The Permit
Page 11
Win shared his plan and flight schedule, and promised to call, as soon as he was home. She signed off with the usual: "Fly safe. I love you."
Somehow, it sounded different this time — more intense, tear-tainted, worried. Their tight, happy family had been ripped apart.
Packing his suitcase, Win was struck by how drastically different that hotel room now looked and felt.
Nothing will ever look and feel the same again.
It was a startling, sudden epiphany. He had crossed a Continental Divide of sorts. On yesterday's side had flowed a babbling, pleasant stream—life before Erik was killed. On tomorrow's side, an angry torrent already was crashing downhill as a thundering waterfall—life after Erik's death. Tonight, Win couldn't begin to envision "after," a life comprising days, months and years without Erik.
Devastated and preoccupied with endless how-and-why questions, Win mumbled through several calls to cancel the next two days' appointments, and finally crawled between fresh sheets.
He dozed fitfully, unaware that his son's death had put him, Win Steele, squarely in the cockpit of the most dangerous, turbulent flight of his tenure on Earth.
* *
LAS VEGAS
Captain Michael Greel tossed a damp, sweat-stained Metro uniform into a wicker clothes hamper. Slipping on a pair of khaki shorts, he one-handed a TV remote to display all five local stations as an on-screen mosaic. He cycled the audio among them, catching enough reporter and anchor prattle to confirm that the Erik Steele shooting topped every channel's 11:00 p.m. news. He selected a station showing his own mug and listened intently.
Nailed it, he concluded. As usual.
Greel was a master of the first-round official statement, following an officer-involved shooting. Simple, actually. Throw out a few "facts" to set the stage, and always, always work in his standard: "The suspect pulled a gun, and our officers responded to protect themselves and innocent bystanders."
That's what reporters wanted to hear, and was precisely the reassurance average-Joe citizens desperately needed to hear. Metro was on the job, protecting them. If a dumb ass pulled a gun, of course the cops were justified in hosing him.
Propping pillows against the headboard, Greel settled into a king-size bed and selected Channel 7, KWNV. The reporter was interviewing one of Erik Steele's friends. The tag line under a good-looking guy's image read, "Max Decimus."
Max was extolling the victim's character in glowing terms, when a business portrait of Steele wearing a suit and tie appeared. Big smile. Perfect teeth. Short-cropped red hair.
Handsome dude, Greel had to admit. Better looking than the unsmiling image on Steele's concealed-carry permit and driver's license.
"Erik was the consummate professional," Decimus was saying. "He was an Army tank platoon commander, and he received a number of commendations. I've known Erik for more than ten years, and I can guarantee one thing: Erik Steele did nothing wrong at Ho's today. Nothing! This guy was always incredibly cool.
"Don't believe the crap Metro's feeding us. There's no way Erik pulled a gun. He was murdered by a trigger-happy, scared cop."
Greel frowned. Decimus was undermining every point he, Mikey Greel, had just made on the other channel.
Damn! This might be tougher than…
A cell phone was sounding off. Greel swept it from the night table, checked the caller ID and groaned. Antone Galocci. Greel briefly considered ignoring it, but knew the old Mob boss would keep trying all night, until Greel picked up.
"Hey, Antone. How's the God of Gaming?" Greel said lightly.
"Mikey! You watching da boob tube, boy?"
The distinctive voice was annoying, like gravel scraping plate glass. The accent was unmistakably Bronx.
"Yeah. Got every local channel up. Why?"
"Mikey, ya know damned well why! Your stupid toads shot that Steele kid! It's all over da news! I tell ya, I got a bad feelin' about this. Know what I'm sayin'?"
"Don't sweat it, Antone. I've got this one under control. You know me. Everything's covered. I don't leave… ."
"Hey! You!" Galocci interjected. "Don't patronize me, son! Ya don't bullshit a bullshitter, and I'm smelling your BS clear over here! You listen to me: This Steele thing's gonna be a problem!
"Didya notice that the kid was a West Pointer? And got an MBA from Duke U? Mother of God, Mikey! Wat da hell are you guys thinkin'? This ain't some homeless drug pusher on skid row! This kid's got connections! I feel it in my bones, Mikey!"
When he was wound up, Galocci reverted to a Hollywood-mobster vernacular, his outrageous statements liberally laced with corny, out-of-date slang and metaphors. Whether staged or bona fide, Antone-da-Mob Boss was colorful.
The real Antone was definitely a sobering package, a back East made-man with a fistfull of murders on his conscience. The Cleveland branch had sent him to Las Vegas with orders to reestablish "the business."
As chief executive officer for the Mother Lode Holding Company, Galocci headed a far-flung resort hotel-casino empire stretching from Las Vegas to Asia. He was smart, well-connected and absolutely ruthless. And he had Mikey Greel by the short hairs.
"Antone, I'm not BS'ing. Don't worry about Steele! Yes, I know that he's a Pointer and hotshot MBA. He's also an ex-Army officer, and he sells pacemakers and other cardiovascular equipment for Cardiac Response," Greel spouted confidently. "But Steele's like any other dead dude in Vegas. When I get done with him, the taxpayers will be thanking Metro for taking him out. He's nothing, Tony."
Galocci hated being called "Tony." It sounded too much like the truth—a Mafia thug.
Silence. Finally, "Was, Mikey. Was! Not is! One of your dumbshit Metro death-squaders shot and killed Steele, remember?
"Geez-uz, Mikey! What's goin' on over there? How many people have you numbnuts killed this year already?" Galocci fumed.
"Come on," Greel soothed. "Steele was only our seventeenth officer-involved shooting this year. And not all of those were fatals.
"This is a tough town! We gotta keep this place under control. If we have to kill a few civilians now and then, that's just the way it is, ya know?"
Greel reached for a tumbler filled with ice and scotch. Taking a swig, he smiled as Galocci unloaded again. It was so easy to get under Tony-the-Mobster's skin!
"Only seventeen? Only? Wat da hell, boy? I ain't seen that kinda body count since da war with those damned Colombians in New Yawk! This is Las Vegas! We live or die on tourism and out-of-town gamblers, ya know?
"If da marks in Oakland and Miami and Houston and Des Moines get a whiff of this Steele deal, folks ain't gonna come to Vegas! And if those rubes don't show up and leave their money, we are out… of… business! Get that through your thick skull, ya stupid Mick!"
Greel grimaced. He hated that degrading epithet, and had it been uttered by anybody but Galocci, he'd have reached through the phone and shot him.
"Yeah, I'm well aware of all that. I don't need another of your Vegas-economics lectures, Tony."
Greel was tired and testier than good sense dictated. Especially with this man.
Unpredictably, Galocci laughed. A gritty, rasping cackle.
"Aw, don't get your underwear in a twist, Mikey. Yeah, yeah, you understand. Just don't forget what's at stake, ya hear? We're talking forty million tourists spending billions of dollars a year. Can't risk screwing that up, can we, boy?
"And another thing: This Steele murder's gonna hurt your boss's poll numbers—especially coming on the heels of Lashawn's death, God rest his soul."
Greel almost gagged on his scotch. The late Lashawn Miles had been Galocci's personal assistant, but Greel had caught the young black man passing confidential information about Tony's more sensitive operations to a still-unidentified federal agency.
Antone had made the call to brutally eliminate young Lashawn, and, as usual, Mikey Greel had handled the dirty work. An execution in the kid's bathroom had been a messy goat-rope, thanks to yet another Metro Neanderthal with a badge.
Greel spent another five minutes soothing Galocci's feathers, sipping his scotch and listening to the pockmarked Sicilian roar and fulminate about the implications of Sheriff Alex Uriah being ousted by that upstart lieutenant in the coming election.
"We got ourselves a good thing here, Mikey, but it's a delicate balance. If we lose star players, because your guys jack-up the election, we suffer million-dollar setbacks.
"Let's not screw it up, ya hear?" Galocci said.
"I hear ya, sir," Greel said, again deferential. He'd stroked and groveled enough for one Galocci encounter, and needed sleep.
"Don't worry. I'll take care of this Steele problem. Have I ever let you down, Antone?"
"Naw. Ya always done good, kid.
"Hey, you oughta check your Caymans account. You'll find a little extra something for the Miles deal. A mite dicey, but you pulled it off. And I always take care of my boys, don't I?"
Greel could hear the old pirate sneer. Galocci's world ran on power and money, and he expertly wielded both, relying on a mixture of panache and brass knuckles.
"Thanks, Antone! I very much appreciate that. I'm indebted to you, sir."
Greel grimaced, instantly regretting the words.
"That you are, Mikey. And ya better not forget it."
The connection broke, leaving the implicit threat ringing in Greel's ear. Disgusted, Greel swore and tossed the phone aside.
The old man never missed a chance to remind the Metro officer that, if not for the mobster's intervention, Mikey Greel would be serving time in a New York state prison. As a result, Greel had become Antone Galocci's reluctant clean-up boy, a role he initially loathed, but had grown to accept as an inescapable fact of life.
Two of the TV stations were recapping the day's top news story, the Erik Steele shooting at Ho's-Summerlin.
Greel downed the rest of his drink, pulled a soft-sided briefcase across the bed's down comforter and removed a .45-caliber semiautomatic pistol. He thumbed the magazine free, catching it with practiced ease, jacked the slide back and ejected a round. He held the bullet at arms length, reading its blunt end: Fiocchi. The cartridge's frangible .45 caliber slug would fragment, rather than penetrate a wall. Ideal for home protection.
Erik Steele, you damn sure knew your firearms, Greel mused.
He gripped the H&K USP Tactical with both hands, sighting along the barrel. The front dot was centered on the TV's still image of a smiling, confident Erik Steele.
Too bad you put so much faith in that Second Amendment shit, Erik.
Thanks to Steele's high-profile demise, maybe every other Second Amendment nut in America with a concealed-carry permit would get the message: Only cops deserve to carry guns.
CHAPTER 8
SUSPICION
"And I will execute great vengeance
upon them with furious rebukes."
Ezekiel 25:17
LAS VEGAS
"Max! Dino here," a deep voice said. "Maria and I were so shocked to hear about Erik! Please accept our sincere condolences, my boy. This is terrible! Terrible!"
"Thanks, Mr. Alberti," Max Decimus replied tightly. "I appreciate you calling back. Rico and I had to talk to you. We're pretty messed up right now and… ."
The words trailed off as a pained sigh.
"Maria and I have been watching the news," Alberti kindly interjected. "That was a bad shoot, Max. Any intelligent person will conclude that Erik was murdered by those half-wits.
"Now. How can I help?"
Straight up. No circular bush-beating.
Dino Alberti was old school Las Vegas. A tough, mercurial ex-casino manager, he had survived The Strip's brutal Mafioso turf wars, then made the rare transition to respectability as a successful real estate developer.
Max had grown up in the 1980s, watching his late father and Dino come and go, never suspecting what deadly duties those nightly sojourns might have entailed.
In recent years, Max and Erik Steele had consulted Dino frequently, as the young entrepreneurs navigated a warren of legal, political and financial tangles to launch an upscale condominium project. Dino knew everybody who mattered in Las Vegas, and had graciously orchestrated the necessary connections to attract "angel" funding.
"We totally agree, sir. Erik was killed in cold blood, and the cops are already putting out crap that's just not true! It's all bullshit, Dino!
"And Erik would never touch his concealed weapon, if a cop pulled down on him! Erik's been around guns all his life. He's too smart and situationally aware to make a stupid mistake like that!"
Dino listened patiently, noting the inadvertent use of the present tense.
"Of course, you're absolutely correct," he said. "We both know Erik… . Knew Erik." He paused. "God rest his soul."
Another long beat passed, as Dino composed himself.
"The nonsense that shifty-eyed Metro creep, Mikey Greel, spouted on TV was transparent and inconsistent. I know that sleazy jerk. Had a run-in with Captain Vader several years ago. He's bad business. Don't cross him, Max."
"Understand, sir," Max assured. "We—Rico and I—think a lawyer needs to jump on this, and we need to move fast, before the cops can cover their tracks. I talked to Erik's brother, Kyler, but he's too shook up to think about lawyers right now.
"Sir, we gotta get somebody lined up, for the family's protection. Do you know a gutsy attorney, who might… ?"
"Got just the man for you," Alberti interrupted. He chuckled, a low ripple of distant thunder.
"Or, I should say, just the woman. You need Sofia Knight. She's the best in Vegas, and has handled high-profile, wrongful-death lawsuits before. She's a tenacious lioness. Sofia will drag Metro and Ho's into federal court, then castrate them by the legal numbers. As soon as our gutless sheriff hears the Steeles have retained Sofia, blood will squirt out of his ears.
"There are other good lawyers in town," he continued, "and they'd mud wrestle each other to snag this case. But they're all lightweights, compared to her."
"Okay, thanks. I haven't heard of Ms. Knight, Dino. What firm… ?"
"Hang on, my boy."
Max could hear rustling on the other end. "Alright. Here's Sofia's office, cell and home numbers."
Max copied the information.
"You call her cell tonight," Dino ordered. "Tell her I recommended her, and that she owes me one."
Max again thanked his aging godfather and mentor, and signed off. Rico Rodolfo, leaning against the door frame of Max's cramped home office, arms crossed, raised an eyebrow in question.
"Dino says we need Sofia Knight." Max said, turning to his computer.
"A female lawyer? Why?" Rico asked, frowning.
"Dino says she's the best in Vegas—at least on wrongful-death cases," Max said, typing the attorney's name into a Google search window.
"Found her: Sofia M. Knight. Junior partner with Menza and Buckley. Check this, dude: 'Retired lieutenant colonel, U.S. Marine Corps. Specialized in military criminal law. Prosecuted terrorist suspects at Guantanamo Bay.'
"She's represented clients in wrongful-death suits against, quote, major resort hotels and casinos, unquote, and has won multimillion-dollar judgments against federal, state and local government agencies."
Reading over Max's shoulder, Rico added, "Harvard Law School. Undergrad from the Naval Academy."
The dark-haired pacemaker sales rep declared, "She speaks military. I say Erik would approve of Ms. Knight… ."
Choking, he turned away.
Max focused on the computer screen, but he, too, was blinking, battling tears.
Shit! Tough guys we are!
He reached for a cell phone, and mumbled, "Yeah. He would. Let's see if Ms. Sofia's up for legal combat."
* *
SAN DIEGO, CA
In a luxury beach-side condominium, Sofia Knight laid her iPhone on a granite counter, reflecting on the conversation with Max Decimus.
Strange name. Did his pare
nts name their kid after a classic movie line? she idly wondered, recalling a favorite scene from Gladiator, where actor Russell Crowe announced: "My name is? Maximus Decimus Meridius, commander of the armies of the North, general of the Felix Legions, loyal servant to the true Emperor, Marcus Aurelius. Father to a murdered son… ."
She retrieved a half-glass of Chardonnay and, barefoot, padded to an outdoor balcony. Reclining against a wrought-iron railing pitted with freckles of rust, she eyed her handsome husband of twelve years.
"New business?" he smiled, squinting.
An orange Sun hovered a few fingers-width above an undulating Pacific, backlighting Sofia and painting Danny Knight in soft gold. She admired the fit, tanned man draped over a padded recliner. He was shirtless, clad only in a pair of knee-length, white-and-blue swim trunks. A mass of unruly, salt-and-pepper waves framed angular, darkly handsome features.
"Maybe," she shrugged. "Metro shot and killed one of Dino Alberti's guys. Former Army officer. Well-educated. West Point grad with an MBA from Duke. Professional type. Sales rep for a big medical-device company. Not Metro's stereotypical, faceless victim."
"And Dino wants you to go after Metro's bad boys?"
"Right. My instincts say this could be the case I've dreamed about for a looong time."
Shading both eyes, Danny cocked his head, trying to read his wife's expression.
"Really? And exactly what is that dream?"
"The case that could take Metro down, once and for all. And put that bastard Alex Uriah behind bars.
"If I take this case, and if enough witnesses and evidence support what my gut's telling me, I'll have enough rope to hang that disgusting, venal excuse for a sheriff."
"Aw, come on. What do you really think of the little weasel?" Danny smirked.
"Seriously, babe. You honestly believe you can take Vegas Metro down? With Mob money, a crooked police union and that pervert of a district attorney protecting Uriah and his gang of goons? And stay alive?"
Sofia shrugged. She studied her wine, absently swirling the translucent gold liquid.