“It’s okay, Officer,” he said, “he’s with me.”
I waited until we’d slipped past the knot of people, his uniformed buddy out of earshot, before shooting a look in his direction. “I’m with you? Careful, Detective, you’re going to ruin my street cred.”
“You don’t have any, dead man.” He flung up a hand at the ragged tavern wall, the blown-out windows. “You know who owns this place?”
On paper, no, but that wasn’t what he was asking. The taphouse was a front for Eddie Stone, one of the local luminaries who had been recruited for Jennifer’s New Commission: the underworld council aiming to fill the power vacuum now that Nicky Agnelli was on the run. I knew Eddie ran his business out of the back room: women, coke, a little of this and a little of that.
“Yeah,” I told Kemper, not volunteering another word.
“So do I,” he said. “Two hours ago, a couple of sedans rolled by. We’ve got a witness that says they opened up with a machine gun on the place. I’m not talking about a hand cannon. I mean they had a belt-fed M-sixty like it was fucking Vietnam. Then they tossed a couple of Molotovs through the front door, gunned down anybody who tried to make a run for it, and took off.”
A limp hand stuck out from the corner of a coroner’s sheet. The curled fingers charred black like overcooked sausages, nails cracked and broken.
“Eight dead,” Kemper told me, “near as I can tell, all civilians. Barflies looking to get a head start on their cirrhosis.”
“I hope you’re not looking at me for this. Not my style.”
Kemper jabbed his finger in my face.
“You told me you could fix the problem. You told me no civilians would get hurt. You gave me your word, Faust—”
“And I kept it. This wasn’t the Calles, Gary. Trust me: the ones who wanted to join up with the Chicago Outfit aren’t around anymore. Everybody who’s left came to the bargaining table.”
“Then it’s their buddies.” He nodded to the open door and the flame-washed carnage beyond. “One survivor got out alive, if you can call third-degree burns over half her body ‘living.’ She only got a partial number on one of the sedans, but she ID’d the style. The shooters had Illinois plates.”
I looked from the bar to the bodies to the broken glass, working the angles like a pool hustler calculating a bank shot. A cold certainty set in, ice water trickling down my spine.
“Forget about the partial,” I told him. “It’s a dead end. Those plates were stolen.”
“Huh? How do you figure?”
“Because the shooters aren’t stupid, and they wanted to be seen. They planned this, all of it, in advance. They weren’t trying to kill Eddie Stone and his boys. If they were even in the building, it would have been icing on the cake, but that wasn’t what they were here to accomplish.”
“Why?” Kemper shook his head. “What’s the point?”
“It’s a message. And what that message says is, ‘Two cars with Illinois plates just shot up a New Commission front, in the middle of town, in broad daylight, and got away with it.’”
I took a long, hard look at the street. Eyeing every tinted window like there might be a gun on the other side, and a bullet with my name on it.
“The Chicago Outfit tried a soft takeover, making offers to the city’s gangs and subverting the Calles from inside. We gave ’em a black eye for their trouble, so now they’re doing things the hard way.” I looked to Kemper. “I hope you’re ready to put in some overtime, Detective. This was a declaration of war.”
7.
If looks could kill, I would have joined the other bodies on the sidewalk. Kemper’s voice dropped to a grating whisper as he moved in, close enough for me to smell his cheap aftershave.
“Fix this, Faust.”
“Fix what? This has nothing to do with me. I’m not even part of the Commission—”
“Oh, like hell you aren’t.”
“When Nicky Agnelli was in charge,” I said, “everybody thought I was working for him. Now he’s gone and everybody thinks I want to be him. Is it that hard to imagine that maybe, just maybe, I want nothing to do with this mess?”
“Yeah,” he told me. “It is. But you’re not asking the important question here.”
“Which is?”
Kemper stepped back. He took another long look at the shrouded bodies, shaking his head in disgust.
“The only reason I haven’t done my sworn duty and turned you in is because you’re useful to me. If you’re telling the truth and you can’t help me, that means you’re not useful anymore. So tell me one thing, smart guy: why shouldn’t I haul you out of here in handcuffs right this instant?”
He took my silence as an answer.
“Fix this,” he said. “Whatever you’ve gotta do to calm things down and end this ‘war’ before it gets out of control, do it. Frankly, I don’t give a damn if you assholes slaughter each other by the dozens, but no more civilians. If I’ve gotta clean up one more crime scene like this one, somebody’s going down for it. Here’s a hint: it’s gonna be you.”
I thought it over. Looking for a way out, and not finding one. In the end, I said the only thing I could say.
“I’ll handle it.”
* * *
You can find a little spot of paradise about three miles west of Vegas. A botanical garden in the desert sun. The Springs Preserve is over a hundred and fifty acres of walking trails, desert wetlands constructed in a storm-water basin, and bursts of color in the sand. Not my usual scene. When I’m looking for tranquility, I find my peace of mind in the beating heart of a bustling crowd under casino neons. Besides, I’d been a little uneasy around gardens ever since the Lauren Carmichael business. Thinking about plants for too long got me thinking about the Garden of Eden, and that left me stewing over all kinds of uncomfortable questions.
They never did find Lauren’s body. Then again, they never found Meadow Brand’s body either, but that’s just because we picked a good spot to gun her down. Her bones were still out there somewhere, gleaming white and picked clean on the salt flats.
Jennifer met me in the parking lot. She’d dressed up for the occasion, swapping her usual T-shirt and jeans for tailored slacks and a breezy blazer in pastel blue. A little heavy for the weather, but it hid the bulge of her shoulder holster. Not a spot of red in her sharp, clear eyes. She’d gone at least a day without getting high on her own supply, which generally meant something important was going down.
“You’re driving a lime,” she told me.
“Protective camouflage. You know, I still can’t get used to seeing you dressed like office management.”
“Protective camouflage,” she said. “Don’t want these Triad boys to think I’m not taking ’em seriously. They already don’t like me much.”
In Nicky’s absence, Jennifer had taken the initiative to forge the New Commission, a formal alliance to keep the Vegas underworld running smoothly—and just as importantly, to keep the city’s big players from going at each other’s throats. It was a gathering of equals, with Jennifer sitting as the chairperson just to keep things organized. Shangguan Jin, Red Pole of the local branch of the 14K Triad, thought that was a little too much authority for a woman to handle.
“Is this where they wanted to meet?” I asked. We walked while we talked, angling for the Desert Living Center. A cone of steel rose up ahead, like the skeleton of a cooling tower, catching the sun and shining bright. We stepped to one side as a forest-green cart hauling visitors chugged on past, remodeled to look like a vintage steam train.
“They wanted a meeting on their turf. I said, just as politely as I could muster, that wasn’t happenin’. Until I know what they want, and why they can’t bring it up in front of everybody at the next Commission meeting, getting together somewhere nice and public works just peachy for me. Besides, I’m stacking the deck a little bit.”
She took out her phone and set it on speaker so I could listen in.
“Smile,” Pixie’s voice said, “you�
��re on candid camera. I’m patched into the security grid all over the preserve—wherever you go, I’ll have eyes on.”
I held up three fingers and asked, “How many fingers am I holding up?”
“Three. Look behind you.”
I glanced over my shoulder. The tiny, unobtrusive box of a security camera blinked from a pole at the edge of the parking lot. It swiveled back and forth, a mechanical wave.
“Now guess how many fingers I’m holding up,” Pixie said. “By the way, nice ride. The color really pops.”
“That reminds me: they impounded my car when I got busted. Can you do some digging, maybe find out if it’s being auctioned off?”
Jennifer arched an eyebrow. “Really? You’re supposed to be playin’ possum, sugar. A vintage Barracuda ain’t exactly a low-profile ride.”
“Hemicuda,” I said. “And I love that car. Caitlin loves that car.”
Pixie sighed. “I’ll add it to your bill. On that note, I’m still checking into that lawyer for you.”
When I cornered Eisenberg Correctional’s warden, he tried to barter for his life. It didn’t work. Still, I’d kept the business card he offered me, with the name of a law firm: Weishaupt and Associates. Warden Lancaster called that card a “golden ticket,” claiming they’d hand me the world on a plate if I played ball and let him walk. Even after all I’d done to expose what was really going on behind Eisenberg’s walls, after the initial explosion of outrage and a flurry of arrests, the story sank faster than a chunk of radioactive lead. Eisenberg was even back in business, shoveling all the blame on the dead warden’s shoulders and promising a new era of ethical prison management. It was a carefully curated cover-up from start to finish, just like Lancaster had told me would happen.
Weishaupt and Associates had serious juice. They were a player, all right, but one with no connection to the occult underground or to the courts of hell for that matter. I liked knowing who my neighbors were, especially when they were throwing that kind of weight around.
“Any good news for me?” I asked Pixie.
“As far as I can tell, they’ve got no clients, no cases, and two of the ‘lawyers’ on their website are actors who pose for stock photographs. Oh, and their encryption would make the Department of Defense jealous. I’m working on it.”
“Step carefully,” I told her.
“Good thing you told me that, otherwise I would have been extra careless. I’ll call you two back when your Triad buddies show up.”
Jennifer pocketed her phone. We headed deeper into the preserve, past the museum campus and along trails bounded by tall walls of sandy rock and sprays of desert grass. Flowers bloomed in the colors of the Mojave, rust-red and lilac, and butterflies danced on a gust of dry, sweet wind.
“Amazin’ what can live in the desert,” Jennifer said. “Survivors always find a way.”
“Speaking of survivors, one of Eddie Stone’s places got hit this morning.”
“I was the first person he called,” she told me. “Being the city’s eyes and ears is kinda my job now. Anyhow, we knew this was coming. Chicago wants what we got, and they ain’t takin’ no for an answer. So when are you gonna step up?”
I shrugged. “Thought that’s what I was doing right now. You asked for backup. I came, didn’t I?”
“That’s a favor for a friend kinda thing. I’m not talking about friendship, Dan. I’m talking about business. There’s a seat at the New Commission’s table with your name on it. All you gotta do is say the word.”
“Not interested.”
She stopped dead in her tracks and wheeled around to face me, squaring her hands on her hips.
“And why the hell not? You could run this town. I’m talking about real money, real power, the opportunity of a damn lifetime. All you gotta do is take a chance, reach out and put your hands on it.”
“I’ve never been much of a joiner. You know me, Jen. I do my own thing.”
“Do you?” she asked me.
“Meaning?”
“Meaning I don’t know what it is you do anymore. How long have we been friends?”
“Long time,” I said.
“Long time. Seen some shit together. But here’s the thing, Dan. I’m climbing this ladder, and I want to see you climbing right next to me. But I look back, and there you are, down on the ground, like you’re comfortable there, sitting in a rut. I think that’s your problem.”
“What is?”
“You’re comfortable,” she said, pronouncing the word like it tasted rancid on her tongue. “Folks like you and me, we’re outlaws. We were never meant to get comfortable.”
We walked in silence, following the curving path past signs pointing to the hiking trails and the wetland preserve. I caught Jennifer giving the sign for the botanical garden a squinted eye.
“You too, huh?” I asked.
“Hell, after that Lauren business, I don’t even like salad anymore,” she said. “I half expect the lettuce to start talkin’ to me.”
We staked out a spot on an empty stretch of path, hemmed in by tall willows that rustled in the breeze. Jennifer used her sleeve to mop away a dab of sweat on her forehead, her jacket pulling back to flash her chromed .357.
“They’re doing this on purpose, making us wait,” she said. “Reckon they think they’re putting me in my place.”
“They don’t know you very well.”
“They do not. And if they wanna get catty, well, the Sun Yee On would love to get a foothold in Vegas. The Fourteen-K can either learn to play nice or I’ll just start talking to their competition. I’ve been practicing my Mandarin. So far I only know how to ask where the bathroom is, but gimme a little time, I’ll get it down.”
I had to smile. “I thought you were just coordinating the New Commission, not calling the shots.”
“People can think whatever they wanna think. You know how this game gets played: all you get in life is what you’re willing to fight for. And anything you don’t fight for, you’re gonna lose, because somebody out there wants it more than you.”
Jennifer’s phone trilled. Pixie on the line.
“Good news and bad news,” she said. “Good news is, your guests just arrived.”
“And the bad?” Jennifer asked.
“When they agreed on a two-on-two meeting, they forgot how to do math. Jin is coming your way with six guys, and it looks like they’re all carrying. They left another dozen behind: two men covering every way off the museum campus and every route between you and the parking lot. If you run now, you could probably navigate the hiking trails north and get through the preserve on foot, then go the long way around to find an access road.”
Jennifer and I shared a glance. We didn’t need to say anything; we knew each other too well. She made her decision, and I agreed to stand by her, with nothing more than a look.
“We’re not runnin’,” she told Pixie. “Call me if you spot anything else.”
She hung up, one hand smoothing her blazer over her shoulder holster as if reassuring herself that the gun was still there.
“Think they’re looking to appoint a new chairperson?” I asked. She shrugged and looked past me, checking the trail in both directions.
“I know they want me out, but if they’re fixin’ to kill me, this is a dumb way to do it. I expect that Jin—bless his heart—is gonna ask me to resign all peaceful-like.”
“How’s that gonna go, do you think?”
Jennifer pushed her shoulders back and flashed a cocky smile. Almost eager, like a cat about to pounce on a tangled ball of yarn.
“Badly,” she said. “Real badly.”
8.
They didn’t keep us waiting much longer. Shangguan Jin led the way, old and stoop-shouldered with stringy white hair but the bright blue eyes of a twenty-year-old. His posse favored tailored suits, red neckties, and dime-sized silver lapel pins to mark their fealty to the Triad. Not everyday wear for most—they’d dressed up nice for the occasion, showing solidarity. Jin stood his gr
ound about seven feet away from us, his boys clustering at his back. I took a step back, too, standing stoic at Jennifer’s shoulder.
Jennifer broke the expectant silence. She offered a slight bow and said, “Thank you for coming, dai lo. I hope your driver didn’t have any trouble finding the place.”
A subtle dig at their lateness and, combined with the honorific, a deniable one. If it landed, it didn’t show in Jin’s expression. He returned the bow and said, “None.”
Another silence. Jennifer spread her hands.
“You wanted to meet. So we’re meeting. What’s on your mind?”
“Chicago,” he said.
“That’s the number-one ticket on our next meeting’s agenda,” Jennifer said. “We’ve all got Chicago on the brain. So what couldn’t wait?”
“They made us…an offer,” Jin replied. Cagey, his bright eyes studying Jennifer’s face. Taking it slow and weighing her every reaction.
I was more focused on his backup. They were all strapped—no surprise there—but they kept their hands nice and empty, body language open. When a gang is planning to bushwhack you, inevitably somebody in the pack will show it: nervous tension, the anticipation of the kill showing in their face or their moves. Nothing like that here. Either these guys were consummate pros, or they really weren’t looking for a fight.
“They made the Calles an offer, too,” Jennifer said. “Didn’t work out too good for the ones who said yes. You can find most of ’em buried in shallow graves in an old water park off Interstate Fifteen.”
“Our offer was more generous. Their man came directly to me, in respect, not trying to subvert my society from within as they did with your…street friends.”
“Keep talkin’,” Jennifer said lightly.
“We would maintain our markets, our autonomy. Business would proceed as usual. All they request is a tribute. A simple offering, a small percentage of our income, so tiny we’d barely miss it. Not a heavy price to ensure a peaceful resolution.”
“Big-box store,” Jennifer said.
Jin tilted his head, squinting at her. “Hmm?”
The Castle Doctrine (Daniel Faust Book 6) Page 5