A Time For Us (Michael Kaplan Mysteries)

by David W. Cowles

  “That isn’t funny, Mark.”

  “No, I guess it isn’t. But I think we may be at the end of the detour. I had my boys go over Herbert’s house this morning with a fine-tooth brush, but the place is clean as a bell.”

  “I think that’s clean as a whistle.” Michael ignored Mark’s other mixed metaphors.

  “Whistle, bell. What’s the difference.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “Do you think there could be any connection between Herbert’s murder and Cicily Purdue’s?” Michael suggested.

  Caruso’s response was immediate. “Naw. The only thing the victims had in common is they both worked at the Blue Hawaii.”

  “There is something else—”

  “Yeah? What’s that?”

  “The closed-door meeting. Herbert saw Purdue go into Lois Lewis’s office.”

  “So, maybe Herbert was mistaken. Lewis adamantly denies there was a meeting. Besides, I can’t see why anyone would murder Herbert simply because he thought he saw Purdue and Lewis go into a meeting together. Counseling employees is a major part of Lewis’s job, for Pete’s sake.

  “There doesn’t seem to be any motivation for Herbert’s murder and we haven’t turned up any evidence that could lead us to his killer. This is likely to be one of those cases that never get solved, Michael.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Herbert seemed like a mensch—a good human being.”

  “By the way, Michael. While I have you on the phone—”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m gonna say something to you and you can do with it what you want. If you think I should just mind my own business and you want to tell me to go take a flying leap off a short pier, go right ahead, and what I’m about to say will be water over the bridge. But I consider you to be my friend, Michael, and when you and Myra and Kimberly were in my office last night, I got strange vibes.”

  Michael frowned, but of course Caruso could not see him. “What do you mean, Mark?”

  “Please don’t take what I’m going to say the wrong way, Michael. Take it with a grain of sugar. I don’t want you to think I’m being a buttinski. But it seemed to me like Kimberly couldn’t keep her hands off of you. She was all touchie-feelie. I kept watching. She was constantly stroking your arm or rubbing your leg. Once, I even thought she was gonna grab your crotch.

  “All the time, Myra was sitting there on the other side of the table smiling and acting like nothing was going on. But I’m sure she noticed what Kimberly was doing, Michael. She couldn’t help noticing.

  “Kimberly’s got the hots for you, buddy, there’s no doubt about it. And I’m thinking maybe you’ve got the hots for her, too. That spells trouble, with a capital T.

  “Now that Kimberly’s living with you and Myra, the temptation’s gonna get stronger and stronger and your resistance is gonna get weaker and weaker. One of these days, you and Kimberly are gonna hop in the sack, and then—whamo!—Myra’s gonna walk in and catch you doing the nasty.”

  Michael laughed, but the sound was noticeably hollow. “Mark, you have quite a vivid imagination. Kimberly’s just affectionate, that’s all. If Kim had been sitting next to Myra, she would have been touching Myra the same way she was touching me. Let me assure you—neither I nor Kimberly would ever do anything behind Myra’s back that we wouldn’t do right in front of her. That’s the emmes—the honest truth.”

  “Well, I’m sure glad to hear that, buddy. I was getting worried there.”

  Michael cleared his throat. “There’s nothing to worry about, I assure you. Everything’s under control.”

  Michael put his finger on the switch-hook, waited a couple of seconds, then raised his finger. When he heard a dial tone he punched in the numbers to Myra’s office.

  “Public Relations. This is Myra Kaplan. How can I help you?”

  “Hi, precious. It’s me.”

  “Hi, me,” she squeaked.

  “I just got a call from Mark Caruso. We were right. Mark ran a paraffin test on Jeff Herbert’s hands. Herbert didn’t fire the gun, so that means he didn’t kill himself.”

  “Ohmygod! Then he was murdered?”

  “Not necessarily. Jeff’s death might have been a homicide,” Michael replied.

  “Murder. Homicide. What’s the difference?” Myra asked.

  “Basically, intent. Murder is defined as the unlawful killing of a human being by another with malice aforethought.”

  Myra ignored Michael’s little dissertation on a fine point of law. As far as she was concerned, if someone else pulled the trigger, Herbert was murdered. Myra never did understand why Michael—who had a law degree, passed the California Bar Exam, and was paying dues to the State Bar of California—was working as an inadequately-paid restaurant critic for a newspaper in Nevada. “Does Mark have any suspects lined up?”

  “Not a one. There aren’t any clues. He said Metro probably never will find out who killed Herbert.”

  “That’s terrible. But it could have been a whole lot worse.”

  “How’s that?”

  “If you’d stayed at Herbert’s house just a few minutes longer, you might have been there when the murderer walked in. You might have been killed, too.”

  That had not occurred to Michael. Myra was right. He was lucky to be alive.

  Myra hung up the phone briefly, picked it up again, and punched in the four digits that would connect her with Rick Lacey’s office.

  “Security. This is Rick Lacey.”

  “Hi, Rick. This is Myra Kaplan.”

  “Hello, Myra. What’s up?”

  “I was in your office the day before yesterday—”

  “I remember. So?”

  Myra thought Lacey was being terse to the point of rudeness. “You said you were going to have someone review last Friday afternoon’s surveillance tape of the hall outside the entrance to H.R.”

  “Yes, I did say that, didn’t I? Well, I’m sorry, but it turned out there is no tape, Myra. The tape had jammed in the cassette and nothing from the hall camera was recorded that day.

  “I thought I told you to forget about Purdue. Her death doesn’t concern the company and it most certainly doesn’t concern you.”

  “You’re right, Rick. I was just curious, that’s all.”

  “Don’t be. You know what they say—curiosity killed the cat,” Lacey told her ominously.

  There was no way Myra could have misinterpreted the menacing tone to Lacey’s voice. “I’ll try to remember that.”

  After hanging up the telephone, Rick Lacey stood and took eight steps. He closed and locked the office door. He had a lot of thinking to do and did not want to be disturbed. Lacey returned to his leather executive chair, sat down, leaned back, raised his feet to the top of the desk, and closed his eyes.

  The situation is getting completely out of hand, he thought. It’s spreading like a cancer. I’ve worked far too long and far too hard to let anyone get in my way now. There’s too much at stake.

  I came out from under the little problem at the Bureau smelling like a rose. Overaggressive, they called me. Out of control. Hell, I was in complete control. I knew exactly what I was doing at all times. If I’d arrested those greasy spics from the drug cartel, it would have cost the taxpayers hundreds of thousands of dollars to prosecute them. Then, with a smart-ass sheeny lawyer, they might have gotten off on some legal loophole.

  Even if the defendants were found guilty and sentenced, the odds are some namby-pamby liberal judge would have given them a slap on the wrist. With the early release program the courts instituted because prisons are overcrowded, the bums would be back on the streets again in no time.

  So I shot them. Big fuckin’ deal. Exterminated the vermin, that’s what I did. The Chief should have given me a medal. But no. He said I was too aggressive.

  These days, the FBI’s nothing but a bunch of wimps. I wish I’d been with the Bureau when Hoover was in charge. That guy didn’t take shit from anybody. Not even the presidents of the United States. T
hey were all afraid of good old J. Edgar—with good cause. He had something in his little black book on each and every one of them. He even put a tape recorder under Martin Luther King’s bed and caught the nigger in the act of screwing one of his holier-than-thou camp followers. Hoover used to play that tape over and over. He got off on it, I was told. What a man Hoover was! Now they’re trying to say he was a fag, just because he liked to go to parties in drag. Hell, I’ve cross-dressed myself. There’s nothing deviant about that. It’s sexy. Hoover’s my idol, that’s for sure.

  I am sorry about what I had to do to Vance Bircher, though. At one time he was a good lawman. Just like Hoover. Just like me. But after his old lady died, Bircher became a boozer. Sooner or later the drink would have done him in. I just helped move things along. A few drops of LSD in his bourbon was all it took. Did he ever freak out! Waving his gun around in the casino pit. Threatening a high roller from Hong Kong. The gamblers were screaming and running all over the place. It was funny as hell. I disarmed Bircher and saved Brendan’s life—at least, so he thinks. Brendan had to give me Bircher’s job. I’d earned it. Brendan is extremely loyal to his buddies. Now, I’m one of them.

  I’m right where I want to be. Where I deserve to be. I’m Chief of Security for three hotels and casinos. Over a hundred men in my command. What I say around here goes.

  When the gang-bangers try to come into one of my casinos with those red or blue rags tied around their heads, I have my men take ’em out to the desert and rough ’em up so they won’t ever want to come back. Metro officers can’t do that. They’d catch hell from the ACLU and the other bleeding-heart liberals. The cops would be accused of violating the gang members’ civil liberties. Civil liberties, my ass. What about the civil liberties of the innocent people the gang members kill in drive-by shootings? What Metro should do is round up the Crips and Bloods and other gangs, arm ’em with Saturday night specials and knives, take ’em to Sam Boyd Stadium, and tell ’em to have at it. They could charge five hundred bucks admission and still fill the stadium.

  I’m in complete control of the hookers who come into the Crest Resorts casinos. If they want to work at Silver Crest or Gold Crest or Blue Hawaii, they have to pay off. Either in cash or in kind. Nobody gets any privileges around here without paying for them. There ain’t no such thing as a free lunch and I don’t allow free rides.

  I have a nice little business going with the hot merchandise, too. Everyone wants to save money these days. My boys will get the goods to order. Whatever a person wants—by brand name, make, and model. Hell, even Brendan’s personal secretary gives me her Christmas shopping list. We don’t have to steal the merchandise ourselves, either. I’ve contacts at the security departments for every department store and discount house in Las Vegas. I tell ’em what I want and they lift it. Most every security officer in town would kiss my royal behind to land a job here.

  It was an ingenious idea to install a meth lab in one of the hotel rooms. I would have made a fortune, if some nosy housekeeper who can barely speak English hadn’t stumbled on the lab and called the DEA. The first thing those idiots did was phone me to coordinate the drug bust. Naturally, by the time the Feds showed up, my partners were long gone. So, I didn’t make any money on that operation. Big deal. There are plenty of other opportunities. At least, the drug bust earned me a lot of brownie points.

  Today, it’s every man for himself, and God help us all. I’m not helping myself to any more than anyone else around here. The casino manager’s been skimming from the blackjack drop for years. The poker room manager pockets the tournament entry fees. The purchasing agent is making a fortune off kickbacks from his vendors. So’s the head of food and beverages, in spades. The controller pays phony invoices to sham companies. Of course, the dough winds up in his personal bank account. The old biddy who runs the slot club channels most of the merchandise she buys for Blue Hawaii through a company she set up in her mother’s name. I know she marks up the cost of the goods by at least fifty percent.

  Marshall Brendan knows what’s going on. That’s for sure. He’s too sharp a man for anyone to pull the wool over his eyes. But Brendan turns his head the other way when his good ol’ boy buddies are involved. What they steal from the company he won’t have to pay them in salary. He calls it a bonus, a fringe benefit of the job. And the bastards in IRS can’t tax under-the-table payoffs. The money doesn’t even have to be laundered. So, everyone comes out a winner.

  Yeah, things have been going good for me. I have it made at Crest Resorts. I have a good-looking wife and two smart boys. They’re going to grow up to be just like me. In a few weeks, Susan is going to give birth to our daughter. Nobody is going to fuck up my life and get away with it. I do what I have to do.

  When I killed those drug dealers I did it calmly, with premeditated intent. There wasn’t the slightest hint of emotion. I was just doing my job, as I saw fit.

  On the other hand, Cicily Purdue was killed in a fit of rage. The cops will never find out who wasted her, though. Cicily’s death was made to look like a ritual killer or Satan-worshiper did her in. I guess Purdue’s boyfriend is going to take the fall for the hit. That’s funny. Really funny.

  Can you imagine the nerve of that cunt? I always thought she was mentally unstable, but she must have had dog shit for brains. She was going to file sexual harassment charges against me! How did she think she’d get away with that, since I’m the one who investigates all the S. H. complaints here at the Blue Hawaii? Hell, I didn’t have Purdue do anything with me she didn’t do with some s.o.b. blue-collar worker every night of the week. I’ve watched her on the surveillance tapes giving her johns head in the hotel hallways. More than once I caught her screwing someone in the back seat of a car in the parking lot. So, I bit her a little. She did taste good.

  I have to learn to keep my pecker in my pants. That’s going to be difficult for me to do, though. All the cocktail waitresses with their big tits and asses hanging out of their bustiers are hard to ignore. With Susan pregnant, I haven’t been able to get any action at home for months. What’s a guy to do? I’m not one to do without, and I’m certainly not one to jerk off in the shower.

  I do wish I knew what Purdue told Lewis. Not the crap she wrote on the sexual harassment complaint. That, I read. What I need to know is what else Purdue might have said to Lewis. Even that doesn’t matter anymore. Purdue’s dead and she’ll never blab her mouth off to anyone else again.

  Herbert’s dead, too. He’d be alive today if he’d just minded his own business and kept his mouth shut. But he had to tell that nosy Jew bitch Myra Kaplan that Purdue and Lois had a meeting. So, Herbert’s credibility had to be destroyed. Ha! If the jerk only knew! The sexual harassment complaint I waved in his face was the one Purdue tried to file against me.

  I thought Herbert would be out of the way after he quit in shame and humiliation. But then, Myra’s husband, a hot-shot reporter for the Las Vegas Times, started sniffing around. Herbert talked to Kaplan, and that’s what got him killed.

  Myra’s like a fucking bulldog. She’s got her chompers locked onto my ass and won’t let go. Both of the Kaplans are extremely dangerous. Myra has direct access to Brendan, and she could spill her guts to him. More likely, though, she might decide to feed 411 to her Jew-boy husband so he can write an article for his newspaper and make everything public. I can’t take any chances. I need to find out how much they know. If the Kaplans caught wind of what’s been going on, I’m going to have to neutralize them.

  Twelve

  IT WAS STILL DARK when the telephone on Myra’s side of the bed rang. She picked it up and answered it, then handed the instrument to Michael.

  “Hello. Who’s this?” Michael asked sleepily.

  “Hi, Michael. This is Mark. Did I wake you up?”

  “Yeah, you sure did. What time is it?”

  “Quarter to five. Walker’s back in town.”

  “Who?” Michael was far from being awake.

  “Peter Walker. The guy
who killed Cicily Purdue. He’s sitting in the Security office at McCarran. I’m on my way to the airport to take him into custody. Do you want to be there when I arrest him? It could be quite a scoop for the Times.”

  “I sure do. I’ll leave as soon as I get dressed.”

  “Take your time, Michael. Walker’s not going anywhere. Let’s have breakfast first. Meet me in the Blue Hawaii coffee shop. I like their $1.95 graveyard special. Just be there before six a.m. That’s the time the graveyard special ends.”

  “Okay, Mark. I’ll see you in the coffee shop.” Michael removed his pajamas and headed for the bathroom. He could have a quick shower, shave, get dressed, and drive to Blue Hawaii with plenty of time to spare.

  “I’ll put on a pot of coffee. You can have a cup while you’re getting ready,” Myra offered.

  The conversations had roused Kimberly. “What’s going on?” she asked, rubbing her eyes sleepily.

  “Peter Walker’s at the airport,” Michael answered. “Mark Caruso’s going there to arrest him, and he’s invited me to tag along.”

  “Go back to sleep, Kim,” Myra soothed, rubbing Kimberly’s back sensually. Neither of the women had worn anything to bed since their first night in Cancun. “You don’t have to get up for another two hours. I’ll see Michael off and then get back in bed with you. I feel like cuddling.” And a whole lot more, she thought lecherously.

  “I’m wide awake now, Myra. And hungry. I might as well get up. Let’s have breakfast. I’ll get it started.” Kimberly threw a turquoise silk robe over her curvaceous body and headed for the kitchen. Myra concealed her disappointment.

  While Myra started the coffee maker and set the table, Kimberly dropped two bagels in the toaster and took a small plastic tub of whipped cream cheese and two whitefish chubs from the refrigerator. She sliced a large red beefsteak tomato and a purple Bermuda onion. Myra and Kimberly were seated and eating by the time Michael was showered, shaved, dressed, and ready to leave. He gave each of them a kiss on his way out the door.