West of Sin

by Wesley Lewis

  “Hello?”

  “Jennifer?” replied Tom’s familiar voice. “Where the hell are you? Who answered the phone?”

  “Relax, Tom. I’m fine.”

  “You sound like you just woke up. What the hell is going on?” He sounded more panicked than angry.

  “Tom, what is with you? Is everything all right?”

  “Just tell me, is Ashley with you?”

  “What? No, I haven’t seen her since last night. But I bet Bryan knows where she is.”

  “Jennifer,” said Tom, “Bryan is dead.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Crocker’s nostrils burned with the acrid stench of melted plastic, burnt upholstery, and charred plywood. He watched from a short distance as Sheriff Cargill and Jim Birdwell conferred with the two arson investigators sifting through the pile of smoldering debris occupying slot forty-seven of the Rangoon Harbor RV Park.

  Staring at what remained of his winter home, he pondered how much better his day might have gone if the pretty woman in the slinky black dress had let him reach into the Placer Gold beverage case for her.

  He pushed the thought from his mind. Jennifer had lost a lot more than a run-down travel trailer.

  The unrelenting glare of the midafternoon sun made him miss the cheap pair of sunglasses he’d left in the center console of his truck. For the time being, the sum total of his assets in the great state of Nevada had been reduced to the clothes on his back, the gun in his waistband, whatever was still at the dry cleaner’s, and a receipt from the Nye County impound lot.

  He heard a car door slam behind him, followed by the unmistakable sound of Larry Chappell’s heavy footsteps. His temporary chauffeur had apparently finished making phone calls and decided to join the party.

  “Yep,” said the longhaired hulk as he reached Crocker’s side, “you have definitely made Dudka’s shit list.”

  “You don’t say.” Crocker nodded toward the black pile of rubble where his trailer had stood. “Did your friends offer any other useful insights?”

  Larry grinned. “They said that if you owe me money, I should collect now, while I still can.”

  “Funny.”

  The grin faded. “I know it’s not much consolation, but you’re welcome to stay at the Pear for as long as you want.”

  What Crocker wanted was to leave the Prickly Pear Ranch and Vladimir Dudka and all of Pahrump in his dust and hightail it back to his half-finished home in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains. But that would have to wait.

  “Thanks,” he said, “but aren’t you worried that Dudka’s men might come looking for me again?”

  “That Russki bastard isn’t going to send his thugs anywhere near my place. He knows that if he crosses me, he crosses my friends in Chicago.”

  Crocker didn’t share Larry’s confidence, but he didn’t want to say anything to make his host rethink the offer. Despite his strong desire to leave town, Crocker had one very compelling reason to stay in Pahrump, and it wasn’t his impounded pickup truck. It was the beautiful woman who, when he’d last seen her, had been crying into a satin pillow on the Champagne Suite’s big round bed.

  Less than ninety minutes had passed since a ringing telephone had roused him from a pleasant dream about cooler temperatures and higher altitudes. He’d handed the phone to Jennifer, expecting to hear one side of a conversation about missed real estate appointments. Instead, he’d heard an overture to a nightmare.

  Apparently, Jennifer hadn’t been the only no-show at the real estate conference that morning. Both her boss and the woman she was rooming with had also missed their first appointments.

  When the boss’s assistant wasn’t able to reach the three missing Realtors by phone, she returned to the hotel and persuaded a member of the housekeeping staff to check their rooms. The housekeeper found the boss’s room empty but wasn’t so lucky when she checked the room shared by Jennifer and the other woman.

  According to Jennifer’s thirdhand account, her boss’s naked body had been found tied to a chair, his face badly beaten, a balled-up sock stuffed in his mouth. Pending an autopsy, the probable cause of death was listed as asphyxiation due to a broken nose and a gagged mouth.

  The police were still piecing together the chain of events, but Crocker was pretty sure he knew what had happened: Vladimir Dudka’s goons had come looking for him and Jennifer and found two people who more or less fit their description.

  Crocker had immediately called Sheriff Cargill’s office, only to learn that the sheriff was already trying to reach him regarding a fire at the Rangoon Harbor RV Park. As he’d waited for the deputy to transfer the call to the sheriff’s cell phone, Crocker had sat on the big round bed, thinking, I really stepped in it this time.

  “Here they come,” said Larry, jolting Crocker back to the present.

  Jim Birdwell and Sheriff Cargill approached.

  Before anyone could say hello, Crocker asked, “Which did they hit first?”

  “First?” asked the sheriff.

  “Did they torch my place before or after they attacked the couple at La Condamine?”

  “Neither. They carried out both attacks simultaneously.”

  “Simultaneously?”

  “At approximately the same time Jim called in the fire—”

  “One of my patrols spotted the flames not more than twenty minutes after you and your friend left,” said Jim.

  “As I was saying,” continued the sheriff, “at approximately that same time, the front desk at La Condamine got a call from the victims’ room, asking to have a luggage cart sent up. Fifteen minutes later, security cameras recorded three men in suits bringing a cart full of luggage down to the lobby.”

  “No bellhop?”

  “The hotel sent one, but the man who answered the door sent him away. The three men pushed the bags out to the front curb, loaded them into a white van, and drove away.”

  “And the girl?”

  “Almost certainly in one of the bags.”

  “Just one?”

  The sheriff raised an eyebrow. “We have no way of knowing if she was still alive, but the footage shows the men struggling to lift the largest bag into the van, so we’re pretty sure she was still in one piece.”

  For a moment, nobody spoke. Crocker suspected that his companions were pondering the same unpleasant thought as him: If the girl was still alive when Dudka’s men took her, her dead boss might be the lucky one.

  He couldn’t hold back any longer. “Jesus Christ, Bill, how the hell did they find us?”

  Sheriff Cargill didn’t answer.

  “I’ve been thinking about it for the past hour,” continued Crocker, “and the one answer I keep coming back to is that someone in your department leaked the information to Dudka’s people.”

  “Hold on now,” said the sheriff. “You don’t know the leak came from my department—there were two other agencies working that crime scene.”

  “Tell me this: After Jennifer and I left the truck stop, how much time passed before the CSI team discovered the cash?”

  The sheriff stared into the distance, rubbing his chin. “The Vegas Metro vans arrived about five minutes after you left, and it was maybe twenty minutes later that they popped the trunk on the suspects’ vehicle. Why?”

  “Because forty-five minutes after Metro popped that trunk, my trailer was on fire, and Jennifer’s boss was having the life beaten out of him. These people are clearly good at what they do, but there is no way they coordinated and carried out simultaneous attacks with only forty-five minutes’ notice.”

  Again, the sheriff didn’t reply.

  Crocker stared at him. “Dudka knew before you did.”

  “You may be right.”

  “You know I am. And since the leak had to have happened bef
ore Metro arrived on the scene, it had to have come from either your department or the highway patrol.”

  “Not necessarily. We shared information with Vegas Metro from the beginning. We even asked them to confirm that Ms. Williams was staying at La Condamine.”

  “Great,” said Crocker. “So what you’re saying is that there’s nobody I can trust.”

  “You can trust Jim and me.”

  “And me,” added Larry.

  “Listen,” said the sheriff, “if the missing girl isn’t found by tomorrow morning, the feds will almost certainly take over the case. In the meantime, I’ll put in a request for immediate FBI assistance. Between the evidence of police corruption, the possible links to organized crime, and the violence against interstate travelers, I think they’ll bite.”

  “Good,” said Crocker. “Tell the FBI that both Ms. Williams and I want federal protection. Until that’s arranged, I’d prefer that nobody in your department or the highway patrol or Vegas Metro”—he glanced at Jim—“or the Rangoon Harbor security staff knows where we’re staying. For now, I think the safest thing for Jennifer and me is to stay off everyone’s radar.”

  “If you’re sure that’s what you want,” said the sheriff. “I’d try to talk you into letting me take both of you into protective custody right now, but I know I’d be wasting my breath.”

  “You would be.”

  “I’ll make the necessary calls and phone Larry when everything is arranged.”

  “Just be sure you make that call yourself. I don’t want any of your deputies figuring out where we are.”

  “I still say you’re wrong about my deputies, but you have my word.”

  “Thanks.” Crocker stared at the wreckage for a moment. “I’d better get back to Jennifer. She shouldn’t be alone right now.” The words surprised him. It was strange to feel so protective of someone he’d just met.

  “I’ll take care of your trailer,” said Jim, “or what’s left of it. As soon as the investigators are done, I’ll send a couple of my boys out here to sift through the debris and see what they can salvage.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Is there anything you want me to ask them to look for?”

  Crocker thought for a moment. “There was a framed picture of Courtney and me—we’re at the range, holding up a couple of targets. If by any chance that survived, I’d really like to have it back.”

  “I’ll tell the guys to keep an eye out for it.”

  “I appreciate it.” He cast a final glance at the smoldering debris. “Larry, let’s get out of here before these fumes make us sick.”

  “Aye aye, Captain.” Larry trotted toward the short row of parking spaces.

  Crocker turned to follow, then stopped and turned back to Sheriff Cargill. “What the hell were three mob couriers doing trying to steal an ATM machine from a truck stop?”

  The sheriff sighed. “They made the classic Las Vegas mistake.”

  “Which is?”

  “They forgot that the house always wins.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “We found out they spent most of yesterday in the high rollers’ pit at Mandalay Bay. They dropped close to ten grand at the blackjack tables.”

  “You mean they gambled away one of the envelopes they were supposed to deliver? That’s why they were trying to get the cash from the ATM?”

  “That’s our working theory.”

  Crocker shook his head. “They were afraid of what might happen if they were short by one percent; now I’m stuck with the tab for the full amount.”

  “I don’t suppose you want to reconsider my offer of protection, do you?”

  “I don’t suppose you want to let me have the remaining cash so that I can try to bargain for my life, do you?”

  The sheriff gave a nervous laugh and shook his head. “That I can’t do. But if you need anything else—anything at all—don’t hesitate to give me a call.”

  Crocker nodded, turned, and walked toward Larry’s yellow Corvette.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Over the course of his life, Crocker had spent more than ten thousand hours engaging opponents armed with guns modified to fire paint pellets, navigating live-fire shoot houses populated with both paper terrorists and paper bystanders, and disarming sparring partners wielding rubber pistols. But not one of those mock bad guys, human or paper, had been connected to the Russian mob.

  He gazed out the passenger window but didn’t see the road or the desert. His mind was too busy estimating how much he could get for his unfinished Colorado dream home if he had to sell everything and go into witness protection.

  The sudden tightening of his seat belt brought his train of thought to a screeching halt. A cloud of dust caught up with the Corvette as it came to rest on the sandy shoulder of the two-lane road.

  He scanned the horizon. “Did you see something?”

  “Nah,” said Larry, shifting his massive frame to better face his passenger. “Something is bugging me.” He hesitated as if searching for the right words. “You know I respect Sheriff Cargill. He’s always been good to me and my crew at the Pear, and I’m sure he intends to do right by you and Ms. Williams, but calling in the feds is just going to get that poor woman killed.”

  “You think he’s going to get Jennifer killed?”

  “Not Jennifer, her friend.”

  “Her friend?” Crocker had more or less written off Jennifer’s missing friend, Ashley. He didn’t want to think about the particulars, but he suspected that Dudka’s people had long since finished with her and dumped her body in the desert. “You think she might still be alive?”

  Larry checked the road behind them. “I’m sure she is.” He accelerated into a hard turn, heading back in the direction they’d come.

  Crocker placed a hand on the door to keep from falling into it. “Where are we going?”

  “Walmart.”

  “Why?”

  “You need to make a phone call.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Jennifer sat in the middle of the large round bed, her arms crossed tightly in front of her, her fingers clutching the edges of the extra sheet, which had long since come untucked and lost any resemblance to a toga. Tufts of unkempt hair hung in front of her face, crisscrossing the tracks of dried tears.

  Just twenty-four hours before, she, Bryan, and Ashley had been wheeling and dealing on the convention center floor. Now Bryan was dead, Ashley was missing, and she was the reason.

  She thought about Ashley jumping up to give her a hug in the casino bar.

  She remembered Bryan, one year before, staring out at the Las Vegas skyline and trying to put on a brave face as he confided that his marriage was ending. Jennifer had tried to lift his spirits by raising her glass and toasting to better days to come. Now he had no more days to come.

  Fresh tears trickled down her cheeks.

  She had walked into the wrong place at the wrong time and inadvertently offended the wrong people, and those people had taken out their anger on a man and woman who probably never even knew why.

  The story she’d heard from Tom played on a loop in her mind. She imagined poor Grace and an unsuspecting housekeeper finding Bryan’s naked, beaten body tied to a chair in the middle of a trashed hotel room—her hotel room. She pictured her colleagues on the convention center floor, asking prospective tenants and buyers to excuse them as they checked their vibrating phones. She saw their carefully groomed smiles fading into grim expressions of disbelief as they learned of the horrors that had befallen two of their own.

  What kind of nightmare have I stumbled into?

  A knock at the door made her jump.

  “Miss,” said a woman on the other side, “it’s Vegas. We met last night.”

  Jennifer recalled the two wo
men who’d practically assaulted Crocker in the hallway.

  “Can you come to the door?” asked the woman.

  If she tells me they need this room, I’m going to slug her.

  Jennifer crawled to the edge of the bed, placed her feet on the floor, and stood slowly, not trusting her legs to support her. When she was confident she wasn’t going to collapse, she wrapped the sheet more securely around her breasts and walked to the door.

  The woman standing in the hallway bore little resemblance to the tarted-up trollop Jennifer had seen the night before. Dressed in a tank top and a pair of workout shorts, her platinum hair tied back in a ponytail, the young woman—who Jennifer guessed was barely old enough to drink—looked more like a college coed than a Las Vegas prostitute.

  She held a tray containing a couple of sandwiches on paper plates and two glass bottles of Mexican Coca-Cola. “Dottie thought you might be hungry.”

  Although Jennifer hadn’t eaten in almost twenty hours, food held no appeal. “I’m not hungry. But maybe Crocker will be when he gets back. You can bring it in if you want.”

  “You really should try to eat a little something,” said Vegas as she stepped past Jennifer into the room. “You’re going to start feeling weak if you don’t.” She set the tray on the edge of the bed.

  “Thanks, but I—”

  “Knock-knock,” interrupted another woman’s voice.

  Scarlett, the redheaded half of the duo that had ambushed Crocker, stood in the doorway, wearing a black negligee and high heels.

  “I thought you had an appointment,” said Vegas.

  Scarlett stepped into the room. “I do, but Dottie wanted me to tell Matt’s friend that she has a visitor.”

  Jennifer’s blood ran cold. “A visitor?”

  “Some guy—young, cute, says he works with you.”