by Wesley Lewis
“It’s okay,” said Crocker. “You did great.” He leaned in and kissed her on the cheek.
Vegas blushed.
Watching from the couch, Dottie asked, “Matt, where are Larry and Scarlett?”
Vegas’s expression changed to one of concern. “Aren’t they with you?”
“Larry had to be taken to the hospital,” said Crocker. “He’s hurt, but he’s going to be okay. When we left him, he was sitting up and talking, and he had a whole team of paramedics checking him out, so I’m sure he’s going to be just fine.”
“Which hospital?” asked Dottie.
Through the open door, Sheriff Cargill replied, “They’re taking him into the city. Probably UMC.”
Dottie jumped to her feet. “I need to get there.”
The sheriff stepped into the room. “Wait a few minutes, and I’ll have one of my deputies drive you.”
“No, I need to go now.”
“Dottie, I can’t have you haulin’ ass down 160, endangering yourself and everyone else in Southern Nevada. I have a unit on its way. It should be here in five minutes.”
“There’s no reason—”
“Please don’t argue with me. Go gather some of Larry’s things—whatever you think he might need—and my deputy will be here by the time you get back.”
Dottie sighed. “Okay.” Her voice trembled. “Thank you.” She squeezed past the congregation and exited toward the lobby.
The sheriff stepped back into the short hallway that separated the office from the lobby and watched through the beaded curtain as she hurried away. When he seemed satisfied that she was doing as he’d asked, he stepped back into the office and closed the door behind him.
He faced Vegas. “Ms. Burnett, we have a bit of a problem.”
“What kind of problem?” she asked.
“You, Ms. Williams, and Mr. Crocker are witnesses to criminal activity of a conspiratorial nature. The FBI believes, and I concur, that your lives may be in danger.”
“But I haven’t witnessed anything. I—”
The sheriff raised a hand. “What you have or haven’t witnessed isn’t nearly as important as what the perpetrators think you’ve witnessed, and that’s something we can’t know for sure. Right now we need to get all three of you someplace more secure, so I’m going to ask that you quickly grab whatever you might need for an overnight trip and help Ms. Williams find a change of clothes. We’re leaving here in five minutes.”
Vegas glanced around as if getting her bearings. She turned to Jennifer. “Okay, let’s go to my room. I’ll find you something to wear and grab my things.” She looked at Crocker. “Matt, the clothes you had on yesterday are in a grocery sack under Larry’s desk.” She pointed to the desk. “Dottie washed them for you.”
Crocker nodded. “Thanks.”
The young woman grabbed Jennifer by the hand. “Follow me.”
“Hang on,” said the sheriff. “I’m going with you.” He opened the door and glanced back at Crocker. “Agent Eastland is out in the lobby if you need anything. We’ll meet you back here in five minutes.”
“Go,” said Crocker. “I’ll be ready.”
The sheriff turned and exited. Vegas followed, dragging Jennifer with her.
As Vegas pulled her out of the room, Jennifer glanced back at Crocker and said, “See you in five, I guess.”
She followed Vegas down the short hallway, through the beaded curtain, and out into the lobby. Special Agent Eastland sat at the reception desk, engrossed in a phone call.
“Absolutely not,” he said. “Ilya Boystov was trained by the KGB—nobody is to attempt an interrogation until we get him back to DC. All I want is the information from his cell phone. Look for anything that might point us to Vladimir Dudka.”
Vegas led Jennifer around the corner, past the shoe wall, and down the main corridor. Sheriff Cargill followed, staying within arm’s reach. When they got to the end of the main hall, they turned left down a much narrower hallway.
“This is the back of the house,” explained Vegas. “No customers allowed. My room is right down here.”
“Does Scarlett have a room back here?” asked the sheriff.
“At the very end of the hall,” replied Vegas. “But she stays in Larry’s cabin most of the time.” She glanced back at Jennifer. “Did Scarlett go with Larry to the hospital? Should I grab some things for her too?”
“Hon,” said Jennifer, “there is something you need to know.”
The young woman stopped in front of a door labeled vegas in glittery gold letters. “Is she okay? She’s not . . .”
“No, she’s not hurt or anything like that.” Jennifer looked to the sheriff, unsure if she should continue.
He nodded.
Jennifer sighed and met Vegas’s gaze. “It was Scarlett who turned us over to Dudka and told him that Matt could rob the tournament. She’s also the one who beat up Larry.”
Vegas looked confused. “But Larry is huge. How—”
“He was handcuffed to a post,” interjected the sheriff.
Vegas stared at the ground. After a few seconds, she looked up at Jennifer and said, “Scarlett can be a grade-A bitch sometimes.”
Jennifer smiled. “You can say that again.”
Sheriff Cargill seemed less amused. “You don’t have any idea where we might find her, do you?”
Vegas shook her head. “If she’s not here, I don’t know where she’d be.”
“That’s all right—we’ll find her. For now, let’s worry about getting your things together and getting out of here.”
Vegas pointed to her moniker on the door. “This is me.” She reached for the knob.
The sheriff grabbed her hand and gently removed it from the knob. “I’ll get it. Do me a favor and take two steps back.”
Vegas eyed him suspiciously but complied. Jennifer stepped back also.
The sheriff moved to the side of the door and drew his pistol. His left hand reached for the knob as his right held the gun tight against the side of his chest. He shoved the door open with brutal force and took a quick step back, pointing the gun into the room. He moved slowly from one side of the doorway to the other, scanning the room. When he’d finished the scan, he moved quickly into the room, glancing left and right as he did. He pivoted slowly, giving the room a quick 360-degree scan.
“Okay.” He stepped back outside. “Whatever you ladies need to do, you have three minutes. I’ll wait out here.”
Vegas led Jennifer into the room and shut the door behind them. Aside from the strong odor of scented body oils, the living space was indistinguishable from a college dorm room.
The twin bed was a tangle of sheets and blankets. Beneath the room’s only window, a small desk had been turned into a makeshift sewing table, complete with scraps of fabric, bobbins of thread, and a high-tech sewing machine.
“I made the curtains myself,” said Vegas with a hint of pride.
Jennifer noted the gaudy window treatment. “I like it.”
Vegas smiled.
“Do you live here all the time?” asked Jennifer.
“Yep. Some of the other full-timers have apartments in town, but I’m saving my money until I can afford a real house.”
Jennifer turned in place, surveying the room. Half the dresser drawers were open, and half of those had articles of clothing hanging out of them. Posters for famous Broadway musicals adorned the cheap plywood armoire beside the door.
She wanted to ask if Vegas had ever been to Broadway but thought better of it. “Where is the bathroom?”
“We have a community bathroom at the end of the . . .” Vegas’s words trailed off.
Jennifer glanced back to see what had distracted her. Vegas stood with a hand over her mouth, staring a
t the backs of Jennifer’s legs.
Jennifer did a quick about-face, hiding the abrasions from view. “It looks worse than it is.”
Vegas nodded and lowered the hand from her mouth. “I was going to see if you could fit into a pair of my jeans, but . . .”
“But that might not be the most comfortable choice,” agreed Jennifer.
Vegas regained her composure and walked to the dresser. “Don’t worry”—she opened a drawer—“I can dress anybody.”
♦ ♦ ♦
For a moment, Crocker’s sleep-deprived mind insisted he’d been stung by a large scorpion hiding in the toe of his shoe. Then he realized that whatever he’d felt had been more surprising than painful. Something stuffed inside the shoe had poked him between the toes.
He turned over the shoe and shook it. A key fell onto Larry’s desk. Crocker picked it up and stared at the Enterprise Rent-A-Car key chain, trying to recall where he’d seen it.
Oh, right.
Jennifer’s rented Chevy Traverse—or, rather, her dead boss’s rented Chevy Traverse—was still collecting dust in the parking lot.
He dropped the key into the pocket of his cargo shorts and finished putting on his shoes. Wearing clean clothes felt good, but not as good as a shower would. Unfortunately, that was going to have to wait until they got to Tonopah.
He considered that he might be able to grab a few hours of sleep during the drive, assuming of course that Vegas didn’t talk the whole way.
And assuming that Dudka’s men don’t ambush us in the middle of the desert.
With that unpleasant thought rattling around his head, he opened the top drawer of Larry’s desk and rummaged through it until he found a white pill bottle.
According to Larry, his ubiquitous bottles of caffeine pills were a weak but necessary substitute for a decades-long cocaine habit that had almost killed him in the late nineties. Crocker dry-swallowed two pills and pocketed the bottle.
Better tired than dead. Better wired than tired.
He closed the drawer and reached under the desk, searching for the hidden shelf. He felt the shelf but not what he was looking for. He peeked under the desk.
Damn. Must be in the cabin.
He could think of a couple of places where Larry’s .357 Magnum might be hiding, but he doubted he’d get a chance to look for it. Special Agent Eastland would almost certainly pooh-pooh the notion of allowing a protected witness to be armed.
Sheriff Cargill, on the other hand . . .
Having taught dozens of Nye County deputies to shoot, Crocker didn’t think it would be unreasonable to ask the sheriff to trust him with a sidearm. Borrowing one of the department’s weapons was out of the question, but perhaps he could borrow one from the sheriff’s personal collection.
As he made his way to the lobby, Crocker mentally rehearsed the case he’d plead to the sheriff. He stepped through the beaded curtain and found Eastland sitting at the receptionist’s desk, talking on the phone.
“Is that a town?” asked Eastland. “I’ve never heard of it. What’s it near?”
Crocker whispered, “I’m going to find the sheriff.”
Eastland shook his head and covered the phone. “Not by yourself. Hang on.”
So much for getting the sheriff alone.
Eastland uncovered the phone. “Okay, cross-reference known associates and real estate holdings for anything within fifty miles of this Kayenta place. I’ll call you when we’re back on the road.” He hung up and pocketed the phone.
“Kayenta, Arizona?” asked Crocker.
“Yeah. You know it?”
“Sure, it’s a little hole-in-the-wall just south of the Utah border. Last stop before Monument Valley. What’s the connection?”
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out. Fifteen minutes before the raid, Ilya Boystov placed a call to a prepaid cell phone. The call connected through a tower outside of Kayenta. We’re hoping it might point us to Dudka.”
Crocker shook his head. “There’s nothing in Kayenta but some fast-food joints and a few overpriced hotels. The only reason I know it is that it’s one of the few places to eat between here and . . . Shit!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Jennifer treated yoga pants the same way she treated swimsuits and snow boots: They had a place in her wardrobe but weren’t for everyday wear. This was a guideline that had served her well and one that she was now breaking.
Because she shared neither Vegas’s thin-waisted, broad-chested physique nor the young woman’s provocative taste in fashion, Jennifer had accepted the offer of black yoga pants and a long T-shirt. A tank top served as a passable substitute for a bra, and the stretch pants doubled as a compression bandage to soothe her battered legs.
She studied the ensemble in the full-length mirror hanging on the door. With the addition of a belt and some leg warmers, the outfit would have been a big hit in junior high. Across the front of the pink shirt, glitter spelled out what happens in vegas stays in vegas.
“Is this a reference to your nickname?” she asked, pointing to the slogan.
Vegas looked up from stuffing toiletries into the paisley diaper bag. “Oh, yeah. That was a gift from a customer.”
“That’s sweet, I guess.”
Vegas snatched a leopard-print bra from the floor and crammed it into the bag. “Nah, it was meant as a sick joke. He was always bugging me to let him party without a condom.”
“What?” Jennifer reread the shirt. “Eww! That’s disgusting.”
“Yeah. Dottie finally told him not to come back.”
“Why did you keep the shirt?”
Vegas shrugged. “It’s good for sleeping in. Besides, I won’t be a whore forever. Someday I’ll have a job where people call me Ms. Burnett and don’t concern themselves with what happens in me. Then it’ll just be a shirt.”
Jennifer smiled. “Any idea what that job might be?”
“Who knows. Maybe I’ll sell real estate like you.”
“That’s kind of a lateral move if you ask me.”
Vegas giggled. “Okay, maybe I’ll be a shooting instructor or a sheriff’s deputy.”
“Speaking of the sheriff,” said Jennifer, “he’s going to come drag us out of here any second.” She gave the outfit one last look. Her gaze settled on her bare feet. “I need shoes.”
Vegas glanced up from the bag. “Your feet look a lot bigger than mine, but I think I have a pair of flip-flops on the other side of the bed.”
The space between the bed and the wall was littered with odds and ends: a soda can sitting atop a stack of gossip magazines, an open bag of potato chips, a teddy bear, a large black garbage bag containing God knew what, a—
What the hell?
Thinking she must be mistaken, she pushed the garbage bag out of the way for a better look. She wasn’t mistaken—it was Tom’s skydiving rig.
“What are you doing with this?” She lifted the rig onto the bed. A sewing needle hung on a black thread dangling from one of the flaps. “Are you trying to fix it for Tom?”
“What?” Vegas joined Jennifer beside the bed. “Is that his parachute? Where—”
“Shhhh,” hissed a soft voice from the other side of the room.
Jennifer turned toward the voice.
One of the doors of the armoire stood slightly ajar. From the dark interior emerged the barrel of a gun.
♦ ♦ ♦
Crocker dropped the pen on the scratch paper and stared across the reception desk at Special Agent Eastland. “If I’m right, we have about an hour until Dudka and his men reach Cortez, which might give Cortez PD just enough time to set up an intercept.”
“That’s if you’re right,” said Eastland.
“Well, if I am, we’d better act fast, because we
have no way to get hold of Tom and Ashley to warn them.”
♦ ♦ ♦
The hinges squeaked in protest as the armoire door opened. Inside, among the wigged mannequin heads and sequined costumes, crouched a woman in a familiar pink jogging suit.
Scarlett’s hair was now jet black, but the hatred in her eyes hadn’t changed.
“Hey,” exclaimed Vegas, “that’s my wig!”
Scarlett pointed the revolver at her and whispered, “Bitch, if that cop comes in here, I’m going to shoot all three of you.”
The abrasions on the back of Jennifer’s legs began to throb.
Scarlett kept the gun trained on the two women as she climbed out of the armoire. When her feet were on solid ground, she looked at Jennifer and said, “Get away from my money.”
Jennifer felt feverish. Through clenched teeth, she asked, “What money?”
Scarlett pointed to the skydiving rig. “That money.”
Jennifer stared at the rig but saw only the memory of Jesse’s silver-tipped belt. A sharp pain in her hands snapped her out of it. She unclenched her fists and saw a thin red line across each palm, where her fingernails had torn into the flesh.
“Move it!” snapped Scarlett, struggling to keep her voice down.
Jennifer moved to the side and leaned against the makeshift sewing table.
Scarlett turned to Vegas. “Okay, you’re going to finish this for me.”
“Finish what?”
“Grab that black garbage bag beside the bed.”
Vegas moved to the side of the bed and located the bag. “What is it?” She picked up the bag and looked inside. “Holy crap! How much is this?”