by J. D. Allen
Miller realized he had not identified himself. He flopped out his badge. “Detective Noah Miller. Jim here called me to help you out. He didn’t bother to mention who his client was.”
“I’ll tell you who I am. Your missing girl is my baby sister. Your department has somehow decided her case file is gone and not one person is looking for her. So exactly how have you helped?” She raised an eyebrow at him.
He gave Jim a look of approval. As if Jim had something to do with her attitude. She’d had it as long as he’d known her.
“I took some blood samples at the apartment, had CSI go in to see what they could find. I got it all into the system on an unrelated case number without her name attached to it. Broke about six department rules to do so.”
“In that case”—she held out her hand—“I’m Erica Floyd. Nice to meet you.”
He shook her hand. “In that case, you’re both suspected of murder. Seems you two are the last to have seen my dead guy.”
“What?” Erica jumped up. “You’re kidding!”
Jim wanted to laugh. So now she knew what it felt like to be falsely accused of something. “You kill someone before you ran into me?” He grinned at her.
“Not fucking funny.”
“Hey. At least he didn’t come in with the SWAT team and you’re not in your boxers. You gonna cuff her, Miller?”
She narrowed her gaze. “You are an asshole.”
Miller leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. He was listening. Maybe hoping to gather a little evidence against him or Erica. Jim decided to leave his little bit of vengeance till later and steer this conversation his way.
“The John Doe from this morning?”
“Yep. ID’d pretty quick. Dealer’s license. One Edmond Carver.” He thumped his pad on his closed fist. “The auto shop owner behind Carver’s house said you offered to paint his dumpster about twelve times to watch him.”
Well, shit. “You’re just guessing it’s me.” The owner never knew Jim’s name or that he was a PI. But the cover was thin under the scrutiny of a murder case. Wouldn’t take much for Miller to make this connection. “But yes. I spent the last week watching Edmond on behalf of his previous employer. The guy was a waste of space. Casino suspected him of filing a false workers’ comp claim. They called it off this morning.”
Jim pulled out his phone, punched a few buttons, and played the message for Miller. He nodded and took some notes.
“And why were you visiting such a fine young man, Miss Floyd?”
She looked at Jim, unsure what to say or do. “Do I need a lawyer?”
“If he really thought we killed Carver, we’d be cuffed and downtown. And Miller here wouldn’t be behaving so politely.”
She hesitated but nodded. “Chris had his name and number on her desk at work. I didn’t have much else to go on since you guys snubbed me.”
Miller opened the pad, flipped a few pages, scribbled some more. “When was that? What time were you there?”
She shook her head. It had been a long couple of days. She was getting pale. He was used to drug addicts, death, and crimes. She wasn’t. “I left about two forty-five.”
“And how’d you get that bump on your head?”
Her hand went there instinctively. Her gaze darted to Jim.
“She fell on the stairs.” Miller didn’t buy that for a moment, but he didn’t push it either. “We left Carver’s lovely house and had a nice afternoon at the Peppermint Pony.”
Erica’s eyes flew to him at the we. He smirked. Guess she hadn’t realized he’d followed her there.
Jim wasn’t looking to hide things from Miller, but he didn’t want to bring up Banks at this point. Especially since Zant’s name hadn’t been mentioned yet. And Zant owned all kinds of people in this city. Police, politicians, other casino owners. No need for Miller to go rattling Zant’s cage if the man wasn’t involved.
So far, Banks was the only connection to Zant. And that didn’t mean shit. Banks had his own game, his own network. As long as this all turned out to be small players, he was okay. The longer Jim could go under the radar with Zant, the better. Knocking Banks out was risky enough. Especially now that Edmond was dead. Mentioning him to the cops … well. That could get him some cracked bones or worse.
“How’d Carver get it?”
“Two behind the ear. Clean. Professional.”
“I don’t carry. Even you know that.”
“Yeah. People make exceptions.” He shrugged. “Maybe you changed your mind. I heard you took a lesson or two.” Cat and mouse. I believe you, but I don’t really have to. You could look good for this murder. Miller tucked his little pad into his pocket. Looked at Erica. “The Peppermint Pony? Is that where Chris was supposedly moonlighting?”
“Who knows for sure? Everyone there has the same memory as the guys at the police station. No one’s ever seen her.”
He stood to leave, handed Erica his card. “Not surprising. For the record, I’ve worked with Chris. She’s good people, does good things around here.”
He didn’t use the past tense. He was more confident than Jim at the moment. Or maybe he was just better with his bedside manner.
“I’ll call Jim when I have any news from the CSI guys. But understand, this isn’t TV. It could take a while.”
“Thank you.” Erica had paced to the refrigerator.
“Bean. Let’s not forget our game. Like you said, easy volley, back and forth. I could have had you two picked up and questioned you in the station, taken all night about it. Return the favor. I want this cleaned up too.”
Miller could have run them in. Probably should have. Instead, he’d delivered info to them personally. Jim took it as a warning. Things were getting hot. People were getting killed.
Miller let himself out the way he’d come in.
Erica walked to Jim. Tucked her head and fell against his chest and put her hands around his waist and held on like bandits would drag her away if she let go. He let her. His arms went loosely around her hips. She was subtly shaking. Maybe noiselessly crying.
He’d shoved his feelings deep into the pit of his stomach. This was not about him. Not about Gretchen Bates and what happened eight years ago. This was about a girl whose sister was mixed up in the unsavory underbelly of society, a place where death and drugs and disaster were the norm. He was familiar with the terrain, but women like Chris and Erica Floyd should never be.
She sucked in two really deep breaths. He felt her body stiffen. She stopped shaking. Slowly she pulled away from him.
“Sorry.”
He shook his head. No need to get all mushy about it.
She wiped the dampness from her eyes and headed to the bathroom. He wasn’t sure what to do with himself for a moment. Wasn’t sure what to do about the case.
She came right back. Less than a minute. She looked better. No makeup smears. Not one sign of weakness. Game face on.
“Is it too late for Social Services?”
He glanced at the stove. Five thirty. “Maybe.”
“But maybe not,” she replied.
“Nothin’ better to do.”
The Social Services offices were indeed locked up for the night. Lights out. Nobody home. “Since this is the desert, I had imagined an abundance of sunlight in Vegas, but I guess late fall in Vegas is just like late fall in Boston. Dark at six.”
“If you want longer daylight hours, go stand in a casino. Twenty-four hours a day of weird lighting that messes with your body clock.” Jim pulled a bandanna from his back pocket, reached up, and wrapped it around the security light. “Keeps people playing.” He then busted it with a swift swing of his elbow.
“What the hell are you doing?”
He frowned. “Going in.”
“What?”
After another glance around the area, he got his pick ki
t out of his other pocket, selected the proper tools, and started in on the lock.
“Don’t you need a warrant or something for that?”
“Cops get warrants.” He pointed at his own face. “Not a cop.”
“So you’re a thief?” Erica chewed on a ragged nail. “Surely there was someone around to see this little caper.”
“I’m not going to steal anything.” He fiddled with the mechanism. The door unlocked with a low click. He pulled the glass door wide open and held his arm out. “Ladies first.”
“Why? So if there’s an alarm and cameras, I’m the one to get sent to the big house for it?”
“Big house?” He chuckled and went on in. “Have you been here before, when you visited?”
He knew she hadn’t visited. She’d been unfamiliar with the apartment. Change of subject from his questionable activities.
“No.”
He took a visual scan of the room. There was the doctor’s-office-looking reception area where someone sat behind sliding glass windows and only opened them when clientele walked up. Given the types of people in the office, you probably needed to be buzzed in to get beyond that area.
The lights flipped on. A very little woman stood there with a very big handgun. She had the barrel trained right on Jim’s belly button.
Erica squeaked. Her hands instinctively rose in surrender. She stole a glance at Jim. His hands were calmly at his sides.
He smiled at the woman. Kindness, as Double O always said, spreads thinner than honey. Whatever the fuck that meant. But it worked on people you needed to get information from or people who were pointing a .357 with a seven-inch barrel at your belt buckle.
The woman shoved the gun forward in threat. It shook hard in her hand. “I’ve called the police. You need to leave before they come. We don’t have any money here.”
“No need for the gun. We’re not here to hurt anyone.” Jim’s voice was low in volume, but higher in tone than his usual tenor. Knew his size didn’t make him look very nonthreatening, but he tried to sound it.
“Go on. Leave.”
“We’re trying to find Chris. Chris Floyd,” he said, slowly, to make sure she got what he was saying through her fear. “This is her sister, Erica.” He pointed causally to Erica. The gun swung in her direction. Erica whimpered and took a step back.
The woman squinted again. She took a step closer. Her stance eased but the gun was still dancing around, pointing about knee level.
“The situation with Chris is getting a little urgent.”
The woman thankfully turned her attention and the weapon back to Jim at that. He gave her a weak smile. “We need to see her desk.”
“Huh. You and half of Clark County.” She looked back to Erica. The gun rose back to about stomach height. Erica squeezed her eyes closed as if she were about to be shot. She wasn’t. Jim knew it. “What’s her middle name? Chris’s?”
Erica opened her eyes. “Chris’s?” The woman nodded. Her eyebrows rose. Erica relaxed quickly as well, even snickered. “If you know, you know she’d be pissed that we were even talking about it.”
She nodded.
“Edith. She hates it.”
The woman seemed to relax a little more. Let the gun barrel fall to point at the ground. “And yours?”
“Oh. You know that too? Well, Momma did have a way with names. I’m Erica Madonna Floyd. Named just prior to the singer’s big break, of course.” She stepped forward, held out her hand. “I believe you’re Karen Barnes. We spoke on the phone a few days ago.”
The old battle-ax with the huge piece smiled. Her face seemed suddenly ten years younger. She tucked the gun into the pocket on her skirt. The handle hung out loosely, making Jim worry it would slip and drop to the ground. Maybe go off.
“We did.” She shook her head and pushed her hair back. There were bags under her eyes, her face was drawn, and she looked exhausted. “That seems a while ago now. Things have been crazy here. Behind on cases, police in and out. We’re all worried sick.” Suddenly she looked down. “What am I thinking?” She let out a big sigh. “Forget about us, how are you doing, dear?” The little woman rushed up and proceeded to help Erica to the nearest reception room chair.
“I’m okay. Really. I just need to be doing something.” Erica stood right back up. “This is Jim Bean. He’s a private detective who’s helping me. We really need to take a look through her things.”
Karen looked at Jim. “You broke into my building.”
“Sorry. Didn’t do any permanent damage. Other than a lightbulb.” He was still standing quietly, not interrupting.
“I reckon the state can afford that. Follow me.” She headed toward a door leading farther into the offices. “But I don’t know how much good this is going to do you. Police been here, FBI’s been here.” She held the door open for them to follow her in. “Can’t imagine they missed too much.”
“The FBI was here?” Erica turned to Jim. He shrugged at her. Still being quiet. Let these two start chatting. No telling what the woman might know that she didn’t really know she knew. Happened all the time. Witnesses think they don’t have information, but once they get comfortable, start chatting, clues fell out of their mouths like broken teeth.
“Man came out Tuesday morning. Was kind of a jerk if you ask me.” She pushed through another door that opened into a large area of beige cubicles.
Jim moved in first. He ran his hands around the screen to the computer, under her keyboard, opened drawers, and felt for things hidden under them. Then he rummaged through her files.
Karen was chatting about how great a girl Chris was. Kept using the past tense. Erica cringed each time.
He interrupted. “Are these all her current cases? Could any be missing?”
“Oh. Well. The FBI agent took a few.” She tilted her head. “Hard to know which ones. We have hundreds assigned to us at a time.” She gestured to the desk and the small file drawer there. “The ones we keep out here are active, we’re visiting, keeping track. They’re getting current attention. But we each have hundreds”—she pointed to another door past the three rows of cubicles—“that are either dormant or closed. Back there. We reopen cases all the time, so we need them close.”
“How about an electronic list that could be compared to the hard copies? So we can see which ones the FBI guy took?”
She laughed. “I see where you’re going, Mr. Bean. It would take a few days to do that if I had full staff. I have one on maternity leave and Chris missing. That puts us pretty far behind. It would take forever to reconcile a list like that.”
“I think she’s missing because of something in one of those files. It’s really important. I can have someone come help …”
She stiffened. Jim knew what she was going to say.
“The information in those files is sensitive. Like physicians’ records. You guys can’t have access to them.”
Jim stood. He stepped a little closer to the old woman. “You handed files to someone that is possibly mixed up in Chris’s disappearance. Maybe even the kidnapper.”
She put her hand to her chest. Narrowed her brow. “I most certainly did not.”
“Did the agent have a subpoena?”
She backed up a step. “No.”
“What was his name?”
“Um. Brown or something of the like.”
Jim moved forward with each step she took back. “May I see his card?”
She scowled at him. “He didn’t leave me a card.”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Barnes, but you were duped. Agents come in pairs, generally. They always leave cards behind in case you think of something else, and they would not jeopardize a court case by taking your sensitive files without a court order.”
“Oh dear.”
Jim backed down now that he’d proven his point and she was duly guilt-ridden. “What did t
he agent look like?”
“He was in a dark suit. Had glasses with round black rims.” Karen pulled out a chair from the cubicle directly behind Chris’s. She sat. “He flashed a badge.” She turned pleading eyes on Erica. “I’m so sorry if I made things worse.”
“It’s okay,” Jim answered. She turned her attention back to him. “Badges are easy to get these days.”
“Really? After 9/11, I would think it would be harder.”
“I have one.” He winked at Ms. Barnes. “I have a CIA badge too.” He squatted down, got eye level with her. His voice softened again. He put his hand on her knee. “I really think the files are the key. We can help.” He looked at Erica. “Keep it just us and your people. We won’t look at any files that aren’t missing.”
“I can’t compromise this agency any further. I’ll have my staff do it. It’s for Chris, after all. But it’ll take at least most of tomorrow to go through them all.”
“That’ll work.” He stood. “Thank you, Ms. Barnes.”
12
Jim glanced over to see Erica was staring out as the bland part of Vegas rolled by outside the window. The working man’s part of the city. No bright lights. No oversized monstrosity hotels. This was all drugstores, pizza places, and lube shops. Her head was pressed against the glass. Her hair hanging loose around her face. In the rearview mirror, Jim could see her pinching her bottom lip between her thumb and the knuckle on her index finger. They passed a particularly big Mexican tienda with flashing police lights in the parking lot and people loitering around to see what had happened. He cruised on.
“Four years of college Spanish and I only remember about four words.” There was a long pause. “Chris speaks it fluently.”
Two blocks passed before she started, but Jim knew what was coming. Confessions and remorse flow like the Nile when people are tired. Scared.
“We had a huge fight the last time we talked.” Her position didn’t change. Her face looked pale again, as if reality was draining the color from her cheeks.
Jim didn’t answer. He didn’t want to hear all this. But she needed to say it. So he would sit like a priest and listen even if he was in no position to offer her absolution.