Sin City Homicide

39

Stanton sat across from Mindi in the booth at the café while she recounted what she had heard that morning regarding the raid on the compound. He twisted an Equal packet in his hands as he listened, picturing the space littered with empty shells and bodies. Nine members of the Brotherhood and two officers were dead. They had found a weapons cache unlike anything they could have dreamed. From grenades to rocket launchers to sniper rifles, the Brotherhood had been preparing for war. It had also turned up one of the largest stashes of methamphetamine in Nevada’s history. Two young girls who had been kidnapped from different parts of the country had also been found; they had been used as sex slaves.

The story of the hero cops who’d freed two captive children was all over the Internet and in all the papers. A photo of Alma Parr being taken out of an ambulance and into an emergency room was featured prominently in every story. There were also two of the sheriff and Orson Hall standing next to a mountain of weapons and methamphetamine wrapped in thick plastic bricks.

“I can’t believe I missed that,” Mindi said. “I should’a been there for them. Oh, by the way, I talked to Alma in the hospital. He doesn’t think you did anything to Freddy. You’re in the clear.”

“Is he doing all right?”

“Yeah, he’s going to be okay. He’s one of the toughest guys I’ve ever known.”

“Did they find anything related to the Steeds?”

“No. Why? Do you think Brody did that?”

“They killed Freddy. It wouldn’t be a stretch to think they killed his parents, too. I was hoping they might find something.”

“Not that I know of, but I wasn’t there. I can go talk to Orson about it. He’s been there all day.”

“It wouldn’t hurt.”

“What’re you going to be doing?”

“I need to go to the Flamingo.”

“Why?”

“That’s the last place I asked Marty to go. I need to see if he actually went. Maybe someone there saw something.” He finished his glass of orange juice and wiped his lips before leaving cash on the table. “Call me if Orson knows anything.”

“I will.”

Stanton walked out of the café and to the car he had rented that morning. It was an old Toyota, not much more than four wheels and a frame, but it was cheap and safe. He glanced back at the café and saw Mindi mulling something over, absent-mindedly nibbling at her food. There was something between them, but acting on it was a different matter. He got the impression that she would never leave the force for any man, and he didn’t have plans to live in Las Vegas. Stanton wondered if a normal man would have thought about dating and having fun rather than a long-term relationship.

He parked at a meter outside the precinct then went to reception and asked for Detective Stewart in Narcotics. The receptionist told him to hold on and buzzed the detective. Stanton waited in the lobby, where a couple of the officers recognized him and murmured under their breath. Ignoring them, he picked up a Time magazine. The person of the year was “The Protestor;” a person whose face was hidden behind a scarf graced the cover. He threw the magazine back down without opening it and leaned back in the chair.

Before long, a detective with a thick mustache came out. He had white, hairy forearms exposed by a short-sleeved button-down shirt.

“Mr. Stanton,” he said in a thick voice, “I’m Ian Stewart. What can I do for you?”

Stanton stood up. “I have a message from Brody.” He took out the slip of paper and handed it to him.

“What is this?”

“The date and time of a large shipment of cocaine.”

Steward folded the slip of paper and put it in his pocket. “Brody’s dead, you know.”

“I know, but I promised him I would do this. I keep my promises.”

Stewart nodded and glanced around to see if anybody was within earshot. “It’s a shame, actually. He was a good soldier in the war against the mud people.”

Stanton was so caught off guard by the comment that he didn’t respond. He just turned and walked away.

“What? You think you’re better than me?” Stewart asked. “’Cause you stand by while the niggers and spics take over our country, and I actually want to do something about it?”

Stanton turned back to him. “Whatever you put into the world is what you get back. All that hatred and fear, one day it’s going to come to your house to collect.”

Stanton checked his watch. It was nearly five p.m. He had been sitting in his car for over an hour, watching the security guard at the Hilton Vacation Suites-Flamingo front desk, a man in his mid-sixties, just waiting for retirement. He spent most of his time surfing the Internet or reading magazines. He fell asleep for a little while, then someone with a question woke him. This wasn’t a man who would be impressed by the badge or go out of his way to help anyone in need. His primary motivation was laziness.

Stanton got out of the car and went inside. Soft music was playing over the speakers, and a family brushed past him to get outside.

The young boy whined, “But I don’t want to go there!”

The parents didn’t respond, and when he protested by trying to sit down, the father dragged him by his arm until he started walking again.

Stanton stood at the desk and glanced at the computer screen that the guard was glued to. The net browser was open to a sportsman’s website, which discussed the benefits of bow hunting versus rifle.

“Hi,” Stanton said.

“What can I do for ya?” he said without looking up.

Stanton took out his badge and held it within the guard’s field of vision. The guard looked up at him but didn’t read the badge. Stanton replaced it in his pocket.

“A colleague of mine might have come by here in the last ten days or so.” He took out his cell phone and brought up the photo Mindi had emailed him. “Do you recognize him?”

The guard looked at the photo of Marty. “Nope.”

“You sure?”

“Yup,” he said, turning back to his computer screen.

“Well, that’s too bad. This officer was murdered recently. I’m going to need you to come down to the station with me.”

“For what?”

“I think you were one of the last people to see him alive, so we need to go through the tapes from the lobby together.”

“I ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

“You can come with me voluntarily, or I can arrest you for obstruction.”

“Obstruction! What the fuck you talkin’ about? I ain’t done nothin’.”

“You’re hampering the murder investigation of a police officer. It won’t take more than a day or two. We’ll have some forms for you, too, but a lot of those can be filled out at home. I’ll clear it with your boss.”

The man grew flustered, his lips trembling. “I ain’t done nothin’.”

“Then was he here or not?”

“Yeah, yeah, he was here. Some… I don’t know, five or six days ago.”

“What did he ask you?”

“He asked for a tape. Um, some tape from the camera near the tram.”

“Did you give it to him?”

“Yeah, I gave it to him.”

“Do you have a copy of that tape?”

“No, it was on a disc, like a DVD, and we just throw ’em away after a few weeks. We don’t keep copies.”

“Was anyone with this man when he came to see you?”

“No… no, he was alone.” The guard thought a second. “But he got a call. Yeah, I remember that. He got a call from someone and told them he had a tape that they thought … I don’t remember exactly what he said, but somethin’ about having caught something on tape.”

“Did he mention the name of the caller?”

“No, the guy seemed kind’a slow, so I didn’t ask no questions. I just gave him the disc, and he signed for it and left.”

Stanton tapped the counter. “Thanks.”

“Hey, wait a second. Is that it? I don’t need to come down and fill out no papers or nothin’, right?”

Stanton walked out without responding. He dialed Mindi. The call went to voicemail, and he said, “Call me back right away. I know what he was looking for inside Marty’s house.”