on the SUV.”
“Wait,” Warren said. “If they were already on them, why’d they let them kill The Truffle Pig in broad daylight? That doesn’t make any sense.”
The line was quiet for a long moment. “That I’m not sure about,” Gabby said. “Could be...well...could be a lot of things. But let me finish. FBI is on them, and now local police are, too.”
“Black sedan is tailing them,” Warren said.
“That was the good news?” Cole asked, impatiently.
“Means you’re off the hook,” Gabby said. “Back away slowly from this thing, Rob. You too, Cole. Let the professionals handle it.”
Warren sighed. “Which brings you to the bad news?”
“Right. Plates were registered to a woman in Atlanta named Wendy Bluth. She’s the aunt of Peter Bluth of Las Vegas, who runs Club Blue and some other nightspots.”
Warren let his foot off the gas slowly, as though all the energy had drained from his foot. A line of cars changed lanes and pulled around him.
“What’s Club Blue?” Cole asked.
“One of the hottest off-strip clubs in Vegas. And it’s owned by Sunny Lee.” Gabby paused, allowing the name to hang in the air as though it should mean something to Cole. It didn’t. “Either they’re NVM or they stole a car from an NVM member’s aunt. Would be a helluva coincidence.”
“Sunny Lee?” Warren asked. His face held an odd expression. Eyes wide, lips pursed, jaw tight. Cole couldn’t tell if he was shocked, confused, or afraid. Maybe it was all three.
“What’s NVM?” Cole asked. “And who’s Sunny Lee?”
“I gotta go,” Gabby said, “but get the hell away from this thing, Rob. I’m serious. I had to press a friend in the Florida FBI to get the info, and...anyway, I gotta go.”
The call ended.
Warren’s face went blank.
He was only going forty miles an hour. Car after car passed them on the left side of the two-lane highway.
“Who’s Sunny Lee?” Cole asked. “And what the hell is NVM?”
2
Cole put a hand on Warren’s knee. “You’re only going forty.”
He glanced at the speedometer and accelerated.
She wasn’t much for physical contact, so she was surprised by her own action. The ridiculousness of their situation had hit her all at once. What the hell were they doing? “Rob, pull over.”
Warren gave her a side-eyed glance, but didn’t reply.
“Gabby said it. Local police and the FBI are tailing those guys. We’re in western Florida in a stolen airport shuttle van. The story we were chasing is now”—she raised her hands like she was throwing confetti—“out in the world. We’re nowhere. This is out of our hands.” He ignored her, seemed to be in some kind of trance. “Rob, pull the hell over!”
He snapped back to attention as she waved at a turnout. He took it, stopping the van behind a tour bus that was letting passengers out in front of the restrooms.
“I want you to tell me what NVM is, but first…”
Cars sped by on the highway. Tourists emerged from the tour bus. Yesterday, she’d argued for Warren to give her one more day before releasing the map she’d photographed in Michael Wragg’s storage unit. She’d been selfish and wrong, and she knew it. But she couldn’t say it aloud.
“A day.” Warren’s words broke the silence. “You’re thinking about the day.”
“Might have made a difference if we’d released the map like you said.”
“It wouldn’t have.” He shrugged. “It might now.”
Cole recoiled internally. Every fiber of her being guarded scoops jealously. Even now, when she had to let it go, something in her didn’t want to.
“You know I’m right,” Warren continued. “You want me to make you do it, but I won’t. You want—”
“I get it, okay? Just”—she squeezed her eyes tight—“gimme a minute to think.”
As much as it hurt, she had to release the map. But other things were nagging at her, things that made her uncertain, paralyzed. Someone had planted articles linking them to the murders. There was no evidence, and she didn’t think the articles would make a splash, but still. Who had planted the stories, and why? Plus, Marty Goldberg’s death was still fresh in her mind. Just a day after meeting with them, he’d ordered men to track them to Miami. At least she thought so. She’d been calling to confirm this when he’d been found dead in the Potomac River. None of it made sense.
Even with all the unanswered questions, she couldn’t justify holding onto the map.
Opening the Signal app on her phone, she created a new message. Next, she attached the photo of the map decorated with pushpins in nine cities: New York, Washington, D.C., Miami, Las Vegas, San Francisco, Los Angeles, London, Paris, and Tokyo. She wrote a brief message, explaining its origin. Finally, she attached additional photos from the unit which, though they contained no new information, provided context. She sent the message and put her phone on her lap. “It’s done.”
“Who’d you send it to?”
“Jon Baker. Crime reporter at The New York Times. He’s my biggest competitor. Well, he was my biggest competitor when I was at The Sun.”
“Why him?”
“If I won’t get credit for the scoop, I want to be as far away as possible. Sent it through Signal.” She held up her phone so he could see the app’s icon. “End-to-end encryption. Untraceable. It’s the gold standard for reporters who need encryption. Most don’t, but...”
Warren nodded his approval. “You trust him?”
Cole leaned back and her shoulders dropped. Her conscience was finally clear. “Can’t stand the bastard. Arrogant as hell. But he’s gone to jail to protect sources. Multiple times. He’ll get it out there, and it’ll have the weight of the paper of record behind it.”
“Why’d you have me pull over?” Warren asked.
The tourists were still spilling out of the tour bus, some taking pictures, some sipping bottled water or staring at phones.
“We needed to slow down, get some distance. We were too close. I was too close. With
the manifesto, and now the police and the FBI on those guys, this thing is about to get huge.”
“Or it might be over by the end of the day,” Warren said. “The FBI will nab those guys soon. Interrogate them. I’m assuming they hired The Truffle Pig, waited for him to kill Meyers and Diaz, then took him out to cover their tracks. Planning for someone else to make the next kill like Wragg made the first one. But not if the FBI gets them talking.”
Warren smiled strangely. A look Cole couldn’t figure out. “What?”
“It just hit me. This could be over by the end of the day, and the fact that we were there might have caused it. We aren’t sitting there watching, maybe no one gets the plates, maybe the SUV disappears.”
“Maybe.” Cole wasn’t entirely convinced. “Gabby said the FBI was already trailing the SUV. Doesn’t make any sense.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
She crossed her legs in the seat and turned toward him. “What’s NVM?”
“New Vegas Mafia.”
“I probably should have known that.”
“No reason you would. Like the name says, they’re...new.”
“Your foot eased off the gas when Gabby mentioned them. Fear?”
Warren frowned. He didn’t like the fact that she could read him.
“It’s not just you,” she continued. “Humans are hard-wired to avoid danger. It’s why we’re pessimistic as a species. We’re actually pretty good at avoiding trouble. Some researchers think it’s why we took over the earth in short order. We thrive at avoiding danger. Avoiding predators. Your response tells me those dudes are predators.”
