West of Sin

by Wesley Lewis

  As she passed a man in a shiny purple dress shirt, something banged uncomfortably against her thigh. She looked down and saw that the man was carrying a hard-sided briefcase. Upon closer inspection, she realized that the case was actually handcuffed to his wrist.

  Without a word of apology, the man clutched the briefcase tight to his chest and took a short step back.

  Jennifer stepped past the nervous-looking man and pushed on for a few more feet before finding her path blocked by two extra-large T-shirts, one branded fox motocross and the other branded skydive san marcos. The fashion-challenged pair of broad-shouldered daredevils seemed to be competing for the attention of a petite brunette whose own wardrobe consisted of the highest heels and tiniest bikini Jennifer had ever seen.

  Jennifer chuckled, more amazed than amused, as she recalled Larry’s comment about those who gamble with their money and those who gamble with their lives sharing a love for prostitutes. The man in the skydiving T-shirt glanced back, then stepped aside to let her pass.

  As she crossed the room, Jennifer elicited almost as many lustful stares as she had the day before on the convention center floor. By the time she reached the bar, the crowd’s collective body heat had left her feeling hot and sticky. She found Scarlett chatting with a well-dressed older gentleman while a handsome young bartender poured them a round from an expensive-looking bottle of scotch.

  The man said something Jennifer couldn’t quite hear, and Scarlett broke into hysterical laughter. Jennifer found it hard to believe that such over-the-top cackles would fool anyone, but the man seemed genuinely pleased by Scarlett’s clear appreciation for his wit.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” said Jennifer, “but I . . .” Her voice trailed off as, in one short turn of the head, Scarlett’s expression changed from inviting to contemptuous.

  “What?” barked the fiery redhead.

  Jennifer lost her train of thought. “I . . . I was just wondering if you’ve seen Crocker in the past few minutes.”

  “No.” Scarlett turned back toward her silver-haired admirer.

  The bartender leaned across the bar. “I saw him about five minutes ago, hon. He was talking on his phone, out behind the kitchen.”

  “How do I get out there?” asked Jennifer.

  The bartender pointed to the door at the end of the bar. “Just cut through the kitchen. Nobody will care.”

  Jennifer thanked him and made her way to the end of the bar. She passed through a tiny kitchen where three fry cooks—none of whom paid her any attention—busily prepared burgers and buffalo wings.

  The back door was so heavy that for a brief moment she thought it might be locked. Finally, it relented and swung open. She stepped out into a small fenced-in side yard littered with garbage cans and spent beer kegs.

  As her eyes adjusted to the late-day sun, she spotted her gunslinger leaning against the fence, holding the Walmart cell phone to his ear. He waved and pointed to the phone. Jennifer nodded that she understood.

  “I’ll make sure it’s all taken care of,” he said. He listened for a moment, then responded, “I understand, and I assure you that there won’t be any problems.” After a short pause, he said, “Okay, thanks,” and hung up.

  “Is everything on track?” asked Jennifer.

  “As much as it can be. That was Dudka’s associate Mr. Black. He and I just hammered out all the details of our upcoming meeting at McCarran International Airport. He kept talking around the issue, refusing to say anything incriminating, so the call took longer than I expected. After the third time he told me to bring a receipt for my collateral, I figured out he was telling me to bring Ashley’s driver’s license so that she can get past airport security.”

  “But we don’t have her license!”

  Crocker nodded. “Good thing Mr. Black doesn’t actually plan to meet us at the airport.”

  Jennifer felt a pang of embarrassment. “Right. Sorry. Long day.”

  Crocker offered a sympathetic smile. “Don’t feel bad—that request threw me for a second too. I’m supposed to buy two tickets to Los Angeles—one for me and one for Ashley—and meet Mr. Black and his associate at the Starbucks in concourse B. I’m to bring Ashley’s license and the eight hundred thousand dollars through security.”

  “Nothing suspicious about that.”

  Crocker nodded. “He asked what I plan to tell TSA if asked about the cash. I gave your explanation about attending a cash-only foreclosure sale. That was a good idea, by the way.”

  “I’m just glad I had something to contribute to this bogus plan.”

  Crocker smiled. “After Black confirms that I have the money, his associate will exit the terminal with Ashley’s license and boarding pass and return with Ashley.”

  “That’s awfully detailed. What if they actually show up at the airport? Shouldn’t we have someone there just in case?”

  “I wish they were that stupid—it would make our job a whole lot easier. But these guys are smart. They’ll play along with the airport plan until the last minute; then they’ll zig when they’re supposed to zag.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “I’m right. We just have to hope they zig in the direction we expect. If they pick a location other than the Stratosphere, your friend is in serious trouble.”

  The reality of what a miscalculation might mean for Ashley hung in the air between them.

  Finally, desperate to end the awkward silence, Jennifer blurted out the one question that kept eating at her: “Why are you doing this?”

  Crocker furrowed his brow. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, are you just trying to live up to the marine creed of ‘leave no man behind,’ or is there more to it than that?”

  “Marine creed? Who told you I was a marine?”

  “I saw your tattoo when you got out of the shower this morning.”

  “Right. I forgot you saw me without a shirt on.”

  Jennifer felt her face flush.

  “Anyway,” he continued, “I wasn’t a marine long enough to feel beholden to any creed. And the ‘leave no man behind’ mantra is used by all the armed forces.”

  “Then why?” she asked, her voice trembling. “You don’t know Ashley, and you barely know me, so why aren’t you halfway to Colorado by now?”

  He placed a hand on her shoulder. “Jennifer, you underestimate how much I loved that trailer.”

  Jennifer half laughed and half sobbed. She wiped a tear from her eye and said, “I’m serious.”

  Crocker smiled compassionately. “When this is all over, I’d like nothing more than to spend a weekend analyzing my motivations with you. But if I’m going to retrieve Tom’s lost luggage and get back here in time, I have to go.”

  Jennifer nodded. “I have to get back inside. Miss Vegas is going to alter a dress for me.”

  Crocker leaned forward and planted a quick kiss on her forehead before turning to leave. He walked to the gate at the end of the fenced yard, opened it, then hesitated.

  He turned back. “Listen, when this is all over, you and I really are going to have a long talk, okay?”

  Jennifer locked eyes with him. “You’re damn right we are.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  For Crocker, walking into the sheriff’s south area command station in Pahrump always felt like a class reunion—at least three-quarters of the deputies had studied under him at one time or another. He exchanged pleasantries with the desk sergeant and made his way back toward the sheriff’s office, returning waves and acknowledging occasional shouts of “Hey, Crocker!” as he went.

  The task of overseeing law enforcement in one of the nation’s largest counties necessitated that the Nye County sheriff divide his time between three stations spread out over a 170-mile stretch of highway. This meant that, rather than
enjoy a well-appointed office with a private receptionist, Sheriff Cargill made do with three functional but unremarkable offices, each tucked into the back corner of one of the stations.

  Over the years, Crocker had spent countless hours in these offices, shooting the bull with Sheriff Cargill. But as he knocked on the door bearing the sheriff’s nameplate, he worried that he was testing the boundaries of their friendship.

  He listened for the sheriff’s familiar call of “Enter at your own risk.” Instead, he heard the sound of a dead bolt turning.

  The door opened a couple of inches. Sheriff Cargill peered through the narrow opening, inspecting his surroundings. When he seemed satisfied, he opened the door wide and motioned Crocker inside.

  “Nobody with you?” he asked.

  “No.” Crocker stepped into the modest office. “It’s just me.”

  The sheriff shut the door behind him.

  As Crocker took a seat across from the sheriff’s desk, he again heard the faint creak of the dead bolt. “Can I infer from your sudden concern for privacy that you did as I asked?”

  “You can.” The sheriff walked to the other side of the desk and pulled a small black suitcase from beneath it. “I think this is what you wanted.”

  Crocker reached out and took the suitcase. “Did TSA give you any trouble?”

  “No, I think they were afraid I was going to chew them out for placing the bag under a security hold in the first place. The supervisor I spoke to kept reminding me that in this post-9/11 world, it’s better to be safe than sorry.”

  Crocker nodded and set the bag on the ground. “Well, I can’t thank you enough for intervening. I don’t know what we would have done without this.”

  “Don’t thank me,” said the sheriff, “and don’t tell me what you plan on doing with it. If I knew, I might feel obligated to stop you.”

  Crocker gave another understanding nod. “And what about the other thing I asked you to do?”

  Sheriff Cargill peered across the desk, not speaking, his eyes seeming to study Crocker. Crocker wondered if the second favor had been too much to ask.

  Just as the silence threatened to become uncomfortable, the sheriff let out a loud sigh and rose to his feet. “It’s over here.”

  He walked to the heavy metal case in the corner of the room and fumbled with his keys, eventually finding the right one.

  Crocker had seen the inside of the case many times. It was where the sheriff kept his small collection of high-end firearms, including a Remington Model 700 rifle that Crocker himself had upgraded with a match-grade barrel and a custom trigger set. But when the sheriff turned back around, he wasn’t holding a gun; he was holding a dingy green duffel bag wrapped in what looked like a plastic dry-cleaning bag.

  Sheriff Cargill set the duffel bag on the desk. “I sure hope you’re not about to do something stupid. It wouldn’t look good for me to have to shoot an old friend in my office.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Crocker, studying the bag. “I’m not going to steal it.”

  The sheriff settled back into his chair. “I didn’t figure you were, but I’d be remiss in my duties if I didn’t at least warn you not to.”

  “Did you take the steps I suggested?”

  The sheriff nodded. “I contacted Vegas Metro and requested the immediate return of the evidence; then I contacted the highway patrol and asked them to send a unit to pick it up and bring it to the station for me. No doubt every officer in the state now knows I inexplicably requested the return of nearly a million dollars in seized cash.”

  “Exactly,” said Crocker. “Every officer, including the one who tipped off Dudka last night.” He examined the plastic-covered duffel bag. “I take it I’m not allowed to open it?”

  “Hell no!” said the sheriff. “It’s bad enough I’m keeping it in my office and not in the evidence locker—that alone could warrant an investigation. But if I were to let you contaminate evidence in a case of this magnitude, the people who elected me would probably lock me in my own jail and throw away the key.”

  “I was just hoping to get an idea of how the money is bundled.”

  “Here.” The sheriff reached into the top drawer of his desk. “These might help.” He handed Crocker a manila envelope.

  Crocker opened the envelope and pulled out a stack of eight-by-ten photos.

  The sheriff continued, “Those are the crime-scene photos of the money. I can’t let you take them, but I don’t see any harm in letting you look at them.”

  Crocker thumbed through the pictures and noted the brown, hand-numbered envelopes stuffed with half-inch-thick stacks of hundred-dollar bills.

  “Thanks,” he said. “This will help.”

  “You know,” said the sheriff, “if I knew what you were up to, I could at least position a few deputies nearby, in case you need help.”

  Crocker shook his head. “It’s too risky.” He stood and set the photos on the sheriff’s desk, beside the duffel bag.

  “More risky than whatever you plan to do with that?” The sheriff pointed at Tom’s suitcase.

  “Yes.” Crocker picked up the suitcase. “Only five other people know about this, and as far as I’m concerned, they’re the only ones I can trust.”

  “Hang on,” said the sheriff. He stood and reached into his pocket. “There is one other person you can trust.” He held out a business card.

  Crocker set down the suitcase and took the card. It read:

  William Cargill

  Sheriff

  Nye County, Nevada

  Crocker laughed. “Sorry, Bill. I didn’t mean to suggest I don’t trust you.”

  “What?” The sheriff glanced down at the card. “Oh, no, flip it over.”

  Crocker turned over the card and saw that on the back the sheriff had written SA Bruce Eastland and a phone number.

  “Special Agent Eastland is part of the FBI’s organized crime division,” explained the sheriff. “Apparently, he’s been investigating Vladimir Dudka for years.”

  “You talked to this Agent Eastland?”

  “I did. In fact, he’s flying in on the red-eye.”

  “He’s on his way here?”

  “That’s right. He seems to think the surveillance footage from La Condamine may be the smoking gun he’s been looking for. If he can connect any of the men on that tape to Dudka, he can get a warrant to search the Winter Palace and possibly bring down the whole operation.”

  “That all sounds great.” Crocker placed the business card in his pocket. “But none of it does me any good tonight.”

  “He says the FBI is willing to offer protection to both you and Ms. Williams. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather just wait this out and let the feds handle it?”

  “Tell him that Jennifer—Ms. Williams—and I will meet you both at the FBI’s Las Vegas field office at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. If everything goes according to plan, we’ll have one hell of a story to tell.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Jennifer breathed a sigh of relief as Vegas’s paisley shoulder bag emerged from the X-ray scanner without so much as a sideways glance from the three security guards working the checkpoint. She mentally scolded herself for having been so nervous. A bag full of wigs and dresses wasn’t likely to raise any eyebrows on the Las Vegas Strip. If the guards had searched it, the most damning thing they would have found was Vegas’s assortment of condoms and lubes, which Jennifer hadn’t bothered to clear out of the side pocket. The real contraband had bypassed the screening equipment an hour before, in the suitcase carried by Private Patrol Officer Matt Crocker.

  Jennifer retrieved the pink and purple pack from the scanner and followed Tom toward the elevator bank. The repurposed diaper bag was a poor choice to accessorize her sophisticated little black dress; however, given the
circumstances, she was satisfied that the bag, which spent most nights packed with the tools of the sex trade, was large enough to carry everything she needed and looked enough like a purse to avert suspicion.

  When she caught up to Tom, he was standing in the door of an elevator packed with a half-dozen casually dressed tourists.

  He turned to the uniformed elevator operator, a man of at least seventy, and said, “Here she is.”

  Jennifer squeezed into the car.

  “So she is,” said the operator. “Do you want the observation deck, the restaurant, or the lounge?”

  “Level 104,” replied Tom.

  “Ah, the private party.” The operator pressed the button. “I should have guessed as much from your sharp suit.”

  Jennifer smiled and winked at Tom. His navy-blue suit, though inexpensive and not quite a perfect fit, looked debonair amid the sea of T-shirts and sandals. At the office and on the conference floor, he always wore slacks and a dress shirt. Jennifer wondered if Ashley had ever seen him so dressed up.

  Maybe if they both make it out of this alive . . .

  Jennifer was vaguely aware of the elevator operator rattling off a list of facts about the Stratosphere Tower—opened in 1996 as the tallest building west of the Mississippi, almost 550 feet taller than Seattle’s Space Needle, blah, blah, blah—but she was too busy sorting through a litany of unsettling what-ifs to care.

  The high-speed elevator slowed. The knots in her stomach tightened.

  “Level 104,” announced the operator as the elevator came to a stop.

  The doors opened on a central lobby area where a handful of well-dressed real estate professionals waited in line to show their invitations and be admitted into the private reception halls that ringed the lobby.