Ham laughed softly, brought back to the moment long enough to recognize the server considered him an uncontrolled threat. He settled the debt, added a generous tip by way of apology and assured the bartender he need not fear. For it wasn’t he that Ham was looking to beat into next week. It was the jackass who continued to insist to the world that the great Russ Porter had passed into the greater unknown.
3
THE THIN BLUE LINE OF TEMPTATION
Ham walked into blinding midafternoon sun and took a moment to adjust his eyes from the gloom of the bar. His vision, slow to cooperate, prevented him from appreciating the oncoming threat. Instead, to his complete surprise, somebody, some unknown, unkind, indecent someone, bashed into him from his flank, sent him sprawling sideways at a loss for balance and in a rage of spiteful retaliation. If only he could see.
The voice that invaded his red darkness sounded oddly sweet, almost demure, though the antithesis of apologetic. “Watch where you’re going, asshole,” the sweet voice offered into the wind and past his ear as he fell, his left shoulder bearing the brunt, the bruises and the scrapes. At least the stars shined brilliant and bright in his eyes, he acknowledged just after his head slammed a greeting with the sidewalk. They burned brighter and in even more beautiful fashion as he suffered the whap, whap, whap of an oversized purse to the side of his face.
He raised an aching head just in time to identify his aggressor. Her head bobbed as she gradually shuffled on past, back bent, the cane her companion and savior, a chuckle following in her wake. A chuckle directed at the chuckleheaded fool on the ground, he fumed.
Little old ladies. Dangerous as asps, deadly as a bullet. Slower but more absolute. And meaner than the proverbial junk yard dog. The one she’d bite and make howl.
Ham picked himself up and dusted nonexistent dirt from his sleeves, nothing but an attempt to wipe away embarrassment. How am I going to protect Russ and the guys from men with guns, he wondered, when I can’t even protect myself from a tiny assassin with a cane?
Because they’re not as lethal, he bristled. They don’t use a purse for their hits.
Woozily, he steadied himself up, shook off the ignominy from his body, and stumbled on toward his target. Which would be the Reno PD, where he’d demand some answers. And if they weren’t forthcoming, by god he’d go find the little old assassin lady and have her fetch her killer purse. They’d learn not to screw with him anymore, of that he felt certain.
But first that fool of a reporter on the scene. Ham eagerly looked forward to interviewing the man, preferably off camera, but what the hell. Whatever. He’d face the consequences of the video proof later. With his attorney, the pit of the Nevada bar, at his side he feared nothing in court. D.A.s and even judges tended to wilt at the mere sight of said attorney striding through those grand courtroom doors.
As he neared the cameraman’s position, Ham held back and waited for a break in the action. Before the reporter stopped his almost ceaseless nonsensical rants, he stationed himself near the camera into which the reporter stared. He let his eyes burn threats of mayhem, all intended for the babbling fool, and grinned inwardly as the newsperson responded with growing agitation, pulling at his collar and sweating into his makeup. When he wound up his spiel and sent it back to his station anchors, the man dove for the nearest cop, pointed at Ham and appeared to plea for action.
The cop—Willman, by his name tag, sergeant by his stripes—studied Ham momentarily and nodded agreement before he approached. “Can I help you, sir?” he politely but insistently demanded.
“No. Thank you, though.”
The cop studied him for several long seconds, shrugged and returned to his post, clearly less than interested in whatever Ham may intend. Probably, he mused, because he could hardly present much of a threat in such a public a setting, and among such madness.
Wrong on both counts, Ham vowed to himself. He slid up to the reporter, easing his way through the crowd until he stood nose to hairline with the smaller man. Instantly, the reporter motioned for his cameraman to roll tape and hissed at Ham, “We’re on camera, here. Anything you do will be recorded and used as I see fit.”
“If you live long enough,” Ham grinned.
The man’s eyes flew wide, fear evident in the motion. “What is it you want from me?” he pleaded. “I don’t know you, do I? What did I ever do to you?”
“You pissed me off, that’s what you did to me. And I mean in a way that you probably should not have done.” Ham leaned in until he could smell the panic in the reporter’s sweat. “Now you gotta pay.”
Ham watched the man begin to quake and his lips start to tremble before, unexpectedly, he felt a rush of pity for the littler man and a flash of shame at his own brutality. “Look,” he sighed, “I didn’t mean to threaten you, at least not physically. I just want to talk.”
The man’s eyes revealed suspicion as he backed away. “Yeah? What about? I got a news report to do.” Sweeping his arm around, he added, “Or had you not noticed there’s a lot going on?”
“Oh, hell yes, I noticed,” Ham assured him. “I also noticed you claimed Russ Porter died. Why did you do that? And by the way, what is your name?”
The reporter eyes clouded with confusion. “Frank Cameron, Channel 335. What do you mean, why did I do it? That’s my job.”
“Russ is not dead,” Ham informed him flatly.
Frank’s mouth worked itself so dry it took several long moments for the words to emerge. “What do you mean, he’s not dead?” he demanded. “How do you know that? And who the hell are you, anyway?”
“I’m a private detective. I represent his bandmate, Eric Miller.”
The reporter’s jaw dropped and for the first time he appeared more curious than alarmed. “The bassist for Truckee River?”
“The bassist for Truckee River,” Ham affirmed. “And I assure you, neither he nor Russ is dead. Now, where did you get your misinformation?”
Frank pressed his hand against his ear, stared down at whatever and slowly nodded. “My anchor partner is about to throw it back to me. Hang on. And step out of frame,” he hissed.
Ham slipped into the crowd surrounding the cameraman’s setup and mingled enough to overhear partial conversations from multiple sources. No surprise, at least to him, everybody gasped shock at the assassination and the subsequent death of Russ Porter. Beyond that, many expressed various opinions as to the source and reason. Some even guessed a rival band which, had Ham had the time and the interest, might have caused him to roar and sneer at such expressed idiocy.
The reporter continued his summation of not facts but rumors, though Ham noticed he refrained from claiming death as a certainty. Specifically, to Ham’s satisfaction, he stated there had been unconfirmed reports of Russ Porter’s death.
Suddenly, Frank again held hand to ear, listening to words from his station, before he nodded, lips pressed tight, eyes narrowed in anger. Looking directly at Ham, rather than the camera, the reporter announced, “We now have confirmation that Russ Porter, of Truckee River fame, has passed away from injuries received here on the streets of Reno, inflicted by a still as yet unknown perpetrator. The world, I am sure, joins me in mourning the passing of a once in a generation master, of a truly great musician and an even greater human being. For Porter has long been known for his charitable endeavors, for his work on behalf of the poor, his efforts for peace, which to all his fans surely includes his anthem for reconciliation, ‘Peace of the Action’.”
The reporter paused to ostentatiously wipe a nonexistent tear from his eye before summing up. “This is Frank Cameron, TV 335 here in Reno. We’ll stay live at the scene of the tragedy and bring you updates as warranted. Ted, back to you.”
Ham tried but failed to stifle laughter as the field reporter scurried away from his assigned spot and dashed behind the cop on duty, effectively using the uniformed patrolman as his personal human shield. But rather than follow, Ham pulled his cell phone from his breast pocket and punched in a
number from his contact list. Only then did he leisurely stroll to the side of the reporter and his cop buffer.
On the second ring, Jill Nelson, Gary’s secretary, answered with a crisp, “Gary Larsen and Associates, Attorneys-at-Law.”
“Let me speak to Gary.”
“I’m sorry, he’s in conference with a client at the moment. May I take a message?”
“No, Jill, you may not. Interrupt Gary, tell him I got to talk to him like right now, that it’s Ham calling.”
“Oh. Mr. McCalister. Yes, sir, hold on for just a second and I’ll let him know you’re on the line.”
He waited no more than seconds before Gary’s voice boomed through the tiny receiver. “I figured I’d hear from you today. I just thought it would be sooner.”
“So you’ve heard?”
“Hell, Ham, everybody who is breathing has heard. It’s all anyone’s talking about, it’s all the news is talking about. It’s crazy. And damn, damn sad.”
“He’s not dead, Gary.”
“What?” the attorney shouted. “Are you sure? How do you know? Why doesn’t everybody else know? Why—?”
“Hey now, hang on a minute, take a breath before you hyperventilate yourself into a dead faint.” He waited a short spell to assure himself that Gary would calm down enough to listen before he continued. “I am sure, I know, because I heard it from the horse’s spouse’s mouth and—”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” a clearly exasperated Gary demanded. “I’m not in the mood for juvenile jokes. He’s my friend, too. Tell me what’s going on.”
“Gary, I promise you I will call you back shortly and fill you in on everything I’ve got. But I am pressed for time now and I need you to act as my attack dog.”
A slight pause preceded Gary’s overheard instruction. “Jill, tell Mr. Dagger to reschedule. Fit him in sometime next week, no matter how early or late, and give him my sincere apologies but that an emergency has arisen that requires my immediate attention. Again, apologize on my behalf and tell him I will make damn sure we fix his problem before the month is out. The cops are going to be sorry they ever started this. Las Vegas’ finest, my ass.”
When he sensed Gary’s attention turned back to the call, Ham reminded him, “Drew and I are ex-Las Vegas finest, may I remind you and your ass.”
Gary’s soft cough gave the point. “That was for my client’s benefit. I exclude you and Drew from that analysis. Now, what can I attack for you? Whatever you need, I’m the one.”
“That you are, my friend, that you are. I’m standing here with a news reporter idiot who is insisting to his audience that Russ is dead. I want you to file suit against him, personally, and against his station. His name—”
“I don’t care what his name is,” Gary interrupted. “You say Russ is not dead, that some horse has so told you. Let’s assume for the moment the horse is right. There’s no justification for suit. There’s no defamation, there’s no nothing.”
“How about intentional infliction of emotional distress?”
“Nope. Not even if he knows he’s reporting a lie. All we can do is try to get him fired for capricious journalism.”
Ham sighed, frustrated and teeming with unfulfilled retribution. “So the bastard gets away with it? His station suffers nothing from salaciously deceiving the world in order to get better ratings?”
“Wow,” Gary replied, eyes wide with clearly mock surprise, “salaciously? Really? Where’d you get that word? Anyway,” he rushed on before Ham could snarl back, “that’s not what I said. We can go after their license to broadcast. And given my connections, given I know where all the bones are buried, I can assure you we’ll make it stick. So tell him to stick that.”
“Better yet, you tell him,” Ham suggested as he handed his phone to the newscaster. “It’s for you.”
Ham waited, his grin growing ever wider as the reporter attempted to sputter responses, each of which, quite apparently, ran smack into objections from the attack dog on the other end. Finally, with a muttered, “Yeah, okay,” he handed the cell back to its owner. Ham offered a quick note of appreciation and a promise to call within the hour before he stored the phone in its holster. “Did you get the idea?”
“I got it,” Frank affirmed, “but there’s nothing I can do until I get word from the station. If I put this out without approval I’ll get fired.”
“You’ll lose your job if the station’s license isn’t renewed. So choose your poison.”
Ham left the reporter to muddle through his conundrum while he made his way further up the street, searching for what he felt certain he’d find. Which, only yards away he exactly did that.
He waited as the cop finished interviewing a presumed witness then strode into view, forcing the lieutenant to look up. “Well,” the cop grinned, “our paths, as you predicted, cross again.”
“That they do, Karl,” Ham agreed. “I take it the station patched a call from Las Vegas PD through to you.”
The lieutenant shrugged the obvious. “I thought I told you to call me, only not today. You don’t follow orders well, do you? Is that why you’re no longer on the force? Your captain ran you out of there for insubordination, right?”
Ham might have taken offense had the cop’s dancing eyes not revealed the humor. “Well, he did hold the door open for me. I’m not sure that means anything.”
“Right, McCalister, what do you want now? I’ve still got a pot load of interviews to do before these people disperse on me.”
“I don’t think I’d worry about that. This is too big to go away that fast. The crowd is just going to continue to grow. Also, I’d expect you’re going to be serenaded with Truckee River songs before the sun goes down, despite the fact that contrary to what you and they may have heard he is not dead. So you might want to finish your interviews before then. It’s going to be noisy.” Karl nodded and Ham spoke up again before the cop could add his own views. “I know about Liam Waterson, the other victim, and his reputed connections to crime. I need to know who the shooter was. I’d like to find him before Waterson’s people do.”
“Yeah,” Frank agreed, “dead men tell no tales. Fact is, we don’t know yet. I’ve got people checking all the cameras in the area and believe me there’s a bunch. As soon as we locate the right one, we’ll run it against facial recognition. No worries,” the lieutenant assured him, “we’ll get the bastard.”
“Get the bastard, yes,” Ham nodded, “with me along to play tag.”
Frank’s eyes allowed surprise to shine as a look of uncertainty crossed his face. “I’m not sure what you mean. At least I hope I’m not sure because if you’re asking what I think you are you’re crazier than my lunatic brother-in-law, and that’s damn hard to do.”
“No,” Ham grinned, “I’m not asking for fake credentials. Just let me tag along and do some questioning.” Frank snorted his answer and Ham went for the nuke in his arsenal. “I can make it worth your while.”
“Really. What could there possibly be in it for me, other than unemployment?”
“A weekend at Russ Porter’s place, when he’s in residence and can show you the inside story from the memorabilia of his life in the spotlight.”
Frank eyed him warily. “If he lives.” At Ham’s flashing eyes, he put up his hand in supplication. “I had to say it. From what you tell me he’s still alive but who knows how long?”
Ham sighed agreement, if not surrender. “Then we’ll spend some time with the bassist for Truckee River, my client, Eric Miller.”
The lieutenant merely stared at his misbegotten brother used-to-be-cop, slight shakes of his head his only comment. It went on long enough that Ham finally blushed his embarrassment. “I mean no disrespect. I’m just trying to do my job.”
“And I’m trying to do mine. But,” he grinned, “maybe you got yourself a deal.” When Ham extended a hand to shake, the cop shook him off. “Notice I make no promises, meaning I haven’t sold myself yet. Just back off a bit and give m
e time to finish up. We’ll talk later. I’ve got your card.”
Ham knew enough to do exactly that. With a friendly smile and small wave he blended back into the crowd, out of Frank’s line of vision.
And then proceeded to stomp all over that thin blue line of brotherhood.
4
THE CAMERA NEVER LIES (BUT PEOPLE DO)
Ham punched in Drew’s number and waited through four rings. He almost disconnected from the call but just before he could she answered with an expectant, “What’s up?”
“How is he?”
“The same. No change. By the way, I don’t know what you did but I know it was you that did it. They’ve retracted the report that Russ has passed. For that I thank you.”
“Thank Gary. Are the media hanging off the rafters?”
“Security won’t let them in. So far so good in terms of us being bothered by the ravenous hoard of pencil pushers, as Eric calls them.”
“Is he still there?”
“Yeah, he and Duncan both. I can’t convince them to go get something to eat. They keep telling me they’ll eat when they know Russ can too.”
“Let me speak to him.”
“Why don’t you just call him direct?”
“I don’t have his number.”
“Okay, I’ll text you his and Duncan’s. Meanwhile, here he is.”
Ham waited less than a few seconds before Eric demanded, “What have you found?”
“Nothing yet, we’re still in the early stages. There’s more confusion than anything else. But there is something you can do for me to help move this along a little faster.”
“You got it,” the rocker affirmed. “Whatever you need.”
“Remember I said I’d take care of putting some muscle around you guys?” Without waiting for reply, he continued, “Well, what I’d like is for you to call the Reno PD, tell them who you are—and I mean really use your fame here—and ask to speak to Lieutenant Karl Neely’s direct supervisor.”
The Biggest Little Crime In The World (A Ham McCalister Mystery Book 3) Page 4