by Green, Stacy
“Mark Chambers. No idea where he lives.”
“We’ll interview all of them as soon as possible.”
Like hell they would. Emilie heaved herself to her feet, clutching the chair for support. Her right heel had snapped during the struggle down the stairs, and the remaining one wobbled dangerously. She grabbed the sleeve of Avery’s fancy suit. “Please don’t contact my parents.”
“It’s protocol.” Avery detached her soiled fingers and dusted off the sleeve of his suit.
“I don’t want them involved,” Emilie shouted. She swayed unsteadily. “Especially my mother. Please.”
“We have to talk to everyone to make sure money wasn’t a motivating factor and to rule them out as suspects. You won’t need to have any contact with her.”
“Do not give them my personal information.” Her loud voice ricocheted off the walls. “I don’t want to speak to any of them.”
“We’ll protect your privacy. Right now, we need your clothes.”
“Excuse me?”
“You had direct physical contact with the suspect. The forensics lab needs to process your clothes for hair and fiber evidence. We’ll continue our interview at the hospital.”
“Now?”
“Yes, now.” He averted his eyes. “I’ll do my best to find something for you to wear.”
“That won’t be necessary. I keep a change of clothes in my office.”
Avery motioned to a woman in the hall. “Our tech will collect your clothes.”
Upstairs, markers littered the hallway denoting bullet holes and shell casings from the partner’s gun. Fingerprint dust covered everything as technicians combed the lobby. Emilie thought the whole process looked far more glamorous on television.
In the privacy of her office, she closed the blinds and pulled her spare set of clothes out of her oversized bottom drawer. She didn’t have any extra shoes.
The tech knocked on the door. “I’ve got an evidence bag for your things.”
Emilie quickly changed and handed the tech her work clothes.
“That should do it.” The tech sealed the evidence bag. “Do you need any help getting dressed?”
“No, thank you.” Pain radiated throughout her body as she slipped the white, cotton T-shirt over her head. The hospital had better give her some good painkillers.
“I’ll tell Detective Avery you’re ready.” The tech disappeared.
Reality began to sink in. This couldn’t have been about money. Her stepfather was loaded, but anyone looking to suck funds out of him would go after Claire, not her long-absent daughter. What did Creepy Guy want with her?
A loud rap on the door sent Emilie scrambling to her feet.
Avery and a stocky paramedic led Emilie to the bank’s east doors. “We tried to keep the press away from the ambulance, but they adapt like cockroaches,” Avery said. “I’ll stay in front of you.”
Emilie shielded her eyes from the blinding flashbulbs. The voracious mob of reporters closed in shouting question after question. Queasiness struck, and then vertigo. Her mother would know soon.
“I’ll see you at the hospital.” Avery closed the ambulance doors, shutting out the obnoxious noise.
Wonderful. Hospitals meant records. That meant everyone knowing about her last stay.
“Still feeling the same?” The paramedic softly probed her face, checking for fractures. “No new pain, nausea, lightheadedness?”
“I’ll make sure to aim away from you if I have to throw up.”
“I’m used to it. Last shift a drunk heaved all over my brand new uniform. It’s impossible to get the smell of Jack Daniels mixed with vomit out of your clothes.”
“Lovely job you have. Please tell me picking up drunks isn’t a regular occurrence.”
“I would, but this is Vegas.”
Chapter Five
Six months earlier.
He hid in plain sight, blending into the crowd with little effort. The woman commanded his attention the moment she stepped into the room. Her auburn hair, swept into a loose twist, glowed under the recessed lighting. The white dress made her look like an angel. She walked with her shoulders back and her arms crossed over her chest. She was mesmerizing.
She stopped in front of the painting. Minutes ticked by, and still she remained. What was it about the Renoir that had captured her attention?
He moved forward, nodding to other patrons. He was appreciated, even revered, here. No one suspected his dark torment.
The woman remained in front of the painting. His eyes lingered on the smooth skin of her back and the exquisite line of her neck. She was lovely, although her profile was not perfect. Her lips were plump and slightly large for her petite nose, and a small mole—a beauty mark—adorned her naturally pink cheeks.
“Excuse me.” He pitched his voice low to keep from attracting attention. He drew out his words into formal English to hide his distinct accent.
She jumped at the intrusion and turned to face him. “Yes?”
Her eyes rendered him speechless. For a moment he was trapped in the past, unable to distinguish this new woman from the secrets that haunted him.
“Can I help you?” A modulated voice, laced with curiosity and apprehension.
“Forgive my intrusion, but I couldn’t help noticing your admiration of the painting. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
She studied him, unsure of his intentions. He smiled and stuck his clammy hands in his pockets, forcing his attention back on the painting.
“Yes,” she finally answered. “It’s very special to me.”
“Why?”
Sadness drifted across her face, but her lips twisted into a wistful smile. “This painting is how my grandparents met.”
“Really?”
“Paris had an exhibition of Renoir’s work. This painting turned out to be a great pick-up line. Mémé was flattered he thought she looked like the Girl.”
He gazed between the woman and Renoir’s famous Girl. “I assume you’ve inherited your grandmother’s lovely auburn hair?”
“Yes, but all Mémé shared with the Girl was her hair.” She smiled. “Grandpa just didn’t know how else to approach her.”
He stepped closer. She smelled like sweet jasmine. How could he resist?
“Fascinating. How long have they been married?”
“Until his death in 1978.”
“Is your Mémé—”
“She died five years later.”
“I’m sorry. But they have a beautiful story, don’t they? We often take life’s simple moments for granted.”
She nodded and went back to the painting. He did the same, sipping champagne. “I can tell you appreciate the importance of our histories.”
“The past is an important part of life. It can affect us forever. A split-second decision can change everything.”
She knew. She would understand his need, his pain.
But he’d left those ways behind seven years ago, buried along with the evidence. He couldn’t risk everything again.
He couldn’t walk away, either.
Crawfish crunched underneath his boots as he sprinted through the standing water. His footsteps reverberated off the concrete walls. Moving through the tunnels was like being wrapped in a smothering blanket. Only the smell was worse: trash, feces, and rotting water blended together to resemble the odor of a corpse.
Filth of every kind flourished in the tunnels, including human scum. For every decent man just trying to survive, there are others who would sooner cut a person’s throat than look at him in the eye. Crackheads, meth dealers, rapists, murderers—all seek refuge in the storm drains.
His lungs burned, but he couldn’t stop running. Not yet. He was still too close to the scene. Some intrepid cop looking for glory might be on his tail. The safe haven he created for Emilie and himself was off limits as well. Too much work had gone into creating their new life to risk leading the authorities right to the location.
The only option was to keep
moving until he reached an open-air channel far enough away from the bank. The police were too wary of the tunnels to go very far inside. They would focus their search on the entrances closest to the bank.
Fury pushed him onward. So much effort had gone into creating the perfect rendezvous only to be ruined by foolish pride.
He’d been sure she was ready for their new life together. Didn’t she understand they were meant to be? She carried the evidence with her, wore it like a talisman.
Damn her. Months of waiting, of searching for the right hiding spot. Cleaning out the old bootlegging tunnel—all that effort wasted.
The open-air channel loomed ahead now, and he finally slowed. His rubbery legs carried him into the overgrown weeds. He gulped the reasonably fresh air. Traffic moved above, but there were no sounds of a search or of panicked cops.
After hiding his things, he cautiously crawled out of the abyss and made his way onto the sidewalk, easily blending in with the crowd.
He was hungry, tired, and disappointed. They were supposed to be together by now. Once again, happiness had been ripped away from him by circumstance, and he was left to regroup. The endeavor he had spent months researching and planning down to the last detail was now washed away with the rest of the trash in the drains.
He would have to think of something else, and soon.
Chapter Six
Nathan peered through the chain link fence. “Is that it?”
“I didn’t even know this culvert was here.” Chris started to climb. “I drive over it every day, too.”
“That’s why they call them box culverts,” Johnson said from the other side of the fence. “You don’t see them unless you’re walking inside.”
Several blocks north of the raucous Fremont Street Experience was an entrance to the storm drain system.
“Why couldn’t we just cut this thing down?” Nathan huffed as he made the short trip up and over the wobbly chain link barrier.
“Because no one in Metro wants to deal with the city officials over it,” Johnson said.
“Talk about spook central.” Nathan shined his light toward the culvert. Bathed in shadows, it stood silent and empty. A chill of foreboding washed over him.
“Watch yourselves.” Johnson led the way as the three men entered the culvert, weapons ready. “Anything could be lurking.”
Standing water covered the toes of Nathan’s boots. The air was thick with mildew. “Drain’s over there.” He shined his tactical light on the flood map. “To the right.”
The temperature dropped as they entered the large drain. Darkness engulfed them.
Chris’s whistle cut through the eerie stillness. “Wow. It’s a hell of a lot cooler in here. Place smells like feet, but I’ll take what I can get.”
Nathan shined his light on the walls. Colorful graffiti decorated the concrete. “Someone’s a talented artist.”
The darkness thickened with each step. The odor grew increasingly foul.
“Jesus, I can taste the stench in my mouth.” Chris gagged and spit into the dirty water.
Nathan didn’t respond. He was too busy trying to keep the contents of his stomach down and wondering how the people who lived in the tunnels stood the smell and the constant dangers. The drains provided relief from the sweltering desert heat, and free housing, but they were death traps. Large portions ran directly underneath the city streets and inhabitants risked carbon monoxide poisoning and the frequent threat of flooding. Growing up poor in North Las Vegas gave him a better perspective than many, but he couldn’t imagine having no other alternative than to live minute-by-minute.
“We shouldn’t run into any camps,” Johnson said. “They’re deeper in. One of the biggest is right under the Strip.”
“You know we aren’t going to find shit,” Chris choked out. “It’s too dark. Guy planned this for months. He knows his way around. We need to get out of here and check on Adam.”
“Medic called me when they got him to the hospital,” Johnson said. “He’s going into surgery. All we’d be doing right now is sitting around waiting. Still have to do our jobs, Holt.”
“He’s just a rookie. I should have been in front of him.”
“Stop,” Nathan said. “You followed protocol. That was a lucky shot.”
“Doesn’t make it right.”
Silence fell over the men as they moved farther into the stinking drain. Something hard crunched underneath Nathan’s boots. He nervously shined his light into the black water. Crawfish swam around his feet, probably on their way to the Las Vegas Wash. A mushy white glob looking suspiciously like used toilet paper floated by, and he focused his light away from the stream. Better not to know what he was stepping on.
A loud splash ahead brought all three to a halt.
“You hear that?” Johnson asked.
“Sounds big.” Chris stepped in front of Johnson and raised his Glock.
“Las Vegas SWAT,” Johnson shouted. “Identify yourself.”
Nothing.
“Maybe it was an animal,” Nathan said.
“That’s even worse than a junkie,” Chris said. “With my luck, Cujo’s
man-eating cousin will show up and give me rabies.”
“They have shots for that now.”
“No shit, Sherlock.”
A second loud splash was followed by the distinct sound of footsteps plodding through the water.
“That’s no dog.” Chris sprinted after the runner with Nathan and Johnson closely following. The beams of their lights flashed haphazardly against the walls making the tunnel even more ominous.
A strange brightness glowed several yards ahead of them. Their quarry came into view. He was too short and stocky to be their man, but he could have information.
Chris tackled him just as the group emerged into the moonlight.
“Get off me. I ain’t done nothing wrong!”
“Settle down, then.” Chris yanked the man to his feet. “We just want to talk to you.”
Nathan inhaled the semi-fresh air and looked around. They stood in an open-air channel, with tall, raggedy weeds and swarms of bugs. “Why’d you run?”
“Don’t like cops.”
“We’re not here to arrest you.” Johnson flashed his badge. “Las Vegas SWAT in pursuit of a fugitive. He tried to rob WestOne Bank this afternoon and nearly kidnapped a woman. You seen anyone suspicious tonight?”
“Just me around here.”
Nathan offered him a bottle of water. “What’s your name?”
“Blaze.” He chugged the water and pointed to his bright red hair.
“You noticed anyone out of the ordinary down here?” Nathan asked.
“You’re kidding right, kid?” Blaze snorted. “No one down here is ordinary.”
“Yeah, but you all know each other, right?
“So?”
“So has there been anyone around you didn’t know? You heard any stories about a guy sneaking around here, up to no good?”
“People come and go all the time. Lot of ‘em are up to something. I don’t make it my business to find out what.”
“Keep your eye out, will you?” Johnson asked. “You see anyone new, anyone running scared, call it in.”
“Thanks for the drink.” Blaze disappeared back into the tunnel, tossing the empty plastic bottle into the water.
“Look around.” Johnson waved his light across the channel. “On the off chance he came through here, maybe he left something.”
The search of the drains continued past four a.m. but turned up empty. Nathan wasn’t surprised. The partner was too smart.
“I’m burning these clothes.” Nathan tossed the Kevlar vest into the truck. His black T-shirt and fatigues stunk of sweat and the heavy stench of the tunnels.
“God, yes.” Chris kicked a vest out of the way and sat down. “Then taking a shower in bleach.”
“Adam’s at UMC,” Johnson said. “He’s out of surgery and stable. Nurse said we could see him for a few minutes.”
<
br /> “I’m sure the hospital will appreciate our stinking up the place.” Chris grinned and rubbed his hands together.
Nathan hated hospitals. Their sterile walls contained too much pain and sorrow, and the unhappiness caused a surge of memories he’d rather bury. He went anyway. He wouldn’t desert his friend.
Heads turned as they traipsed toward Adam’s room, still in uniform. Several nurses covered their noses.
“I bet this doesn’t fit in with their cop fantasies,” Chris snickered.
“He’s sedated,” the charge nurse said. “You only have a few minutes.”
“Is he going to be okay?” Chris asked.
“The bullet punctured a lung, but he should make a full recovery.”
Adam grinned weakly when the group entered the room. “Holy shit, you guys reek. Where you been?”
“Fifth circle of hell, dude.” Chris gave Adam’s arm a gentle punch. “How you feeling?”
“I’ve been better. What happened?”
Adam stared as Chris recounted the escape. “Wait…there’s a hole under the bank? How did the partner find that?”
“We don’t know, and it’s not our job to find out,” Johnson answered. “Unless Metro gets a lead on his whereabouts, we’re done.”
“So you were in the tunnels? Cool. Did you see the troll?”
Nathan started laughing. “What drugs are you on, kid?”
“I’m serious. There’s a story among the locals about a troll living down there. He eats people…” Adam’s eyelids started to droop, and he yawned.
“Time for us to go,” Johnson said.
Nathan struggled to stay awake during the ride back to the station. Chris couldn’t stop talking. “A troll. You know, that wouldn’t surprise me. There’s over two hundred miles of storm drains down there. Who knows what’s breeding in that filth?”
“You’re an idiot.”
“I hope they put that woman under some kind of protective custody.” Chris unloaded his Glock and shoved the clip into the pocket of his fatigues.
The heavy weight of blame kept Nathan silent. He’d suspected the partner had a separate agenda. Why hadn’t he suggested the basement stairs be covered or advised a different entry approach?