Void Moon

by Michael Connelly

  "Cool! The Rat Pack. The good old days, huh?"

  "Yeah, some of them were good."

  Karch had a vision of seeing his father coming home from the hospital after the incident at Circus, Circus. Both hands bandaged white. It looked like he was holding two softballs. His eyes looked like they were staring at something far, far away.

  Karch realized he had lost his smile and looked at Cannon.

  "Anyway, I better hit the road and get on this thing. Thanks for the help, Don."

  He offered his hand and Cannon took it.

  "Anytime, Jack."

  "I'll find my way out."

  He turned toward the steps and started walking away. But then he stopped and leaned on the railing.

  "What the . . . ?"

  He raised his left foot and worked the shoe off. Without even glancing at Cannon but knowing he was being watched, he looked inside the shoe and then shook it. Something rattled inside and he turned the shoe upside down, dropping the quarter he had planted earlier into his other hand. He held it up and looked at Cannon. The big man banged a fist on his console and started smiling and shaking his head.

  "Son of a gun, I told you," Karch said. "Never know where the damn thing'll go."

  He flipped the coin to Cannon, who caught it in his fist.

  "I'm saving this one, Jack. It's fucking magic."

  Karch saluted and headed down the steps and out of the tube room. He waited until he was out of the Flamingo and away from the view of Cannon's cameras before reaching into the breast pocket of his suit coat and removing the handkerchief and the quarter he had dropped into it while circling his hand during the trick.

  He would get the dime out of his shoe later, when he had time to sit down.

  23

  NINETY minutes later Karch was standing outside the fenced employee lot of Hooten's Lighting & Supplies with a cell phone in his hand. Parked directly on the other side of the fence was the blue van that had been recorded driving out of the garage at the Flamingo about six hours earlier. Only now there was a license plate attached to the rear bumper. Karch was pacing a little bit, anxious as he waited for a call-back. The small tickle of an adrenaline rush was beginning to caress the back of his skull. He was getting close. To the money, to the woman. He cocked his head back and that seemed to accentuate the trilling up his spine and into his brain.

  The phone rang and his thumb was already poised on the button.

  "This is Karch."

  "This is Ivy. I got it."

  Ivy was a Metro detective named Iverson who ran plates for Karch for fifty bucks a shot. He'd do other things for other prices, using the power of his badge to generate two incomes. Karch was always circumspect about his requests, even on totally legitimate jobs. He had learned over the years to treat all Metro cops - and Iverson more than others - with the same caution and distance as the prostitutes, pawnbrokers and casino sharps he regularly dealt with on his cases.

  Karch tilted his head and hooked the phone in the crook of his neck while he got out his notepad and pen.

  "Okay, what've you got?"

  "Plate comes back to a Jerome Zander Paltz, forty-seven years of age. Address is three-twelve Mission Street. That's North Las Vegas. I ran him on NCIC for you and he's got a clean ticket. I threw that in for free, by the way."

  Karch had stopped writing after the last name. He knew Jerome Paltz. Or at least he was pretty sure he did. He knew a Jersey Paltz who worked behind the counter at Hooten's. He realized he had always thought the name Jersey referred to where Paltz had come from. He now realized it was apparently a play on his first and middle names.

  "Hey, boss, you there?"

  Karch came out of his thoughts on Jersey Paltz.

  "Yeah. Hey, thanks, Ivy. This clears something up for me."

  "Really? What?"

  "Oh, just this thing I'm working on. It's a surveillance outside a construction site. The Venetian. This van's showed up a few times and I was kind of suspicious. But Paltz is on the list of vendors. He works for Hooten's L and S and they're putting in the cameras. So scratch that."

  "What do they have over there, a theft problem?"

  "Yeah, construction supplies mostly. This Paltz guy's van isn't marked so I thought I'd check it out."

  "Back to square one, huh? Looking for a wheelbarrow thief."

  Karch guessed Iverson was smiling on the other end of the line.

  "You got it. But thanks, man. This'll save me some time."

  "Catch you later."

  Karch closed the phone and looked through the fence at the blue van while he tried to think about his next move. The trace coming back to Paltz put a curve on things.

  Finally, he opened the phone again and called information and got the general number for Hooten's Lighting & Supplies. He called and asked for Jersey Paltz, who picked up after a half minute.

  "Jerome Paltz?"

  There was a pause.

  "Yes, who is - "

  "Jersey Paltz?"

  "Who is this?"

  "It's Jack Karch."

  "Oh. What's with the Jerome? Nobody ever - "

  "It is your name, right? Jerome Zander Paltz. That's where the Jersey comes from, right?"

  "Well, yeah, but nobody ever - "

  "I need you to come outside. Right away."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "I'm talking about you coming outside right away. I'm waiting for you. Come out through the employee lot. I'm parked on the shoulder. Right on the other side of the fence from your van."

  "Tell me what's going on. I don't - "

  "I'll tell you when you get here. Come out now. I can probably still help you but you've got to work with me and come out right now."

  Karch closed the phone before Paltz could respond. He then walked over to his car and got in. It was a black Lincoln - a Towncar with the old styling and the big trunk. The windows were tinted an impenetrable black. He liked the car but the tank drained too quickly and he was often mistaken for a limo driver. He adjusted the rearview mirror so he could slouch in the driver's seat and keep an eye on the parking lot entrance thirty yards behind him. He opened his jacket and pulled the Sig Sauer nine out of his holster. He then reached under the seat and up into the springs, feeling around until his fingers closed on the silencer he had taped up there. He tore it loose, snapped it on to the end of the Sig and put the weapon down at his side between his seat and the car door.

  After five minutes of waiting Karch saw Jersey Paltz enter the mirror's field of view and start heading toward the Lincoln. He was smoking a fresh cigarette and walked with a deliberate, if not angry, stride. Karch smiled. He was going to have fun with this.

  Paltz got into the front passenger seat all blustery and with onion bagel breath.

  "This better be good, goddammit. I'm on the fucking clock."

  Karch looked over at him and waited for eye contact before responding.

  "I hope so."

  That was all he said. Paltz waited a few moments and then erupted.

  "Well, what the fuck do you want?"

  "I don't know. What do you want? You called me."

  "What are you talking about. You just called me and - "

  Karch burst out laughing, which shut Paltz up with confusion. He turned the key and started the car. He quickly dropped it into drive and looked over his left shoulder in preparation for pulling out onto the road. He heard the door locks automatically engage upon the transmission being moved into drive.

  "Hey, wait a fucking second here," Paltz protested. "I'm on the clock, man. We're not going any - "

  He tried to open his door but the auto-lock prevented it. While he started looking around for a button that would disengage it, Karch gunned the engine and pulled out onto the roadway.

  "Relax, you can't unlock it while the car's in drive. It's a safety feature. I was thinking, Ted Bundy should've driven a Lincoln."

  "Goddammit," Paltz said, throwing his hands up in disgust. "Where are we going?"


  "We've got a problem, Jerome," Karch said calmly.

  He turned west on Tropicana. He could see the crests of the mountains rising above the build-up line.

  "What are you talking about? We don't have a problem. I haven't talked to you in a year and don't fucking call me that."

  "Jerome Zander Paltz . . . Jerry Z . . . JerZEE. What name do you want on the stone?"

  "What stone? Would you just - "

  "The stone they put on your fucking grave."

  Paltz was finally silenced. Karch looked over at him and nodded.

  "It's that serious, fuckball. They saw your van. Last night. Got it on tape."

  Paltz started shaking his head as if he were trying to shake himself awake from a nightmare.

  "I don't know what you're talking about. Where are we going?"

  "Some place private. Where we can talk."

  "We're not talking, man. You're talking and I don't know anything about what you're saying."

  "Okay, then, we'll talk when we get there."

  Ten minutes later they were past the industrial warrens and the city sprawl was thinning out as they approached open desert. Karch glanced over at Paltz and saw the man was beginning to get the proper feel for his predicament. They usually did as the desert started closing in. He reached down for the Sig and brought it up and onto his lap, the muzzle pointing at Paltz's torso.

  "Ah, shit," Paltz said when he saw the gun and fully understood his situation. "That fucking bitch."

  Karch smiled broadly.

  "Who is she?"

  "Name's Cassie Black," Paltz said without delay. "Fuck her, man. I ain't protecting her."

  Karch squinted his eyes as he tried to think. Cassie Black. The name was vaguely familiar but he couldn't place it at the moment.

  "She was the one with Max Freeling six years ago."

  Karch looked sharply at Paltz.

  "No lie, man. Don't you remember?"

  Karch shook his head. It didn't make sense.

  "She was a spotter, a lookout, not the one who went inside."

  "Well, I guess Max must've taught her a thing or two."

  "But they nailed her. She went to High D. For killing him."

  "Manslaughter, Karch. She's out now. She said she's been living in California. In L.A."

  Karch thought about this. He checked his watch. It was three hours since he had met Grimaldi in 2014 and he already had a name and a history. He rolled his shoulders, savoring the excitement building in his chest. He then returned his thoughts to the person and problem at hand.

  "You know, Jerome, I thought we had a deal. I thought that anytime something came your way that had anything to do with the Cleo, you were going to give me the heads up. And you know I check my messages two, three times a day if I'm not in my office. And it's funny, 'cause I didn't get a call from you this week or last week or anytime that I can remember."

  "Look, man, I didn't know it was going to be the Cleo and I couldn't have called anyway. I was fucking detained, man."

  "Detained? In what way were you detained?"

  "Tied up in the back of the van."

  Paltz spent the next ten minutes anxiously telling Karch his version of the night before. Karch listened silently and kept a mental list of all the incongruities and conflicts in the story.

  "I couldn't have called you," Paltz said in summation. "I would have and I was planning on it but she had me in the back of the van all night. Look at this, man."

  He turned and leaned across the seat. Karch raised the gun and Paltz held his hands up, palms out. He then pointed to the corners of his mouth, where there were matching cuts that looked fresh and painful.

  "That's from the fucking snap cuff she used to gag me. I'm telling you the truth, man."

  "Sit back."

  Paltz moved back to his side. They drove in silence for a minute while Karch thought about Paltz's story.

  "You're not telling me everything. Did she know you snitched them off to me last time?"

  "Nope. Nobody knew that except you."

  Karch nodded. There had never been any trial so he had never had to tell his story in public. Only to the cops - and one of the leads was Iverson.

  "Who was she working with this time?"

  "She was by herself. She just showed up at the counter yesterday and it went from there. I never saw anybody else."

  Still, Paltz's story didn't make complete sense.

  "You're not telling me everything. You did something to her. You try to rip her off?"

  Paltz didn't say anything and Karch took that as confirmation.

  "You did. You saw she was alone and you tried to hijack her. Only she was ready for it and got the drop on you. And that's why she couldn't cut you loose until she finished the job."

  "All right, so I did. So fucking what?"

  Karch didn't answer. They were well out from the city now. Karch liked it out here, especially in the spring before it got too hot.

  "What was she doing in L.A.?" he asked.

  "Didn't say and I didn't ask. Look, where are we going? I told you everything I know."

  Karch didn't answer.

  "Look, Karch, I know what you're doing. You think I walked out of there without telling anybody exactly who I was going to see out in the lot?"

  Karch glanced over at him, a bemused look on his face.

  "Yeah, Jersey, that's exactly what I think you did."

  It was hardly a bluff worth calling. Karch knew that the relationship he and Paltz had shared over time dictated that Paltz would tell his fellow countermen that he was stepping out for a smoke, nothing more.

  He turned the big Lincoln left on an unmarked road he knew was called Saddle Ranch Road on the county plat books. It was part of a subdivision that had been platted and surveyed three decades before. A few roads had been put in but the plan went bust and no houses were ever built. The city, spreading as quickly as it was, was still a decade or so away from catching up. Then the houses would come. Karch hoped he wouldn't be around for that.

  He stopped the car in front of an old and abandoned sales office. The windows and door were long since gone. Bullet holes and graffiti marked every wall inside and out and the floor inside was covered with broken glass and beer cans. The morning sun caught on a silvery spider web that hung in the open doorway. Karch looked past the structure to the Joshua tree growing about ten yards behind it. He had planted it many years before to simply mark a spot. He was always surprised to see how full it had grown in such a desolate place.

  He killed the engine and looked at Paltz. The blood seemed to have drained from his passenger's face.

  "Look, man, now I've told you everything I fucking know about the bitch and what happened. There's no need for - "

  "Get out."

  "What, here?"

  "Yeah, out."

  He held the Sig up as a reminder and Paltz tried to open the door. It was still locked. Karch looked on with amusement as his passenger's hands scrabbled over the door, looking for the unlock button. He finally found it and opened the door. He got out of the car and Karch followed him out from his side.

  Karch came around the front of the car toward Paltz. He held the Sig at his side.

  "What are you going to do?" Paltz asked, holding his hands up in surrender.

  Karch ignored the question and looked about their surroundings.

  "This place . . . I've been coming out here for years. Since I was a kid. My father used to drive out here at night so we could see the stars. In the winter we'd sit on the hood of the Dodge and the heat from the engine would keep us warm."

  He turned and looked back in the direction of the city.

  "Man, at night he could look back at the Strip and pick out the casinos just based on the color and glow of the neon. The Sands, the DI, the Stardust . . . I loved this place then. Now it's just . . . bullshit. Amusement parks and bullshit. No class anymore. Sure, the bent nose bunch ran the place back then but it had class. Now it's just . . ." />
  He didn't finish. He looked at Paltz as though he had just noticed him for the first time.

  "How much did she pay you?"

  "Nothing."

  Karch started to advance on him and Paltz blurted out a new response.