A Time For Us (Michael Kaplan Mysteries)

by David W. Cowles

Myra was somewhat flustered. She hadn’t realized Mark had paid attention to her spontaneous remark. “I’d given Morgan my phone number and address only this afternoon, so it was logical for me to assume she still had it on her.”

  Mark nodded. “I understand. Go on. What did Morgan say to make you think Lacey could be a killer?”

  Myra told Mark about her cryptic call from Morgan and Morgan’s visit at the condo. She left out the part about Morgan being lesbian and asking for a date. When Myra finished, Mark took several minutes to digest what he’d just learned.

  “Now we’ve added some new ingredients to the stew. Here’s what I make of your conversation with Morgan. First, for some unexplained reason, she despises Lacey. She also fears him. But a lot of people despise and fear a person in Lacey’s capacity. The position of Chief of Security carries a tremendous amount of power in a casino. So, in evaluating what Morgan told you, we have to bear in mind her personal feelings and strip away her emotions.

  “Here’s what we’re left with. Lacey was keeping an eye on Purdue. But if Purdue was behaving immorally on the property, that’s exactly what Lacey should have been doing. Further—it was his job to investigate sexual harassment complaints. That appears to have been Lacey’s only connection with Jeff Herbert. There doesn’t seem to be much of a connection between Lacey and Sherman, either. Lacey probably hasn’t seen the woman since the night before Lois Lewis let her go.”

  “Yes, he did,” Myra interjected. “Morgan said Lacey was watching me on the surveillance system today. He would have seen Nellie having lunch with me.”

  “Regardless—I can’t go to Blue Hawaii and interrogate Lacey about any of the murders. I’d look like a horse’s behind. There isn’t a single scrap of evidence that points to him. All we have is hearsay, from a person who’s now dead, that Lacey may or may not have had sex with Lois Lewis or someone else in Lewis’s office five months ago, and vague assumptions and accusations from an employee who admittedly despises the man.

  “On the other hand, I can’t dismiss Lacey as a suspect altogether. For the sake of argument, let’s suppose I decide Morgan is right. If I go to Blue Hawaii and start a full-scale investigation without going through Lacey, before I reach second base Marshall Brendan is going to be yelling like a banshee to my Chief and my butt will be in a sling before I make it out the door of the casino. So, that’s not a viable option.

  “On the other hand—”

  “That’s the third hand,” Kimberly giggled.

  “Whatever. On the other hand, there has to be a reason why Lacey has Surveillance keeping a constant eye on Myra. Right now, that doesn’t make much sense to me. Whether Lacey’s just trying to do his job or has a more ulterior motive—either way—there has to be some connection we haven’t discovered yet between Myra and the homicide victims.

  “If Morgan is right about Lacey, then Myra’s life could be in jeopardy. Morgan’s life, too, if Lacey knows Morgan talked to Myra.”

  “Ohmygod,” Michael moaned. “Myra, I want you to quit your job the first thing tomorrow morning. Get out of Blue Hawaii before it’s too late.”

  “What good would quitting my job do?” Myra responded. “Two of the three people who were murdered had left Blue Hawaii. Only Cicily Purdue still worked there when she was killed.”

  “Myra’s right,” Mark agreed. “The murderer doesn’t seem to care if his victims are on the payroll or not. Remember, though, we haven’t tied in Herbert’s homicide with the others. His death might not be related to the others at all.

  “It looks to me like Purdue and Sherman were murdered by a psychopathic serial killer. Even though the weapons were different, the murderer observed the same perverted rituals after he killed them. My guess is the murderer does work for Blue Hawaii, but, at this time, I don’t think it’s Rick Lacey. Lacey may have his faults, but he doesn’t impress me as being a serial killer.”

  “What does a serial killer look like, anyway?” Michael asked sarcastically. “Maybe you should just go down to the time office at Blue Hawaii and watch every employee clock in. When a serial killer goes to punch his time card, arrest him.”

  “Point well taken,” Mark conceded. He turned toward Myra. “Myra, as I’ve just told you, I can’t conduct an investigation at Blue Hawaii at this time. I’ve absolutely nothing solid to go on. Until I do, I’d like to ask you to be my eyes and ears. Above all, don’t do or say anything that would arouse suspicions—of Lacey or anyone else. And don’t do anything that would jeopardize your job.

  “I’d also like to ask you to maintain a relationship with Morgan Penny, but not at Blue Hawaii. Away from the property. Morgan’s already opened up to you. Maybe the two of you can have dinner or a few drinks somewhere a couple of times a week. As Morgan works in Surveillance, she’s in a good position to gather intelligence and find out who Lacey’s keeping his eyes on. The two of you will be my moles. Be sure to let Morgan know I don’t want to alert Lacey that I’m conducting an investigation that might possibly involve him.

  “Please be careful. Both of you. If Lacey’s watching you with the eye-in-the-sky cameras, I’ll bet my bottom dollar he’s also bugged your office and tapped your phone. Will you do as I’ve just requested? Whatever you learn could help catch the killer—hopefully, before he strikes again.”

  Myra looked at Michael, then at Kimberly. She could tell they were not comfortable with the idea, but realized she really had no choice.

  “Of course, Mark. I’ll do everything I can to help.”

  Twenty-One

  MARSHALL BRENDAN can best be described as being somewhere north of exceptionally brilliant, bordering on genius. He is a whiz with numbers—an advantage in any business, an asset crucial to success in the gaming industry. And he absorbs information like a sponge. Little, if anything, goes on in any department of Brendan’s three hotels and casinos with which he is not, at the minimum, peripherally aware, and, more likely, intimately familiar.

  For reasons known only to himself, Brendan postures as being less than competent, a bumbling good ol’ boy redneck. Much as a professional poker player never flagrantly displays his skills, one can reasonably assume Brendan’s shrouding of his vast and extensive capabilities with a cloak of naiveté places his adversaries off guard and provides him with a decided advantage in any situation requiring negotiation.

  His usual attire—a cowboy shirt, faded jeans worn low beneath his enormous gut, a wide leather belt with an elaborate silver buckle, and cowboy boots—would allow him to fit in equally well with ranch hands hooting it up after a rodeo or a gang of bikers terrorizing the inhabitants of a small town in Arizona. Brendan prides himself on never wearing a tie, except for funerals and appearances before the Gaming Control Board, which he views with equal distaste.

  Although perfectly capable of conversing in the most eloquent language whenever the occasion requires, Brendan carefully cultivates an aura that borders on illiteracy. That, plus a tendency to stutter—an affliction he’s sustained ever since his parents died—cause some to think of him as a country bumpkin, a maladroit dimwit who, because of an accident of birth (namely, being the nephew of a famous gaming pioneer), fell into a septic tank and came out smelling like a rose.

  Nothing could be further from the truth, as those employees, business competitors, and others foolish or unfortunate enough to underestimate the man quickly discover, to their detriment. Every move Brendan makes is shrewdly calculated, with the end result predictable well in advance.

  Brendan had invited Rick Lacey to join him for lunch. Though neither had yet made mention of Trevor Weatherbee’s abrupt resignation and departure from Nevada, both knew the luncheon was in celebration of that event.

  They were seated in a corner of the Oahu Room at Blue Hawaii, in a large booth capable of accommodating eight diners—ten, with just a little crowding. The booth had a house phone within easy reach. Whenever Brendan was in the building, the maitre d’ kept the booth unoccupied, regardless of how busy the restaurant becam
e, so it would be available should The Big Guy, as he was affectionately referred to by his managers, decide to dine.

  Brendan had a hard time choosing between the rack of lamb and prime rib for lunch. He finally tossed a mental coin in the air and the prime rib won—the Diamond Jim Brady cut, a full two pounds of meat.

  “I-I-I gotta admit you were r-r-r-right, Rick,” Brendan stuttered.

  “Sir?” Lacey replied obsequiously. He knew full well what Brendan was making reference to, but wanted to savor hearing the golden words come from The Big Guy’s mouth.

  “The Goose. He’s gone. Flew the coop this morning. Migrated south to Australia. The dirty bird didn’t even stop in my office to say goodbye. He just left a scrawled note on my desk. As if I gave a flying—.”

  The waiter brought their salads. “What about The Goose’s mistress, er, executive secretary—Roslyn?” Lacey asked.

  Brendan chuckled. His stuttering had completely stopped. “I don’t think The Goose bothered to tell Roslyn he was leaving. Probably his wife wouldn’t allow him time to go see her. Roslyn got the word from my secretary. The last thing I heard, she was down in Lois Lewis’s office crying her heart out.

  “Lois must have known all along about The Goose’s affair. Probably, most everyone at Blue Hawaii knew. He and Roslyn weren’t at all discreet. I suspect Roslyn’s going to quit and follow The Goose back to Australia, but she’ll probably wait a couple of weeks for the sake of keeping up appearances.” Brendan buttered another sourdough roll, his third.

  “That’s a logical assumption, sir,” Lacey fawned, picking the croutons out of his salad and dropping them, soaked in creamy Italian dressing, on the previously spotless tablecloth. For some reason, he could never remember to tell the waiter to hold the croutons, which he detested.

  The waiter brought their entrées. Brendan stuffed his mouth with a chunk of prime rib. His eyes narrowed to slits. “Now, if I could just get rid of that drugstore cowboy Tex Thomas—”

  Lacey feigned surprise. “I didn’t know you had that in mind, sir. That’s an easy task. Very easy.”

  Brendan’s face twisted into a frown. “Wha-wha-what d’ yuh mean?”

  “What’s sauce for The Goose is sauce for The Gander.”

  “Yuh mean to say you have somethin’ on Thomas?” Brendan asked, his fork suspended in midair.

  Lacey smiled malevolently. “He likes girls.”

  Brendan stabbed at his baked potato. “So do I. So do you. So what?”

  “Young girls.”

  That got Brendan’s full attention. The corner of his mouth turned up in a roguish smile. “How young?”

  “Ten. Eleven. Rarely older than twelve.”

  Brendan shook his head disbelievingly. “Christ. I’ve got a fuckin’ pervert headlining in my showroom.” He took a piece of gristle out of his mouth and set it on the edge of his plate. “I’ve gotta get on the meat purveyor’s ass again. The quality of this prime rib ain’t what it should be.” He cocked his head slightly to one side, with an impish grin on his face. “Are you sure?”

  Lacey nodded. “Yes, sir. I’m positive. I have surveillance video of Thomas having sex with six different girls. None of them is in her teens yet. Two are daughters of dancers in his show.”

  Brendan choked. “Holy shit! It’s a wonder Thomas hasn’t been strung up and castrated.”

  “Is that what you’d like to happen, sir?” Lacey sadistically asked.

  Brendan thought for a moment, then shrugged. “Naw. That would just bring bad publicity on our company. You’ve got video of him, right?”

  “Yes, sir. Would you like to view it?”

  “Shit, no. If it ever came out I knew the jerk was into jailbait and didn’t turn him into the cops, they’d have my ass.” He didn’t elaborate on who they were.

  “If I may suggest, sir, I can discreetly discuss the matter with Mr. Thomas. I think he’ll be more than willing to break his contract and leave the city immediately.”

  “We can announce Thomas suddenly took sick.” Brendan slapped his ham-like fist to his forehead. “Boy, is he ever sick. I hope I can get someone to cover for him in the showroom on short notice. If I have to, though, I’ll keep the room dark for a couple of weeks.”

  “Tex Thomas is as good as gone, sir. He’s already made his last appearance at Blue Hawaii.”

  Brendan’s brows wrinkled. The stutter returned. “I-I-I don’t suppose you have anything on any of the other Corporate people? The directors? Things that might make them want to leave also?”

  Lacey beamed. “I have something useful on each and every one, sir. Would you like me to start working on them?”

  Brendan nodded, then smiled mischievously. “Yeah. The sooner we can get rid of Corporate and get back to business-as-usual, the better I’ll like it. Make that damned Director of Finance next on your hit list.

  “He’s been snooping around, then tattling to me that irregularities in purchasing and other departments are costing the corporation money. Hell, I already know that. Every one of my top managers is stealing from me. I let ’em do it. As long as they don’t get too greedy, it’s part of their employment package. It saves ’em money on taxes. Keeps ’em on their toes, too. If they cover their own asses, they’re covering mine at the same time.”

  A disturbing thought crossed Brendan’s mind. “I-I-I-I hope you haven’t been buildin’ a file on me. You haven’t, have you, Rick?”

  Lacey acquired an unctuous air. “Sir, if I don’t know your weaknesses, I won’t know how best to protect you.”

  “Wha-wha-what d’yuh mean?” That was not the answer Brendan expected.

  “Well, sir, for instance, take that little matter about changing the betting line so that your oddsmaker could get his wagers in under more favorable conditions than the other bettors, and then moving the line back again immediately after his bets are placed.”

  Brendan shrugged. “That ain’t no big deal. Every sports book does it once in a while. It helps to balance the wagers so if there’s an upset we won’t get so badly burned.”

  “Maybe so, but it was at one of your casinos—the Silver Crest—where the nosy agent from the Gaming Control Board documented what happened. Not just once, but numerous times. The asshole’s on a crusade, Mr. Brendan. Wants to make a name for himself. That’s why you’re being called before the Board. There’s a strong possibility you could lose your gaming license and have to dispose of your casinos.”

  Brendan had to admit he had been sweating over the untoward possibilities. “So, how do you suggest I handle the matter?”

  “Sir, I’ve already taken steps to defuse the situation. I’ve used my contacts with the Bureau to bug the offices of the Gaming Control Board. And their conference room, too.”

  Brendan was flabbergasted. “Holy shit! You were able to do that?”

  “Yes, sir. I learned we can buy them off. I can bribe the Board members for, say, $500,000. Yes, I think that will be enough. They’ll give you a slap on the wrist. You’ll be fined $100,000 or so to satisfy the media and the public—it can’t look like the Board is whitewashing the violation. Once you’ve paid the fine, the matter will be over and done with once and for all.”

  Brendan shook his head. “Half a million bucks, huh. That’s a lotta dough to cough up without anyone taking notice. You can’t just go to the cashier’s cage and sign a cash disbursement slip. What would you write on the form where it asks the purpose of the withdrawal—bribes for the Nevada Gaming Control Board?”

  Lacey laughed. “There is a way, sir. I’ve already posed a hypothetical question to Paul Carey.”

  Brendan grimaced. “Don’t be hypothetical with Carey. Tell him the facts. You can trust Paul. He’s been with me ever since I started at the Regal Inn.”

  “I know, sir. Still, the fewer people who know about this, the better.”

  “You’re right, there. I don’t want to know the details, either. That way, if I’m ever questioned by Gaming, I can truthfully say I know noth
ing about what you did.”

  “Then I have your approval to go ahead with the plan?”

  Brendan paused for a few minutes. Lacey imagined he smelled wood burning and heard the wheels and cogs turning inside of Brendan’s head. A grin grew slowly on Brendan’s face. “Yeah. Go ahead. Work things out with Carey.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  PAUL CAREY WAS STANDING at his usual post, a mahogany podium strategically placed at one end of the blackjack pit where he could observe all that went on, while, at the same time, remaining close to a telephone. He was on the phone more than he was off—arranging comps for high rollers, alerting Surveillance to keep a close eye on suspected card counters, and keeping in contact with his department managers. Carey usually wore a conservative black pinstripe suit and white dress shirt, but the top button of the shirt was never fastened and, like The Big Guy, he never wore a tie.

  Rick Lacey approached Carey and waited until the casino manager hung up the phone. “I need to talk with you, Paul.”

  “What’s up?” Carey asked. What’s up? was the terse question asked most frequently at the Blue Hawaii. It started with the controller, Paige Garrett, a man of minimal words, and infected the other executives and department heads like a summer cold. The expression spread to other casinos, due to the heavy turnover of personnel in the industry, and before long it was commonly heard throughout Las Vegas.

  “Remember that hypothetical problem I discussed with you yesterday? Well, it’s real. The Big Guy has a serious problem with Gaming.”

  “I assumed that might be the case.”

  “I’ve just had lunch with Brendan. He said you and I should solve the problem.”

  “Yeah? How?”

  Lacey lowered his voice to a whisper. “Bribes. They’re all arranged. For the members of the Gaming Control Board. I need to get my hands on five hundred grand, in cash. Obviously, it needs to be done in such a way the money can’t be traced. Needless to say, this operation has to be kept top secret. Nobody can know the details except you and me. Even Brendan wants to be kept in the dark about how the money is raised and where it goes.”