War Lord

by David Rollins

  I put the photo out of my head and opened the text from Alabama. The message said, Come over. I have others. Another photo attachment. I opened it up. The lighting wasn’t great unless you wanted it intimate. I recognized Ty Morrow. He was with a woman, having dinner. She was plenty younger than he was so maybe the lighting was just how he liked it. Aside from being young, the woman was also attractive and . . . familiar. The dots took some seconds to connect, the angle on the girl a less-than-ideal rear three-quarter view. Jesus, was that . . . ? It was: Sugar. Ty Morrow and Sugar. Together? There was a time and a date on the photo. It was shot at 0210 this morning, which meant that it was taken some time after Morrow supposedly flew off into the sunset.

  Ten

  With the uniforms in place, Petinski left NAB to work on her affidavit and chase down the local judge. I kept the photo of Morrow and Sugar to myself and went in the opposite direction, taking a cab to Alabama’s home at Summerlin. Whatever was going on with Randy Sweetwater, it was a universe expanding way beyond Thing in its KFC bucket: new connections were still being made, new trails heading down unexplored paths. There was the dead pilot from Brazil who spoke Portuguese and flew halfway around the world on Randy’s photo IDs; Stu Forrest high-tailing it from NAB; and now Sugar and Ty Morrow, Randy’s boss, caught cozying up together. I knew Sugar got around, but what were the odds of those two randomly hooking up? I wondered what the core inside this boil was all about – a ransom, an insurance fraud, a con gone wrong, or something else entirely? This was a different experience for me – watching events unfold as an interested spectator rather than being the special agent in charge and personally having to lance the sucker. If I’d never met Sweetwater and had no connection with the guy, this would almost be pure entertainment.

  My cell rang: Petinski.

  ‘Cooper,’ I said.

  ‘Dewy Baker was on the money,’ she said. ‘Stu Forrest is on his way to Acapulco.’

  ‘Can we stop him?’

  ‘Provided he sticks to his flight plan. Otherwise, no. If he’s got something to hide, he’s gone. He’s supposed to stop at Tucson, Arizona, to refuel, but he could divert and go anywhere. We’ll see what turns up in the next hour or so when he’s due to land there. You’ll never guess where Morrow has gone.’

  ‘He didn’t leave town,’ I said.

  ‘How’d you know?’

  ‘My client spotted him early this morning.’

  ‘And when did you know that, Cooper?’

  The cab pulled up outside Alabama’s home. ‘Gotta go. Call you back,’ I said.

  ‘Coop—’

  I hit the off button and set the ring tone to mute. A curtain flickered in a window and then the front door opened. Alabama came out onto the front porch in a purple satin halter top tied tight around her flat midriff, fitted cream-colored hot pants cut extra hot, bare feet and her hair worn in a high ponytail. Okay, so I notice details like these . . . She leaned against one of the veranda’s roof supports, a drink in hand. I waved at her while I counted out some bills. The cab driver was more interested in watching her than he was in collecting the fare, which I completely understood.

  ‘Tall, ain’t she,’ the driver commented.

  ‘Yeah,’ I said.

  He didn’t count the bills when I placed them in his open hand, just stuffed them in a pouch with his mouth slightly slack, which surprised me. I thought cab drivers in this town would’ve seen it all – one of the few perks of driving a cab in Vegas.

  Alabama went inside when she saw me get out of the cab, and left the front door ajar. Being on staff, I figured I wouldn’t be required to knock.

  ‘Leave the door open,’ she called out from somewhere inside. ‘Need some air in here.’

  I found her perched on a stool behind an oldish Mac desktop.

  ‘When did you get in?’ she asked.

  ‘With the sunrise.’

  ‘Good flight?’

  ‘Great,’ I said, happy to skip the details.

  ‘Vin, I know I said this when you called, but going to Darwin for me, waiting to see whether those remains were Randy’s or not. Jesus, I . . . I couldn’t have faced it.’

  ‘That’s what employees are for,’ I told her. ‘Do I get a bonus?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, then let’s have a look at those photos, shall we?’

  ‘Thanks, Vin.’

  ‘So . . . you said you had some other photos?’

  She turned around to face the Mac, tapped a key and the screen lit up. They were already loaded, three shots of Sugar and Morrow – one of which I’d already seen – sitting opposite each other at a table for two.

  ‘What are you drinking?’ I asked.

  Fluffy the cat wrapped its tail around my leg, then ran off to chase a shadow.

  ‘Orange juice.’ She shrugged apologetically. ‘It’s the morning. Help yourself.’

  ‘Feels like evening to me.’ I passed on the juice offer. ‘Were you the photographer?’

  ‘No, one of the girls from work took them. She emailed the shots to me this morning.’

  ‘Why’d she do that?’

  ‘Because I’ve been asking around – seeing if anyone has seen Sugar. They were taken at a place called the Green Room.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘A swingers’ club.’

  ‘As in keys-in-the-bowl kind of swingers?’

  ‘Anyone can go there. It’s no big deal.’

  I wasn’t making one. If it exists, it exists in Vegas, Vegas being that kind of town, but she was missing the point. ‘Do you think they were there to be seen, or to hide out?’

  ‘The Green Room’s not exactly the Hard Rock Café. They wouldn’t have gone there to put themselves on display.’ She put her glass down. ‘Morrow and Sugar meeting up,’ she continued. ‘That means something, doesn’t it?’

  ‘That they swing?’ I said.

  ‘You know what I mean, Cooper. It can’t be a coincidence, can it?’

  ‘Hmm, coincidences,’ I said.

  ‘What does “Hmm, coincidences” mean?’

  ‘It means that Sugar and Morrow knew each other. It probably also means Sugar’s interest in you and Randy had something to do with Morrow. And I guess it could also mean that the severed hand you received purporting to be Randy’s is connected somehow to a woman you worked with, and to Randy’s employer.’

  The muscles in Alabama’s throat moved up and down and her eyes went hot and wet as she also stopped believing in coincidences. She wiped away the tears before they had a chance to fall, using her palms and then the backs of her hands. ‘Fucking bitch . . .’

  ‘I’ll get Bozey to put an all points out on both of them, have ’em brought in for questioning.’ Even as I said it, I knew the chances of finding them were slim. I’d be surprised if Morrow was still in the vicinity. Maybe the meeting with Sugar was the reason he came back. Perhaps he came back for Sugar – to take her somewhere. Whatever the reason, I doubted he’d be hanging around. But there was always luck, and occasionally it was the good kind. I put in a call to Bozey, got the detective’s voicemail and left him a message to call back.

  The leather couch I was sitting on was new and expensive. A couple of ceiling fans rotated slowly overhead, pushing the air around, evaporating the sweat on my head and under my shirt. The room was pleasant, a mix of male and female. Two people lived here who enjoyed full lives and had an easy accommodation with each other. There were photos of Alabama and Randy together, sharing wall space with photos of Alabama’s girlfriends and Randy’s buddies. Large, original, brightly colored works of modern art also dominated. Objects collected from Randy’s various tours were displayed – pottery, figurines, rugs. Two vases of flowers further brightened the place, and the air smelled vaguely of jasmine and money. Given Alabama’s comments about her Showgirls salary, I had to assume that Randy was well paid.

  ‘Tell me about Australia,’ Alabama said, getting up off the stool and sitting on a leather chair opposite me,
folding a leg beneath her, holding her glass in both hands.

  I gave her a rundown: the discovery of the first set of remains, followed by the second set hooked by the two fishermen. I then described the trip to Elcho Island and the wreckage we searched in the shark-infested estuary. I concluded with the discovery that had stumped both Petinski and me: ‘In the cockpit, we found Randy’s passport, FAA license and security pass, as well as his logbook.’

  She scowled at me, questions etched in the lines on her forehead.

  ‘The items were either flawless copies or the originals. The NTSB is checking on that now, along with the FAA and Homeland Security. And if they’re originals, then they were either stolen from Randy or he gave them to the pilot, or to someone who passed them on to the pilot.’

  ‘Why would Randy give them away?’ she asked.

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’ That little Department of Speculation was a thirty-story building full of options and variables. I looked around the room again. ‘Summerlin’s a good neighborhood.’

  ‘It’s okay.’

  ‘And it’s a nice place you got here.’

  Alabama glared at me. ‘Are you going to ask me how much Randy earns?’

  ‘How much did Randy earn?’

  ‘I’ve told you already. He wasn’t into anything illegal.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Check with NAB. One-fifty, plus bonuses.’

  ‘Bonuses for what?’

  ‘Beats me, Cooper. Flying planes?’

  ‘If there’s anything you think I should know, you need to come clean about it. Randy’s life – and maybe yours, too – is about to be squashed between two glass slides and put under a microscope.’

  ‘Look, if I had something to hide, why would I engage you to go all the way to Australia to identify Randy’s remains?’

  ‘Don’t think I haven’t asked myself that question.’

  ‘You’re not on the payroll anymore, Cooper,’ she said. ‘Maybe you should leave.’ Alabama stood, went to the door and opened it wide, the dazzle from a summer’s day in the desert almost blinding. I noticed her legs – hard not to. They were long, lean and toned. Dancer’s legs. Maybe she could do the splits, too. I got up and walked toward her and the door and she stepped a little to the side to let me pass.

  ‘And what about Randy?’ she asked.

  ‘What about him?’ I was tempted to say that, like she just told me, I wasn’t on the payroll, but I held off. Something undoubtedly odd was going on with Randy, but Alabama’s reactions to the hard questions and her persistence to find the answers suggested that, whatever it was, she didn’t know enough to leave it alone. ‘There’s the pathology report still to come on the amputated hand. Once that has come in, as well as the verdicts from the FAA and DHS on the documents purporting to be Randy’s, we might know something more concrete.’

  A wall of dry heat met me in the doorway. A dragonfly pulled to a stop in the shade beneath the awning, its beating wings glittering. I had no vehicle and there didn’t appear to be any cabs out here cruising for fares.

  ‘Hey, I’m sorry, Vin,’ she said. ‘This business is just messing with my head. I’ll keep paying your expenses. If I don’t have you looking into this, I don’t have anyone.’

  I hesitated, partially distracted by the dragonfly. It turned and zoomed off, away into the sunshine.

  ‘You’ve come this far,’ she continued. ‘Please don’t make me beg.’

  I found her hand – it was still vaguely moist with her tears. I gave it a squeeze and went down the stairs. At the bottom, I called over my shoulder, ‘Let you know when I hear something.’

  ‘Vin.’

  I stopped and looked back up at her.

  ‘Thanks – for me, and for Randy too. You’re a good friend. I . . . I mean that.’ She glanced up and down the street. ‘Hey, I forgot you came by cab. Can I drive you somewhere?’

  ‘No, thanks. I could do with the exercise.’

  ‘Midday in Las Vegas in summer ain’t the best time to take it,’ she cautioned.

  It was baking hot, the overhead sun a white point like the tip of an oxy-acetylene torch, but what I needed was time to think and I had to do it away from Alabama and those legs of hers. ‘Which way do I go? There a main road nearby?’

  ‘Okay . . .’ she said with a shrug suggesting that it was my funeral, and pointed down the road. ‘Keep going till you see the golf course, then turn right. It’s a twenty-minute walk.’

  I went for ten minutes and made no progress on what might have happened to Randy Sweetwater, but I made leaps and bounds on the cab front, catching one that had just made a drop-off at the golf course.

  ‘Where we going?’ the driver asked.

  ‘Bally’s,’ I told him.

  ‘You seen the show there? The girls?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Shame. Could’a got you cheap tickets. How long you in town, buddy? Need some company?’

  ‘You’re not my type,’ I said.

  Checking the screen on my phone, I saw I’d missed three calls from Petinski, and one from Bozey. I flicked off the mute button and it rang immediately.

  ‘Cooper,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t hang up on me again, okay?’ Petinski demanded.

  ‘I’m headed back to Bally’s. Wanna join me poolside? If we hurry we can catch the afternoon bikini contest. You can even enter it.’

  ‘Are you trying to get me to hang up on you?’

  ‘Am I that transparent?’ I asked her.

  ‘Cooper, I’m in Detective Sergeant Bozey’s office. You and I are taking a conference call with your supervisor in twenty-five minutes and we’ve got a few things to talk about beforehand.’

  ‘My supervisor?’ Arlen?

  ‘Yeah.’ Petinski cut the call there, evening the score.

  The driver stomped on the gas when we hit Summerlin Parkway. Arlen was supposed to be on St Barts with Marnie, but now suddenly he was back in DC, changed out of his board shorts and raincoat, with something to say to both Petinski and me, and maybe Bozey too. I had to admit I was intrigued.

  ‘Been a change of plan, buddy,’ I said, leaning forward. ‘The police department down near McCarran.’

  ‘Now that I think about it, you look like police.’

  ‘What do police look like?’

  He adjusted the mirror so I could see myself in it and said, ‘A little like that.’

  Eleven

  ‘Hey, Cooper, how you doin’, pal?’ said Bozey, glancing up from his blotter.

  ‘What kept you?’ Petinski had her back to the window. Her voice sounded tense, the tone clipped. She checked her wristwatch and glanced at Bozey, some kind of signal.

  He gave her a nod and said, ‘Well, I gotta step out for a few minutes, go fight some crime. Make yourselves at home.’

  ‘Great, where’s the fridge?’ I asked him.

  The detective grinned and pointed at me, then closed the door behind him.

  ‘Okay, Petinski,’ I said. ‘What’s up?’

  Her tiny frame was silhouetted against the sunshine streaming through the window, and behind her I could see the sprawl of McCarran International. Directly adjacent to the police department building, on the other side of a high fence topped with stainless-steel razor wire, was the area designated for helicopters where a large corporate gnat hovered blowing the beige-colored desert dust off the taxiway. If I squinted, a quarter mile or so beyond it I could spy the executive jet ramp area and the hangar used by Nevada Aircraft Brokers.

  ‘There are a lot of people working on the King Air crash,’ she said.

  ‘So far, Petinski, all I’ve seen is an army of one – you, always one step ahead of the vast resources of the NTSB supposedly rushing in to fill the vacuum behind you.’

  The investigator walked around Bozey’s desk and sat in one of the chairs reserved for visitors. ‘That’s a fair call,’ she said. ‘You’re going to have to trust me.’

  ‘Lucky for you I’m the trusting
type, as my personality type indicators will tell you.’

  She failed to catch the ironic tone and instead jumped straight to saying, ‘We’ve made progress. Sweetwater’s place at the King Air’s controls was switched with a stand-in at LAX. We think the switch was made voluntarily by Sweetwater and no coercion was involved.’

  ‘You told me most of that already,’ I reminded her. ‘Only now you’ve got proof, right?’

  ‘I’ll get to that,’ Petinski replied. ‘Preliminary results are in on the investigation of the crash.’

  ‘That was fast,’ I said. According to my Seiko, our boots had been back on home soil barely ten hours.

  ‘We’re in a hurry.’

  ‘Why are we in a hurry? And who is we, exactly?’

  Petinski ignored the questions and that told me plenty right there. She pulled out an iPad and touched it up until she found what she wanted. ‘These are the photos of the King Air’s fuel gauges I took at the scene.’ She handed me the device. ‘This particular aircraft was fitted with the latest glass cockpit. It was equipped with both digital and the older-style analog gauges.’

  ‘That so unusual? If I was flying solo across the Pacific in a slow mover, I’d want backup,’ I said.

  ‘Take a good look at the gauge.’

  The photo was of an analog fuel gauge, glass face cracked and the needle stuck at about half full. Several photos to the left and right of this image showed other instruments, all of which displayed critical damage. I returned to the fuel gauge question. ‘And then . . . ?’ I said. Whatever the point was, I was missing it.

  ‘There was no fuel in the tanks. Nothing. Not a drop. The pilot ditched on fumes, but that’s not what the instrument says.’