Ham sensed the presence immediately upon entry to the baggage area. Though he identified no one by facial characteristics, he found them through his overly well-developed sense of mistrust. The room just reeked of it. That, and faithlessness.
Five suspected yakuza loitered, with an affectation of indifference, along with at least four he supposed belonged to Liam Waterson, now meaning they were Preston Talbot’s. Six or so more he deemed someone’s assets. They stank of it, may as well have been carrying signs. And all, he thought with absolute certainly, each one of them—the yakuza, the Waterson people and the unknowns—all of them armed to the proverbial teeth. For a moment visions of blood and carnage filled his mind and spun his head, as breathless he awaited the inevitable.
Only with firm resolve did he force his thoughts back to reality. Nothing even remotely like he imagined would occur here, not now, not at this time. Not for any reason whatever.
Fujita chose that moment to appear, trailed by three other men, none of which Ham had before seen. Though he nodded curtly to Ham, Drew and Preston, he pointedly did not mingle with Ham’s suspected yakuza personnel, which he now guessed risen from five to eight. Interesting, he reasoned. That’s a heavy dose of muscle to cover one man and the lone lady on his arm.
Ten anxious minutes passed before Preston straightened and began a march forward, Ham and Drew close on his heels. Though he’d never seen Nicole Waterson before, he supposed who she was based upon Preston’s fixed stare. That and the yakuza charging right at her and her companion. Not to mention the half a dozen he’d been unable to place. Plus seven more he’d failed to note at all. In all, twenty-seven people converged on that one couple not at all lost in the crowd.
16
DOWN THE UP STAIRCASE
“Hello, Nicole. Welcome home.”
Her head popped up as the smile ran from her face. “Why, Preston. What are you doing here?” she asked as Talbot’s men took up position.
Ignoring her question, he extended his hand to the yakuza boss. “Hello, Genta. Welcome to Reno. How long will you be in town?”
Genta nodded to Fujita who approached along with his men. The yakuza head waited until his men were in place before he bothered to reply. “Good to see you again, Preston. But you need not have been so clumsy in your approach. Had you wished to speak with me, to meet with me, you should have asked. We could have arranged a far better place to talk.”
“I’m not here to speak with you, Genta, at least not right now. We will meet again later, I assure you of that. At the moment, I’m here to meet Nicole. She is going to come with me.”
Ham caught Nicole’s all but imperceptible nod. A glance at Drew and her raised eyebrow suggested that she, too, had seen the gesture. What failed to surprise as a consequence was the approach and surrounding ring of an additional seven grim looking heavies. One of them took the lead and sidled up to Talbot. “Hello, Preston. I am not surprised to see you here. I must say I rather expected it.”
“Who the hell are you?” Ham blurted.
“Permit me,” Preston replied. “Meet my esteemed colleague, Adam Vicante. Nicole’s kin in crime.”
“Ah. And these bunch of goons belong to you, is that right?” Ham asked, sweeping his arm to include the men surrounding him.
Adam ignored the question, addressing himself instead to Talbot. “She’s with us, as you no doubt could have guessed. She’s under my protection.”
Preston sighed, an act emphasized by his lopsided smile. “That’s not saying a lot, not right now.” He waved forward his own men, who took up station around the Vicante guys.
An apparently amused Genta grinned at them, twisted but true. “Now we’re all set to dance. Shall we?”
A clearly exasperated Drew snapped at the lot of them. “Oh, this is good, this is really, really good. Why don’t you all take out your pieces, wave them around, shoot the place all to hell, maybe even hit a few innocent bystanders just for the wonder and the fun of it. God,” she spat, “the bunch of you, the whole lot of you, so choked on your wanna-be testosterone you can’t smell straight. Twenty-five, maybe thirty people shoot up the Reno airport. Oh, hell no, nobody will notice. It won’t make international news.” She shook her head in total, unbounded disgust and turned to Nicole Waterson. “How many men does it take to collectively make half a brain?”
“There aren’t that many in Nevada,” she grinned.
“If we can, let’s get back to business,” Ham suggested. “How about if we split up and quit making spectacles of ourselves? If you notice, we’re not exactly going unremarked.”
As he indicated, the entire luggage area gaped at them, standing, rooted in whispering curiosity. Even as they did, several airport police descended upon them.
“Gentlemen,” Preston offered, “how may we help you?”
“Is everything okay here?” one of them asked.
“Quite fine, indeed. We are gathered to greet our honored guest, Mr. Akiyama, who has privileged us by traveling all the way from Tokyo to speak at our conference.”
Palpable relief flashed in each of their eyes as the spokesman nodded. “That’s fine, and welcome to Reno, Mr. Akiyama. I hope you enjoy your time in our fair city. But please,” he begged of Preston, “try not to interfere with our other passengers. Maybe if you could hang back a bit?”
“Consider it done, Officer. In fact, we’re near to reconvening elsewhere. We will not be here much longer.”
Once they exited earshot, Preston took the lead. “Genta, Adam, let me suggest that the three of us reconvene as promised to our uniformed friends.”
“What do you have in mind?” Adam inquired.
“We are on our way to Jennifer Fister’s house.” Adam began to ask, but Talbot interrupted. “The reason for our visit is that we are told Barton Bianchi is there and we wish to interview him.”
At the mention of Bianchi, Adam’s eyes narrowed. “What is it you want from him?”
“Need I reply?”
“Let me,” Fujita offered. “We have learned that Mr. Bianchi coordinated the assassination of Liam Waterson. We are therefore of a mind with Mr. Talbot. We, too, wish to interview the man.”
“Do you object?” Preston demanded of Adam.
An elaborate shrug belied the answer. “Have at it. We’re unconcerned with your reasons.”
“Then you won’t mind leaving us.”
Adam grinned, a crooked and unamused expression by the looks of it. “I did not mean to imply that we are willing to withdraw. On the contrary, we will do whatever necessary to protect Nicole’s interests and if it is true that Bianchi is behind this, why then I believe it is in Nicole’s interests that we be involved in the interview and investigation.”
Preston pursed his lips, appeared to think about it. “Alright, agreed. But let’s not make a mockery of this. You pick two people, Genta picks two, and I do as well. The six of us will meet at Jennifer’s, the rest are held in reserve. Is that acceptable?” At their agreement, he added, “I will take Mr. McCalister and Ms. Porter.”
“No,” Ham replied. “Drew and I will be there, but we are representing her husband. No one else. Pick your own people, there’ll be the eight of us.”
“As you wish,” he agreed. To Adam he added, “Just so you are prepared, you and I are going to have a conversation with respect to one Sergeant Larry Pendleton, lately of Reno PD, now in hiding somewhere in Las Vegas, I now suspect.”
Adam eyed him with wariness, finally nodded his head and turned to his own people to issue orders. Ham and Drew waited while Preston and Genta, too, gave various orders to their associates. Once they were ready, Ham led them toward the exit, not bothering to ask if they knew the way. Of course they did, they would. Hell, he thought, they knew everything about everybody.
The companionable cop still stood watch near Jennifer’s vehicle, the one that Drew now drove. He nodded as they approached, offered a wide smile and a wish for a very good night, then withdrew. Or at least he tried to before
Preston stopped him. “Just a second. I wish to thank you for your kind consideration. And I always return favors,” he added as he stuck a wad of bills in the man’s hand under guise of shaking. Though Ham saw little of it, he did see “100” several times among them. With a silent laugh, he entered the car, thinking that next time Preston wanted to leave his car in a no parking zone that cop will shoot anybody who tries to interfere.
Ham dipped his head in silent tribute to the mass of men Preston, Genta and Adam had gathered. With the exception of the chosen few, the rest simply vanished, blended so well with the night that only their shadows were left behind to prove their former presence. Though without doubt, he mused, they’d reemerge in less time than it took to disperse should the call resound.
From his side view mirror, he noted that Fujita, Genta’s chauffeur, stuck as close to their tail as physics allowed. Certainly closer than safety allowed. Adam’s driver, on the other hand, chose to pace them to the side, probably to avoid crazy Fujita. No matter, he decided, it probably behooved them to travel as one. That way no one gets to their destination first and while waiting decides to crash the party without the rest of the guests, uninvited as they were.
By the time those thoughts were fully formed, Drew had pulled onto Jennifer’s street, as directed by Preston. He pointed to their destination and she slid smoothly to the curb, immediately followed by the two additional vehicles. From still another car across the street came the flash of a lighter, quickly extinguished. A signal from Fujita’s men? Probably exactly that, Ham figured, meaning Barton Bianchi hadn’t left, he still resided within.
Almost as one, each vehicle emptied, doors softly closed, and Preston led the way to the stoop. He knocked gently and as he did, Adam and his men, as well as Genta and his, all melted into the darkness. Probably so as not to induce undue panic when she opened the door to be greeted with the sudden appearance of eleven unexpected intruders crashing forward through her door.
Well done, Ham silently acknowledged as he, too, slid to Preston’s side, out of direct view from the entry. He noted with delight that Drew did the same. Clearly she had reasoned her way to the same supposition. Although no doubt sooner.
Failure to heed the first, understated knock, caused Talbot to pound harder, louder and longer. His hand had barely removed itself from the door when it finally cracked ajar and a startled looking Jennifer glanced around the edge. “Preston? My god, what are you doing here? It’s late and I’m on my way to bed.”
“I hope not, dear. That would have obscene implications. In more ways than one. May I come in?”
“I’m not presentable. Like I said, I’m on my way to a quick shower and then to bed. Can’t this wait until morning?”
“No, dear, it cannot wait until morning. It can’t even wait for another minute. Now open up or I’m going to have to take the damn thing down.”
Sounds of movement floated from inside, steps across the floor, echoes of soft soles traipsing over carpetless tile. Preston spread both arms wide, a finger pointing from each hand. Without further, presumably unnecessary communication, one of his men headed left around the house, the other circling to the right. Two of Genta’s men dogged their heels, one on the right, the other to the left. Not to be outdone, one of Adam’s guys trailed each side. Ham might have laughed, would have laughed, had the stage not been so dangerously set. For him, for them and, most especially, for the unfortunate Barton Bianchi, the hidden target within.
Still Jennifer waited, a stall for time, Ham assumed. Apparently in agreement, Adam stepped out of the shadows and directly into Jennifer’s line of sight. The involuntary gasp that act evoked was not lost of him. She knew she’d been trapped, cornered, left without escape.
Eschewing explanation, she opened wide and beckoned them enter. Surprise surfaced in her eyes as Ham and Drew entered on the heels of Jennifer’s godfather. “What are they doing here?”
“They are at the moment representing my interests.” Before either one had the chance to correct the misstatement, Preston rushed on. “They also, of course, represent Ms. Porter’s husband, the unfortunate caught in the crossfire. They have many, many questions they wish to ask.”
Jennifer jumped, a small scream its accompaniment, as a resounding thud and bang came from the back of the house, along with a crash of footfalls across unprotected floor. “What in the world?” she screamed. “What was that?”
In answer to her question, nine men emerged as one. Nine men who circled her and the people around her. Nine unsmiling men adorned with cologne of danger. Nine men who nodded in unison their belief that Bianchi was still somewhere inside.
“Jennifer, we got ourselves a problem,” Adam informed her. “This gentleman beside me is Genta Akiyama. He represents interests with yakuza.” The wide shock in her eyes clued Ham to the fact she got the point. “I am here to protect my interests. Since you and my wife are close, I have decided it’s best that I act to protect your interests, as she would wish me to do. Preston, I assume, godfather or not, is less interested in any interests but his own. You might wish to keep that in mind as the next few minutes unfold.”
“Where is he?” Talbot pressed.
“Where is who?”
Talbot’s sigh could not have sounded more disappointed if he’d added the words. “Please don’t play with me, dear. Things have gone way too far. I’m going to find it out of my hands before too very long and then even Adam will not be able to save you.”
“Barton,” Adam clarified, adding nothing further.
The insistent ring from Ham’s cell caught the attention of all and caused conversation to cease. His cheeks flamed as he cursed himself for a fool for not remembering to turn the damn thing off. He almost hit the reject button, was in the act of doing so, when he noted the caller’s name. Lieutenant Karl Neely. Shock caused him to wander away from the group, hopes of a confidential conversation overriding caution. Could this be something about Derek Fister? What the hell could have happened in a police station?
“Yeah, Karl,” he whispered, “what’s up? I’m kind of tied up right now.”
“Well, untie yourself. You talked with Quentin Wallace, remember? And why are you whispering?”
“Too much company. I don’t recognize the name.”
“You would if you took a second to think about it. The reporter from the Reno Gazette-Journal.”
“Oh, sure. We exchanged some information and he was going to check on Liam Waterson’s group. He was going to give me a call, I remember now, but with everything moving so fast I totally forgot. What about him?”
“What about him is that we pulled his body from the Truckee River about twenty minutes ago.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Kidding I am not. One shot, neatly through the heart. He’d have died before he hit the ground.”
“Oh, Christ,” Ham breathed, the breath coming hard. Only firm determination kept him from turning to stare accusations of murder at Preston. Though to be sure it also could be yakuza if they were in bed with Vicante. As for Vicante, Ham saw no benefit to him in offing a reporter asking nagging questions about a rival business. “Are you sure? Never mind,” he instantly corrected. “Of course you are. That’s a stupid question prompted by disbelief. How did you find him?”
“Your Mr. Derek Fister was kind enough to notify us of the fact and where to focus our search.”
“What?” Ham shouted before he clamped lips, eyes and jaw shut. Before he walked further from the assembled and now very curious group. Before with renewed vision he noted Drew headed directly to his side, a pleasant sight of reassurance. He shook the shock from his mind and tried to concentrate, strained to release the cop within. Focus, investigate, charge. In that order. “Okay, how did he know this? What else did he tell you?”
Before the answer arrived, Ham spotted through his peripheral vision a large movement of bodies from behind and to the side. He chanced a hurried glance. The heavies spread out, each headed to se
parate areas of the house. Obviously, the search was on. Meaning Jennifer had yet to confirm Barton’s presence, a failure of trust that quite likely would come back to haunt her, in his opinion. If they were so inflamed and callous as to take out an inoffensive reporter, they’d likely not stop at the gross sin of eradication of an overmatched woman. He shook his head in dismay, both at the thought and at his own lack of practiced instinct. He’d never have thought that of the courtly old gentleman.
Ham blushed, an inward disgust, the bile rising in his throat, all directed at his own lack of professional and investigative prowess. He’d not underestimate the banality of that man’s malevolence again. Unless he was as goddam dumb as he looked, he sneered at himself.
He shook away the pain, the anger and angst as sudden sounds, more squawks than words, flowed from his phone, white noise that finally worked its way through to his conscious mind. “Say again, Karl, I missed it.”
Because I’m a useless self-castigating idiot.
“You okay? You seem spaced, lost out there somewhere.”
“It’s all good. Just tell me again.”
“It’s come to my attention that you know a Mr. Jesse Spencer. Is that correct?”
“Yes, of course. I saved him from a bum rap years ago in Vegas and he’s been driving me around Reno by way of thanks. What about him?”
“Well, are you aware that he’s connected?”
A grim smile appeared on Ham’s lips and tightness iced the eyes. “Actually, I heard he is the connection.”
“What is that supposed to mean? Never mind, forget I asked. Did you also know his step-brother is Quentin Wallace?”
Ham shot out breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding, exasperation expelled in companionable accompaniment. “Okay,” he admitted, angry but calm in voice, “so I’ve been played. He played his bro, as well, I’m guessing. Where is Jesse now?”
“That’s an all-points bulletin question. I’ll let you know when we find him, though.”
The Biggest Little Crime In The World (A Ham McCalister Mystery Book 3) Page 23