Dead Ringer

by Michael A. Black

  “Like I said, Candice, the game’s over. You can see what the stakes are. I know you’re in over your head. These people don’t play around.”

  This seemed to perplex her for a moment, then she regained a modicum of composure and straightened up. “Just what is it you want with us, Mr. Shade?”

  I let her question hang there, trying to make it look like I knew more than I did. After a sufficient pause, I said, “It’s time for Bob Bayless to go back to Chicago and face the music. Cooperate with me, and I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Cooperate?” Her voice sounded brittle.

  It was my turn to nod. “Like I said, those kind of people don’t play games. That paper shows it. They’re cutting out the weak links, eliminating any trail back to them, and, let’s face it, you and your husband are next on the hit parade.”

  Twin patches of color stained her cheeks, but she silently considered my words.

  “Where is your husband?” Alex asked.

  She’d broken my rhythm by asking, and it threw me totally off my game. Candice’s attention immediately shifted to her. I guessed she’d erroneously assumed I wasn’t getting anywhere.

  “He’s not here right now.”

  “Where is he?” Alex repeated.

  The other woman’s eyes shot down to the carpet, then up again. “Maybe I’d better call him.” She took a cell phone out of her jeans’ pocket and dialed a number. After a few rings, it was apparent Bayless had answered. “Hi, it’s me.” Pause. “Yeah, they’re here now. I’m talking with them.” She listened some more. “He’s got two reporters with him and some other guy.”

  I really need to get on that phone, I thought. Maybe if I could talk to Bayless, I’d be able to get him to see the light.

  “Bob,” Candice said, “they brought a Chicago paper showing that Dr. Colon and his receptionist are dead. Murdered. He says we’ll be next if we don’t cooperate.”

  Whatever he said next took a long time. Her end of the conversation was filled with “Un-huhs” and “Un-uns,” but it was too vague to follow. And then, “All right, I’ll put him on.” She held out the cell phone toward me. “It’s my husband. He wants to talk to you.”

  I couldn’t believe how well this was going. I felt like a fighter who suddenly gets his second wind in the seventh round, just as his opponent loses his. I wanted to keep my greeting salutation as neutral and unthreatening as possible, so I just said, “Hello?”

  “Shade? It’s Bob Bayless.”

  He didn’t sound like a dead man. “I know. We need to talk. I’m here to help you.”

  “Help me?”

  “Yeah.” I paused, listening for any background noises. Nothing was distinct, which made me think he was in a room or a car. “You got some bad-ass people on your trail. They’re obviously eliminating loose ends to their little escapade, and you and your wife are probably in their sights. Do they know where you live?”

  “What?”

  I took a chance. “Farnsworth and his Russian buddy. Do they know where you set up house?”

  I heard his breathing. He was obviously thinking. Probably wondering how far he could trust me.

  “Bayless, they’re here in Las Vegas,” I said. “There isn’t much time. Where are you at?”

  “I’m . . . by the Strip.”

  That nailed things down, all right. “Yeah, so are a million other people. Where exactly?”

  More silence, then, “Okay, Shade, listen. I’ll meet you. I want to talk this over first.”

  “Meet where?”

  He cleared his throat. “Well, I can’t come home, if you found me this easily.”

  “I’m good.” I continued to press him, “But I can’t stop the clock. You agree to come back with me now, testify about your involvement, blow the whistle on their little parts-by-number scheme and they’ll probably go easy on you. You don’t, they’ll find you, and I don’t need to tell you what’ll happen then, do I?”

  “No,” he said, “you don’t.” Another pregnant pause. “Okay, listen. I’ll talk to you, like I said, but nobody else. No reporters, or anything. Not at this point.”

  “Fair enough,” I said. “Where?”

  “Go to the back entrance of the Arabesque at Sahara and Paradise,” he said. “You know where that is?”

  “Yeah. Is that where you’re at now?”

  “Park in their garage, and then call me at this number.” He read off the digits slowly. I scrambled to get my pen out and write them on my hand. Candice shoved a piece of notepaper at me. “I’ll be watching. If I see you’re not alone . . .”

  “Relax,” I said. “I will be.”

  “Let me talk to Candy again,” he said. I handed her the phone. She listened intently, and then said, “Okay.” She hung up.

  I looked at Alex. I didn’t like the idea of leaving her alone here, but she would have Ross.

  “You all right with staying here?” I asked. “He wants a solo meet.”

  “I figured as much.” She smiled. “Don’t worry. We’ll be fine.”

  The same pluckiness that had irritated me earlier now gave me a sliver of reassurance. She looked like she could take care of herself. But meeting a walking, talking dead man alone and on his home ground had me feeling a bit uneasy. After talking with Bayless I was even more convinced he’d taken an easy exit from his humdrum wife and now it was all catching up to him. I turned to Ross and canted my head in Alex’s direction as I asked, “You mind staying here and watching the store till I get back?”

  “No problem,” he said.

  “You packing?” I asked the question, even though I knew the answer.

  “Yeah. You?”

  I shook my head.

  “Here.” He raised his right foot and placed it on the arm of the sofa. Pulling up his pantleg, he withdrew a chrome snub-nosed revolver from an ankle holster. I was beginning to like this guy more and more. “Take my back-up piece, just in case.”

  It was a five-shot thirty-eight Smith and Wesson. I automatically flipped open the cylinder and checked the load. “You aren’t going to need it?”

  He shook his head and lifted the bottom of his billowy shirt, displaying a big semiauto in a pancake hostler. “If I can’t hit ’em with this, I ain’t gonna. Nineteen shots.”

  “Ah,” I said. “I prefer the Beretta myself.”

  He shook his head. “Nah, there ain’t nothing like a Glock.”

  I grinned and held up the revolver. “Except a Smith.”

  Alex, Ross, and I all double-checked that we had each other’s cell phone numbers, and I walked toward the door. There was a lot about this arrangement that was making me uneasy. I guess it showed. As I pulled open the door, Alex spoke.

  “Shade . . .”

  I turned.

  “Be careful,” she said.

  Chapter 21

  Alex St. James

  I watched the Escalade pull away with more than a little disquiet. I didn’t like the way things were shaping up. Shade was gone and much too fast. We hadn’t had a chance to decide our best move together. But then again, I couldn’t blame him for not consulting me. In his line of work he made solo decisions all the time. I was the same way. Maybe that’s why he and I constantly butted heads. We were both accustomed to a certain autonomy, and authority.

  And I couldn’t diminish the fact that he was here for Bayless. Plain and simple. Once he got Bayless cornered, once he proved the dead man was still alive, Shade’s job was done, and his money earned. Mine continued until I got my story.

  Stepping away from the front window, I worked up my best empathetic smile. “Candice,” I said, as I gestured for Hal to position himself in the living room’s corner to film. “May I ask you a few questions?”

  “Questions? About what?”

  I wanted to snap at her dull stupidity—but courtesy won out. I kept my expression passive, my tone nonthreatening. “About your husband’s involvement in black-market body parts. About his purported ‘death,’ and why he felt the ne
ed to flee Chicago and take on a new identity.”

  Candice blinked at the camera, looked away. “I don’t have anything to say.”

  I waited a couple of beats.

  She’d crack eventually, but these things often took time.

  Ross winked at me, then moved past Candice, positioning himself in the doorway that led to the back of the house. “Want to stay out of the picture,” he said. “I don’t want to be identified on film. It’ll hurt business.”

  “Sorry,” Hal said. “Close quarters like this, I don’t have much choice, unless I keep a tight close-up on the lady. You want that, Alex?”

  I shook my head. “We can edit you out,” I said to Ross. “Don’t worry.”

  He didn’t look happy at the prospect. “How about I sit in the kitchen and wait till you wrap this up?”

  “Go ahead,” I said.

  I turned to Candice and gestured to the seat beside her on the sofa. “May I?”

  Her look was glum. “Sure.”

  “You understand,” I began softly, “that the Manus Corporation benefited from Robert Bayless’s death. They collected ten million dollars in insurance money.”

  “Yeah?” she said, the way some people say, “So?”

  This woman wasn’t getting it.

  “These aren’t nice people. They won’t want to give that money back,” I said. “There are ten million good reasons why Manus would like to ensure that your husband stays dead.”

  She stared at her hands, folded in her lap. She was a thin woman, and the skin between her knuckles stretched so tight it looked ready to split.

  I glanced up to be sure Hal was getting all this. Returning my attention to Candice, I said, “You’re in danger. But if you work with us, we can help keep you safe.”

  A loud thump and clatter from the kitchen caused us all to jump. “Ross?” I called. “You okay?”

  No answer.

  “Ross?”

  His voice was muffled. I couldn’t make it out, but it sounded like he said he was okay.

  The interruption cut some of the tension in the room. She seemed softer all of a sudden, more relaxed. I decided to try another tactic. “Listen, we know about the body parts operation that Manus has going. We know about Nicky Farnsworth’s role in acquiring . . .” —some things were difficult to say aloud— “. . . homeless people for . . . inventory.” The truth was we didn’t actually “know,” we’d surmised. But the evidence all pointed one direction; and I knew I had to press my advantage or lose her entirely.

  She finally met my eyes. Another subtle shift.

  “Come on, Candice. Work with me here. Your husband must have known what was going on. That’s why he had to fake his death. Manus doesn’t want him alive. Not with all he knows about their operations. Not with ten million dollars on the line. People are looking for you. Bad people.”

  Candice looked at the camera, then back at me. If she broke now, it’d be perfect dramatic timing for our feature. Instead of fighting an emotional outburst, however, she said, “Nobody will look for us. We’re safe here.”

  I sat back, surprised. “Don’t you understand what’s going on? We’ve uncovered a terrible travesty. And your husband is the key to unravel the whole conspiracy. You aren’t safe. No one is.”

  “So? What does that have to do with me?”

  Struck by her insolence, I lost my words for a moment. When I regained my composure, I spoke slowly. “Don’t you get it? Your husband’s former colleagues are cold-hearted killers. They target innocent people. With real lives. Lives that Manus has stolen in order to harvest body parts. For profit.” My voice started to rise, because the thought of what they’d been doing—for years—sickened me. “These diseased parts are being sold to hospitals who believe they came from healthy donors. I can’t imagine anything more horrific than the scam Manus is perpetrating on trusting people. Vulnerable people, who are grasping for hope.” I sucked in my cheeks, biting them to keep from losing control on camera. “I think Manus is despicable. If you have any compassion whatsoever, you’ve got to see how horrific this is. We’re going to bring them down. All of them. With or without your help.”

  Candice blinked a couple of times. “Then, I guess, it will have to be without my help.”

  Was the woman totally dense?

  “Then I can’t promise you any protection at all.” I hoped Shade was having better luck with the husband. It bothered me—a lot—to know that I couldn’t get what I needed from this woman. She was unreadable, in a way few people are. “Just answer me one thing—because I’m sure you know. Who’s running the show now? Is it Nicky Farnsworth? Because I’m pretty sure he’s in town, and he won’t be happy about the latest turn of events.”

  She looked perplexed.

  I rephrased. “Who’s calling the shots? Who runs the organization? Who killed Dr. Colon and his receptionist? You can tell me that, at least.”

  She shook her head, then glanced just over my shoulder and smiled.

  Thrown by her distraction, I turned.

  “I’m calling the shots.”

  Robert Bayless stood just inside the room, holding a pistol with an enormously long barrel tight up against Ross’s right temple. I realized seconds later that it had a sound suppressor attached. Ross’s hands were handcuffed behind him, and he wore a look of intense pain. Although Bayless had shaved his head and grown a beard, the face was the same as the Illinois driver’s license photo I’d seen earlier today.

  Instinctively—stupidly—I stood. My mind shouted that I’d just made myself a bigger target. “Ross!” I said, starting toward him.

  “Don’t move.” Bayless took a half step backward using Ross as a shield.

  Against what? Me? I wasn’t armed. Dear God I wish I were. Bayless was a big guy. Not ripped, but intimidating. One thing the driver’s license photo didn’t portray was the intense superiority that the fellow exuded. And he smelled. Like . . . Nicky.

  Bayless cocked an eyebrow and jostled Ross. “This guy is safe for now. Just do what I tell you and nobody will get hurt.”

  Yeah. Like I believed that.

  “Candy, you did great. Go on outside and pull this joker’s van into the garage.” He tossed her what I presumed were Ross’s keys. “We’ll be leaving shortly.”

  Candice pointed at Ross. “He gave that Shade character his backup gun.”

  Bayless pressed the gun up against Ross’s cheek, pushing hard against the soft skin. He gave an unpleasant laugh. “That was stupid,” he said. “Because that backup sure would’ve come in handy in the kitchen, wouldn’t it?”

  Ross didn’t answer.

  “You got your cell on you, Candy?” Bayless asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Give it to me. I have an important call to make.”

  “Don’t you have yours?” she asked.

  “Yeah, but I’ll need yours, too. Tuck it in my pocket.” She tucked it all right, and leaned up to kiss his jaw before grabbing her purse and heading out the front door. “Hurry back,” he said. “I’ll need you in here again, soon.”

  She nodded.

  “Drop that camera,” Bayless shouted to Hal. He complied. “Now, get over there with your reporter friend. We’re going to take this real slow because we have plenty of time to get it right.”

  A shadow crossed behind Bayless.

  My heart leaped, pounding in my ears with anticipation. Shade must have suspected something and doubled back. Thank God.

  I worked to keep my eyes from giving away his position, when I heard, “Let me through.”

  Bayless stepped forward and the shadow came into the light.

  “Nicky,” I said, my voice breathless.

  Not Shade. Not a rescue.

  “Welcome to fabulous Las Vegas,” he said with the frightening grin I remembered from childhood. “So glad you could come.”

  “Cut the reunion shit, Nick. Let’s get these assholes in the van. Candy will follow us.”

  “Where are we going?” I asked
.

  Bayless ignored my question. He started to shove Ross out the door but halted. “Get their cell phones,” he said to Nicky. “Make sure we have them all.” Bayless already had Ross’s Glock and now he handed it over. “Here. In case they try to get tricky.”

  Nicky accepted it looking like a gleeful twelve-year-old. “Okay,” he said with a new air of confidence, as he put it into his own waistband, “let’s see what you’ve got in here.”

  My mind raced, even as Nicky foraged through my purse, coming up with my cell phone. He then collected Hal’s and confiscated the camera, as well.

  When Shade realized that Bayless wasn’t there, he’d know it was a hoax, and he’d head back here. There was hope, at least.

  Hal’s legs had apparently given out. He sat dumbfounded on the sofa I’d vacated, his head in his hands. I was forced to sit next to him, and Ross joined us on the sofa. While Bayless held the gun, Nicky wrapped my hands and Hal’s with duct tape. Three bound mice, it seemed. But there was nowhere to run.

  “Hurry,” Bayless said. He dialed one of the cell phones as Candice returned. When someone answered, he said, “Yeah, stand by.”

  He handed the sound-suppressed gun to Candice. “I’m going out back. Keep them quiet and if they move, shoot them.”

  I worked at my duct-taped bonds while Bayless was gone. I had a little wiggle room because when Nicky had taped them together, I’d twisted my hands so that he bound me at the knuckles, where I made my fists wide. But I had small hands and narrow wrists. I used whatever leverage I could to get free.

  Ross moved closer, covering my movement. I could smell Hal’s fear in the sweat that slid down his face. He didn’t look at either of us, he simply stared straight ahead. His lips moved, and I realized he was praying.

  Candice didn’t flinch, didn’t budge. The bitch smiled as she watched us, her cheeks rosy and her breathing shallow, almost as if she was getting off on this.

  I looked away as my hands came free. Now if there were just some chance . . .

  Bayless returned about fifteen minutes later and announced we were ready to go. He retrieved his gun from Candice and sent her to the garage. “Get up, you old man,” he said to Hal, whose face practically folded in on itself as he spoke.