by A. C. Fuller
As he pulled away from the airport, Takigawa said, “I’ll be taking you back to the field office, unless we can cover everything on the ride over.”
“Not much to tell,” Warren said.
“As I said in the texts, Rojas filled me in a little, but I’d appreciate if you’d start from the beginning. I’ve been working on NVM, and specifically on Sunny Lee, for two years. This is a nice break for us.” He’d said Sunny Lee with a hint of disdain, the first piece of emotion or personality he’d shown.
Warren glanced back at Cole. “You wanna tell it?”
She waved him off, then turned her attention to the billboards and casinos in the distance. She seemed mesmerized by the sparkling skyline. On the plane, Cole had mentioned that she’d never visited Las Vegas. She and Matt had traveled widely, so this had come as a surprise. Bright towers and glimmering gold signs rose out of the desert. He was used to it, but it wasn’t like anywhere else. Love it or hate it, it was hard to look away.
Takigawa tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. “Mr. Warren? How about we start here: How’d you end up at that gas station?”
Warren didn’t have much in common with him, but he trusted Takigawa nonetheless. As they cruised toward Vegas, he told him the story. With each new revelation, his conscience cleared a little. Starting with the day Raj Ambani was killed, he told the truth. He’d raced down to the Met as soon as he heard about the shooting, desperate to tell anyone who would listen about the sale of the nine rifles he’d seen on his day shadowing the JTTF. When no one would listen, he’d approached Cole.
Takigawa asked him a few questions for clarity, but mostly listened respectfully. Though he said little, the questions he asked gave Warren the impression that the man had a sharp mind. Probably didn’t smoke, drink, or stay up past ten.
He told how he and Cole had tracked down Michael Wragg, how they’d known the Alvin Meyers assassination was connected to Ambani because of the photos Cole took of Wragg’s screen. Finally, he told Takigawa how they’d ended up in a hotel room with The Truffle Pig’s rifle. “From there,” Warren concluded, “we headed to Miami where we got to Ana Diaz’s estate a few minutes too late. I think Rojas filled you in on what happened from there.”
“Wait, how’d you know Miami would be the site of the next killing?”
Warren wasn’t willing to give up Samuel Bacon and Norris Ubwe, the two JTTF guys who’d helped him. He opened his mouth to lie, but it would destroy the good feeling he’d gotten from telling Takigawa the truth so far. “I’m not going to tell you that. At least not yet.”
Takigawa gave him a side-eyed glance. “May I ask why not?”
“Got the tip from someone in law enforcement. I’m on a ledge here, and I don’t want to pull them out on it with me.”
Takigawa signaled, changed lanes to pass a truck, then signaled again and merged back ahead of the truck once he was a respectable distance past. It was the most by-the-book lane change Warren had ever seen, and it made him miss Blue Lightning.
“If they gave you a tip they didn’t share with their superiors, that’s a crime.”
Warren shook his head. “I didn’t say they shared it only with me. I don’t know what they did, but...look, you know how it is. Sometimes we help each other out. If you want to blame someone, blame me. I’m not outing them.”
Takigawa drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “We can return to that later. How’d you find The Truffle Pig? You know, FBI has had him on their most wanted list for nine years. And you found him in two days.”
Warren nodded toward Cole, who leaned against the window in the back seat, eyes closed. “Mostly her. Found a local, figured out the most likely next target. From there, I was lucky to spot him.”
“Every detail, please, Mr. Warren.”
Takigawa drove slowly, sticking to the right lane. Warren took a few deep breaths, trying to calm himself. The way Takigawa drove made him crazy.
Warren told him the story of how they’d found The Truffle Pig, then followed him across southern Florida. He told him about the church he’d stopped at, then the scene at the gas station and their calls to local police and the FBI. “When Gabby told me the plate belonged to a woman connected to NVM, well, that’s where you guys came in.”
“Did you get much of a look at the men?”
Cole leaned forward, sticking her head between the seats. “Only the shooter. Thirty, maybe late-twenties, handsome, clean-shaven. Black suit. White t-shirt. Gold chain.”
“Kinda generically handsome, if that makes sense,” Warren added. “Maybe Italian background, but I don’t know.”
“In the glove compartment there’s a stack of photos. See if he’s one of them.”
Warren opened the glove compartment and found an envelope with about twenty photos. He thumbed through them, Cole looking over his shoulder. None was an obvious match for the man they’d seen.
Cole shook her head. “Sorry. Don’t think it’s any of those guys.”
They rode in silence for a minute. On the right, the major casinos on The Strip loomed large. The big glass pyramid of The Luxor, the faux-Roman architecture of Caesar’s Palace, and the twirling roller coaster of New York, New York. Warren watched the scene, glancing occasionally at Cole to gauge her reaction. The more he thought about it, the more he thought she’d hate Las Vegas. She was too much of a brooder to enjoy the anything-goes vibe of Sin City.
Takigawa gave him an odd look. Warren puzzled over it for a moment, then shot up in his seat. “Oh, God.”
Takigawa didn’t react.
“Why’d you bring those photos?” Warren asked.
Takigawa didn’t respond.
Warren shot Cole a worried look. She looked confused. Warren fumed. He knew why he’d brought the photos. It was the same reason Takigawa had texted them in the first place. Something had gone wrong.
“What is it?” Cole asked.
Warren turned to Takigawa. “Please tell me you didn’t lose them.”
“Mistakes were made.”
Warren closed his eyes. His head dropped to his chest. After a second, his eyes shot open and he struck the glove compartment with his fist, just once, as hard as he could. It hurt his hand and dented the plastic.
“Please don’t damage FBI property, Mr. Warren.”
“Wait,” Cole said from the back seat. “I recognize that passive-voice BS. ‘Mistakes were made.’ What the hell happened?”
Takigawa squeezed the steering wheel so hard his knuckles cracked. Warren recognized the move. He’d done the same thing out of frustration a hundred times. “I showed you the pictures because I was hoping the men who shot The Truffle Pig were men we already knew, already had locations on.”
“And they did that because someone screwed up,” Warren said.
“I don’t get it,” Cole said. “We passed them off. Local police and FBI were on them when we left.”
“Mistakes were made,” Takigawa repeated blandly.
“You’re not saying you lost them,” Cole said.
Warren sighed. “That’s exactly what he’s saying.”
Takigawa raised his voice for the first time. “A minute ago you wouldn’t throw your buddies under the bus.” He narrowed his eyes. “I think you can understand why I won’t, either. Mistakes. Were. Made.” Takigawa sighed. “Let’s leave it at that. The question I have for you two is whether you’re willing to help us fix them.”
Warren closed his eyes. He tried not to let himself get too high or too low—either extreme could lead him back to the bottle—but he’d been hoping this might be over soon. Had things broken right, the NVM members might have given up others involved in the nine murders. From there, the masterminds might have been caught. He and Cole would be heroes. Maybe big enough heroes to get him back on the force. But now…
“Will you help?” Takigawa asked.
“How far’s the field office?” Warren asked. “And do you have coffee?”
5
The Las Vegas FB
I Field Office was housed in a gray box of a building, as boring and nondescript as Takigawa’s brown suit. He led them past a front desk guarded by two security guards, flashing his ID per the procedural manual, though it was clear they recognized him.
Cole hung a few paces behind Warren, still in disbelief that mistakes were made.
They sat in a large cubicle in the center of an open room that bustled with activity. Takigawa—all business—offered them chairs on either side of a desk and opened a laptop. “In the car I had photos of our main targets, but here”—he pushed the laptop across the desk—“take a look.” Cole leaned in as Takigawa opened a series of photos on the laptop. “Let me know if any of these men are the man who shot The Truffle Pig.”
He opened a photo, waited until both Cole and Warren shook their heads, then clicked another, then another. Interestingly, each photo had a very different quality. Some were posed like professional portraits. Some were square, like Instagram photos, and some were grainy or slightly out of focus, as though taken from a great distance. Surveillance photos.
“Nope,” Cole said as another photo flashed by.
“Who are all these guys?” Warren asked.
“I’ve been on NVM for two years, working like hell just to keep up with them. They use technology better than any criminal organization I’ve seen and—frankly—better than us. We’ve got a team of interns combing social media for links between known NVMs and others in Vegas. We cross those folks with photos and info from traditional surveillance, and what we come up with is what I’m showing you.” He clicked and another image flashed by. “Our NVM Person of Interest file.”
Warren shook his head, crinkled his nose, and frowned. A look Cole recognized as his disgusted face. “What?” she asked.
Warren waved her off and gestured back to the screen, which was on a new image. “What about him?” he asked. The photo was of a young man—could have been a teenager, even—wearing a gold chain and a blue suit over a white t-shirt. He held a heavy-bottomed tumbler and his cheeks were red, likely from a night of partying. Her first reaction was that he was too young. The shooter had been around thirty. This kid looked only a couple years out of puberty. “Why didn’t you arrest him for underage drinking?” Cole asked.
Takigawa frowned.
“Seriously, though,” she continued, “these photos go back two years?”
“No. I’ve been working NVM for two years. When I asked our interns to get good at tracking these bastards through social media, I told them to pull in everything, including older photos.”
Cole examined the image. Looked like the typical photo a dumb teenager would put on Instagram, but there was some resemblance between the kid and the man who’d shot The Truffle Pig. “When was the photo taken?”
Takigawa clicked it, revealing a “Notes” section that read: “Instagram story of Sunny Lee, June 23, 2012, Subject not tagged.”
“What does that mean, ‘Subject not tagged’?” Warren asked.
Cole and Takigawa began answering at the same time, but Cole relented and let him explain.
“Means this photo was pulled from Sunny Lee’s Instagram. This was just a random photo—probably taken in one of her clubs before she rose to where she is now. Whoever this is, his Instagram account wasn’t linked to the photo, so we don’t have his name. But we know he was in a club with Sunny Lee, and, look”—he pointed at a circular bar in the upper left corner of the image—“that’s the famous bar at Club Blue, one of the hottest spots in Vegas. Owned by—”
“Sunny Lee,” Cole said.
Warren leaned in. “I can see it. The ears. If this was taken in 2012, I think the age is about right. Chances are, the shooter was someone in the NVM orbit for years, being groomed. Maybe The Truffle Pig was his coming out party?”
Takigawa wrote in a small notebook he’d pulled from an inside pocket. “Level of certainty?”
“Sixty percent,” Warren said.
“Eighty,” Cole said.
Warren stood. “So we head to Club Blue?”
Takigawa frowned. “Maybe I head to Club Blue. I appreciate your help, Mr. Warren and Ms. Cole, but this is where our collaboration ends.”
Warren took a deep breath and crossed his arms. “There’s something you’re not telling us.”
“Told you, I’m not gonna get into how we lost the shooters. I thought you understood that.”
Warren shook his head in a tight arc. “No, something else.” He leaned in, put his hand on Takigawa’s neck, and pulled him in so their foreheads almost met. “C’mon, man. We tracked these bastards from New York to D.C. I left my car there. I loved that ride. Then to Miami where we almost got taken out. Now we’re here. Gimme something. Please.”
Takigawa pulled away. Warren leaned back.
Cole stood as well so they formed a tight triangle. Takigawa looked torn, but Warren was right. He wasn’t telling them something. “Please,” she said. “I swear we won’t tell anyone.”
Takigawa sighed. “Look, the last week or two, we’ve been hearing about a ‘Retirement Party’ for Sunny Lee. Couple things on social media, confirmed by a source within NVM. Until yesterday, we were operating under the assumption it could be a rival gang member looking to take over her clubs, or, well...could have been a lot of things. Once we heard Ana Diaz went down, we started to wonder. When we got the call about The Truffle Pig and his connection to all these assassinations, we perked up. We believe Sunny Lee is going to be taken out. Maybe tomorrow. I don’t know how, but I think it’s connected to the nine murders.” He waved an arm in their direction. “This damn thing you’ve been chasing around the country. We’re gonna loop in with field offices in New York, D.C., and Miami, but for now, we’re gonna keep an eye on Sunny Lee. I think she’s going to be the fourth victim. If she is, we’re, well...we lost these guys once...it won’t happen again.”
He leaned back and folded his arms. He wasn’t going to say anything else.
Warren extended a hand. “Thanks. We’ll stay out of your hair, but I think you understand we need to stay in Vegas to see how this plays out. Keep us in the loop?”
Takigawa offered a noncommittal nod.
Cole didn’t expect him to keep them in the loop. “Let us know if we can help.”
Takigawa led them to the door and saw them out. A minute later, they stood on the curb, alone. “What are we going to do?” Cole asked. “Where are we gonna stay?”
“I miss Blue Lightning.”
It took Cole a moment to remember Blue Lightning was the name he’d given his ’69 Cougar. They’d left it in a snowy traffic jam in Washington, D.C. “Yeah, sorry about that.”
“I wonder if she’s okay.”
“Probably got towed to a lot or something. If you want, I’ll make some calls. Find out. I’ll ask Marty Gol—" she swallowed the rest of the name. She’d forgotten he was dead, only for a moment, only long enough to get half of his name out of her mouth. “I’ll make some calls to impound lots.”
“Thanks.” Warren looked concerned. “We need to talk. Debrief. We’ve been going and going for days.”
A taxi rolled by and Cole waved it down. “Let’s find a hotel.”
6
“Toward The Strip,” Warren said to the taxi driver.
“Where exactly?” he asked.
“Dunno yet.”
The driver shook his head, but took the freeway entrance, running right into stop-and-go traffic. “Rush hour.”
“Never thought Vegas had a rush hour,” Cole said. “Not sure why. Just pictured it as somehow immune.”
“People do work here.”
Cole was on her phone, looking up Marty Goldberg as Warren watched over her shoulder. There were a handful of stories, but none more than a few paragraphs. As Goldberg’s assistant had told her, he was found in the Potomac River around seven in the morning. Toxicology reports indicated he’d taken two dozen sleeping pills, and the empty bottle by his nightstand confirmed it. Everyone seemed to agree: Marty Gold
berg had finally become disillusioned with the corruption on K Street and the life of a D.C. lobbyist. He’d taken the sleeping pills and walked into the river.
Cole turned off her phone. “I know you’re gonna say I’m being paranoid, but I don’t buy that Marty Goldberg took some pills and went all Virginia Woolf.”
“Exactly wrong.” Warren chuckled. “I was gonna ask how he got to the river? He took the sleeping pills at home, then drove there? Caught an Uber? How far away did he live?”
“Don’t know where his apartment was. Maybe it was close?”
“Still, why not take the bottle with him?”
Cole squinted. “Devil’s advocate—he could have had them in his pocket?”
“Maybe, but why not just put the bottle in his pocket?”
Cole nodded. “Not a bad way to stage a suicide. But there’s a problem. Assuming it was a murder, someone had to be in his apartment, make him take the pills, then get him to the river. There’s gotta be surveillance footage of his apartment building, visitor logs, something. Someone would have seen someone breaking in.”
“Maybe it was a regular visitor. Someone he knew.”
“Still. Would have been a record. Surely police would be looking into that.”
Warren shook his head. “You see that on Monk?”
Cole’s eyes narrowed.
He laughed. “Not ‘surely,’ but maybe.”
After a long silence, Cole said, “Humor me. Assuming he was killed, and assuming he sent those two guys who followed us to Miami, maybe he was killed as part of a cover-up. Maybe someone got to him, knew we were chasing the story, got him to hire those guys...then killed him.”
“It’s just one of a dozen possibilities. More likely had something to do with some shady lobbying deal.”
Cole sighed. “Ugh. We’re not going to figure this out. It’s like we’re always a step behind, one position away from seeing this thing clearly.”
“I can call around and see if I can find anything out, but Bakari was my best contact in D.C. and, well…”
“Yeah.”
