Las Vegas Crime

by Leslie Wolfe

  “I have a call into traffic cams administration to trace the vehicle that took her, and I have my phone with me all the time. The people at her school are sitting down with our sketch artist.”

  “Is that it?” Morales said, but something in his voice made Holt frown.

  “Uh-huh,” he replied cautiously, wondering what had pasted the look of insulted disbelief on his supervisor’s face.

  Morales didn’t speak at once, as if waiting for Holt to say more, to open up and be truthful. When Morales did speak, he was cold and uncompromising.

  “If I ever catch you in a lie again, Holt, you’re out. You already know what car took your daughter, and you have a BOLO out under a false code.”

  Holt lowered his head, ashamed. It wasn’t as if he’d done it on purpose; he thought he had no choice, and the fact that Morales, and who knows how many others, now knew about his situation, made him fear even more for Meredith’s life. The more people who knew about it, the more difficult it would be to control their actions.

  He looked at Morales, attempting to apologize, but despair seeped in his tense voice. “She’s my kid, sir. My daughter.”

  Morales shook his head and took a couple of steps in place, as if debating whether to stay or leave, then kicked a small rock with the tip of his shoe, putting a scrape on the burgundy leather covered with a fine layer of desert dust.

  “Yes, she’s your kid, Holt,” he eventually said, raising his arms in the air, in a gesture of superlative frustration. “Go be with your wife—”

  “Ex-wife,” Holt interrupted. Why did everyone ignore the fact they’d been divorced for years? It pissed him off to no end, reminding him of the biggest mistake in his life. The only good thing that had come out of that marriage was Meredith.

  “Whatever,” Morales snapped. “Go be with your family. Let Baxter handle this murder case.”

  Holt shifted his weight from one foot to the other and plunged his hands into his pockets. He wanted Baxter by his side as he stormed that warehouse. If Morales held Baxter back at the scene with him, he’d have to do it alone. He’d be fine… it wasn’t his first solo rodeo. He’d be better off saying, “Yes, sir,” to the captain so he could leave.

  “Not another word,” Morales said in a threatening voice, reading him perfectly. “Go. Let the feds work the kidnapping, Holt. It’s the law.”

  “Feds?” he reacted, the worry in his voice clear as day.

  How did the Feds get involved in this already? He couldn’t begin to ascertain the new dimensions of added risk their involvement could bring to what he was planning to do.

  Morales gave him a long, scrutinizing stare. “Unless you already got that ransom call, and you’re lying to me again?”

  “No, I didn’t,” Holt replied, a little too quickly. He realized he hadn’t convinced Morales, because the captain turned toward Baxter.

  “Did he get a ransom call?”

  Baxter didn’t flinch, didn’t bat an eyelash. “Not that I know of, Captain.”

  Morales shook his head slightly. “Yeah, right.”

  “Captain, he insists he handles this on the QT,” Baxter said. “Maybe we should trust his judgment on this one. After all, it’s his family.”

  Morales shrugged, but the deep ridge across his brow didn’t vanish. “Too late for that, Baxter. The feds are at his house, setting up.”

  His heart sunk, and then started thrumming the rhythm of sheer panic. If Meredith’s kidnappers were worth their salt, they had eyes on the house, watching for exactly that: the feds getting involved or too many cops asking questions on the block.

  “How the hell did that happen?” Holt snapped, grabbing Morales by the lapels and shaking him as if we were one of his perps. “Who called the feds? She could be dead right now because of them!”

  “Take your hands off me before I break them, Holt,” Morales hissed, and Holt complied. “Be thankful I’m an understanding man under the circumstances,” the captain added, straightening his jacket, “but don’t push it.”

  Holt barely heard him; he was losing his mind. He was frantic to get out there, to find his little girl, to kill the men who took her.

  Morales didn’t step back; he stayed in Holt’s face, looking straight at him. “There’s something I’m surprised you don’t know about law enforcement, regardless of agency or jurisdiction. We all tend to close ranks and pull together when one of us is shot or killed. But that’s nothing compared to what happens when someone goes after a cop’s family.”

  12

  Warehouse

  Thirteen hours missing

  It was already dark when Holt drove away from the crime scene in the desert, heading toward the city. He floored it the entire time he drove on 160, flashing red and blue to make his way through traffic without delay. Then he cut the light show when he turned north on Rainbow Boulevard, approaching the Bruce Woodbury Beltway.

  He’d seen the warehouse on Fletcher’s Google Earth views, and he recognized the building; he’d driven past it a few times, not giving it a second look. In those images and his recent memory, the warehouse seemed abandoned. He didn’t recall seeing a truck pulled at the loading dock or any employees’ cars parked in front.

  He slowed his approach on the Beltway service road, nearing the warehouse. It was larger than he remembered and completely shrouded in darkness. The lamppost in front of it had a weak, bluish bulb that barely managed to attract a few moths to swirl around its underpowered incandescence.

  He cut the lights and started driving slowly toward the back of the building, his engine a quiet purr, inaudible against the sound of the heavy Beltway traffic. He was about one hundred yards from the back of the warehouse when a door opened in the distance, letting a sliver of yellowish light appear as two men stepped outside. The light vanished when the door closed, surrendering the scene to darkness.

  He stopped under the low crowns of some trees and killed the engine. He watched the two men light up their smokes, chatting casually. He opened the window and listened intently, trying to catch what the two were saying.

  “And she tells me, honey, I need two hundred bucks to get my hair done,” one of the men was saying. The other one emitted raspy laughter that ended in a coughing spell. “And I told her, gimme that razor blade, I’ll do your hair just fine, bitch!”

  They both laughed, then the first one continued, “I’m telling you, the moment I get anywhere near some money, the woman smells it and wants it all. But this time, I ain’t lettin’ it happen. When we get paid, this brother’s haulin’ ass to the Caribbean, never coming back,” he said, pointing at his broad chest with his right index.

  “You’re smarter than you look, brah,” the second man said, then coughed some more. He didn’t seem to be able to control his hacks, despite the other man’s slaps on his back. Still whooping and choking, he swiped a keycard and went back inside, leaving the first one by himself to finish his smoke.

  It was the perfect time to move. Holt eased out of the car, careful to not make a sound, then snuck toward the back of the warehouse, keeping low and close to the hedges that surrounded the property. When he was close enough, he pulled his weapon and closed the remaining distance.

  The man was heavyset and tall, his neck thick and muscular from too much weightlifting, probably assorted with steroid use. A bushy, untrimmed beard covered the lower half of his face, and several tattoos told the story of his affiliations during his stay behind bars.

  When Holt was a few yards away, the man heard him approach and turned, his hand reaching behind his back.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Holt said, training his gun on the man’s chest. “Hands where I can see them,” he demanded.

  The man raised his hands in the air and grinned, his white teeth flickering in the dark.

  Holt circled around him and grabbed the handgun he had stuck in his belt. He shoved it in his pocket.

  “I’m only going to ask you once,” Holt said, keeping his gun aimed at his chest and
remaining at a safe distance, six feet away. “Where is she?”

  The man shrugged with an exaggerated lift of his shoulders and looked sideways. “Dunno who you’re talking about, brah.”

  He didn’t believe that for a second.

  “Wrong answer,” Holt said, lowering his gun and pointing at the man’s crotch. He pushed a switch, and a laser spot marked the target with a tiny, red dot.

  The man’s grin died on his lips. He swallowed hard, his eyes stuck on Holt’s gun.

  “Last warning, where is my daughter?”

  “I swear to you, I don’t know.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “D—Darrell.” He stuttered severely; it could’ve been the fear, or maybe that wasn’t really his name and he’d needed time to make one up.

  “How many in there?” he asked, twitching his head toward the warehouse.

  “T—two,” the man said. “I’m just a temp, man, I work here. Don’t know nothing about no girl.”

  “On your knees,” Holt commanded, and Darrell hesitated, but then put one knee down, slowly, taking his time.

  That moment, the door opened, and the coughing man came back out. He froze in the doorframe, taking in the scene, while Holt turned his weapon toward him. Lightning fast, the man ran back inside, shouting.

  “We’re blown, the five-oh is here.”

  Within seconds, Holt heard doors slamming on the other side of the warehouse, then a couple of cars sped away. He thought of chasing them, but he had one of the perps right here, and he could make him talk.

  He turned back toward Darrell, but he was a moment too late. He felt a heavy fist blow to his shoulder, sending shards of pain along his humerus. Then another blow came right after it, knocking his gun from his hand and sending it clattering to the pavement.

  Holt turned in place, facing his attacker and responding with a left punch to the man’s throat. Darrell choked but wouldn’t relent, throwing his entire weight against Holt’s frame, looking to destabilize him and throw him to the ground. Holt took a few steps backward but then swirled again, grabbing Darrell’s left arm with both his hands and sliding his body underneath the man’s chest. Then he yanked with a smooth, carefully timed judo technique, and the man flew over his head, landing hard on the asphalt, air knocked out of his lungs. Without hesitation, Holt pressed his boot against the man’s throat.

  “Where is she?” he asked again, panting heavily from the effort.

  Darrell shook his head, pushing against Holt’s foot with both his hands, trying to free himself. He grumbled and groaned, but no intelligible sound came out.

  Holt realized he was wasting time, precious time in which the others were vanishing in the wind. Meredith was long gone; if she were still at the warehouse, there would’ve been more foot soldiers guarding the premises, not just those losers. He would’ve been greeted with automatic weapons fire, not offered a brawl by an overly ripped ex-con on steroids.

  Holt took out Darrell’s weapon from his pocket, aimed it a few inches above the man’s knee, then pulled the trigger.

  The man’s agonizing cries resounded in the night. He writhed on the ground, holding his wound with both his hands. “You can’t do that, man,” he cried, watching in shock how blood was seeping between his fingers. “Cops can’t do that.”

  “Don’t worry, pussycat, that’s a flesh wound, through and through,” Holt announced calmly, lowering his aim a little. “Next time it’s the joint.”

  The man panted, staring at him with terrified, wide-open eyes. “N—no, I’ll tell you,” he stuttered, “I ain’t getting paid enough to get my kneecaps blown.”

  “Where is she?” Holt asked again.

  “I don’t know,” the man said, and started screaming when Holt focused his aim on his left knee. “I swear I don’t. But she was here earlier. They took her away.”

  “Who took her?”

  A moment of hesitation that Holt didn’t let pass without moving his aim to the man’s crotch. “Or maybe some soft tissue,” he threatened.

  “Snowman, he has her, I swear,” the man said, spittle spraying out of his mouth as he spoke. “He’ll kill me. Don’t tell him how you know.”

  “Don’t tell him you’re a fucking rat?” Holt asked, kneeling near his face, thrusting the gun barrel against the man’s temple. “Then tell me how I find him, and I won’t drop a dime on you. I’ll just double tap his head.”

  “It’s where he’s got all his girls, man, that’s all I know. But we ain’t allowed there. We just know the place exists, but don’t know where.”

  Holt looked in the thug’s eyes and saw he was telling the truth. Everything he knew about Snowman agreed with Darrell’s spotty story. Samuel “Snowman” Klug never shared his plans with his lieutenants. He owed his nickname to his trade, pushing cocaine and other drugs onto the streets of Sin City. Word on the street said Klug was diversifying, going after all the sins, not just one. The four-million tourists Las Vegas welcomed each year were an abundant source of revenue if he was willing to cater to all their whims. And he was more than willing. There wasn’t any service his organization couldn’t provide.

  “How about the fake cops who took her? I want their names.”

  The man didn’t reply. Instead, he panted heavily, looking around as if searching for someone who could help him.

  Holt kicked him in the wounded leg, and he screamed in pain, but then started spewing barely intelligible words mixed with ragged breaths of air.

  “A couple of white guys, they’re new. They’re street corner dope pushers, nothing to them. One’s Rudy, the other one’s Foley, or something.”

  “What street corner?”

  “On Industrial Road, behind the hotels.”

  “Get over there,” Holt said, and the man crawled on the ground until he got close to a palm tree. Holt took out a pair of zip cuffs and had Darrell hug the tree trunk, then tied his hands together on the other side.

  “I need a doctor, man, I’m dying here,” he pleaded as Holt walked away.

  Holt stopped for a moment to pick up his gun from where he’d dropped it during the fight, then continued his stride toward his SUV. “You’ll get one,” he shouted over his shoulder. “After I find my daughter.”

  13

  Feds

  Fourteen hours missing

  Holt’s right shoulder was throbbing with pain, rendering him a left-hand driver, but it wasn’t anything an ice pack and a couple of Tylenol couldn’t fix. He swore a long oath and pulled in front of his former home, now his ex-wife’s residence. With one cursory look around, he spotted three vehicles that didn’t belong, confirming what he’d said all along. What’s the purpose of having unmarked law enforcement vehicles when they’re all the same make, model, and color? Why bother? Perps saw them coming a mile away, as if they were covered in reflective decals with their grille flashers on.

  Three damn cars… If Snowman’s people were watching, he was getting an intriguing report. And Holt knew Snowman was watching; they had a history together, enough to suspect it had been him who took his daughter, enough to anticipate what he wanted from Holt in exchange. Not only vengeance but more. Snowman took pride in saying he never killed someone who’d done him wrong until that wrong was paid tenfold. Then he’d kill the bastard, slowly, painfully, so the entire world could hear what happened when some sorry-assed moron fucked with him.

  It was Holt’s turn to pay tenfold and then die.

  For his daughter’s safety, no price was too high.

  He wasn’t going to let Snowman have his way without putting up one hell of a fight. He just needed a way in.

  Holt pulled in at the curb and quickly walked to the house, eager to get the whole situation with the feds sorted out. He knew their general procedure for child abduction cases, although he hadn’t worked with them on a case involving an active cop’s family. He suspected those were handled differently, and he wanted to make sure he understood how. The last thing he needed was a bunch of eage
r feds stepping on his toes when he had a job to do.

  He was the only one who could do this right. He’d spent months undercover, embedded in Snowman’s organization, climbing the ladder, figuring out how to dismantle his drug operations, how to find his supplier and lock him up. Then his handlers had pulled the plug, although he had nothing on Snowman yet; only on some of his lieutenants. He’d cut a few heads of the city’s cocaine Hydra during the ensuing raid, but one survived, grew stronger, and now was coming after him.

  He approached the house but didn’t get to ring the bell. The door opened, and a stranger let him in. He had intelligent eyes with a somber expression, and a tall forehead under neatly combed over, dark hair. Medium build and slightly taller than Holt, he wore a charcoal suit with a white, starched shirt and a perfectly matched, golden tie.

  “Special Agent Glover,” the man introduced himself, then gestured toward the dining room where a woman sat next to Holt’s ex-wife, holding her hand. “That’s Special Agent Rosales. We’re going to help you get your daughter back. We’re with FBI CARD,” the man added, probably seeing Holt’s frown. “That’s Child Abduction Rapid—”

  “I know what it means,” Holt cut him off.

  When Jennifer heard his voice, she sprung from the couch and came to meet him, stomping her feet with every step of her determined stride. He’d seen her walk like that before; he breathed, swearing to himself that he was going to keep his cool no matter what.

  She stopped short of running into him and propped her hands firmly on her hips.

  “Great,” she lashed out, “you finally came to your senses and called for some help.”

  “Listen, Jen, I need to—”

  “Don’t you Jen me, all right?” she shouted. “They told me it’s about your goddamned job, some piece of crap you locked up is out to make you pay.”

  “We don’t know that,” he replied firmly, glaring at Glover. He didn’t need that idiot putting ideas in Jennifer’s head, to give her more reasons to scream her head off.