by L. T. Ryan
I fired all this off to Bridget in a series of texts while waiting on my burger. So far, she hadn’t nailed down where he was staying, which meant he might have a place to go that didn’t require reservations. It could have been that reservations had been made by someone else.
The bartender set down my Vanilla Porter and walked away. He never looked up. His eyes were locked on his phone. Great service.
I took a sip and, as the lingering bubbles tickled my upper lip, an idea formulated. What if we could monitor his Uber or Lyft activity? I sent a message to Bridget. A minute later, she confirmed she could have someone do it. The anxiousness building inside subsided a bit. All I had to do was get on the plane without being spotted. Should be simple. Right?
An hour later, the boarding notification arrived. Fifteen minutes after that, I made my way to the gate where the final stragglers were in line. I fell in and had no problem getting past the gate agent. And when I reached the end of the jetway, I saw exactly what I had hoped for. The slow moving shuffle of passengers making their way to their seats in coach obscured any view of me from the rear two-thirds of the plane where Lavelle was.
I found my seat and settled in for the short flight. Fortunately, I had stopped at one beer with my lunch. At almost five-and-a-half percent ABV, they were a hell of a lot stronger than a Michelob Ultra. Any more than one might’ve resulted in me feeling a bit of artificial happiness, which would make me a little more easygoing. And that’s how I would mess up.
When we landed, I got off the plane without looking back and found a crowded gate across the walkway. I found an empty seat and waited for Lavelle while alternating between reading through Bridget’s text messages and watching the rest of the passengers emerging from the jetway, figuring out which direction they needed to go in order to get their Sin City experience rolling.
The sum of Bridget’s messages was they hadn’t found any reservations under Lavelle’s name, but he had used Uber to the airport this morning, and we figured he would again.
Lavelle came into view, swiping through his phone. He tucked it away as he merged into the herd, making their way to baggage claim, transportation, and parking. I made no real movements other than to lower my head. The man was much more aware now than earlier. He looked to the side and behind him. He scanned every face that passed.
I joined the throng of travelers about twenty feet behind Lavelle, leaving plenty of people between us. I fired off a note to Bridget that I had him in my sights and we were making our way out. Almost immediately, I received a response that he still hadn’t opened his Uber app. Could be a dozen reasons why. Perhaps he was meeting someone at the airport who was also flying in and they were going to be awhile. He had to collect his luggage, an exercise in patience that could take half an hour. Maybe he was going to grab a taxi instead. That would give me the opportunity to finally yell, “Follow that taxi!” to my driver.
A line of workers pushing passengers in wheelchairs appeared at a cross section. I tried to sidestep and get around them, but the people in front of me came to an abrupt halt and I nearly crashed into a seventy-something year old woman. I was stuck. Lavelle was in the group that had made it across in time.
The wait lasted twenty seconds. But in that time, hundreds of people had merged into the space between me and Lavelle, and I lost track of him. He wasn’t that far ahead, though, and since he checked a suitcase, I made my way to baggage claim and sent Bridget an update.
She called me a few seconds later.
“Still no activity on his Uber account,” she said.
“All the missteps so far could be intentional,” I said. “Did your people verify whether he has a Lyft account? And what about outbound calls or texts since he arrived?”
“Yes, to Lyft, but it hasn’t been used in over a year. Uber has several transactions in the past three months, mostly around Denver.”
“Anywhere else? Like, maybe, I dunno, Vegas?”
“No Vegas, but I’ll get the rest of the destinations.”
“And calls?”
“Nothing. There’s no signal coming from that phone since moments before the flight took off. It’s like he didn’t bother taking it out of airplane mode.”
I was on the escalator heading into baggage claim and needed to be fully aware. This moment, above the crowd, exposed, provided the best opportunity for Lavelle to spot me.
“Look, I gotta go for a few, Bridget. I’m nearing baggage claim, so he’s gotta be close.”
Moments after disconnecting the call and slipping my phone into my back pocket, I had a realization. Lavelle emerged from the jetway, not looking around the gate and terminal in those first few moments. He was swiping through his phone the way one does when they haven’t checked it in a while. But Bridget had only seconds ago said his cell hadn’t come online. That left one explanation.
He had two phones.
Lavelle counted on someone monitoring him. Maybe even following him. He left a breadcrumb trail a mile long, not because he’s an idiot, but he knew someone would be watching. It was intentional to throw us off.
I was seconds away from calling Bridget back when the belt lurched into action and the first suitcases tumbled out from behind the curtain, hitting the conveyor with a ruckus. People were stacked three to four deep, watching and waiting their turn. I hung toward the back in a spot that allowed me to see down both sides of the conveyor.
I looked at the stragglers off to the right and left, but Lavelle was not there. My stomach twisted. Was the bag a decoy?
The crowd began peeling off as they collected their luggage. There were a handful of people remaining when the blue Samsonite appeared. I pulled up the pic I snapped in Denver to double check and was about ninety percent certain it was Lavelle’s. Grab it now? Or wait?
I waited for at least one more pass.
The suitcase rounded the top end where I was and made its way toward the back. One by one, the remaining bags around it were plucked. The crowd thinned even more. Lavelle definitely was not waiting for the bag. Next time around, I’d grab it.
Late arriving passengers continued to pick up their suitcases and disperse until there were only a couple of us remaining. The Samsonite reappeared for its final pass through. I watched the remaining people as it approached them. No one made a move for it. I scooted down the line to the right to give the bag a few more seconds on the belt before I took it. Still, no one claimed it.
The blue suitcase inched closer. I made my approach. Leaned forward, arm dangling, ready to grab the handle and pull it off the belt.
Right before I grabbed it, a woman reached in and took it for herself.
And I recognized her.
17
I’d seen the woman’s picture the day before, in the apartment building, pinned to the fridge with a magnet. She was at least ten years older now. But that decade hadn’t aged her so much I couldn’t pick her out of a line up.
I waited for her to get ten steps away, then began following while crafting a message for Bridget: Please tell me you’ve got something on Lavelle, because I found another lead to chase down.
The woman stopped at a water fountain to refill her bottle. I snapped a rogue picture. As I walked past her, I glanced to confirm the shot was good. Then I sent it to Bridget. She’d replied seconds prior, saying they had no leads on Lavelle and hadn’t uncovered a second phone number.
It only took a few more seconds for her to reply again: Is that Liliana Marin?
Sure as hell looks like it to me. Found her at the luggage carousel. Didn’t find Lavelle there. Lost him in the terminal. No clue where he’s at now. But I’m guessing he’s gonna wind up where she does.
I stopped and pretended to answer a call while waiting for Liliana to get ahead of me again after she finished filling her water bottle. The cell phone buzzed several times. As I fell in line behind Liliana, I reviewed the new messages.
Good timing, Bridget texted. We just got the following from the dealership.
/> I waited for the photo she sent to download and almost walked into a baby stroller when it finally came through. Couldn’t be. Could it? The woman sitting at a desk in the dealership holding a set of keys was Liliana. Two more photos came in, confirming her presence not only at the desk but also taking delivery of and getting into the same Mercedes S500 that departed Lavelle’s driveway this morning. Perhaps he wasn’t selling it. Maybe he was paying to have it driven to Vegas.
I fired off another text: What do you think the chances of him waiting for her outside are?
Maybe? Dunno. Let me know when you do.
Liliana took an exit marked for ground transportation and navigated with the suitcase to the taxi line. I only had a few seconds to make a decision, one that could reveal my position to Lavelle if he was watching. But if I didn’t take this chance, Liliana could easily disappear while Lavelle remained off grid.
Hesitation almost caught me as two men went around me to get in line behind her. I hurried forward. It was enough of a commotion to get her to turn around to see what was going on. Our eyes met and held for an uncomfortable few seconds. Too long, if you asked me. Either she had some recognition—which could be due to standing next to me at baggage claim—or she’d remember me later. Depending on the company she kept, that could be an issue, too.
I remained casual in line, but behind my sunglasses, my eyes were working overtime, scanning every inch of the area in search of Lavelle. There was no sign he had remained at the airport.
Why would he?
Whatever was going on, he had enough sense to have Liliana pick up the luggage. He wasn’t going to stand out here waiting for her. Even watching over her could be a fatal mistake. If someone was looking for her, they were looking for him, too. I was living proof.
Liliana entered her cab without looking back. She took her seat and shut the door and a few moments later, the cab drove off. Another replaced it. I slid in and closed the door.
“Where to?” the man asked.
“My sisters are in the cab ahead. Just follow them.”
The guy paused for a moment, perhaps considering I might be some psycho chasing after a woman. “You don’t know where they are going?”
I smiled widely. “I’m getting married this weekend. They said they have a surprise for me.” I shook my head and laughed a couple of times, hoping he bought it.
“Say no more,” the driver said. Then he looked back and smiled. “Well, maybe you could say, ‘follow that car’!” He got plenty out of his joke, while my anxiety rose as the cab ahead of us put more and more distance between us with each passing second.
He pulled away from the curb, angling the taxi hard to the left to get around a van that had pulled ahead of the taxi stand a few seconds prior. My stress dissolved to a manageable level when we caught up to Liliana’s cab.
My driver would not shut up. I paid no attention to what he was saying. Didn’t even bother to nod to make it appear like I was listening. I couldn’t take my attention off the vehicle ahead of us.
“Sir? Sir?” He put his hand on mine as I gripped the seat in front of me and leaned forward. “Sir!”
“Yeah, what?” I barked.
“You really are trying to keep up with that cab?”
I took a deep breath to steady my nerves and leaned back in my seat. “Yeah, I am.”
“And you don’t know where they are taking you?”
“Right.” I scratched at my chin for a moment. “Last place I wanna be lost before my wedding is Vegas. Know what I mean?”
He nodded and flashed a devious smile. This guy was familiar with all the various forms of entertainment available in the city. “You know, I can call into dispatch and ask them where they are going.”
“I did not know that—“ I leaned forward to read his medallion, “—Patel. Will dispatch alert the driver that you asked?”
Patel shook his head as he reached for his radio. Less than thirty seconds later, I had my destination: The Venetian.
I felt like a balloon deflating as I shrunk into the seat. All the tension disappeared. I rubbed my eyes with the balls of my hand and let out an audible sigh.
“Feeling better?” Patel asked.
“You know it.”
“Ready for a drink?”
“Best question anyone’s asked me in the last two months, my new friend.”
We reached the strip not too long after. Traffic was heavy. We crawled along, passing Caesar’s, The LINQ, and Harrah’s. The Venetian appeared, like all the hotels did, gaudy and comfortingly out of place. In a city that features the Eiffel Tower and Statue of Liberty, why not have a glitzy replica of Venice complete with gondolas?
Patel eased to a stop at the entrance. “Make sure to take a gondola ride. It’s magical.”
“Saving my magic for something else, my friend.” I exited the car and wished him safe travels.
I brushed off the bell boy and hung back for a few minutes before heading inside. I watched the foot traffic in front of the casino, looking for anyone lingering that could pose a problem. The destination made no sense for a criminal to flee to. There were cameras everywhere. You couldn’t fart without security and the pit bosses knowing. A question kept hitting me square on my forehead.
Why?
Perhaps Lavelle desired the intense level of scrutiny. Again, why? An alibi? It ticked some of the boxes. From the moment he left his room until he entered it again, he would be on camera damn near every moment unless it was a clear invasion of privacy. He could leave town and his whereabouts would be unaccounted for. But so long as he was in Vegas, a trail could be pieced together that would prove he wasn’t somewhere else. The more I thought about it, it made sense.
Why would he want an alibi now? Pretty simple in my mind. Mrs. Lavelle would resurface soon. Dead. And when the coroner placed her time of death, it would put Lavelle right here at the Venetian or some other casino on the strip.
I fired off a text to Bridget detailing my thought process, then headed inside, where my entire theory crumbled.
Standing in the middle of the lobby hugging were Liliana Marin and Emilia Lavelle.
18
Molly watched him leave after his morning coffee, as she always did. He never wanted breakfast. She was required to ask every morning, though. The one time she didn’t, she had received four days in the cellar. From what she’d heard, his cellar was the best of them all. So, when he told her she’d never have it that easy again, she believed him.
The house settled into its quiet rhythm. The ticking caused by settling and the expansion and retraction of the timber through the seasons. The snow had piled high. She’d be required to clear the front walkway before he returned.
She scarfed down the scrambled eggs she had made for him—the ones he’d never touch but had to be prepared in case he was hungry—and then donned her snow gear. The chunky boots barely fit under the bottom of her ski pants. They made her walk funny, kind of like a duck. But they kept the cold and wet out. Given how unstable things could be here, she appreciated that.
Unstable.
Indeed, that described Molly’s life. Probably like most folks here, at least the ones who arrived on their own accord. Well, mostly. He had a way of influencing people, even from thousands of miles away. They might hear him on a podcast or see an interview on YouTube. He excelled at directing advertising dollars to target those most in need of his message.
Yes, his message. The message. The one that made Molly fall in love with him. She traveled from Florida after watching a series of interviews on YouTube. Every word he said resonated deep within her core. Her soul. Her entire being. She knew she had to meet him, show him she was worthy.
That wasn’t easy. When she arrived in Denver, she followed the instructions she had found after clicking through a trail of links that led her deeper and deeper. A riddle had to be solved to unlock the final password. It took her three weeks of scouring Google, Yahoo, and even web archives to locate the information requi
red. But she did it. After a stint in Las Vegas, she had all she required to make the next contact. She passed the next test and the next and was eventually brought to the compound.
But she was not allowed to meet him until she had completed a thirty-day initiation, during which she spent a week confined to a bunkhouse where no one could talk. She was introduced to the others there upon arrival. Three were residents who either needed time alone or had performed some infraction that merited their sequestering. The other two were also newcomers to the compound. A man and a woman. She saw the woman regularly around the compound. The man was never seen again after she left the bunkhouse.
The work detail came next, a mix of manual and menial. She took to it quickly, as it was the kind of work she had done her whole life. Dropping out of school in the eighth grade didn’t present many opportunities later. She cooked, cleaned, dug ditches, and even drove a truck picking road kill up off the highway. So when it came time for her to clean a bunkhouse, or help cook dinner for sixty people, that was no problem.
And he noticed. He noticed her work ethic. He noticed her.
One thing Molly could say for herself was that she was a looker. At fourteen, it was her nineteen-year-old boyfriend who convinced her to leave school. He could make her a star. Yeah. All he did was drive her out to Hollywood and ditch her for some skank.
She called home, but her stepmother said her drunk dad had no interest in her, so fuck off. She stayed in California and did what she needed to do before crossing the country and settling in a small town in central Florida at the age of twenty.
She banged the shovel on the driveway as though she could bury the memories under the concrete. None of that mattered now. All that mattered was him. And she was close, oh so close, to finally staying in his bedroom for good. Not for just a night or two a week, kicked out after she satisfied him in whichever way he wanted. Whatever kink he felt that night. He had many, and the progression went from immature to demonic.