Charlie placed a demure hand over her mouth and muttered. “Wow. What a potty mouth.”
Ham sighed deeply, a futile attempt to slow his still pounding heart. “Look,” he announced, “I need to get out of here for a bit, take a walk, think this through if I can.” Looking down at himself, at his now egg stained ridiculous Magnum outfit, he added, “After a quick change, of course. Meantime, will you two be okay?”
“You go ahead,” Charlie replied in unison to Blake’s nodding head. “We’ve got some clean up here to do anyway. We’ll see you when you get back.”
“Good. Just for God’s sake, stay away from windows until I tell you otherwise.”
“But the psychic said—”
“I don’t give a good goddamn what that idiot psychic said,” Ham exploded. “Stay away from the mother loving windows, understood? And nobody leaves here, either. You’ll fucking answer to me if you do. Count on it.”
Ham all but raced to the guestroom, blew out of his clothes and into his Vegas retro look, then sprinted to the elevator, intent on hurrying his leave. But not to take a leisurely, thoughtful walk. He had business to attend to. Serious business.
4
HELP
Ham exited into the now blinding midday sun, conscious only of the surrounding towers, gleaming sheets of light that reflected danger. Somewhere up there, around there, near there, a would-be assassin lurked, hidden, skulking, ready to take deadly aim at…who? Him? Or was his rifle scope still aimed at Blake’s windows, awaiting a second chance?
Regardless of what this psychic—still unknown to him—might claim, Ham would not, could not, assume the threat had passed. That this marked a one off, nothing more than fulfillment of prophecy. Even were that truth, his cop mentality refused to leave a crime scene unexplored.
Though where precisely to locate the crime scene had yet to be answered, he knew where to start. The building where there had been a quick, tell-tale flash of light. Perhaps from a scope, perhaps from a shell casing, perhaps a haphazardly discarded piece of foil. Whatever, something there, or nothing at all, it would mark only the beginning, not the end. The other towers would have to be searched as well. Sloppy work meant shoddy results. Who was to say there had been only one shooter? In one spot?
Likely there was only one, both shooter and spot, but assumptions like that could get somebody killed. He preferred to err on the cautious side, always. That philosophy had kept him alive more than once, and more than once had saved a few partners.
Not that he was a hero, far from it. Yet despite his self-assessment as a cop of little note, he’d been decorated several times over the course of his career. Which still infuriated him. Bloody ignorant brass, that’s what they were. Bestowing lauds and laurels on a man half scared out of his mind and wits, whose gut instincts drove him to the right conclusions. But only to save his skin. In a gun fight, his first impulse would be to flee, that microsecond where he understood he could be shot, an impulse immediately overridden by the fury of action, anger at the peril, and hence at the perpetrator. The fickleness of the brain, the intemperance of the heart, the constant war those organs played. He found no heroism in that. Just a stubborn determination to stay alive.
Those self defeating thoughts brought him up short. He had nearly burst straight into a crush of roaring cars, a heart inspired, bullheaded rush to the scene, a charge to which his brain strenuously objected. And this time it did it before he lost another hip.
After an hour’s wait—which in reality was a little more than two minutes—Ham joined the throng that pushed each other across the street before that obsequious green light could surrender to red. He headed straight to the offending building, intent on storming the roof, find the proof of perfidy, and solve the case, now, before the trail turned cold.
The best laid plans, as the fates demand, must be thwarted. In this case by an officious little twerp of a security guard, dangerously armed with a wicked walkie talkie and a shiny new badge.
“Do you have an appointment, sir?”
“Nope, just gotta check your roof.”
“Sir, you have to sign in and have authorization. These are private premises. If you don’t have authorization, I can’t allow you in.”
Ham smiled thinly, his face reddening as fast as his vision. He yanked his pistol from its hiding place, shoved it into the twerp’s nose and demanded, “Is this enough of an authorization?”
The guard fainted.
That had not been Ham’s intent, and it definitely pissed him off. Because now he’d have to take the freaking time to hide that officious little body.
Ham hurriedly and none too gently grabbed the unconscious guard by the shirt and dragged him around and behind the circular desk that presumably acted as the man’s station. Grabbing the walkie talkie as an afterthought that was not well thought out—there was, after all, a phone on the desk—he dashed to the bank of elevators, hit the up button and waited an interminable amount of time before the white up light glowed and he barged his way into the empty car.
In almost no time the elevator arrived at the top floor. Ham rushed into the corridor, turned left then right, saw a stairway sign and hit the door at a run. Flinging through, he dashed the one flight up and exited into sunshine so hot that it momentarily knocked the breath and sight out of him.
He took but a few seconds to orient himself, checking his relative position against Blake’s condo tower. Instinct, more than directional accuracy, led him to the right hand side, near the shaft. There he slowed and began to examine the surrounding ground, inch by inch, searching, searching, searching. Somewhere…
There. A glint, something out of place, unnatural to the surrounding rock strategically placed to absorb the heat. A wadded up tin foil gum wrapper. And nothing more.
Cursing himself for a fool, he nevertheless spent precious minutes going over every square inch of rooftop, determined to find that which was not there. Dejected, defeated, he returned to the bank of elevators on the lower floor, hit the light and waited.
The ping that announced the car’s arrival also pinged an idea. This being a security building they would damn sure have cameras. If he could get a look at the tapes, scour the images at the time of the attack, maybe, just maybe, he’d get the glimmer of an answer.
Ham arrived back at the ground floor and barged out of the elevator. When he stormed across the lobby he saw that the security guard had regained his senses, was standing officiously, though wanly, behind the desk.
As Ham approached, about to demand the tapes, the little twerp fainted. Again.
Sirens informed him of his position. Precarious. Leaving the guard behind the desk where he had collapsed, he strolled, innocently, hands in pockets, a man in no hurry, straight into the arriving phalanx of cops. One of the blue clad men came precariously close to knocking Ham over in his mad rush inside, but other than that they neither harassed nor noticed him.
On to the second building, and quickly, Ham decided. Very, very quickly. He would be a wanted man at some point soon and before then he needed to wrap this up. Somehow. Then alluding capture wouldn’t matter. Though inconvenient, it would only cost time, a worthless commodity later, but something that at this moment was a precious gem.
Strolling, nonchalant, as if he had not recently pushed his gun in a wimp’s nose, he turned left out of the building and headed for his next target. The second most likely object of his search.
As with most of the towers surrounding Waikiki Beach, this one, too, believed itself secure. This time, however, more prepared and less mindless, Ham played to that. Before he had even reached the desk, he’d flipped open his wallet to flash the mildly impressive credentials of Las Vegas’ best P.I. Or so he hoped to suggest.
“Listen, I need your help. I’m on a case, very hush, hush, can’t discuss it, but it’s high profile and you can play a big part.”
The guard looked just a bit shy of thirty, maybe a little younger. With enough flattery, his youthful sense of self
might be intrigued, as per Ham’s plan.
The guard, however, exhibited less interest than boredom. With barely a glance at Ham’s credentials, he sniffed, “You’re from Vegas.”
“Yep,” Ham smiled, at his most ingratiating. “Right. That’s why I’m looking for a sharp local like yourself.” He wondered how much officiousness flavored the local water and how much insincerity would be required as an antidote.
Apparently not much, for the guard suddenly snapped to, smiling brightly, eagerly. “That right? You looking to hire me?”
Ham shrugged, nonchalant, sly. “Depends. I need to know if you’re as good as your position would imply. How’d you get this job, anyway? What’s your background? Do you take orders well? ‘Cuz you’d have to follow mine.”
“Hell yeah, I’m a good soldier. And that’s not a figure of speech. Spent three years in the Marines.” His feigned affability disappeared as rapidly as its onset. “I got this job because I know how to handle trouble. And after a year in Afghanistan, I can smell shit a mile away. Now what is it you really want? Wait, wait, let me guess. It has something to do with all those sirens out there. Am I right?”
Ham’s face stung as if resoundingly slapped. Just as rapidly, his mind yelled “idiot”.
He prided himself on his ability to size people up, instantly, unerringly. That’d made his career but more than that, it was who he was. It ran personal, deep, an integral part of his psyche. And now, in the space of mere moments, he’d blown it twice. He failed to recognize the deep streak of cowardice in the other, and had assumed a like cowardice in this one. Well, it wouldn’t happen again. Time to zone in.
“Yeah, you’re right. I was screwing with you. But I’m going to be straight with you now, I’m going to trust you. I need a favor and it would be nice if I could get it done before they find me.”
“I’m not big on abetting.”
“It’s not like that. I really am working a case, and it really is high profile and on the sly. I needed to check the roof next door, I need to check yours, and I want to see your tapes. I’m trying to prevent a murder here.”
“Whose? Blake Garrett’s?”
Ham’s eyes narrowed to slits as suspicion warred with anger. He peered closely at the guard, really envisioning him for the first time. Ramrod straight, shoulder length black hair, might have been a Goth were he appropriately dressed, considering the full black eyebrows and mysteriously darker eyes—large round eyes of suspicion, or maybe wisdom, wariness or weariness, almost impossible to tell within those reflective pools. Standing just slightly taller than Ham, he might have appeared larger were they not front to front. A tough leanness, sensed more than seen, added extra dimension. For the first time, too, he took in the name tag, which simply read “Carson”.
Finally finding his voice, Ham demanded, almost accusingly, “Now why in the world would you ask that?”
“I’ve seen him come and go. He’s not unknown, even if he wants to think he is. I don’t bother him, I’m not an autograph hound, and if he wants to pretend he’s incognito, that’s okay by me. And the reason I guessed him is because you all but announced it. High profile and all that.”
Those slits narrowed to near nothingness. “What did you do in the Marines?”
“I was a sniper.”
Ham barely kept from burying his head in his hands. It was all wrong. He was all wrong. When he returned to Vegas, he’d have to see a doctor. Have his intuition poked, prodded, checked. Maybe operatively restored. There must be a transplant for that. There was for everything else.
Arms folded across his chest, disgust etched on his face, Ham drawled, “I don’t suppose there’s much reason to ask you if anybody has been in or out of here in the last half hour.”
“There’ve been several people. Maybe a couple of dozen. Why?”
“Because during that time somebody placed a well aimed shot at an upper floor window into the tower across the street. A sniper shot.”
The guard’s face drained of color. “Are you serious? Oh my good god. What happened? Is it Garrett? Is he dead? Is that why all the sirens?”
Ham’s voice dripped acid. “Why don’t you tell me?”
Surprise washed over the guard, overtaken quickly by amusement. “Oh, I get it, I see. You think I’m the sniper.” Laughter joined his voice as he shook his head in reply. “Well, I’m not. I got enough of that in the Marines, thank you very much.”
Ham’s intuition might be running on empty, could be in need of a fill up, but unless a total replacement was required enough perception remained to inform him of truth when he ran smack dab into it.
“The sirens are for me, which I will be happy to explain at a later time. And hear me, nobody’s dead. I promise you that. What I want is that I’d very much like to keep it that way, so please, please help me out here. I’m heading up to the roof. If—”
“The cops show up, nobody’s been in or out in the last ten minutes, I got it.”
Ham grinned over his shoulder as he strode toward the elevators. “I thought you weren’t into abetting.”
“I never said I wasn’t flexible.”
This building, too, was blessed with a high speed elevator that still somehow minimized the sensation of movement. Before he could expel the breath he was unaware of holding, the car jolted to a stop and he was there. Again he easily found the stairwell to the roof, and again he exited into blinding light.
Next mission after this is to scope out some sunglasses, he lamented.
Squinting against the glare, he examined first the middle, then the sides of the building closest to Blake’s. So severe was the sun, and so diminished his vision, that he almost missed it. Well, almost missed them. For there, glinting into the sun, flashing only intermittently and suffused by the surrounding brilliance of light, lay three shell casings. Not one, but three.
Curious, mystified, he scooped them up into one large paw. Despite the size of his hand, they almost overwhelmed his palm. Fifty caliber, three of them, all recently spent.
Impossible. One, the bullet he’d scooped out of the wall had been large, but he didn’t think that large. Flattened, yes, but at quick glance he’d estimated in the 40 caliber range. Second, one shot, three shells. Unless somebody had stood here and boldly engaged in target practice, that made no sense. And if they had been so bold, what of the other bullets? Aimed at where, and why?
Ham peered across toward Blake’s windows and tried to imagine the trajectory of the projectile. That, too, seemed off. If he recalled correctly, a shot from this position should have missed the veranda and lodged nearer the foyer. His recall was not total and that mental image might be skewed. Still, it felt right.
After he pocketed the shells, he searched the remainder of the ground, found what he expected, which was nothing, and returned to the guard, and now the cop, in the lobby.
Peripheral vision informed him that the cop had taken notice, even as the guard shook his head and muttered some reply. With studied casualness, Ham continued straight across the lobby toward the exit, halted, spun about and took a few steps to the elevator. He stopped again, abruptly, checked his watch and gave a resigned shrug of the head, as if deciding whatever he’d forgotten wasn’t important enough to delay his departure. The cop had turned his attention back to the guard by the time Ham exited the building and dashed across the street, walk light be damned.
The shells burned in his pocket, at least in a figurative sense, and it fueled his need to see those tapes. Lingering outside the building, waiting for the cop to leave, would only serve to mark him with stupidity. Instead, he ducked into a small coffee shop with tinted windows fronting the street. He reached a booth with full view of the exit, not entirely tackling the elderly lady bent on that seat, but rudely shoving her aside. He pretended to study the menu as she glared at him and yelled, “Well!”
The waitress spoke volumes about his kalohe haole’s boorish behavior when she snapped, “Whad’ya want?” He heard asshole attached to th
at but assumed that arose merely in his mind.
His ingratiating smile faltered at the withering acid of her unforgiving eyes.
“A cup of coffee, I guess.”
“You’ll have to sit at the counter if that’s all you’re having.”
“No. A piece of apple pie.”
The waitress cemented her unspoken comments with a deliberately delayed service. Almost ten minutes had passed by the time she returned with coffee and pie, just as the cop exited the building. Ham hurriedly pulled a bill out of his wallet, tossed it at her, barely noticing it was a twenty. “Ring up my check, please, and keep the change.”
Her attitude veered a one-eighty, eyes glowing gratitude as she pronounced, “Mahalo nui loa.” At his questioning look, she explained. “Hawaiian for ‘thank you very much!’ ”
He chastised himself for the unthinking generosity. She’d remember him well should they get around to asking. “Sure, yeah, big brutish guy, came running in here, pushed an old lady to the ground, gave me a huge tip then hurried out without touching his order. Sure I can describe him.”
Ham forced calm down his throat, along with most of the pie and half the coffee. At least he could feign innocence of purpose. Which was fine until a sideward glance clued him into the fact that the waitress stood pointing him out to a Honolulu police detective. He’d have known the guy was a detective even had he not caught a glimpse of the shoulder holster under the man’s jacket. Cops were the same the world over, carried the same aura that the detective flashed on his way over to Ham’s table.
“Mind if I join you? The place is kind of crowded. Nowhere to sit but the counter and I’ve never liked that. Too much going on to relax.”
“Have a seat, Detective. Order some coffee if you’d like.” At the guy’s mild surprise, evidenced by one raised eyebrow, Ham explained. “A cop’s instinct. I’m one of Las Vegas’ finest. Or was.”
He nodded pleasantly, a man in no hurry to make his point. “I see. And what brings you to our fair state?”
The Ghost of Truckee River (A Ham McCalister Mystery Book 1) Page 5