by Wesley Lewis
“Are you sure you don’t mind?”
“Nah, I’m beat anyway. If I’m going to survive tomorrow, I should get some sleep.”
“All right. I’ll try not to wake you when I come in.”
“You won’t.”
Jennifer cast a stern look at the inebriated young man. “Tom, don’t give her any trouble.”
Tom grinned. “I don’t know the meaning of the word.”
Ashley laughed. “I’ll keep him in line.”
With Tom’s arm over her shoulder, she led him through the crowd, in the general direction of the elevator bank.
♦ ♦ ♦
For what felt like at least an hour, Jennifer caught up on the life of every coworker she could even remotely stand to be around. Still there was no sign of Bryan.
She knew it had to be after eleven, but, like every casino, La Condamine had no clocks on the gaming floor. She reached for her bag, then remembered that her cell phone was upstairs in her room. After weeks of planning and an hour of primping, she’d discovered that her little box clutch, which complemented her little black dress, was capable of holding either her cell phone or her makeup kit but not both.
Unfortunately, all her planning and primping now seemed to have been in vain. With tomorrow’s first round of meetings not much more than eight hours away, she had little hope that Bryan might still make his way back downstairs for a couple of drinks.
Across the table, Meredith Higgins and Steve Howard argued about their differing interpretations of a popular reality TV show. Jennifer reluctantly accepted that the evening was not likely to improve.
Hoping to avoid a round of obligatory good-night wishes, she stood and walked toward the bar, allowing her coworkers to assume she’d gone in search of another drink. Once out of sight, she cut through the crowd, toward the elevator bank. Five minutes later she was inside an express elevator whizzing toward the thirty-second floor.
Away from the excitement of the gaming floor, she felt the first pangs of exhaustion. For most of the day, anticipation had held fatigue at bay. In the past few minutes, that barrier had fallen.
She studied her reflection in the mirrored walls of the elevator. From the neck down, she was the beacon of feminine sensuality she’d aspired to be. The view from the neck up, however, told a different story. Her eyes hung heavy with weariness and disappointment. And age.
She took a step to the left, allowing her face to disappear behind a framed advertisement with the headline le tournoi at la condamine: the strip’s premier poker tournament.
I bet that explains the crowd downstairs.
She slid a finger along the smooth gold frame and let her mind wander to Bryan. Would he be asleep yet? Would he be receptive to being awakened? Her finger wandered to the panel of buttons and made slow circles around the number forty-one.
Maybe he’s just watching TV. Or reading.
She pictured him lying in bed, a paperback in his hands, reading glasses perched on his nose, a glass of scotch beside him, his salt-and-pepper hair still wet from his evening shower. Would he be glad to see her?
Maybe she could say she needed advice on a deal.
And I waited until almost midnight to ask?
She could say that Ashley’s snoring was keeping her awake.
So I threw on my cocktail dress and heels and went for a walk?
With a loud ding, the elevator slowed to a stop on thirty-two. The doors opened.
Her finger continued to circle the button for the forty-first floor. She stared into the empty corridor, searching for a plausible excuse. After a moment, the doors began to close.
She abandoned the well-fondled button and extended her arm to stop the doors.
Patience, she thought, stepping into the empty hallway.
Outside her suite, she swiped her card key—one of the few things that fit inside her tiny clutch bag—and eased open the door, hoping not to wake Ashley.
Ashley was not asleep. Nor was she alone.
Trapped in a momentary state of shock, Jennifer stared and thought, Well done, Tom.
Her eyes took in the images faster than her mind could process them—Ashley’s toned, arched back; Ashley’s blond curls brushing against the hummingbird tattoo on her right shoulder blade; the strong, masculine hands gripping Ashley’s perfectly round ass—until she realized she was witnessing something she wasn’t meant to see. She took a slow step back, hoping to escape without causing the couple any embarrassment.
Sorry to stop by so late, Bryan, but my roommate is fucking the multimedia guy.
She almost had the door closed when, through Ashley’s rhythmic bouncing, she glimpsed the owner of those strong, masculine hands. Her mind struggled to make sense of it.
Tom doesn’t have salt-and-pepper hair.
CHAPTER SIX
Matt Crocker wasn’t sure where he was, but he was sure the hard surface under him wasn’t his bed. He opened his eyes to find a woman smiling down at him.
Dear God, he thought as he stared up at the gap-toothed grin, how much did I have to drink?
“I think he’s okay,” said the woman in a raspy smoker’s voice.
One look at his surroundings unleashed a flood of memory. He bolted upright.
“Take it easy,” said a much softer voice.
He turned and saw the woman in the black dress holding a chrome Beretta at arm’s length, dangling it between her thumb and forefinger like a soiled diaper.
“You took a pretty good fall,” she continued as she added the pistol to a small collection of firearms on the front counter.
He staggered to his feet, tested his legs, and walked to the counter. He could feel the women’s cautious eyes on him as he plucked his .40-caliber Glock from the bunch, checked both the chamber and the magazine, and slipped it back into the holster concealed beneath his shirttail.
When the gun was once again hidden from sight, the woman in the black dress said, “The police may want to take that as evidence.”
“They will.” He turned toward her. “Have you called them?”
She gestured toward the clerk. “Maddi did.”
He nodded appreciatively.
The woman added, “I’m Jennifer, by the way.”
“Crocker.”
“Is that your first name?”
“Last, but it’s what people call me.” He surveyed the aftermath of the shooting. To his left, a banner advertising some sort of lime-flavored beer covered the bodies of the three robbers. “How long was I out?”
“Less than five minutes. Maddi got that banner out of the back. I couldn’t stand looking at them.”
“Sorry. If I’d thought there was any alternative . . .”
“Don’t apologize. It’s good you were here.”
“Not good for my truck, though.” He stared at his pickup’s damaged rear end just a few feet away.
“I don’t get it,” said Maddi. “If you had a gun, why give ’em your truck?”
Crocker sighed. “I survived more than four decades without having to shoot anybody. I was hoping to keep that streak alive.” He hesitated. “Plus, I had to wait until they weren’t pointing guns at any of us.”
In the distance, the faint sound of police sirens cut through the predawn silence.
Here we go, he thought. I am never going to live this down.
He’d finally been involved in a real shooting, and he’d fainted. He could try explaining to the officers that he was sleep deprived and overcaffeinated and that the sudden rush of adrenaline had overloaded his system, but it wouldn’t matter. He was going to be a laughingstock.
♦ ♦ ♦
Beneath the large pylon sign for the Placer Gold truck stop, a haphazardly parked fleet of emergency vehicles crowded the pre
viously deserted parking lot. For at least fifteen minutes after the first patrol car arrived on the scene, the lot had been a surreal discothèque of flashing red and blue lights, the disorienting effect of which had given Jennifer a splitting headache. To her relief, the sheriff’s first act upon arriving had been to order the first responders to “shut off those goddamn lights.” Only the two Nevada Highway Patrol cars stationed near the street still flashed red and blue.
Near the truck stop entrance, two paramedics sat on the bumper of an ambulance marked pahrump valley fire-rescue, chatting with two highway patrolmen who’d just finished stringing yellow crime-scene tape.
Jennifer sat in the open back door of a Nye County Sheriff’s Office squad car, wrapped in a blanket given to her by one of the paramedics. The blanket was almost unbearably scratchy, but it was her only protection against the night air, which, despite the fact that June was only days away, was surprisingly chilly.
She waited for her two interrogators—a sheriff’s deputy who looked to be right out of high school and a highway patrolman of perhaps thirty—to stop laughing. Their just-the-facts-ma’am demeanor had crumbled when she told them how Crocker, the man in the blue shirt, had collapsed after the shooting. She was about to ask what they found so funny when the sheriff emerged through the demolished front entrance of the truck stop. Upon seeing him, the two officers quickly regained their composure.
The sheriff was a short, stocky man at the tail end of middle age. Based on the heavy shadow of stubble on his face, Jennifer guessed he’d been called out of bed on short notice.
“Parker,” he called, “have you and Trooper Haley finished taking her statement?”
“Yes, sir,” replied the deputy. “I think I got it all.”
“Was it the same story we got from the other two?”
“Pretty much.”
“Don’t tell me ‘pretty much.’ Was it or wasn’t it?”
“Well, sir,” said the deputy, stifling a laugh, “she says that after Crocker shot the perps, he fainted.”
“Yeah,” said the sheriff, unamused, “I saw it on the tape. Anything else?”
“No, sir.” The deputy tried unsuccessfully not to smile. “I guess Crocker just forgot to mention that in his statement.”
The sheriff gave the deputy a hard look. “Son, are you finding some humor in this situation? Because if so, please don’t hold back. Share it with the rest of us.”
“Sorry, sir. I didn’t—”
“Just keep the shit-eating grins to yourself, and go let the poor man out of the backseat of my car.”
Every trace of amusement left the deputy’s face. “Yes, sir.” He ran off in the direction of the sheriff’s squad car.
The sheriff turned to the highway patrolman. “Haley, let Sergeant Menendez know we’re releasing Crocker pending further investigation. I’ll have Becky send over copies of our reports plus Metro’s forensic analysis, assuming they eventually decide to grace us with their presence.”
“Thanks, Sheriff,” said the trooper. “We appreciate being kept in the loop.” He turned and strolled toward a highway patrol cruiser parked alone near the gas pumps.
Over by the sheriff’s car, the young deputy was removing a pair of handcuffs from Crocker’s wrists.
“Excuse me,” said Jennifer, “but is he with you?”
“Ma’am?” asked the sheriff.
“I mean, is Mr. Crocker with the sheriff’s department or the highway patrol or what?”
“Oh, Crocker’s no cop. That would be an unforgivable waste of talent.”
Talent? thought Jennifer.
She leaned around the sheriff to get a better look at the man in the blue shirt. “Is he . . . like . . . a CIA special forces assassin or something?”
The sheriff chuckled. “He’s a First Shot instructor.”
Jennifer wondered if that was supposed to mean something to her.
Her confusion must have been apparent because the sheriff added, “First Shot Shooting Academy—it’s a firearms school a few miles east of here.”
“And that’s how you all know him?”
The sheriff nodded. “Most everyone here has trained under him at one point or another.”
Jennifer watched the young deputy shake hands with Crocker and point to where she and the sheriff were waiting.
“So he teaches police officers to . . . to do what he did in there?”
“Matt Crocker is kind of a minor celebrity among shooting enthusiasts. Everyone from Boy Scouts to SWAT officers comes here to train with him.”
Jennifer tried to imagine what a class full of Boy Scouts and SWAT officers would look like and concluded that that probably wasn’t how it worked.
She watched Crocker approach and considered how much likelier it would have been for the man in the blue shirt to be a plumber or an accountant. “I guess I got lucky.”
“Ma’am,” said the sheriff, “you couldn’t’ve been any luckier if you’d been choking and found yourself seated next to Dr. Heimlich.”
A couple of steps away, Crocker said, “You’re not giving Dr. Heimlich enough credit. He probably would have remained conscious afterward.”
“Never know,” said the sheriff. “Adrenaline does weird things to a body. I once knew an officer who stepped out of his cruiser after a high-speed pursuit and found his pants sopping wet. He’d pissed himself without realizing it.”
“Can you come tell that story to my fellow instructors? They’re going to be merciless.”
“Spare me the self-pity. This little incident will probably double First Shot’s attendance next season.”
Crocker didn’t respond.
“Anyway,” said the sheriff, taking a more serious tone, “I’ll be at the Pahrump station all day tomorrow. If you need somebody to talk to, stop by.”
“I’ll be working, but I appreciate the offer.” He hesitated. “Does that mean I’m free to go?”
“I have two witnesses and a surveillance tape that corroborate your story. If the DA wants anything more from you, she can get it on her own time.”
Crocker extended a hand. “Thanks, Bill.”
The sheriff shook Crocker’s hand. “Get some sleep. You look like hell.”
“Maybe at lunch. My class musters on the firing line in less than two and a half hours.” He glanced back at the demolished front entrance of the Placer Gold truck stop. “And unless you’re going to let me drive my truck out of your crime scene, I’m going to have to wake somebody to come get me.”
“Sorry,” said the sheriff, “but we can’t move it until the lab rats from Vegas Metro are done with it.”
“Can I get my phone out of the console?”
“If it were up to me, I’d say yes, but those crime lab boys are pretty uptight about anybody disturbing their scene. Ever since someone got the idea to make a TV show about them, they’ve taken themselves way too damn serious.”
Crocker sighed. “In that case, can I use your phone to call for a ride?”
“Sure. Or I can have one of my deputies drive you home once the CSI team takes possession of the crime scene.”
Before she realized what she was saying, Jennifer blurted out, “I can give you a ride.”
Both men turned toward her, visibly surprised.
“Unless,” she added, “I’m not allowed to take my car either.”
The sheriff arched his eyebrows at Crocker—Jennifer wasn’t sure if he was amused or concerned—then turned to her and said, “As long as you think you’re okay to drive, your car can go. It’s not part of the crime scene.”
Crocker looked skeptical. “Are you sure? I don’t want to put you out.”
Jennifer nodded toward the bustling crime scene and said, “I think I owe you a lift home.”
/> ♦ ♦ ♦
Jennifer had experienced some awkward silences in her life, but driving through the predawn desert with Matt Crocker made every bad first date and uncomfortable family dinner seem downright jovial by comparison. She’d made the offer on impulse, but now she hadn’t an inkling of what she was supposed to say to this stranger who, only a few hours before, had gunned down a trio of armed robbers in front of her.
Nice shooting?
She stole a glance at her passenger. In his khaki shorts and polo shirt, he would have looked at home at her firm’s annual golf scramble. Nothing about his appearance suggested he was capable of killing three men in less time than it would have taken to greet them by name.
I wonder if I’ll ever know their names.
She supposed the cops would send her some sort of final report.
Was Al short for Albert?
She didn’t really want to know.
She glanced again at the pistolero riding shotgun. He looked harmless. She knew he was no longer armed—she’d watched a deputy take possession of his gun—but she doubted she would have felt threatened either way. He looked no more dangerous than most of the brokers she’d encountered the day before. In fact, he looked like he might do pretty well as a broker. At the very least, he’d do well at the after-hours receptions where conference attendees were known to tender offers unrelated to real estate.
His full head of hair put him one up on many of her male peers, and he lacked the telltale beer gut that so many of them tried to hide beneath expensive suits. She couldn’t think of a word to say to him, but under different circumstances, she would have let him buy her a drink.