Crow Wing Dead

by Midge Bubany

  Bullet was already gone when I went home to pack, and soon I was sitting at the airport gate in Minneapolis two hours early for our 4:35 flight. As I anticipated Sydney Dirkson’s arrival, my head automatically popped up when anyone walked by. I was making myself dizzy, so I focused on an Outdoors magazine I’d purchased.

  Just after three thirty, Sydney, a tall, stunning blonde, walked up to me. I stood to shake her hand, then she sat in the seat next to mine. She took off her brown leather jacket and laid it on her lap. Her white blouse gaped a little at breast level offering me a view of her lacy bra until she adjusted the front. Probably caught me looking.

  Sydney crossed her legs to tuck her jeans leg farther into her knee-high brown boots. With her body type, she’d look good in anything—or nothing. But Sydney and I were both married, so what I was just thinking was not healthy.

  “So how are you related to Hawk?”

  “Barb’s my mom’s sister. They’ve always been close, saw each other every week until my folks moved out to Phoenix three years ago. They still talk every day, and Barb has Mom in a tizzy about Mike. That’s why I’m going out there, for my mom.”

  I nodded.

  “Hey, mind if I ask your opinion of Cat?” she asked.

  “Let me put it this way: When Hawk asked me what I thought of her, I told him to run.”

  She slapped her leg and gave out a hardy laugh. “Do you get why they’re even together? His other girlfriends were much nicer.”

  “Cat didn’t come with you because of Romeo, her cat.”

  She lifted her brows. “She told me she was ill from the Mexican water. So what’s the detective’s best guess on what the hell Mike is up to?”

  “I don’t know, but it doesn’t seem like him to just take off without telling anyone.”

  “If he’s humping some whore, I think I may shoot him in the nuts.”

  I chuckled. “And I’ll be there to witness it.”

  “As a kid, Mike always had these ideas of fun that would inevitably get us cousins in trouble. We lived on a farm west of Little Falls with a creek running through it, and one hot Sunday afternoon we were throwing rocks into the water off the bridge, and the mosquitoes were biting like crazy. He had the bright idea we should jump off the bridge into the water to get away from the mosquitoes. He talked my little brother Gordy into jumping off first. Well, the water was shallow and the mud was thick, so when Gordy jumped off he got stuck in the mud. Gordy started bawling his head off, and we couldn’t pull him out. I made Mike run up to get our folks. My dad was so mad. He marched us back to the house, tails between our mud-covered bodies, and what did Aunt Barb do?”

  I shrugged.

  “She laughed. She thought it was hilarious. I was grounded for a week. I used to wish Aunt Barb was my mother.”

  “Me too.” I told her about Hawk sinking his Grandma’s car in the lake. “I was grounded for a month, and I wasn’t even there.”

  “I remember that incident very clearly because Grandma was just as bad as Barb. She said she’d wanted a new car anyway. Seriously?”

  “So, we’re going to find him humping a whore, and he’ll get his first consequences—getting his balls shot off.”

  “And believe me, I will tell Aunt Barb the truth.”

  I smiled. “We’ll snap photos for proof.”

  She giggled.

  The plane wasn’t full, and I was in a row with an empty middle seat. I had the aisle seat. A kid with long, dirty hair occupied the window seat. He was plugged into an iPad and ignored me. Once we were at cruising altitude the pilot came on to say we were free to move about the cabin. The next thing I knew the flight attendant shook my shoulder and told me to put my seat in the upright position for landing.

  Your Las Vegas experience starts in the airport terminal, the air is charged with the energy of vacationers out to drop a lot of money in the casinos. Passengers leaving Vegas, stand before at the slots throughout the terminal trying to hit it big one more time, then another, then another.

  As we stepped out into the Nevada air to catch a cab, I sensed the electric charge in the air—also the desert heat. I removed my jacket. The strip was a short drive from the airport; Las Vegas Boulevard traffic was heavy, but it moved.

  While we checked into our rooms at the Flamingo, we asked the desk clerk if Michael Hawkinson had checked out—and no, he hadn’t. We made our way to our rooms to drop off our luggage, agreeing to meet in the lobby and then find a place for dinner.

  My fifth floor room had a view of the strip, which I admired for a few minutes before I washed my face and hands, then went down to meet Sydney. Because we were both tired, we opted for the hotel dining room.

  Once we were seated and had a beer placed before us, Sydney said, “So, tell me about yourself. Are you married? Have kids?”

  “I adopted my wife’s two kids from a former marriage, Luke and Colby. Their dad died six years ago. When Shannon and I got married we wanted to have one of our own, but she got pregnant quicker than we expected, and with twins—Lucy and Henry. They’re fourteen months now. Our son Colby died in a car crash about a year ago—Shannon and I were going through a rough patch at the time, and our loss made it worse. We’ve been separated for four months.”

  “Oh, my God, I’m so sorry.” She was looking at me with pity. She touched my arm.

  “He was the cutest, sweetest kid ever, and he’s gone, and we tried to hold the family together but… it hasn’t worked out.”

  A tear dripped down her cheek. She wiped it with her sleeve.

  I blinked away my own tears, cleared my throat and said, “You have kids?”

  “We have one daughter, Elle, who’s finishing up her second year at Princeton. She’ll be home for summer break soon.”

  I nodded. “Princeton? Wow.”

  “She loves it.”

  “So, how long have you been a private investigator?”

  “I joined Pete with the firm eight years ago. I’m also an attorney, so I do legal work as well.”

  She took a sip of beer then steered the conversation to less serious topics. After we finished our dinner, we asked to speak to the manager. We were told Fletcher Cook was on duty, the same man I’d spoken to on the phone. He shuffled us down to one end of the long counter. He was a small, sullen man with a dark complexion.

  I showed my badge and said, “I spoke with you earlier this week. I’m a detective for Birch County, Minnesota, Sheriff’s Department, and this is Sydney Dirkson, a private investigator. We are looking for Michael Hawkinson, who seems to have gone missing while staying in your hotel. If you can tell us his room number we can go check…”

  “That’s not possible, sir, but I will ring the room again if you like.”

  Which he did and received no answer.

  “Okay, just to let you know we are going to show his photo around and see if any of your employees or guests have seen him.”

  “Just a second.”

  He made a phone call, most likely to security. He hung up and said to me, “You may go ahead and show the photos.” He hadn’t told them anything. He just listened. Vegas security is creepy—omniscient—they see and hear all.

  Sydney had copied a professional photo of Hawk and handed me one. The plan was to separate, show the photo to employees and guests as we wandered through the casino floor, while on the lookout for Hawk. I also brought a photo: a smiley, face shot I took of him during a fishing trip we’d taken up in Canada.

  As I meandered through the tables and machines, three different good-looking women approached me. At least I thought they were women—one can never tell, especially in Vegas. Each wanted to know if I wanted to party or go on a date. I did not, I told them. I showed them Hawk’s picture. They didn’t recognize him, which was probably a good thing since they were hookers.

&
nbsp; We met in the lobby at nine o’clock and walked out onto the sidewalk on Las Vegas Boulevard. Las Vegas has a smell like no other city. Maybe it’s the exhaust systems of the enormous casinos mixed with the stench of cigarettes and stale alcoholic beverages, plus the odors emitted from the river of human bodies as it moves along the sidewalks. I suggested we hit the casinos Hawk preferred during his bachelor party weekend: Caesars Palace, the Mirage, and Treasure Island.

  “Was the bachelor weekend like the movie?”

  “Huh-uh… what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.”

  “No big cats in your room or tattoos you didn’t remember getting?”

  “Oh, that.”

  She laughed. We crossed the nearest pedestrian bridge across Las Vegas Boulevard and made our way to Caesar’s Palace.

  At midnight, we each declared exhaustion and gave it up for the night. Back at the Flamingo, I glanced at the front desk, considered whether to try the only woman clerk at the front desk. It didn’t work this time either. She did tell me she was off tomorrow if I wanted to meet up. I politely declined.

  Chapter 4

  May 20

  Eight days missing

  I put my head on the pillow, and the next thing I knew it was 5:00 a.m., seven my time. I looked out at the strip, quiet this time of day. I decided to go for a run.

  I ran up one side of Las Vegas Boulevard, as far as the Stratosphere, crossed the street and ran back on the other, ending at the Bellagio to watch the fountains as I cooled down. The traffic was starting to pick up when I crossed the pedestrian bridge.

  As planned, I met Sydney outside the Garden Buffet at eight o’clock. We took trays and went through the line. Sydney selected oatmeal and a fruit cup. She eyed my loaded plate but didn’t comment.

  “I’m going to get into Mike’s room this morning,” Sydney said.

  “Tried it again last night with a second clerk. No go.”

  “Did you tell him you were the wife and came to surprise your husband and palm the desk clerk fifty bucks?”

  “I did not.”

  “Well, we’ll see how it works. Sometimes it does, and sometimes it doesn’t. If we can’t get in, we’ll go with our plan to split up and hit MGM Grand, New York-New York, Bellagio, Venetian, and Paris. Surely someone would recognize a handsome, charismatic, six-foot-four, two hundred-thirty pound man.”

  To my surprise, Sydney came back with a room key. She used a phony ID she’d had made up in Minneapolis. We went up to the eighth floor and knocked on the door with the Do Not Disturb sign hanging on the knob. There was a room service tray outside the door. I lifted the lid.

  “Looks like food for two,” she said.

  “Well, that dirty dog.”

  When no one answered, Sydney used the key, and I, being the muscle man, or more accurately, the human shield, entered first. I moved in slowly. The light from the hallway illuminated the bed. As I moved closer, I saw it was empty. I flipped on the lamp. Clothes and garbage had been tossed about like a teenager’s bedroom. Sydney listened at the bathroom door.

  She whispered, “I can’t hear a shower running. Look in there.”

  With a finger I pushed the door open fully expecting someone to be sitting on the john or worse.

  “No one’s here,” I said. “And he hasn’t used the towels.”

  “He’s not bathing?”

  “Did you see the mess? Hawk wasn’t a tidy person when I lived with him, but this is extreme.”

  Sydney said, “Looks like Mike’s partying down.” She pointed to the end table and said, “Oh, my God. See the spoons? He’s doing dope.”

  “Shit.”

  While Sydney searched dresser drawers, I started examining the clothes in the blue duffle bag, which would explain why Cat said his luggage was still home. I picked up a pair of black sweatpants.

  “Sydney, look at these. They’re way too small for Hawk. He must have company.”

  She began to kick through the clothes. “There are no clothes his size.”

  “We could have the wrong room.”

  “That shit-for-brains desk clerk screwed me over,” Sydney said.

  We went downstairs and chose a different clerk and asked to speak to Fletcher Cook.

  “Mr. Cook is not on duty at the moment. But follow me,” the young woman said.

  We followed her down a hallway. An assistant manager named Margot greeted us with a smile.

  Sydney told Margot the truth about why we entered the eighth-floor room and what we’d discovered.

  “I see,” she said. She did some quick typing on her computer and said, “All I can tell you is that’s Mr. Hawkinson’s room.”

  I said, “I’m hoping you can show us film of him checking in, just to verify it’s actually him and not someone fraudulently using his identity and credit cards.”

  That got her attention. “I’ll call security.”

  A few minutes later, a large African American man wearing a black suit entered the room. The sleeves of his jacket were tight around his biceps. He introduced himself as Mr. Baird. Sydney and I showed him our IDs. He didn’t appear impressed.

  We repeated the story leaving out how we gained access.

  “How do you know he’s not the one staying in his room?” Baird said.

  “We sorta checked,” Sydney said.

  “Did you.” It wasn’t a question.

  She nodded.

  “By way of the front desk?”

  “I don’t want to get anyone in trouble,” she said.

  “It’s a bit too late for that,” Baird said.

  I said, “Is there anyway we could see film footage of who checked into his room?”

  “Wait here. I’ll see what I can do.”

  While we waited, Margot served us coffee. She was a chatty one when she found out we were from Minnesota. She was originally from Deer River and had been living in Vegas for six years. She hated Nevada’s hot summers, but loved the winters. When Sydney went to the restroom, Margot asked me, “So, are you two together?”

  “No.”

  “Um, if you’re free for dinner tonight, I’d love to take you to a few local spots away from the crowds.”

  “Uh, tempting offer, but no, I best not. And… I also need to find the restroom.”

  She kept her smile as she said, “Down the hall to the left.”

  I ran into Sydney when I came out of the men’s.

  “What do we do if it’s not him?” Sydney asked.

  “If it’s not, then we need the police.”

  We went back to Margot’s office to wait for Baird to return. We waited for an uncomfortable thirty minutes, forcing conversation with Margot, who’d grown quiet. Mr. Baird came back with stills of the man who checked in using Hawk’s credit card. He was a small, white guy somewhere north of forty.

  “That’s not Michael Hawkinson.”

  “Can you find this man for us?”

  “We already have. He’s being held in one of our offices. We’ve called Las Vegas Metro Police Department.”

  I suggested we wait for them to arrive in order to do this right. I didn’t want the suspect escaping or getting off on a technicality because we didn’t follow proper procedure.

  Detectives Fred Nunn and Robin Miller arrived within a few minutes. Nunn was in his forties, of average height and weight. He wore his dark hair buzzed to the scalp, and was stingy with his smiles. Miller was younger, stocky, about five feet eight inches. She wore a short, black blazer with a blue, button-down shirt and jeans. Her hair was slightly longer than Nunn’s.

  “That was quick,” I said, as we flashed our badges and introduced ourselves.

  “Mr. Baird alerted us of trouble with illegal credit card activity.”

  I nodded, then told him
the story from the beginning. Nunn, Miller, and I were taken to the second floor; they preferred Sydney wait in the lobby.

  I’d been so sure Hawk was having some sort of meltdown. I hadn’t expected to find some little piss-ant using his card. My biggest fear was he was now vulture food in the desert.

  An armed security guard stood outside the door where they held the individual using Hawk’s credit card. He spoke into his radio fastened on his collar as we approached.

  “We patted him down,” he said. “Nothing on him but a lighter and a joint tucked into a pack of cigarettes.”

  The security guard’s clone was standing just inside the room. I smiled—he didn’t. He ducked out.

  I could smell the guy from two feet away from. The stench was a combination of booze, smoke, and sour body odor. He wore a wrinkled, long-sleeved Harley-Davidson T-shirt and a pair of black nylon athletic pants with a white stripe up the side.

  “I’m Detective Nunn with Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department. I’d like you to stand up against this wall so I can pat you down.”

  We never assume pat downs completed by others have been done properly.

  The man grimaced and took too long to get up for Nunn’s liking. He grabbed his elbow and walked him to the wall. The man assumed the search posture: arms up, hands on the wall, feet spread. It wasn’t his first dance. Nunn pulled out a worn, brown wallet and threw it on the table. After Nunn finished patting him down, he asked the man to have a seat, then sat across from him and next to his partner, who’d pulled out a laptop. I remained standing off to the side. This was Metro’s party.

  “Sitting with us at the table is Detective Miller. Standing to my right is Detective Sheehan with the Birch County Sheriff’s Department out of Minnesota.”

  The man glanced up at me and began jiggling his left leg. His eyes were ice blue and blood-shot. His lower lid was red from lack of sleep or drugs.

  “Do you know why you’re being detained?” Nunn asked.