A fancy foot-square box on the marble coffee table caught the detective's eye. James lifted the hinged lid and spotted three cigars, each in a sealed tube.
Hoooo-ly!
He could hardly believe the vision before him: Three Gurkha His Majesty’s Reserve stogies.
A self-proclaimed cigar aficionado, James knew HMRs were reputed to be the world's most expensive cigar. If Erik Steele could afford to smoke HMRs—and he obviously had, because the box normally contained at least ten of them—then he was worth one hell of a lot more money than this modest condominium suggested.
Ensuring Vaca was still occupied in the master bathroom, James palmed the three cigars and slipped them into another breast pocket.
Steele won't be needing these gems, he rationalized. Why leave 'em for an unappreciative, ignorant nobody?
"Hey, dude!" Vaca called from the bedroom. James found the ex-cop on his knees with two rifle cases open.
"Check this shit, man!" Vaca marveled, holding up a military style black rifle. "Your perp had two Class Three weapons under his bed!"
James whistled. "Any paperwork?"
Class 3 firearms required special approval by the federal Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives.
"Just copies of the originals. Looks like Steele filed on both of 'em."
Vaca handed James the applications. After a quick look, James said, "I doubt if they've been approved, 'cause these are dated three days ago." He grinned. "I think we just scored a couple of sweet big-bangers! The feds will send back the paperwork, stamped 'VOID.' No way are we going to let these babies float around free! And they're not going on your inventory form. Got it?"
Vaca had come to the same conclusion: They were keeping the rifles for themselves. He wrapped the two black, short-barreled tactical weapons in a thin blanket, and James carried them to his car.
"Hey, did you want these extra magazines?" Vaca asked, when James returned.
"Naw. Leave 'em in the cases. I gotta get my ass outta here."
Minutes later, with James's help, Vaca carefully removed a West Point saber from the wall. Even though it and a gilded scabbard were mounted firmly in a felt-lined shadow box, the roughly three-foot-long sword was, indeed, a weapon, justifying confiscation by the Public Administrator. A cheap plastic-banded watch joined other randomly selected "valuables" in another plastic bag.
"Want to take a look at that laptop, chief?" Vaca asked, jerking a thumb at Steele's Hewlett-Packard computer. James eyed it, knowing he should. But he really needed to get home, before his wife went totally ballistic. And he had to swing by the West Substation first.
Screw the laptop.
"Naw. We already tried to access Steele's BlackBerry. No luck. Need a password," James said. "Dime to a dollar says that laptop's locked up, too. If you're done, I'm gone."
Driving back to the station, James thumbed his cell phone's contact list, pressed CALL, and waited.
"Homicide. Captain Greel."
Homicide? Since when… ?
"Hey, Mikey. Brian here. You were right. Steele had a… "
"Did you find that three-eighty Ruger?" Greel barked. The guy had the phone etiquette of a red-assed baboon.
"Hell, yes! Right there on the nightstand, like you said. Ruger LCP, three-eighty caliber. Serial number matches. Got it in my hot little fist, and I'm inbound."
Greel smiled and punched the air with a fist.
"Al-right!"
"And I've got a bonus for you, Mikey." James paused for effect. "An H&K USP Tactical forty-five. Steele was damn sure loaded for bear!"
"And you… secured the forty-five?"
"Yeah, I got it. And no. Vaca knows nothing about either one of 'em. He scrounged enough to fill his PA squares, so he's covered. No sweat."
He somehow forgot to mention the two rifles in his car's trunk.
Pulling into the West Substation parking lot, James signed off, ensured the H&K .45 was concealed by his rumpled sport coat, and ambled to the building's side door. Vader would go to bed happy tonight. And Detective Brian James would get off the captain's shit-list…maybe.
* *
RESTON, VIRGINIA
Gray Manor noted another audio file had arrived in the feed from NSA. He stifled a yawn, clicked on the icon and listened to a detective reporting to Captain Michael Greel.
A lopsided smile creased Manor's tanned features. That Public Administrator officer and Metro homicide detective had, indeed, broken into Erik Steele's home—sans court-approved warrant, of course. And the detective had stolen a couple of Erik's sidearms.
For what purpose, Manor didn't know. Maybe to use as "throwdowns" at another crime scene, implying that Erik had sold the guns to criminals, committing a felony. Yeah, that might play well in the press. Or become more Metro-manufactured "evidence?" Maybe. Definitely part of an expanding cover-up.
Manor made a note to recheck Captain Michael Greel's file in the morning. He was signing off Checkmate's secure network, when his cell phone buzzed. Nat Preston.
"Nat. What's up?"
"Sorry to bug you so late, sir. But, hey! I hooked a mongo fish in Metro's cyber-pond, and you definitely have to check this out major-soon!"
The Homeland Security liaison had been hunkered down at Las Vegas Metro police headquarters for several hours, trolling the department's computer systems.
"What'd you find, Nat?"
"Here's the deal, sir. One of the sheriff's go-to cover-up henchmen, a Captain Greel, who runs… ."
"I know who Greel is, Nat. Get to the point."
Manor was tired and his low-patience warning light was flashing red.
Miffed, Preston replied stiffly, "Sure thing, sir. Late this afternoon, Greel showed a video to our esteemed Sheriff Uriah. It was on a DVD that Greel removed—probably took it home with him—but a copy was automatically stored on a backup server," the DHS liaison explained.
Manor held his tongue, silently urging the techno-nerd: Spit it out!
"Thanks to the Stux-Kilo 'worm' we surreptitiously introduced into the Metro computer network, we were able to snag that backup video file. I just forwarded it to you."
"And the video is… ?"
"The Erik Steele shooting at Ho's! What else?" Preston fired back.
Manor let a long beat pass. The latest press reports from Vegas were hinting of "problems" with the Ho's video system. Obviously, those tidbits were being leaked by Metro sources. Mikey Greel, the department's chief cover-up architect, was intentionally lowering the expectations of alarmed Vegas citizens.
Manor had concluded that Metro and Ho's would make damned sure the critical security-video data of Erik's murder would disappear. The potential liability for Clark County and Ho's Corporation was massive, and surveillance data proving Erik was killed for no justifiable reason would be the multimillion-dollar nail in both their legal coffins.
"Serious, Nat? You retrieved the Ho's surveillance video?"
"Hel-lo! That's what Stux-Kilo's supposed to do, isn't it?" Preston asked peevishly. "A totally benign module of this algorithm searches the Metro IT system for nuggets related to a target case. Kilo found the complete video file on that backup server, within seconds of it being viewed somewhere on Metro's network. I'd plugged in key search criteria, and Kilo managed to glom on to the video."
Preston didn't bother to note that finding the video file so quickly could be attributed more to dumb luck than technical prowess.
Manor logged back into the Checkmate secure network and scrolled through his messages.
"Got it. Stand by a second."
Verifying the video-data file opened properly, Manor thanked Preston and broke the cell connection. Checkmate's reenergized director played the video several times, freezing the image and zooming in to scrutinize a particular element.
Image quality was surprisingly good, and pixelation was minimal, as he boxed and expanded specific segments. Ho's had invested big bucks, installing a high-end surveillance system. Apparently, the c
ompany had ensured it would never write a big settlement check for a slip-and-fall accident, based on questionable, fuzzy-video evidence.
Manor finally stretched and yawned. The Ho's security video was precisely the proof he needed. It verified, beyond any question, that Erik Steele had done nothing untoward inside the Ho's store, and was literally executed in cold blood by three Metro police officers.
Tomorrow, he'd contact his boss, Todd Bright, and schedule a private briefing for Monday. He was absolutely confident Todd would be impressed with the data Checkmate's team had compiled within hours of the Steele shooting, and would fully support Manor's recommendation that the U.S. Department of Justice open an immediate investigation into Comet's murder.
Based on evidence already stored in Checkmate databases and files, Manor could virtually guarantee a number of cops would soon have federal prison mailing addresses. And a decidedly corrupt Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department would be operating under a stringent federal consent decree for a long, long time.
CHAPTER 7
IMPACT!
"The clock of life is wound but once,
and no man has the power to tell
just when the hands will stop…"
Robert H. Smith
NEW YORK CITY/GRAND HYATT HOTEL
Thanks for your service to America. Best Wishes! — Win Steele
"Thank you! I'm a hopeless space junkie," a plump, middle-aged woman smiled, retrieving the signed book. "I'm reeeeally looking forward to reading this!"
"It's a little techie, but, with your Navy background, you'll get it," Steele said.
She wedged the autographed copy of Counterspace: The Next Hours of World War III into an overflowing book bag.
"Oh, definitely!" she beamed, tucking a strand of curls behind her right ear. "I loved Space Wars! It was soooo realistic! Scary, though!"
"We hear that a lot," Steele grinned. "Thanks for your kind support!"
The woman smiled, flicked a wave and headed for the lobby.
Win absently twirled the personalized Mont Blanc pen, a special Father's Day gift from his youngest son a few weeks earlier:
For signing your books, Dad! — Love, Kyler.
Steele watched a throng of thriller and mystery fans swarming a makeshift bookstore set up in a hotel conference room. About thirty authors were seated side by side, sandwiched between rows of linen-covered folding tables. Bestselling novelists faced lengthy lines of avid readers. Lesser-known writers—like Winfield B. Steele—sat patiently, attempting to project relaxed nonchalance.
Steele checked his watch. Twenty minutes to go. He hadn't exactly been mobbed by fans, during the one-hour signing session. His score was semi-respectable, though, considering that several mid-list authors hadn't attracted a single customer. Steele had scrawled a brief message and his signature in seven copies of Space Wars and Counterspace, usually answering familiar questions: "Why do you have two coauthors? How do three people write a fiction book together?"
If sales continued on an upward trend, maybe ol' Win Steele would be back next year, signing hundreds of novels and chatting up dedicated followers eager to grab his latest techno-thriller.
Win's first International Thriller Writers ThrillerFest conference had been a great experience. He had met authors he'd read and admired for years, and listened to headliner presentations by the kings and queens of today's thriller/mystery genre. And, like every writer in attendance, he desperately hoped the doom and gloom conveyed by every publishers' panel was nothing more than a perennial ploy to keep authors hungry and on the defensive.
True, flying to New York City for ThrillerFest 2010 had been a major hit to Steele Systems LLC's corporate coffers. But he and Layna, the company chief financial officer and Win's wife of forty years, had concluded the trip was an investment in his new career.
He'd opted to skip ThrillerFest's Saturday-night grand finale, a pricey awards banquet. Instead, he was having dinner with Violet Hawthorne, the executive editor for Pygmy Books. Violet had purchased and edited both Space Wars and Counterspace, but had yet to contract for Steele's first solo-written novel, Black Aura. She liked the synopsis, but had opted to hold off, until he completed the manuscript, citing a "fluid, weak market."
He was looking forward to tonight's meeting with more curiosity than business-driven interest, though. Violet had pulled him aside at ThrillerFest's Friday-evening cocktail reception to share astounding news of an unusual offer: Writing a novel for the express purpose of, in her words, "neutralizing underground terrorist sleeper cells" throughout the United States. The project was being sponsored by two federal agencies, the U.S. Department of Homeland Security and its military adjunct, U.S. Northern Command.
The news wasn't a complete surprise. He and his primary coauthor had briefed the four-star admiral heading Northern Command — which was headquartered in their home town, Colorado Springs — and pitched a "novel" concept: Employ entertainment as a vehicle to instill fear, doubt and dissension within terrorist networks by targeting vulnerable nodes and cultural pressure points. If successful, the campaign could rip sleeper cells apart by fostering suspicion of fellow members and sparking fear of classified high-tech weapons.
Ideally, when the chief jihadist's call came to launch an attack inside the U.S., those cells' covert terrorists simply wouldn't answer. Maybe Allah's would-be suicide bombers would change their minds about those heavenly virgins and keep driving a cab, instead.
During a private meeting in the admiral's spacious corner office at NorthCom headquarters, they'd outlined the elements of a book entitled Atlas Attacks. The four-star commander had asked a number of pointed questions, stared at a spectacular view of Pikes Peak for a full minute, then slammed a palm on the conference room table.
"Guys, let's do it! We need this!"
However, Win and his coauthors hadn't heard a peep since that meeting. Until Violet mentioned Atlas Attacks the night before, Win had assumed the project was sidelined by more pressing issues. Tonight, she would be outlining how-and-when details of the Atlas Attacks project—and bringing a contract for Win's signature. Maybe a fat advance check would be clipped to it, as well.
"Hey, handsome. Can a girl get the famous Win Steele to sign her book?"
Win stood and greeted Violet Hawthorne with a broad grin.
"I'm sure that 'John Henry' is high on your gotta-have list!"
He circled the table to hug the diminutive woman. Barely five-foot-one, Violet was a wiry, fifty-something lady with gray-streaked auburn hair. Attention-demanding green eyes bespoke a razor-edged intellect matched by an equally sharp tongue, should some dimwit dare challenge or, worse, patronize her.
Never married and fiercely dedicated to her work, Ms. Hawthorne was every author's dream editor. Her plainspoken critiques and ruthless "recommendations" had shredded many a scribe's ego and manuscript. But any book that made it through the Hawthorne gauntlet sold well. If Violet handled it, your book had a shot at the best-seller lists.
"Could you slip out a bit early?" Violet asked, glancing at an expensive watch. "I'd like to beat the Saturday-night regulars at Mulligans."
"Sure, no problem," Win said, scooping up a leather-bound notebook and pocketing the Mont Blanc. "Mind if I run upstairs and ditch this coat and tie? Meet you right here in ten minutes?"
Violet's cell phone was ringing. She nodded and marched off, phone tucked under a mass of unruly curls.
As Win waited for an elevator, a woman drew his attention.
"Excuse me, sir. Something fell off your jacket," she said, pointing. A gold button lay at his feet. Grimacing, he picked it up, thanked the lady, and stepped into an open car. Sure enough, the metal button matched others on his blue blazer.
Damn! Have to dig out a needle and thread tomorrow, he thought. He had to wear the jacket on Monday, when visiting Pygmy Books' office and meeting the company's owner-publisher.
In his room, Win was stripping off a red-and-gold tie, when his silenced BlackBerry phone
vibrated. Kyler Scott. His younger son.
"Hey, Big Guy! What's up?" Win quipped, folding the tie one-handed.
"Hi, Dad. Nothing good," Kyler said.
Win froze.
"There's no easy way to say this. Erik's dead."
Win blinked, then sagged into an overstuffed chair.
No! You're kidding!
The thought flashed, but was dismissed in the same instant.
"Oh, God. No," he whispered. "How?"
"I don't know much. A social worker said Erik was in a Ho's store, waving three guns around and acting crazy."
"What? That's… What the hell was he doing?"
Win's chest felt as if he'd been kicked by a rodeo bronc. He couldn't breathe, lungs constricting, refusing to expand.
"Think about it, Dad. How do you wave three guns with two hands?" Kyler asked. As always, coldly analytical.
Win hesitated. "Already in spin mode?"
"Looks that way. God! I can't believe this shit, Dad!"
Staggered to the depths of his soul, the father struggled to think. Erik, his firstborn son, dead? Win's body was registering the early symptoms of shock.
Keep it together! Don't lose it! You're the dad.
"Where are you, son?"
"Dallas/Fort Worth," Kyler clipped, voice strained. "I was flying to New Orleans for the annual sales meeting, and was changing planes here, when I got the call. I finally got a flight back to Orange County. They're starting to board now."
"Have you called your mom?"
This will devastate Layna! God, please be with her… .
His wife had buried her own father exactly one week ago.
"I tried a few times, but just got Grandma's answering machine. They're probably at the base or something."
"She's helping Grandma with insurance stuff today. You didn't… ."
"No. I only left a message telling her to call my cell."
Win was pacing the hotel room, trying to corral thoughts flashing in a dozen directions.
"I'll get a flight back to Colorado, then drive to Las Vegas. Will you be going up?"
The Permit Page 9