by Joseph Flynn
Benny nodded. “Yeah, but look at this.”
He pointed to a thin trail of red dots descending from the bottom corner of the arrow’s tail.
The crime scene specialist said, “The guy must have used a stencil to get the glue and the blood to go on so neatly, but there was this little flaw in the stencil. Those droplets look uncontaminated to me. I’ll blot them up right away.”
Ron handed the magnifying glass back to his officer and smiled.
“Good work, Benny. Let Special Agent Benjamin and me know what you’ve found.”
Walking Abra back to her car, Ron didn’t feel the need to answer her question about Benny’s competence. That would have been rubbing it in. Instead, he told her, “Thank you for calling me, and for noticing that arrow in the first place.”
The FBI agent didn’t miss the courtesy she’d been extended.
A lot of cops, local or federal, wouldn’t have given her a pass on questioning the ability of a colleague. Chief Ketchum had to be pretty confident about himself and his department. She liked that in a man.
“Just trying to help out,” she said. “I want you to believe I’m really not so terrible for a fed.”
Ron drew a vertical line in the air with an index finger.
“Chalk one up for you,” he said.
“Meaning your accounting of me will continue.”
Ron smiled. “We all get called to account every day.”
Abra nodded and asked, “Where are your two friends?”
Ron knew she meant Keely and John Tall Wolf.
“Working their own angles. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“Am I invited?”
“Sure, if you have something you’d like to contribute.”
Telling her she couldn’t be just a fly on the wall again.
Abra nodded and said, “I have something to show you.”
She opened the passenger side door on her rental and took out her iPad, brought up the images of the Chevy Tahoe and GMC Terrain that Brant Sutherland had picked out.
She told Ron about the tentative vehicle identifications the boy had made.
“You check your databases; I’ll check mine,” she said. “We’ll see if we come up with the same information on the people who own either of these SUVs. I’m thinking they have to be local.”
Ron drew another line in the air, and extended his hand to Abra.
She shook it and the two of them said goodnight.
Ron was no sooner back in his patrol unit than Sergeant Winslow — the night owl counterpart to Sergeant Stanley — called him.
“Chief, we just got a message from your father.”
“Is he okay?” Ron asked.
“Sounded like it. Mellow even. But he’d like to see you at the mayor’s house.”
That was a relief.
Ron passed the word to Sergeant Winslow about the red arrow.
All patrol officers were to be on the lookout for someone doing more of the same.
Thing was, by that time two more of them had already been done.
Motion-activated lights came on as Ron turned into the driveway at Clay Steadman’s house. There were no walls or gates to keep the public out and the homeowner safe. Everyone knew you entered Clay Steadman’s property either with an invitation or at your own peril. If Pinnacle Security didn’t get you, the mayor would.
Sergeant Winslow had told the chief he was expected and his father would meet him at the rear of the house.
Poolside? Hardly sounded like his old man. Walt was more of an open water guy.
Nonetheless, there he was in a padded lounge chair, taking his ease with only the submerged pool lights to keep him from tripping over the furniture, should he choose to go back inside. There was a glass on the table next to Walt. In the subdued illumination, it looked to hold a weak whiskey and soda.
Ron sat next to his father, not saying a word about the drink.
“I’m going to the premiere of my movie with Esther Gadwell,” Walt said.
“Good for you, but I didn’t know Clay was letting you direct.”
Walt snorted. “You know what I mean. Do you think your mother would mind?”
“It was your side of the family that was filled with a boxful of crackers.”
A rueful smile stretched across Walt’s face. “And your mom put up with every last one of us, and kept you from becoming just like the rest of us … never mind what your lawyer called you in court.”
“Mom was better than either of us deserved.”
“Me anyway,” Walt said. “I asked to see you because I remembered who it was I saw today.” He told Ron the story of Nikos Sideris. How the guy had been wanted for two murders and suspected of ten more when Walt and his partner had caught him. Then today, that morning, he saw a guy in town who was Nikos’ spitting image.
Walt didn’t like the coincidence of Hale Tibbot getting killed shortly before he saw someone looking like a killer he’d put away thirty years ago.
Ron didn’t like that either. It wasn’t a crime to look like someone else. Following in your family’s lethal footsteps, if that was the case, was a different matter.
“This guy, Sideris, you locked up,” Ron said, “did he have any artistic talent?”
Walt sat up abruptly, holding himself upright.
He said, “Nikos Sideris was a storyboard artist for a production company. That was the legit cover he used. How could I forget that?” Walt took a long look at his son. “How the hell did you know that?”
“Lucky guess,” Ron said.
Ron tended to think of his mother late in the day. Usually in bed, shortly before he drifted off to sleep. He knew it was nothing more than an adult child’s prayer of hope that he’d ever see her again, unless there really was a heaven. What he couldn’t shake, though, even fifteen years after losing her, was the wistful wish that one day the phone would ring and she’d be on the other end of the call.
He longed to hear his mother’s voice again.
If it ever worked out that way, he had the idea it would be at the moment when he died. Mom would speak to him, her voice filled with regret, to let him know there was indeed a heaven, but he hadn’t made the cut. He’d have to spend eternity with his father and all the other crackers.
Thinking of his mother made Ron wonder at the irony that a mean bastard like his father had been given so many years with a good woman, had even gotten the opportunity to know what it meant to have his own child. Not that things had worked out so well between Ron and his dad — until lately — but there had been some good times early on.
Ron had thought his ex, Leilani, would be his lifelong love. He couldn’t have asked for a more compelling physical attraction, and he’d loved her sweet personality as much as her body. Spending time with Leilani was a cascade of laughter, warmth and the hope that it would go on forever. In his mind, all he and Leilani needed to complete the picture was a kid, maybe two.
Someone to carry on after they’d given up the ghost.
Who didn’t want that?
Leilani, it turned out. She didn’t want kids as much as she wanted an acting career. Now, after a long struggle, she had it, was more successful that she’d ever dared to dream. She’d made overtures to Ron to get back together. But there was no going back for him.
He was sure they’d only fail to meet each other’s expectations again.
Ron was glad when his phone rang, distracting him from his dreary thoughts.
The caller ID said Oliver Gosden was waiting to talk with him. Kind of late, Ron thought. Oliver and Lauren must have put Danny to bed long ago. They should be enjoying their private time together. Not calling him. Unless —
“You got the job,” Ron said by way of answering the call.
“I got the job,” Oliver confirmed.
“Congratulations.”
“Yeah, thanks.”
“The money good?”
“About what Lauren and I made together back there.”
“Good c
ops and reasonable pols to work with?”
“Very good people, all the way around.”
Ron made the last turn toward home. He’d be in bed in five minutes. The time he’d spent in bed with Keely had been fun but only a bit restful. He was dog-tired.
Thing was, Oliver didn’t sound much better than the chief felt.
“What’s the problem, Oliver? Somebody down there disappointed you’re not blonde haired and blue eyed?” Ron asked.
“No, they’re just happy I clean up real nice.”
Ron laughed. “Come on. You said they’re good people. What’s the problem?”
“It’s not the white folks or the Latinos.”
Even exhausted, Ron could figure that one out.
“Those damn African-Americans again?” he asked.
Oliver said, “Yeah, them.”
“Lauren and Danny?”
“Good guess.”
Ron pulled into his driveway. Saw there was a light showing in his house, one he hadn’t left on. He was about to end the conversation with Oliver and call Sergeant Winslow for backup. Then Keely opened the door. He hadn’t given her a key, but she’d obviously figured out where he’d hidden his spare.
She gave him a wave. He returned the gesture but stayed in his patrol unit, shutting down the engine.
“So what’re you going to do?” Ron asked Oliver. “You took the job, didn’t you?”
“Not yet. I have until the end of the week to give them my decision.”
“You’re prolonging the agony, man.”
“I know. Lauren’s sleeping with Danny. They put on a good show in front of the people down here. Then we got back to the hotel and they cried themselves to sleep.”
“You have a plan?” Ron asked.
“Take the next couple days and see if I can’t get them to like this place more than they do right now.”
“Good luck.”
“Yeah. How’re you doing? Catch any terrorists today?”
“Not yet, but we’re working hard.”
“We?”
Ron told Oliver about John Tall Wolf, Keely and Special Agent Benjamin.
Oliver focused on retired Detective Powell.
“You brought your old partner from LAPD in?” he asked.
“I was short on help, Oliver.”
Ron didn’t get any argument from Arizona.
All Oliver told him was, “I’ll let you know what we decide.”
Ron got out of the SUV and walked over to Keely who was waiting for him in his doorway.
“Hope you don’t mind me stopping by,” she said.
Ron shook his head and kissed her.
“I appreciate a good woman breaking into my house every now and then,” he said.
He closed the door behind them.
Chapter 15
Wednesday, June 5
Sonny Sideris was out longer than he originally thought he’d be, doing this, that and the other. By the time he got back to the bar at the New York Shock Exchange, some opportunistic bastards had made off with all the talent. For all Sonny knew, though, it might have been just one movie star that stopped by and waltzed off with every last honey in the joint.
Kind of guy who had the looks, buzz and money to stand in the middle of the room, point out all the women he liked and say, “I’ll take you and you and you.” Fill the back of his stretch limo to capacity. The power of celebrity being what it was, a real A-lister probably wouldn’t get turned down by more than one out of ten.
Sonny blamed Clay Steadman for spoiling his night. That gaunt old bastard hadn’t made a decent movie in years, but he was definitely the one who gave this mountain burg its star power. Got his show-biz friends to schlep six thousand feet up into the Sierra. Some L.A. prick like that had to be the one who spoiled Sonny’s chances to play a little grab-ass tonight.
If he could just get Clay Steadman in a quiet, out-of-the-way place …
He’d be doing a job for money, but he wasn’t. So he resigned himself to drinking quietly, stopping when he got pleasantly buzzed, going back to his hotel and see if his new plan for getting more gold had any holes in it when he woke up in the morning. He sure as hell wasn’t going back to Truckee and wait for some damn Indian to show up.
He half-expected one of the lesser babes still on the premises to make a run at him. He’d be polite, express his disinterest gently and if they knew what was good for them, that would be that. What Sonny hadn’t expected was for the bartender to start buying him drinks. Guy didn’t make a direct pass. Just poured him free ones and said, “Compliments of the house.”
Then he’d go and make sure someone else’s glass was full.
Sonny figured the guy just wanted him to stick around and dress the joint up. Be the center of attention in case another shift of front-table ladies came in. That didn’t happen and both Sonny and the bartender paid attention to the TVs that showed a rerun of the classic third Ali-Frazier fight, The Thrilla in Manila. By the time Ali was awarded his TKO in the fourteenth round, Sonny was the last customer left at the bar.
The bartender clicked off all the TVs.
He turned to Sonny and asked, “You need any help getting home?”
Not, “Would you like me to call a taxi for you?”
Christ. The bartender thought he was … The little shit. If he wasn’t so drunk, he’d … hey, why was he so smashed? Had he been drugged? He usually held his liquor better than … Hell, he must have been set up for something. No damn way he was going to let himself get corn-holed and wake up wondering why it hurt so much to sit down.
Sonny got to his feet, managed to find his balance and throw two C-notes on the bar. Nobody was going to say he left without paying. Call the goddamn cops on him. He did not need that kind of attention. He walked out like a man negotiating a tightrope in a high wind.
His car was around back in an open-air parking lot, but no way was he going where he couldn’t be seen from the street. Not that there was anyone on the street. He took out his cell phone, intending to call for a taxi, but he dropped it. Goddamn thing cracked open like an egg. He wanted to pick it up anyway, but he was afraid he’d fall if he tried.
Fracture his skull worse than the phone.
He tried to remember the way to his hotel, thought he knew the direction and set off, walking very carefully. He was sure now that he had been drugged. Whiskey didn’t do this to him. With the realization that he’d been targeted came fear.
If that shitass behind the bar came after him in a car, he could pop his trunk, push Sonny in and that would be the last anyone ever saw of him. Not that he wouldn’t suffer and beg for mercy first. He couldn’t let that happen. His old man had been knifed by cons in the county jail.
He’d vowed nothing like that would ever happen to him.
He broke into a shambling run, no longer certain he was headed toward the hotel.
Didn’t matter. What he had to do now was get away. Maybe find a 24-hour supermarket with a coffee bar. Stay there until the drugs cleared his body. Under bright lights and security cameras. Nobody’d be able to grab him there. Sonny started looking for a place of commercial refuge.
Before he got to the end of the block, he heard a car coming up fast behind him. Doing his best not to cry or wet himself, he tried for more footspeed. Turned his ankle on the second stride. He reached out and snagged the pole of a no-parking sign. That was the only reason he didn’t kiss the pavement.
He turned to see who was pursuing him.
It wasn’t the bartender. Not even close. Behind the wheel of the dark green SUV was the guy who’d given him the nugget of gold. Payment for the contract he’d fulfilled. The man he knew had to have more gold … and he did.
The guy showed him another nugget right there, as big as the first one.
He said, “Here’s the bonus I offered you, but this will be the final payment. Agreed?”
Sonny bobbed his head, never having felt more relieved in his life.
He wasn’t goin
g to be sodomized; he was getting more gold.
“Agreed,” he said, slurring the word.
“You want to get in?” the guy said. “I’ll give you a lift to Reno. Then I don’t want to see you ever again.”
Sonny bobbed his head eagerly.
Disoriented though he was, a thought that had crossed his mind before came back to him. The man who’d hired him had to have a ton of gold. And Sonny was going to get more of it. A lot more.
He had all the leverage he’d ever need.
Sonny’s woozy head wasn’t destined ever to be right again. The guy in the SUV pulled into a parking lot at a marina, found a space and killed his lights and engine. He looked at Sonny.
“What’re we doing here?” Sonny asked him.
“We’re going to Reno by boat.”
The lie wouldn’t have fooled a local preschooler.
In his addled state of mind, Sonny bought it. Thought it was a brilliant idea.
“Nobody will follow us now,” he said.
“No, they won’t. Let’s go down to my boat. You can take a close look at your new treasure.”
Sonny smiled ear-to-ear. “Yeah, let’s do that.”
Something niggled at him just then. He was missing something. Couldn’t figure it out now, so he let it go. They got into the boat, nice little thing with a great big outboard motor. Muzzy as he was, Sonny still noticed something he’d never seen in a boat before.
“What’s with all the plastic? You got your boat covered like my mom’s living room furniture.”
“It’s how I prepare for a fishing trip. You clean your own fish, you don’t want to get that shit in every crack and crevice.”
“Smart,” Sonny said. “You’re a very smart man.”
He handed Sonny the nugget of gold. “Careful you don’t drop that overboard.”
“Never happen,” Sonny said. He was already mesmerized by the shining fortune he held in his hands. There was enough illumination from the marina lights to make it glisten. The man went forward and turned on a radio that was tuned to the police frequency. The volume was low and wouldn’t be noticed ten feet away. But a moment later he heard the police lake patrol craft that was ending its rounds call in to headquarters.