The Gold Dragon Caper: A Damien Dickens Mystery (Damien Dickens Mysteries Book 4)

by Phyllis Entis

  Millie understood the unspoken plea. “I’ll keep your name out of this, Jane. I always protect my sources. Why do you think Colin was targeted?”

  “I’m guessing they wanted to ensure his cooperation for something.”

  “But, why him? Why not one of the other participants in the skimming?”

  “Forgive me, but I think it’s because Colin was an easy mark. He’s a nice guy when things are going well, but he’s not the sharpest tack in the box. Whoever planned the gold heist may have needed his help on the security arrangements. Maybe for an access code, or someone to serve as a lookout. Or to keep people away from the area.” Jane shrugged. “I’m just guessing, of course.”

  “It sounds plausible to me,” Millie said. “I’m well aware of my brother’s shortcomings. This makes it even more important that I find him, and persuade him to turn himself in. It may be his only chance to come out of this mess with some prospect of a decent future.” She leaned forward, her hands outstretched, her voice pleading. “If you have any idea of where Colin might be, please tell me.”

  Jane snatched at her glasses and stood, jostling the table as she did so. “I… There’s nothing more I can tell you. I have to go now. Please don’t try to follow me.”

  Millie watched as the woman who called herself ‘Jane’ wove between the tables and out of the bar. She sat for a while, silently cursing her brother and the trouble he had brought upon himself and upon her. Wishing she had resisted her impulse to fly to his rescue. Wondering how to find him and extricate him from his predicament. With a sigh, she rose from the table, found her way through the Four Kings casino to Fremont Street, and walked with brisk steps back to the dimly lit, 1st Street parking garage where she had left her car. It was with a sense of relief that she slid behind the wheel, locked the doors, and started the engine.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  February 22-23, 1983

  Millie turned into the parking lot of the Bonanza Garden Apartment complex and found a vacant spot near Building 103. Glancing up through the windshield, she saw the light was still on in the living room of her brother’s apartment. She locked the car and climbed the staircase to the second floor. As she reached the door to Unit E and let herself in with the spare door key Sonya had given her, she heard the sound of a baby crying. Stepping inside the apartment, she discovered her sister-in-law asleep, sprawled out on the living room sofa, snoring loudly. A container of boxed wine rested on the coffee table nearby, a half-empty glass of red wine standing next to it.

  The baby was bawling. Millie dropped her handbag and hurried to the bedroom. Lifting the infant out of the crib, she cradled little Sarita in her arms. “You poor thing. You’re soaking wet and you must be hungry.” She changed Sarita’s diaper and returned her to the crib before heading to the kitchen to warm a bottle of formula. “Children shouldn’t have children,” she muttered to herself in exasperation as she shook a drop of the milky liquid onto the inside surface of her wrist to check its temperature. She retrieved Sarita from the crib and carried her into the living room, settling into an armchair to feed her. Sarita sucked hard at the nipple, hungry for nourishment, her tiny fingers curling tightly around the bottle. As the baby drank, Millie considered her options. By the time Sarita was sated, her course of action had become clear.

  Millie changed Sarita’s diaper again and laid her in the crib before returning to the living room. She stood over her sister-in-law, who hadn’t stirred, and shook her awake. Sonya flailed her arms as though fending off an assailant. “Go ‘way. Leave me alone,” she mumbled. Millie pulled her into a sitting position, slapping her cheeks to rouse Sonya from her stupor. The young woman opened her eyes, screwed them shut, then forced them back open. “Wha…What is it? What’s wrong?” Her eyes were bleary and unfocused, her voice panicky.

  Millie’s anger and frustration boiled over. “What’s wrong is that you drank yourself into a stupor and left your baby untended, probably for hours, judging from her condition when I arrived. What’s wrong is that you asked for my help, but are doing nothing to help yourself. What’s wrong is that I’m stuck cleaning up another one of my brother’s messes instead of tending to my own responsibilities.” Sonya’s eyes filled with tears. “Stop that!” Millie’s hands curled into tight fists as she struggled to keep her temper under control. “I have had enough. Tomorrow, I am taking you and Sarita to your grandparents in Victorville.”

  “I don’t want…”

  “I don’t care what you do or do not want,” Millie said through clenched teeth. “We are going to Victorville if I have to hogtie you and carry you down to the car. Now, get off this couch, get yourself cleaned up and go sleep off your binge. We’ll leave right after breakfast.”

  Wednesday dawned clear and cold. Suffering from a hangover, Sonya was in no mood to be civil, and Millie was equally distant. Conversation between the two women was as chilly as the weather, limited to details of packing, and overly polite requests to pass the salt across the breakfast table. Only Sarita was oblivious to the strained atmosphere. Millie helped Sonya tote the baby’s supplies and clothes down to the car. There was no car seat, but the bassinet was equipped with sturdy metal rings, allowing it to be secured to the rear seat belt. A jerry-rigged harness held the infant in place.

  The morning was mostly spent by the time Millie finally managed to cajole Sonya and Sarita into the car. The 200-mile drive to Victorville dragged on for nearly five hours, as Sonya demanded one pit stop after another. Millie breathed a sigh of relief when she finally delivered Sonya and Sarita to Sonya’s grandparents. Tired, but happy to be rid of her reluctant passengers, she began her return trip to Las Vegas, the setting sun reflecting in her rear-view mirror. Once past Barstow, she spotted a billboard advertising Peggy Sue’s, a 50s-style diner, and realized she hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

  The diner proved to be a solitary beacon of civilization on an empty road that stretched in a straight line for miles in both directions. The exterior of the restaurant appeared run-down, but she decided to give it a try. Pushing open the sun-bleached, heavy, wood door, she was assailed by the sounds of the Everly Brothers and Elvis Presley. Millie slid into an empty booth and closed her eyes, grateful to be on her own.

  “Coffee, hon?”

  Millie opened her eyes with a start. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I asked if you wanted coffee, hon.” The voice belonged to a wiry, ash-blond woman who was standing next to the table, a glass coffee carafe in her hand. Her face was lined and leathery, but the kindness in her pale blue eyes was matched by the gentleness in her voice. “My name is Constance, and I’ll be your server. It looks like you could use a pick-me-up,” she added with a smile. “Been on the road long?”

  Millie smiled back in appreciation as she rubbed the sleep out of her eyes. “It’s only been half a day, but it feels like forever,” she said. “Thank you, I could use a cup of coffee.” She waved off a menu, asking Constance for her recommendation instead.

  “The pot roast. Made fresh today, and full of nourishment. It’ll put meat on your bones and fire in your belly.”

  Millie responded with a shaky laugh. “I could use some of both, I guess. The pot roast it is.”

  Sipping her coffee and nibbling at a slice of buttered bread as she waited for her dinner, Millie thought over her situation. She had done her duty. Sarita was safe, and in the hands of responsible adults. Her brother, she decided, would have to clean up his own mess. She was done rescuing him. Millie would return to the apartment, get a good night’s sleep, and make one last trip to police headquarters in the morning. Without revealing her source, she would share with Davila the information she had been able to glean from Jane, after which she would take the next available flight home. It was time for her to put her own needs ahead of her brother’s. And her first priority was to repair the damage she had caused by her impulsive trip to Las Vegas.

  It was after 9:00pm and completely dark by the time she reached the city limits. The streets
of the residential area where her brother lived were dimly lit, the neighborhood a black hole in the middle of the Las Vegas glitter. Flickering street lamps cast eerie, wavering shadows on the asphalt parking lot of the apartment complex. Millie looked around as she emerged from the car, mounted the flight of stairs at a brisk pace, and walked quickly down the corridor to Unit E. The light bulb in the wall sconce next to the apartment door was missing, leaving her to fumble in the dark as she tried to insert her key in the lock. Startled by the sound of a footfall behind her, she spun around, her heart racing.

  “Having a problem?” The voice was low, raspy, and male. Millie looked up at its source, but could not make out the man’s features in the dim light. Automatically, she formed her hand into a fist, the door key protruding between her index and middle fingers. It wasn’t a lethal weapon, but she could poke an assailant in the eye if she was quick enough, and give herself a chance to escape.

  “There’s no problem.” She could feel her heart thumping in her chest, but managed to keep her voice steady.

  “I need you to come with me.” His hand snaked out and grabbed her wrist. Acting on instinct, she swung her fist at his face. The protruding key caught him on the cheek, just beneath the eye. “Bitch!” he yelled, reaching up to touch the injury. Millie wrenched herself out of his grasp and raced down the stairs. As she turned toward her car, a second figure stepped out from the shadows, grabbing her from behind. She felt a cloth pressed to her face, and recognized the smell of chloroform. She held her breath, trying to avoid inhaling the fumes as she continued to struggle. Her body starving for oxygen, she changed tactics, deliberately allowing herself to sag, to give her assailant the impression she had succumbed to the chloroform. But her lungs betrayed her. With a convulsive gasp, she inhaled, and the world went black.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  February 24, 1983

  She sensed the warmth of the sun through eyelids that felt glued shut. Her brain was sluggish, as though she had been drugged. With a groan, Millie raised her head, and willed her eyes to open. What’s happened to me? she asked herself. Where am I? How did I get here?

  She pushed herself into a sitting position and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her head was pounding; she was dizzy and nauseated. Slowly, she swiveled her head, surveying the king-size bed, the mass-produced bureau and night tables, and the khaki-colored wall-to-wall carpeting. She was in a hotel room.

  Millie sat completely still, fighting a rising panic, trying to stay calm. Deep breath in, deep breath out, just as she had learned in her yoga class many years before. She felt her heartbeat slow to normal, and her brain begin to clear. Images of returning to her brother’s apartment, of being accosted, of fighting back, of a chloroform-soaked cloth held over her nose and mouth, flashed in sequence through her mind. She had a vague recollection of waking in the back seat of a car, of a needle prick in her arm. Then nothing.

  She stood, swaying as she waited for the dizziness to dissipate. She found the bathroom, splashed cold water onto her face, and examined herself in the mirror. There were red marks around her nose and mouth. Although she was still fully clothed, her blouse was undone, some of the buttons ripped away, and her skirt was twisted askew. She noticed a spot of dried blood on the sleeve of her left arm. Removing her blouse, she found a needle mark, surrounded by a reddened area about the size of a fifty-cent piece. There was a long bruise across her ribcage where one of her assailants had grabbed her, holding her in a grip that would have done a boa constrictor proud. Millie pulled her blouse back on, closing it over her chest as best she could. She straightened her skirt and tucked her blouse inside the waistband.

  Although her head was still pounding, the nausea had abated, and she was thinking more clearly. Leaving the bathroom, she walked over to the hotel room’s only exit and tried the door. The usual deadbolt had been replaced with one that locked from the outside. Trapped, she thought. I’m trapped unless I can find another way out. Her pulse thundered in her temples. She started breathing hard, and felt faint. Stumbling over to the bed, she sat on the edge and put her head between her knees until her breathing and pulse returned to normal. I must stay calm, she admonished herself.

  Under control once more, Millie began a systematic survey of her surroundings. There was no television set, radio, clock or telephone. The slot on the door that typically would hold the room’s rate sheet and emergency exit information was empty. The bureau and night table drawers were empty. There was no hotel stationery, no Gideon bible. Even the bar of soap and courtesy bottle of shampoo in the bathroom were generic. Her handbag had disappeared, and with it her wallet. Her wedding band was still on her finger, but her wristwatch was missing. Lost in the struggle with her assailants or removed deliberately? She didn’t know. When she had stopped at Peggy Sue’s on the way back from Victorville, she had removed her jacket, leaving it on the front passenger seat of the rental car. As far as she knew, it was still there. She had nothing but the tattered clothes on her back.

  She walked over to the window and pressed her face to the glass. Looking down, she could make out what she thought to be Las Vegas Boulevard a couple of blocks away. Directly across from her window, she could see a high-rise tower, the Gold Dragon logo flashing in neon from its roof. Picturing the hotel complex in her mind, she realized the room in which she was confined was on the north side of the South Tower. Counting windows in the tower facing her, she estimated she was on the 9th or 10th floor. Too high to jump, even if she managed to break the heavy glass of the double-paned window.

  The HVAC system, she thought. There should be a grille-covered air duct somewhere in the room. If I can remove the grille, I might be able to escape through the duct system. Millie scanned the room, locating the duct in the ceiling between the closet and the bathroom. She needed something to stand on. One of the night tables might work, she thought. Placing it directly below the vent, she climbed up and examined the grille. There were no visible screws or catches. She poked the tips of her fingers into the openings and tugged, to no avail. The grille was sealed in place.

  Millie returned the night table to its location next to the bed and considered her diminishing options. I can’t give up, she told herself. She could not wait passively for her captors to deal with her. She needed a way to call for help. If she could break the window, there was a chance someone might notice. The glass was thick and double-paned. She looked around the room for something to use as a hammer.

  Of course, she thought. The bathroom. Millie raced over to the vanity and looked under the sink. The hot and cold water feeds were flexible hoses, but the P-trap was copper. She tried to loosen the nut, but her bare hands couldn’t get a firm grip on the metal. She took a terrycloth hand towel from a shelf above the toilet, and wrapped the fabric around the fitting to improve her grip. The nut was stubborn, but Millie applied steady pressure, beads of sweat forming in the furrows on her forehead. At last, her effort was rewarded and the nut began to turn. She removed the P-trap from the drain line, returned to the window and started to hammer on the glass. Hitting it again and again, her frustration bubbling to the surface, she didn’t hear the door open behind her.

  “You’re wasting your time.”

  Millie whirled at the sound of the familiar voice, the P-trap still gripped in her hand, her pulse hammering. “You,” she exclaimed.

  Derek Turpin stood just inside the door, which had swung shut behind him. “That’s right, Mrs. Dickens. Me.” He glowered at her, his lower lip protruding in its usual pout. His face was flushed under an unnatural, orange-tinged tan, and his thinning blond hair was combed forward. His ill-fitting suit jacket hung open, exposing an expanding waistline. “You are a pain in the ass. You and your husband both. You’ve interfered with my plans once too often, Mrs. Dickens. I’m gonna take care of you. Then I’m gonna take care of that worthless brother of yours. And your husband is gonna watch me do it. I’m gonna make you pay. All of you are gonna pay.”

  “What plans
are those?” Millie knew her only chance was to keep him talking. To try and distract him.

  “Oh, no you don’t. No stalling for time, Mrs. Dickens. I’m not stupid.” His eyes narrowed, boring into her. “Your brother is stupid. He’s the stupid one. You’re gonna tell me where he is. I know you’ve been staying at his place. You’re gonna tell me where your stupid brother is.”

  “I don’t know where he is.” Millie concentrated on keeping her voice from trembling. “And, if I knew, I certainly wouldn’t tell you.”

  “Oh, you’ll tell me.” Millie felt his eyes upon her, as though noticing for the first time her torn blouse, wandering down her skirt to her bare legs, traveling back up to her breasts. His voice lost its whine. “What do you think of your digs?” he asked with a proud sweep of his arm, as though putting the room on display.

  “What is this place?” Millie asked, alarmed at the expression on his face, and the timbre of his voice.

  “This is where I put my special friends. My very special friends.” Turpin’s pupils were dilated, and his voice had grown husky. He approached Millie, reaching out to touch her hair. “You could be my special friend, Millie,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “I’d keep you here. Keep you safe.”

  “I’d rather you killed me outright.”

  “I don’t really want to kill you, Millie. I’ve always had a yen for you. Ever since I saw you climbing out of the swimming pool in Florida, your bathing suit clinging to you. You’re too good for a slob like Dickens. You deserve someone like me.” Snake-like, he grabbed her wrist, using his other hand to wrench the copper P-trap out of her grasp, and tossed the piece of metal across the room. “You won’t be needing that any more.”

  He stepped forward, backing her against the wall. She flailed at him with her free hand, but he caught her other wrist, forced her arms up over her head. Breathing hard, lust in his eyes, he thrust his body up against her, trying to force his tongue into her mouth. She turned her head to the side, nauseated by the smell of alcohol and stale coffee on his breath. He spread his legs, sandwiching her between his body and the wall. Holding both her wrists with one hand, he used his other hand to reach under her skirt, grabbing at her underwear. Millie heard a ripping sound as the delicate fabric gave way. She flinched, trying to twist her body away as he grabbed at her bare crotch. He removed his hand, unbuckled his belt, fumbled with the zipper of his trousers.