by Dave Stanton
“Follow up on some leads. Look for Mia.”
We walked to the entrance, where the McDermotts were waiting. Walter stood holding the door, as if he was unsure whether our conversation would take place on the steps, or inside the lobby.
“It’s cold,” Lillian said. She grabbed one of Melanie’s roller bags and wheeled it inside. Melanie and I followed, with Walter trailing. “How are you, little girl?” he said.
“I’m okay, Dad.”
“I’d like to hear from you daily, Mr. Reno,” Lillian said. “We’ll stay here with Melanie for as long as required.”
“Good,” I said.
“May I know when I can expect some results?”
“I’ve made some decent progress.”
“That sounds less than encouraging. It also sounds evasive.”
I looked down at her, right into her steely gray eyes. “If you like, we can sit down for a couple hours, and talk about a whole bunch of maybes and what ifs. I consider that a waste of time, but it’s your dime.”
“You don’t need to take that tone with me.”
I looked away and briefly considered a retort about her tone, but after a long moment decided against it. “I’ll contact you with daily updates, if that’s what you’d like,” I said.
“Have you identified any suspects?”
“Not yet.”
“I’m going to be very forthright now,” Lillian said. “Since hiring you, I’ve done some further research into your background. I’ve been told that you are both a drunkard and a man given to violence without cause.”
“Mother!” Melanie exclaimed. She was standing next to Walter, who shifted his weight from foot to foot, his eyes darting behind his spectacles.
“Who told you that?” I asked.
“Other private eyes. Also policemen.”
“That figures, I guess.”
“I hope I haven’t made a grave mistake in hiring you.”
“Mrs. McDermott, I certainly do enjoy a few drinks on occasion, but I’m not a drunk. So you’ve been misinformed.”
“And what about the violence?”
“Wait a minute. I thought you hired me after learning I’ve killed men. I thought that was one of the reasons you contacted me.”
“True enough. But I’ve now heard that your killings have not always been warranted, and you’ve been lucky to avoid prosecution.”
“Every man I’ve killed was an act of self-defense. They all had it coming, ma’am.”
“Others put it differently.”
“Some cops don’t like me, especially when I get done what they can’t. And as far as other private eyes, let me ask you this: Were they trying to get hired when they offered their opinions of me?”
Lillian McDermott paused before answering. “I suppose so,” she said.
“Is there anything else?”
“Yes,” Lillian said. “You’ve promised to deliver results, Mr. Reno. So please see to it without delay.”
“My point exactly,” I said, spinning on my heel and heading for the door. But before I got there Melanie said, “Dan?”
“Yeah?”
She came forward and hugged me, her breasts pushing against my torso, her head touching my shoulder. “Thank you for everything,” she said. I looked up at Lillian, and she shook her head in denial. Walter just stood there looking perplexed.
CHAPTER 7
As soon as I left the parking lot, I called Cody Gibbons. He answered on the first ring.
“Dirty Double Crossin’, what’s drinkin’?”
“Water.”
“Christ, are you still on the wagon?”
“Yep.”
“Why punish yourself?”
“A little clean living is good for the soul.”
“That’s an interesting bit of philosophy,” Cody said. “Where are you?”
“Just rolled into Vegas. I’m over near the airport.”
“Really? Why don’t you meet me over at the Hard Rock? Have lunch with Abbey and me.”
“You sure?”
“Why wouldn’t I be? Step on it, I’m starving.”
******
When I walked into the restaurant adjoining the Hard Rock Casino, I spotted Cody and his daughter right away. They were sitting across from each other at a four-seat table near the bar, and Cody’s huge frame looked crammed into his chair. His beard was neatly trimmed and his unruly blond hair was shiny with gel, as if he’d made a concerted effort to tame it.
“Hey, Cody,” I said.
He reached up, grabbed my hand, and drew me to him in a clumsy hug. His chair creaked in protest. “Dan, great to see you. Abbey, this is my partner, Dan Reno.”
“Hello,” she said. I offered my hand, and she grasped it and squeezed so firmly I was almost temped to squeeze back, as if it were a contest. When she finally let go I took a seat, Cody to my left, Abbey to my right.
“Dan, like I told you, Abbey’s a criminal justice major at UNLV. She’s doing an internship with Las Vegas PD.”
“No kidding?” I said. I looked at her, and she stared back frankly, an amused glint in her green eyes. She had reddish hair, wide shoulders for a woman, and when she smiled her mouth seemed to test the confines of her jawline. Her face struck me as large, but necessarily so to accommodate her smile and wide-set eyes. In the center of her face, in contrast to her other features, her small, freckled nose looked very girlish.
“Do I not look like a cop to you?” she asked.
I smiled back at her. “Well, cops come in all shapes and sizes, I suppose.”
“Do you deal with policewomen very often?”
“Every now and then.”
A waitress walked up and asked for our drink orders. “Let’s see,” Cody said. “How about a root beer? What do you say, Dan? Root beer?”
“Diet Coke.”
“And for you, miss?”
“Vodka tonic.”
“Hey,” Cody protested.
“What?” Abbey said.
“It’s a little early, don’t you think?”
“You’re one to talk.”
“Just because I drink doesn’t mean it’s a good idea.”
“Sounds like a double standard to me, pops.”
“Pops?” Cody’s expression had turned incredulous, and his ears were turning red, the way they did when he was either angry or embarrassed.
“Just because you’re twenty-one doesn’t mean you should abuse the privilege,” Cody said. I stared at him curiously.
“You finally meet me after twenty-one years, and now it’s parental lecture time?”
Cody looked down and the table became quiet. After a moment his eyebrows rose and he said, “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t sweat it, big dude,” Abbey said.
“It’s just because I care.”
“Wow, you need to lighten up. You sure you don’t want a beer or something?”
Cody looked down again and put his fingers to his forehead. But then he leaned back and laughed briefly. “Ain’t you a piece of work, Abbey? Just like your old man.”
“You never know,” Abbey said, and at that moment I saw in her face something that went much deeper than a family resemblance; I saw in her Cody’s persona, his carefree irreverence and fearlessness. It was in her genes. I could only hope she possessed a watered-down version.
“So, tell me about the case you’re working,” Abbey said.
I didn’t respond for a moment, until Cody said, “Come on, Dan. Give us a little shop talk.”
“All right. A family was attacked in Utah, a couple hours northeast of here. The husband was murdered, the ten-year-old daughter kidnapped or possibly killed, and the wife was struck on the head, spent four weeks in a coma, but survived. The wife’s parents hired me to find their granddaughter and bring the killers to justice.”
The waitresses brought the drinks, and Cody eyed his without interest and moved it aside. “Motives?” he asked.
“The husband had gold buried on his
property. The perps apparently made him dig up one lot of it, about two hundred grand worth.”
“What about the little girl?” Abbey asked. “Her body wasn’t found?”
“There’s no sign she was killed. But there’s been no call for ransom, either.”
“If she’s not dead…” Cody said, his voice trailing off.
“Then there’s two possibilities,” Abbey said. “Either she’s in the hands of a pedophile, or a victim of human trafficking.” The skin on her face seemed to shrink and pull tight, and her eyes retreated deeper into their sockets.
“I have a few leads on the husband and maybe the gold,” I said. “Nothing on the girl yet.”
“I work on a child pornography task force,” Abbey said.
“What? As an intern?” Cody jutted his head forward.
“That’s right. I volunteered for it.”
“They have no right to assign an intern to that.”
“Yeah, I got some push back, but I can be pretty insistent.”
Cody straightened in his seat and widened his eyes, then his brow furrowed. He picked up his spoon, examined it, and carefully returned it to the table.
“Abbey, I think it’s great you’re doing an internship with the police. But I’m confused why you’d want to be involved in something as grim as child porn. I mean, there’s plenty of other options.”
“Like what, traffic detail? Maybe bust commuters for going ten miles over the speed limit or rolling through stop signs?”
Cody seemed stunned for a second. He started to say something, then stopped, frozen in mid-syllable.
“I’m not worried about it. Why should you be?” Abbey said. She tasted her drink, then took a long sip. “And please, no concerned parent lecture. That would really be ridiculous. You get that, right?”
Cody glanced at me, his eyebrows peaked high. His mouth was still open, as if a gear was jammed in his brain.
“Cat got your tongue, pops?”
“Excuse me,” Cody said. “I got to go to the men’s room.” He stood, his chair falling until he caught it at the last moment.
“So you two go way back, huh?” Abbey said, once Cody was out of earshot.
“I met him in high school. His parents had kicked him out of the house.”
“Yeah, I heard all that.”
“From your mother?”
“Yeah. She said she would never have considered marrying him. She also said he got married once, and it lasted maybe a year.”
“What else did she tell you?”
“That he’s a booze hound and a pot head and runs around with strippers and sluts, and that he’s done things that would land most people in prison, but he’s somehow avoided it.”
“I see.”
“She said it’s no surprise it took him more than twenty years to get in touch. She said to not be surprised if it’s a temporary thing.”
Her eyes were burning into mine, and I looked down and found myself staring at the drink in her hand.
“You got nothing to say?” she said.
“Your father saved my life twice. He’s the most unselfish and loyal friend a man could have. He’s got the biggest heart of anyone I know.”
Abbey tilted her glass and drank until I heard the ice cubes rattling against her teeth. When she wiped her mouth, her eyes looked red-rimmed and glassy. “Then where was he all these years?”
I watched the bartender pour pints of beer from the taps, the foam spilling over the glass rims. “Trying to deal with his past. Maybe trying to find himself.”
For a brief moment I saw a pall of sadness cloud her face, like a passing shadow. But then she burst out laughing. “God, that’s corny. Is that the best you can come up with?”
I shrugged and tried to smile. “Your dad’s not perfect, but who is?”
“What does he want from me?” she asked.
“To have a relationship. To be there for you.”
Abbey squinted and her face again looked pained. When she didn’t respond, I said, “Is he too late?”
“We’ll see,” she said quietly, as Cody approached.
******
The remainder of lunch was punctuated by moments of awkward politeness and Abbey’s sarcastic attempts at humor, which would have been funny if not for her thinly veiled resentment. Cody was clearly uncomfortable and trying to measure his words, but by the time we were done eating, Abbey had finished three drinks and her attitude lightened. She became casually chatty and seemed willing to put her issues with Cody on the back burner, at least for the time being. It was likely the booze talking, I suspected. Minus the alcohol, her anger would probably return in one form or another. There was no question in my mind that Cody would need to earn her respect and love. I just hoped the process wouldn’t be an overwhelming burden for my old pal, no matter how deserving of her wrath he might be.
Other than that, I had no desire to contemplate Cody’s late arrival into his daughter’s life, or her response to his sudden presence. It would sort itself out in a positive way, I hoped. I certainly wasn’t tempted to pass judgment on the situation. A woman once told me I wasn’t complex enough for parenthood. Although she was lashing out in a grieving rage, I never forgot those words. They bounced around in my head each time Candi mentioned getting pregnant, which she had done a few times recently.
“I’m staying at the Plaza downtown,” Cody said, after we left Abbey at her car. “Why don’t you follow me over and check in?”
“Maybe tomorrow,” I said, as we walked toward a parking structure behind the casino. “I need to drive to L.A.”
“What for? It’s a five-hour road trip,” Cody said.
“You up for it?”
“No,” he said, squinting into the cold, dry air. “I’m gonna go have a chat with whoever at Vegas PD approved Abbey for the perv squad.”
“You sure you want to do that?”
“What, you don’t trust my diplomatic skills?”
“I didn’t know you had any,” I said with a laugh, but when I looked at him, the crow’s feet spreading from his eyes looked carved by shrapnel.
“It’s the responsible thing to do,” he said.
“I guess you’re right, buddy,” I said, patting his massive shoulder. “Just try not to put her in a bad spot, you know?”
Cody didn’t respond, and I spotted his car parked outside the garage. “You drove the Hellfire Hooptie?” I said.
“Why wouldn’t I?” he replied. The car hadn’t changed from when I’d seen it last. It was a maroon 1990’s Toyota Camry, paint faded and scratched, rims mismatched, a dent in the driver’s side quarter panel. Cody claimed it was the perfect stakeout vehicle for the slums. But the engine, suspension, and brakes had been fully modified for performance, and after nearly wrecking a few times, Cody had gone to racing school to learn how to manage the 450-horsepower beast.
“How’s she running?” I asked.
“Like a bat out of hell. Hit one-fifty through the Mojave on the way here.”
We reached the Camry and stood gazing at the red rock mountain range west of the city. “I found the murder victim’s cell phone,” I said. “He met someone at the Port of Los Angeles two weeks before he died. I need to check it out.”
Cody continued staring out at the jagged horizon, a grimace on his mug. “You coming back tomorrow?”
“Probably.”
He sighed and pulled his keys from his pocket. “What do you think of Abbey?”
“I like her. But I think you got your hands full.”
“No shit, huh?” he said, a smile beginning on his lips.
“I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Watch out for those L.A. bimbos with the fake boobs,” he said.
******
Within a few minutes the Las Vegas cityscape was like a mirage in my rearview mirror, the glass facades shimmering like something out of a desperate gambler’s dream. Ahead, I-15 bisected two hundred miles of the Mojave Desert. The interstate ran southwest through the
stark wasteland, until terminating at the Inland Empire, which always struck me as an odd name for the easternmost section of Southern California’s densely populated communities. After that there would be heavy traffic, which would likely add a couple hours to my trip. It would be well after sunset by the time I reached the Port of Los Angeles.
I crossed into California and drove hard, over Mountain Pass and then through Baker and onto the whitened flatlands of San Bernardino County. After a ten minute break to fill my tank in Barstow, I continued south on the sunbaked roadway, cruising at eighty-five and watching for highway patrol cruisers. By the time I reached the 210 and turned due west, the sun was low in the sky and its silver glare was bright on my windshield.
Three hours of commuter traffic later, I stopped at a fast food joint in Long Beach and reviewed my GPS while I ate. The Port of Los Angeles stretched into Long Beach and encompassed an area as large as a small city. I studied the map carefully, then drove off into the night. It was 8:30 and there was only a sliver of moon in the sky.
I found West Ocean Boulevard easily enough, but when I crossed the Los Angeles River I had to either turn off or take an on-ramp onto a freeway. I ended up on a side street parallel to a row of oil silos and hit a dead end. After a few U-turns, I finally found South Henry Ford Avenue, then I turned onto New Dock Street.
The road was straight, deserted, and unlit. To my left was a series of railroad tracks, and about fifty yards out sat an unmoving train stacked with containers. On my right, a cyclone fence topped with barbwire ran the length of the street. I drove slowly, looking for signage indicating berth 207. According to my map, a couple hundred yards beyond the fencing was the Cerritos Channel. I reached the end of the street, and across a vacant yard I saw a row of massive harbor cranes, their white superstructures dimly visible in the scant moonlight.
I turned around and doubled back, peering at the concrete buildings behind the fence line. One sign was for a marine repair business, and another for an oil production pipe yard. For the next hundred yards I saw nothing but a few NO TRESPASSING placards, before reaching a small, weather-beaten plywood sign, which read DOCK 206-209. I stopped, got out of my truck, and walked to a gate in the fence. On the other side was a parking lot scattered with freight containers and big rigs.