by L. J. Martin
Pax clears his throat then offers, “We came to the same conclusion as you, it seems. Albert and his buddies had nothing to do with the bus.”
“Those dickheads…excuse your grandfather, Mona. Those guys saw an opportunity to take advantage of our grief and thought we'd be easy marks. Thanks to you two, we weren't.”
It's my turn to step in, and I do. “Mr. Pointer, we're very careful about our work. No one, other than Albert and your security people knew we had anything to do with you, much less were working the bus explosion. And I'm not sure Albert knew even that…by the way, not that I'm sure I want to know other than the fact your man could implicate us, where is Albert?”
“You're right,” he says, with a tight smile, “you don't want to know. Know this, Albert won't be testifying against you anytime, anywhere.”
“Good enough,” I say, with a nod.
“You should know the FBI has contacted us regarding a call from what they’ve labeled ‘the crime scene’, claiming Flannigan got a call about the time the affair at the Air Park went down. And they know the call came from you, Mike.”
I act surprised, not wanting him to have any idea that Sol has been into their system, listening. “Jesus, that was fast,” I exclaim.
Pax adds, “The tower servicing that area must have come up with Mike's cell phone. They are fishing and casting a very wide net.”
“That was our IT guy’s take as well,” Pointer says. “So, what's next?”
“I have a command performance at Merrick's office when we're through here. Then we're back in the field seeing what we can turn up.”
“Stop at Flannigan's office on the way out. He may have something for you.”
“That's it?” Pax asks.
“That's it. Stay in touch.”
“Yes, sir,” I say, and Cindy stands as we do.
“I'll show them out,” she says, and Pointer doesn't complain.
Pax, always the practical one, picks up the duffle bag, then double-times to the door as if Pointer is going to ask for it back.
Cindy not only follows us out, but into the elevator.
“Sorry we didn't get there before you got that shot to the eye,” I say, as she hits the ground floor button.
“I kicked that guy you shot in the face in the balls, and he punched me. Knocked me out for a while.”
“He won't do it again,” Pax offers, with a smile.
“We'll be happy,” I say, with a crooked grin, “to buy you a cooked steak and a raw one to put on that eye, when you've got time.”
“I'm not showing my face in public until I'm back to normal. But after that, you’re on.”
We part ways with Cindy at Flannigan's floor. But he's not in so we head down to the casino floor. There we thread our way thorough a dozen Asian guys who back up a fat Asian player with a multiple stacks of blacks, who's betting a six-inch stack with every hand.
“Any guesses about what's in the bag,” I ask Pax, with a wry grin as we clear the baccarat area.
“Rattlesnakes,” he responds.
“A hundred grand, I'll bet.”
“I'll guess ten thou, if it's money at all. It's more likely a couple of those fat lobsters.”
We restrain ourselves until we get to Pax's jeep. He begins to unzip it. “If it rattles I'm throwing it at you.” He glances in. “Damn, ten grand packets of hundreds. A bunch of them, way more than a hundred grand.”
“Payday one,” I say, with a wide smile. “Let’s get on to the big one, now that we know Pointer pays up.”
I'm not completely surprised to see Lieutenant Andre Bollinger in the other gunmetal gray chair in Merrick's office when I'm ushered in. I would think the fibbies are working closely with LVPD. Bollinger and I have some history, and I respect and admire the guy. He's a good cop.
He stands and offers a hand when I enter, and I gladly take it.
“No interview room?” I ask Merrick.
“Do we need one?” he replies.
“I don't think so,” Bollinger says. “Reardon has been 'interviewed' about a hundred times. He'll tell us what he wants us to hear, probably if he was on a thirteenth-century rack.”
“That's a compliment, Andre. Thanks.”
“Okay,” Merrick says. “Let's get to it. Your phone was used from a crime scene last night. Lay it out for us?”
“Not me,” I say. “Unless drinking a little booze, having supper, or shopping is a crime these days.”
“Drinking where—” Merrick asks, but he's interrupted by Bollinger.
“Mike,” Bollinger interrupts, “this thing at the Air Park has you written all over it. Why don't you save us all a lot of time and tell us what went down?”
“Air Park?” I ask.
Merrick sighs deeply, then snaps, “Yes, the Air Park, as if you didn't know. Three bodies, two full of .223's and one shot with a nine mil…signs of a motorcycle or two, an aircraft parked in take off position but with a missing pilot.”
“Anything to do with the bus explosion?” I ask, turning to Bollinger, thinking I might actually get an answer from him. Might as well dig what I can out of them.
“Don't answer that,” Merrick snaps. Then says, “Three dead guys who have a two-page rap sheet each, and a missing pilot who works as a bartender for The Majestic. Now, how come you—”
“Whoa, not me, not any of my acquaintances. I was partying it up last night with my buddy Pax.”
“Where's your Harley?” Bollinger asks.
“Dropped it off this morning,” I smile, and add, “some asshole grabbed the tires and wheels. We got a regular crime wave here in Vegas.”
“Convenient,” Merrick says, looking disgusted. Then asks, “Who's doing the work?”
“Harley, over on South Vegas.”
“Then,” Merrick continues, “since I'm sure you dumped the tires…I don't imagine you'd mind giving us a DNA sample?”
I guess I should have made sure I didn't bleed all over the crime scene.
17
I laugh, as it's time to play it casual. “One of your dead guys get butt-plugged? The perp leave a sperm sample for you?”
“Very funny. How about that DNA sample?” Merrick pushes.
“Not a chance. As far as I know, and now you've proved it, my DNA is not in the fed bank.”
“You were a Marine?” Merrick says, searching for an alternative.
“Many years ago, before DNA sampling was routine.”
“Then I guess we'll have to put a tail on you. First time you hock a goober or use a glass in one of those cheap gin joints you frequent, or drink from a coke can…why don't you just make it easy on all of us?”
I laugh again. “You got any good looking female type agents? Hell, she won't have to follow me, she can ride along. We can make it easy by trading spit.”
“One of my ladies would rip your tongue out by the root, Reardon.” Merrick presses, “How come you got on long sleeves? It's a hundred degrees outside.”
“Sign of respect for the FBI, agent.”
“How about pushing up your sleeves.”
“I would, but these guns of mine would frighten you.” I pat my right bicep with my left hand, and give him a smug smile.
“You're full of crap, Reardon. You've got cuts or scratches on your arm, and we got blood from the scene, from where the fence was cut and from within ten feet of a couple of bodies. You're going down for this Air Park thing.” Merrick stands, and doesn't look happy. “Get the hell out of here, Reardon. Don't get near my investigation.”
I rise and head for the door. “Wouldn't think of it. Whoever did the gig at the Air Park did the state and fed a favor. Think of all the savings not having to prosecute those bad guys…if they were bad guys. Who ever dusted those guys should probably get a medal.”
FBI agents seldom curse, but I can see the fuck you in his eyes. Rather, he says, “Hang on. I'll get someone to see you out.”
Bollinger rises also. “I'll see him out if that's in the protocol. I've go
t to go anyway.”
Merrick returns to his chair. “Stay out of my investigation, Reardon.”
“Yes, sir,” I say, and leave, with Andre close on my tail.
As we exit the building, I ask Andre, “You know this guy, Roth, from Maxmillian's?”
“Tobias Roth? Every cop in Nevada knows him or knows of him. He's the worst actor in the gaming biz. I'm astounded the board hasn't jerked his ticket two decades ago, or ten times since.”
“Pax is over at Maximillian’s having a drink. It's past three, how about joining us for a slammer or two and a steak?” I pull my phone and check the time. “It's only three. Meet us at the Racquet Room across from Maximillian’s about 6:00?”
“You buying?” he asks, with a Cheshire cat grin.
“I owe you. You bet I'm buying, unless I can out-flip Weatherwax.”
“See you there,” he says, and heads for his plainclothes Ford. I'm in my Vette, my '57' spotless pride and joy, as in addition to having new rubber on the Harley, I'm having the van detailed. You can't be too careful. Not that any of it will do any good as my DNA will, likely, tie me to the scene. Ka ka happens.
Pax is standing a dozen paces from the front door of Maxmillian's, talking on his cell when I hand my car off to the valet.
When he rings off he turns to me, “You remember that pic you took of the guy at the bar and sent to Sol.”
“Sure, Det somebody. Says he was from Detroit and that's the reason for the nickname.”
“His name is Zebron Zebrowski, father a Pole, mama is Russian. He's from and wanted in Cleveland for multiple murder and in Chicago for armed robbery and kidnapping. He's a bad boy.”
“Didn't jump bail did he?” I ask, hoping there is a skip recovery fee to be earned.
“Nope, never arrested for a major, so no bond, no bondsman, no contract…however there's a fifty thousand dollar reward offered by the bank whose president he kidnapped and murdered after they paid a two hundred fifty thousand dollar ransom.”
“Outstanding,” I say, then add, “however, we need to see what his play is in this bus thing before we bust him. It’s got to be a citizen’s arrest, but we can pull that off.”
“Sol also got a line on the location of Iver Brown.”
“Who's that?”
“The chauffeur who allowed the granddaughter to ride the bus rather than deliver her as he was entrusted to do.”
“Where can we find him?”
“Valley Hospital, recovering from a broken arm, broken leg, busted ribs and spleen, and various cuts, bruises, and contusions.” Pax laughs. “Seems it doesn't pay to let Grandpa Pointer down.”
“There's more. I can see it in your squinty eyes.”
“I only squint when I'm looking at your ugly mug. Clark County Sheriff turned up a couple of bodies out north of town. It'll hit the papers tomorrow. Seems the coyotes dug up some shallow graves and a curious rock hound checked where and why the turkey vultures were circling while the coyotes were having a feast. Duane Pemberton, a small time grifter and thief who'll do anything for a buck and a guy named Victor Ovechkin, a Russian, and a good buddy of your new friend, Zebron 'Det' Zebrowski. Known as Vic to his friends.”
“A buddy?”
“A roommate until he met his maker.”
“The plot thickens,” I say, with a knowing smile. “That's what a roomie gets for leaving his dirty dishes in the sink.”
“Yeah, you left your coffee cup this morning. So, how'd it go with the fibbies?”
“Okay. I got a little surprise as there was an old friend at the table. We're having supper with him…Lieutenant Andre Bollinger. You remember Bollinger?”
“Hard to forget,” Pax says. “He was not a fan of the cartel boys and looked the other way when they attracted the buzzards. A good guy.”
Again I laugh. “Yes, but don't bare your soul too much. He's still a cop.”
“Right. Now, you want the best part?”
“Can't wait.”
“Butch Flannigan, Pointer's head of security…was handing his Dodge pickup to the valet when I pulled up.”
“He probably can't gamble where he works.”
“Didn't head for the tables, headed for the elevator, and he's still up there.”
“Up where?”
“Elevator went directly to the top, 7th floor, the executive offices. I watched the floor display.”
“Maybe he's looking for another job?”
“Maybe,” Pax says, followed by a crooked smile, and when I don't respond, adds, “and maybe he's doing a job for Tobias Roth, one he doesn't want Pointer to know about.”
“Time for Sol to dig into Maximillian's and good ol' Tobias.”
“I've already got him on it. Where are we having dinner?”
“Across the street. We got an hour to kill, let's hit the blackjack tables.”
“Yeah,” he says, and laughs. “Roth may need the bail money.”
18
We only have half a drink down when Andre Bollinger shows. He's changed into a golf knit shirt and a pair of Bermuda shorts. He joins us at the bar, but I think a table would be better and we find a red upholstered booth in a corner, and work our way there.
“What are you two having?” he asks.
Pax has some South Pacific concoction with an umbrella about the right size for a rat, and I've having my usual Jack on the rocks, and I clue Andre in.
The barmaid, with enough push up cleavage to hide a bowie knife in, laughs when all three of us fail to meet her gaze. “Eyes are up here, boys,” she says, with a cackle. Pax, being an un-cured tittyholic, is the only one not to meet her eyes. “What are you having, sweetheart?” she asks Andre.
“Grey Goose martini on the rocks, dirty, an olive, an onion and a cherry…in a bucket please, no stem.”
Pax laughs, finally looking away from the Grand Canyon between her freckled breasts, then says, “Bollinger, we're having supper, on us.”
Andre smiles. “Just a starter drink and appetizer to get the taste of a bad day out of the mouth.”
“Bad how?” I ask.
He gets serious. “They have blood off the fence, but none near the bodies. He was pushing a little hard to get you to lay it out for us.”
“Hell, if I'd known that I might have come through with the DNA. I could tell them I was picking mushrooms on the airport property.”
“Be careful, Mike,” Bollinger says, with sincerity. “Merrick is very good at his job and he has no debt to you, and will cut you no slack no matter how bad those guys were…and I've read their sheet and they were all dirty as hell.”
“When there's no question someone is a dirty lowlife, mistreating a woman or child…or both…and is shooting at you, then equal and opposite is the rule of law. Right?”
He smiles, albeit a little sadly. “Can't argue… I guess you wouldn't have a clue about where the pilot of the plane, one Albert Sandavol, might have gotten off to?”
This I can answer truthfully. “I haven't the foggiest, and that's the God's honest truth. Not that I'm saying I had anything to do with the Air Park thing.”
“Right.” This time the smile is smug. “But Merrick won't see it that way. He doesn't believe in the law of the jungle.”
“I'll cross that bridge when it comes. You've guessed we're working on the bus thing.”
“For Pointer?”
“For Pointer. So, you show me yours and I'll show you mine.”
He laughs and shrugs. “It's not my case, so all I have is scuttlebutt. I was only called to join Merrick and his interview with you as you and I have a history. The fibbies are still concentrating on the federal judge…Alverez, and the ragheads. I'm sure they're trying to get someone inside the DSA…Destroy Satan America. “
“How about Roth. We hear Alverez was the black robe appointed to Roth's tax evasion case and Roth knows he's the worst of the thirteen to have the case. That could be motive enough for a guy who dreams of gold.”
Again, he shrugs. “Hell, a
half dozen judges could be as bad. The rumor is Richard Van Nord is leaning toward dropping the case.”
“Van Nord, the federal prosecutor?”
“That's the guy.”
“Roth have something on Van Nord?”
He smiles knowingly, then winks at the barmaid as she places his drink. “I don't spread rumors. Got to leave it at that.”
He's knocked his martini off in three gulps, and eats the decoration as we talk.
I press, although it might be better to wait until he's downed his third “So, you got any theories?”
“I tend to agree with Merrick…the pray-to-the-east bunch.”
“I guess we'll see,” Pax says. Then adds, “Let's eat. I'm hungry enough to eat the butt out of a skunk.”
But then he normally is.
We make small talk for a while after we order, and we've all finished our third drink. So I decide it's time to ask the thing I'm most wondering about.
“A couple more stiffs fed the coyotes, we hear?”
“Yeah,” again the shrug. “Some pissant lowlife criminal and some Russian cat who has a rap sheet as long as my extra large bathrobe.”
Pax and I both laugh, then I ask, “So, why'd they get the exit ticket.”
The inevitable shrug. “Nothing but tire tracks for evidence, except…”
He's slightly slurring his words, so with luck we'll get more than he'd normally give up. “Except?” I ask.
“Except for the fact he and his roommate, a big dude who's also a Russian, are suspected of working for Maxmillian's.”
“On the payroll?” I ask.
“Hell no. If they did for him what we suspect…you wouldn't want him traced back to you…and Roth is too smart to have them on his payroll.”
So I ask, “Roommate being Zebron 'Det' Zebrowski?”
“That's not the name we have.”
“But that's his real handle.”
“Ha, you ain't just a pretty face. So, what have you two hot shots learned?”