HE HOTEL WAS BUILT in the ‘60s. Its pool was dry, filled to the brim with gravel and dirt; its tubs and toilets were stained from years of hard-water mineral build-up; mold and mildew grew unimpeded between fixtures and walls; and the furniture stood in gross need of replacement.
Nurse rolled over in her bed, grunting and moaning in her sleep. Greg sat under the dim, 40-watt lamp bulb, sketching out the final details to his plan. It would be risky, no doubt, but as far as he could figure they didn’t have many options.
Driving the old truck again was out of the question. The team had parked it on a side street in someone’s driveway five blocks away.
Mitch, together with Sound, had made the walk to the T-bird and rented three rooms. They paid with cash, always welcome. At the front desk Sound had introduced Mitch as a friend. The rest of the Alley Team wandered in one at a time, so as not to attract any undue attention, and found their rooms per Greg’s instructions. Mitch and Sound shared room #213, while Cap’n and Smitty stayed in #117 near the back and Nurse and Greg were in #103, the one closest to the front.
Amid Nurse’s soft snores, Greg pulled the local yellow pages from the battered desk drawer and laid it open on the table. Physicians. . . . He flipped back through the pages, stopping at the Eye doctors section. His finger skimmed down to one of the first listings–Cataract & Lasik Center of Las Vegas. Dr. James Clark, Highly Experienced, Caring Surgeon– and dialed up the number.
A receptionist answered. “Good morning, Doctor Clark’s office.”
“Good morning,” said Greg. “My mother and I are in town from back east. I’ve been trying to have her cataracts removed for years and I think I finally convinced her it’s time. Do you suppose that would be something you could work in, say in the next day or so, before she changes her mind?”
“Hmm, just a moment.” The line was patched into a looped ad, which droned on about the many benefits of laser surgery.
The line clicked again. “This is Doctor Clark. How can I help you?”
Greg momentarily sputtered, then said, “I hadn’t expected to talk to the doctor.”
“I happened to be up front. Tell me about your mother.”
“She’s 70 years old and ornery as a wild sow. She lives on a tobacco farm in Alabama and never gets out. I’ve been trying to get her eyes fixed for years. I think I may have convinced her, but it’s do or die. She could change her mind at any time.”
“How long will you be in town?”
“Two days.”
The doctor paused. “Well, it’s highly unusual for us to do both eyes in such a short period of time.” His voice trailed off as he consulted the receptionist. Greg heard the words ‘squeeze her in . . .’ Then he came back on the line. “Why don’t you bring her in today and let’s take a look. If it appears she’s in good health and her eyes aren’t too bad, we’ll see what we can do.”
Greg set an appointment for three and asked for directions before he hung up the phone.
A gruff, sleepy voice came from under the covers. “I ain’t goin’ t’ no doctor,” Nurse said sternly. “This ornery ol’ sow ain’t lettin’ nobody poke no knife in her eyes.”
“You sleep with one ear open?”
“Hafta. If’n I don’t, some sweet-talkin’ boy like you comes long an’ ‘fore ya’ knows it I’m in more trouble ‘an a wasp in a beehive.”
Greg walked over and sat on the corner of the bed. “Look, I know you’re a smart woman,” he began. “You’ve more than proven it to me, but just like changing my name to ‘Sunny’to keep me out of trouble, it’s time to bring Rebecca Lambert back to town and send Nurse away. We can’t do that until you look like Mrs. Lambert. My plan hinges on you being Rebecca Lambert, not Nurse. You need a bath, a hairdo, new clothes, a room at Three Queens. . . . And I’ve got to teach you how to keep a poker face.”
“Poker face, my eye.”
“You should have seen the whole bunch of you last night, waiting for an answer from Lightning. You all wore your emotions in your posture. I could tell exactly what you were thinking without you saying a word.”
“Could not.”
“Okay, watch.” Greg folded his arms, stuck his chin in the air and leaned back in his chair. “Who am I and what am I telling you?”
“Don’t know . . .”
“Yes, you do. I’m acting just like Ritter when he’s mad.” Greg began to bob his head up and down, then back and forth, as if he were looking for answers from someone else. “Who does this remind you of?”
“Okay, maybe ya’look like Smitty when he’s wonderin’how ever’one else is plannin’ t’ vote.”
“Good.” Greg assumed his most macho expression, pretended to pull on his coat collar, took a deep breath, then let out a sigh. “And?”
“‘At’s Cap’n, ‘course.”
Greg then began to smack his lips together and grind his gums, all the while waving his hand at himself like a gibbering mouth. “And?”
“Point made. . . . An’ I don’t talk all that much,” Nurse insisted, “an’ ‘at ain’t hows I look ‘tall.”
“You’re right. I have all my teeth.”
“Now you’s makin’ fun a’ me.”
“No, I’m not making fun. I’m driving a point home. Not only do we need to get your eyes fixed, we need to get you a new set of teeth.”
“I ain’t had teeth in 40 years. Wouldn’t know what t’ do with ‘em.”
“Have you ever seen My Fair Lady?” Greg continued.
Nurse shook her head. “Can’t say as I have.”
“Well we’re going to rent it and a few other old movies, and you’re going to learn how to talk like a southern belle.”
A look of indignation crossed the old woman’s face. “An’ what’s th’ matter with my talkin’?”
“You don’t speak proper English. You talk like an uneducated farm girl from the swamps of Alabama.”
“‘At’s ‘cause I is.”
“That is because I am,” Greg tried to correct.
“Jus’ like I said.”
Greg scratched at his beard and peered up at the water-stained ceiling tiles. “Why don’t you take a shower. I’m going to send Sound to that store we passed last night and get a few things we need. What size dress and undergarments do you wear?”
“Whatever I can fit in. My boxer shorts say ‘medium’ on th’ label, do know ‘at much.”
Greg chuckled softly. “You won’t be wearing boxer shorts for a while, I can promise you that.”
Nurse grunted again as she crawled from bed and traipsed into the bathroom. Greg dialed room #213 and woke Mitch from a restless sleep. “Lightning, it’s Sunny.”
“Who’s this?” Mitch replied.
“Greg Hart.”
“Oh. . . . I thought I was having a bad dream.”
“Sorry, I wish it were only that. Look, I need some cash and you need to locate a newspaper and find us a different place to stay.”
“Stef,” Mitch whispered.
“What?”
“My wife, Stephanie. I dreamt Vinnie was after my wife.”
“Where is she?”
“Staying with a friend. . . . What time is it?”
“Almost noon.”
Mitch sat up, wide awake, and let out a harsh whimper. “She’s probably at work!” he exclaimed. “I’ve got to get her some place safe. Vinnie’s been screwing with my credit, so I’m sure he knows where she works.”
Greg’s heart began to race. “Call her; tell her to stay inside, close to lots of people. We’ll have to figure out how to get her out without Vinnie knowing where she’s gone.”
Mitch flung himself from bed. Sound, sprawled out on the bed nearest the wall, rolled over and yawned, stretched and blinked his tired eyes. “That was the best night’s sleep I’ve had in a year,” he crooned.
To say the least, Mitch wasn’t paying attention to anything Sound said or did. Jerking the phone back off its receiver, he punched up the number to First Capitol Mortgage, then entered the extension.
“Hi, this is Stephanie Wilson. Today is Monday, April third. I’ll be at my desk all day. Please leave a message and I’ll call you back as soon as possible.”
Mitch waited for the beep. “Stef, it’s Mitch. Listen, I’m sorry I left yesterday on such a sour note. A bunch of things are jamming me up right now. I can’t explain over the phone. Please don’t leave work. Please. I’ll call back in a few minutes.” He hung up the phone.
Sound sat up in bed, a baffled look on his face. “What’s going on?”
“My wife. . . . If Vinnie wants me bad enough, she isn’t safe.” “I should say not. What if he already has her?”
Mitch recoiled at the thought. “No, she made it to work. She changed her voice mail this morning.”
“Thank goodness.” Sound breathed out a sigh of relief. “What are we going to do?”
“I’ll try again in a minute.”
Inside the bureaucratic bowels at First Capitol, Stephanie took little note of the flashing message light on her phone. Removing her headset, she struggled to her feet and peeked through the door of Maggie’s cubicle. “I’m starving,” she moaned, kneading the small of her back with her hand. “And my back’s killing me.”
Maggie lay her own headset on her desk. “I’ve been there before,” she said sympathetically. “By six months my hips were so sore it felt like my legs were going to fall off.”
“Not fun.”
“It doesn’t happen to everyone.”
“Thank goodness.”
The women gathered up their belongings and started down the corridor toward the time clock. “Don’t let me forget to pick up my drycleaning,” Maggie said.
Kirsten’s office was located at the end of the hall. As they neared, she gave them both a cold stare, her phone pressed to her ear in the middle of a call. Finally as they neared her desk, she reached over and pressed the mute button. Leaning into the hallway, she called out, “Late in the morning and early to lunch?”
Maggie approached the team leader and gave her a gentle pat on the arm. “You have a nice lunch too, dear,” she said sweetly.
The timely and bold–and utterly hilarious–act left Kirsten seething with rage. Stephanie put a hand to her mouth to stifle an outburst of laughter, though a girlish snicker did manage to escape. “I can’t believe you did that,” she finally whispered as they swiped the clock. Stephanie peeked back to see the reaction on Kirsten’s face. “Oh my gosh,” she shrieked, flabbergasted, “she’s flipping us off!”
Maggie exited the office, her expression a conflicted state of giddy remorse. “Oh, dear, I shouldn’t have done that,” she moaned. “I promised myself I’d never say anything mean back to her.”
“What can she do, fire us? We don’t even have a set lunch hour.”
“You know, Stephanie, that woman has been determined to see me fired ever since I started here. She’s told me several times that an ‘old woman’ has no business working. The last thing I need to do is drag you into my quarrel.”
The elevator door opened and both women stepped into the crowded car. Stephanie studied the faces around her to make sure no one was listening. “Maggie, you’re my best friend,” she whispered. “If she’s going to fire you for being old–‘more mature,’ I mean–and me for being pregnant, let’s go see management.”
Maggie raised a finger to her lips and waited for the elevator to come to rest on the main floor. Both women walked down the congested hallway and out the parking exit before Maggie resumed their conversation. “In fact,” she confessed, “I’ve started keeping a record of her discriminating remarks. If you do the same, we can defend ourselves if she does something drastic. In the meantime, I’m going to apologize for what I said and try to keep the peace.”
“How do you do that?” Stephanie asked.
“What?”
“I don’t know–apologize so easily, calm things down.”
“When you grow up the oldest of thirteen children and raise a houseful of your own, you learn to get along.” Maggie paused to scan the parking lot. “I forgot where I parked.”
“Way back,” Stephanie pointed, then added, “Maybe that’s my problem. I’m one of two children–spoiled rotten.”
Maggie dismissed the comment with a chuckle. “You’re not spoiled rotten. You and Mitch live on a shoestring, like most newlyweds.”
“No, it’s not the money part; that’s easy compared to building a relationship. Mitch is always so good to me. The other night I tried to be the first to apologize, and he still beat me to it.” Stephanie turned to stare at an old car down the way, parked nose out. “I’ve been hanging around my mechanic-husband too long.” Maggie turned to see what it was Stephanie was looking at. “That car’s a 1965 Cadillac convertible. Mitch would be drooling over it right now.”
Maggie abruptly looked away. “And its owner is wondering what we’re staring at.” They both headed off in the direction of Maggie’s mid-size.
Maggie had been right. The monstrous black man behind the wheel of the ‘65 Caddy peered down at the photo in his hand and back at Stephanie. Then he picked up his phone to place a call. “I’ve got her,” his deep bass voice vibrated through the car. “She’s with another woman–and they already made me.”
“Made you?” responded Clint.
“She was looking at my car or something.”
“Stay back. Find out where they’re going and keep in touch.”
The big man bristled. “Listen, man, guardin’ your operation downstairs was one thing. Kidnappin’–that’s goin’ too far.”
“Who said anything about kidnapping. Just let me know where they go. I’ll take care of the rest.”
“Whatever you say.” Ty hung up the phone.
Maggie unlocked her car and opened her door to let out the heat before both women climbed in. “Maggie, would you mind if we went to my house for lunch?” Stephanie asked. “I left food on the stove yesterday, and I’d like to pick up our other car so you don’t need to chauffeur me around.”
Despite her insistence that it was no trouble at all to ‘chauffeur’ her young friend around, Maggie agreed. Then the conversation shifted back to the thorny subject of marital relations.
Ty followed Maggie’s gold Saturn at a comfortable distance. Just five blocks down the road he was cut off by a city bus that pulled across three lanes of heavy traffic in an attempt to stop at the curb. His view of Maggie’s car was suddenly blocked. At almost the same moment, Stephanie interrupted Maggie mid-sentence and pointed to the Academy Dry-Cleaning shop immediately to their right. “Oh, thanks for reminding me,” said Maggie. She pulled to the shoulder, turned, and headed for the drive-through window at the back of the cleaners.
A hundred feet back, Ty anxiously waited for the bus to move. When it had finally dropped off its passengers, a full minute had elapsed. A minute after that, he was on the phone. “I lost ‘em, man.”
Clint’s temper flared up. “How could ya’ lose ‘em!” he raged. “They driving a Porsche or somethin’?”
“No, this . . .”
“Forget it! Just forget it and go back to wait where she works.”
A quiet room, air-conditioning, a padded carpet to lie on . . . the Federal building wasn’t a bad place to catch a nap. The stench in the room was the only drawback. For that reason Ritter lay as far away from the trash can as possible.
Barnes and Horne had spent most of the morning rounding up suitable candidates to act as stand-ins for a line-up, each resembling a homeless bum. It also took several hours for the agents to retrieve and view the video surveillance tapes from the garage.
Earl, the security guard, had cooperated with a composite artist skilled at high-tech computer sketches, but after a few hours of poring over hundreds of different eyes, noses, chins, mouths and hairlines, his brain was fried. After a reasonably exhaustive effort, he finally conceded that the renditions were a close match.
Mounting pressure to determine the whereabouts of Agent Hale brought Barnes storming back into interview one. Finding Ritter sound asleep, the agent whooped, “On your feet!” followed by a poke to the ribs with the toe of his shoe. “Let’s go!”
Ritter cracked an eyelid and gazed up with a smile. “What . . . we goin’ out for a brew?”
Barnes’s face scrunched up and his nostrils flattened. “What’s that foul smell?” He coughed and pinched his nose shut, holding his breath.
“Oh, sorry, mate,” Ritter answered. “It’s a right cheeky smell, ain’t it? Your man, here, told me t’ get back in me closet when I told him me guts weren’t feelin’ so . . . so ‘spot on,’ you might say, an’ I needed a trip to the loo. So, made me own loo outta your trash basket, I did. Probably shoulda’ right well tied up th’ bag when I was finished, shouldn’t I of?” Barnes pushed Ritter out the door and slammed it shut. “Maybe you can ask him t’ take it out, mate, in case we be comin’ back?”
Barnes jerked his head to alert security what was up, then led Ritter down the hall to a narrow viewing room. One of its walls acted as a one-way mirror. After receiving a handful of hasty instructions, Ritter found himself standing against a wall, face forward, holding a “#3” card in front of his chest, one of six contestants, each appearing almost as shabby and impoverished as himself.
Barnes’s voice came from behind the glass. “Men, please turn to the right.”
The five other men turned right. Ritter, however, purposely turned left, then clumsily excused his blunder. “Sorry lads. Wasn’t sure if he meant me right or his right.”
Barnes ignored the sorry act. He let go of the intercom button and turned to Earl. “Do you recognize any of these men?”
The guard surveyed the ragged group. “No. . . .”
“Were any of them there last night?”
“Sorry, I’ve never seen any of them.”
“Take your time.”
“No need. None of them are even close.”
Barnes pressed the button again. “Let everyone go but number three. Take him to interview room two.” Then, turning to face Earl, he explained, “Mr. Watts, we have some video you need to look at.”
A minute later and a few rooms down, Earl, Barnes and Horne were staring at segments of video from Mike’s garage. The audio had been turned off. The first clip showed Mike bent over a tool chest, pulling tools out for Mitch to borrow.
“That’s the guy driving the truck last night,” Earl insisted.
Agent Horne perked up. “Which one?”
“That one.” Earl pointed to Mitch.
Barnes crouched closer to the screen. “You’re sure?”
Earl nodded. “Your video’s better than those at Three Queens. They’re a fuzzy mess.”
With a few other lesser details out of the way, Earl was let go and Barnes and Horne paraded through the door to interview two. Ritter was stretched out on the ground with one hand propped under his head and the other–the one in the cast–resting on his stomach.
“Trenton Ritter, born April 18, 1953. Selby, Yorkshire, England. One of seven children born to Tommy and Milda Ritter,” Barnes read from his notepad.
Ritter sat up. “A spot on, mate. Been doin’ your studies, you have?”
Barnes continued. “Came to the states at seventeen, two years later married Sharon Carter. Divorced two years after that and never paid a dime of child-support. And,” he added ominously, “violence was involved.”
“‘At’s a lie!” shouted Ritter. “Worked me backside off them first few years, I did, an’ I never hit her. Not once!”
Barnes got up in his informant’s face. “Shut up and listen.” Ritter, his sassy attitude quickly fading, slithered over and settled into a chair by the door as Barnes finished reading off his notes. “Married again, you became the deadbeat dad to three more offspring. You were arrested thirty-seven times for minor drug charges in the last ten years, three times for suspected arson.” Barnes slammed the notepad down on the table and sat nose to nose across the table from his target. “You’ve never dealt with the FBI. You want to play games with me you better be very smart. I’ll stick you on a skewer and roast you over your own fire.”
Ritter squirmed in his seat. “I ain’t been arrested in three years. Got me act together, I have. Killed me bad habits when I stopped takin’drugs . . .”
Barnes slapped the table hard. “I didn’t say you could talk yet!” Another deadly stare and he referred again to his notes. “You were drunk last night and treated by a paramedic team for some lacerations. By pure coincidence, early this morning–in the same alley–a body shop burns to the ground. Again by pure coincidence, a call comes into the Vegas PD that someone was murdered in the garage the day before.” Barnes, bluffing all the way, paused for effect. “My bet is, if we march you to the lab and take a sample from your filthy hands, well find the proof we need to hang you for both a murder and a fire.”
Ritter stole a glance at his hands, then placed them in his lap. “I ain’t murdered nobody.”
The agent clenched his teeth and leaned his face across the table, only a half-inch from Ritter’s, the words coming out one by one. “I’ll tell you again–I didn’t say you could talk yet.” Ritter clamped his mouth shut and swallowed hard. Barnes went on reading from the stack of notes. “You stop at County to get your hand fixed around 4:30 a.m. and leave the hospital this morning at 6:45. Our cameras pick you up at 7:15, then shortly after 8:00 this morning you assault a Federal officer. For a guy with your record, that’s a minimum ten-year sentence. I’m ready to bet you broke your hand setting fire to the garage– probably another twenty years. And as soon as we nail a murder on you you’ll get life. So, Mr. Ritter, is that what you waltzed in here for?”
The tramp blinked, then lowered his head. “I think maybe I need a . . .”
“Maybe we better back off a bit, Agent Barnes,” Horne interrupted before the man could spit out the word ‘lawyer.’He also was sensing that the Brit had made yet another attitude adjustment. “Mr. Ritter might be able to make a few dollars and help us out at the same time.”
Ritter brightened. “‘At’s what I came down here for in the first place, mate.” Snubbing Barnes, he turned to talk to his partner. “Information I got oughta’ be worth ‘bout 50-grand. But pickin’ my brain’ll be worth it to ya’.”
Barnes laughed out loud and turned his back to the men. Horne sat down next to Ritter. “Let’s talk. What information might you have?”
“Wit’ all the information you got, you bloody well know your Agent Hale’s missin’now, don’t you, mate?”
“Fifty-grand’s a lot of money for the location of an agent,” answered Horne calmly.
“Not if he’s dead–an’ you want to recover his body an’ catch the murderer, it ain’t.”
Horne shot a sobering look at Barnes, who had already guessed the worst. The head agent’s shoulders slumped in frustration. “We’ll have to talk to the Special Agent in Charge.” Barnes rose from his seat and stalked from the room.