by D P Lyle
Shortly after his ninth birthday, Uncle Al sat him down at their motorhome’s dining table.
“It’s time,” Al had said. “Tonight. I have a place staked out. Should be a quick in and out.” He nodded. “You’ll be going in with me.”
“Really?”
Bobby had never been inside. His role had been the lookout. Hiding nearby, often in a tree, good view of the target house, sounding the selected bird call if the family returned. He’d only had to do that once.
“You’re ready,” Al said.
His first mission, a two-story house on a quiet cul-de-sac. Easy access from the wooded area that wrapped the backyard. The occupants were away. No alarm system, no window bars, lots of sliding glass. What Uncle Al called a “ripe plum.”
Bobby went in first, Al following, checking his every move.
They accessed the second story by way of a crabapple tree that hugged the home, near a small balcony. According to Al, even in houses with alarms the owners often didn’t pony up for upstairs window sensors. Save a little money. Fools.
Inside, Al showed him how to avoid any areas that might be occupied—bedrooms, bathrooms, particularly kids’ rooms. His take? They kept less predictable hours than did adults. Of course, people on vacation, or at work, or just out for an evening were best, but even if they were home and asleep, Al could get in and out without anyone being the wiser. That was a later lesson.
The night had been a success. Two high-end cameras—Nikons, no less—silverware, some jewelry—not all that expensive, but something—some cash hidden in a sock drawer, where it always was, and a nice crystal bowl. For Dixie.
One of Al’s rules was to go for the stuff you could fit in a pocket or could easily carry. TVs and stereos and computers were bulky and selling or pawning them could get sticky. Serial numbers and all that. Cash was king but jewelry could be broken down and that made it untraceable. Cameras fell in-between.
When they returned to the camp, Bobby had been on a high. The anxiety he had felt going in now morphed into a giddiness that made everyone smile. It had been a rite of passage. Into manhood, as far as the family saw it.
Afterward, he went on many outings with Al and Uncle Mo. Learning, getting better. His long arms and legs, and lean build, proved to be assets. He could slide in and out of even the tightest places with ease. He could move quietly through homes where the occupants slept, not knowing he had been there until the next day, often much later.
Six months into his new career, he made his first solo raid. Uncle Al served as lookout. Second floor window. No sweat. He filled his pockets with cash from a wallet and purse, a generous amount of jewelry from a dresser, with the couple sleeping just a few feet away. As he eased the drawer closed, the woman stirred. She raised her head and for a moment seemed to look right at him. He froze.
Another Uncle Al dictum was that, in the dark, stationary objects were invisible. Movement could be tracked. Bobby put that theory to the test. After what seemed like forever, the woman flipped back the covers and swung out of bed. Her back now to him as she seemed to be putting on slippers. Cain eased to his left and folded himself into a ball on the far side of the dresser. His chest tightened, his breathing shallowed. Sweat tickled his neck. He fought to ignore it.
The woman padded past him, merely two feet away, and entered the bathroom. Her flowery perfume trailed behind her. The man stirred, but only to roll over, readjust his pillow. Bobby considered taking a chance. Could he make it across the room and out the door undetected? But Al had often said, once you go to ground, stay put. Get small and wait. An opportunity to escape unnoticed would reveal itself. Through the slightly ajar door, he heard the woman urinating, then the toilet flushed, and again she shuffled back to bed, her slippers scraping across the carpet.
He waited. Time slowed. She flipped and flopped a few times. Her husband did, too. Then finally, thankfully, their breathing slowed, the man snoring slightly.
Cain made his escape.
Over the years, he had other close calls, but that night was imprinted in his mind. He had followed Al’s rules and had succeeded in walking away with over ten thousand in jewelry and cash.
Another step toward gypsy-style manhood.
CHAPTER 51
Most people who visited Vegas never left The Strip. Why would they? It had literally everything. Something for every major sin.
But the surrounding area, several blocks deep, was home to a few other major hotel/casinos, smaller boutique hotels, and motels of varying stature. High-end restaurants, to mom and pop ones, to dives and nightclubs. Strip joints. Liquor and convenience stores. Service stations. And apartment and condo projects from large to small, luxurious to run-down.
Luis’s condo was only four blocks off The Strip, but it took over twenty minutes for Raquel Scotto to navigate the thick traffic. Cain called Brooke, telling her they had something to take care of so it’d be a bit longer. No problem.
Cain and Harper examined the building schematics Mama B had sent. Luis rented a third floor, corner unit, near one of the pools. No alarm system. At least he didn’t have any security contract among his bank and credit card records.
Was there anything Mama B couldn’t dig up?
The condo project was okay, neither top drawer, nor ramshackle. Raquel circled its eight buildings. Most parking places were filled, but she found an empty slot on the backside, near a trio of dumpsters. Cain checked the knives he had secreted in hidden sheaths sewn into the seams of his pants, the third strapped to his ankle. The other five he had were likewise well hidden. Harper opened her purse and removed her Glock 17. She checked its clip and chambered a round.
Cain told Raquel to sit tight and he and Harper climbed out. Harper settled the Glock in the back of her jeans, covering it with her windbreaker.
They slipped between two of the identical tan-stucco, six-unit blocks—one being where Luis lived. First floor patios and stacked balconies, giving each unit a slice of outdoor space, were wrapped by a black, wrought iron railing. Similar iron work connected them vertically. An easy climb.
The problem? Thirty feet away a couple snuggled in a Jacuzzi, their backs to Cain and Harper. Blue light lit the water and reflected off two wine glasses on the apron.
“I’ll distract them,” Harper said. “You get your ass up there as quickly as you can.”
Harper walked toward the couple, circling the Jacuzzi, to face them from the far side. They looked up.
“How’s it going?” Harper asked.
“Couldn’t be better,” the guy said.
“I’m looking for a place,” Harper said. “Heard good things about this project.”
“It’s great,” the girl said.
Harper continued the small talk; Cain climbed. He easily reached Luis’s balcony and dealt with the sliding glass door. Took less than a minute to get inside. Five minutes later, Harper had extracted herself from the couple, circled the building to the entry, and climbed the stairs to the third floor. Cain opened the door and she entered.
“Nice place,” she said.
It was okay. Neat and well furnished. Open concept. The living area, the small dining table, and the kitchen separated by a short breakfast bar/counter, were essentially one room. They explored. Short hallway, a washer/dryer alcove along the right side, the single bedroom and bath on the left, nothing of interest.
Back in the main area Harper asked, “What’s the play?”
“I’m not in the mood to tap dance with Mr. Orosco.”
“And you think I am?”
Not a chance.
“So let’s go at him hard,” Cain said.
She nodded.
Footsteps approached. The sound of keys.
Cain settled in a chair that flanked a sofa, and faced the front door over a glass coffee table, where he laid two throwing knives. Harper slipped down the hall and into the washer alcove, out of sight.
The door opened. Luis entered, a small gym bag in one hand. He didn’t see Cai
n. Turned toward the kitchen, settling the bag on the breakfast counter. He tugged open the fridge and snagged a beer. He twisted off the cap and took a slug.
Then, he saw Cain.
“What the…?”
“Hello, Luis.”
“What are you doing?” His head swiveled. “How’d you get in here?”
“Wasn’t difficult.”
“Get the fuck out or I’ll call the cops.”
“No you won’t. Sit down. Let’s talk.”
“Fuck you.” He reached out and unzipped the bag.
“Keep your hands where I can see them.”
“Or what?”
“I might have to hurt you.” Cain scooped up one of the knives and flicked it. It thumped/twanged into the side of a cabinet only a foot or so from Luis’s head.
Luis recoiled. Looked that way. Then the gun appeared. In his right hand. He raised it toward Cain as he circled the counter.
“Guess you brought a knife to a gun fight,” Luis said.
Cain smiled. “I brought a gun, too.”
Luis looked confused. His gaze searched Cain, the remaining knife on the table.
“Really?” he said.
“Really,” Harper said.
He jumped, looked her way. Right into the muzzle of her Glock.
“Put the weapon down,” Harper said.
“I’ll shoot him,” Luis said.
“No you won’t,” Cain said. Luis turned back to him. “She’ll disconnect your spinal cord before you can hiccough.” Cain smiled. “She’s very good.” Luis froze. “Or I’ll put this other knife in your left eye. It’s your call.”
Sweat glistened on Luis’s face. His eyes wide. His hand shaking slightly.
“Sit,” Cain said. “We only want to talk.”
Luis seemed to consider his options. He placed the gun on the dining table, moved to the sofa, and sat. He took a calming breath. “About what?”
Harper yanked Cain’s knife from the wooden cabinet, then moved to Luis’s right, her weapon down at her side.
“You know what.”
Luis swallowed hard.
“I told you not to call Carlos.”
“I didn’t.”
“And here I thought we were going to be friends,” Cain said.
“I’m not your fucking friend.”
“What you don’t want is for me to be your enemy.”
“I’m not afraid of you,” Luis said.
But, he was. It was all over his face.
“I’ve killed twenty-seven people,” Cain said. “What makes you think I won’t make you number twenty-eight?”
Luis had no response.
“She’s only up to six,” Cain said, nodding toward Harper. “So she might want to do the honor.”
“I don’t know what you want.”
Cain removed his phone, pulled up the photo again, and held it where Luis could see the screen.
“You recognized someone in the picture.”
“I didn’t. I told you that.”
“And you lied. Take another look. Who is the guy you sent to Carlos?”
He studied the image again. “I can’t tell for sure. One of these guys.” He indicated Stenson, Tyler, and Norris.
“You don’t know which one?”
“They look alike. Are they brothers or something?”
“Something like that. Look more closely.”
Luis took the phone. He expanded and shrank the picture with his fingers several times. “I can’t tell. I’ve only seen the guy once. And that was several years ago.”
“Several years ago?” Cain asked.
“Yeah. He was looking for a girl. One of the bartenders told him to come to me. I hooked him up. That’s how I knew him. He would call whenever he was in town and I’d set up dates for him. Not often. After that first time it was all done on the phone.”
“So you never saw him face to face again?”
“That’s right.”
“So why’d you send him to Carlos?”
“He called a month or so ago. Needed a date, so I set it up. The next day he called again. Said he needed a girl for long term. Heard girls could be purchased.” Luis shook his head. “Some article he had seen online. Wanted to know if I did anything like that, or knew someone who did.”
“And Carlos did?”
“That’s what I’d heard. And he’s really the only guy I know in Nashville. That’s where the dude had said he was from. So I sent him that way.”
Cain nodded.
“What happened?” Luis asked. “Why’re you busting me on this?”
“Better you don’t know.” Cain stood. He took his phone back and slid it in his pocket. “We’ll leave you alone if you keep your mouth shut. But, if you contact Carlos again and tell him about this little chat, we’ll be back.” Cain smiled. “Next time won’t be as pleasant.”
CHAPTER 52
Captain Lee Bradford met Cain and Harper in the fourth floor corridor outside Adam Parker’s condo. An older building, but overall fairly well maintained. Except for the wobbly elevator they had taken up. It was nine a.m. They had gotten home from Vegas well past midnight, slept a few hours before Bradford called.
Bradford dismissed the uniformed officer he was chatting with as Cain and Harper walked toward him.
“What’s going on?” Cain asked. Bradford had declined to say on the phone, only that they might want to meet with him. Cain knew in his gut what the deal would be. Bradford confirmed it.
“Adam Parker got himself killed.”
“When?”
“Last night. ME techs say around midnight would be a good guess.”
“How?” Harper asked.
Bradford twisted his neck. “Follow me.”
The living room was neat and clean. Looked like Adam wasn’t your typical college guy. First off, it was a condo, not some off campus apartment, and it was well furnished and well kept. Guess pimping and selling girls was profitable.
Nothing looked out of place, nothing disturbed. Not so with the bedroom. An ME tech and a uniformed officer stood to one side of the bed. Adam lay on his back. Jockey shorts, no shirt. Entry wound in his left chest, another smack in the middle of his forehead. An execution.
“Carlos,” Cain said.
Bradford nodded. “Probably.”
“No probably about it.”
Cain told him of their visit to Vegas to see Luis Orosco, Luis calling Carlos.
“Carlos is getting nervous,” Bradford said.
“Cleaning house,” Harper said.
Cain circled to the far side of the bed. The body position, the double tap nature of the killing, the absence of anything, even the bedsheet, being out place said Adam was likely shot in his sleep.
“Who found him?” Cain asked.
“A friend. Classmate. He came by to pick him up for a racquet ball game. No answer at the door or on his phone. Said the front door was unlocked so he came in.”
“Where is he?”
“The back of a patrol car on his way to the station. I want to do an official interview. And record it.”
Cain nodded.
“If Carlos is behind this, I wonder who else is on his radar?” Bradford asked.
“Luis the valet,” Cain said. “He can connect Carlos to the guy who bought Cindy Grant.”
Bradford’s brow wrinkled. His jaw set, eyes narrowed.
“What is it?” Cain asked.
“Trying to decide if I need a warrant to go after Carlos, or can justify exigent circumstances. Maybe someone’s life is in danger. Like another girl.”
“No evidence of that,” Cain said.
“But we don’t know that. Could give me the excuse I need.”
“Or screw everything up,” Harper said.
Bradford gave a shake of his head. “True. The search, arrest, whatever could get tossed.”
“Might I suggest another way?” Cain said.
Bradford nodded. “Suggest away.”
Cain pulled ou
t his phone and brought up the photo Harper had taken. He extended it toward Bradford.
“This is Martin Stenson, his son Tyler, and some of Stenson’s bow hunting buddies.”
“Where’d you get this?”
“Harper took it. We were at his place. Met the crew.”
“Okay.”
“Our guy has only been seen, as far as we know, by three people. Luis Orosco and Carlos’ two sidekicks, Alejandro Reyes and Hector Munoz. When I showed this photo to Reyes and Munoz, they denied recognizing anyone. But they did. I saw it in the reactions. Luis also denied it until Harper and I explained things to him.”
“Explained?” Bradford asked.
Cain smiled. “Let’s say we convinced him it was in his best interest to come clean.”
“I don’t even want to know how that went down.”
Cain shrugged. “In the end, Luis said that the guy he saw was either Stenson, his son Tyler, or this guy.” Cain indicated Norris. “Guy named Ted Norris. One of Stenson’s hunting partners.”
Bradford squinted at the image. “They look a lot alike. At least on the small screen.”
“They do in person, too,” Harper said. “Up close you can tell Tyler is younger, but from a distance, not so easy.”
“But this Orosco guy. He didn’t know which one?”
Cain shook his head. “Only saw him once and that was a few years ago. Everything else was done over the phone.”
“What does everything else mean?”
“Whenever he was in town, whoever he is, he would contact Luis and he would supply him with a girl. Last time, he said he needed to purchase one.”
“This Luis guy told you that?”
“He did.” Cain glanced at Harper. “We didn’t leave him much wiggle room.”
“I can get someone on checking travel for each of them. See who goes to Vegas a lot.”
“That won’t be easy and it’ll take time,” Cain said. “And a trip to Vegas isn’t exactly evidence.
Bradford sighed.
“The main problem is that we don’t know who to look at. Right now, we have three possible suspects. And the real one might even be none of them. Could be someone we know nothing about.”
“Which makes barging in and taking down these three problematic.”