Schmitt’s expression was calm. In a soft voice she said, “How’d you like another shot in the teeth, pussy-face?”
Ingram held up his hands. “Ladies, ladies. Let’s remain civil, shall we?”
“Listen, Marcia,” Benziger said. “Here’s what we might be able to do. Give us enough so we can put a value on what you have, and we’ll consider it. If it’s as good as you claim, we’ll do our best to make a deal with you. Okay?”
Slade was quiet for a moment, obviously thinking it over. Finally she said, “All right. A couple weeks back there was this guy. He thought I was an amateur and he hustled me. I went along, and he took me up to his room.”
“Where was that?” Ingram asked.
“The Crystal Palace.”
“What room?”
“I’m not sure. Best I can remember, I think it was 512.”
“Go on.”
“We had a drink and after that we made it. I didn’t charge him anything. But later when I was putting my clothes on, I noticed some things on the dresser. There was a plane ticket, and the name on it was different from what he told me. Also his driver’s license was lying there and that had the same name as the ticket.”
“So?”
“So I know his real name and the city where he lives.”
Barker said, “How do you know he’s the man we want?”
“I saw the new drawing you guys made in New York. It was on TV, and I recognized him right away. In the drawing he was bald, but he wasn’t really. While I was with him I noticed his hair was just fuzz, so it must have been growing back in again. That made sense, because the stories in the paper said he was wearing a wig and a mustache when he did those women. He must’ve shaved the mustache, too.”
“What else did you notice about him?”
“He had a tattoo on his left shoulder. It looked like it was homemade. Like the ones guys do in prison.”
“Can you describe it?”
“Yeah, it was a fishhook. About two inches long.”
Ingram said, “He treat you okay?”
Her eyes flashed. “No, the son of a bitch. He punched me out and took my clothes. Then he dragged me out of the room and kicked me down the stairs. He did all that for no reason at all. He was one mean prick.”
“You say you didn’t charge him. Why not?”
“I don’t know. Just found him attractive, I guess.”
“Bullshit. What you wanted was to get him to pass out so you could roll him.”
“That’s a lie. I never rolled anybody.”
“So what was the name,” Barker asked, “on the ticket and the license?”
“That mean we’ve got a deal?”
“Not up to me. Chief Ingram has to decide that. And Detective Benziger.”
“Decide, then.”
Ingram said, “We’ll need to discuss it. I don’t want to speak for the others, but it sounds like it’s a possibility. Lori, take Miss Slade back to the cell, please.”
“Oh, shit,” Slade said. “Make up your minds.”
Schmitt rose to her feet. “Let’s go.”
Slade’s mouth twisted into a grimace, but she got up and the blonde cop steered her out of the room.
Ingram looked at his visitors. “So what do you think?”
“There any way,” Sam asked, “to check out the story about the Crystal Palace?”
“Could be,” Ingram said. “The manager over there is a bum, but I can get him to cooperate. Let’s take a ride.”
32.
They made the trip in a police cruiser. It had become dark by now, and the city’s lights were not merely bright, but dazzling. Everywhere Barker looked, he saw red and white and orange and yellow and green neon. The lights flashed and pulsed and whirled, and he thought if you paid enough attention to them you could go nuts. Or at least come down with vertigo.
The group’s progress was slow, because of the crawling traffic. As he drove south, Ingram passed the Venetian and the Casino Royale and Harrah’s. The Crystal Palace was not on the strip. To reach it, he turned off onto Flamingo Road.
When they approached the hotel it was apparent to Barker that this was not one of the fabled superglitz places, such as the Bellagio or Mandalay Bay. Instead it was smaller and a little out of the way.
If Marcia Slade was right about her identification of the guy, he must have had a reason for staying here. Maybe he’d thought it would be better cover. Or maybe it was cheaper.
Smaller hotel or not, its casino was running full-bore when they walked in. There was a crowd around each of the blackjack tables, and people were also jammed close to the craps games. At the slot machines, players were putting in chips with a steady rhythm that made them seem as though they were part of the same mechanism. Nearly all those playing the slots were women, and older women at that.
Ingram and his visitors stopped to survey the scene. Barker noted that the air was thick with tobacco smoke. Most of it was from cigarettes, but a few cigars were also adding to the haze, the smokers nonchalantly puffing away. That was a major difference from public places in New York, he thought, where the mayor considered smoking to be as antisocial as child rape.
Benziger coughed, and Ingram said, “Lousy air, huh? The town’s been trying to ban smoking for years, but without much progress. Some of the newer hotels have got smoke-free areas, like the MGM Grand, for instance, and the Monte Carlo. But mostly this is what you get.”
“Maybe it has to do with the players’ psychological makeup,” Sam said. “They figure they might as well go for broke, gamble with their lungs too.”
As they stood there, no one paid any attention to them, although Ingram was in full uniform: cap, shield, shoulder patch, holstered pistol, boots.
They were even welcomed, in a way, as a young woman in spike heels and shorts and a low-cut blouse approached them. She was holding a tray of drinks and asked if they’d like one. Ingram waved her away.
“Hey, Chief,” someone said. “Nice to see you here.” This was a guy wearing a tuxedo, and he had hair that was greased back and parted in the middle. He was smiling broadly as he drew near.
“Hello, Harry,” Ingram said.
“Anything we can get you?”
“No, thanks.”
The guy stuck out his hand to Benziger. “Hi, I’m Harry Holloway. I’m the manager of our little inn.”
Sam shook the hand, and then so did Barker.
The manager turned his attention back to Ingram. “So what brings you here, Chief? Come to see the show? We got a great one starting in about twenty minutes.”
“We came to see your tapes,” Ingram said.
The smile never left Holloway’s face. To Barker it looked as though it had been put there permanently, through plastic surgery.
“Glad to show them to you,” Holloway said. “But this really isn’t a good time.”
He waved a hand toward the action in the casino. “We have to keep watch on what’s going on. And as you can see, we’re busy. How about tomorrow morning?”
“How about now?” Ingram said. “Or do I have to find reasons to issue citations?”
“No, no, you don’t have to do that. I guess we could accommodate you. If it won’t take too long. Is there something in particular you’re looking for?”
“Yeah, there is. So let’s go.”
For a moment Holloway hesitated, as if he was trying to come up with another reason to stall, but then he led Ingram and the others to the rear of the main floor, where the private management offices were located. He unlocked a door, and they stepped inside.
As Barker looked around, he thought of the security center in the Sherry-Netherland in New York. That one was primitive compared with this. Here, there was a much larger control console, and stacked banks of monitors showing every gambling pit in the hotel, as well as e
very inch of open space.
Three men were at the console, studying the monitors. Barker saw that the cameras covering the pits showed images of the action from any angle the operators wanted. By touching keys, they could view what the eye-in-the-sky was seeing, or look at the players, or even zoom in on the dealer’s hands.
Holloway called one of the men over and introduced him as Fred Mitchell, head of security. Like his associates, he wore a short-sleeved sport shirt.
“Our friends here need to look at something we might have on tape,” the manager said.
Mitchell said, “Oh?”
“It’s okay, Fred,” Holloway said. “Naturally we want to cooperate.” He turned to Ingram. “Can you tell us what it is you’re interested in?”
“We want to see what happened one night about two weeks ago,” the chief said. “Outside room 512.”
Both Holloway and Mitchell seemed to relax a little. Holloway said, “We should be able to find that. Right, Fred?”
“Uh, yes. I think so.”
Again Holloway turned to Ingram. “I’m sure you know, Chief, some of what goes on is a little crude. But we can’t help that, it’s just that at times our guests aren’t exactly what you’d call well mannered.”
“Yeah, I know,” Ingram said. “But I’m not here to give you any trouble.”
Mitchell pointed. “We’ll use this monitor. About two weeks ago, right?” He went to the console and began pressing buttons.
For almost an hour Barker and the others stared at the monitor as Mitchell called up what seemed like miles of tape. Most of what they saw was innocuous enough, although many of the people going into or leaving rooms on the fifth floor were clearly drunk.
And as Holloway had warned, some of the guests were indeed crude. In more than a few instances the tape showed couples staggering along the corridor, the men groping the women and the women laughing or doing some groping of their own before the pair disappeared into a room.
Several times, single women could be seen knocking on a door and being admitted, and those were obviously hookers on their way to do business. Once a guy lurched from the elevator and got halfway down the hall before falling to his knees and vomiting into a sand urn. Undaunted, he got up and tottered into a room.
Barker was starting to become bleary eyed when still another couple was shown walking down the hall. But when he took a good look, he said, “Hold it!”
Mitchell froze the tape, and Barker and Benziger and Ingram leaned closer to the monitor. The woman they were seeing was dark haired and slim and wore a tight-fitting dress.
“That’s Slade,” Sam said. “No doubt about it.”
Barker agreed. But he was more interested in the man. This one was tall and trim and although he was almost bald and had no mustache, there was something about the way he carried himself that was familiar.
Seen from above by the security camera, his features were hard to make out, but Barker had looked at the tape in New York often enough to be sure he recognized him. “I believe,” he said, “we’ve found our boy.”
Mitchell reran the sequence several times, and each time he saw it Barker became more convinced.
So did Benziger. “If the guy looks like the one you want, maybe Slade’s got something.”
“What about the rest of what she claimed?” Ingram said. “Let’s keep going.”
It took Mitchell several more minutes to find that part. And when he did, there was no longer any question that what Slade had told them was true.
The image showed the man emerging from the room, dragging the woman along. He was dressed, and she was stark naked. He pulled her to the stairway door, opened it, and delivered a vicious kick to her backside. Then he closed the door and returned to his room.
“I want copies of those tapes,” Barker said.
Ingram said, “So do I. Make copies for each of us. And also, give us the name of the man who was registered in that room.”
For once Holloway’s expression changed, to one of earnest concern. “Oh hey, Chief. You know we’d need a court order to do all that. Not our idea, of course. We do our best to follow the rules.”
“Sure you do. So I’ll just take another look around, see what other rules you’re following. Or not following.”
“Okay, okay. Jeez, I’m not trying to be difficult.”
“Then don’t be.”
Holloway exhaled. “Mitch, make copies for them.”
“In fact,” Ingram said, “make ’em as CDs.”
It took only a few minutes for the security man to comply and to give each of the trio a disc.
“And now let’s have the name,” Ingram said.
For a moment, Holloway looked as though he might put up another argument. But then he stepped to a computer and began working the keys. It took him less than five minutes to find the information.
“Name’s Morris Wagner,” he said. “Address is 341 Chambers Street, Houston, Texas.”
“You mean that’s what he gave the desk,” Ingram said.
“He had a credit card and a driver’s license, so we had no reason to doubt him.”
Barker made a note of the information, and he and Sam and the chief walked out of the room and back through the crowds at the tables on the casino floor.
Holloway tagged along, the corners of his mouth again curled upward. “I hope,” he said, “you’ll remember how cooperative we’ve been.”
“Depends,” Ingram said.
He and the others left the hotel and got back into the cruiser. As the car crept bumper-to-bumper up the strip, they discussed what they’d seen and how they’d handle the next move.
33.
Twenty minutes later, the chief and his visitors were once more in the station’s interview room. Ingram again called Lori Schmitt, and the blond cop escorted Marcia Slade into the room.
Ingram led off. “We’ve talked it over, Marcia, and we decided there’s no way for us to know whether you’re telling us the truth. Or even if you are, what value it has.”
Slade’s eyes glittered. “And that’s it?”
“Afraid so.”
She shook her head. “I don’t believe this.” She looked at Barker. “I can give you the guy you want, and you’re turning me down?”
“No,” Barker said. “We’re not doing that. It’s just that you haven’t told us enough so we can be sure. We need something more.”
“Like what?”
“Like the name you saw on that plane ticket, and on the driver’s license.”
Benziger said, “At least then we’d have something to go on. Something we could check. If that pans out, I guarantee we’ll do our best to throw out the misdemeanor charges.”
“And what about the charges here?”
“Same thing,” Ingram said.
“All right, I’ll go along,” Slade said. “The name he told me was Don Quinn. But the one on the ticket and the license was Morris Wagner.”
“And where was he from?” Barker asked.
“Los Angeles.”
“Not Houston?”
“No, LA.”
“What address?”
“I didn’t get that.”
“Okay,” Sam said. “What you’ve given us will help with the other charges, too. Show that you were trying to cooperate.”
“Wait a minute,” Slade said. “What other charges?”
“Homicide and robbery, in Los Angeles.”
“What? What the hell are you talking about?”
“In the Beverly Hilton one night last year. You were in a room there with a john. In the morning, he was found dead and his money was gone.”
Slade turned pale. For a moment she said nothing. Then her voice rose. “I want a lawyer!”
“Certainly,” Ingram said. “You can call one, if you want. Or we’ll have
one appointed for you.”
“You lousy bastards.”
The chief had Lori Schmitt take Slade from the room. As she left she spat invectives about stinking, lying cops.
Barker and Benziger thanked Ingram for his help.
“Been a pleasure,” he said. “But now comes the battle. Some of the lawyers here have done a good job fighting extradition. They lose in the end, of course, but meantime they run up the tab. Which the state pays. Or I should say, the taxpayer.”
“All for the cause of justice,” Benziger said. “But this has been a worthwhile trip for me.”
“And for me,” Barker said. “I hope. No telling whether the name is genuine, but at least I know he went back to LA. It’s something to chase down. Same with that business about the fishhook tattoo.”
Ingram smiled. “You don’t think anybody can ID that for you, do you? Every guy in prison’s got tattoos. Some of ’em look like they got more tattoos than skin.”
“The fishhook might be a gang symbol, though.”
“Yeah, maybe. Say, you folks gonna stay over for a bit? There’s lots to do in our fair city.”
“Not me,” Sam said. “I want to get back tonight.”
“Me too,” Barker said.
“Okay, I understand. But let me give you a lift back to the airport.”
Once more they piled into the police cruiser, and Ingram drove them to McCarran Field. They thanked him again, and after registering their weapons caught the next Southwest flight to LA.
Sitting next to Benziger in the airplane, Barker said, “I really appreciate your taking me along, Sam. This might turn out to be a good break.”
“Hope it does. Like I told Chief Ingram, it was good for me, too. I wasn’t sure Slade was the one we wanted on the robbery charges until tonight. Now I don’t have any question. Proving she did the guy in the Beverly Hilton is another story, but the prosecutor can help us sort that out. Once we get her back in LA, we’ll have enough to put her before a grand jury.”
“You’ll also check out this Morris Wagner in LA?”
The Big Hit Page 20