Stitts had stolen the pegboard and Chase had put it back to the way it was before Duane had rearranged it. Only now, there were more pictures on it, including a series of secondary characters that Greg had unearthed by speaking to hotel management: a waiter who had brought food up to the room during the game, two window cleaners, a maid, and a couple from Montreal who were the only other guests on the floor.
“None of this makes sense,” Stitts muttered.
Chase ignored the comment.
“Why would the people responsible for an eight-figure heist care about a shitty Timex watch? Why risk leaving trace evidence?”
Greg shook his head.
“They didn’t leave any evidence. No trace at all. All fingerprints in that room belonged either to the players or staff.”
Chase opened her mouth to say something, but then furrowed her brow.
“Wait — none? It’s a hotel room. It should have dozens of prints, hair, etc. Shouldn’t it?”
Greg rifled through a stack of papers until he found the one that he was looking for.
“The seventh manager, Shane McDuff, said that the room was often reserved for high-stakes games. He also said that it hasn’t been used for about six months or so.”
Chase chewed the inside of her lip.
“Is it possible that someone was hiding in the room before the game was arranged? Like, days before? In the bathroom or something?”
Greg shook his head.
“I doubt it. I’m guessing that security would have swept the room beforehand. Oh, and doesn’t look like we’re going to get anything from the bullets fired. Generic rounds fired from a Colt AR-15.”
“One AR-15?” Stitts asked, finally chiming in.
Greg nodded.
“So, one guy did all this? One guy who mysteriously got in and out of a single entrance hotel room without being noticed by two highly trained security guards, the staff, or the players?” Chase shook her head and then repeated what Stitts had said moments ago. “None of this makes sense.”
Her mind suddenly flicked back to when she’d grabbed the bartender’s arm in the hotel room.
Why hadn’t I seen anything? Why the fuck in this case when we’ve got nothing at all to go on I turn out to be useless?
Perhaps sensing her frustration, Greg changed the subject.
“Maybe he just forgot it,” the man offered.
“What?”
“The watch,” Greg clarified. “Or he could’ve sold it or lost it. I mean, Mike Hartman didn’t live with his mother, and she admitted that she hadn’t seen him in at least two months prior to his death.”
Stitts suddenly bowed his head and started to type away at his laptop.
“I don’t know about that,” he said after a few seconds. “Take a look at this.”
Chase walked over and waited for Greg to reach her side before Stitts showed them a series of photographs from Mike Hartman’s Facebook page.
Most depicted the young, good-looking man living the life as a bartender in Las Vegas. He was poolside, he was in a club, he was riding in a car that was likely a rental, smiling broadly. And in the photographs that showed his arms, the cheap Timex was proudly displayed. Most shots also revealed the sparrow tattoo just above the watch.
“What’s the most recent picture?” Greg asked.
“He hasn’t posted in about a month,” Stitts said, turning back to the keyboard. Eventually, he brought up a photo that was in stark contrast to the others. “This is it.”
Mike was staring into the camera, likely the one on his computer, chin resting on his palm. He had dark circles around his eyes and his hair, neatly coiffed in the other photos, was a mess. The caption read, ‘Despite what they say, you were a great man. I miss you every day. TRGR.’
He was wearing his watch.
“I guess that solves that,” Greg said. “His mother was right — it doesn’t look like he takes the damn thing off.”
“What’s TRGR?” Stitts asked.
“The Rich Get Richer,” Chase replied absently. “What if… what if this was personal? Like Mike pissed someone off and he was the real target. After all, he looked like he got the worst of it. If I were to rob the game, I’d make sure that I spent most of my bullets on the security and not the unarmed bartender.”
Stitts stroked his chin.
“Use a robbery of this magnitude and kill ten other people as a front to off a Las Vegas bartender? One would think there’d be easier and less risky ways of getting the job down. After all, we’re surrounded by miles of desert.”
“Less profitable, however. Anyways, I was just spit-balling,” Chase replied.
“Yeah, it might be worth looking into Mike a little more,” Stitts agreed. “It’s not like we’ve got anything else to go on here.”
Greg nodded.
“When I was in the field, a buddy of mine used to run errands, gather intel for me. I can ask him to do a little digging.”
Stitts raised an eyebrow.
“A CI? Why not just get one of the officers to ask some questions?”
Greg’s lips twisted.
“They’re occupied. Besides, I don’t think they would be amenable to requests from me.”
Chase waited for the man to elaborate, but when he stayed mum, she turned her eyes to Stitts.
Her partner shrugged.
“No intervention, just observation?” he asked.
Greg nodded.
“Sure. I’ll just ask him if he can get a read on the man’s character, etc. Find out who this ‘good man’ is he mentions in his last post.”
“Fine. I’ll work on getting some more video footage. Still waiting on surrounding casinos, see if anything was pointed near the seventh floor around the time of the shooting.”
Chase couldn’t help but shake her head in frustration.
“This is Las Vegas for fuck’s sake, and the only video we have of that floor is the hallway? Are we absolutely certain that there is no footage from inside the room? No exterior cameras?”
“I’ll speak to the manager again, but according to his interview…” Stitts let his sentence trail off.
They’d already seen the video from the hallway: the only person who entered the floor during the game was a waiter who brought food to the room. And he left it at the door.
“Then how the fuck did the person get in and out of the room?” Chase snapped. “The windows?”
“Impossible. They don’t open,” Greg replied.
“And they were in perfect shape when the police arrived on scene,” Stitts offered.
Chase frowned. The windows had also been unblemished when she’d been there, when she’d touched Mike Hartman’s arm.
“Can we bring up the video of the hallway again? I mean, is it possible that it was altered in some way? Mission Impossible style?” Chase asked.
“Not according to hotel management. All digital video recordings are stored in a highly secure facility, off-site, with extremely limited access. Even if someone managed to mess with one of the recordings, there is literally no way to alter the master. At least, that’s what I was told,” Greg replied.
Chase felt pressure build in her chest, a manifestation of her frustration.
If only I could see, if only I could see…
“Bring up the video, then,” she said to Stitts, trying to distract herself from runaway thoughts.
Her partner nodded and turned back to his computer. As Chase watched him move to the secure case folder, her phone buzzed and her heart skipped a beat.
Is it Brad? Is it Brad, telling me that he changed his mind?
It wasn’t Brad.
It was a text message from her poker contact ATM.
Stu Barnes was one of the backers, the message read. He lives in Vegas.
Without a word to Stitts, who was still searching for the video, Chase hurried over to her computer and searched first Google and then Facebook for the backer.
There were six Stu Barnes living in Vegas, but whe
n she saw the photograph of a silver-haired fox wearing what was clearly a bespoke suit, Chase knew that this was the Stu Barnes.
“I have to go out for a bit,” she said under her breath. Then she looked up. “Stitts, I have to go — I’ll be back in an hour.”
Chapter 24
Chase knew that Stitts would object; in fact, if the man didn’t protest her leaving alone, she would’ve thought it strange.
“Let me come with you,” Stitts pleaded. They were standing in the parking lot of the police station, and her partner was holding the keys to their rental hostage.
Chase shook her head. She had to meet Stu Barnes and she couldn’t do that with Stitts in tow. In fact, she hadn’t even decided if she was going to approach him as an FBI Agent or as a grieving poker player. Either way, she would be better off alone; it would be easier to get a read on the man that way.
“You need to trust me, Stitts. We’re not going to be able to get anything done if you don’t trust me.”
The words sounded hollow even to her own ears; how in the hell could Stitts trust her?
Fooled me once…
“I just… I’m worried about you, Chase. Give me a break here.”
And there it was again: Stitts bearing his emotions not just on his sleeve, but out in the open air like a foul smell.
Chase sighed and rubbed her temples. The headache that had started earlier in the day had subsided somewhat when she had thrown herself into the case, but it was slowly starting to rear its ugly head again.
And her arm was starting to itch again, too, which was even more disconcerting.
Pulling a page out of Stitts’s book, Chase refrained from speaking. Instead, she just held her hand out expectantly.
“Chase, let me come with you,” her partner said, even as he handed over the keys.
Chase was defiant.
“I need to do this alone, Stitts. I need to speak to the backer to see if he knows anything about last night. If we show up together, we’re not going to get anything. These gamblers — backers or players — they’re… well, they’re secretive. The only reason I think I can get him to talk is because I speak his language. We’ve got nothing so far; I don’t want risk blowing it by getting his guard up. How ‘bout you speak to the manager, and then we’ll meet up again for an early dinner?”
Stitts scowled.
“It sounds like I’m not going to see you until tomorrow.”
“Ouch,” Chase said, surprised by the way the barb stung. She took a deep breath. “I guess I deserved that, Stitts. And I can’t apologize enough for what happened, for what I put you through. I can’t even imagine what lengths you went to, to get me on this case. But that doesn’t change the fact that there are eleven people dead — eleven people that no one in this goddamn city seems to care about. You need to trust me, Stitts. Trust me, so that I can do my job.”
How can you do your job if you can’t ‘see’, a voice inside her head said. What good are you without that?
“Please,” Stitts said as he stepped away from the car, “if you need anything, and I mean anything, Chase, just call me. Call me and we’ll figure it out together. It just… it just can’t be like last time.”
The concern, the genuine concern in her partner’s voice was so touching that Chase couldn’t say anything for fear of her voice cracking. Instead, she simply nodded at her partner and then got into the car.
As she drove away from the police station, Chase hoped that Stitts was wrong.
She hoped that she would be able to overcome the temptations of Las Vegas and return to him before the sun dipped below the horizon.
As a gambler, however, she knew that the odds were not in her favor.
***
Stu Barnes was 63 years old and worth somewhere between 150 and 250 million dollars. He initially made his wealth in manufacturing, by teaming up with his father and investing in a plant in China prior to the influx of goods from that country. Shortly after his dad died, Stu made several shrewd investments on his own, with his big windfall coming from Twitter and Uber.
At least, that was what she could find out about the man online.
As Chase pulled up the long winding drive to Stu’s mansion near the city limits, she was reminded of a time long ago when she had driven up to a similar house, also with terrible news to offer. Only on that occasion, it had been to tell a woman that her husband had been murdered.
As Chase parked and stared at the large front door of the mansion, she instinctively checked that her badge was still in the inside pocket of her jacket, and that her gun was still in the holster at her hip.
But the longer she sat there, the more Chase started to reconsider her approach. Was it wise to arrive announced and interrogate a man who had just lost several million dollars? Not to mention the fact that the player he backed was likely a friend.
A friend who had been murdered less than 24 hours ago.
In her mind, Chase constructed two scenarios: one, Stu didn’t know of the murders and went into shock or, worse, lashed out when she told him; or two, he knew about them, and his lawyers had already prepped him for what to say to the authorities should they come knocking.
“Fuck it,” Chase said, removing her badge and gun and tossing them into the glovebox. If Stu clammed up, they would be back to where they started.
Which was nowhere.
With a deep breath, she stepped out of the car and made her way towards the door.
Chapter 25
Jeremy Stitts watched his partner leave in a cloud of exhaust.
What am I doing? What on earth am I doing?
He still couldn’t believe that he let Chase go. After all the times she’d lied and taken his car to score dope or to do whatever the hell it was that she did, he let her go again.
Oh, don’t be silly, Jeremy. She’s just borrowing the car, sweetie, his mother’s voice chimed inside his head. She’ll bring it back.
He could still picture his mother’s smile, the lipstick extending onto her cheek, her glassy eyes.
“Fuck,” he swore. It had been more than 24 hours since she’d been admitted, and there was still no word from the hospital. He took his cell phone from his pocket and debated calling to check in on her, but before he did, he shut his eyes for a moment.
This time, it wasn’t his mother’s face he saw or even Chase’s. It was the terrified expression in a young, pimply kid’s eyes as Stitts pushed the loaded gun against his forehead.
No, focus on the case. Solve the case, then go see her. If you call her now, you’ll only be distracted.
Stitts realized that his free hand had been balled into a fist, and he looked down it. His nails had dug into his palm so deeply that they left white indentations when he finally relaxed his fingers. They were like the many crescent moons of another world. A world where he wasn’t so stupid as to let Chase go off on her own.
Why did I do that?
Instead of calling the hospital, Stitts scrolled to Chase’s name instead and his thumb hovered over the call button.
In a way, Chase was right: partners needed to trust each other, their lives could depend on it. But he couldn’t trust her; he’d be an idiot to. She was a liar, she was an addict, and she was suffering from untreated PTSD from the loss of her sister all those years ago. Worst of all, Chase was as unpredictable as she was unstable.
With a deep breath, Stitts slipped his phone back into his pocket. Calling her now would do no good. Chase was gone; she had lied and manipulated him again.
And he’d been complicit.
Sweat forming on his brow, generated by equal parts Vegas sun and anxiety, he turned back to the police station. There were more government employees here at present than there were in all of Quantico. And yet, Stitts couldn’t help but feel alone.
He made his way back to Greg Ivory’s office, where he found the man staring at the images on the board. Stitts did the same.
“What are you thinking?” Greg asked, startling Stitts out of
his head.
I was thinking that I should start looking for a new job. Maybe a good lawyer, too.
“I wanna have a chat with the floor manager — with Shane McDuff. Problem is, my partner just borrowed my car.”
Drawing Dead (A Chase Adams FBI Thriller Book 3) Page 9