The John Milton Series Box Set 4

by Mark Dawson

  “What about now?”

  “Give me a couple of hours,” he said. “I have an errand to run first. Do you need anything? Clothes? Toiletries?”

  “That would be great,” she said. “I left my case in the car.”

  “What do you need?”

  “Shampoo, soap, deodorant. Maybe nail clippers and tweezers. Toothpaste, toothbrush, razor.”

  “Clothes?”

  “There’s a store in reception. I’ll go there. I’ll get the rest of what I need at the airport when…”

  “When we get your father,” Milton finished for her. “Okay. I’ll pick those things up.”

  “And then?”

  “Knock on my door. We need to talk.”

  31

  Milton went back to his room. He changed into yesterday’s clothes, collected the briefcase and took it with him into the corridor. The business centre had been quiet last night, but it might not be like that now. He and Jessica were going to have a frank conversation that had the potential to be upsetting, and the last thing he wanted to do was to conduct it in front of an audience. Jessica had been subjected to a nightmarish day yesterday, and now the context that he was about to provide was going to make it much worse. He would rather have said nothing, but he couldn’t do that. Apart from the fact that it would have been patronising, she had the right to know what her father had been doing, and what was happening to her because of it.

  He went down to the bellhop and asked for directions to the nearest electronics store. The man at the stand told him there was a pawnshop on East Charleston that would be open, and gave him directions.

  Milton exited the hotel, turned onto Fremont and walked to Fifteenth Street. It was a mile to the store, and Milton covered it in twenty minutes. The place was in a strip mall, between a store that identified itself as Dawg Traffic Ticket Law Office and a branch of Intermex. Milton went inside, pointed to a cheap fifteen-inch used MacBook that was displayed with other equipment inside a large metal cage, and paid cash.

  There was a CVS on the way back. Milton went inside and picked up the toiletries that Jessica had requested, together with a stick of deodorant, a toothbrush and toothpaste for himself, too. His bag had been lost along with the GTO, and the thought of his misfortune prompted him to reach back and pat the back pocket where he kept his passport. He tried to keep that on his person and had been rewarded for his foresight on more than one occasion even before this. His modest collection of clothes was lost, though, so he picked up a couple of fresh T-shirts and underwear from a branch of J.Crew.

  He went back to his room, unpacked the small rectangular box and pulled the silver computer out. He unwrapped the plastic and tape from the charging cord and inserted it into the machine. He popped up the screen, and the computer booted up immediately. After a few setup steps, it was ready to go.

  He opened the briefcase, took out the unprotected USB drive and plugged it in. The files appeared on the screen and he copied them across to the desktop, ejected the drive and put it back in the case.

  He heard a soft knocking on the door.

  He went over to open it. Jessica was standing outside.

  “Come in,” he said.

  She did. She looked pensive, which wasn’t surprising.

  “Have you heard from your brother?”

  “No,” she said.

  “You’ve tried?”

  “Yes. A dozen times. Voicemail.”

  “He must know something is wrong. You weren’t at the airport.”

  “Mason is…” She paused. “Unreliable. He has a problem with drugs, like I said. There have been times when he’s been impossible to reach.”

  “You think he might be on a bender now?”

  “Like I said, it wouldn’t be the first time. It’s the only reason I can think of why I can’t get him.”

  “Keep trying.”

  The briefcase was on the bed. Milton went over to it and tapped his finger against the leather.

  “What’s that?” she asked.

  “Have you seen it before?”

  “No.”

  “It was in the storage facility. I’m guessing that it belongs to your father.”

  “I suppose it must. What’s in it?”

  Milton popped the clasps, opened the lid and stood back so that she could look inside. Her eyes widened as she saw the money.

  “Jesus,” she said.

  “They’re all high-denomination bills,” Milton said. “Fifties and hundreds. I counted it. There’s a hundred and fifty thousand dollars there. Your father never mentioned it?”

  “Never. Why would he have that much cash?”

  “I was hoping you might be able to tell me that.”

  She shrugged. “I have no idea.” She paused. “Do you think that’s why…”

  “Why he’s been taken?” Milton finished for her. “I think it’s very likely.”

  There were two chairs in the bedroom: the slim armchair next to the bed and the wooden chair that was pushed underneath the desk. Milton brought the armchair across, put it down next to the desk and indicated that Jessica should sit. She did, and Milton pulled out the desk chair and sat down in front of the laptop. The girl was close to him, close enough for him to feel the heat from her arm on his, close enough to smell the citrus scent that she used.

  He opened the laptop screen and tapped a key to wake it up.

  “Your father has been kidnapped,” he began. “He has this money hidden in a storage unit. The two things are linked.”

  “I can’t explain it.”

  “Can I ask you something else? About the house?”

  She nodded.

  “It’s expensive. How much? Two million? More?”

  “Two point five,” she corrected him.

  “So—”

  “I know what you’re going to say,” she cut him off. “There’s no way that he could’ve afforded that on the wage the casino pays. And that would be true—he couldn’t. But my grandfather was rich. The house belonged to him. He passed it on to Dad when he died. They didn’t get on when he was alive. Dad said it was an attempt to say sorry.”

  “The cars? Neither of them would’ve been cheap.”

  “The same,” she said. “And the same for my Tesla. My grandfather left the money for it in his will.”

  Milton reached over and took the two USB drives out of the case.

  “What are they?” she asked.

  “They were inside the briefcase, too. This one”—he held it up—“is password protected. Do you have any idea what he might have used?”

  “No idea,” she said.

  “Think about it,” he said. He put the stick down and picked up the second one. “This one isn’t protected. I’ve copied the data on it to the laptop. Look, here—you need to see it.”

  He dragged the cursor to the folder that he had created for Jessica. He double-clicked it, selected the first of the Word documents, and opened it. He turned the screen so that she could scroll down herself, and then sat back while she read.

  “This can’t be true,” she said when she had finished reading the first email.

  “Why?”

  “Why? Because my father isn’t a criminal.”

  “Those are his words,” Milton said, tapping his finger against the top of the screen. “This is his insurance policy. If something happens to him, he wants to have something that he can hold over the people he suspects will have been responsible. This”—he tapped the stick—“is your father’s loaded gun. He’s laid out everything that the police would need to go after the man he says he’s been working for.”

  “Oscar Delgado,” she said.

  “That’s right. Him and whoever else he has working for him.”

  “I’ve never even heard that name before.”

  “Why would you? He’s not likely to admit to his daughter what he’s been doing. He’s probably ashamed.”

  She shook her head. “No. I don’t see it. That’s not my dad.”

  M
ilton opened the spreadsheet.

  She looked at the screen. “What are these?”

  “Financial statements. I don’t know for sure, but it looks like a series of payments made from a number of casino accounts to a series of secondary accounts. It won’t be easy for us to get any more detail—that’ll be a job for the police. I suspect we’ll find that these numbers match the money that Delgado’s gamblers took from the casinos.”

  She moused over to the second statement. “What’s this?”

  “Read it.”

  She clicked and the document opened. Milton watched her face carefully as she read. Her mouth fell open.

  “You okay?” he asked her.

  “Delgado is a murderer?”

  “Yes,” Milton said.

  “And Dad has evidence?”

  “There’s an audio file,” Milton said. “You don’t have to listen to it.”

  “But you did?”

  He nodded. “It sounds just as he says.”

  “You’re serious? Dad recorded Delgado killing someone?”

  “That’s what it sounded like.”

  She closed her eyes. Her bottom lip quivered.

  Milton shut the laptop. He laid it over the money in the briefcase and closed the lid.

  “Here’s what I think has happened,” he said. “I’m not making any judgements; I’m just telling you what looks most likely. Okay?”

  She opened her eyes. She looked troubled, but nodded.

  “Oscar Delgado is a criminal who has been operating a financial sting in Las Vegas for the last year. Your father has been working for him. Everything on that data stick is there to make sure that Delgado doesn’t make a move against him. Or against you or your brother.”

  “But now we’re saying that didn’t work out as he thought it would.”

  “That’s what we’re saying. Your father has been helping Delgado to run his scam—finding suitable targets, setting up large credit lines at the casinos, then cashing out the accounts when whoever uses the credit to lay bets has been successful. It’s a very neat, very tidy scheme.”

  She pointed at the cash. “And all that money?”

  “I think he stole it from Delgado.”

  “But you said he was dangerous.”

  “He is dangerous. Very. But your father has cancer. Maybe his diagnosis changed his perspective. Maybe he doesn’t care about the consequences anymore. What are they going to do to him that’s worse than what’s already happened? That’s a lot of money. A lot. More than enough to make a difference over his last few months. Maybe he used some of it to buy those cars. Maybe he used some to fund the trip you were going on. Did he pay for the tickets?”

  She nodded.

  “So maybe that’s where the money came from. Or maybe he decided that he wants to leave you and your brother a tidy sum when he passes on. It doesn’t matter. It’s a lot, like I said, more than enough for Delgado to have the motive to do what he did yesterday. I think he’s got your father because he knows what he’s done, and he wants to get the money back.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “I’d like to know a little bit more about Delgado first,” Milton said.

  “How?”

  “My friend Beau, the man you met last night, has contacts in the Las Vegas police. I’ll ask him to ask around and see what he can find out.”

  “Do we tell the police what’s happened?”

  “We could,” Milton said. “That’s your decision to make.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think it would be risky. Delgado might decide that the money isn’t worth the aggravation.”

  “And…” She didn’t finish the sentence; the catch in her throat told Milton she knew what would happen if Delgado decided to stop fishing and cut bait.

  “Yes,” Milton said. “It’s dangerous.”

  “So we offer Delgado the money—right?”

  Milton stood. “That’s what I’d do.”

  32

  It was nine by the time that Milton and Jessica were finished. Milton took out his phone and sent a message to Beau, saying that he needed to speak to him. A message bounced back in return: Beau was in the restaurant having breakfast and Milton should come down and join him. Milton told Jessica that he would come and get her when he had worked out how best to proceed, and made his way down to the ground floor.

  Beau was sitting at a table in the middle of the large restaurant. He saw Milton and raised his hand.

  “English,” he said as Milton arrived next to him, “you okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You sleep?”

  “A little. I needed to check some things out. They couldn’t wait.”

  Beau gestured to the waiter and pointed down at the pot of coffee on the table. The waiter nodded his understanding and made his way to the serving station to collect a fresh one.

  Milton sat. “Thanks, Beau. I appreciate your help in this.”

  Beau waved it off. “Ain’t nothing.”

  “I’m going to have to ask for more.”

  “That’s what I figured.”

  The waiter came over to the table with a second pot of coffee. He poured out a mug for Milton and refreshed Beau’s.

  “What can I get you for breakfast?” the man asked.

  “Get the grits,” Beau said. “You like shrimp, English?”

  Milton said that he did.

  Beau looked up at the waiter. “He’ll have the shrimp and grits.”

  The waiter took down the order and Milton’s room number and went back to the kitchen.

  Beau took a sip of his coffee. “Where’s the girl?”

  “In her room.”

  “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

  Milton explained. He told Beau everything: how he had run into Jessica at the truck stop on the way to Vegas, how she had told him she needed to get home, that her car had broken down. Beau made a joke about how a man could get in trouble offering help to a pretty girl, but Milton shut him down with a shake of his head. He explained how he had driven her to the big house in Summerlin and how it had quickly become obvious that her father had been abducted. He told him about the men who had come to the house, about how he had taken three of them out, and then how they had eventually put distance between the rest of them on the highway.

  “And then you called me?” Beau said.

  “I did. And we came here.” He sipped the coffee. “You know Vegas, right?”

  “Been coming here for years. Professionally and socially. I guess I know it about as well as anyone.”

  “And?”

  “They say Vegas is cleaned up, but you don’t want to believe a word of it. There’s still a lot of dirty money here, and that brings the bad actors. It’s like blood in the water. Always gonna attract the sharks.”

  “That’s what I need to talk to you about,” he said.

  “The sharks? You got one in particular?”

  “You heard of Oscar Delgado?”

  “Can’t say that I have. That don’t mean I can’t find out about him. What you got?”

  Milton put his coffee mug down. “I noticed Jessica taking a key from the house before we got out. I confronted her about it—she says her father told her that if anything ever happened to him, she needed to pick up the key and then take it to a storage facility in North Vegas. I went up there to check it out. There was a briefcase there. I opened it.”

  “And?”

  “There was a lot of money. One hundred and fifty thousand.”

  Beau whistled. “Beaucoup bucks. Enough to get someone into a lot of trouble.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Milton said. “There were USB drives, too. I went through the data on the one I could open. It lays everything out. It looks like Jessica’s father was involved with Delgado. Some kind of credit scam—he was setting up accounts at the casinos, making them look like they were on the level, increasing the credit line and then ripping them off.”

  The wait
er returned with Milton’s breakfast and set the plate down: there was a generous portion of seared shrimp, roasted tomatoes, Virginia ham, red onions and grits. It smelled good, and Milton remembered how hungry he was. He started to eat.

  “So the old man had his fingers in the till?” Beau said.

  “Yes,” Milton said. “And I think he was worried he was going to get found out. He put together evidence to use against Delgado. There are financial reports—probably a record of the payments that he made to and from the casinos. Draft email confessions.”

  “And?”

  Milton laid his cutlery down and lowered his voice. “And an audio recording of what Russo says was the torture and murder of someone who was trying to blackmail Delgado.”

  “Authentic?”

  “I’d say so,” Milton said.

  “And he ripped this guy off?” Beau said. “Sounds like he loaded the wrong wagon, English.”

  The waiter returned with a jug of orange juice. He filled Milton’s glass and gestured down to Milton’s plate. “Is everything all right, sir?”

  “It’s delicious,” Milton said. “Thank you.”

  The man walked off again.

  Beau tapped his fingers against the tabletop. “So last night? They went after him to get the cash?”

  “Seems most likely.” Milton laid down the cutlery again. “You’re sure you’ve never heard the name?”

  “I haven’t. You know my contacts—they tend to be Italian, and the mob hasn’t been big in Vegas since the sixties. Howard Hughes went after them, then the Feebies. The wise guys got out or got locked up.” He emptied his coffee and put the mug back down on the table. “I mean, there are still a few old-timers here, but they don’t have the connections like they used to. That all being said, I do still have a police contact who’ll have a better idea of what’s going down out here than I do. Want me to ask him?”

  “Who is it?”

  “Name’s Louis Salazar.”

  “He’s on the level?”

  “Let’s just say there are a lot of nooses in his family tree. He’s helping with the skipper I’m here to take back.”

  “Because you’re paying him?”