by Wesley Lewis
“Excuse me?”
“Unless I’m mistaken, you came in on Tecopa Road and turned right about a mile before the California state line, correct?”
“That sounds right.”
Crocker nodded. “This is Pyrite Valley Estates. Or, rather, that’s what it was supposed to be. It’s a housing development that went under when the bubble burst. From what I heard, the developers built a couple of model homes but never sold a single lot.”
After a moment of silence, Welch said, “That fits. Dudka is heavily invested in legitimate real estate ventures. He could have repurposed this one after it failed.”
“Highest and best use,” muttered Jennifer.
“I didn’t figure it out,” said Crocker, “until I saw the houses from the outside.” He turned to Jennifer. “That long drive from the Prickly Pear was all for show. We could have been here in seven or eight minutes if they’d taken the back roads.”
“This is good,” said Welch. “Now that we know he’s using his investment properties as safe houses, we can check—”
Another knock interrupted. Welch stepped past Crocker and opened the door.
Special Agent Eastland waited on the first step, ahead of a small line of people. He’d ditched the La Condamine blazer and rolled up his shirtsleeves. Like Welch, he wore an FBI badge on a chain around his neck. Welch waved him inside.
Crocker recognized the next person through the door and smiled. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Sheriff Cargill in full uniform. He stepped forward to shake his friend’s hand but froze midway as two familiar faces followed the sheriff into the conference room.
Hall and McMahon were dressed exactly as they had been in the cash cage, but instead of private patrol officer IDs, both now wore FBI badges clipped to their jacket pockets.
Seeing Crocker’s reaction, Eastland grinned and said, “We had you pretty well covered back at the casino.”
Crocker shook his head in disbelief and turned to Sheriff Cargill, who had removed his white Stetson and was using a handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his forehead. “Sheriff, I think you finally have proof that Vladimir Dudka is engaged in criminal activity within Nye County.”
“No shit,” said the sheriff. “A team of feds is tearing apart the Winter Palace as we speak, and I’ve put out APBs with every agency from San Diego to Salt Lake City. That son of a bitch is now the most wanted man west of the Rockies.” He paused. “Where are Larry and the Dysart woman?”
Before Crocker could answer, Welch said, “Mr. Chappell sustained moderate to severe injuries as the result of an apparent beating. He’s conscious and coherent but in need of immediate medical attention. Our tac medic and two others are preparing him for air evac. As for Kathleen Dysart, there seems to be some confusion as to who she is and whether she was involved at all.”
“Okay,” said the sheriff, “I’ll double-check my information on Ms. Dysart. What are your plans to protect Chappell at the hospital?”
“We’ll have two agents standing by when he arrives.”
“Good. Now, what do you say we get these two out of the line of fire?”
“Eastland,” said Welch, “do we have a short-term witness protection plan?”
“Yes, ma’am,” replied Eastland. “The sheriff and I will take Mr. Crocker and Ms. Williams to the sheriff’s station in Tonopah and wait there for the marshals.”
Welch nodded. “Good. As soon as I hear back from the AG’s office, we’ll get the ball rolling with WITSEC and—”
Two quick knocks interrupted.
Eastland turned and opened the door. A female agent in full SWAT gear squeezed into the small conference room.
“What do you have for me?” asked Welch.
The SWAT agent held up a clear plastic bag containing what appeared to be a stack of hundred-dollar bills wrapped in a La Condamine band. “Based on our preliminary search, this is the only sign of the money taken from the casino.”
Welch took the bag. “Is this—”
“Yes, ma’am, that’s the decoy stack containing the transmitter.”
Welch turned to Eastland. “What are we looking at here? Did Dudka spot the tracking device and bug out with the cash?”
“It wasn’t Dudka,” interjected Jennifer.
“Excuse me?”
“Dudka hasn’t been here in a while. I’m not sure how long, but he left sometime last night. Scarlett has the money.”
“Scarlett?” asked Eastland.
“One of the girls from the Prickly Pear Ranch,” explained Crocker. “She’s the one who turned us over to Dudka.”
“Hang on a second.” The sheriff pulled a notepad from his breast pocket, flipped a couple of pages, and studied something written there. “There it is: ‘works under the name Scarlett.’ This Scarlett woman is our mysterious Ms. Dysart.”
“Okay,” said Welch, “that’s one mystery solved.” She turned to Crocker. “And you’re fairly certain this Dysart woman is one of the perpetrators, not one of the victims?”
“If we’re talking about Scarlett, she’s definitely not a victim.”
“And you believe she has the money—could she be taking it to Dudka?”
“Hard to say. She was having an affair with one of Dudka’s men, so it’s possible. But I wouldn’t describe her as loyal, so it’s just as likely she’s headed for the Mexican border.”
“Hang on,” said Eastland, “how did she find the transmitter so fast?”
“Didn’t you tell me that banks use this type of tracking device to catch robbers?” asked Crocker.
“That’s right.”
“Well, as luck would have it, our young Ms. Scarlett is a former bank teller and a veritable fount of information about bundled cash.”
Welch sighed. “Okay, Sheriff, that’s one more APB you need to put out. Do we know anything else about this woman that might help us catch her?”
“Yeah,” replied Jennifer. “We know what she’s driving.”
♦ ♦ ♦
The developers of Pyrite Valley Estates had put in streets and street signs but no houses. Jennifer watched from the backseat as the patrol car passed the intersection of Prospectors Place and Silver Lane.
In front of her, Sheriff Cargill steered with his left hand and operated the police radio with his right. “No,” he said into the microphone, “if it’s not registered to Lawrence Chappell or Prickly Pear Inc., hold off on the plate number for now, and issue the APB as ‘late-model yellow Corvette.’”
A woman’s voice replied, “Copy that, Sheriff. We’re on it.”
The sheriff moved to hang up the microphone, hesitated, and raised it again. “One more thing. Get on the horn to EMS, and tell them to send a heavy-lift gurney over to the scene. Apparently, one of the deceased suspects is a big fella.”
“Ten-four,” replied the woman.
Once again, Jennifer fought to suppress a smile.
Burn in hell, you fat fuck.
Riding shotgun, Special Agent Eastland held a cell phone to his ear and carried on his own conversation. “No,” he said, “we want the marshals to run it through WITSEC.” His free hand rubbed his temple as he listened. “If I thought we could handle it internally, I wouldn’t have . . . Yes, but the information we do have points to an international crime syndicate, which means this could stretch on for months or even years. That puts it outside the purview of the Bureau.”
Jennifer leaned to her right and whispered in Crocker’s ear, “What is he talking about?”
Crocker held a finger to his lips and waved her away.
Eastland continued, “Okay. . . . Thank you. . . . Yes, have the preliminaries faxed to the Nye County sheriff’s station in Tonopah, Nevada. I’ll follow up when we get there. . . . Understood. Thank
s.” He ended the call.
Crocker leaned forward and rested his forearm against the steel mesh divider. “What exactly did you mean by ‘months or even years’?”
“That’s a worst-case scenario,” replied Eastland. “We’ll have a more accurate projection once the facts are in. Right now we’re simply covering all the bases.”
“But if you’re having the Justice Department clear us for witness relocation, you must think it’s pretty serious.”
“Relocation?” asked Jennifer. “As in new identities? As in no contact with friends or family?”
Sheriff Cargill glanced back and, in a conciliatory tone that bordered on condescending, said, “Don’t start assuming the worst, Ms. Williams.”
“Why not?” asked Jennifer. “The FBI clearly is.” She turned to Eastland. “Do we at least get a say in this?”
“She’s right,” said Crocker. “This is something we need to discuss.”
“And we will,” said Eastland, “but not now. Right now it’s a safe bet that Dudka’s gang is out there with orders to clean house—to hunt down and kill any outsiders who know about his operation. If you want to have a heart-to-heart about your future, we can do that, but we’re going to wait until you’re safely beyond Dudka’s reach. Until then, it’s premature to assume you have a future.”
Kill any outsiders who know about his operation? thought Jennifer.
She leaned forward, grabbed the steel mesh with both hands, and asked, “What about Vegas?”
“It’s too risky,” said Eastland. “Dudka’s men could be waiting for us to take you back into the city. You’ll be safer in Tonopah.”
“Not Las Vegas,” said Crocker. “She means Vegas—Megan Burnett—the girl who found Jennifer’s note. She’s in danger too.”
“Not possible,” said the sheriff. “I picked up that note personally and interviewed Ms. Burnett myself. Not even my own deputies know she’s involved.”
“Not for passing the note,” snapped Jennifer, “for helping us rescue Ashley.”
Eastland turned to face her. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“I knew it,” said the sheriff. “‘Negotiated’ her return, my ass.”
“We did negotiate her return,” said Crocker. “We arranged to exchange the seized money for her.”
“Money you didn’t have,” said the sheriff. “Where I’m from, we call that a con, not a negotiation.”
“Whatever you call it, it worked. We got Ashley, and three of Dudka’s guys got pinched.”
“No wonder he has such a hard-on for the two of you,” said Eastland. “And you’re saying Ms. Burnett was part of this scheme?”
“She and Scarlett both,” replied Jennifer.
“Christ on a cracker,” said the sheriff. “You could have mentioned this sooner.”
“What’s done is done,” said Eastland. “Where can we find Ms. Burnett? I’ll send somebody to pick her up.”
“Probably at the Pear,” replied Crocker.
“Good,” said the sheriff. “I’ve already dispatched a unit there to watch for this Scarlett woman. I’ll tell my deputy to bring in Ms. Burnett.” He grabbed the radio microphone. “Unit twenty-three, this is Sheriff Cargill. What is your ETA to the Prickly Pear Ranch?”
After a short pause, a man’s voice came back, “Sheriff, this is unit twenty-three. I’m a little more than twenty minutes out.”
“Twenty minutes!” exclaimed Jennifer. She turned to Crocker. “Didn’t you say we’re closer than that?”
“She’s right,” he said. “We could take Camellia Road and be there in less than ten.”
“Don’t ask me,” said the sheriff. “I’m just the chauffeur. Ask the man with jurisdiction.”
Eastland was already shaking his head. “Nothing doing. We’re taking you two straight to Tonopah. No detours.”
“We’re not under arrest, are we?” asked Jennifer. “We still have some say in what we do and where we go, don’t we?”
“You’re not under arrest,” conceded Eastland, “but—”
“But nothing,” said Jennifer. “If you want my help, we’re going to pick up Vegas.”
“Ms. Williams, your friend will be fine for another ten minutes.”
“Then we’ll be fine going to get her.”
“I’m with Jennifer,” said Crocker. “We owe Vegas too much to leave her unprotected for even five minutes. Besides, my only change of clothes is at the Pear. This suit needs to be burned.”
“That’s two to one for going to get her,” said Jennifer. “And I’ll borrow a change of clothes while we’re there. My dress is ready to join Crocker’s suit in the incinerator.”
“This isn’t a democracy,” said Eastland, “and nobody is stopping for clothes.” He turned and faced forward. “We’re going straight to Tonopah, no stops.”
“Don’t turn your back on me!” exclaimed Jennifer. “I’m not some child who—”
The car slowed.
“What’s going on?” asked Eastland, glancing around.
They were on empty desert blacktop, a hundred yards past the last of the phantom street signs.
Sheriff Cargill turned the wheel hard left. “If I have to listen to this for the next three hours, I’ll kill both of you myself.” He accelerated into a U-turn and lifted the radio mic. “Dispatch, this is the sheriff. I’m approximately ten minutes out from the Prickly Pear Ranch and will advise unit twenty-three when I arrive.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
As Crocker had expected, the midmorning lull was in full effect when Sheriff Cargill’s car turned under the large neon cactus. Only a handful of vehicles dotted the Prickly Pear parking lot.
“Go slow,” said Eastland. “Circle around back so that we can check for that yellow Corvette.”
The sheriff narrowed his eyes at the FBI agent. “This ain’t my first rodeo, you know.”
The car crept past the building and turned onto the back drive. Three of the guest cabins had vehicles parked in front, but there was no sign of the Corvette. The patrol car rolled past Larry’s private cabin and the ancient green Land Rover.
“Satisfied?” asked the sheriff.
“Okay,” said Eastland. “Pull around front and park near the entrance.”
Sheriff Cargill completed the loop and parked in a fire lane. “You three wait here while I check it out.” He turned to Eastland. “I’m leaving the keys. If I radio out and say ‘go,’ you go.”
“You won’t get any argument from me.”
The sheriff grabbed the microphone from beneath the dash. “Unit twenty-three, this is Sheriff Cargill. I’m at the Prickly Pear Ranch. What is your ETA?”
A moment later, the same male voice as before came back, “Sheriff, this is unit twenty-three. ETA is less than ten minutes.”
“Copy that. There is no sign of the yellow Corvette in the parking lot. I’m going to step inside and speak to the front desk attendant. Stand by.”
“Ten-four,” replied unit 23.
The sheriff climbed out of the vehicle and stood in the V of the open door, scanning his surroundings. The desert wind whistled through the opening. After two 360-degree scans, he switched on the radio on his belt and shut the door. He walked in a wide arc, approaching the entrance from the side.
Crocker wondered if perhaps they should have listened to Eastland and stayed on the road.
The sheriff stopped and placed a hand on the butt of his pistol before yanking open the windowless door and stepping inside.
Eastland turned toward the backseat. “I understand your desire to help your friend, but this is an unnecessary risk.”
“Duly noted,” said Crocker.
The threesome waited in silence.
A minute later, Sher
iff Cargill reemerged, his gait more relaxed, and made his way to the passenger side of the car.
He opened Crocker’s door. “It’s clear. The bouncer says Scarlett hasn’t been in since sometime yesterday evening.”
“Did you locate Ms. Burnett?” asked Eastland.
“She’s waiting in the front office with Larry’s assistant, Dottie. I haven’t told them what’s going on. They’re both pretty shaken up, so I thought it might be better if they see Crocker and Ms. Williams first.”
“Fine.” Eastland opened his door. “Let’s make this quick.”
♦ ♦ ♦
Jennifer hesitated, unsure whether the young woman seated next to Dottie on the office couch was Vegas. She wore a UNLV T-shirt and blue jeans and looked to be about seventeen. A baseball cap partially obscured a makeup-free face and eyes puffy from crying. For a moment, Jennifer thought the girl might be someone else—perhaps Dottie’s daughter—but when the young woman spotted the visitors in the doorway, the smile that spread across her face was unmistakably that of Megan “Vegas” Burnett.
Vegas bounded across the room and wrapped an arm around each of her friends. “We’ve been so worried. We’ve just been waiting here for hours, not hearing anything. I must have peed like twenty times. Are you okay?”
“Thanks to you,” said Jennifer. “If you hadn’t found that card—”
“Oh, my God!” Vegas took a step back. “Talk about a surprise! I tried on those panties you gave me, and suddenly something was . . . you know . . . ringing the doorbell. I thought maybe I’d missed a tag, but it was that card stuffed in the gusset lining.”
“I didn’t have much time. I had to improvise.”
“Well, it worked. That corner you folded up was quite the attention getter.”
To Jennifer’s amusement, Crocker looked a little embarrassed.
Vegas didn’t seem to notice. “Anyway, I’m really glad you’re safe, and I want you both to know that—” She cast a quick glance at the open door before whispering, “I want you to know that I didn’t tell them anything about last night. I just—”