Back in the car, I swung out the back way and went over to Sands and hung a quick left. Once we crossed under the expressway, Sands morphed into Spring Mountain, and I took a chance and turned right on a street called Polaris. I actually was lost but didn’t want to admit that in front of Alex St. James.
“Where are we heading now?” she asked, as if she was reading my mind.
Just as I was about to nudge Hal to hand me the map, I saw Desert Inn Road and grinned. “To see my buddy Tony.” I turned left and we were on our way.
His bail bondsman office was in a strip mall, which accounted for part of the reason I drove right by it. The other part was the scarcity of address numbers. By the time I saw one, I knew I’d overshot it. Swearing, I slowed down and executed a left, then a U-turn, then a right.
“Going to take in another of your favorite sights?” Alex asked.
She had a good metaphorical jab; I let it slip by. If I admitted she was getting to me, I’d lose, and I hated to lose at anything. Once we were close to the strip mall, I saw the sign advertising Licardo’s Bail Bonds in big white letters. How I’d missed it the first time was a mystery.
The buildings were all yellow brick, anchored by a big grocery store at one end and some kind of retail place on the other. In between were a series of smaller shops, restaurants, and Tony’s place. The windows had Bail Bondsman painted on them in a huge colorful swath. It was glass across the front and the door had a large window, through which I saw Tony sitting at a desk talking on the phone. He grinned as we walked in, and I heard him say to whomever was on the line, “I gotta go.” He hung up, stood, and came around the desk to give me an exaggerated hug.
“Ronnie, you’re looking good, kid.”
He was several inches shorter than me, and he’d gained about fifty pounds since we’d rolled in the desert sands shooting at bad guys together. He’d let his dark hair grow a bit longer, too, and now sported a mustache. He smiled at Alex and asked, “And who might this charming young thing be?”
“Tony Licardo,” I said, “meet Ms. Alex St. James.”
They shook hands, after which he said, “Charmed.” He then gave her an up-and-down once-over, and added, “That Ronnie, he sure knows how to pick ’em.”
I thought she was going to explode from the look in her eyes. Either that, or deck him. I let out a quick laugh in the hopes it would break the tension. “Actually, we’re all here on business. Oh, by the way, this is Hal.”
Tony and Hal shook, and Hal asked if he could use Tony’s washroom.
“It’s down the hall and to the right,” Tony said. He turned back to us as Hal took off. “What brings you out to Vegas?”
I gave him a thumbnail sketch of the case, making it as brief as I could.
He cocked his head back. “So, lemme get this straight. This Bayless guy is not wanted, and presumed dead?”
I nodded.
He sighed. “So, there’s no bond up?”
“Right. I need to find the guy and convince him to come back to Chicago. Either that, or get some proof he’s alive and well.”
“You need me to help you find him?”
“Not exactly. There’s some pretty bad dudes on his trail, too,” I said. “And since I’m not licensed in this state, I didn’t bring my piece with me.”
“And?”
“And, I thought since this case does involve a certain amount of danger, you might see your way clear to sort of hire me temporarily and loan me a gun that works.”
He considered this for a moment, then said, “Ron, I got a business here. I’m bonded. I let you go around carrying in my employ, without the right permits, and I’ll be in deep linguini.”
We heard the toilet flush and Hal came ambling back toward us. Tony gave him a disgusted look. “That’s your backup?”
I’d figured he might be a bit resistant so I pulled out the heavy-duty artillery. “What about all those times I saved your life?”
He smiled. “Yeah, I ain’t forgot those.” His big hand gripped his chin and his brow furrowed. After a minute of concentration, he brought the hand away, jerking his finger in the air like he was tapping an imaginary button. “I think I got it.” He pulled out his cell phone, looked up a number, and called it. “Ross? Tony. What you doing?” He listened, grinned at us, and said, “Great. I got a special job for you. Bring the van, too.” When he hung up, he held up his thumb and index finger in a circle. “Ross can go with you. He’s one of my best skip tracers. We got a fabulous surveillance van, too. You can use it all, and he’ll be packing the heat. He’s got a concealed carry.”
I nodded a “thanks” and smiled back. I could tell from her expression that Alex St. James wasn’t too impressed, but this was probably as good of a deal as we were going to get in this town. I only hoped it would be enough.
Alex St. James
I desperately hoped we’d find this Bayless guy before Nicky and his Russian friends did and that the skip tracer’s presence would prove unnecessary. He wasn’t a bad-looking guy. Sort of tall and angular, wearing a free-flowing Hawaiian shirt. I placed him in his late forties. He was smoking when he came inside the office, but extinguished it as soon as he saw us standing there. His van was as impressive as Tony bragged. It had windows made for looking out, but not letting anyone on the outside look in. Inside, he had a couple of comfortable chairs, a small refrigerator, several TV screens, and a retractable curtain behind the front seats.
Ross generously offered Hal a spot in his surveillance van. That was quite a coup for us: He’d have plenty of room to spread out his equipment, and he’d benefit from the van’s back windows’ one-way glass. Things were starting to come together, finally. It felt good.
Shade showed him the address, and Ross said he knew exactly where it was. We followed him in the Escalade for the twenty-minute trip, the air-conditioning keeping us cool. I felt some of my tension recede.
The Barstow home looked like every other home in the area. Unremarkable architecture, pebbled front yard. Nothing like the green lawns and careful shrubbery of home.
“So, what do we do?” I asked when Shade and I parked in front of the house. Ross’s van pulled up one driveway behind us.
“I like the direct approach myself.” He held up the front page of yesterday’s Sun-Times. The bold headline announcing the double murder was eye-catching, but the smiling pictures just below, of Dr. Colon and his receptionist in better days, told the story. “Think this will get his attention?”
“You’re sure this is his house?” I asked.
But Shade was already out of the car, newspaper in hand. He went to look in the garage window, then—bold as brass—strolled over the pebbled lawn to the front door.
I followed him up the short path and stood beside him. Shade pressed a thumb against the doorbell, hard. He held it there and from deep within the home’s recesses, I heard the chime.
We waited. No movement, no dog barking, nothing.
Shade pressed the bell again. Longer. This time it chimed twice.
We waited again.
“Do you think they’re just not answering?” I asked.
“No trace of a car around.” He leaned sideways, peered into the front window, then pounded on it. A moment later he answered me. “I don’t think anyone’s home. So,” he said, dragging the newspaper from under his arm, “we should leave a calling card.”
He folded the newspaper so that the headline faced out, and snugged his business card between the door and the jamb. There was no screen door, so he wedged the folded newspaper in such a way that when someone inside opened the door, the newspaper would land face up at their feet. That was the plan, anyway.
We returned to the car. I glanced over at the quiet van but didn’t signal at all. If anyone was watching—like a nosy neighbor—they’d notice our attempt, but probably not associate us with the van.
Shade put the Escalade into gear and we took off. “Where are we going now?”
“Hang on.”
&nb
sp; He made a U-turn and came back to park across the street from the Bayless home. Just before he shut off the engine, my cell phone rang. It dawned on me that we should’ve rigged up walkie-talkies. My phone didn’t have that capability, and when Hal came on the line when I answered, I wasn’t surprised.
“Oh,” he said. “I thought you were leaving.”
“Nope. Just don’t want to crowd that side of the street.”
“How long you planning on waiting here?”
I asked Shade. He shrugged and pressed buttons to lower the windows. “As long as it takes.”
Hal heard him through the line because he whined at me, “That’s no answer.”
“Why?” I asked. “You have a date?”
I was trying to be funny, but Hal huffed into the phone before answering, “Yeah, I got a date. With my urologist back in Chicago next week.” His voice was so loud I held the phone away from my ear. “Until then I have to take a piss every hour or so and this little stakeout is killing me.”
I closed my eyes and pulled my lips in tight to keep from sniping. I wanted to ask why in God’s name he volunteered—in fact, lobbied—to come on this trip if he wasn’t physically able to carry it out. Three other people from his department put their names in for the trip, too, but Bass picked Hal. I hadn’t argued. There wasn’t time. And, I saw no reason to. Now, I wanted to scream.
Shade grabbed the phone from me. “Improvise,” he said. He hung up, handed the phone back and stared out the window at the house across the street. I could practically read the words, “I told you so,” rising in an imaginary thought bubble as little waves of steam emanated from the top of his head. He was pissed. But not as much as I was.
“Why did you do that?” I asked him.
He looked at me as though I’d spoken Greek.
“Why did you rip the phone out of my hand?” I asked again.
“You looked like you were frustrated. Overwhelmed. I took care of it for you.”
“I was handling it.”
“Oh, you were?”
“Yeah, I was.” This guy got my back up like no other. “Hal is my co-worker and my . . . problem. In the future, I’ll handle my own problems, okay?”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
We sat quietly for a long time. Hal ambled out of the van at one point and took a walk down the street. I had no idea what poor tree or bush he’d target, but in about fifteen minutes he was back. Our windows were open and the heat crept in. I knew Shade didn’t want to keep the motor running for fear of overheating the big engine. “I’m a closet environmentalist,” he’d said. “Hate the thought of all those fumes in the atmosphere.”
I couldn’t argue with that sentiment, but Ross kept his van humming, and as I pulled my T-shirt away from my sticky skin, I gazed enviously, imagining its cool interior.
Dusk began to settle slowly, bringing temperatures down a little. I realized I’d snapped at Shade. He really wasn’t a bad guy. I decided to patch things up. He had a small pair of binoculars suspended around his neck.
“Mind if I look at those?” I asked, pointing to them.
Without a word, he lifted them over his head and handed them to me.
“So . . . Ron.” I grimaced.
“What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know. It’s silly, but I don’t think of you as a ‘Ron.’ You’re ‘Shade’ to me.” I made a little helpless gesture. “Do you mind if I call you ‘Shade’?”
This man had a very nice smile, I was glad to see it. “Don’t mind at all.”
“It suits you.”
“Thanks. I guess.”
A few more minutes ticked by.
“I never figured you for a country-and-western type,” I said, breaking the silence.
“What are you talking about?”
“Garth Brooks. You said something earlier that made me believe you’re a fan.”
“Actually, I’m very eclectic in my tastes.”
“Oh?”
He settled back in his seat to talk. “Chappie, my trainer, turned me onto Motown. You know, Diana Ross and the Supremes, Marvin Gaye, the Temptations.”
I’d pegged this guy as someone who listened to hard rock. He was more into oldies.
He continued, oblivious to my musings, “George and my older brother Tom, are big Elvis and Sinatra fans. I guess I caught the bug from them.” He studied the Escalade’s ceiling as though his memories were recorded there. “Rounding it all out is Linda Ronstadt, Garth and then of course, Shania Twain, who was the object of my delayed adolescent fantasies.” He looked over to me and smiled. This time, when he wasn’t trying to be cute, he actually was. He looked almost embarrassed by his admission.
“Nice mix.”
“What about you?” he asked.
“Music? I guess Train, Green Day. The Rolling Stones. And The Mon—”
Headlights swung up into the Bayless driveway. We both watched as a dark-colored BMW pulled forward and the attached-garage’s door began to rise.
“Here we go,” Shade said.
The driver appeared to be female. She doused her lights and hit the button for the automatic door to lower. “What now?” I asked.
Shade smiled. “This is the fun part. We give her a couple minutes to get settled and then—we pay her a visit.”
I took a deep breath. My heart raced. Shade looked cool, relaxed, almost eager to move. His eyes sparkled in the scant light, and he kept a tight eye on the home’s front door.
“How long?”
Without averting his gaze, he said. “Just long enough to let her—”
The front light came on and the door opened. As the woman stepped out, the newspaper we’d placed there dropped. She picked it up and read it, at arm’s length, her face well illuminated from indoors. I focused the binoculars. “It’s her,” I whispered.
Shade turned to face me. He draped his right arm around my shoulders and pulled me a little closer. “I don’t want her to notice us watching,” he said. “So let’s try to look like a couple having a serious talk. You keep an eye on her. Tell me what she does.”
I nodded, put the binoculars in my lap, and scooted a little closer. Shade’s breath was cool and minty.
Candice’s hand came up to her brow as she continued to scan the article. “She looks nervous,” I said.
“She should be.”
With a look up and down the street, Candice headed to the curb.
“I think she’s coming to talk to us.” I instinctively startled backward, but Shade kept his arm snugly in place, preventing me from making any suspicious movement. “No, wait. She’s going to the mailbox,” I said.
“Anyone else around?”
“No.”
His fingers skimmed my upper arm. It gave me tingles, and for a moment I questioned my sanity. This was the closest I’d been to an attractive man in a long time, and his touch—in this case, totally platonic—still caused goose bumps. Geez, what was wrong with me? I forced myself to remember that I was on a stakeout and not at a teenage makeout session.
He brought his face closer to mine. “Anyone else in the house, that you can tell?”
I cleared my throat. “No.”
Candice Prokovis, aka Candice Barstow gathered a handful of mail and headed back inside. She shut the door behind her.
“All clear,” I said.
Shade pulled his arm back immediately. “Sorry about that,” he said. “I just thought—”
I waved off his apology. “Don’t worry. I get it. Made total sense. I’m just glad you were thinking.”
His lips twitched and he turned back to watch the house. “I just wish I would’ve thought about the mail before. Should’ve taken a look at who’s in touch.”
“Isn’t that illegal?”
He shrugged. “I wasn’t going to take anything, just have a quick look. But then again, if one of the neighbors caught us . . .”
The minutes ticked by.
“I wonder how Hal’s doing,�
� I said. “It’s been a while since he . . . uh . . .”
In profile, I saw Shade’s eyebrows rise. “Yeah, it has been.” He checked his watch. “Time’s up.”
“For Hal?”
“For Mrs. Barstow, or whatever she’s calling herself these days.” He turned to me. “You ready? It’s not too late to back out.”
“Back out? Me?”
He nodded.
“No way.”
“Okay then,” he said. “Let’s get Hal and Ross and head in.”
I called Hal on his cell and told him we were going in to visit Mrs. Barstow and that he should take the camcorder. To his credit, he and Ross were out of the van and ready to move moments later.
The four of us trekked up the front walk, Shade in the lead. He rang the bell and again I heard the door’s chime.
Candice Prokovis, looking a lot like her Illinois driver’s license, opened the door.
“Mrs. Bayless?” Shade asked.
She nodded.
I would have assumed she’d insist her name was Barstow.
“You might as well come in,” she said with a resigned sigh. Widening the door, she stepped aside when she saw all of us. “We’ve been expecting you.”
Chapter 20
Ron Shade
She’d cut her hair shorter and had obviously eased up a bit on the bleach bottle, but Candice Prokovis looked pretty much like her old Illinois driver’s license photo. She held open the door, and Alex and I stepped into the air-conditioned coolness of the house, followed by Hal and Ross. Hal was quietly filming the whole thing, and he hadn’t even asked to go to the bathroom yet.
“May I call you Candice?” I asked.
She edged over to the sofa but didn’t sit down. Her lips compressed and she nodded.
“The game’s about over,” I said. “We need to talk to your husband.”
“Who are you?” She directed the question toward Alex.
“I’m Alex St. James. I’m a reporter for Midwest Focus NewsMagazine.”
Candice looked from her to Hal, who had the camcorder on his shoulder recording, and then to me. She tapped the newspaper. “I assume you’re the one who left this here?”
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