The Biggest Little Crime In The World (A Ham McCalister Mystery Book 3)

by Brent Kroetch

  “Sometimes,” he grinned. “It’s been known to happen. But,” he shrugged, “usually over time. It could be dangerous to lose one this quickly. And by dangerous, I mean my job.”

  “How dangerous?”

  The manager thought about it, appeared to be calculating his options, then slowly mouthed the words. “One-hundred thousand dollars worth of dangerous.”

  “You’re out of your mind,” Ham snapped. “Let’s discuss something real or let me get back about my business. One-hundred thousand dollars, my ass,” he muttered.

  “Your choice,” Derek grinned. “By the way,” he asked as he pointed at Russ, “who is this fellow you’re with?”

  Ham grinned a rueful “you got me” smirk. Clearly, the guy knew just exactly who it was that Ham escorted down the street. “Fine, then. How would you like to meet him? Spend some time at his house in Tahoe, have dinner, a few drinks, like that.”

  The manager’s wry smile presaged his reply. “Why, hell yeah, that would be just peachy. Me and the Truckee River legends just hanging, being the buds we are. Okay,” he agreed, “you got yourself a deal. That and one-hundred thousand dollars.”

  He could have slapped himself stupid except that would be redundant, he silently raged. How could he slap himself stupid when he was already an idiot? Idiotic enough to let this techie get the best of him.

  Must be slipping, Ham, old boy. If you ever had it.

  “I don’t have that kind of money.” When Derek just snorted, he admitted the obvious. “Fine, yes, I can raise it. Let me take the feed, I’ll meet up with you later.”

  “Oh, come on, man. Do I look so innocent as that?”

  “Serious, Derek. Here, let me prove myself.” He pulled his phone out, punched up a number from his contact list, the one Drew had recently provided, and held the instrument out far enough for the manager to overhear the conversation. “Hey,” Ham responded after Eric answered with a curt, “Yeah, what have you got?”

  “I need you to do me a favor. Simply state who you are, where you are and whether or not I work for you.”

  A long silence followed Ham’s request before an obviously confused Truckee River member came back with, “Right, I suppose you’ll explain it to me later. But for now, for the record, this is Eric Miller, I’m the bass player for Truckee River, and I’m at the hospital watching over Russ Porter, our singer and guitarist.” There was a short pause and then, after what Ham guessed was a mental snap of the fingers, he finished, “And yes, you, Ham McCalister, are working on a case for me at this time, a case involving the shootings on Virginia Street earlier today. Now,” he snapped, “if that’s all I’d like to return to Russ’ side.”

  Ham searched Derek’s face, saw the wide-eyed expression within and nodded satisfaction. “I’m going to need access to one-hundred thousand dollars in expense money.”

  Without hesitation, Eric agreed, and Ham was pleased to hear humor in his voice when he said, “I assume you will at least itemize it for me.”

  He rang off with a wish for Russ’ health, then returned his attention to the now clearly impressed and awed manager of the visual evidence feed. “Do you have a backup?”

  “No, we loop these through every four days or so, depending. There’s no need for duplicates.”

  “How are you going to explain a missing vital feed?”

  “Technical issues,” Derek grinned. “An unfortunate tape over, mechanical glitch.” He popped out a CD, encased it and handed it to Ham. “You’ll be in touch about the money?”

  “Guaranteed,” Ham nodded. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to screw you on this. I may need your testimony that the tapes are legit.”

  “Oh give it a rest,” Derek snapped. “No freaking way, man. What, I’m going to admit I sold them to you? And then what, get sued for the money I received and go to jail besides? Give me the goddam disc and then get the hell out of here. I’m not going to fuck with you. Not even for a shitload of money.”

  Ham held up a calming hand. “Take it easy, Derek, be cool. I’m not talking in a court of law, I’m talking about some of my cop contacts and buddies.” At the look of horror his statement produced, he chuckled and explained, “And I will hint to them, very, very strongly, that I stole these while you were showing my partner, a potential client, around.”

  “Sure,” he sighed, “a perfect plan. How, Mr. Smart Ass, did you happen to find the very feeds you needed?”

  “Easy,” Ham grinned, “those were the feeds we asked to see, given that the news is full of what occurred on the street.” At Derek’s abashed look, Ham smiled. “So what do you think? Is that a ‘duh’ or what?”

  “Seems like you’ve thought of it all.” The manager glanced at his watch. “I don’t mean to rush you but my coworker is due back, like a few minutes ago. Get out. And take this with you.”

  Ham rose, accepted the manager’s cell number scribbled on a scrap of paper and along with the CD dropped it in his coat pocket before following Derek to the door. “Just one more thing,” he mentioned. “Why didn’t the cops jump all over this? Didn’t they see the same thing?”

  Derek’s eyes shone with confusion. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I mean, yeah, they saw it, they slowed the feed, but then returned it to normal and went on. I have to admit, I was surprised. But,” he shrugged, “it’s not my job to tell them how to conduct their investigation.”

  “Did you get a name?”

  “You mean the cop who was here?”

  “There was only one?”

  “One, right.” He pulled a card from his wallet and showed it to Ham. “Larry Pendleton, Sergeant, Reno Police Department.”

  Ham wrote it down, nodded his appreciation and slipped out before Derek’s compadre returned.

  5

  THE COP AND THE MARK

  The moment he hit the street his cell chimed, a pocket nag come to life. Though he failed to recognize the number, the area code displayed 775, which meant Reno on the line and therefore a need to answer. “Yeah, McCalister here.”

  “Hey, Ham, Karl Neely.”

  Ham smiled into the phone, amusement flowing through him as he wondered how that conversation between Eric and the governor, and the governor and Neely had gone. Feigning innocence, he inquired, “Oh, Neely, yeah, of course. What can I do for you?”

  “Boy, you don’t mess around, do you? Straight to the biggest of all guns. First thing I know, unsuspecting me, we get a call from Governor Stephens. The governor, for criminy sake, a happenstance I am guessing had a lot to do with you and your famous playmates. And guess what, surprise, surprise, it worked. My captain about crapped himself. Might actually have, for all I know. What I do know is I’m your man, now and for the foreseeable future. According to the governor, you own me.”

  “Well,” Ham replied, modesty shading his voice, “I couldn’t be sure you’d take the bait, so I figured I’d hedge my bet and go ahead and back door it.”

  “Bull, McCalister, that was no back damn door, that was the front freaking entry. Blown open by a couple of pounds of C-4. And it worked. Captain Rogers threatened to put my ass on permanent school crossing patrol if I failed in any way, in any shape, or in any form to completely, totally and blindly cooperate. So, to get to the upshot, I guess I’m taking my orders from you for the duration. What are your instructions, boss?”

  Ham paused, not for effect but because he knew how he would react were some private investigator ex-cop hint at corruption in his department, which exactly he was about to do. “What I’m going to tell you I’d like to ask you keep to yourself.”

  It was Karl’s turn to pause, which Ham fully understood. He’d just been asked to keep his superiors out of the loop. “Well, let’s see. Is Governor Stephens going to protect my ass when it’s bitten off? Because that’s going to happen if they ever discover I shut them out of the investigation.”

  “Guaranteed she will,” Ham smiled into the phone. “In fact, there’s a decent chance that if we solve this thing you�
�ll end up their boss. Or at least heading up Stephens’ security team,” he added. “Either way, you win.”

  “You’re a good salesman, McCalister, I’ll hand you that. Anyway, I don’t suppose I can refuse, not without you tattling on me to your governor friend. So okay, mum it will be.”

  “Sergeant Larry Pendleton. You know him?”

  “Sure. What about him?”

  “Can you get me his file and any and every background you have and/or can get on him in the next day or so? Or better yet, today.”

  The sigh that resounded through the phone exposed total and maximum exasperation. “What do you want me to do, go to personnel and tell them I need a copy of his employment file? You don’t think they’ll ask why and where’s my authorization? You’ve been there, you know the bureaucracy. I ain’t no damn internal affairs jackoff.”

  “Tell them it’s for Governor Stephens, that it’s confidential and that it means their job if they leak a word of it to anyone. And before you ask, yes, I’ll get word to the governor that she may need to back you up on it.”’

  Ham was unable to tell whether the soft laughter those claims evoked were caused by disbelief or amazement. Maybe both.

  “You got chutzpah, McCalister. Balls bigger than most.”

  Okay, both.

  “Well?”

  “I’m your man, your inside one, as it were. Then what? What else?”

  “Use whatever resources you can to see if he has any connections in Las Vegas, particularly casino people.”

  This time the pause was pregnant with concern. “I hope you’re not hinting at organized crime.”

  “I’m sorry, but yes, that is precisely what I’m hinting at. It’s precisely what I’m looking for.”

  “You just crushed my hope,” Karl sighed. “Have you no pity?”

  “Indeed, I do,” Ham replied. “I know I’m putting you in a rough spot. But it’s going to get rougher, if that’s any consolation.”

  Ham distinctly heard a plink and visualized the cause. Beyond doubt, a disgusted Karl had tossed his pen in the air. Its return to the desk had given rise to the sonic frustration echoed therein.

  “Two things, two quite major things, are left yet to do. First, I have in my possession a CD showing the actual moment of the shootings on Virginia Street, and it shows a manageable image of the man or men involved. It will take enhancement but it should result in images sufficient for facial recognition. And,” he emphasized, “I’m betting that we will get a hit since I’m also betting that the person or persons who did this have had more than one or two run-ins with the justice system. This wouldn’t be their first rodeo.”

  “Where did you locate the CD?” Karl demanded. “And why didn’t we get them, if they’re that easy to find? What in the name of all that is holy is going on? What are you doing, and how the hell are you doing it if we can’t?”

  Ham gave the cop a moment to take a breath and reset his mind before he explained. “That’s why I want to get a complete background on your Sergeant Larry Pendleton. He’s seen the tapes, even slowed the feed to examine the scene at the precise moment when the crime occurred.”

  An explosion of breath blew through the phone, followed immediately by the heat of fiery anger. “That punk son of a bitch,” Karl breathed, clearly keeping his voice low. “I sent him to those shops. He told me he’d found nothing.”

  “I’m sorry,” Ham sympathized. “I know you don’t want to hear something like that about one of your guys. How well do you know him?”

  “How well?” Karl snarled. “Apparently not well at all, despite the fact that he and I play poker with the guys once a week. We sometimes go to barbecues together, even hit the local cop bar for a drink or two after work. Our wives and kids are friends. Shit, we even vacationed together once, out to Napa Valley wine country.” The smack of hand on wood suggested that Karl had vented his frustration with a physical blow to his desk. He only hoped Neely’s fist had survived the fight. “So how well do I know him? Not as well as I’m going to know him after I get his balls in a vice, I can promise you that.”

  “Whoa,” Ham said, “I get it but no, you will not at this time confront him, nor are you in any way to give the impression you’re unhappy with him.”

  “I’m not that good an actor. In fact I’m not an actor at all. I’m a cop.” Though belied by the words, a mini smile softened his voice.

  “So it’s time for you to learn,” Ham replied. “And now let me remind you, there are two things. That being number one, and this being number two. You need to put together a team to protect Russ and the boys while they’re at the hospital, or when they go to eat, or go home or anything else. It needs to be round the clock until this is over.”

  “That I can do, no problem. I’ll make the offer to my best guys here in the precinct, get them from different shifts so we can keep people on your guys twenty-four/seven.”

  “I don’t want to insult your intelligence,” Ham softly informed him, “and I’m sure you’re already aware of it, but don’t offer to anybody who you think or even suspect is close to Sergeant Pendleton.”

  “Well, hell,” Karl replied, “guess I’ll have to scratch his wife off my list of invites.”

  Ham ignored the comment. “More important is what you’re going to tell Pendleton as to why you’ve shut him out of such a high profile sidelight.”

  “That’s not a problem. He’ll believe me when I tell him he’s the one guy I can’t spare, that I need him focused on the shootings, that I’m counting on him to solve this thing, that the crime is even more high profile and good for long term advancement than the security guard crap I’m foisting off on the others.”

  “Well, that’s a mouthful,” Ham declared. “So fine, you got it covered. So last thing.”

  “You said two. This is three.”

  “Last thing,” Ham repeated, disregarding the interjection. “I’m not coming into the precinct for obvious reasons. I’m going to make a dupe of the feed, which I will then hand off to you so you can run facial recognition.” He glanced at his watch, thought a minute and added, “I can have it ready in an hour. Where can we meet?”

  “Make it easy on yourself,” Karl suggested. “I’m flexible, probably more so than you are without your wheels.”

  “Okay, thanks. How about the lobby bar at Reno Resort and Casino? I’ve got a room there, I can make the dupe and meet you then.”

  “See you in an hour,” Karl agreed.

  Ham holstered his cell phone and began the walk towards what he recalled was a cab stand no more than three blocks up and just across the street on which he trod. He’d taken but three steps when his vision was captured by a pair of shoes fronting his own, blocking his way. He glanced up in alarm and immediately softened his stance. In front of him, clearly intent on forcing Ham to halt, stood his erstwhile cabbie, Jesse Spencer, the onetime accused, now exonerated former Las Vegas resident, and currently Ham’s wanna-be Reno angel of mercy.

  “Where you headed, McCalister?”

  “Glad to see you, Jesse,” Ham said as he extended his hand to shake. “Your timing is impeccable. It so happens I need a ride to my hotel.”

  “Not so impeccable,” Jesse responded. “Been waiting here since I dropped you off and you went in.”

  Ham cocked his head, examining the man for clues of humor. Apparently not, he decided. “You mean you kept parked here, illegally from the street signs, and didn’t respond to calls? Won’t that get you fired?”

  “I figure you can fix that, too, just like you did my little problem fifteen years ago.” When Ham started to object, Jesse shook his head and Ham’s hand. “Just kidding. I called out on personal business. Just loses me some money is all, which I am more than happy to forgo to return some favors here.”

  “Jesse, you don’t owe me anything,” Ham assured him. “It was my job.”

  “Bullshit, McCalister. The others doing their job, they didn’t give a flying crap. You did. Now hop in, tell me which hot
el and I’ll get you there before you can count the lights I’m going to run.”

  Jesse performed better than advertised, screeching and careening around cars, corners and cops, all of whom ignored him. Either because this was normal for Reno or because of the concentration on the city’s latest and biggest crime. Ham guessed the latter, though he realized it might also be a mixture of the two. On the other hand, he grinned to himself, it might simply reflect the time of day, what with it being near to drinking hour and all.

  As Jesse pulled none too gently to a halt in front of the hotel, Ham leaned across the seat. “Again, you have no meter running. You’ve got to let me pay you. You’ve already lost income waiting on me, and that’s enough. You’ve repaid your debt and you’ve got my gratitude besides.”

  “Ain’t happening, big guy. You’ll find me here when you come out. And you will also find the meter must be broke ‘cuz it ain’t never running no more. Not that you’ll see.”

  Ham shook his head, shrugged resignation. “Okay, Jesse, have it your way. But let’s also have it mine. You said you called in personal time. How long can you do that?”

  The cabbie turned near full around to better gauge Ham’s intent. “As long as you need, you got me. It’s just vacation time.”

  “Unpaid.”

  “Whatever,” Jesse shrugged, clearly uncomfortable with the statement.

  “I really could use a driver,” Ham replied. “I will be going places, I won’t always or even ever know in advance where, and I damn sure won’t know when. I also don’t know how long this will last or how long I will be in town.” Ham took a deep breath and studied Jesse’s serious demeanor. The man, he knew, was intently and seriously listening. “I want to hire you, a daily rate, and I want you to be on call, available anytime I need, day or night. And most importantly,” he insisted, “I need absolute, total discretion. You are to speak to nobody about me, where I go, who or what I see, and when I’m out and about.” Again he studied the cabbie’s eyes before asking, “You need some time to think it over? I’ll be here about an hour, maybe as much as two. I won’t need a response until then.”