by L. J. Martin
“There are two doubles in the second bedroom?”
“There are.”
“Then both Skip and I will share the suite with you…and would even if we had to sleep on the floor.”
“Reardon,” she asks, with a coquettish look, pressing the close door button, “are you afraid of me?”
“I only fear God and the IRS,” I say, with a laugh. “Skip and I will take the second bedroom. Why don’t you call the desk and try to get your money back for the unused rooms.”
“Whatever,” she says, sounding a little disgusted. We enter the suite and Skip steps in front of her. He goes to the master bedroom and clears it, the deck outside it, and the bathroom, then returns and gives me a nod.
“Goodnight, Miss Houston,” I say, and she gives me a wave over her shoulder and disappears into her half of the suite.
Skip always has trouble sleeping so he tunes in the living room TV to an old movie and I hit the sack. I have trouble sleeping late so at four thirty, I get up and shower, luxuriating for a long time, then shave—the suite has every amenity—and go out and wake Skip, who’s asleep on the sofa.
“Go get some decent rest. I’ll catch the news and wake you when I hear the lady stirring.”
Luckily the suite has the makings for coffee in its small kitchen, and I’m on my fourth cup and fifth news channel when my phone rings with an unknown caller.
“Reardon,” I answer.
“Mike, it’s Crystal Janson.” Crystal is the twin sister of a client of mine, Carol, who was killed by the cartel, and is raising Carol's daughter, her niece, Sherry. I haven’t heard from her in months and smile at the sound of her voice. Her salon, Beauty by Crystal, is only a few blocks from Pax’s building in Vegas.
“How are you? How’s Sherry?”
“She’s fine. Have you heard?”
I can see this is not a pleasure call. “Heard what?”
“Your buddy, Pax what’s his name…his office had an explosion.”
That knocks the wind out of me. “When?”
“Not more than a half hour ago. I guess there were a half-dozen workers there.”
“Bad?”
“Very bad, blew the whole front of the building off.”
“I gotta go. I’ll come see you soon. Thanks for the call.”
I immediately dial Pax and get call forwarding to an answering device. Then I try Sol and get the same. I don’t bother trying the office phone. Instead I dial a friend at LVDP, and he picks up.
“Bollinger,” he answers.
“Andre, Mike Reardon here. I just heard there was an explosion at Weatherwax Internet.”
“Yeah, your buddy as I recall.”
“What’s the story?”
“I’m there now. They’ve got the fire out and have recovered two bodies and hauled four out and have bussed them to emergency at University Medical Center…UMC.”
“And Pax?”
“Don’t know what’s up with individual names yet.”
“Can you call me on this cell number when you do?”
“Sure. You’ll owe me.”
“I already owe you.”
I hustle in and wake Skip. “The ka ka’s hit the fan in Vegas. Explosion at Pax’s office, he doesn’t answer, and I can’t find out shit. I’m driving over in the van. Don’t let Tammy do anything stupid, stay close to her.”
“Got it,” he says, wiping the sleep from his eyes.
“Follow me down to the van and I’ll leave you with a duffle bag full of goodies.”
He jumps up and drags on his clothes. “Call me as soon as you know what’s up. After driving over half of Iraq in a lousy Humvee, it would be the worst if Pax bought it from an explosion in Vegas.”
“Get ready to get a phone call telling you to shag to Vegas. I think this has to be our Albanian friends, and I’m going to rock their world as soon as I know what’s what. If we finish them, we’ll finish the threat to Tammy.”
“And Tammy in the meantime?” he asks as we head for the door.
“I’ve got a couple of buddies here in LA and will get you some help.”
“I’ll take care of this end until I hear from you…you take care of Vegas.”
And we are soon at valet parking and then in my van. I drive to a side parking space and Skip and I fill a duffle full of whatever he might need to watch out for our client, and I’m gone.
I’m happy when I reach Killer Carlos Juarez on the first try, and he agrees to head for the Four Seasons and tie up with Skip. And he’s got a buddy, Tobin “To Bad” Michaels, who’ll work the job. I’ve heard tales of Michaels, a real bad ass. Both of these guys are ex-Green Berets, now bail enforcement agents, a little older than me but not too long in the tooth for this kind of work.
Before I make the turn north out of San Berdo thru Cajon Pass, my phone rings and I use the hands-free.
“Reardon.”
It’s Andre. “Weatherwax is alive…in the operating room. He was in his office on top in the back of the building. He’s hurt pretty bad as the floor collapsed and some crap landed on him. The receptionist is dead as some asshole backed a pickup through the glass wall in front, right in front of her desk, and ran for it. If our guy’s guess is right, the pickup was loaded with nitrogen fertilizer soaked in diesel fuel and blew the whole building to hell and took out half the adjoining buildings.”
“The receptionist. Rosie Newmyer?”
“That’s the lady.”
“And the kid, Sol Goldman?”
“Not one of the dead. Three confirmed dead now. Two walked away with scratches and bruises, unable to hear, but they walked away. The receptionist and another lady and a young guy are at the morgue.”
“Those dirty motherfuckers.” I have a ball of snakes in my belly, a throat dry as the Gobi, and my jaw’s clamped so tight it’ll be sore for a week. Rosie was a great girl, chubby, happy, always with a grin and a giggle. I’m developing a knot of reptiles in my stomach so tight that it feels a little like a bowling ball, and I know it won’t dissolve until I put whoever did this toes up. Hopefully after them hurting for a good long spell before their lights go out.
“You know who did this?” Andre snaps, now all cop.
“I have an idea. I’m heading over Cajon pass. I’ll see you in three hours or so.”
“I’ll still be at the scene. We’ve got a team from the FBI bomb squad coming in. We’re stretching it but I appealed to them as I said I had reason to believe it was a terrorist act. But if you think you know who did it, I can get a jump on taking them down.”
“You may not be too far wrong. I’ll bring you up to speed when I get there.”
“Reardon…no cowboy crap.”
“Yippee-ki-yay.” I say.
I hear him sigh deeply, then he says. “See you at…a little before noon?”
“I’ll head for the hospital first. Call me again if you get any more news.”
“Reardon, don’t fuck up my town again.”
“Nothing but self-defense, detective. You know that.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Just as I reach Barstow, I get another unidentified caller, and use the hands-free.
“Reardon.”
“Mike, did you hear?” And I recognize Sol’s voice, Pax’s number one man and my little buddy who I’ve been worrying about.
“I did. Good to hear your voice. You okay?”
“I was across town working on a client’s server. This is terrible, just terrible.”
“And you are just the guy to help me kick some ass.”
“I don’t do guns, Mike.”
“It’s not guns I need. What have you found out about these Albanian assholes?”
“Five of them flew into McCarran last night, along with two big dogs. I tapped the video cameras at the fixed base operator they use. Then, figuring where they were probably headed, the security system at the casino. They all went directly to Rocco’s Casino out in Laughlin. Word is Rocco’s is really owned by this Edvin Gash
i and Armand Ahmeti, and Rodolfo ‘Rocco’ Barbini is merely a front so they could get by the gaming commission.”
“Get a take on how many Albanians are hanging out there, and who lives at the club. Going in from Henderson Rocco’s is the second one on the river side, right?”
“Yes. I’ll have to work out of my apartment. I hate to leave the hospital until I know what’s up with Pax and a couple of my buddies, Fletcher and Bohannan, who are hurt bad too.”
“Let’s get these assholes. That’s the best thing we can do for Pax and your pals.”
“Got it. I’m headed home.”
The phone doesn’t rattle again and I drive straight to the University Medical Center. I’m happy to find out that Pax is in a room and not Intensive Care. Visitor’s hours are not until mid-afternoon, unless you’re family…but if I’m not family no one is.
It’s a private room and when I peek in the door, I see he’s flat on his back and staring out the window, his good leg tilted up in traction, his right arm in a cast, and a couple of IVs in the back of his left hand. I wander on in.
“Wanna race?” I ask.
"Speak up. My ears are still ringing from the explosion. Yeah, I wanna race...to find out who tried to wipe us all out.”
“I’ve got a good idea. It didn’t take Gashi long to nail you from his security video and to put his scumbag boys to work.”
“You sure it was him?”
“Sure enough. Sol…thank God Sol was gone…tracked them back to McCarran early this morning and we know they’re out at Rocco’s in Laughlin. I’ve got him doing some recon so we can play get even.”
“I want to be in on it,” Pax says, and I laugh.
“You wanna wait six weeks. Hell, they’ll likely be out of the country in less than a week. The FBI hit the winery already, and they were long gone back here. I’ve got some help.”
He looks out the window again, staring at nothing, then turns back to me, “Patty Yount was a single mother with a five year old daughter. Rosie has…had…two kids and her disabled mom lived with her. Betty Polkinghorn was the sole support for her niece after her sister OD’d last year. Donald McDowel has…had…a pregnant wife. I want every one of those Albanian pricks to be catfish crap at the bottom of Lake Mead.”
“You know I loved Rosie like a sister...and I know all of them were good folks. I'll get the pricks, but we’d better not wait for you to get well or they'll fly the coop.”
“You're right. Get those assholes. I’ll owe you big time,” Pax says, then coughs until I think he’s about to spit up a lung. I’m about to call for a nurse, when he gets it under control. Then he explains, “I laid in a pile of timber, plaster, roofing, and equipment while the fire started to roar. I breathed some bad crap. I thought I was cooked, then the fire boys knocked it down and jacked some debris up and got me out. I breathed some really, really bad crap. I’m afraid some of my people died hard.”
“You’re too tough to cook. Are they gonna have them take an inch out of that busted good leg of yours so you won’t walk in circles?”
“Fuck you. I’m tired and I can't hear but about half of your bullshit. Get the hell out of here.”
“Just so you know I know…it was my job that brought this down on you, and I’m gonna make it right.”
“Mike, I guess you didn’t hear me. Get the hell out of here.”
“I’m not leaving until we’ve got someone good on your door, twenty-four-seven.”
“Whatever,” he says, and closes his eyes. Then he whispers, barely loud enough to hear. “When the fuck did we start keeping score?”
“Yeah, yeah,” I say back, then I wander out in the hall and call Detective Andre Bollenger. “I need someone on the door at Weatherwax’s room. These boys seem to want him pretty bad.”
“Reardon, the Las Vegas Metro Police are not your personal protection agency. I can get someone, off duty, in uniform—”
“Twenty-four-seven.”
“—Twenty-four-seven will mean three guys. That’ll cost you two hun a shift or six hun a day. Cash, to them personally. They need the dough.”
“When can you get someone here? Someone good. And well-armed.”
“An hour or two.”
“Anything new from the scene?”
“The pickup was stolen, of course. We’ve got some video of a guy running past the bank a couple of doors down.”
“When can I see it?”
“Meet me at my office at six and we’ll take a look. And you can tell me who you think is responsible.”
“Six,” I say, without promising.
Someone is trying to call as I’m hanging up and I switch over and answer.
“I got some interesting stuff,” Sol says.
“I’m waiting here for some guys to guard Pax’s room then I’ll come your way. Text me an address. It may be a couple of hours.”
“I’ll keep churning the computer.” I can hear the smile in his voice. "They got toilet paper for firewalls."
I wish I had time to drive to Laughlin, but it’s about ninety miles. Instead I’m stuck here. It’s only forty-five minutes before a square-jawed black officer who looks like he should be playing tackle for the 49ers shows up. I can see he's wearing a vest and has a combat shotgun as well as his sidearm. It seems Andre is taking things seriously, and I relax a little. The cop says he’ll be on the job until twelve thirty, then another off-duty cop will pick up the baton until eight thirty, then a third until four thirty and they’ll start all over.
And I’m off to Sol’s apartment, which is only about six blocks east of the hospital. He doesn’t live fancy, except for the computer and stereo equipment. He’s got a sound system that might just knock the walls down…walls covered with posters of Katy Perry, Shakira, and Jessie James. I’d guess him to be a real music fan but none of the ladies have on enough clothes to cover a pocket size MP3 player. Maybe music is second on the list with Sol.
I have my Mac Air laptop under my arm.
“There’s a beer in the fridge,” he announces after I let myself in.
“Working.” I refuse.
“I’ve emailed you a pile of crap. I’ve got reams of stuff on the Albanians and on Rocco’s, including plans and specs and am tapped into their security system. We see what they see, real time.”
“Cool. How many of them are hanging out there?”
“They have two suites, Gashi and Ahmeti, and five rooms with guys doubled up in them…but Gashi and four of their guns are gone. They flew out of McCarran a half hour ago. They got other security guys on the job, but I think they're run-of-the-mill locals.”
“Flew? Where to?”
“I haven’t pegged it yet. I’m trying to get into Burton Aviation’s server now. The Citation they’ve been chartering belongs to Burton. If I don’t get the info there I’ll go after a flight plan.”
“Keep working, I’ll read.”
In minutes while I’m studying the layout for Rocco’s, Sol slams a hand down on his mouse pad.
“Damn, damn, they’re headed out of the country.”
“I’m not surprised.” Maybe I will have to clue in Andre and the FBI, to get them stopped before they reach the border. “Where?” I ask.
“Vera Cruz, Mexico, if it’s a real flight plan, which I doubt...so God knows where.”
“Are they out of the country?”
Sol glances at his watch. “If they’re not, they will be in a few minutes if they’re headed due south. We’re screwed.”
“Then those five are down the list somewhere. I’ll take care of them later, if I have to go to Albania to do it. Who’s left at Rocco’s?”
“What are you going to do?” Sol asks.
“Pardner, you don’t want to know. As soon as we’re done here you’re going on vacation.”
He glares at me. “Bullshit, Mike. They were my friends too. Whatever you’re gonna do, I’m gonna help you do. Final word.”
I can’t help but smile. Then I suggest, “I don’t think
you’d do too well in the big house, Sol. You’d be fresh meat for some ugly ol’ boys.”
“Fuck it. I’m in.”
I shrug. “Then let’s go to work.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
We work in Sol's apartment for over an hour, doing recon on Rocco's Casino and Resort and the unincorporated town of Laughlin, Nevada, which is on the Colorado River not far from Arizona's Bullhead City on the other side. The town is still on its butt after the recession of 2008, not having recovered like Vegas did. Ten primary resorts and casinos make up by far the biggest employers in Laughlin, with only seven thousand five hundred residents.
Rocco's is nowhere near the largest. The Tropicana has fifteen hundred rooms and a huge casino floor, and employees account for almost ten percent of the population of Laughlin. Rocco's has two hundred rooms and a casino floor of only a little over twelve thousand square feet, eighty feet by one thirty. Where the Trop has a huge showroom Rocco's holds only three hundred, and best we can figure, has only a few over one hundred employees.
Sol has gotten into Rocco's servers with little problem, and we have photos and physical descriptions of all the Albanians living there, even though they are not officially employees—they certainly wouldn't pass roster with the gaming commission—they do have photo ID tags and those photos are still in the server, simply deleted by someone who thinks that removes them from the system. I presume they had badges made so they can move unchallenged throughout the property.
We're able to identify two of the hotel rooms vacated that had been occupied for many months by four of those Albanians. I presume those are four of the five who've accompanied Gashi out of the country. One guy must have been rooming with someone who didn't go.
That meant that at least five, and maybe six guns remained at Rocco's with Ahmeti, Gashi's partner. They must have figured that since the FBI was after Gashi due to Tammy's kidnapping, and now possibly due to the bombing and murder of the Castiano's and their employees, and soon, likely due to the bombing of Weatherwax Internet Services, it was propitious to get the hell out of Dodge.
It's time for me to meet with Detective Andre Bollenger and take a look at the video of the pickup driver. I pause at the door and ask Sol one more time. "Are you sure you want to be a part of this?"