Mortal Crimes 2

by Various Authors

  A dark figure entered the picture. Jay stopped, reversed the tape until the figure was again seen entering the frame.

  “There he is,” Jay said. “We’re not going to get much more than that. It’s obvious he knows about surveillance and cameras. We see what he wants us to. A man in dark clothes wearing a baseball cap. It could be anyone. No way to tell how tall he is or whether his hair is dark or light. With this grainy quality, he could be any nationality. Can’t tell for sure.”

  “Fingerprints?” LeBarre asked. “He wasn’t wearing gloves.”

  “Look at how he presses the button. With a knuckle. No prints.”

  The camera moved on. When it returned to the number two elevator, the area was empty and the doors were inches from closing.

  “Kasey, I know there’s not a whole lot to go by, but can you tell if that’s the same guy who followed you last night?” Jay asked, rewinding again.

  “Sure looks like him. The cap and shirt look right, and— hold it— go back.” Kasey leaned forward. “What was he doing just before the camera moved away from him?”

  Jay played it back. They watched the man press the down button, then reach into his pocket, pull something out, and put it to his face. His head jerked back twice in rapid succession.

  “There. What was that?” she asked.

  “He popped something into his mouth,” Brad said.

  “No, not his mouth. His nose,” Kasey said. “Nose spray.”

  “So we look for someone with a cold?” LeBarre said.

  “Or allergies.” This from Dianne.

  “That could be half the people in Nevada. Everyone I know is allergic to something around here, including me,” Kasey said. “Not many people use antihistamine in nose spray form, though. Too addictive.”

  Jay rewound the tape until the capped figure was in view again. He hit pause, freezing the frame.

  For several moments no one spoke.

  Finally, LeBarre cleared his throat and said, “What do you want me to do, Jay? If this guy is the one causing you problems and he’s on security payroll, I’ll find him. And when I do, he won’t work for anybody else in the state. Hell, he won’t work, period. I’ll personally see to that.”

  Jay felt immense relief. Barney LeBarre seemed to be taking the news of a possible conspiracy, harassment, extortion, or whatever it was to heart. That morning when Jay had confided in him, LeBarre had appeared genuinely surprised and then outraged, expressing responsibility for the perpetrator and his actions. His eyes had flashed with anger. He stated that to have someone under his supervision jeopardize the welfare of the club was unforgivable and would not be tolerated.

  The decision to confide in LeBarre had been a difficult one for Jay. He had no idea whom he could trust. Particularly since it was apparent that the bad guy, whoever he was, was well-connected in some way, moving about more freely than an average security officer. As head of security, LeBarre had access to every lock in the hotel and casino. But Jay had to trust someone and the man had a sterling record. Twenty years with the club, twelve of them in a supervisory position.

  “Barney, when we find out who he is, I don’t want you to do anything. I don’t want him to know that we’re on to him. Is that clear?”

  “Geeze, Mr. King, I don’t know. That could be bad. Bad for the club, I mean. No telling what this flake can do if we don’t cut him off at the knees.”

  “First we have to ID him. Then we need to catch him in the act. Someone killed a guest and a maid. Someone is making threats toward me and my family. It may be the guy in the video, and again it may not be.” Jay pointed at the figure on the screen. “If he’s an employee here, Sparks PD will have a police card and photo on file. Kasey should be able to spot him.”

  The meeting went on for a few more minutes and ended with Jay reminding everyone to keep what they knew to themselves. “There’s a dangerous man running around the club, so watch yourselves. Dianne, Brad, Kasey, don’t go anywhere alone, and be on the lookout for anything out of the ordinary.”

  Everyone stood.

  “Uncle Jay, can I have a word with you? In private?” Brad asked.

  After everyone filed out, Jay turned to his nephew, “What is it, Brad?”

  “I’d like to know what’s going on here. Why am I being left out of everything? You hired Kasey to work with me; now it’s just the two of you. She gets the important stuff while I get the crap.”

  “Brad, I hired Kasey to look into some threats I’d gotten. If that wasn’t made clear to you, then I’m sorry. Working with you was only a front.”

  “That may be, but it’s no reason to shut me out. I have a vested interest in what happens here, don’t I? The club could be mine someday. You told me so yourself. Is that true or were you just jerking me around?”

  “No, Brad, I wasn’t jerking you around. You and your sister inherited a sizable percentage from your father; and when you’ve been on board awhile and after you’ve been made a partner, that will entitle you to even more.”

  “But right now you have controlling interest. And if you die, Dianne gets it.”

  “I doubt your aunt will want to be saddled with the club. We both know how she feels about it. But if it comes to that she’s not going to just hand it over to you. You’ll have to buy her out.”

  “I intend to.”

  “Good. Nothing would please me more than to know the club will stay in the immediate family.” Jay knew Brad needed an occasional dose of assurance. At present, the boy was not as responsible or conscientious as Jay would like him to be. But Brad was no different than Jay had been at his age. So how could he expect more from his nephew than he, himself, had been willing to give?

  Maybe things were about to change. Wasn’t Brad asking for more responsibility? More involvement in the club?

  Or did the focus of his complaint concern not the club or his duties, but Kasey Atwood and the fact that Jay and not Brad was spending time with her? Jay suspected, by the way his nephew looked at Kasey, by the way he jockeyed to be near her, that the boy regarded her as more than a coworker. Brad’s next words served to confirm Jay’s suspicion.

  “You and Kasey have gotten pretty tight. Joined at the hip, practically. People are starting to talk.”

  “Who’s talking?”

  “Start with the top brass and go down.”

  Jay, about to hotly deny that anything was going on between them, abruptly changed his mind. He realized it didn’t matter who was talking, if indeed anyone were. Brad was jealous. If Brad were jealous, then Dianne had to be wondering what was going on. Hadn’t she, too, complained about being excluded? It was only a matter of time before she would begin to question her husband’s relationship with her friend.

  Jay felt a twinge of guilt. He was certain Kasey had no physical interest in him. But, God help him, he couldn’t in all honesty say the same about his feelings toward her. He thought back to the night before, standing in the dim monitor room watching her sleep, thinking how delicate and vulnerable she looked when her guard was down. He had wanted to touch her, kiss her, but he had resisted. How much longer, though? he asked himself

  This morning when he had arisen, Kasey had already gone. And at the meeting she had been unusually quiet, refusing to meet his eyes. Was she aware of his feelings?

  Jay buttoned his jacket. “Okay, Brad, you want in on it, you’re in. Meet with Kasey this afternoon at four in the monitor room. She can fill you in on everything.”

  “Who’s going with her to the police station?”

  “She can go alone.”

  “You’re backing off on this?”

  “The two of you can handle it,” he responded a bit brusquely. “I have a business to run and a wife to look after.”

  *

  At police headquarters, Kasey sat in a large central room filled with file cabinets, microfiche machines, and computer equipment, looking through the photographs attached to a stack of police card applications. Within a short time, Kasey had three pr
obables.

  From a phone on the desk, she called Jay’s private line at the club and wondered if he were in. After the meeting that morning, he had left word with his secretary that he would be out most of the day and that Kasey was to go to the station without him.

  Was Jay avoiding her?

  When he came on the line, she said, “Jay, it’s Kasey.”

  “Yes, Kasey,” he said evenly.

  “I’m at the station. I have three possibles. The men in the photographs look enough alike to warrant confirmation. Should I call LeBarre?”

  “Yes. I’m all tied up here. As soon as you know for sure which shift this character works, then that’s the shift you’ll take. No sense in the club monopolizing all your time. I’m sure you have other jobs, other engagements . .”

  “I’ll be in at four. I’m fairly certain he’s on swing.” She waited through a long, uncomfortable pause. “Well, until then…”

  “Kasey?”

  “Yes?” she responded, almost too eager.

  “There’s a keycard waiting for you at the front desk. Stay at the hotel until we get this mess cleared up. You’re too vulnerable coming and going late at night.”

  “We’ll see.” She was ill at ease in hotels, especially for more than a couple nights. Unless she felt imminent danger, she would continue to commute. “How’s Dianne?”

  “Antsy. She doesn’t like being confined. This isn’t going to be easy. Find this guy, Kasey. The quicker the better.”

  Kasey nodded absently and replaced the receiver without saying goodbye.

  *

  Sweat poured down his face, into his eyes, stinging. Pressure, from gnashing his teeth, built along his jawbone and shot daggers of pain upward into his temples. He struck out, his gloved fists pummeling, crushing. With hard, solid blows he punched, jabbed, punched again.

  Oblivious to the others around him in the men’s gym and equipment room on the fourth floor of the hotel, the Monk was in a world of his own. A familiar world of power, pain and, more often than not, payback. Today, instead of the long, heavy bag that dangled before him, his fists pounded into muscle and flesh, breaking the ribs and bruising the kidneys of his old nemesis Jay King. He launched his entire body into the assault, the impact from each blow more damaging than the preceding one, calculated blows meant to disable, to maim—to kill.

  There was a time years ago when he was nowhere near as disciplined as now. A time when a combination of pain, the sight of his own blood, and the prospect of being bested were enough to shatter any and all rational thought. Twenty years ago when he was stationed at an Army base in Germany, a young soldier on the boxing team, undefeated and cocky, he had come close to killing an opponent, a big Swede with an iron jaw and a relentless left jab. At the close of the tenth round, bleeding from a broken nose and a cut across his brow, sensing he might lose his first bout, he went berserk. He had never been beat. Would not be beat. The mere thought of defeat infuriated him. Blinded with rage, his battered body had suddenly exploded with a burst of superhuman strength. It had taken five men to pull him from the bleeding, unconscious Swede tangled in the ropes.

  It was possible Jay King, also on the boxing team, had sat in on that final match. But it would be another beating that would bring the two men together and seal the fate for the Monk’s military and boxing career. Jay King had butted in where he shouldn’t have and he would have to pay.

  Now, twenty years later, it was payback time. He knew King hadn’t forgotten him. Four years ago their paths had crossed again and, though the Monk’s appearance had changed considerably in the past two decades, he was certain King had known who he was. It was a simple matter of putting it together now, of making the connection. How many enemies could a spoiled, rich kid have? A kid whose father had handed him an empire worth tens of millions on a silver platter?

  The Monk thought of his own father, a motorcycle patrol cop with the Los Angeles Police Department. An image of red flashed before his eyes. He could never think of his old man without thinking about red boxing gloves—and pain. Pain was no stranger to him. He had lived with it every day of his childhood. Pain that had been inflicted not out of rage or anger, not indiscriminately or haphazardly, but with utter precision, under controlled circumstances until, in his late teens, he had managed to clear out for good.

  The Monk punched the heavy bag and muttered, “It’s for your own good.” For your own good…make a man outta you. No son of mine is ever gonna back down from a fight. The Monk envisioned the pair of red boxing gloves being flung into his face. Put ‘em on. Hurry up. You’re lucky, kid. My ol’ man never gave me the comfort of gloves. It was bare knuckles and sometimes the heel of his boot. It’s for your own good. Quit your crying, you little pussy. C’mon, c’mon, take a swing. Hurt me. You know you wanna, so c’mon, try an’ hurt me. Night after night before dinner, his father would toss him those red boxing gloves and they’d go several rounds in the backyard, or the garage when the weather turned. He dreaded most the times when his father stayed out late drinking with his buddies on the force. On those nights, he was dragged from his bed half-asleep and knocked around senseless until ultimately he began to cry. The weenie whining, as his father called it, always got him extended time, while his mother—his weak, worthless mother—stood by, silently wringing her hands. Then later, in his teens, it was his stepmother who stood by in her tight jeans and low-cut tops watching—gleefully, no hand-wringing there—father and son duke it out. By then he was giving nearly as good as he got. Nearly as good, but not quite.

  Because he was never allowed to lose or even be second best at anything for fear of his father’s retaliation, he learned at an early age to lie, cheat, and bully his way through life.

  The Monk punched the heavy bag, slick now from the sweat that flew from his face, and grunted with the effort. This was the way he wanted to take out the King, with his bare hands. But before he confronted his majesty, there were a few others who had to be taken care of first. There was no hurry. One thing he had learned over the years was patience. He savored the payback. Sometimes he waited years. Like with his stepmother.

  His father’s untimely death from an armed robber’s bullet to the head had cheated the son of that particular payback. But getting even with Lillie, prick-teaser Lillie with her tight clothes, foul mouth, and subtle come-ons, had more than made up for it. It was a payback that lived on and on, kept on giving. As a matter of fact, he told himself, it was time for a visit with his dear stepmother. He had some time on Sunday. He’d jump a plane, be in LA in an hour and at the sanatorium before noon. They’d have the whole afternoon together. How he enjoyed those visits.

  A flurry of punches sent the bag swaying, spinning. He grabbed the bag, hugged it to him for a moment as if it were a lover, then with an angry oath, flung it away from him. The swinging bag hit a portly man passing by.

  “Hey, watch it, fella,” the man said.

  In two strides the Monk was upon him, his hand at his throat. He slammed him into the wall. Their eyes locked.

  Frightened now, the man pressed his back to the wall, then raised his hands, palms out, in a sign of submission.

  The Monk let go, moved back.

  The man stood frozen, unable or unwilling to move.

  “Hey, man, look, I’m sorry.” The Monk leaned forward, straightened the towel around the man’s neck. “Let me buy you a drink. My name’s Tom. Tom Andrews. I work here in the club. Security. I was letting off a little stream just now and, well, I got carried away. Look, I’m really sorry.”

  The man backed up. “No problem. Everything’s cool.” He quickly disappeared through the door of the sauna.

  The Monk grinned and headed for the showers.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  At four o’clock, Kasey stood in the third-floor hallway, used the key Jay had given her, and let herself into the monitor room. The room was dim, all six screens glowing. Instead of Jay, Brad turned to greet her. He sat before the screens, the light giving
his dark hair pale-blue highlights.

  “Hello, there,” he said.

  “Hi.” She glanced at the closed door to Jay’s office, exposing her thoughts.

  “It’s just you and me. Unk asked me to sit in for him.”

  “Will he be in at all tonight?” She tried to sound nonchalant.

  “I doubt it. Why? You need to talk to him?”

  “No,” she said too quickly. “No. It’s okay. I asked LeBarre to send up a couple of files. Have you seen them?”

  “Yeah, they’re right here.” He pushed the folders toward her. “Andrews, Werner, and Cage. One’s on grave, so he’s out. The others work swing. We’re down to two.”

  Kasey separated the two files. Lucas Cage. Thomas Andrews. Both had been hired on at the beginning of the season.

  “Does Jay want to be notified when we spot him?”

  “Yep. And I’m to see that he gets a nightly progress report.”

  “Is everything okay? I mean, I thought he wanted to be…” she let her words die away.

  “To be in on everything? Yeah, he does, only not so directly. We do the legwork and get back to him. I think he realized he doesn’t have time to play detective. He said, and I quote, ‘I have business to run and a wife to look after.’”

  It was obvious Jay was avoiding her. He had made it quite clear she was again working with Brad and that Brad, not she, would report directly to him.

  Wasn’t this what she wanted? Now she could concentrate on doing what she’d been hired to do. She should feel relief, a burdensome weight lifted. So why the sudden lack of enthusiasm for the job? Why did she feel empty, adrift?

  She knew why, but damned if she’d allow herself to dwell on it.

  “Let’s get started then.” She tossed her purse onto the sofa and sat at the table. “Remember the security guard in the garage who we thought was attacking the woman?”

  “Was he? Attacking her? You talked to her afterwards, what did she say?”