by Joseph Badal
“Las Vegas. We’ll board the flight there for Amsterdam.”
“What about my car?”
He laughed. “I’ll buy you a new one when we get to Europe.”
From the front passenger seat of his Lincoln Navigator, Stan Bukowski watched Frank Armbruster get into the passenger seat of a new Audi A-8.
“What do you think he’s up to, boss?” his driver said.
“How the hell do I know, Richie? Just keep on his tail.”
They dodged in and out of traffic as they followed along behind Armbruster.
“What do we do now?” Richie asked.
“Follow him. You lose that asshole and I’ll have you dumped in the ocean as shark food.” While they followed, Bukowski called a number from memory and left a message.
Eric Matus’s cell phone rang. He saw it was a forwarded call from his office phone at Special Arts Agency. He listened to the message, but the man had left a number but no name. He returned the call.
“You left a message for Special Arts Agency?”
“It’s Stan Bukowski from L.A.”
“How the hell did you get this number?”
“Come on, Matus.” The man paused and then asked, “You really want to know how I found you?”
“Yeah.”
“After I dropped off the money and information at that church in Los Angeles, I had a guy watch. He saw you enter and leave the church. Then he followed you to a park where you met with some guy. You passed the stuff I left for you to that guy. After you left there, he followed you all the way to your office in Salt Lake City. Found out you hardly ever go there. It’s a front. Right, Eric? Your phone there is forwarded to a cell phone.”
Matus felt as though sweat leaked from every pore. His jacket sleeve came away soaked when he swiped his arm across his forehead. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He remembered doing business with this guy. He shuddered as he recalled the conversation he’d had with him a year ago. The way the man had said, ‘I want you to kill those fucking humps that did this to my son. Am I making myself clear? I want them scumbags dead, dead, dead.’
Matus groaned. He’d screwed up royally.
“What was that?”
“Nothing. What do you want?”
“I got a job for you.”
“I might have an opening next week.”
“Don’t think it can wait ‘til then,” Bukowski said.
“We’re booked up right now.”
“Listen, asshole. You either do this job or I’ll put the cops on you.”
“What are you going to tell them, that you hired me to kill someone?”
“Nah. I’ll make an anonymous call. There’s no way you can tie me to the murder of my son’s kidnapper.”
A tremor of fear shot through Matus. “What’s the job?”
“Stop an embezzler from fleeing the country. Get my money from him. Then kill the sonofabitch.”
“Embezzler? That’s not my kind of job.”
Bukowski’s voice hardened and became louder. “This is not a negotiation.”
Matus groaned again. “Where’s the guy located?”
“Los Angeles at the moment, but that could change.”
“I don’t like this.”
“What are you, finicky? Besides, I already told you, you ain’t got a choice.”
Matus exhaled a long stream of air. “It’ll cost fifty thousand.”
“Jeez, man, that’s robbery. It was only twenty last time.”
Matus waited.
“Aw, shit.” After a long pause, he said, “I’ll pay.”
“How quickly can you get me the usual information?”
Bukowski said, “I’ve already got it with me. Where do you want it delivered?”
“I’m in Las Vegas.” He gave him the address of a church. “3 p.m.”
“Bullshit,” Bukowski barked. “I ain’t goin’ through that crap again. We’ll meet face-to-face. I’ll call you when I know where the guy is headed. You can meet me there.”
CHAPTER 9
Susan asked, “What’s with meeting at this hour?”
Barbara chuckled. “It’s the FBI. They work 24/7, 365 days a year.”
“Yeah, right. Or, your friend works the graveyard shift today and wanted us to accommodate her schedule.”
“You’re a bright and perceptive woman.”
They entered the Federal Bureau of Investigation’s building on the east side of Interstate 25 at 8:30 p.m. FBI Special Agent Sophia Otero-Hansen met them in the reception area.
“How many years has it been?” she said.
“At least five,” Barbara answered. She turned to Susan. “This is my partner, Susan Martinez. Susan, meet Special Agent Sophia Otero-Hansen.”
Susan gave Otero-Hansen an abbreviated wave and nodded. She received no response.
“What’s on your mind, Barbara?” Otero-Hansen said.
“We caught a murder a couple days ago. Guy named Sylvester O’Neil.”
“The pedophile. I read about it.”
“Good,” Barbara said. “We accessed the NSOD and discovered that O’Neil had a hell of a record. The first logical place for us to try to find a connection to his killer is among the families whose children were molested.”
“Makes sense,” the FBI agent said. “How many cases showed up in the National Sex Offenders Database under O’Neil’s name?”
“Enough that it could take us a while to unearth the killer. And, based on the way O’Neil was killed, we think his murderer is a pro.”
“How so?”
“There was zero forensic evidence at the scene other than evidence that O’Neil died from swallowing a massive heroin overdose. We think he was forced to swallow the stuff.”
“You kidding?” Otero-Hansen said. “Never heard of anyone doing that before.”
“And the killer put a stake in O’Neil’s heart after he died.”
“A stake?” Otero-Hansen said. “Like a vampire killing?”
“Actually, it was a tent peg. What we’re wondering is whether the FBI could narrow down the number of possible suspects with two filters. One, the forced ingestion of liquid heroin. Two, the tent peg. We know the NCIC database can be queried based on cause of death and other variables.”
“I can check on it, but why don’t you do it?”
Barbara smiled. “We figured the FBI might have access to info that we can’t access.”
Otero-Hansen smiled back. “You think we might have secret files, or something?”
“Heaven forbid.”
“You think she’ll help us?” Susan asked Barbara as they drove away from the FBI building.
“Only if it helps her as well.”
“As in FBI agent solves vigilante killer murders.”
“Yep. Of course, that assumes there is a vigilante killer.”
“I’m not so sure,” Susan said. “The tent peg in O’Neil’s heart was an emotional, vindictive act. It was almost personal. Like something the father of a boy murdered by O’Neil might do.
“Another thing about the tent peg is that the Graves boy was murdered while his scout troop camped in the Jemez Mountains. The boys and their leaders all slept outside in World War II surplus pup tents. Wulfie said the tent peg found in O’Neil’s chest is the type used to anchor a pup tent.”
“Like the killer was sending a message,” Barbara said. “That O’Neil’s death was payback for what he did to the Graves boy on the camping trip.”
“Yeah. But, if that’s the case, it would be pretty stupid of the killer to leave that sort of message. Leaving that tent peg was unprofessional; an emotional act. That’s why I keep wondering about family members of O’Neil’s victims.”
Barbara put a hand on her forehead and groaned. “You’re right. O’Neil’s murder looks personal. As though it was committed by someone personally related to Adam Graves.”
Race met the first of the three football players when he walked into Jacobson’s reception area. He pointed at a confere
nce room down a hall. “Sam will meet with you there when the others arrive.”
The guy was over six feet, four inches tall and must have weighed two hundred eighty pounds. His head was shaved and he wore a goatee and mustache. Good looking kid, Race thought.
Race followed him into the conference room.
“I haven’t met you before,” the hulk said, as he sat on the left side of the table.
“I do odd jobs for Mr. Jacobson,” Race answered as he left the conference room. The other two men arrived as Race entered the reception area. Neither one was as big as the first, but they were still enormous. They were each as tall as Race, but outweighed him by at least sixty pounds. He pointed them to the conference room and followed.
After a few seconds of fist-bumping and friendly banter, the two new arrivals sat in chairs across the table from their friend.
Race stood behind the empty chair at the head of the rectangular table and pointed at three glasses he’d placed there earlier. “How about some lemonade, fellows?”
“Sure,” the big one said as he grasped one of the glasses. He downed the contents and smacked his lips.
The man directly to Race’s right followed the example of his team mate, but the third man made no move for his glass.
“Not thirsty?” Race asked.
“Nah.”
Race glared at the guy. “It’s not polite to refuse someone’s hospitality.”
A confused expression came over the man’s face. “Thanks, but I don’t want any lemonade.”
“Drink it anyway.”
The man’s expression changed to a hard, mean look. “I told you I don’t want any damned lemonade, so take it and shove it up your ass.”
“Now, that’s terribly rude.”
The other two men’s breathing suddenly became loud and labored.
“What the hell?” the big one said as he pressed both of his hands against his chest.
Race pointed at the one without a glass in hand, and barked, “Drink up.”
“Go to hell,” the guy shouted as he leaped to his feet, knocked his chair against the wall, and moved toward Race. With lightning speed, Race pulled his pistol from the shoulder holster under his jacket and pointed it at the guy.
“Back to your seat.”
Race took a silencer from a side pocket in his jacket and screwed it onto the barrel of his pistol. When the guy was reseated, Race said, “You pick up the glass and drink before I count to three. If you don’t, I shoot you. You have any idea how painful a bullet wound can be?”
“Come on, man,” the biggest one rasped. “What’s this all about?” His breaths now came in gasps.
“Rosa Puccini.”
The one closest to Race on his right moaned as though in severe pain. “You . . . joking,” he said.
Race glared at him. “No joke, guys.” Then he turned back to the one who had yet to drink the concoction waiting in the third glass. “Drink up.”
The big one said, “Is it . . . money . . . you . . . want? Our folks . . . will . . . pay.”
Race shook his head. The third guy had still not picked up his glass. He pointed the gun at the man’s right shoulder and pulled the trigger.
The guy looked stunned for a second, and then screamed, “You shot me.” He grabbed his shoulder and writhed, screaming all the while.
“You won’t feel any pain after you drink what’s in that glass,” Race said.
The big one on Race’s left whimpered, “Please . . . don’t . . . do this.”
Race kept his gaze on the one he’d shot. He moved the pistol toward the man’s left shoulder.
“Okay, okay,” the man said, and drained the glass in front of him. He made a sour face and gagged.
The other two men now perspired as though in a steam room. Their faces had turned pallid.
The one to Race’s right moaned, “I’m . . . sorry.”
“Too late,” Race said. “Much too late. Now let me tell you what’s about to happen.”
Race knelt down on Samuel Jacobson’s private bathroom floor and checked the ropes he’d used to bind the lawyer’s feet and hands to the pedestal sink. Then he stared into the man’s eyes.
“What time does the cleaning crew show up?”
“Nine o’clock.”
“Good. You’ll be free in a little while.”
Then he gagged Jacobson with a washcloth and left the room.
Race returned to the conference room. He looked at the three men bent over the table, their heads resting on their folded arms. He put his briefcase on the table, opened it, took out three roses, and placed a rose in front of each man. Then he closed and picked up his briefcase, retrieved his overnight bag from Jacobson’s office, left the suite, and went to the public men’s room. He plugged up the toilet, urinal, and sinks with paper towels and left the bathroom just as water flowed onto the floor.
He carried the briefcase and overnight bag to his Impala parked behind the office building. Seven miles away, he drove behind a gas station he’d scoped out earlier—one without a security camera—and changed clothes in the rest room. He put the clothes he’d changed out of, along with his wig, tinted glasses, and rubber gloves in a black garbage bag he took from his briefcase. Back outside, he dumped the bag in a dumpster and poured a quart bottle of charcoal starter fluid over it, dropped a lit match into the container, and then drove away.
Race thought that a good night’s sleep was in order, but knew it was unlikely to happen. The nightmare always seemed to be worse right after he completed an assignment. But it was worth a try. Maybe he’d get lucky. Then the throwaway cell phone in the vehicle’s console rang.
“Yeah?”
“We have another job.”
“Eric, I’m exhausted.”
“It’s a repeat customer. Says it’s urgent.”
“I’ll consider it. Depends on where the job is.”
“Where do you want to meet?”
“Same place as this morning. But in the parking lot. Stay in your car. I’ll come to you.”
Eric Matus had spent an hour in a mom-and-pop Italian restaurant halfway between the Las Vegas Strip and McCarran Airport. As good as the linguini vongole he’d ordered looked and smelled, he could barely touch it. His stomach churned like surf in a storm. He had tried to devise a way out of his predicament. Maybe he could just disconnect the telephone in Salt Lake City, abandon the office there, change his name, and set up shop in a different city. But Stan Bukowski was a connected guy. A pissed off Bukowski might, sooner or later, track him down. The result of that, Matus knew, would not be pretty. The acid level in his stomach climbed into the red zone. Race had been right all along. Money would ultimately lead to a problem. Race had been adamant about not taking money from clients. Adamant that they should always serve good people who deserved justice. That’s why he was supposed to vet their clients in advance.
Matus sucked in air through his teeth. He’d violated two of Race’s rules when he negotiated the deal with Bukowski. He’d charged a fee and he’d made a deal with a guy he knew right up front was connected to organized crime. The man was definitely not “good people.”
He’d just have to convince Race to do the job. He had just gone out to his SUV when his cell phone rang.
“Hello?”
“It’s Stan.”
“Where are you?”
“Las Vegas.”
Sweat popped out on Matus’s brow and then leaked down his face. “What are you doing here?”
“Where should I meet you?”
“I asked you a question. Answer me. Why are you in Vegas?”
Bukowski blurted a boisterous laugh. “Because that’s where the embezzler went. Right here in Sin City. I just followed the guy to the Bellagio. Bribed a bellman to give me his room number. 1713. Checked in for one night.”
At least that’s convenient, Matus thought. “Okay.” He gave Bukowski the address of the Italian restaurant. “Meet me in fifteen minutes in the strip center lot acros
s from the restaurant.”
CHAPTER 10
The Nguyen sisters split up as soon as they entered Samuel Jacobson’s building. Lisa Nguyen always took the northern part of the building, while Lucy Nguyen cleaned the southern end, which included Jacobson’s office.
Lucy vacuumed and dusted the three associates’ offices, the reception area, and the hallway. Then she knocked on the conference room door because the light was still on.
“Mr. Jacobson,” she quietly called out. No answer. She cracked the door several inches and peeked inside. A strong odor hit her. There were three large men seated at the table with their heads resting on their arms. They appeared to be asleep. Lucy knocked again, but the men didn’t stir. She called through the cracked door, “I’m sorry to disturb you.” Still no response. She pushed open the door and was immediately hit by the overpowering stench of vomit, urine, and feces. Then she spotted what appeared to be blood on one of the men’s shirts.
Lucy Nguyen screamed and ran from the office, through the reception area, and into the hallway, which was now covered with running water.
The Las Vegas Police Department is one of the best and most responsive law enforcement agencies in the United States. Radio cars, homicide detectives, ambulances, and representatives from the Office of Medical Investigation were in and around Samuel Jacobson’s offices within ten minutes of Lucy Nguyen’s 9-1-1 call. But it wasn’t until six minutes after the first patrolman entered Jacobson’s building that anyone bothered to look in the lawyer’s private bathroom. By the time someone released Jacobson, who lay in six inches of water, the lawyer was apoplectic with rage.
“Didn’t you hear me?” he shouted.
The LVPD detectives and most of its uniformed officers knew who Samuel Jacobson was: the goddamn attorney who got scumbags off by pulling tricks and making cops look stupid in court.
The detective in charge helped Jacobson to his feet, led him to the office reception area, and told him, “Sit right there; don’t move. I’ll be with you in a minute.”
Jacobson sputtered, but he sat down and shut up. He wanted to make certain he had his story straight about what had happened. And he wanted to remember everything about the maniac who had tied him up and murdered the three young men he’d represented. He took a pad from his receptionist’s desk and snatched a pen from the set in front of the blotter. Ignoring the water which was up to his ankles, he jotted down every feature he could remember about the man: maybe forty years old; blond hair in a ponytail; smooth skin; no scars or moles; blue eyes; wire, tinted glasses; maybe six feet, one or two inches tall. He wrote down the time the man had entered his office and when he’d left.