Running Scared

by Elizabeth Lowell

  “No.”

  “Mob?”

  “Sorry,” Shane said.

  She treated them to another round of dragon breath before she shrugged again. “Can’t blame a gal for hoping. I liked the Mob. They were real men, you get me?”

  “What about this one?” Risa said, tapping the photo of Bozo. “Was he staying with Cherelle?”

  “No, the other one was. This one just tagged along with his tongue hanging down to his pecker.”

  “Either of those men have a name?” Risa asked.

  “She called the other one Tim. He called that one”—she tapped the photo—“Socks.”

  “Last names?” Risa asked.

  “She’s the only one who ever registered.”

  Ever. Implies more than once. “How often did Cherelle come here?” Risa asked quickly.

  “Couple times a year maybe. Had friends or kin nearby.”

  “How near?” Ian asked.

  She looked at the two fifties in Shane’s hand. He passed one of them over the counter to her. She stuffed the bill down the front of her bra, on the opposite side this time. One crisp bill for each limp boob. The hard edges of the money poked out against the sweater.

  “Walking distance,” she said. “At least he walked some of the time. Whined about it, too. Car wasn’t his, I guess.”

  “He?”

  “The tall, pretty one. Tim. There’s some apartments a few blocks over to the north and a few old houses just beyond. That’s the direction he went when he walked. Wouldn’t go there at night, if I was you.”

  “Did they make any phone calls?” Risa asked.

  “No phone in the room.”

  “Any visitors?”

  She shrugged. “Didn’t see any.”

  Risa looked at Shane and then at Ian.

  “Did Socks drive a car?” Shane asked.

  “You got another fifty?”

  “Only if you have a description and a license plate.”

  “No plate. Don’t see real good that far off.”

  “You see the state?”

  She nodded.

  Shane reached for his wallet. “Talk to me. Make it good and I’ll make you good.”

  “Purple coupe, the kind of purple that glows in the dark, you get me? Nevada plate.”

  “Foreign or American car?”

  “American. Big engine. Sounds like a street racer and tricked out like a whore’s Christmas. Lemme think a minute.” She nursed a long drag and sorted through recent memories. “It’s a Fire-something. Old American carmaker, like Ford or Chevy, but not that.”

  “Pontiac?” Ian asked.

  “Firebird?” Shane said at the same instant.

  “That’s it. Glad you boys remembered. Things like that drive me nuts at four in the morning.” She squinted at Shane. “Hey, ain’t you that rich gambler fella? Prince Midas? Saw your picture on the news after that shooting.”

  “A lot of people think I look like him,” Shane said. He moved his fingers, and three fifty-dollar bills fanned out.

  A wide, yellow grin split the woman’s face. She grabbed the money and started shoving it down her sweater.

  As the door shut behind them, Risa said, “You should have given her another fifty.”

  “Why?” Shane asked.

  “Two doesn’t go into five evenly, which leads to the question of where she stashed the last fifty.”

  Ian snickered.

  Shane said, “Want to ask her?”

  “No, thanks. I’m thinking I don’t want to go there.”

  “I’m thinking you’re right,” Ian said.

  Shane gave a long look around the parking lot of the motel and the street beyond. So did Ian. The roof of a red car was just visible halfway down the block, parked between two pieces of road iron that looked like they hadn’t moved since the last rain.

  Shane lifted his eyebrow in silent question.

  “Not yet,” Ian said. “First we’ll see if can find out who’s following us without tipping our hand.”

  Risa said, “He picked us up when we came out of the employee parking lot.”

  “Is he the one who chased you through the casino?” Shane asked.

  “Wrong color hair. Bozo’s was dark.”

  “Too bad. I’m looking forward to meeting him.”

  Shane’s smile made Risa uneasy. “Do we search for the kin he visited,” she asked, “or do we go yank Covington’s chain?”

  “We could divide up,” Shane said. “Ian can go door-to-door with the photos, and we can do Covington.”

  “Why don’t you do the door-to-door thing?” Ian asked without real hope.

  “Two reasons,” Shane said. “The first is that, thanks to the camera-happy media, a half-blind old lady can ID me. The second reason is simple. Covington wouldn’t give you the time of day, but he’ll roll out the red carpet for me. Nothing personal. Just money.”

  “Figures,” Ian muttered, reaching for his communications unit. “If Niall buys it, I’m out of your hair. Otherwise, get used to making like a dune buggy.”

  “A what?” Then Shane laughed. “Got it. Three wheels and you’re the third.”

  Risa put her hands on her hips and turned her back before she said something rash about not needing one bodyguard, much less two. But she was afraid she did. Bozo’s rough question kept echoing in her mind.

  Where’s the gold?

  She didn’t know. But she knew one thing. That kind of money on the loose brought out human predators. Cherelle knew it, too.

  That was why she was running scared.

  Chapter 41

  Las Vegas

  November 4

  Late morning

  John Firenze grabbed his private phone like it was a winning lottery ticket. “Yeah?”

  “Sheridan left with Tannahill and another man. They haven’t returned.”

  “Where did they go?”

  “Out.”

  “Jesus Christ, I could have guessed that!” He glared across his office to a window that overlooked the construction of another huge resort/casino. The problem with hiring relatives was that not all of them were real bright. At least his cousin Frankie had more wattage than numb-nuts Cesar. “Out where?”

  “Place called the Jackpot Motel. The old bag there said they asked questions about Cherelle, Tim, and a dude called Socks. Cost me fifty bucks to find out that she didn’t know anything so they didn’t learn anything useful.”

  Socks. Shit. They’d made his fucking stupid nephew. “What are they doing now?”

  “They split up. The second guy is going door-to-door with two photos.”

  “Who of?”

  “I didn’t get close enough to see. Want me to?”

  “No. Get Sheridan alone and give her the message I gave you. Got it?”

  “Yeah, but it won’t be easy. Tannahill’s all over her like a rash.”

  “Don’t tell me your problems. I got plenty of my own.”

  Firenze disconnected and punched in the number he’d memorized simply by using it so many times in the last hour. The answering machine picked up again. He didn’t wait to hear the message. Like the number, he had it memorized by now: Mr. Shapiro of the Second Chance Loan Exchange is with a customer. Please leave a message, and he will get back to you as soon as possible.

  Firenze looked at his watch. He couldn’t stall much longer. Another hour and he’d have to settle for a smaller piece of the pie.

  Or none at all.

  Chapter 42

  Las Vegas

  November 4

  Early afternoon

  William Covington’s business establishment looked like what it was, an upscale antique-consignment store that was rumored to lend money for short terms at ruinous rates with antiques as collateral. Brown furniture loomed everywhere, set off by crystal chandeliers and Tiffany-style lamps. The only weapons in the place were more than a hundred years old and mounted on the wall like trophies. Glass cases displayed smaller items whose value and portability mi
ght tempt a browser into crime.

  “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice,” Shane said when Covington came hurrying out of his office toward them.

  “My pleasure, Mr. Tannahill, Ms. Sheridan.” Covington smiled at each in turn, displaying brilliant teeth. “Come back to my office, please. I have coffee waiting.”

  Neither Shane nor Risa was interested in coffee, but they followed Covington anyway. The office promised more privacy than the front salesroom, where high-end bargain hunters and hungry decorators prowled among the dark furniture.

  After everyone had sipped coffee and made appropriately meaningless remarks about the lack of weather in Las Vegas, Covington looked at Shane expectantly.

  “I understand you sometimes do business with Mr. Smith-White,” Shane said.

  “We pass business along to each other, yes.” Covington smiled. “We’re friendly competitors.”

  Shane nodded to Risa. She took an envelope from her purse, pulled out glossy photos, and began spreading them across Covington’s nineteenth-century mahogany desk. Shane watched the store owner, not the photos. There wasn’t any flicker of eyelids, any shift in his mouth, any increase in the pulse beating visibly above his white collar.

  Not one sign that he recognized the photos.

  “Quite unusual,” Covington said. “Are they for sale?”

  “How much do you think they would be worth?” Risa asked quickly.

  “Heavens.” He frowned. “I’d have to think about that. I deal more in furniture than in decorative arts and antiquities. I haven’t any idea what these items might be worth.”

  “Really?” Risa lifted her eyebrows. “Then how did you decide what to charge Smith-White for them?”

  Covington absorbed the fact that apparently he had sold the gold. “Smith-White. Really. Was it a recent sale?”

  “Early July, according to the receipts.”

  With a wave of his pale hand, Covington dismissed the matter. “Well, there you have it. My shop sells many things that I don’t personally handle. This was probably part of an estate consignment or a consolidation consignment from another dealer which I sold to Smith-White because it suited his clientele more than mine.”

  “According to Smith-White’s records, you purchased these gold artifacts from a Mr. Shapiro,” Risa said.

  “Then I or one of my representatives undoubtedly did just that.”

  “The provenance provided was sketchy,” Risa said, watching him closely. “Second-generation descendant of a now-dead purchaser.”

  “Distressing how little the modern world cares about the past, isn’t it?”

  “So you’ve never seen these before?” Risa asked.

  “Never. Sorry.” Covington smiled and stood up. “Now, unless there’s anything else I can do for you, I really must be off. So much to do.” He turned to Shane. “I have a lovely new consignment from Italy to price. If you ever decide to open a gambling museum, there is a particularly remarkable roulette wheel I would like to you to see. Gold rails, ebony and ivory insets, with a solid gold ball. It was used by Italian aristocracy for their own amusement.”

  “Send photos and particulars to my office,” Shane said, standing and helping Risa to her feet, squeezing her hand in a warning for her to be silent. He gathered the pictures of the gold artifacts and slid them into his breast pocket. “If you remember anything else about the provenance of this gold, or if you have gold antiquities of a similar quality, my ten-thousand-dollar reward still stands.”

  Thin gray brows twitched. “Indeed. I shall check my inventory quite carefully.”

  Shane smiled like a wolf. “You do that.”

  As soon as they were outside, Risa said, “That lying sack of shit.”

  “We can’t prove it.”

  She blew out an impatient breath. He was right and she knew it. She just didn’t like it. “Now what?”

  “Shapiro.”

  “Another lying sack of shit?”

  Shane didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. His thin smile said it all.

  Chapter 43

  Las Vegas

  November 4

  Early afternoon

  Ian had seen enough dried blood to know what it looked like. Not that you had to be some kind of twenty-first-century Dick Tracy to figure out that the partial handprint on the side wall of the shoe-repair shop was organic and fairly recent. Even though the blood was dark rusty red and sun-struck, the flies were all over it, so he was sure it wasn’t some graffiti artist’s sprayed statement of urban anomie. There was a palm-size puddle of dried blood on the cracked pavement of the alley, too, as though someone had leaned there, gathering strength to cross the street.

  Six doors down the alley, a uniformed cop was stringing yellow tape over the back of a crime scene. The bad news was that Ian couldn’t track the blood back to its source without giving himself away. The good news was that the crime tape didn’t leave much doubt about the source.

  Since the cop didn’t notice Ian looking down the alley, Ian just kept on walking until he reached the end of the block and could see down the main street. There was yellow tape all over one storefront. Several squad cars were double-parked in front. So was an ambulance. A white news van with a satellite feed sitting on its roof like a big soup dish waited curbside in front of the ambulance. Two plainclothes cops talked with a cameraman and a reporter who were leaning against the news van, waiting for a photo op.

  Ian walked up to the uniformed cop who was guarding the front entrance. “Heart attack?” he asked.

  The cop gave him a look. “What’s it to you?”

  “Nothing, so long as it isn’t one of these two people.” Ian pulled out the two photos. “Is it?”

  The cop glanced down at the photos. “What do you want them for?”

  “Missing person, nonsuspicious disappearance. Left her husband and kids back on the farm and came here to make her fortune. Her grandmother won’t give up looking for her, which is fine for me.” Ian flashed his trust-me smile. “Pays the rent. The guy may or may not be her most recent live-in.”

  The cop took another look at the photos. “This part of town is my beat. I know the hookers and the drunks and the regulars. Don’t recognize either one of them.”

  “Thanks anyway. I’ll try up and down the street. Maybe I’ll get lucky.”

  The rattle of gurney wheels announced the ambulance crew a few seconds before they rolled out into the streaming sunlight. A dark body bag was strapped to the white sheet over the thin mattress. The way the bag moved announced that rigor mortis wasn’t a problem any longer.

  “Hey, wait!” called the cameraman, hurrying over. “Back it up and come out again, okay?”

  One of the detectives yelled after the cameraman, “You think anyone in Vegas gives a shit about slime like Joey Cline?”

  “It’s a corpse, ain’t it?” said the cameraman. “Give us a minute and do it again, okay?”

  The ambulance crew shrugged. It wasn’t like it made any difference to their patient. “Yeah, sure. Dude’s been dead for probably a day. Few more minutes won’t matter.”

  Ian waited near the satellite truck, hoping to overhear something else useful. No such luck.

  By the time he faded into the edges of the thin knot of people that had gathered, the ambulance crew was making its third run-through for the “live film at six o’clock.” The on-air reporter checked the smooth blond helmet of his hair, straightened his suit coat and tie, took his place by the front door of the pawnshop, and began talking into a mike for the third time. One of the detectives stood to his right, not blocking the camera’s view of the scene and the reporter.

  “This is Ralph Metcalfe at the scene of a brutal murder just moments away from Glitter Gulch. According to the police, Mr. Joseph Cline was found in a pool of his own blood in the back of his store. Another bloody spot indicated that a second man, possibly his attacker, had been lying on the floor. The whereabouts of the second man is unknown.” He turned to face the cop. �
�Detective Yarrow, does the Las Vegas Police Department have any leads on this bloody and terrible murder?”

  Ian was around the corner and out of sight before the detective got his fifteen seconds of fame. As soon as Ian was sure he’d faded away without attracting any official attention, he sent an update to Rarities and to Shane’s voice mail. Then, just in case the cops checked, Ian worked his way through the storefronts, showing photos and asking earnest questions. No one recognized Cherelle or Socks.

  Casually Ian eased down the side street and crossed over to the continuation of the alley leading away from the pawnshop. If the cops hadn’t discovered the blood spoor back in the other alley, they would soon.

  It took a few moments to pick up the trail of brown drops again. It led him down the alley and across a different street, up two half blocks . . . and vanished.

  He thought about the back trail and the old woman at the motel. There’s some apartments a few blocks over to the north and a few old houses just beyond. That’s the direction he went when he walked.

  Ian headed north, taking alleys, looking for more blood. He didn’t find any until he was within sight of the back of one of the two old houses that huddled together against the onslaught of apartment buildings and strip malls. There were bloody handprints on the back door of 113 Oasis Lane.

  No one answered Ian’s knock on the rear door. The possible entrances were barred. Ian could have gotten through the metal, but he preferred to do it in the dark.

  He went around to the front. To one side there was a wall of run-down apartments. To the other was another bungalow. A man old enough to be God was sitting on the front porch. He was so still Ian wondered if he was alive.

  “Looking for something?” the man asked in a cracking voice.

  Ian shaded his eyes from the relentless sun and walked up to the porch. Stretched out at the man’s feet was a hound so old that it was gray from its nose to the back of its floppy ears.