Vegas Rain

by Rick Murcer

  “Your wish is my command,” he answered. “Let’s open the blue Bureau folder and go over some of the notes I’ve put together over the last two days.”

  “We both did that already,” said Sophie, looking at Dean, who nodded. “I get the connection between the two cases. I get all of that detail crap on the fact sheets. It doesn’t take a genius to see the paper trail and that it was done intentionally. I want to know what you’re thinking.”

  “Patience, Grasshopper. Let’s look at the forensic report from Dean and Alex, okay?”

  She nodded, crossing her legs as she fought her exasperation. The forensic report wasn’t what she wanted to discuss. She went along anyway.

  “We didn’t find much, but there were two things that stood out. There was a degraded fingerprint on the note that we were able to identify through AFIS. It’s 97.3% probable that it belongs to Argyle.”

  “No surprise there, given how organized this killer seems to be,” said Sophie.

  “True. The thing involving this print was that it had residuals of distilled water and glycol, which are used together to moisten the fingertips of someone who’s been dead over a few months. There is even some reported success with this process on mummies in Forensic Monthly,” said Dean.

  Sophie gazed at Dean, shaking her head slowly. “Forensic Monthly? What is that? Porn for guys like you and Alex?”

  Dean waggled his eyebrows, his eyes sparkling. “Oh, I’ve learned a thing or two from some of the articles. And the pictures . . . well, the pictures.”

  Rolling her eyes, she twisted back to Manny. “So it appears that someone may have taken the print from Argyle’s corpse?”

  “Or someone knew we’d dig deep and do that kind of analysis and set us up to think so,” said Manny.

  She frowned. “Damn. Really? That’s stretching it.”

  “Maybe. But since we haven’t been able to locate Argyle’s body, we can’t know for sure what we’re seeing. That makes any possibility fair game,” said Manny.

  Clearing his throat, Dean went on. “The other situation Alex and I found interesting has to do with three hairs we found in the casket with mom and son. They were all from the same head of hair.”

  “Not belonging to one of the victims, right?” asked Sophie.

  “Good guess. We couldn’t match them with anyone, not even the city worker who dug up Argyle’s casket. Which we were sort of expecting because they seemed to be placed on the son’s lapel in a sort of row. Look at the picture.”

  Sophie did and saw the faint outline of three semi-blond hairs forming a loose “N.”

  “Maybe, if you’ve had a couple of beers. It’s a guess, I think,” she said doubtfully.

  “Could be, but nevertheless neither of us could recall a random display like that before, so we went on the assumption that they were placed there for us to find. We did a little more testing and concluded the hairs came from a wig. Since they were short, we’re taking a leap and saying it was probably worn by a man.”

  “Taking a few more leaps, aren’t we?” asked Sophie.

  “I don’t think so. If I remember the first case file, Argyle was good with makeup and disguises, right? Besides, like Manny always says, run with your gut once in a while . . . so we did,” answered Dean in a voice as serious as Sophie had ever heard from him. She listened just a little closer.

  “Say you’re right; what does that mean?” asked Manny.

  “I think it means two things. Wigs like that one are often used to disguise someone’s appearance, so this person didn’t want to be recognized, obviously.”

  “Makes sense, of course. What’s the second thing?” asked Sophie.

  “Disguises can also be used to make a person look like someone else. If you look a little closer, the hair color is remarkably the same as Argyle’s, at least according to the file photos,” said Dean softly.

  Leaning back in her seat, Sophie went over the information Dean and Manny had shared. She reviewed going back to the cemetery, then to Manny’s house. She thought about the facts, but also dove into the other possibilities that the evidence and discussions hadn’t revealed yet, the possibilities that stretched her imagination the way Manny wanted to see from her as she grew as a profiler.

  There was a particular line of thinking that kept repeating itself. And since aliens and Big Foot were out of the question, she had to go with her own theory of deduction. If you’ve eliminated all other possibilities, no matter what’s left is most likely the truth. Right now, that possibility made her skin crawl.

  “Talk to us, Sophie.”

  “Damn it, Manny. I’m just not ready to go where I think this is going. Or has gone.”

  “Why not? I hate the saying, but ‘it is what it is,’ yes?”

  “Yeah, whatever.”

  Taking a deep breath, she exhaled, and then reached out a hand to Manny and the other to Dean.

  “I asked that you be totally honest with me a while ago, so I can’t be a hypocrite, but I ain’t as ready for this junk as you are. Never have been.”

  “What junk?” asked Dean, confusion and maybe a little apprehension in his expression.

  Sophie sighed and pulled her hands back to her lap, then threw them up in the air. “Okay, fine. Here goes. When we first ran into that piece-of-shit Argyle, he’d used a few disguises, like you mentioned, and misled us to think that he was really someone else, a psycho named Robert Peppercorn, who had an alter-ego that went by the name of Eli Jenkins.”

  “Okay, got it so far,” said Dean.

  Manny nodded for her to continue.

  “The thing for him was the game. He played us and loved it. He was such an arrogant prick that he left a message and clues for us to get to Jenkins, but not to him. We had no idea that Argyle had been the one behind Jenkins and his murders until after he’d escaped from the ship.” “If he hadn’t been so narcissistic, we may never have known that there was another killer,” said Manny.

  “Okay. So do you think that’s happening again? But that really wouldn’t make sense based on the evidence. I mean . . . everything points to Argyle being alive. If the evidence logic stands up, then Argyle is trying to get us to think that there’s someone else involved,” said Dean, frowning.

  “Good logic, Dean,” said Manny.

  “But that’s wrong, isn’t it?” asked Sophie.

  Twirling his finger in the classic “keep going” motion, Manny encouraged her to finish her line of thinking.

  “All right, don’t get pushy.”

  She sipped her water and gathered her ideas, then did what Manny asked, although he had no doubt already figured it out. “This guy is trying to get us to think its Argyle by sending us all of the right signals. Like with the phone, the cemetery, and even with Max Tucker’s murder in North Carolina. All Argyle-like actions. But we know Manny scrambled the Good Doctor’s brains in Ireland, so that man is surely dead and can’t be the one setting this thing up.”

  “Makes sense,” said Dean, nodding.

  “It does, especially when you factor in Argyle’s ability to create mindless zombie followers. But Argyle would never, I mean never, allow a student to outdo the master. The idea of having all the evidence point to him would satisfy his ego. And in a way, it would be consistent with how he set up Peppercorn.”

  “Okay, I guess I follow, but slow down,” said Dean.

  “Argyle wouldn’t use the same trick twice. He turned the focus from himself the first time. This time the focus is on him. He knows we’d get that, so he’s stepped it up another level, hasn’t he, Manny?”

  “I think so. One thing I can’t get out of my mind is what Argyle said the night he died.”

  “What?” asked Dean.

  “He asked me if it would truly be over and then he told me ‘one never knows.’ Like the joke was on us. I dismissed it as ranting and, even after I was stabbed in Puerto Rico, I figured that’s what he meant. That he’d set up my death before he was roasting in hell.”

  S
ophie hesitated, and then shrugged. “He never really wanted us to think this was a con by one of his lackeys, right?”

  Manny’s nod made her stomach clinch.

  Son of a bitch.

  God in Heaven she hated asking the next question. “Because he didn’t die in Ireland, did he?”

  “No, Sophie, I don’t think he did,” said Manny.

  CHAPTER-19

  For the tenth time in the last two hours, Chloe pulled away from the newest Rick Murcer novel and glanced at the antique grandfather clock in the corner of the family room.

  Manny and the others had been gone barely three hours, and she was already going stir crazy. The silence was as uncomfortable as her bra. She was surprised at just how much she’d grown to hate that thing. Added to that was the fact that Haley Rose and Jen weren’t due back from their assault on the new mall until tonight. More time to think.

  She’d spent time alone, most of her adult life in fact, and it had been a welcome relief from the hectic pace of life as a special agent for the FBI. But this was different on a whole other level.

  She’d grown accustomed to the sounds of Manny’s breathing and his quick wit, or just his presence, not to mention that of Jen and her friends, who had all brought a different dimension to her life. Once experienced, that kind of bustle was almost heaven, and there was no going back, was there? Even Sampson’s occasional room-rumbling bark had become a welcome change of pace.

  Chloe stood from the sofa, reached down and stroked Sampson’s large head as he snored at her feet, then moved into the kitchen. The aroma of her latest concoction involving bacon, peanut butter, pickles, and oat bread, topped with avocado and tomatoes, still lingered. She was tempted to make another one, dismissed the temptation, patted her belly, and then gave in.

  “Hey, I’m eating for two,” she whispered.

  Five minutes later, she was headed back to the sofa, milk in one hand and a stacked sandwich in the other, when her cell vibrated in her pocket. She stopped midstride, then slowly placed her meal on the table.

  Someone had texted her.

  Even though she was totally aware that the other phone—the one that had received the horrible text—was now in police custody, that knowledge did little to reduce her anxiety. Maybe this person, this Argyle Wannabe, had found out how to reach her.

  Pulling the phone out of her pocket, she dismissed her paranoia, nearly. Argyle, or anyone like him, wouldn’t repeat the text scheme. It had served its purpose and as arrogant as these types of perverts were, calculated caution was usually a trademark for most of them. They also could be impulsive and not so bright, but she didn’t think that profile fit her texter.

  Shaking away the premise that Argyle had risen from the grave, Chloe glanced down at her phone, put her finger on the slide button, prayed, and then took a look.

  At first, she couldn’t read it, then she laughed out loud. Maybe more in relief than anything else.

  Hey Chloe. We’re leaving the mall a little later. We’ll be home in a few hours. Granny Franson, I know, don’t call her that, wants to know if you want anything to eat. Like those huge cinnamon rolls or something. Let me know, otherwise, see you soon.

  Oh! You should see the stuff we got!!! Jen

  Her fingers flew across the tiny keyboard.

  Jen. Great. Looking forward to seeing you two at home, and your treasure. Bring extra frosting for the cinnamon rolls. Chloe.

  The response was almost immediate.

  Will do. XOXOX.

  Glancing at the phone one last time, she reflected on how nice it was to be included in Jen’s life and just how well her mum and Jen were getting on.

  Her mum.

  The woman had gone through a hellish stretch. She’d fallen, at least partially, for one of the most savage psychopaths to grace the planet and lived to tell of it. Added to that were the suspicions and subsequent testing and observation Haley Rose had to endure to ensure she wasn’t one of Argyle’s cult following. Chloe had suspected her for a brief time; in the end, she knew her mum. Haley Rose Franson was a tough, independent woman. No one could take her down a road she didn’t want to travel.

  Pulling out the closest chair, Chloe sat down, drank her milk, and finished off the bacon delight in no time flat.

  Besides, Manny was convinced that her mum was untouched by Argyle’s persuasion, at least in that mindless-follower way, and he’d come to that conclusion much quicker than Chloe had.

  He trusted Jen to Haley Rose and that said all Chloe really needed to know. She also realized her own doubts, as well as Sophie’s, came from having bad experiences with love in the past. That can wreak havoc on a person’s psyche. Good God, she understood that merry-go-round.

  So why the lingering doubt about your mum, Chloe girl?

  She shook it off. She simply had too much time on her hands, especially with everyone else doing their jobs except her. She’d told Gavin it would be four or five days at least.

  Maybe that was too long.

  She reached for the phone and called Gavin.

  “Chloe. What can I help you with?”

  He seemed in a hurry and sounded far more like a police commissioner than a friend.

  “I’ve got a few hours before Jen and mum get home and thought I’d come in and sign paperwork and get a look at my new digs, if that’s okay with you.”

  The slight hesitation sent her into agent mode. She liked how that felt.

  “Ahh, well, I’m glad you called. I was going to call you, but I didn’t want to put any pressure on you to start before you were ready.”

  Gavin went quiet, then she heard the exhale. “Oh, what the hell, your professional life belongs to the LPD and me, right?”

  “Why were you going to call? And yes, yes it does.”

  There was no hint of hesitation this time. “I need you to take a case.”

  “What kind of case?” she asked, her blood moving faster.

  “The murder kind.”

  CHAPTER-20

  The black Ford SUV pulled up to the wide, glass triple doors of the Las Vegas International Airport. Manny watched as the tall blonde wearing blue jeans and a green blouse and her burly, bald companion, dressed in kakis and a plaid shirt, exited the vehicle. They flashed their credentials to the security guards and then stepped into the private-flight section of the terminal.

  Reaching for his bag, Manny turned to motion for Dean and Sophie that the FBI’s personal escort service had arrived, only to discover that they had left his side for the slot machines some thirty feet away.

  He shook his head. He’d been so wrapped up with watching for the local agents to arrive, and the facts of the case, that he hadn’t noticed them leave.

  Argyle’s possible existence seemed artificial. Made up. Like some way-out plot in a made-for-TV series where the bad, evil villain escapes death and capture only to return to torture, and eventually kill, the protagonist. The good guy. Him.

  He ran his hand through his hair.

  The antagonist was alive and held but one purpose: to take out the good guys. Period. Except this wasn’t a book or a movie; this was real life and that meant real problems. The thing is, he’d known it for a while. Argyle’s final words had echoed in his mind a million times since Galway. Maybe two million. Each time the conclusion showed itself in a most despicable way, right into his heart of hearts.

  Enough talking, Williams. Enough whining. Enough denial. Let’s get on with it.

  “You bastard! I’m going to kick the hell out of your shiny case.”

  The angry yell caused him to reach for his Glock, and then he stopped as he recognized the voice.

  Sophie had just shook hands with her first Las Vegas one-armed bandit.

  “Come on, Sophie, I think our ride’s here,” said Dean, pulling at her arm.

  “Come on, my butt. This cheating slut just stole twenty bucks from me. I’m taking it out in whoop-ass trade,” she answered, straining to reach the machine.

  “Please try
again. Please try again,” said the electronic yet seductive voice of the slot.

  His partner’s face grew even redder. “What? Oh, you heifer. That’s it. You’re mine.” She continued to try to break free from Dean, who, to his credit, was keeping a straight face. Manny guessed that if Dean wanted to stay out of the local urgent care facility, he’d do well to keep that demeanor.

  The truth, however, was that his partner wasn’t upset at the money lost in the machine. Hardly.

  In three strides, Manny stood beside her, then he was in her ear, whispering. “Not now, girl. You can take revenge later, but we’ve got bigger problems, yes?”

  She stopped struggling, then began to point at the machine, stopped, opened her mouth to speak, stopped, then stood still, slowly removing Dean’s hand from her arm, her composure on the way back.

  Manny motioned for Dean to back up as he stayed close to Sophie, speaking softly.

  “Listen. I know why you’re pissed. I’m not feeling any better. We have to keep clear heads. If he’s alive, we have to get beyond that and do what we do, okay?”

  She nodded, reaching her mouth to his ear. “I’m mad, but I’m scared too. I hate being afraid. Been there, done that. Argyle gave me sleepless nights, and no one does that to me. Now he’s back from the damned River Styx, and I’m trying to figure out, exactly, how that happened.”

  “I understand that. I’ve had to check my underwear a couple of times myself. But if we don’t keep it together, we’re dead meat.”

  Her smile was electric. “Oh, Lord in Heaven, I’ve got to get that image of you crapping your pants out of my mind.”

  When Manny returned her smile, she kissed him on the cheek. “Thanks, Manny. I love you, you know? And for the record, I will kick that mechanical bitch’s ass before we leave this town, if I’m alive to do it.”

  “I’ll help.”

  By then, the local female agent was only a few feet away from them. She hesitated, took another step, and then stopped completely, her smile widening ever so slowly as she looked from Manny and Sophie to Dean.