by Dave Stanton
When my cell rang, I was hoping it was Cody. No such luck—it was Ryan Addison calling back. I pinched the bridge of my nose with my thumbs.
“Investigations.”
“Hi Dan, thought I’d check in…for an update.” His voice was quiet and sounded morose and distracted.
“I’ll work on my report and send it to you this afternoon,” I said.
“Thank you,” he mumbled. “Have you made much progress?”
“It depends how you look at it.”
“That doesn’t sound encouraging. Listen, you should know, Lindsey’s been hospitalized.”
“What for?”
“She had a breakdown two days ago. She became hysterical, and we couldn’t stop her screaming. They have her medicated now, so…”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. Addison.”
“I thought I could deal with this. I really did.”
“I think you’re doing everything a parent can do.”
He was silent for a moment, then I heard him sniffle. “She’s my daughter, my little baby.” His voice began to crack. “I just want her back.”
“You have to give her more time.”
“I know. I hope you’re right. God, why did this have to happen? What kind of world is this?”
“You’re asking the wrong guy,” I said.
“She said she dreams of the rape every night. It’s like a horror movie in her head that she can’t turn off. She said she wants to ram a screwdriver up his ass and see how he likes it.”
“I don’t know what to tell you, Mr. Addison.”
“You know what you could tell me?” he said, his voice rising. “That the creep is dead. That he’s in a hole in the ground, worms burrowing in his flesh. That he died violently and suffered first. How about that?”
“You really think that would make a difference to your daughter?”
I heard him suck his breath in. “You really don’t understand what we’re going through, do you, Reno? Yes, it would make a fucking difference. Don’t try to play dumb, because I ain’t buying it. This is about retribution—is that simple enough? It’s about payback, an eye for an eye. There will be no rest until this is righted, and by that I mean Duante Tucker must suffer ten times worse than Lindsey, and then he must die, hear me, motherfucker, and die badly, pleading for mercy like a coward until the pain alone kills him and sends him to hell!”
“Those are pleasant thoughts,” I said. “Is that all?”
“I’ll be waiting for your goddamned report,” he said. “So get on it.”
I hung up and watched a gopher poke his head up from a hole near my back fence. Candi came outside and joined me at the table. She was wearing short shorts and a sleeveless shirt. Her hair was wet, and I could smell her tropical perfume.
“Ryan Addison?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
“What did he want?”
“More than I can give him.”
“He’s just going to have to live with that. You can’t let his grief become yours.”
I looked up at her, then pulled her onto my lap. “I like the way you think,” I said.
• • •
We spent almost two hours in bed, and during that time my head was quiet and uncluttered, almost like part of my mind had gone into a deep sleep. I became totally immersed in Candi and her body, and our sex opened a door to a dimension that felt natural and true and completely detached from my normal consciousness. In comparison, everything I’d experienced in the last week seemed unreal and almost trivial. In this blissful state, I made love to Candi, and the events of the Tucker case seemed like an evanescent obscurity that carried no more gravity than the prospect of a household chore.
My serenity lasted into the afternoon, and I was committed to hold onto it as long as I could. Like Candi said, I deserved a day off.
Then Cody Gibbons called.
I walked outside and onto my lawn. The air smelled of rosemary and pine, and I could hear the fading drone of a small airplane heading across the mountaintops.
“What happened with the guys watching your house?” he asked.
I gave him a recap of my interrogation and the intervention of the CIA agent, Greg Stillman. When I was done, Cody grunted his approval. “Zapped his balls, you say?”
“It made him talk.”
“You’re hardcore, Dirt. Don’t let anyone tell you different. So, Lawrence Tucker boogied from the Skyscape?”
“Stillman said the place was cleaned out—not even a fingerprint.”
“And the guy who looked like Yasser Arafat said Tucker was planning to leave for the sand dunes in three days?”
“That’s what he said. But I doubt Tucker can leave the country. Not with the CIA looking for him.”
“Be almost impossible to get on a commercial flight,” Cody said. “But he’s a resourceful son of a bitch.”
“I told Stillman to check the dump where Suggs was staying,” I said.
“You did? I was thinking of taking a spin by there myself.”
“How’s the leg feeling?”
“I can hobble around.”
“You think Duante might be staying there?” I asked.
“He’s got to stay someplace,” said Cody.
“Or, he’s hiding out with Lawrence Tucker, who could be anywhere.”
“Sure, but Lawrence wants to split the US, and I don’t think he could bring Duante with him.”
“Probably not.”
I heard Cody take a long swallow, then he belched. “Ryan Addison called me. He put me on the phone with Lindsey.”
“He what?”
“Put me on the phone with Lindsey. She was very calm and collected.”
I exhaled through my teeth. “Amazing. What did she say?”
“She asked if Duante Tucker would be brought to justice. She said it just like that.”
“And?”
“I told her, yes, he’d pay for what he did. She asked me if I could guarantee it. I said, yeah, you can take it to the bank. She got all giddy and thanked me over and over.”
“Pretty bold prediction, don’t you think?” I said.
“Huh? You mean predicting we’re gonna do our job, what we’re paid to do? No, I don’t see that as bold at all.”
“I’m glad you’re so confident.”
Cody took another hit off whatever he was drinking. “Dirt, Dirt, you overthink things. That’s a benefit and a liability. Look, this isn’t all that complicated. We find Duante Tucker, chat with him, and we’ll put this case to bed. It’s that simple.”
“He’ll come clean with a full confession, huh? Why didn’t I think of that?”
Cody’s laugh was genuine and mirthful. “You told me just yesterday you wanted to nail his balls to the wall,” he guffawed. “And, you are the expert on interrogation. I’ll talk to you later.”
“Wonderful,” I said, but he’d already hung up.
I put on my sweats, loaded a twenty-pound pack, and headed out to the meadow to jog. An afternoon breeze rustled through the trees, but the sun was still hot and bright. I followed the trail into the woods and couldn’t help thinking that maybe Cody was right; maybe I thought too much, overanalyzed, got myself needlessly wrapped around the axle. On the other hand, he tended to oversimplify things and take irresponsible and dangerous shortcuts. Maybe it was the contradictions in our mental approaches that made us a good team.
Whatever the case, it seemed clear that Lawrence Tucker had a three-day window, which was now down to two days, to conduct his business and flee the country. If we could find Duante Tucker in the next forty-eight hours, that could get us somewhere. If not, I couldn’t predict what might happen.
Vowing to not invest any more brain cells on the matter for the time being, I finished the five-mile loop and returned home. I washed the sweat from my face with the garden hose and stripped off my pack and drenched T-shirt. When I went inside, I saw I had missed a call from Cody. I pushed the callback button.
“What’
s up?” I asked.
“I just picked up Shanice Tucker’s phone from the encryption guy. I’m still parked in front of his house.”
“Anything interesting?”
“I’m going through her text history. There’s a bunch to a Lake Tahoe area code. But there’s no listing of that number in her address book.”
“What do the texts say?”
“Dates, times, and responses with hotel room numbers. Not much else.”
“Sounds like she has a john in Tahoe,” I said.
“That, or something. Write down the cell number, see if you can trace it. I’m on my way to Suggs’s.”
“Let me know what you find there,” I said. I went to my desk to type the phone number into an online reverse directory. It would be easy to put a name to the number as long as it was a registered cell phone. But the number came up untraceable. That meant it was probably for a prepaid phone, which were typically used by someone who didn’t have an account with a cellular provider, or someone who wished to keep his activity anonymous.
I crossed my arms. Shanice wouldn’t travel four hours to Tahoe to turn a trick unless the money made it worthwhile. So her john had money but was using a prepaid phone to text her, which would be the smart thing to do if he was married, or otherwise wanted to make sure he couldn’t be linked to the text messages. There were plenty of semiretired executive types who summered in vacation homes around the lake. A smart businessman would certainly want to keep his sexual habits discreet, especially if it included regular patronage of a prostitute.
I thought back to an incident a few years ago, when a popular British actor—young, handsome, rich—was dating a well-known, high-society actress. The actor seemed to lead a charmed life, but then he was caught with a black streetwalker who called herself Divine Brown. The tabloids had a field day, and the public was greatly amused and titillated by the incident. The actor, obviously embarrassed and in big trouble with his girlfriend, did not try to explain why, having his pick of willing women, he chose a hooker with a ghetto background.
I didn’t think Shanice Tucker had much in common with Divine Brown, who cashed in on the talk show circuit and became a minor celebrity. For starters, I doubted Shanice had any interest in public scrutiny. Given her involvement with her brother and uncle, and also Russ Landers, she would definitely want to keep a low profile. At a minimum, her associations made her suspect. Factor in the link to Lake Tahoe, and her role could be something beyond what I had previously considered.
An hour later it was happy hour, but I didn’t feel like a drink, and I was wondering when Cody would call. When he finally did, I was heating vegetable soup on the stove.
“Suggs’s pit is cleaned out,” he said. “No dogs, either. I walked right in the front door. The safe in the closet was wide open and empty. The only thing left is some ratty furniture.”
“Duante would have emptied the safe. Any sign the authorities have been there?”
“Not that I could tell.”
“Are you at home?”
“No, I’m driving.”
“Those text messages Shanice sent to the five-three-zero area code—were any hotels named?”
“Yeah. Harrah’s, Pistol Pete’s, and a couple others.”
“I need you to read me off the dates and times.”
“Why?”
“Because the cell number is untraceable. I want to see if I can get a look at the casino security tapes, find out who she was meeting.”
“All right. I’ll call you when I get home.”
Twenty minutes later Cody read me information for five different meetings, dating back two months. Each was at a different hotel, and three were at the casinos.
The times were all in the late afternoon, during the week. It would be simple enough to get the check-in information from the reservations desk, but it was possible that whoever booked the room used an assumed name.
I knew people at the casinos and had enough ruses up my sleeve to get the reservation data on my own. I might even convince certain people to provide access to surveillance discs. But the clock was ticking, and I didn’t want to risk any delays. I needed to get Marcus Grier involved. I glanced at my watch and called Grier’s cell.
“I just got home,” he said. “I slept at the station last night, and not well, either. Please tell me this is something quick and easy.”
“Just need you to make a single phone call. To the chief of security at Harrah’s.”
“To Joan Wallace? What do you want me to say to the iron maiden?”
“Duante Tucker’s sister has been turning tricks in Tahoe since the beginning of the Tucker trial. I want to know who Shanice Tucker’s been seeing. I have a specific date and time she met someone in a room at Harrah’s.”
The line went silent. I waited for him to say something, and after a moment I thought he we might have been disconnected, although my screen still showed the call was active.
“Are you there?” I said. “Hello?” He didn’t reply, and then a thought that seemed both bizarre and ominous struck me. Could Grier be Shanice’s john? If so, the implications for him would be disastrous. I thought about his wife and his two daughters and felt a queasy unease in my gut.
“Sorry about that,” he said a second later. “What do you want me to say to her?”
“Tell her I’ll call in a few minutes, and I’ll need access to reservation info and maybe video surveillance.”
“Tell me the room number and the date. I’ll get the info.”
I paused. “All right,” I said. “Room 18227. May 12.”
“I’ll let you know,” he said.
“If we don’t recognize the name, I need to go to Harrah’s tonight to look at video surveillance and try to identify the guest. Can you set it up for me?”
“I suppose,” he said. “But if it comes to that, I’ll go with you.”
“If that’s what you want,” I said.
“I’ll call you back.”
“Marcus?”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“I’ll call her after I have dinner,” he said. “Is that soon enough for you?”
After we hung up, I hiked my foot up on my desk. The day was getting late, and I wanted to call Grier back and tell him time was critical and to ignore his stomach and call Joan Wallace immediately. But first I needed to dismiss the idea that Grier had anything to do with Shanice Tucker. My suspicion had no factual basis other than Grier’s silence on the phone when I mentioned her name. It probably meant nothing at all. He could have just muted his phone while he spoke to his wife or daughters. Of all the flimsy what-ifs I’d come up with over the course of my investigation, the notion of Grier fornicating with Shanice Tucker had to be the most baseless.
I closed my eyes and rubbed my temples. Maybe my sudden suspicion was simply a neurotic extension of my own repressed sexual desire. Projection, shrinks call it. Or maybe it was just the stress getting to me.
“This is ridiculous,” I said out loud. In the years I’d known Grier, I’d never seen any evidence of character deficit. He was a devout family man and an honest sheriff who hadn’t showed the slightest indication he could be corrupted by the lure of money or sex. I had never known Grier to make a crude or suggestive remark or to even cast a sideways glance at a provocatively dressed woman. More important, I knew he had turned down bribes and was considered a clean cop by his underlings and superiors alike.
But how stalwart were his ethics? I hoped the worst he could be accused of was ignoring petty or moderate graft. I didn’t think he was willing to leap into the grief pit that would result if he tried to make his department squeaky clean. He was a career man, and his priority was providing for his family. That meant he valued job security and stability. Cops who choose to fight for moral imperatives are loved by the public but often end up in the soup line.
Conclusion? Grier was a good cop—but not infallible. But did I really believe he could be involved with Shanice Tucker and, b
y extension, Duante Tucker? No, I didn’t, and I felt like an asshole for even entertaining the thought. Grier and I had been through a lot together. He was my friend and ally.
With a shake of my head, I redialed Grier’s cell, but he didn’t pick up. I paced around my office for a minute, then I texted him: “Urgent we get Harrah’s G2 tonight.”
It wasn’t until eight o’clock that he called me back. Candi and I were sitting out on the deck, watching the low clouds turn orange and pink as the sun fell behind the ridgeline. She was smoking her nightly peace pipe, and I had made a whiskey seven, but after a sip I’d set it aside, and the ice cubes had melted.
“The registered guest for room 18227 was Nate Forrest,” Grier said. “No idea who he is.”
“Did he leave a credit card number?” I asked.
“No, checked in with a cash deposit.
“Figures.”
“Since there’s no credit card, there’s no time stamp showing the exact check-in time. She said she’d call her on-duty manager and have him prepare video for the time range they allow check-ins.”
“I wonder how much viewing that’ll take.”
“Wallace said we can head over now.”
“I’ll meet you at the security office,” I said.
• • •
Joan Wallace had been head of security at Harrah’s for as long as anyone I knew could remember. She was an androgynous black woman nearing sixty with dusty skin, sharp eyes, and a body that showed no curves under the canvas pants and long-sleeved shirts she wore regardless of season. On the occasions I’d met her, she’d made it plain that her time was valuable, and she would not allow it to be wasted. On one occasion Cody had tried to turn on the charm, and her response prompted him to nickname her the “iron maiden.” The name had apparently circulated and stuck, because I’d heard individuals I’d never met, a few of them cops, call her the same.