by Joseph Badal
Jacobson placed the pad back on his desk and smiled. “I got you, you sonofabitch. The cops’ll pick you up before you know it.”
After Matus met with Stan Bukowski, he called Race’s throwaway cell phone, and said, “Thirty minutes.” He then took a circuitous route to the diner to ensure that Bukowski didn’t have him followed again, and waited. His heart leaped in his chest when Race opened the rear right passenger door and entered the SUV.
“Jeez,” Matus said with a loud, long exhale. “I didn’t see you come up on me.”
“You’re losing the skills they taught us at Bragg. What’s the job?”
“Our client has an account with an investment advisor in L.A. The guy is apparently about to leave the country with all his clients’ money. He went to the guy’s office yesterday and found the place cleaned out. No files, no records, no nothing. Looks like the investment advisor skipped with his clients’ money.”
“That’s not our type of job, Eric.”
“But the investment advisor probably stole a huge amount of money, including three million from our client. I thought you’d want to do this one because the guy defrauded a bunch of retirees and charitable organizations, too. I checked the guy’s website. He catered to handling money for the elderly and small charities. If we can recover some of the money he stole, we can help those people.”
Race didn’t respond immediately. He finally said, “Maybe that would be good. But how the hell will I find the money? It could have been transferred overseas by now. The guy can’t possibly have a lot of cash with him.”
“The client got a tip from a forger in L.A. who fabricated ID for the advisor. Says the guy was referred by a diamond dealer. He may have converted the money into stones and could have them with him.”
After a long pause, Race said, “I’ll do it. But this is different. This won’t be a wet job like the others.”
Matus said, “Whatever you say.”
“What’s the guy’s name and where’s he located?”
“That’s the good news. He’s right here in Vegas. Holed up at the Bellagio. Apparently, only for one night. He may leave the country tomorrow. He’s booked at the hotel under the name Harry Whitaker.”
“By himself?”
“As far as I know.”
CHAPTER 11
Barbara’s cell phone ring startled her out of a sound sleep. She rubbed her eyes, glanced at her bedside clock—11:47 p.m. She cleared her throat as she reached for the phone, and answered, “Lassiter.”
“Barbara, it’s Sophia. Sorry about the late hour.”
“It’s okay. What’s up, Sophia?”
“We dug up something interesting. The database gave us eight deaths where the victims ingested liquid heroin.”
“Any suicides?”
“Nope. Every one of the deaths was an obvious homicide.”
“How can you be so certain?”
Otero-Hansen blurted a shrill, condescending laugh that Barbara remembered from years ago. It was just as annoying now as it had been when they’d worked together.
“Easy,” the agent answered. “The killer left a calling card in every instance.”
“What sort of calling card?”
“Something different every time. A shell cartridge inserted in a nostril, a woman’s scarf wrapped around a neck, a dollar bill stuffed in a mouth, a liquor bottle in a hand. Like the tent peg in Sylvester O’Neil’s chest. Never the same thing twice.”
“Huh,” Barbara muttered. “Any idea about the significance of the items left behind?”
“Yeah. The victims were all people with criminal records who’d committed recent violent crimes and been released on bail or acquitted because of some police or prosecutorial error, or because of political influence. The items the vigilante killer left behind were related in some way to the criminals’ victims. The cases involved murder, rape, incest, felony assault & battery, armed robbery, DUI-related auto accident, and so forth.”
“You’re confirming there’s a vigilante killer out there who targets bad guys.”
“We’ll refine our database query. Search for killers who leave items behind. I wouldn’t be surprised if we find more murders than the initial database query yielded.”
“Can you email the eight case files to me?” Barbara asked.
“Already done.”
That surprised Barbara. It wasn’t like Sophia to share information that might make someone else look good. But, after all, it was Barbara who had put her onto the liquid heroin lead.
“Thanks, Sophia. I appreciate your help.”
“No problem. We’re on the same team, aren’t we?”
Barbara was even more surprised. This was a different Sophia Otero-Hansen than she remembered.
Then the FBI agent said, “I’m telling you, Barbara, the world is a better place without the eight people—nine, including O’Neil, no longer alive.”
“Of course, you know that doesn’t change a thing, Sophia.”
Barbara figured that if she couldn’t go back to sleep, she might as well call Susan and brief her on what she’d gotten from Otero-Hansen. She dialed Susan’s number and, when her partner answered, said, “Hey, Susan, you ever hear the term, misery loves company?”
“You are such a bitch,” Susan said. “What do you have?”
After Barbara passed on Otero-Hansen’s information, she said, “What do you think?”
“I think there’s no way in hell I’ll be able to go back to sleep. Pick me up in thirty minutes.”
“Don’t you have your Corvette back yet?”
“I’ll need a bank loan if this goes on much longer. Mechanic says I need a new alternator and master cylinder.”
“Maybe you need a new mechanic.”
DAY 5
CHAPTER 12
In their downtown office, Barbara and Susan stood in front of the white-board on which Sylvester O’Neil’s victims’ names had been written. Barbara waved a hand at the board. “You know there might be dozens more victims.”
“Yeah,” Susan said. “But that’s not our problem at this time. It’s O’Neil’s killer we’re after.” She blew out a breath, and asked, “In how many states do we think the vigilante has been active?”
Barbara looked at the hard copy of Sophia Otero-Hansen’s email and counted down: “Six.”
“Coast to coast?”
Barbara looked at the email again. “No. All in the west. Arizona, California, Colorado, Nevada, New Mexico, and Texas.”
“So, our boy may live somewhere between Texas and California.”
“Could be,” Barbara said.
Susan pointed at the white-board. “We should open a computer file similar to what you put on the board. Nine murders. Everything in chronological order. Then let’s map the killer’s path by location.”
“Why don’t you start that while I call Sophia? Hopefully, she got something from the expanded query she said she would run.”
“What?”
“About killers who leave calling cards, like our guy does.”
“And what if that query comes up with hundreds of murders where calling cards were left? Where there were murder methods other than liquid heroin?”
“There’s a happy thought.”
“Why don’t we just query the NCIC?” Susan asked.
“Because we don’t have one percent of the computing capacity the Feds have. Besides, we may need Sophia if we have to follow cases in other states.”
“Follow cases? As in going to other states ourselves?”
Barbara frowned. “What have you been smoking? You really think that will happen? You think the lieutenant will approve travel for us? With the department’s budget problems?”
Susan laughed. “He might if I wear my red dress. I thought his eyes would pop out the last time I wore it to work.”
“Shameless. Absolutely shameless.”
Race Thornton sat in one of the lounge bar’s in the Bellagio Hotel & Casino, after having ordered five sco
tch and waters—each of which he’d dumped in a potted plant—and after making a minor scene every time the bar waitress served him. His loud and lewd remarks to the waitress had caught the attention of a uniformed guard who’d posted himself near the steps from the bar down to the casino floor. Race’s last outburst had brought the guard to Race’s table.
“Sir, are you staying here at the Bellagio?”
Race frowned at the guard. “Shit no,” he slurred. “I can barely pay for the drinks here. No way could I afford a room.”
“How ‘bout I call you a cab?”
Race hiccupped and waved his hands in the air as though to say, “Whatever.” The guard snagged Race’s arm when he stumbled a bit as he stepped down to the casino floor.
“Thanks,” Race said, as he bumped against the guard, snatched the man’s passkey ID clipped to the front of his uniform shirt, and slipped it into his pocket. “Guess I had a few too many.”
“It happens,” the guard said.
Outside the building, the guard turned Race over to the doorman, who waved at a taxi. Race fell into the back of the cab and gave the driver the name of his motel.
Race adjusted the new gray wig and dark glasses and pressed firmly on the false mustache and beard to assure himself they were in place. He finished off his disguise with a cane. Then he left his motel, drove his car to the Bellagio, self-parked, and walked inside to the lobby house phone.
“Please put me through to Mr. Whitaker’s room,” he told the hotel operator.
“My pleasure, sir. Please hold.”
The phone rang ten times before the operator came back on the line. “Mr. Whitaker is not answering his phone, sir. Would you like to leave a message?”
Race declined and hung up. Then he meandered around the casino floor. He saw no one that came close to resembling the man in the photos Eric Matus had provided. Then he moved from restaurant to restaurant inside the building: Le Cirque, Picasso, Prime, Yellowtail, Michael Mina, Jasmine, OLiVES, Fix. Still no sighting of Whitaker. Once more he tried the operator, but once again no one answered in Whitaker’s room.
Race wished there was a better alternative than breaking into Whitaker’s room. The universal passkey he’d lifted off the security guard would give him access, but the hall and elevator cameras would record his every movement. Even with his disguise, it was risky. He doubted Whitaker was in any of the restaurants—it was already 1 a.m. The man could be anywhere, including in his room. He might have turned down the ringer on the room phone or just decided to not answer it.
Race rode the elevator to the 17th floor and leaned heavily on the cane as he shuffled down the hall to Room 1713. He brushed the passkey over the electronic lock. The mechanism clicked and the light turned green. He opened the door, slipped into the room, and quickly searched it. When he confirmed it was empty, he flipped on the lights.
He searched the room and found luggage in the closet. The luggage tag on one of the suitcases had the name Whitaker on it. The safe in the closet was locked. There were clothes on hangars, as well as in dresser drawers. Toiletries, including women’s lotions and perfume, were in the bathroom. Whitaker wasn’t alone. Matus’s information had not been completely accurate. Race shook his head out of frustration. He turned to look around the room again just as he heard loud voices come from the hallway. Then he heard the unmistakable chime of a key card swiped over the room door lock.
He moved quickly to turn off the lights and then went into the closet.
“Frankie, that was so much fun,” a woman said. “I could have danced all night. I’m so glad you decided to leave from Las Vegas instead of L.A.”
“You’ve got to stop calling me Frankie. That could really ruin things for us. It’s Harry. Harry Whitaker.”
The woman giggled. “Sorry . . . Harry.”
“Jeez, you have to sober up before we go to the airport in a few hours.”
The woman giggled again. “Don’t worry; I’ll be fine . . . Harry.” She broke out in full-fledged, maniacal laughter.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” the man said.
“You know, you could have come up with a better name for me than Sandra Jones,” the woman said in a little girl whine. “You might as well have come up with Beatrice Cumberbund, or Florence Nightingale, or—”
“This isn’t funny, you hear me?”
“Oh, don’t be such a bore, Frankie. I won’t mess up when—”
Race stepped from the closet into the well-lit room. He pointed his weapon at the woman, and said, “It’s Harry, not Frankie, Sandra.”
The woman opened her mouth as though to scream. Whitaker sagged as though he was a punctured balloon.
“One sound comes out of either of your mouths and I’ll shoot you both. I don’t want to do that, but I will if I have to.”
Whitaker nodded. The woman backed up to the bed and sat down.
“Take off your belt,” Race ordered the man, “and tie your girlfriend’s hands behind her back.”
After the man complied, Race pointed at the bathroom. “Get a wash cloth.”
Whitaker moved as though he understood the stakes and rushed back with a wash cloth.
“Stuff it in her mouth.”
Again Whitaker complied.
“Put her on the floor; lie down next to her,” Race ordered.
With the two of them on the carpeted floor, Race took a belt from a robe in the closet and tied Whitaker’s hands. Then he pulled a case from one of the bed pillows and used strips he tore from it to bind the man’s and woman’s ankles. He turned Whitaker over onto his back and forced the pistol muzzle into his mouth.
“Where are the stones?” Race asked, taking a gamble that the man had converted his ill-begotten gains to diamonds.
The shocked expression that came to Whitaker’s face told Race that his gamble had paid off.
“We can make a deal,” Whitaker mumbled.
Race pulled the gun from the man’s mouth and pressed the muzzle against his forehead. “Last chance. Where are the stones?”
The guy closed his eyes and moaned, “The wall safe.”
“The only words I want to hear from you are the numbers to the safe combination. If I hear anything but those numbers, you’re dead.”
Race pressed the muzzle even harder against Whitaker’s forehead.
“Four-seven-eight-eight,” Whitaker rasped. “Four-seven-eight-eight.”
Race went to the closet safe, pressed in the code. The safe hummed and popped open. He took out a shaving kit and tossed it on the bed beside the woman. The only other items in the safe were two passports.
“Where are the stones?” he demanded as he moved back toward the man.
“Maybe we can make a deal.”
Race bent over the man again and pointed his pistol at his face. “I told you to shut up. You get to talk only when I ask you a question. Now, where are the stones?”
“My shaving kit.”
Race went to the bed and unzipped the kit. I need some sleep, he told himself. Should have thought of that. Who the hell puts a shaving kit in a safe? He turned it upside down, dumped the contents on the bed, and picked through the items. The only things large enough to hold a cache of diamonds were the deodorant and shaving cream cans. He shook the deodorant can. Nothing. Then he lifted the shaving cream can. Even before shaking the container, its weight told him he’d found the diamonds. He turned it over and inspected it. He tried to pry off the bottom of the container. No luck. Then he tried to twist off the top. At first, nothing happened. But when he twisted with more force, the top came away from the body of the can. He peeked inside and was shocked at the hoard of brilliant stones there.
“How much is in here?” he asked Whitaker.
“Please, listen to me,” Whitaker said. “We can make a deal. There’s a hundred million dollars’ worth of gemstones in there.”
“Why would I make a deal with you when I now have all the stones?”
The logic of that statement seemed to defla
te Whitaker to the point of total defeat. He moaned again.
Race noticed the woman’s eyes follow his movements as he screwed the top back onto the shaving cream can. Then he went to the bathroom, retrieved a second wash cloth, and stuck it in the man’s mouth. Then he had an inspiration.
CHAPTER 13
“Yeah?” Stan Bukowski grumbled into the telephone.
Eric Matus couldn’t keep the euphoria from his voice. “We recovered your money.” He took a quietening breath. “The asshole converted everything to diamonds. But we got it all. I’ll give you your share of the stones tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow, my ass. I want them today. This morning.” Then, after a beat, Bukowski said, “How the hell do you know what three million in diamonds looks like?”
“Weighed the hundred million in stones and then took out three percent of the total for you.”
“What about the rest of them?”
“My partner will turn them over to the California Attorney General so restitution can be made to the other investors.”
“Are you messin’ with me?”
“No, why?”
“What are you, some kinda schmuck?”
After a hesitation, Matus said, “This schmuck just got you your three million dollars.”
“Yeah, yeah. You still in Vegas?”
“Yes. I’ll be—”
“Meet me at Gentleman Gil’s in North Las Vegas at 9 this morning.”
“Why?”