Casino Girl

by Leslie Wolfe

  I gulped down half of it. After a day like this, it was exactly what I needed.

  “It’s late, so I hope you don’t mind if I skip straight to the point,” I asked, but my hesitation made him frown. “Okay, I need everything there is to know about the TwoCent household.”

  “Like, now?” he asked, tugging at the side of his T-shirt for some reason, seemingly uncomfortable.

  “Right this moment, while I finish this,” I said, holding the beer bottle in the air before taking another couple of swigs.

  “I’m assuming I shouldn’t ask certain questions right now,” he said, sitting behind his desk and cracking his interlaced fingers before starting to type.

  “It’s better you don’t,” I replied. “I need to know if TwoCent has a dog. See if you can locate any vet bills, pet store credit card charges, anything that would indicate the presence of a dog. Cats, I don’t care about; just dogs.”

  “This will take a while, you know. More than finishing up that dying beer you’re holding.”

  “That’s not all,” I said, entertained by his metaphor. “I need to know who else lives there. Who sleeps in what he likes to call his crib? Any permanent residents? Anyone tonight? Not only do I need to know, but I need to be sure.”

  He looked at me from underneath thick, corkscrew-like locks of unruly hair and squinted slightly. “That will take some doing,” he said in a low, thoughtful voice. “Not any kind of doing I could testify or sign an affidavit about, if you know what I mean.”

  “That’s fine, you’ll never have to. This never happened,” I said, putting the empty bottle of beer on his desk, “and I was never here.”

  “Anything else?”

  “I need to know if TwoCent is at home tonight, and the moment he goes to sleep.”

  He nodded, then glanced at me briefly before looking at his monitors. “I’ll try to gain access into the—”

  “The least I know, the better,” I smiled and patted him on the shoulder. “Just dig deep, and all on the QT.”

  “You got it,” he said, typing commands in white font on a dark blue screen. “How do I tell you?”

  “Use this,” I said, handing him a burner I’d picked up earlier from the convenience store together with some snacks and a bottle of water. “There’s only one number stored on it, and that is also temporary. After tonight, they’ll both stop working.” I started toward the door, but came back and caught his eyes. “Thank you. It means a lot.”

  He stood, his skinny legs appearing even thinner by contrast with the XXL-sized gym shorts. He tilted his head a little and frowned, then avoided my eyes, looking at his bare feet instead.

  I waited patiently for him to collect his thoughts.

  “Are you sure TwoCent did it?” he asked eventually. “I mean, how sure are you?”

  I looked at him intently until he lifted his eyes from the ground and met mine. “I’m one hundred percent positive,” I said, in the most reassuring tone I could muster. “And, by the end of tomorrow, I promise you’ll be too.”

  He shrugged with the gesture that teenagers use as an expression of semi-confidence mixed in with the right amount of “whatever.”

  “Okay,” he said with a half-smile.

  “Good,” I said, smiling widely. “I’ll also need to know if his former cell mate is still doing time. If he is, please make sure he’s on a no-contact order for forty-eight hours. No calls, no visitors.”

  “That will leave a trace in the system,” he said, seeming a little worried.

  “For that piece of business, we’ll use the official channels. I’ll send you a formal request as soon as I get home. Chances are it will never come out anyway.”

  I was at the door, but his hand lingered over the deadbolt before unlocking it. I waited, smiling patiently. If he had concerns, I was better off addressing every one of them while I was still there.

  “Good luck, Detective,” he eventually said, looking straight at me with an intrigued smile. “Whatever it is you need all this info for, I hope it works out well and we still have our jobs tomorrow.”

  26

  Suspicions

  After leaving Fletcher’s place, I walked out of the residential area and flagged down a cab, then went to pick up my car at the Scala. I played the exact same steps, but in reverse. I asked the driver to drop me off in front of the hotel, as if I were just another tourist with an itch for a good time. I walked across the vast casino floor toward the parking structure, wearing large shades and a baseball cap. For anyone watching, for any of the hundreds of security cameras, I was just another girl, an anonymous figure in the crowd.

  I turned on my official cell phones, while still in the parking structure of the Scala, after having reached my car. As such, to anyone thinking of tracking my movements using the GPS function of my work or personal cell phones, it would appear I had been at the Scala the entire time; the massive hotel and casino was notorious for its unreliable cellular coverage, due to the high concentration of users trying to make calls or browse at the same time.

  Finally, I was ready to go home and prepare for the next stage. It was still early, not even eight-thirty. I needed time to think, to prepare, to eat, to rest, and to get ready for what could easily turn into a long, challenging night.

  I drove my white Toyota all the way home well within the speed limits, obeying every stop sign as if my life depended on it, because it did. If I was going to be pulled over by another cop, even if I’d only have to show my ID and get away with rolling a stop sign or speeding, I’d leave a trace in the system, and that absolutely could not happen. Not now, not later, at any given moment during the following few hours.

  As I turned onto my street, I realized I was smiling widely, a sense of exhilaration within me, still injecting adrenaline into every fiber of my body, anticipating the hours to come. I loved every moment of it. The thrill of the hunt, the challenge to lay down and execute a bold plan, all in the service of justice and with a dually noble purpose: to put a cop killer behind bars, and to help a friend, a partner, a good cop.

  “Hello, Baxter,” I heard a man’s voice coming from the darkness of my front lawn, and it gave me an instant start. Instinctively, my hand jolted to the grip of my gun. “Whoa, there, partner, it’s me,” the man said, and I instantly recognized Holt.

  I breathed, swallowing a long and detailed oath. “What the hell are you doing here?” I blurted, before I could remember to play it cool. I was irritated as hell; I needed time alone to think.

  “You’re that happy to see me, huh?” Holt said, traces of dark sarcasm tingeing his voice.

  “Come on in,” I said, unlocking the front door.

  I stepped in, cringing as I recalled how I’d left my living room earlier that day after having slept on the couch: a bloody mess of scattered clothing, dirty dishes, and empty bottles of beer. I turned on the light and took in the disaster with one quick look around the room, then rushed and collected some of the items littering the furniture. “Take a seat,” I said. “Can I get you anything?”

  “Just water for me, thanks.” He paced the room nervously, not granting the couch a single thought.

  Something was on his mind, and I believed I knew what. The sooner I’d deal with it, the sooner he’d leave, and I’d have the time to prepare, to do what I needed to do to save us both.

  I grabbed a couple of small bottles of Perrier from the fridge and handed one to him. “What’s on your mind, Holt?”

  He threw me a side glance. “You know what; tomorrow’s testimonies. What do you think they’ll ask you about? What did Gully say?”

  “He said it’s most likely a character reference for you, because TwoCent was already collared when I became your partner.”

  “And Steenstra? How does she come into play? Why the hell are they calling the rat squad to the stand? I’m not on their radar, am I? And, if I was, how would you even know about it?”

  He asked the questions in rapid fire, not giving me a chance to squeeze in a
n answer, unloading a heavy burden off his chest.

  I sat on an armchair, leaning forward, getting ready for what was going to be a difficult conversation. But I’d put things off long enough; my partner, good or bad, had done nothing but been loyal and honest with me, and he deserved to know what was going on. I owed him that much.

  “Please, sit,” I insisted, and he obliged, a deeper frown marking his brow. “This entire thing has to do with the case you worked before you and I met, before you collared TwoCent. You closed that case with a drug bust, remember? A cocaine seizure?”

  “Yes, and?” he probed impatiently, turning a little pale. “How do you even know about that case?”

  “The IAB believes you took one kilo of cocaine from that bust. The seizure was for seven kilos, but only six made it to the evidence locker.”

  He sprung to his feet before I even finished talking. “What? I didn’t take any of that damn cocaine,” he shouted, pacing the room angrily with his fists clenched. “You’ve got to be kidding me!”

  “Unfortunately, that’s what’s going on,” I said, pausing briefly to take a deep breath before continuing. I needed to know for sure before I jeopardized my career for him. “I’m inclined to believe them,” I added.

  He stopped in his tracks as if hit by lightning, his eyes open wide in shock, then blurred by the cloud of deep disappointment. “How could you possibly believe them, Baxter?” he asked, his voice low, no longer thunderous but hurt.

  I repressed a long sigh. Forgive me, Holt, I thought, but I really have to know.

  “Because you’re an addict, that’s why,” I said gently, feeling his pain like a knife in my chest. “Because that brick of dope is your supply for how long, two, three years, maybe?”

  “Yeah, it would be, if I were still snorting, and if I’d taken it to begin with, but I swear to you, I didn’t touch that coke.”

  I looked at him steadily, and he withstood my scrutiny without flinching or looking away. I believed him. For a long moment, I wondered why I believed him: had I really noticed the microexpressions of truthfulness? Or were my own feelings clouding my judgment? A lot was riding on my decision whether to trust my partner or not: my career, my next conversation with Lieutenant Steenstra, that night’s actions. I could not afford to be wrong.

  Then why did my eyes linger on his strong arms, and why did I yearn so badly for his touch? Why did I want so desperately to end his turmoil, to tell him that everything would be all right?

  Because cops shouldn’t be shagging their partners for a damn good reason, that’s why. I had been a complete idiot, but it was over. Now, at least in theory, I was lucid, letting the voice of reason make the decisions that needed to be made.

  I gave myself one more chance to notice any signs of deception in Holt’s reactions. I asked, “Then, what do you think happened to that kilo?”

  He shrugged, buried his hands in his pockets, and shook his head a couple of times, slowly, as if trying to remember what had happened during the commotion of the drug bust. “I don’t know. No one’s ever questioned me about it. I didn’t even know it was missing until you told me.”

  “They never asked?”

  That seemed strange, to say the least. More and more like a setup. But why? And who would have an interest to frame Holt?

  Now that the cat was out of the bag, I wondered what options I really had to find out what had happened to that coke and clear Holt’s name. He could make the investigation really easy for me. Maybe together we’d find who really took that brick and sort things out with the IAB once and for all. Although I could easily anticipate Steenstra would be less than thrilled with that outcome. She just wanted Holt gone. Period.

  “No, they never bothered to ask,” he replied coldly. “I could’ve accounted for every moment of my time during that drug bust, because I wasn’t alone for one single minute the entire evening.”

  “Okay, I believe you,” I replied in a pacifying tone. “And you can count on me tomorrow, when I take the stand.”

  “Can I?” he retorted, back to pacing the room, keeping his hands buried inside his pockets. “Can I really trust you, Baxter?”

  “What the hell do you mean?” I asked, although I already knew the answer.

  “How do you know what the IAB has to say about me? How could you possibly know, unless you—”

  “They came to me,” I said softly, feeling ashamed as if I’d done something wrong.

  “You ratted on me?” he shouted, stopping firmly in front of me, mad as hell. His eyes threw flashes of anger mixed with disappointment.

  I held his gaze firmly as I said, “No, I didn’t, and I never will.”

  He let a loaded breath of air out of his lungs and stepped away, breaking eye contact for a moment. He probably didn’t know what to believe anymore.

  “But they got stuff on me, that perp I beat while he was in my custody,” I continued calmly, knowing it was the time he knew everything. “So, I have to talk to them when they call me upstairs, and pretend I want to play ball.”

  He turned and looked at me with a different expression in his eyes; all his rage was gone, but the disappointment and the hurt were still there.

  “They want me to confirm you took that kilo of coke,” I continued, pretending I didn’t see his anguish. “My guess is that the info leaked somehow, and TwoCent’s lawyer wants to put the IAB on the stand to show that you’re a crooked cop who’ll bend the rules to get what he wants.”

  “Jeez,” he reacted, letting himself drop on the couch. “Someone in the IAB is on that thug’s payroll?”

  “Maybe, maybe not,” I replied. I’d been thinking about that the entire afternoon, trying to figure things out. “Maybe someone recognized you at one of the AA meetings and called TwoCent; one of his fans, possibly. From there, all they had to do was ask questions of people who could, in their turn, ask more questions.”

  He nodded, his jaws clenched tightly and his pallor clearly noticeable. I’d stopped short of telling him that the IAB had given me only until Monday to prove he’d taken the cocaine, or that Frederick Volo Jr. could ask some other questions of me while on the stand, infinitely more damaging. There would’ve been zero benefit in sharing that information with Holt, all things considered.

  I watched him as he sat on my couch, leaning into elbows rested against his thighs, his shoulders tense, his brow deeply furrowed, and his eyes riveted to the floor. I knew I could share what I was about to do, but then again, I couldn’t, not really. Instead, I stood and approached him and laid a comforting hand on his shoulder.

  “Hey, we’re the good guys in this, remember? Things could still go our way, you know.”

  “You think so?” he retorted sarcastically. “With our kind of luggage?”

  I laughed quietly, willing myself to believe what I’d just said, now that the earlier exhilaration had dissipated, and Holt’s worries had contaminated me, running through my blood like sharp icicles of fear. “I know so. Now, why are you here, again?” I asked, my way of telling him life moved on, despite the following morning’s scheduled testimony. We still had a killer to catch.

  “I thought we could drop by Roxanne’s tonight. We were going to talk to her again, show her those photos?”

  I looked at the time. “It’s nine-thirty, Holt. Really late for a house call.”

  “She’s working tonight; I already checked. Her night is just beginning.”

  I grabbed my keys with a frustrated sigh, then I laughed quietly.

  Yeah… Mine too.

  27

  Identity

  We drove to the Scala in Holt’s Interceptor, and his dark mood lingered in there with us, heavy, an ominous cloud of silence and tension. I wasn’t too talkative either, my mind preoccupied with the many things I still had to do to prevent the night from turning into a fiasco.

  An unfamiliar ring tone resounded; I didn’t react at first, not recognizing it, but then I remembered the burner I’d tucked into my pocket before leaving the
house. Only one person had that number: Fletcher. I took the call promptly.

  “Yeah,” I said, holding the phone pressed tightly against my right ear, as far away from Holt as possible.

  “There’s no trace of a canine companion at the TwoCent residence,” Fletcher said, cutting to the chase in his typical, direct style. “The man hasn’t spent a single dollar on vets or pet supplies in the past two years. I believe I went far enough on this one, yes?”

  “Absolutely,” I replied. “Anything else?”

  “It’s anyone’s guess how many people sleep over on any given night,” he continued. “I had to tap into the security system at his house. Believe it or not, our thug has fully monitored security with multipoint video surveillance, and thankfully it connects via Wi-Fi.”

  “I see,” I replied, careful not to say anything that could trigger Holt’s insatiable curiosity. He’d already shot me a long glance when I’d pulled out the flip phone from my pocket, a phone he’d never seen before.

  “I went back a few days,” Fletcher continued. “Last Wednesday he had a party. Girls, booze, snow, the works. It ended at about four in the morning; some of the folks crashed, some left.”

  “And tonight?”

  “All is peaceful at the TwoCent crib,” he replied, and I sighed with relief. “He’s killing time on TV, getting drunk and high by his lonesome. I have eyes on him.”

  “Keep me posted with any changes,” I said, afraid I’d already said too much in Holt’s presence. Every now and then he shot me curious glances, and I could expect a flurry of questions as soon as I ended the call.

  “You got it,” Fletcher replied. “And you owe me one, a big, fat one, if you’re up to what I think you are.”

  I smiled. “Yes, I do owe you one, but I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Uh-huh, sure, Detective,” he said, then the line went dead.

  I flipped the phone shut and slid it in my pocket as Holt took a right turn onto South Las Vegas Boulevard. From there, the majestic silhouette of the Scala stood out from the rest of the skyline, its contour highlighted in blue neon lights.