One Week To Live
Page 11
She threw the baggie at him. “Here’s your precious evidence.”
Catching it by one corner, he placed it on the nearest dressing table. He then reached in his pocket and brought out the now familiar gloves and evidence bags.
“Why did you touch it?”
“I realize you don’t believe in psychic mumbo jumbo. However, in the past I’ve received visions by touching something of the victim’s,” she spat back, her anger growing.
The skepticism edging his face increased her ire. “You can be as cynical as you want, Agent Dunning, but it’s true.”
“It’s Special Agent Dunning.”
“Titles aren’t going to help find the little girl, Special Agent Dunning. But if you’re open-minded enough to listen to what I say, you might connect it to a lead you’re already following.”
He looked doubtful. “Okay, what did you see?” he asked, impatience filling his words.
She closed her eyes again, trying to recall more of the vision’s details. There weren’t many. “As I said I saw the roofline of a house, but I couldn’t see much else.” She remained silent for a minute. “I think a wall surrounded it, a high wall.”
“Great, the roofline of a house and a high wall. How about a street name, a street number?”
She shook her head again. “Sorry, I can’t dictate what I see. I can only receive what my psychic senses send.”
“As I said, psychic mumbo jumbo. We need hard evidence. Evidence not tampered with.” Putting on the gloves, he stuck the envelope and baggie containing the lock of hair in separate evidence bags. He then picked up the vase of roses.
“Gees, I was enjoying those flowers,” Rita quipped, grinning at the man. “Not many men buy me roses.”
Was Rita flirting with the man? He gave her a brief, visual once over. From his expression he appeared to appreciate what he saw. What an unlikely match, a flamboyant Las Vegas showgirl and a by-the-book FBI agent? But they said that opposites did attract.
And talk about opposites, she thought. A man like Brian who didn’t worry about revealing hidden truths and a woman with secrets she never wanted revealed. She valued her privacy and he didn’t understand why privacy needed to be valued. And speaking of that man, he’d just entered the dressing room.
****
When Brian walked in he couldn’t avoid seeing the bevy of beauties with their splashy, revealing costumes. However, the only person he noticed stood talking to Rita and Dunning. Simply dressed in a tank top and shorts, her black wavy hair pulled into a ponytail, she was the most beautiful woman in the room. Remembering her in the bikini and the feel of her soft breasts against his chest, he sucked in a lustful breath.
Rita spotted him and waved. Threading his way through the crowd of showgirls, he joined them.
“Boy, your bouncer’s intent on his job,” he said, smiling while he studied Dunning’s disapproving look.
“But you got in okay, I see,” Rita said. “How’d you do it without a pass?”
“I’ve got my ways,” he replied continuing to study the special agent out of the corner of his eye. Angie appeared close to tears, probably Dunning’s doing.
“It’s his Irish blarney, Rita,” she said, attempting to smile. “It gets them every time. Which showgirl did you charm?”
He glanced across the room. “That tall brunette over there with legs a man could—”
“Brian Murphy, don’t you say another word,” she scolded.
“Aw, Angie. I was going to say legs a man could admire for the rest of his born days.”
He saw the vase Dunning held along with the evidence bags. “What’s that and why is he here?”
“Flowers meant for me,” she replied fear now filling her eyes. Fear he’d grown to recognize and hated seeing.
“What?”
“The flower delivery included an envelope containing a lock of the—” She hesitated. “—of the little girl’s hair.”
“There wasn’t a nursery rhyme clue this time?”
“No. Does that mean Polly is dead?” she said, choking on the words.
Seeing her tremble, he put his arm around her shoulders briefly to comfort her. “No, she’s not. We’re going to find Polly alive.”
“No, the FBI will find her,” Dunning countered.
“You and all your fancy investigative work failed once before. You couldn’t save my son. Why do you think you can save this child?” Shit, he thought, seeing the shocked expression on Angie’s face. He hadn’t told her about his son.
“Murphy, you know damn well your son was killed soon after being abducted. There wasn’t enough time to save him,” Dunning argued.
“There wasn’t enough time because you wouldn’t listen to me. You wouldn’t trust what I said.”
“You saved your snitch at the cost of your son. You need to live with that,” he threw back.
“Brian, what is he talking about? What son?”
Me and my big mouth, he thought. Now he needed to explain a subject he didn’t want to discuss.
“Let’s get out of here.” He grabbed her hand and dragged her from the dressing room, nearly knocking down several costumed showgirls en route.
“Watch it, mister,” one of them shouted, readjusting her huge, feather headdress.
“Brian, slow down,” she called out as they weaved their way through the corridors back to the casino floor. “You’ll pull my arm from its socket.”
He stopped and let go of her hand. “Sorry. I need a drink.” He marched across a bridge leading to a waterside cocktail lounge. She trailed behind him.
Once seated, she started to talk before he could say anything. “Is that why you and Agent Dunning are always at each others’ throats? You blame him for your son’s death. A son I didn’t even know about.”
“You don’t understand,” he growled.
“Maybe I understand more than you think.”
“No, you don’t,” he said.
“I know that getting the story is the most important thing in your life. You flaunt your journalistic integrity like it’s some kind of Holy Grail. In fact, you value it more than you value the human beings you deal with.”
“That’s not true.” Did her words hold more truth than he wished to acknowledge?
“I think it is,” she said, reaching for his hand.
“I won’t discuss it,” he replied, brushing her hand away. “And I don’t need your pity.”
Seeing the hurt in her brown eyes, he regretted yelling at her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you.”
She remained silent for a minute and he wondered if she’d further probe into his past. He did it all the time while working on other people’s stories. However, he’d never liked being the one in the hot seat.
“You’ve never talked about your son,” she said.
“Because I don’t want to.”
“Were you pursuing a story with such determination that you now feel guilty about that story’s effect on people you loved? Your son died and I presume your wife left you because of it.”
He nodded. The pain from her words hit him hard.
“Then you lost everything with that article.” She shook her head. “I know that once you get hold of a story, you possess a one-track mind. You chase it no matter what the cost.”
“That’s my job. I was an investigative journalist pursuing the facts to uncover a human trafficking ring. I was close to the truth when those bastards snatched my son and killed him.” Just saying those words brought back the anguish.
“So now you want to save other kidnapped children because you couldn’t save your own.”
Hadn’t Joe said the same thing? “Where the hell is that cocktail waitress?” he muttered. “I’m going to the bar for a beer. You want anything?”
“No.”
****
She stared after him as he weaved his way through the maze of tables to the bar where several people were playing video poker. She sucked in a breath. She now understood the
misery she’d seen briefly mirrored in his eyes more than once. Feelings that he kept penned up most of the time. Her heart ached for him.
She knew all about keeping secrets, but was now the time to reveal she’d lost a child, too? She thought about the possible headlines splashed across the front page of the paper. No, he would love to sink his teeth into that kind of juicy morsel.
A cocktail waitress, wearing a snug-fitting red outfit that revealed ample portions of her breasts and derriere, sailed up to her table. Placing a napkin and bowl of nuts down, she asked “Can I get you something?”
“No, thank you,” she said. The waitress’s broad smile faded, replaced by a look that said if you don’t want something to drink why are you sitting here? The woman sauntered off to another table of new arrivals.
A shout rose from a craps table. Several women dressed in halter-tops and tight-fitting shorts gathered around a well-tanned man sporting gold neck chains. Taking the dice, he shook them and yelled, “Come to momma,” before throwing them. The dice slammed against the table’s back wall and another shout rang out. The man was obviously on a winning streak. Several more people gathered to watch. Across the casino floor, other gamblers quietly sat at felt-topped blackjack tables intent upon the cards being dealt them by dealers dressed in crisp white shirts and black vests and slacks.
Near the cocktail lounge, an open-sided replica of a San Francisco Bay wharf warehouse held rows of slot machines, their multi-colored lights reflecting in the waters of the bay. These slot machines added still more noise and color to the gambling scene. Most of the older slot machines once displaying winning liberty bells and various fruits had been replaced by machines with vibrant, 3-D videos featuring animated cartoon characters.
The sound of winning coins clanging into metal trays was now digitally recreated. Real coins no longer fell into the trays of eager winners. Progressive slots announced winning moves with flashing lights, ringing bells, and multi-media extravaganzas.
To her, the scene spelled chaos. The noise, the smoke, the gaudy lights gave her a headache. They always had. More shouts from the craps table made her look in that direction again.
Her heart skipped a beat. Was that her ex-husband standing in the crowd of onlookers? The man briefly glanced toward the bar where she was sitting, and she held her breath. He then turned his attention back to the person tossing the dice. She hoped her ex-husband hadn’t seen her, but she couldn’t take the chance. Grabbing her purse, she made a beeline for an exit.
Weaving through rows of slot machines, she looked for an exit sign. Flashing signs guaranteeing jackpot winnings of $150,000, $200,000, and $1,250,000 loomed in front of her. Within minutes she found herself totally disoriented. Bells rang, people shouted, electronic coins clanged, but the exit sign eluded her.
Was she running in circles? Everything looked the same. Instead of escaping she might run smack dab into the man she’d spent so much effort running away from? The thought of him being here struck fear in her heart. Taking a deep breath, she told herself to calm down. She once more searched for an exit sign and this time spotted one.
Chapter Twelve
Wednesday night/Thursday Morning
It took a few minutes for the busy bartender to fill Brian’s order leaving him time to think about Angie’s question concerning his son. He shouldn’t have responded to her the way he had. To develop any kind of long-term relationship, they shouldn’t keep secrets from each other. She needed to know about the abduction and his son’s murder.
But her words brought back bitter memories of other accusatory remarks spoken following Jason’s death. His ex-wife also blamed him for being so wrapped up in the pursuit of a story that he didn’t see how it could affect his family.
After he paid for his beer, he returned to the table where he’d left her, but she wasn’t there. Where was she? He surveyed the casino floor adjacent to their table. Nothing, but he didn’t expect to see her playing the slots or joining the crowd gathered around the craps table. She hated gambling. That’s why he questioned why she’d moved to Vegas in the first place.
He spotted her hurrying toward the casino exit leading to the parking garage. He called out her name, but she didn’t turn around. Instead, she kept going. He caught up with her near the top of the escalator.
“Angie,” he said, tapping her on the shoulder. She whirled around, and began to lose her balance. He grabbed her arm before she tumbled down the escalator. When he pulled her aside, panic edged her face.
“What’s wrong?”
”I need to get out of here.” She yanked her arm free. Weaving through the crowd, she sprinted down the escalator.
He caught up with her again at the bottom of the stairs, but she refused to stop. Instead, she fled down the corridor leading to the parking garage elevator. People coming from the other direction were forced to step aside to avoid slamming into her. What was she doing? Did she once more sense the kidnapper’s evil presence and want to run?
“Angie, please wait up,” he called out arriving at the elevator behind her. She frantically pushed the button. Grabbing her by the shoulders, he spun her around. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
The elevator door dinged open and she attempted to pull free, but he kept a firm hold on her.
“It’s all your fault,” she spat out. “You and that damn article.”
He groaned and let her go. “Not that again. I apologize for your name appearing in the story. It wasn’t supposed to.”
“Well, sorry isn’t going to cut it. Because of you, he’s here.”
“Who?” He didn’t think she referred to the kidnapper, but who else would generate the panic filling her brown eyes?
“Do you know how hard I’ve tried to escape him? When the restraining orders didn’t work, I left everything I knew in San Francisco to get away from him. Then that damn article of yours came out in San Diego and I fled again knowing he’d eventually see it. I’m so tired of running.”
The elevator car arrived again and the car’s passengers swirled around them. She eyed the open elevator door, but he kept hold of her. She wasn’t going anywhere without a further explanation.
“Who are you running from and why?” The pain now reflected on her face made his heart ache. “Who? Please tell me?”
“My ex-husband,” she shouted, sucking in a breath.
“Ex-husband? You were married? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“People don’t like to talk about their mistakes,” she said, her lower lip trembling.
Who harbored secrets now? Married and she’d never said anything to him. Wait a minute. Did she say restraining order? Had the ex roughed her up? Is that what she meant by a mistake? He couldn’t stomach any man laying a violent hand on a woman. The fact that it might be her made him very angry. “Did he hit you, beat you?”
“Not physically.” In halting words she told him the story of her marriage and the physical threats when she left Tony Martinelli and was forced to change her name.
“And you think you saw him here?” After what she’d told him, he wanted to beat the shit out of the bastard.
“Yes. If he’s come to Vegas looking for me, it’s because of your damn article.”
“How the hell did he see my article?”
“I’ve heard he’s hired a clipping service to keep track of me.”
And there was the Internet, he thought. A computer search engine could look for key words like Angie’s name. Understanding hit him smack between the eyes. “So that’s why you didn’t want me to write about you?”
She nodded.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It wouldn’t do any good,” she replied, glaring at him. “You would have written the story anyway.”
The truth of her words hurt. He thought about the article he’d written that morning. He glanced at his watch. Was it too late to pull it? For the kidnapped child’s sake, he couldn’t. Besides if her ex-husband was already in town, the damage was done.
He answered, groaning when he heard the kidnapper’s familiar disguised voice.
“Twinkle, twinkle, little star. How you wonder where she is?” His diabolical laugh followed the botched nursery rhyme. Then the phone went dead. Brian’s caller I.D. didn’t work, so he had no phone number. Not that it mattered. Dunning already said the man used throwaway cell phones.
“Is it him?” she asked.
He nodded, repeating the latest clue. Discussions of ex-husbands and articles written could wait. “He’s still playing the game. Polly’s still alive. Have you experienced any visions that might help with this one?”
She thought for a minute. “Maybe. My dream last night featured crazy strobe lights and loud music. Does that help?”
He rubbed his chin, then snapped his fingers and smiled. “Yes, that’s it. Strobe lights, loud music, and twinkling stars. It’s the Fremont Street Experience.”
She nodded.
“We’ll take my car.”
“But what about my car?”
“We’ll come back for it later.”
****
When they entered the four-block mall area known as the Fremont Street Experience, a cigar-smoking neon cowboy sporting a red bandana and ten-gallon hat greeted them with a friendly mechanical wave. Across the way, a scantily clad neon cowgirl kicked up her heels. A multitude of casinos stood shoulder to shoulder along the length of the mall, their many neon lights turning night into day.
Bartenders at an outdoor bar near the center of the mall dispensed a variety of alcoholic beverages from bottled beer to tropical drinks in tall glasses. At the doorway to one casino, female greeters handed out beaded necklaces to passersby. Nearby, a crowd gathered around a man playing a saxophone, his music enhanced by large stereo speakers mounted in the bed of his truck.
Other people milled around outdoor booths featuring vendors selling everything from sunglasses to watches. Attire ran the gamut from shorts, T-shirts, and sandals to low-cut cocktail dresses and stiletto heels. One woman wore her wedding dress, and her new husband sported a tuxedo shirt and black trousers.