He put the toast down and tried to keep his eyes focused above her neck. “Kimberly,” he started. “About last night—”
“Yes, Michael dear, what about last night?” she murmured, her voice sweeter than the marmalade.
“Did … did we do anything last night?” he asked hesitantly.
“Yes. Of course. I made popcorn and margaritas, and we watched old movies on television.”
“No. I don’t mean that. I mean, after that.”
Her face exploded into a grin. At any other time it might have been contagious, but Michael was in a sour mood. “After that? Oh, I know what you mean. Yes. We went to bed.”
Michael’s jaw dropped and his face took on coloration. “Uh, do you mean, we went to bed together?”
“What’s the matter, Michael, don’t you remember?” Kimberly teased mercilessly, her eyes blinking modestly.
“No, I really don’t,” he replied grumpily, annoyed that she was deliberately skirting the issue when he wanted a straight answer.
Kimberly stuck her nose into the air in a haughty pose. “Humpf. If you don’t remember what happened last night, then I don’t see that it makes any difference what we did. I’ll just pretend my mind’s as blank as yours,” she told him huffily, as if she were through discussing the subject.
“Damn it, Kimberly, you know what I’m trying to find out,” Michael persisted. I want to know if we had sex last night.” He was wondering if his loss of memory was caused by too much alcohol or if he was starting to lose his mind.
The telephone rang, eliminating the need for an immediate reply. Michael was closer to the phone, but Kimberly jumped to her feet. “I’ll get it, darling. Sit and finish your breakfast before it gets cold,” she told Michael, reaching for the instrument. As she squeezed by his chair she playfully tickled his ribs.
E.J. Geller was on the line. “Kimberly, do you have any idea where Michael is this morning? Nobody answers the phone at his condo, and, as usual, I keep getting a recorded message when I call his cellular number. I’ve been trying to reach Michael since early this morning. Early this morning.”
Kimberly winked at Michael. “You’re in luck. Michael’s here, E.J. We’re having breakfast. Can he call you back, or do you need to speak with him now?” she asked, knowing full well Geller never wanted to wait for anything.
“Please put him on the phone. It’s very important.”
Kimberly covered the mouthpiece with her hand. “It’s our boss, Michael. You really should tell him you’re living with me instead of Myra now, and he can reach you here whenever he needs to.”
Michael grunted through clenched teeth and rolled his eyes. That was the last thing he wanted Geller to know. “Hello, E.J. What’s happening?”
“Mark Caruso has been trying to find you. He said he has to see some videotape right away, and that you promised to take it to him first thing this morning. First thing this morning.”
“Well, Mark’s idea of first thing in the morning is different from mine. The tape’s in the safe there at the Times. Can you have a runner take it over to Metro? If so, I’ll call Mark and let him know it’s on the way.”
“Okay. I’ll send someone there immediately. What’s it all about, Michael? What’s on the tape?”
“It could be what we need for another front page news story. I won’t be certain of that until Mark takes a look at the video. Don’t expect to see me in the office for a while. I’ll call in later and let you know if you need to hold the presses.”
“Do that, Michael, do that. Oh, by the way. I have another message for you. It’s from your wife. She’s at her office and wants you to call her. Something about having lunch together today. I took the call myself, Michael, and Myra sounded very upset. Could whatever’s bothering her be the reason you’re over at Kimberly’s house having breakfast this morning?” he probed inquisitorially. “Or, perhaps, vice versa?”
Michael had not wanted his boss to know he and Myra had separated. He’d hoped they would be together again before Geller ever found out about the split. “It’s something like that. I guess I do owe you an explanation, E.J., but I don’t care to discuss the matter over the telephone. We can talk about it when I get into the office.”
“Okay. Keep in touch, m’boy, keep in touch.”
Michael started to say goodbye, but Geller had already hung up the phone at his end. Michael pressed the switchhook momentarily and, when he heard a dial tone, punched in the numbers to Mark Caruso’s private line.
“Metro, Homicide Division. This is Detective Mark Caruso.”
“Mark, this is Michael. Geller gave me your message. You didn’t have to bother him. You could have reached me here at Kimberly’s, you know.”
“I still feel a little uncomfortable about that situation, buddy. I guess what I’m really saying is that I didn’t want to interrupt anything. Ha, ha.”
Michael ignored the smirk in Mark’s voice and his implication. “We were just having breakfast. I’ve arranged with Geller to have the videotape of Hogg and Stein hand-delivered to you. It should be there within thirty minutes.”
“That’s all well and good, but I need to see you in my office as soon as possible. Kimberly, too. How fast can you get here?”
Michael was in no hurry to cut his breakfast short. He looked at his watch. “I suppose we can be there by ten. Perhaps a bit sooner, I don’t know. I’m already dressed, but Kimberly isn’t.”
“Would it speed things up if I told you your gold bars are sitting here in my office?”
“Really?” Michael put his fork down and jumped to his feet. “That’s great!” he exclaimed excitedly. “That didn’t take you very long!”
“Well, we had a break, thanks to you. Let’s not waste time talking on the phone. Get down here as soon as you can.”
When Michael hung up the phone, Kimberly asked, “What was that all about, Michael? It sounded like good news.”
It was now Michael’s turn to be noncommittal. “You’ll find out when we get to Mark’s office. He wants to see both of us as fast as we can get there.”
Kimberly looked down at herself, as if noticing for the first time what she was wearing. “Well, then, I guess I’d better get dressed. I wouldn’t want anyone but you to see me like this, Michael,” she teased suggestively.
He ignored her remark. “Go ahead. I’ll straighten up the kitchen while you’re getting ready.”
MARK CARUSO GREETED Michael and Kimberly with a big grin on his cherubic face. “Sit down and make yourselves comfortable. Would you guys like a cup of coffee?”
“No, thanks. I just finished breakfast,” Michael said.
“I would,” Kimberly replied. “I didn’t get much sleep last night, thanks to Michael.” She nudged him in the ribs with her elbow. “I could use the caffeine to help me stay awake.”
The detective left his office to get the coffee. Michael turned to Kimberly with a scowl on his face. “What did you have to say that for? Mark already thinks we’re having sex. He’s been making snide remarks to me. You just made things worse. It sounded like you were bragging about us sleeping together.”
“Oh? Did I say anything to Mark about us sleeping together?” Kimberly asked with faked innocence. “Tell me, Michael. Do you find my bed more comfortable than the one in the guest room?”
Michael could feel the blood rushing to his countenance and turned away from her. He looked out the window and watched an old woman throwing bread crumbs to a flock of pigeons.
Mark returned with Kimberly’s coffee and sat down behind his desk. It was made of sheet metal painted pale green, the type of desk seldom seen in private businesses but seemingly ubiquitous in governmental offices. His desk was larger than most of the others in the department. It had been handed down to him when the Chief of Police remodeled his office and replaced the furniture.
Mark’s desk was outfitted with a Sharpton Casino coffee mug, given away by the tens of thousands as a souvenir of Las Vegas, filled with an assort
ment of pencils and ballpoint pens; three trays made of black plastic, marked In, Out, and Hold, stacked on top of each other, all filled to overflowing; a well-worn desk pad, measuring about two by three feet; and a small blue plush teddy bear, the gift of his girlfriend Sandra. Mark gathered the papers that were scattered over the desk and arranged them into a small pile. From his center drawer, he removed a new yellow note pad, legal size, and selected a pen from the mug.
“Okay, now I’m ready,” he stated. “I suppose you’re anxious to know about the gold bars.” He reached into the bottom drawer of his desk and retrieved a heavy metal object, glistening with the color of pure gold. He placed it on top of the desk pad. “Is this one of them?” he asked.
Both Michael and Kimberly raised from their seats. Michael took the bar in his hands and examined it carefully. “Well, it certainly looks like one of the ones we had. How did you get it, Mark?”
Mark laughed. “Last night when you told me you were being followed, I didn’t really believe you. Now I’ll have to admit you were right.”
Kimberly’s eyes opened wide. “So, Michael, Myra was having you tailed.”
Mark waved his hand and shook his head. “No, not Myra. Someone else.”
Michael’s brows wrinkled in puzzlement. “Who would want to be following me? And what does that have to do with the gold bars? No one knew we had them. I don’t understand—”
“If both of you will stop interrupting, I’ll explain,” Mark said. Michael and Kimberly sat back down and, doe-eyed and somewhat subdued, gave Mark their full attention.
“I checked the license number you gave me as soon as I left your house last night. The car—a blue Honda Accord, just like you said—was registered to a Smokey Smith.
“The name immediately rang a bell with me. Smokey Smith used to be with Metro, until seven or eight years ago. One night, when he was supposed to be working in the Charleston-Nellis area, Smokey was caught on the southwest side of town having intercourse with a woman in his patrol car. A citizen observed them going at it and turned him in. It was consensual sex, but the officer was on duty at the time and miles from where he was supposed to be cruising. He admitted everything. The department tried to hush up the incident without a formal hearing, but word leaked out to the media and the story made the news anyway, and Smokey was kicked off the force.
“After he left Metro, Smith used what little juice he had left to get a private investigator’s license. He’s been working for several attorneys. Investigating personal injury cases, insurance frauds, things like that. Nothing big-time.
“I sent a black-and-white to his house last night, and the officers caught him in the act of unloading the Honda and carrying the gold bricks into his garage. He was surprised as hell—couldn’t figure how we’d caught him so quickly.”
“How did he know about the gold ingots?” Michael asked. “As I told you, nobody except Kimberly and I knew we had them.”
“Smith didn’t know. He just stumbled on them in Kimberly’s closet. Here’s what he was looking for,” Mark said. He reached into the drawer again. When his hand came up it held the VCR cassette of Stein and Hogg.
“Smith came clean and admitted everything. Stein had hired him to retrieve the tape. Smith trailed you to find out where you lived. As soon as you left the house to go to dinner he picked the lock on Kimberly’s front door and let himself in. That’s why he didn’t follow you to the restaurant. What he really wanted was to look around inside the house for the tape. Naturally, he didn’t find it there, because you had been smart enough to lock it up in the safe at the Times. When Smokey stumbled across the gold bars, the temptation was too great, and he helped himself.”
“So—Stein put Smith up to the burglary,” Michael surmised.
Mark shook his head. “That would be hard to prove. Stein will argue Smith was hired to retrieve the tape by lawful means, and he can’t be responsible for his agent, because the P.I. went off on a frolic of his own. The fact remains that Stein was determined to get the tape back, and that tends to indicate he recognizes his culpability in the attack on Lamb. You must have scared the shit out of him yesterday, Michael.”
Michael started to laugh. “Yes, I guess maybe I did. What’s going to happen to Stein now?” he asked.
“That’s hard to say. I’ve already notified the DA’s office about the situation, and I’m going to send them the tape for their evaluation. I hope Stein will be indicted as a co-conspirator in the attempted murder of Stewart Lamb, but that’s probably wishful thinking. The man has a lot of influence in this town—he knows where all the bodies are buried, so to speak—and he could get off with as little as a reprimand from the State Bar.”
“What about Gunther Hogg?” Kimberly asked.
“Even as we speak, Hogg’s being picked up. I’m placing him under arrest for attempted murder.”
“Well, I guess that just about wraps things up,” Michael stated.
“Not quite,” Mark corrected. “There’s still the matter of the gold bars. They’re all in the coat closet over there,” he said, pointing to a door near the corner of the room. “Don’t you want to take them with you?”
“You mean, we can have them now?” Michael asked disbelievingly. “I thought you had to try to find the rightful owners.”
“Naw, I don’t think that will be necessary,” Mark decided. “It turns out your gold ingots are only gold plated. They’re made of pig iron.” The detective took a penknife and scraped the bar. The gold plating came off easily, revealing the dull gray color of the ferrous metal beneath.
Michael was dumbfounded. “Why would anyone bother to gold plate iron bars?” he asked, to no one in particular. Kimberly looked very disillusioned, as if she had already made plans to spend her share of the find—which, in fact, she had.
“That’s something we’ll probably never know,” Mark answered. “A movie studio was shooting a western near the abandoned mine a few years back. The bars might have been props for the movie set and were left behind by mistake when the filming was over. Or, they could have been sealed up in the room deliberately, as a long-term practical joke instigated by someone on the crew.
“Here’s another theory for you—they could have been made for show, to induce potential investors to cough up money for a share of a mine where all of the ore had been depleted. Salting the mine, so to speak. I’ve heard of scams like that.
“In Nevada it’s a felony to counterfeit or possess gold bars, gold dust, or gold nuggets with intent to defraud. The law is spelled out in Nevada Revised Statutes 205.180 and 205.185. I don’t know of any law against possession without intent to defraud, however. Go ahead and take the gold bars, Michael. Just don’t try to palm them off as being genuine. I’ll have some of my boys help you load ’em into your car. If nothing else, they’ll make real pretty doorstops.”
Thirty-One
MANY CELL PHONES SOUND ALIKE when they ring, a fact that causes more than a little consternation. In Las Vegas, which boasts of having more portable cellular telephones per capita than any other city in the world, it is not uncommon, when in a public place, to hear the familiar electronic signal and immediately thereafter see a half-dozen people, perhaps even more, scramble into their purse, pocket, carrying case, or briefcase at the same time, not knowing whose phone is ringing, but who, if it turns out the sound is emanating from their own instrument, are determined to answer the summons before their voice mailbox picks up the call or the call diversion feature kicks in or the caller gets tired of waiting and hangs up.
Michael and Kimberly had just left Mark Caruso’s office. He was walking with them down the hallway toward the elevators. A cell phone, somewhere nearby, rang. Three uniformed police officers, one with a suspect in tow; a secretary, balancing two cups of coffee and three glazed raspberry jelly donuts; a man in a brown business suit, who presumably had some kind of important business to attend to in the police department; and Michael Kaplan—all reached for their cellulars at the same instant.
This time, the numbers on Michael’s keypad were illuminated; the call was for him. He pressed the send button and raised the instrument to his ear.
“Michael, is that you? Is that you?” E.J. Geller asked breathlessly.
Michael smiled and started talking. The others in the corridor, each of whom first thought their phone had been ringing, looked sheepish and put their instruments away. “Yes, E.J. You dialed the right number.”
“The man from the pet cemetery just called. What’s his name? Glade something-or-other?”
“Forrest Glade,” Michael corrected.
“Yes, that’s it. Forrest Glade. Anyway, he wants you to call him.”
“Okay. Kimberly and I are just leaving Metro now. I’ll give Glade a call when I get back to the office.”
“No. Call him now, Michael. Call him now. He said it’s a crisis situation. He sounded almost hysterical.”
Blue Goodness (Michael Kaplan Mysteries) Page 26