Roger Gordon was fast, unbelievably quick; he rolled to the side and a small fire burst from the barrel of his weapon. Heather got off one shot that chipped the cement inches from Gordon's chest, right where he should have been—would have been—-a millisecond before. Heathers face compressed and spurted dark fluid. She crumpled to the ground. Lehane refused to flinch or look away.
"There you are, boss. On camera three."
Lehane watched himself run like hell up the staircase and across the stage, then slither down the long curtain and up to the concrete pillar. He looked a lot calmer than he'd felt at the time. He watched his own lips move.
"Whiz, back up."
"Okay."
"Close in on him again, Gordon."
The man shouted his taunts. His eyes were wild. He kept his weapon straight forward, clearly waiting for Lehane to risk moving out into the open.
Whiz whistled. "Man, he's really laying for you, boss. See, he doesn't even look around or behind."
"He knows nobody is there." Lehane snapped his fingers. "And that's because Martinez is dead in the men's room. Gordon killed Martinez."
"I thought you said somebody really strong did that."
Lehane shrugged. "I don't know how or why, but Gordon did it. And that's why he doesn't give a damn about covering his backside."
"He had inside information?"
"Somehow, someway, or maybe he got briefed by someone else in our line of work. He definitely knew more than he should have."
"Want me to go on?"
"Yeah."
"Now we got several minutes while they hustle the pissed-off audience out of the place. You need to see that, too?"
"Just him, Whiz."
"Okay, here you go. Close up."
Lehane watched as Gordon delivered verbal taunts that Heather was bleeding, dying. He watched the man's face carefully, saw him mouth the words.
"See that?"
"Yeah. He says how Heather is your wife."
"How the fuck does he know that?"
"Beats me, boss, but he does."
On the other screen, Lehane was searching through the box of percussion instruments, talking to Gordon, who fired. A chip of cement disappeared from the pillar.
"Okay, the audience is leaving through a gazillion doors, the casino is filling up. Pops is moving around on the balcony trying to get a shot, but the dude stays too low and keeps on trying to piss you off. A couple of drunks give the guards some trouble, but we toss them out pronto."
"And Heather keeps bleeding."
Whiz froze the video screens. He rolled his wheelchair in a half-circle. "Boss, the coroner said she was gone in a couple of seconds. It was a brain shot, for Chrissakes. You got to stop beating yourself up."
"The only thing I've got to do is figure out what happened."
Whiz looked at him long and hard, then blew out some air and turned his chair back to the computer keyboard. "Here we go."
On screen, Lehane hefted the large metal triangle. He flipped it high into the air and into the black velvet curtain across the way. When it arrived at the floor, Gordon spun and fired in that direction. Lehane watched as he stepped into view, shouted a warning and then pumped two into Gordon's abdomen. Watched as the killer dropped the 357, picked it up.
"Here's where he tries again," Whiz said.
The black-and-white Lehane moved the handgun away with his foot and bent down over Roger Gordon, who tried to speak and then produced the wicked blade of a hunting knife. Lehane kicked him in the stomach wound and took the knife away. The female paramedic appeared, shouting.
"What's she saying?"
"She's telling me to stop hurting the guy."
"Well, that's it, then." Whiz made a move to shut off the video.
"Wait, not yet. Let it play out." Lehane leaned in closer. "There has to be something here. Let me just watch the two of them up close."
"Gordon and the medic?"
"Exactly."
Whiz closed in, sharpened the image and rewound the tape by a few seconds. "Okay, here we go."
The Hispanic woman raced onto the edge of the stage and went to one knee beside the wounded murderer. She bent over him and began working. Lehane stepped away, his gun hanging at his side, and stared down at what was left of Heather's face. Behind him, Gordon's features contorted. The medic leaned back slightly, shook her head, and then resumed working. After a few seconds she felt for a pulse and appeared to give up.
"What was that? What he did, there?"
"Hang on. I'll run it again." Whiz rubbed his eyes and rolled closer to the nearest monitor. "Looks like he said something to her."
"No, that's not it. Get closer, I want to see his mouth."
The magic fingers did a jig on the keys. Whiz maneuvered around, played with his computer and sharpened the blurry image. What happened next was suddenly clear and crisp. "Shit."
"He spit on her."
"Was that blood?"
"Yeah," Lehane drank some more cold water, his mind pacing concentric circles. "That was blood."
ELEVEN
The long parking lot was crammed with vehicles; at the far end, two large white and red ambulances gleamed in the afternoon sunshine. Lehane drove through the open gate and lucked into finding a spot in the shade of some palm trees. He checked in with Whiz via cell phone and turned off the engine. Outside, the cracked asphalt steamed a wavy mirage. Lehane glanced through the chain-link fence and saw a dejected looking elderly couple waiting for a bus. The blue-haired woman was giving the skinny man a real piece of her mind. Las Vegas was brutal in more ways than one.
He locked the car and walked briskly across the lot. The short, fat office building was beige and nondescript. A canopied entrance was hidden behind the two ambulances, both of which had signs on the dashboard reading OUT OF SERVICE. Lehane heard rock music playing, and then the harsh sound of metal wheels on concrete. A beetle-browed garage mechanic in a stained, olive green smock rolled himself from beneath one vehicle and immediately vanished under the other.
The lobby was only marginally cooler than outside. Lehane supposed the building was trying to keep its power bill down. There was a small receptionist desk behind a wood-paneled counter, with an empty chair behind it. One of the telephone lines rang and Lehane heard the nearby flush of a toilet and some pipes rattling. A man emerged from the hallway, wiping his hands on a paper towel. He dropped it in the trash, leaned over the counter and grabbed the telephone.
"Star Medical, this is Frank."
Lehane touched the counter. The thin film of dust recorded his fingerprints as efficiently as a police blotter. He wiped them away and watched Frank wrap up the call. The man was athletically built and nearing fifty; freckles dusted his reddened skin and he'd recently shaved. He still had a tiny piece of toilet paper stuck to his neck. Lehane spotted one camera, but the light was out and the film cartridge likely empty. Star Medical was not your first-class outfit.
The man hung up the phone. "Can I help you?"
"Mr. Fletcher, my name is Jeff Lehane. I'm with Sphinx Security. I need to ask you a few questions about one of your employees."
Frank's anger flashed. "I got to tell you something," he replied, briskly. "I don't give a damn who you are, I don't much appreciate getting leaned on."
Lehane played innocent. "I beg your pardon?"
"You heard me." Frank's upper lip curled back and he rolled his eyes, a universal sign of contempt. He had the yellowing teeth of a chronic smoker. "We don't have to tell you dick about any of our employees without a warrant."
"That's right," Lehane said. "You don't."
"Having the Mayor's office call was a mistake."
"I don't know anything about that." Lehane moved until he could see the front door again. The mechanic was still under the second vehicle. Lehane paused, considering his options. He didn't want to chance anything physical, just in case he was wrong about that security camera.
Frank moved around behind the counter and ploppe
d down in the chair. He leaned back with his arms behind his head. "Okay, you first, man. Is she in some kind of trouble?"
"Who?"
"Juanita," Frank said, impatiently. "I want to know because she's a good person, okay? She needs a lawyer, maybe I call somebody."
"Is this your company, Frank?"
The man blushed. "No, but I got clout here. Now answer my question."
Lehane walked closer, leaned his elbows on the dusty counter. "I don't have any reason to think Juanita needs a lawyer," he said, as if in confidence. He used the first name as if he'd known it all along. "See, she was on call the night there was an incident at the Wagon Wheel, and I've been ordered to interview her, that's all."
Frank's brows mated. "No shit?"
"That's it," Lehane said, guessing. "Nobody is after her for immigration or legal reasons, okay? We could care less." He held out his hand. "Jeff Lehane."
Frank shook his hand. He seemed relieved. "That's cool, then," he sighed. He leaned forward. "Like I said, she's a nice girl. We went out a couple of times, you know? I just wouldn't want to see her having a hard time again."
"Again?"
"Hell, she's a single Mom, Lehane. Her husband dumped her and ran back to El Salvador, God only knows what for, and left her with two daughters to feed and not a pot to piss in. Juanita has to rent a room to her doper brother to make ends meet. Hell, she even had to send the girls to her cousin's a few months ago, just to keep expenses down."
"I didn't bring everything with me." Lehane took out a small notebook. "What's her last name again?"
"Cortez, like the explorer."
"Is she here today?"
"Nope."
"When will she be back on the job?"
Frank sighed. "She probably won't."
"Why is that?"
"She took way too many sick days, and the boss got really pissed. I tried to cover for her, but…"
"When's the last time you talked to her?"
"Quite a while ago. Her boyfriend usually called instead."
"Who's the boyfriend?"
"Some lowlife name of Lou Grainger."
"Lowlife like how?"
"Like out on parole for a couple of felony counts. He left messages on the machine late at night saying she was too fucked up to come in. Oh, one time it was her doper brother, Santiago. They never answered when I called back to see how she was doing."
"Where is Juanita now?"
"Home, I guess."
Lehane let his impatience show. "Do you know where she lives?"
"I've never actually been to her house."
Lehane just stared. After a long moment, Frank twirled the chair and opened a file cabinet to his left. "I'll get her records for you."
"That would be great. Thanks."
Frank scanned the manila folder. "5623 Sagebrush Avenue," he said. "I think that would be north in Spring Valley, off South Decatur. Not a very good neighborhood."
Lehane started back toward the front door. He paused before opening it. "By the way, does this boyfriend live with Juanita?"
"Sure does." Frank said, in a minor key. "Quite a while, now."
"Thanks."
The intense, dry heat slapped Lehane in the face. He stepped around the oily mess near the mechanic and crossed the lot. He dialed Guri on the cell again and asked him to get the cops to run a sheet on Lou Grainger. He then gave Guri Juanita's address, slid back into his car and out into the growing rush hour traffic that spilled over from the strip. The sun was sinking.
Inching along Vegas Boulevard, Lehane moaned in frustration. He turned on the radio and listened to some conservative rail against the liberal elite, then changed to a jazz station and listened to old Ella vocals. After several minutes, he cut down to Flamingo, took the side streets and tried to make better time. Spring Valley was an emaciated area; streets lined with people whose homes and cars had seen better days. Juanita Cortez lived in one of the 'service personnel' neighborhoods, where underpaid custodial staff and minority kitchen workers resided. Lehane passed Sagebrush without seeing the sign. He looped around the block; past more dried-up, yellowing lawns and dark-skinned kids with runny noses. Eventually, he found the house.
Guri was already parked in front, leaning on the hood of his Chevy with his arms crossed. He looked like an undercover police officer, so the neighbors were already staring. Behind him the stars had begun to appear in the desert sky and the sun was setting in a pool of orange.
Lehane parked across the street and walked over. "Anybody home?"
Guri shrugged. "I didn't knock."
5623, a surprisingly large house with a big front porch and some form of cellar beneath, was painted pastel grey with dark blue trim. A dented metal awning protruded from the spider-webbed plaster above the door. Some windows were barred, some not. The lawn was dead and gone, although one lonely sprinkler was still attached to a green garden hose. One of the front windows was cracked. It had been patched with taped-up cardboard. As Lehane walked closer to the porch, the hair on the back of his neck fluttered.
Guri felt it too. He grunted. "Yeah, I know. Check the mailbox."
Lehane stepped carefully past a long, tall row of needled succulents and opened the large metal mailbox. He found it stuffed with a few days worth of letters, most addressed to Juanita or Santiago Cortez. There was also a yellow notice from the Post Office that a package was awaiting pickup.
Lehane closed the mailbox and stared at the house. He almost jumped when Guri moved closer.
"She's been living with her brother Santiago, also some ex-con named Lou Grainger."
"You think this boyfriend Grainger did her, maybe the brother, too?"
Lehane ignored the question. "I'm going around the back. Let's just let them think we're cops, okay?"
"Shit, the two of us in this neighborhood after dark? We're like white rice in a bowl of grain. Of course we're cops."
"Two minutes."
Guri backed up until he was directly in front of the steps leading onto the porch. Meanwhile, Lehane drifted to the left, past the succulents, and stepped into the gloom near the side gate. He palmed his 9mm Glock and took several deep breaths. He opened the wooden gate and stepped into the overgrown back yard.
The side windows faced east, and had been blocked with aluminum foil to reflect the relentless afternoon heat. Lehane ducked low and jogged to the side door. He checked to see if it was locked and then moved into the back yard. An old, rusty swing set protruded from a tall row of weeds and uncut grass. A box of broken toys lay near the half-open garage door. Lehane didn't like the idea of turning his back to the garage, so he gently removed his keychain with its small flashlight. He dropped to his knees, and then went flat in the gravel. He shined the light into the garage.
A car was up on blocks, but the tools that lay scattered around it didn't seem to have been used recently. Some were covered with spider webs. Lehane crawled forward, the light in his teeth. He rolled under the door and did a quick check of the garage. No one was hiding there.
"Hello?"
Guri was now knocking on the front door. The screen rattled. A cat in the bushes growled, panicked, ran in a circle and then leaped over the back fence. Lehane rolled back into the yard, trotted to the back door. He glanced down and noticed two half-empty dog bowls, one with some fresh food and the other a bit of water. He shined his light through the back window. The kitchen was empty and there were dirty dishes in the sink. Nothing moved inside the house.
"Hello, Juanita? Santiago?"
Still nothing.
"Hey, can I talk to you for a second, please?"
No answer. Lehane went down onto his knees again. There was indeed some kind of cellar below the house; he could see the small glass window through the brown grass. He shined the light but it reflected back into his eyes. Not being able to see made him uncomfortable. Lehane backed away again and got to his feet. He checked out the other side of the house, but found nothing but more trash and weeds.
Out front, Guri was back at his car again. His cool eyes were scanning the neighborhood. "These street lights aren't broken," he muttered. "They've been shot out. It might be smart to just get the hell gone, at least for now. We done?"
"Sure," Lehane said as he glanced back at the house. "We're done."
TWELVE
"Pat Riley's" squatted like a toad on El Centro Avenue. It was a serious bar, open twenty-four hours like most of Vegas; the kind of establishment enjoyed by hard-drinking men and woman who were, or had once been, cops. Lehane had been in there a couple of times, hoisting a brew with a retired homicide dick named Cleary. It was exactly the kind of place where you could expect to find an off-duty parole officer three sheets to the wind well before the band started playing.
Lehane came through the door on cat's paws, but the place stiffened and fell silent. Strangers were rare in here, particularly at night. The bar was dark, lit by neon; oddly long, with a thick coating of sawdust on the wooden floor. Some old George Jones record was moaning from hidden speakers. A deserted bandstand in the corner had a guitar, a puny padded drum set, a couple of amps and an electronic keyboard covered in torn white plastic.
The crowd looked back at him like an oil painting, so Lehane didn't bother to force a smile. He walked passed a couple of drunken off-duty uniforms and parked on a bar stool. The fat bartender in the filthy apron had Popeye forearms covered with Navy tattoos. He took his sweet time. Meanwhile, the patrons resumed a more hushed level of conversation and burned holes in the back of the stranger's shirt with their wary, bloodshot eyes. Someone started playing music, one of the ballads cut from The Eagles' Hotel California. The bartender finally strolled down to take an order. He had mean features and a big nose.
"You on the job?"
"You might say that."
"Get you something?"
"How about a Coke?"
"Plain soda costs the same as a mixed drink, friend. Still want Coke?"
Lehane slipped an expensed fifty out of his wallet and laid it flat on the bar. It got wet. "That's fine. Hold the booze."
Daemon: Night of the Daemon Page 9