Casino Girl

by Leslie Wolfe

  “Watch your language, kiddo,” Holt admonished her gently, patting her shoulder.

  I grabbed her hand and she held on tight.

  “What’s she supposed to call him if he’s an arse?” I asked seriously. “An arse is an arse, right?”

  “Right,” Tina replied, while Holt looked at me with an indecipherable expression on his face.

  “We’ll make sure to call him that when we catch him,” I said, and Tina giggled, but her quick laughter soon was smothered in tears.

  “I miss her,” she whispered, squeezing my hand. “It’s my fault she’s gone, isn’t it?”

  I had to bite my lip hard to keep from crying myself. I ran my fingers through her hair and bent forward a little, to put our misty eyes on the same level. “Never ever think that, okay? It wasn’t your fault.” I silently pleaded, looking at her intensely until she nodded, barely noticeable. “Call me anytime, okay? You don’t need a reason.”

  She nodded, this time with enough enthusiasm to loosen a few curly, red strands of hair from her scrunchie.

  “Shall we?” I asked, showing her the gate.

  Behind us, Holt was calling Fletcher.

  “I need a BOLO on Norm Chaney. Get a warrant going, he’s a suspect in Crystal Tillman’s murder. He’s driving a beige Honda minivan, Nevada plates—”

  “He’s gone,” Tina interrupted. “Like, really gone. He always talked about going back to California one day. Maybe he went there.”

  Holt showed her a thumbs up.

  “And set up traffic cam screening on I-15 south,” he added. “We have reasons to believe the perp’s on his merry way to LA.”

  21

  Threats

  We parted ways with Tina, and I watched her walk quickly toward her house, her silhouette, clad in black, vulnerable and thin, disappearing in the distance. I kept my eyes on her until she was safely inside her home and took my seat in Holt’s SUV.

  “I struggle with this whole thing,” I said, blurting out uncensored, disorganized thoughts. “Why did Chaney bother to pick up Tina from school, if he was going to skip town?”

  “You got a point,” Holt replied, frowning while he started the engine. “Maybe he wanted to make sure no one missed him before he could be gone already?”

  “Then, why not beat it in the morning, after he’d dropped her off? That would’ve given him a good six hours head start.”

  Holt unscrewed the cap off a new bottle of water and offered it to me. I passed, and he took a few thirsty gulps. “What if he wasn’t planning to run, not until he came to pick her up?” he asked, still holding the bottle as if he wanted to drink some more. “It’s the only logical explanation I can think of.”

  “That means he made us at the school,” I replied. “It’s either that, or he’s not skipping town, and we’ll find him at his place of employment.”

  I looked at the time displayed in LED digits on the dashboard. It was almost three, and Holt needed to be in court by four.

  He followed my glance and hesitated a little, while screwing the cap back on the water bottle and placing it in the cup holder. “It’s not a big detour. Didn’t he say he worked at that new hotel construction site, the one on East Sahara?”

  “Yes, that’s correct,” I replied, after checking my notes.

  “That’s minutes away from the courthouse.”

  He floored it, flashers on, while I called for a patrol car to keep an eye on the Tillman residence. As I instructed dispatch to make sure the officers didn’t let Tina Tillman out of their sight, I caught the glance Holt threw me, the same indecipherable, loaded look. It was as if mixed, conflicting emotions swirled and fermented, threatening to come out.

  I ended the call to Dispatch and looked at him. “Okay, what’s going on?”

  “Nothing,” he replied, a little too quickly. “Why do you ask?”

  I groaned. It wasn’t as if he didn’t know I could spot a lie from a mile out; he knew, but still preferred to lie to me nevertheless instead of telling me the truth, sending me a message of unavailability, of cold distance.

  “What were you thinking of, just now?” I asked, rephrasing the question in the odd chance he’d misunderstood.

  “Just wondering if we’re drawing the right conclusions here, that’s all.”

  Another lie.

  He pulled in front of the gate marked, “Sun Builders.” He parked and both of us rushed beyond the fence, with no concern for the sign that warned, “Hard hat required beyond this point.”

  There was always something being built in Vegas, and construction jobs were available throughout the year, for qualified workers and day laborers equally. A good place to start for someone living under a false identity, trying to cover their tracks and establish a “legitimate” paper trail under a new name. It made sense.

  A bulky worker in a yellow hat and protective goggles approached, and we flashed our badges.

  “We’re looking for Norm Chaney,” Holt said, as soon as the man was close enough to hear over the loud, banging noises coming from the structure above.

  “Who?” he asked, putting his hand at his ear. His hearing must’ve been shot, if he’d spent his days working in such ambient noise without ear protection.

  “Norm Chaney,” Holt repeated, “he’s a foreman here.”

  The man’s sweat-beaded eyebrows lifted, disappearing under the rim of his hat. He removed his glove and rubbed his chin between his index finger and thumb for a moment. “N—no, I’m sure we don’t have anyone here by that name. Definitely not a foreman; I know all the foremen and none of them is your, um, what was it? Norm Chaney?”

  “Yes,” I replied, exchanging a quick glance with Holt.

  “Yeah, definitely not a foreman. I can check the computer to see if he’s one of the day laborers, maybe.”

  I checked the time. It was getting late for court, especially because Holt had to stop by his place to change.

  “That won’t be necessary,” Holt replied, before I could say anything. He wasn’t as surprised as I was that Chaney had lied about his job; my partner seemed to have a better perception of the man’s shady past than I did. I wondered why; it wasn’t as if Chaney had fooled me for one minute with the display of fake concern and empathy he’d demonstrated when we broke the news of Crystal’s death to her mother. After witnessing the previous moments of his uncensored, angry reaction, I knew exactly who he was. And yes, Holt seemed to have a point with him being an ex-con; he definitely looked and acted like one. But did any of that make him a killer?

  He had plenty of motive; we’d already established that. But poison? I still believed he was too butch for poison, even if he was now in the wind. People had a lot of things to hide from police other than murder. Like being in violation of one’s parole, or a fugitive on an open warrant for who knows what.

  One thing was clear; the more I thought about Norm Chaney, the more certain I was he wasn’t Crystal’s killer. He seemed to be a well-versed pedophile, a rotter I wouldn’t mind locking up and throwing the key so far away he’d never see daylight again.

  Once we arrived at Holt’s place, he went inside to get changed, while I waited in the Interceptor with the air conditioning on, checking my email, eagerly anticipating any updates from Fletcher. There were none.

  I started looking around; Holt lived on a quiet street, in a two-car garage, single-story home that seemed a little old, maybe creeping up on forty years since it had been built. I made a note of the address, just in case I’d need it at some point. Remembering how well he interacted with Tina, and my thoughts as I watched them together, I looked for any sign of a family living at his address, as opposed to a bachelor. There were none. The tiny garden was dying, uncared for, most likely because the sprinkler had broken, and no one had noticed. There were no toys scattered anywhere, and no sheers at the windows, something only a woman would think of using.

  Frustrated, I let a long, loud sigh escape my chest. If only the man would open up a little, everything w
ould be much easier, and I wouldn’t have to chew on my own guilt-ridden paranoia. It wouldn’t change my decision about him, but still, it would make sense.

  As if I’d told him the truth about anything lately. Who was I to judge, right?

  He took less than ten minutes to emerge dressed neatly in a charcoal suit, white shirt, and burgundy tie, his hair still wet from a shower that couldn’t’ve taken him more than two minutes. I watched him tighten his tie as he rushed toward the SUV and couldn’t refrain from smiling. He was easy on the eyes, every single bit of him. I remembered his strong arms wrapped around my body and blushed; I bit my lip and thought I’d contained my smile before he got a chance to see it.

  “See anything you like?” he asked in a serious tone of voice, and I almost choked.

  I managed to frown. “What are you talking about?”

  He didn’t reply; he drove fast, leaving the residential neighborhood with all flashers on, but took the wrong turn, heading south instead of north. He wasn’t headed to the federal court building.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Dropping you off at the precinct. I should’ve done that before going home to change, I’m sorry.”

  “No, I’m coming with you,” I said in a firm voice, hoping I was conveying clearly enough I wasn’t going to take no for an answer.

  “There’s no need for that,” he replied, continuing to head for the precinct at top speed. “This TwoCent character was collared before your transfer. Not worth wasting your time with it.”

  Bollocks… He was wrong about that.

  I couldn’t tell him how I’d become wrapped up in the TwoCent case, just because I couldn’t stand seeing a cop killer go free. I couldn’t tell him what I’d done after I’d learned that the murder weapon had been stolen from evidence. He could never find out I’d gone and made it appear as if it had been misplaced, not stolen to begin with. Holt could never know, just as much as he could never know what I sometimes did after hours, when taking the lawful way to justice was too bloody convoluted and filled with obstacles for me to follow anymore.

  Sometimes, I just cut to the chase. It might not be what a cop was supposed to do, but I did it only when there were no other options left but do what was right, what was just.

  Unfortunately, the IAB had me on tape visiting the evidence locker around that time and held that over my head right next to the punches I’d delivered up close and personal to my husband’s killer while the odd-eyed wanker was in my custody.

  And now this… Holt being called to the stand to testify.

  I swallowed with difficulty, as if a noose was tightening around my neck.

  Holt’s testimony could take a wrong turn and expose what I’d done or invite more attention. It didn’t make sense; the moment TwoCent’s defense would challenge the chain of evidence on the murder weapon used to kill Detective Park, it would implicitly incriminate TwoCent for the theft of that piece of evidence.

  Even so, it wasn’t as if I were going to be able to do anything else but sit in the courtroom pretending I was calm and relaxed, without a care in the world, while my partner was being cross-examined on the stand.

  I had to go. I had to be there.

  “Turn this vehicle around right now,” I said firmly, “I’m coming with you. End of story.”

  He shot me a short, intense glance from underneath his furrowed brow, flipped a U-turn, then resumed his high-speed driving. “Why?”

  I laughed quietly. “It’s not out of curiosity, you know. Testimony given in court is public information, and I could find it online while doing my nails,” I said, cringing a little because I’d just used a negation evasive technique, blatantly deflecting, which, at least to talented investigators like Holt was a huge, red flag. “No, I’m hoping it will mean something to have me by your side, that’s all,” I added, continuing to lie, but doing it slightly better the second time around, because it was only a partial lie. I did want to have his back, to show everyone my support. Screw the rat squad and their ultimatums.

  He drove quietly for a couple of minutes, not taking his eyes off the road. “Thank you,” he eventually said.

  Anxiety twisted a knot in my gut, as I recalled the events surrounding TwoCent’s arrest. I couldn’t help thinking how much I needed that entire case to be over and done with, and how much I was willing to bet that TwoCent wouldn’t say a word about what had happened that night.

  Unless…

  No. It could never happen.

  I had already bet my career on that, and Holt’s too.

  We pulled into a police-reserved parking spot near the Lloyd D. George US Courthouse entrance and rushed up the stairs leading to the majestic, modern building in glass, concrete, and steel.

  Once on the fourth floor, as soon as the elevator doors opened, we ran into an old acquaintance of mine, Frederick Volo Jr., attorney at law for the richest and sleaziest of Sin City’s scum. He and I had crossed paths many times before, and I still remembered how it felt having him cross-examine me on the stand, and how many stiff drinks I usually required after breaking free from his deathly grip. He had a knack for taking facts out of context, for pushing witnesses to give answers that he then cut short, stripping them of their intended meaning and twisting them around, bending them into tools that would set free the criminal elite he represented, one murderer at a time.

  I nodded curtly in lieu of greeting, hoping he wasn’t there to represent TwoCent.

  Volo completely ignored me and focused on Holt instead.

  “Ah, Detective Holt,” he stated theatrically, “you’re almost late.”

  My heart sunk. He was defending that piece of scum, cop killer.

  Holt frowned but didn’t reply. It wasn’t four o’clock yet; there were seven more minutes left before anyone could accuse Holt of lateness. Volo was such a jerk, nothing but a bully dressed in an overpriced suit.

  “Have you rehearsed all your lies for today, Detective?” Volo asked, and that accusation lit my fuse.

  “Really, Mr. Volo?” I snapped, getting two steps closer to the man. “Are you attempting to intimidate a witness in front of law enforcement, a cop, no less? Are you really that naïve?”

  Volo grinned and walked away, lifting two fingers at his temple in a mock salute. What an arse.

  When I turned to Holt, I saw he was smiling, a smile that touched his eyes.

  “Focus, will you?” I said. “This man’s fierce; I’ve dealt with him before.”

  “I know the bastard well enough,” Holt replied calmly, a trace of his smile still lingering in his eyes. “I’m wearing a cup.”

  22

  Testimony

  “Do you solemnly swear that you will tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”

  “I do,” Holt replied, his voice strong and unwavering, his steady hand touching the Bible firmly, without a trace of hesitation.

  I smiled encouragingly from my second-row seat, although he didn’t seem to need any encouragement, nor was he looking elsewhere but in the court clerk’s eyes. My partner’s demeanor was textbook power witness, instilling credibility and respect.

  “You may be seated,” the clerk said, and Holt obliged, unbuttoning his jacket and arranging his tie.

  ADA Gulewicz, a bright, young man, whom everyone he knew personally referred to as Gully, stood and nodded briefly to the judge, and then, with a polite smile, to the jury. He wore his favorite tie, a bright, orange one that complemented his youth and brought a nice contrast with his dark navy suit and white shirt.

  He approached the stand, greeting Holt with a head gesture.

  “Detective,” he said, “let’s go back to the day you arrested Marcus Jones, aka TwoCent, for the murder of Detective Park.”

  Holt remained silent; no question had been asked of him.

  “Walk me through how that arrest took place, Detective.”

  Holt touched his tie briefly, then his hands settled neatly in his lap. I could tell he w
as getting a little nervous; thankfully, no one else could.

  “I was driving on East Carey Avenue, on my way to interview a witness in one of my cases, when I stopped to yield at a pedestrian crossing.”

  “What time was that?” Gully asked.

  “Precisely, seven-oh-nine in the morning,” Holt replied impassibly. “Shall I…?” he gestured with his hand, asking permission to proceed.

  “Please continue, Detective,” Gully said.

  “As I was saying, I was driving on East Carey Avenue, when I stopped to yield at a pedestrian crossing. While I waited for pedestrians to cross, I noticed the convertible parked at the curb, right next to mine. The car’s top was down, and the suspect was behind the wheel, fast asleep. On the passenger seat, I saw a handgun.”

  He stopped talking for a brief moment, but Gully encouraged him to continue with a hand gesture.

  “I pulled over in front of the suspect’s Mercedes, approached the vehicle on the right side, and, while keeping the suspect at gunpoint, I secured the weapon found on the passenger seat. I circled the vehicle and approached on the driver’s side. When I had the suspect in my sights, I tapped the barrel of my weapon against his window, to wake him up.”

  “Then?” Gully prompted, when Holt stopped talking.

  “He woke up and surrendered without resisting, if you disregard his verbal attack. I instructed him to exit the vehicle with his hands up, and cuffed him and read him his rights. I proceeded with the suspect to the precinct, more precisely to Central Booking.”

  “Why do you think the defendant, against all logic, was sleeping soundly in his car, by the side of the road, with a gun in plain view and the car top down?”

  “It’s not about what I think,” Holt replied politely. “It is my understanding that the lab found the defendant to have been intoxicated, under the influence of alcohol and several opioid narcotics.”

  “Meaning?” Gully asked.

  “Meaning he was sleeping it off. People with those levels of drugs in their system don’t exactly think logically.”