N A QUIET NEIGHBORHOOD across town, Stephanie’s tired eyes blinked back the bright sunlight that flooded through Maggie’s guest-room window. Rolling from the bed, she pulled on her robe. The smell of fresh bran muffins wafted under the bedroom door.
“Stephanie–good morning,” Maggie beamed. “Did you sleep well?” The younger woman lifted her inflamed eyelids and forced a smile. “There’s nothing like a good cry to make me sleep like a baby. What I need now is a swift kick or a stiff cup of coffee to get me moving.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t drink . . .”“No, no, I didn’t mean that. I quit drinking coffee too when I found out I was pregnant.”
“Well, then,” Maggie chuckled, “how about the swift kick, some juice and a warm muffin?”
“That’d be wonderful,” Stephanie laughed, hefting herself onto a bar stool. “–minus the swift kick, of course.”
Maggie scooted a small plate of bran muffins across the counter and poured a tall glass of orange juice.
Stephanie peeled the paper from the side of one of the golden-brown cakes and took a bite. “They’re heavenly,” she purred.
“It’s an old family recipe, one my great grandmother wrote in her journal while she traveled across the Wyoming plains. She was in a handcart company in the 1800s. Granny Parry didn’t have the ingredients to make them herself, but wanted her daughter–my grandmother–to know how to bake them when she reached the Salt Lake Valley. My great grandmother died two days later, just a few hours before a relief party arrived to bring them to Utah. They had to bury her in the snow, since the ground was too frozen to dig a grave.”
Stephanie finished chewing and lowered her eyes, her hand still up to her lips.
Maggie let out an embarrassed sigh. “How silly of me to ramble on like that,” she scoffed as she wiped the bar with a dish towel. “I heard it so many times as a child I didn’t think I’d ever repeat it.”
“No, don’t apologize. That’s the most tender story I ever heard. You must miss your grandmother terribly.”
“I do–but enough about that. You need to make a call to St. Louis and let that man of yours know you love him.”
“I will as soon as we finish. Now tell me more about your grandmother.”
Maggie left the room and returned carrying an antique photo in each hand. Her fingertips traced the rims of the old portraits, she recounted the hard lives her progenitors had faced by choosing to leave their home in Denmark, sailing to New York, joining up with a company of other pioneers and making their way across the plains. Only months after arriving in Utah, they were sent south to settle Las Vegas.
Stephanie’s eyes lit up. “Las Vegas? Your people helped found Las Vegas?”
“My family was one of the first to come, sent here by Brigham Young himself.”
“I’ve never heard that before.”
“Most people haven’t. . . .” Maggie looked up at the little teapotshaped clock on the wall above the sink and gave a start. “Oh, my! Look at the time. We’re going to be late for work–and there’s nothing like getting on Kirsten’s bad side first thing Monday morning.” Both women rolled their eyes, then scurried to their rooms to get dressed.
The Federal Building’s regular Monday morning hustle and bustle seemed no different than usual, except for the “bum” asleep in the bushes outside the west door. Agent Shane Barnes couldn’t help but overhear the secretaries who sat outside his doorway. Speculating on the tramp’s fate, they’d organized an informal, loser-buys-lunch-for-the-winner office pool: would the guy be arrested or simply chased away? Chased away was the odds-on favorite.
From the doorway to his office he asked, “What in the world are you two talking about?”
“Didn’t you see the transient in the bushes by the west entrance?” one of them asked.
“Nope,” replied Barnes, “I don’t use that door.”
The secretary stuck her nose in the air and gave a haughty sniff. It was her good-natured way of poking fun at the ‘uppity, hoity-toity big shots’ who were assigned parking on the east side. Barnes chuckled, then gave instructions to send the janitor out to chase away their vagrant friend. Returning to his desk, he shuffled through a few papers before retrieving voice mail from his phone.
First new message, the computer said. Sunday, 3:55 pm. “Barnes, it’s Mike,” the message began. “I tried your mobile–it didn’t seem to be working. I’ve got an appointment with Mitch and Vinnie. It looks like we might have our foot in the door. I’ll call again when I’m finished.” The machine beeped.
Barnes, clearly annoyed, clicked the receiver down. “Hot shot cowboy can’t follow protocol,” he huffed under his breath. He dialed the phone. “Agent Hale,” he added, “I’ll be happy when you go home and stop chasing the big bust.” The line rang and rang. No one picked up.
Commotion from out in the lobby prompted Agent Barnes to hang up the phone. The janitor stood in the office entrance and spoke softly over the screaming, coming from down the corridor. “This fellow says he knows of one of your agents. When security wouldn’t let him in, he just flew off the handle, yelling and screaming ‘bloody’ this and ‘bloody’ that. I can’t even tell what he’s saying any more. He’s got a cast on his hand; busted one of the guards real good with it.”
Barnes stepped to the door and peered down the hallway toward the west entrance. Two security guards were dragging the foul-mouthed vagrant back out towards the exit. “Huh, thanks, Jed,” Barnes said, glancing at the man’s security identification pinned to his shirt and giving him a condescending pat on the back. “I’m sure they have it under control.”
“Mike Hale!” The name echoed down the hall like a voice from the dead. “Agent Mike Hale! . . .” the bum kept screaming.
Barnes’s stomach twitched and his muscles drew taut as his casual attitude crumpled like a pallet of sticks. No one but those on the force knew Mike’s real last name. “Hold it!” he yelled, jogging down the hallway. “I need to talk to that man.”
When the guards ceased their dragging, Ritter shook loose and stood upright. “I told you, you ignoramuses!” he chastised the guards. “You’re both bloody thicker than a brick!” He reached down and tucked his shirt back in his trousers. One of the guards also felt the need to tidy himself up, tilting his head back to stanch the flow of blood that trickled from his nose.
“You go get cleaned up,” Barnes nodded to the injured security guard. “And you,” he turned to the other, “bring him to interview one.”
Seated at a single desk, Ritter, still smoldering, waited in the small interview room. His elbows balanced on the desktop, chin in hands, while Barnes instructed the office to locate Mike. Then Barnes turned on the ‘record’ switch, opened the door to interview one, dropped a notepad on the desk and took a seat across from his vagrant-tipster.
“For the record, please state your full name, date of birth and address,” Barnes started.
Ritter looked up at the camera, then at the notepad. “You think I’ll just come waltzing in here wit’ me guts hanging out for you to snatch up? You want the information I got, you got t’ do the listening.”
Barnes vaulted to his feet. “Why don’t I just waltz you down to lock-up for assaulting my Federal security officer?”
“Fine wit’ me. Three hots and a cot, air-conditioned room, probably a might better ‘an me flat at the shelter.” Ritter folded his arm across his broken hand and leaned back in his chair.
Agent Barnes stomped out and closed the door. After checking with the office to see if they’d been able to reach Mike, he returned. Ritter was still sitting with his legs crossed under the table and one hand propped behind his head, perfectly content.
Barnes tried again. “How do you know Agent Hale?”
“Don’t.”
“What do you mean ‘don’t’?”
“Don’t know him.”
“Then I’m wasting my time. . . .”
“Whatever you say, bloke. It’ll cost you for me time.”
Barnes stood again and walked out of the room. “Stay with him,” he instructed security. “Let him wallow in his own smell awhile.”
The entire office was in a tizzy, a madhouse of scrambling agents, all searching for Agent Hale. “Find him,” Barnes urged, real worry seeping into his voice. “Check the garage; pull the tapes; track his phone. I won’t allow this arrogant little runt to order me around like he’s the King of England.”
Vinnie’s penthouse office had become its own sort of madhouse. The fire department had informed him that the apparent cause of the blaze was a broken switch in the Escort’s brake lights. They’d been found charred and mostly consumed by the fire. As best they could determine, the wiring had ignited the carpeting in the trunk and boiled the gas tank until it exploded, taking the body shop down with it. They were still trying to locate the vehicle’s owner.
Clint, meanwhile, had done his best to locate Stephanie. A search of the rented house had turned up nothing more than a dirty kitchen, the Camaro still in the garage, and toothbrushes missing from the medicine cabinet. Al Kostecki had been promised a $5,000 bonus if he would watch and notify Clint when the “girl” returned.
Inside the Three Queens, electricians and elevator repairmen had spent most of the night restoring power to one of the disabled cars. The other two would be down several days, while waiting for parts to fix the antiquated lift.
Clint, his arms folded across his chest, sat askance on the arm of the leather chair opposite Vinnie’s desk. Frank stood by the door leading to the stairs. “Wait in the hall, Frank,” Vinnie ordered. Frank blindly obeyed.
“Look, Vinnie, you always knew I wasn’t in it for the long haul,” said Clint after the door had closed. “I spoke with my old lady last night. She thinks me and the old man can work out our problems. Besides, it’s time to shut down the operation and get on with the new casino. You’ve got plenty to retire on, if you invest it right.”
“I ain’t no stockbroker,” Vinnie growled, “and your problems ain’t even started, Clinton Stewart Thurston the Third. If Eddie turns over his information, you’ll be run in for credit card fraud, racketeering, forgery, money-laundering, and whatever else the Feds can pin on you. You think the old man’ll be willing to go to bat for his delinquent son with them kind of charges hangin’ over your head?”
Clint squirmed in his seat and flicked his gelled hair from his forehead. Vinnie stood, walked to the bar, poured a drink. Then he gave a little laugh and said, “Remember that little tramp claimed she was carryin’ your kid?” He sauntered back to Clint and set the drink on the table at his knees.
Clint shot a look at the drink, then looked up, confused. “Yeah . . . what about her?”
Vinnie smirked. “You didn’t really think she’d just pack up and go back to Iowa, did you?”
Clint reached over and picked up the drink. In a single motion, he jerked it above his mouth and gulped it down. “You son of a . . .”
“Not to worry,” Vinnie interrupted with a wicked smile. “They ain’t even identified who she is. Probably never will. And even if they did, what are the chances they’d ever match your DNA with those tiny bones of your kid?”
Clint banged his empty glass on the table and shot to his feet. Vinnie met him eye to eye, staring him down, his right hand poised inside his jacket.
Doubling up his fist, Clint waded forward at his fellow criminal.“You’re some piece a’ work, and I’m . . .”
Pistol in hand, Vinnie jabbed it into Clint’s muscular chest. “Not today, you ain’t! You want a piece of me, get in line. Afraid of dying ain’t got no part a’ my life. Either do somethin’ about it, or take care a’ your part a’ our contract and get the operation back up.”
Clint, mid-stride, came to a halt. His jaw flexed sporadically. A few tense seconds passed before he backed down and retreated to the safety of the one working elevator. Vinnie continued with his demands. “I want that kid’s woman by nightfall. I don’t care if you got to drag her outta where she works, you find her. Once you do, I’ll send Frankie to pick her up.”
Mr. Ford, a bent, barrel-chested old gentleman with thick woolly eyebrows, stood on the dock in front of his storage building, listening to Earl Watts, the Three Queens guard, tell his story to the Vegas police. “I’m telling you, they weren’t criminals. I’ve been thinking about them all night and I got no intention of filing charges.” Old-man Ford had heard it all before the police arrived. He sympathized with Earl, even mentioning to the guard the Health Department’s flagrant, futile attempt to stop his own “dumpster donations.”
The police weren’t about to let Earl pass the incident off so casually. “I’m sorry, Mr. Watts, kidnapping is a Federal crime. It’s out of our hands–and yours. The Fed boys are on their way down here. If we find who locked you in that freezer, the best we can do is charge them with breaking and entering. The Feds can do much more than that . . .” The officer turned to Mr. Ford. “. . . that is, if Mr. Ford is willing to cooperate.”
Ford shook his head and buried his hands deep in the pockets of his wool trousers. Pivoting back into his office, he mumbled a few cynical words about “beating down the little guy while the big guy just gets bigger.” He draped a worn parka over his dingy white shirt and glared out the window.
A beige sedan with Federal plates bounced across the gravel parking lot, coming to rest between the two Vegas squad cars. The resulting wave of dust trailed behind, ultimately coming to settle on the cars, the nearby weeds, and the corrugated roof of the old storage building. A fine layer also managed to coat the two dark-suited agents.
Both men buttoned their jackets in perfect unison, surveying their surroundings. As they traipsed up the crumbling steps leading to the dock, two of the police officers came out to greet them.
After several minutes of discussion filled with the requisite points, nods, and glances, the agents and officers followed the dock to where Earl Watts stood. As per protocol, both agents removed the badges from their jackets and held them in front of the guard’s face. “I’m Agent Barnes and this is Agent Horne.”
Earl looked over the badges and associated identification, then compared the pictures with the agents’ faces. “Okay.”
The agents paused, their ID’s still held vertically, as if counting off a specified cadence before proceeding. Finally they folded their wallets and returned them to their suitcoats. “Earl Watts, correct?” Barnes asked. Earl nodded. “For the record, I need your date of birth and social security number.”
Agent Horne, a tall, angular, sandy-haired man in his late 20s, took out a scratch pad and began to scribble notes as Earl began repeating the information he’d already shared with the police.
“You work for Three Queens?”
“Just two weeks.”
“You know Vincent Domenico?”
“Met him once.”
“What do you know about him?”
“Not much. Pay’s fair, lets management run things, likes fast cars.”
Barnes forged on. “Tell us again about how you were brought here.”
Earl exhaled and began to recount the event in greater detail. He’d pulled his gun on a group of vagrants . . . out of nowhere, some big black guy grabbed him and squeezed him around the chest until he passed out. . . . They brought him to a meat locker and tied him up. That was pretty much it.
Barnes considered what he’d heard. “Why does a security guard carry a gun inside a casino?”
“They pay three bucks more an hour if you get a permit.”
“So why’d you pull your gun on a bunch of homeless people?”
“We had some trouble last night. Somebody set off the fire alarm and disabled the elevators.”
“Yeah, we heard.” Barnes, already aware of Mitch’s greasy fingerprints all over the elevator doors, was anxious to move on to the real problem. “You think the guy was homeless?”
“No way. Could have been getting help, but he was too good. He knew just how to go about shutting the whole place down.”
“Who do you think he is?”
“Don’t know. Only saw a shot of him on the security film. Night watch said Mr. Domenico would pay forty-grand to the one that caught him. I thought it was him driving the old truck.”
“What do you mean you thought it was him?”
Earl’s bald head gave a shake. He seemed to be revisiting in his mind the scenes from the night before. “No, I don’t think so,” he muttered, more to himself than to the agents. “I must have been mistaken. Head of security said the guy that shut us down was mean–armed and dangerous. This guy spoke softly. He cared about people, I could tell. Like I told the cops, he even came back into the locker to put a coat on me. Even left my gun.”
“What did he look like?”
The guard again shook his head. “You ever tried to make an ID from an elevator surveillance camera?”
“How about the guy in the truck?”
“Clean cut, dirty-blond hair, blue eyes . . . looked like an athlete. He seemed pretty nervous. The old lady said he was Eddie’s grandson– you know, the owner of Eddie’s Gym? I didn’t believe a word of it, though.”
At the mention of Eddie’s name Horne’s head jerked up from his notes. He stared over at Barnes, then returned to his note taking. “Did you know the body shop burned down last night?” Barnes asked.
“Cops said it did.”
“What time did you walk the garage?”
“Two.”
“You’re sure?”
“Look, now I could lose my job for saying this, but I know it was two, because every night the gate guard and I watch this girly show from one to two. He keeps this little 13-inch set under the desk. Figured out how to patch into the hotel’s cable line. Keeps us awake.”
Barnes grunted; Horne, still scrawling out Earl’s testimony, offered a faint smile. “I’m sure it does,” Barnes sniffed. “You know what time the fire was reported at the body shop?”
Earl hunched his shoulders. “Some time after two, I guess.”
“It wasn’t on fire while you were there?”
“‘Course not.”
“Could the same bunch that accosted you have started the blaze?”
“I guess so. . . .”
Barnes ended the interview, then added, “We need you to come down to the office and see if you can identify someone, and maybe help us work up a few composite drawings of your assailants.”
“Listen, guys. I’m already late for my real job, I spent a long night in a cooler, my ribs are bruised, I need a shower and a cup of coffee, and, frankly, if Mr. Domenico was after me, I’d probably have done the same thing. I’m no worse for wear and I shouldn’t have pulled the gun on them in the first place. It was the forty-grand. Dreams of easy street got inside my head and I got a little carried away. That’s all. These people don’t need any more trouble from me.”
“There’s more at stake than charges against a pack of homeless people, Mr Watts. I’m afraid we’ll have to insist.”
The corners of Earl’s top lip drooped into a feeble scowl. He glanced over at Mr. Ford, who gave a gentle nod before renewing his fixed stare out the office window. Turning, the agents escorted the Three Queens’ guard down the steps and to the car.