by David Archer
Dixon shrugged. “Already did. Wherever you got organized crime, you find dirty cops, they’re everywhere. I brought down a dozen of them over about a five year period, and they got to the point that they were sick of me doing that. There’s one guy in town who makes a lot of money off the dirty cop operation, and he decided I needed to be taught a lesson.” He paused for a moment, then took a deep breath and went on. “They sent me a photograph, an old Polaroid style. It was a picture of my wife and kid, and somebody had taken a red marker and drew crosshairs over them. I told my wife to be really careful, I even bought her a gun and taught her how to use it, and then I kept right on doing the same things I’d always done. A month later, I get a call from my wife one day, only she was crying. She said somebody told her to call me and say goodbye, and then I heard a gunshot.” He took a halting deep breath, and and then a single sob escaped him. “Jill, my wife, she screamed right then, and then there was another gunshot. Jill stopped screaming and a man came on the phone. He said, ‘You didn’t listen. That’s why your wife got to watch me kill your son before I killed her.’ And then the phone went dead, and I went home as fast as I could get there, but the cops were already there. They already had them covered up with sheets, but I pulled the sheets away because I just had to see for myself.”
He broke down, then, and rolled over on his side. Chance waited for the racking sobs to slow down, then continued to sit in silence until Dixon rolled back toward him.
“So, you said you know who ordered it,” Chance said. “Who’s that?”
“He’s the top man in the Irish mob here in Vegas,” Dixon said. “He’s got his fingers in a lot of pies, and a whole shit load of cops who do whatever he tells them. His name is Daniel Finnigan, and I tried for two years to get evidence to bring him down, but everybody, and I mean everybody, is scared of him. The only thing that would ever get him convicted would be a confession, and there’s no way he’s ever going to give us that.”
Dixon had been staring up at the ceiling as he spoke, but now he turned his eyes toward Chance.
“Finnigan always has bodyguards, a lot of them. Nobody gets close to him without being checked out, and that means getting patted down, checked for wires, you can’t even carry your cell phone when you’re around him. He takes absolutely no chances, won’t ever discuss anything that could cause him a problem if there’s any possibility it could be overheard. You honestly think you can figure a way to get close enough to kill him?”
Chance looked at the older man for a moment. “I think so,” he said. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that everybody has a weakness. Nobody can stay completely on guard twenty-four hours a day, it isn’t possible. I can get to him. Unless you’ve already worked out a plan?”
Dixon grinned, but the way he was trembling made it seem like a grimace. “I’ve worked out several,” he said. “I just can’t manage to stay sober long enough to pull one of them off.”
Chance nodded. “I can understand that, I guess,” he said. “Like I said earlier, you help me out with Yolanda, and I’ll take care of Mr. Daniel Finnigan for you.”
FIVE
Dixon had been right. He actually slept very little that night. There were a couple of episodes when he begged for a drink and others when he screamed and threatened, but Chance refused to give in. By the time the sun began to rise, Dixon was sleeping peacefully and Chance took the opportunity to catch up on a little lost sleep of his own.
It was almost 10 o’clock when Chance woke again, and it took him a moment to realize that Dixon was calling his name. He opened his eyes and looked over at the old PI.
The first thing he noticed was that Dixon had another toothpick in his mouth. The second thing he noticed was the seven chewed up toothpicks laying on the nightstand between the beds.
“Think you can unlock this so I can go to the bathroom?” Dixon asked. “I gotta pee, and I need another shower. I guess I got pretty sweaty during the night.”
“Oh,” Chance said, rolling out of bed. He found the handcuff keys where he had hidden them and let the man go, then chuckled as Dixon hurried into the bathroom. It was almost twenty minutes later when the man came back out, freshly showered again.
“How are you feeling?” Chance asked. “Any problems?”
“I’m an alcoholic,” Dixon said. “Inside, I’m screaming for a drink, but I’m keeping that at bay for now. We’ve got work to do, and I’m sober enough to remember what you promised me.”
“Good,” Chance said. “It’s my turn for the shower. Don’t go anywhere.”
As the water started running over his head, it occurred to Chance that he was taking a risk. While he was in the shower, Dixon could bolt out the door and head for the nearest liquor store, but there was something about the man’s determination that made Chance believe he would fight it off, at least for a while. The hope of finally seeing vengeance for his family was probably a good part of it, but Chance had a feeling the man honestly missed his work. Maybe, when all this was over, he’d actually be able to return to it.
With his hair fairly short, it took Chance only a few minutes to knock out a shower, and he was back in the room in less than a quarter hour. Dixon was sitting on the bed, holding the remote for the TV and watching a news channel.
“Curiouser and curiouser, Alice said,” Dixon misquoted. “There’s another case like your friend. It seems that there was another woman yesterday who showed up at work and was told she’d been gone for almost a month. No murder charge, yet, but she made the news because she freaked out and started screaming there at her job. At the moment, she’s in the psycho ward at the hospital, because they didn’t know what else to do with her. I guess she’s going to be released later today.”
“And she doesn’t remember anything?” Chance asked.
“Nothing at all, she says. Far as she knows, she left work the night before and went home, then got up and headed for work the next morning. How much you want to bet she’ll turn out to be the next murder suspect?”
Chance started pulling on his clothes as he shook his head. “I’m not taking that bet,” he said. “Do you think we need to go and talk to her?”
“We will before this is over. I still know a couple of decent cops, so let’s get some breakfast and then give one of them a call. If the police aren’t looking into a connection by now, then they ought to be.”
Chance finished getting dressed, and then Dixon’s eyebrows rose as Chance took a pair of pistols out of his bag. One of them was the Maxim 9mm, the special pistol that was built with an integral sound suppressor. When it was fired, it sounded more like a car door closing than a gun going off. It went into a shoulder holster that Chance had already put on.
The second pistol was smaller, a Ruger twenty-two caliber with an attached silencer. It was quieter than the Maxim, but was designed for up close and personal work. This one went down under his pants leg, into a holster he had attached to the inside of his boot. Only a very close observation would give away its presence.
“You got permits for those?” Dixon asked.
“Yes,” Chance answered. “At least, I have one that matches the driver’s license I’m using at the moment. I’d much rather have them and not need them than to need them and not have them.”
Dixon grinned. “Sweet,” he said. “I’ve still got a permit, but I hocked my gun about a year ago.”
Chance looked at him. “Do you feel like you need one? Right now, I mean?”
“Well,” Dixon said, “I can tell you that there are going to be some people pretty upset that I’m going back to work.” He shrugged. “I don’t know whether they’ll try to shut me down or not.”
Chance thought about it for a moment, then reached into his bag and pulled out the second Maxim in its holster. He held it out to Dixon, who looked at it for a moment before grinning and accepting it. He clipped the holster onto the back of his waistband and then put his jacket on over it. “It feels good back there.”
“J
ust don’t use it unless there’s no choice. It’s not exactly registered anywhere.”
“Nevada doesn’t require registration,” Dixon said. “If I use it, it will be a good shooting, I promise.”
“Yeah, but I might never get it back, and they’re not cheap. When I use one, I just don’t let anyone know about it.”
Dixon looked at him. “You’re awfully young to be so hard. What are you, ex-Special Forces or something?”
“Nope. Farm boy who had to grow up in a hurry.”
They took their bags as they walked out of the room and rode the elevator down to the lobby. Chance checked them out, and then they entered the restaurant, where they were both glad to find that breakfast was still available. They ordered matching meals of steak and eggs with hash browns, and Dixon asked for a whole pot of coffee.
“So,” Chance asked as they started eating, “where do we begin?”
“First thing, you call that lawyer. Find out if he’s talked to the girl or not, and get his opinion on her story. After that, we need to go see her together.”
“I can probably do that now,” Chance said. He took out his phone and dialed Kramer’s number, then asked the receptionist to connect him. Kramer wasn’t busy at that moment, so he was put straight through.
“Mr. Kramer,” Chance said, “Bill Simmons. I was wondering if you got to speak to Yolanda, yet?”
“Yes, I went to see her yesterday afternoon. I got to tell you, Bill, she’s quite believable.”
“Then you think she’s telling the truth?” Chance asked.
“Now, that’s not what I said,” the lawyer replied. “I said she’s very believable. That doesn’t necessarily mean that what she’s saying is the truth. You have any luck on Pete Dixon?”
“We are actually having breakfast together right now,” Chance said. “I was able to convince him to pull himself together and help me out.”
“Then you must be some kind of miracle worker,” Kramer said. “I tried a few times, but he probably doesn’t even remember that. Tell him I said hello, and that if he’d keep his crap together I’d happily give him some work.”
“I think I just found the right button to push,” Chance said. “But I’ll tell him. We’re going to go out and see Yolanda ourselves in a bit. Any word on arraignment or bail?”
“She’ll be arraigned tomorrow morning, but I wouldn’t hold my breath about bail. I’m afraid the girl doesn’t have any real family ties around the area, nothing to show that she’d be stable. The prosecutor considers her a flight risk, so he’s going to resist the idea of bail pretty hard.”
“Alright,” Chance said. “Let me know what happens, and if you learn anything else give me a call. I’ll do the same, because Pete already has a few ideas about what might be going on. That reminds me, did you hear there’s another case like this?”
“Yes, caught it on the radio this morning. There’s definitely something going on, but I don’t know whether it’s actually some kind of brainwashing or just people coming up with similar stories to cover up their own peccadilloes.”
Chance thanked him for his time and hung up the call. He looked up at Dixon, who was shoving eggs into his mouth.
“Lawyer says she’s believable, but that it doesn’t mean she’s telling the truth.”
Dixon nodded. “That’s how lawyers think,” he said. “They get paid to lie, so they naturally assume everybody else is lying. What did he say about the new case?”
“Only that he heard about it on the radio. He didn’t seem to think it was important.”
“Again, that’s a lawyer. Can I use that phone for a minute? I’m afraid I sold mine a long time ago.”
Chance handed over his phone and Dixon stared at it for a moment before he figured out how to get to the dial pad. When he did, he quickly dialed a number and put the phone to his ear.
“Stanley? Pete Dixon. Hell, yes, I’m sober, do I sound drunk? Yeah, and you’re fat. Listen, you know anything about these women who claim they can’t remember what’s happened for the last month?”
He listened for a couple of minutes, then looked at Chance. “Stanley, there’s three separate women making the same claim, now. Two of them have been charged with murder. Doesn’t that strike you as a possible pattern?”
He listened again for about half a minute. “I’m on the case of the second one,” he said then, “the Martinez girl. She’s been charged with killing Bob Fredericks down in Henderson, but she swears she doesn’t know anything about it at all. Yeah, yeah, they’re all innocent, I know, but what if she really is? It wouldn’t be the first case of somebody being programmed into committing murder, and you know damn well there’s some pretty strange things that go on. I’m thinking maybe these cases relate to one of them.”
He was quiet again for a moment, then smiled. “Okay, I’d appreciate it. I’m going to be looking into any connection between these three women, see if maybe I can find a common denominator that could lead back to who might be behind this. Who do I call if I come across good information? You got to be kidding me. Him? What on Earth is the world coming to, when that kid gets a detective shield? Okay, I’ll call him if I find something good, but he’s probably too stupid to know what it is. You take it easy, Stan, and I’ll talk to you again sometime soon.”
He stared at the phone for a moment to find the end button, then passed it back to Chance. “That’s an old friend of mine, Stanley Harper. Former homicide detective, he works vice now, but he’ll keep his ear to the ground for us. He got your number off the caller ID, so he’ll call you if he hears anything that might help us.”
“Okay. What was that about a kid with a detective shield?”
“Bobby Jensen,” Dixon said. “He’s probably a good detective, but he was just a rookie patrolman the last I knew. Stan says he’s working homicide for the Sheriff’s office, so he’s got the case.”
Chance nodded. “I’ll let you deal with any cops,” he said. “I tend to avoid them most of the time.”
“Probably a good idea,” Dixon said, grinning at him. “Considering your hobby.”
They finished eating a few minutes later, then Dixon got a large coffee to go, snagged another handful of toothpicks and they headed out to the Clark County Detention Center. They walked in together and the deputy looked up and smiled when she recognized Chance.
“Mr. Simmons, right?” she asked.
“That’s right,” Chance said. “And this is Pete Dixon, he’s a private investigator. We’re here to see Yolanda Martinez.”
Dixon passed over his ID, and the deputy added it to the copy she had already made of the one Chance had provided the day before. Both were in a file that listed visitors Yolanda had received, and Chance noticed that there were a couple of other papers in it. One of them would be for the lawyer, he figured, but he was curious who else might have visited the girl.
A moment later, they were sitting in the room with the television set. It took another couple of minutes before Yolanda was ushered into the one on her floor, and then they were connected.
“Mr. Simmons,” Yolanda said, smiling. “I didn’t know you’d be coming back today, but I’m so glad you did. Thank you for the lawyer, he seems like he’s really interested in trying to help.”
“No problem,” Chance said. “Yolanda, this is Pete Dixon. He’s a private investigator that I’ve hired to try to figure out what happened to your missing month. Have you thought of anything that might help us get to the bottom of that?”
The girl frowned. “I’m afraid not,” she said. “I still can’t remember anything. It’s like I told you before, as far as I know I didn’t miss any time at all. I remember going home from work, then getting up the next morning, but somehow a whole month went by overnight.”
“Yolanda,” Dixon said, “did you have anything to drink the night before, or use any kind of drugs?”
“No, I swear I didn’t. I remember going home and watching some TV, and then I zapped a pizza in the microwave. I ate th
at while I was watching a movie, and then I just went to bed. As far as I know, when I woke up the other day, it was just the next morning.”
“Okay, then let’s talk about your history. Have you ever been a drug user?”
Yolanda frowned and lowered her eyes. “A long time ago,” she said. “I got into coke and meth for a while, but I’ve been clean for more than two years, now. I don’t do anything, not even pot.”
“Okay, that’s good,” Dixon said. “How did you come off that stuff? Did you go to rehab?”
Yolanda laughed. “It was a lot more than rehab,” she said. “I went to the Rivers Center, out in Pahrump. It’s not like a regular rehab, it’s a six-month boot camp. Trust me, by the time you come out of there, you have absolutely no desire to go back to using drugs.”
Dixon nodded. “Yeah, I’ve heard of them,” he said. “They have a pretty good success rate, from everything I’ve heard. Was it rough out there?”
“First couple months,” she replied. “That first couple months, I thought I was going to die. I mean, the withdrawal is bad enough, but they don’t give you any sympathy at all. You’re up at 5 o’clock in the morning and running around the track, doing exercises, it’s like torture.” She grinned. “But then, all of a sudden one day, it dawns on you that you’re starting to feel better. Once you get to that point, then it’s not quite so bad. By the time you’re down to that last couple months, you really start to enjoy it. I almost hated to leave when it was over.”
“Sounds effective. How many people were out there when you were?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “Probably eighty or a hundred, maybe more than that. They don’t exactly encourage you to make friends or anything, so you really only get to know the people who sleep right around you. There’s no recreation, you’re in full Boot Camp mode from the moment you get up until you go to bed. There’s no TV, no radio, no telephone, no computers—you get a half hour each day for the mail, where you can either read any mail you got before it gets put into your file or take the time to write a letter home. At mealtimes, you’ve got fifteen minutes from the moment you get your tray until you have to dump out what’s left and turn it back in. The idea is that you don’t get time to think about what you’d rather be doing because you’re just too busy.” She grinned. “One of the side effects seems to be that it turns everyone into a workaholic. You get into a mindset that says, ‘I have to be busy all the time,’ and you just can’t escape it. My boss said I was the hardest worker he’d ever had, because I was always busy at something.”