Six Seconds

56

Las Vegas, Nevada

Two dogs surfaced from the skeleton of a rusted rig. Big animals with spike collars linked to long chains that dragged over the dirt yard and dog shit as they cau tiously advanced toward their owner.

Karl Dixon.

The dogs inched forward, ears down, growling, coats stitched with permanent scars. Half-starved and mean.

Just the way Dixon needed ’em. The ones not mean enough were buried by the grease pit in the back. Dixon shifted the fat cigar in his mouth, set down the bowl of raw pig meat. In his other hand, he gripped a steel rod encased in barbed wire dotted with tufts of hair and flesh.

As the hungry dogs moved nervously to the food,

Dixon bit down on his cigar, exposing brown teeth, then raised the rod over his head.

The dogs flinched and yelped.

Satisfied, Dixon held off striking them.

“Not today, boys. You still have a job.”

Six Seconds 337

He chuckled, tossed the rod, removed his cigar, spit and took stock of his kingdom.

Desert Truck Land.

Some sixty tractors and trailers encircled by a tenfoot chain-link fence topped with coiled razor wire. His dealership sat on an old auction yard where the train tracks severed West Hacienda, west of Las Vegas Boule vard and I-15.

Dixon loved having power over everything in his world. His dogs, his ex-wives and his crooked deals. Walking back to his office, he tallied up last week’s sales to buyers from Montreal, Portland and Tulsa. They’d brought in some one hundred and fifty thousand, thanks to some creativity with the paperwork, the odometers and whatnot.

Leave gambling for the rollers.

Dixon never lost on a deal. And he never would. That’s how he ran his show.

He was careful. No complications.

He’d only gone a few steps before he stopped.

“Now what’s this?” he asked no one.

He squinted to the far end of the yard and the office, a no-frills wooden-framed rectangle with a noisy air conditioner atop a foundation of cinder blocks. A man and woman in a sedan went inside and had started talking to Wanda, the ex-showgirl who was Dixon’s secretary and girlfriend.

Dixon was a long way off but saw them all through the large window that opened to the yard. His skill at reading situations arose from his days as a polygraph examiner for the military.

338 Rick Mofina

Back in those days he’d lied about results in ex change for ten thousand dollars.

As Dixon neared the office, he got a bad feeling about these strangers. The way they were showing records to Wanda, their body language.

They weren’t truck people.

They looked like cops.

And Wanda was not the brightest light on the Strip.

Dixon picked up his pace.

The woman at the small, worn counter offered a sincere smile.

“Hi, how can I help you?”

She seemed happy to have visitors, but Graham was not optimistic.

Before he and Maggie had arrived they’d gotten rooms at a clean, reasonable motel off the Strip next to a wedding chapel. Graham made calls, then visited Las Vegas Metropolitan Police where he met Sergeant Lou Casta, with LVMP’s multiagency vehicle theft task force.

After confirming Graham’s credentials and his Tarver tragedy slash insurance story, Casta said his detail had Desert Truck Land down for some com plaints, alleged odometer tampering. “Nothing strong enough to support a charge.” The local command and the humane society had DTL on file for ill treatment of dogs. Nevada Highway Patrol had a couple of records complaints, and the FBI was looking into an interstate complaint on some rigs purchased at DTL.

“Other than that, you’re clear,” Casta said.

Now, at Desert Truck Land’s counter, Maggie Conlin took the initiative and Graham figured a mother’s non

Six Seconds 339 threatening appeal might work with the friendly recep tionist, so he let her go.

“Hi. Well, I’m hoping you can help me find my son.”

“Your son?”

“Logan Conlin. My name’s Maggie Conlin, I’m from Blue Rose Creek, near Los Angeles.”

Maggie pulled a file folder from her bag, opened to pictures and documents.

“Oh, what a good-looking boy,” Wanda said. “How old is he?”

“Nine. His father, Jake Conlin, my husband, is a trucker. He took Logan with him on a trip and I haven’t seen them since. It’s been almost six months.”

Maggie touched her hand to her mouth and blinked several times.

“That’s terrible,” Wanda said. “What happened?”

“Jake was a contract driver in Iraq and came home a little traumatized. Things got strained at home, you know.”

“I know. My sister’s son, Kyle, was over there with the marines. Still has nightmares.”

“I’m trying to find Logan and Jake. It’s possible they passed through Las Vegas and Jake may have sold, or traded, his rig. A Kenworth. Here’s a picture of him with it and here are copies of all the records.”

Wanda looked and started to nod, each nod getting bigger as she looked again at Logan’s picture, then at Jake and the rig again.

“This is all familiar. You know, I think we did do business with him. I think we did a trade for an older rig and some cash.” Wanda took one of the pages from the file and turned to the tall steel file cabinet behind her and opened the second drawer.

At that moment, the office door opened.

“Hello, folks, Karl Dixon. Owner operator. How can I help you?”

He quickly eyed Graham and Maggie.

As Maggie repeated her story, Dixon went behind the counter, placing himself between Wanda and the file cabinet, subtly bumping the door closed.

“I see, well, can you folks help me with some ID? Wanda must’ve told you we get all kinds of people telling all kinds of stories so they can get some kinda deal.”

He nodded at Maggie’s California driver’s license, but his head recoiled from Graham’s ID.

“A Canadian cop?” His feigned warmth dropped a degree. “Now I’m confused. Is there some reason for police from another country to be here?”

Graham casually explained the Tarver deaths, the insurance matter and the thread of the Conlins and how he and Maggie needed to talk to Jake.

“Just a matter of getting pointed in the right direc tion.”

Dixon took a second, then shot out his hand.

“We’d better help you out. May I have your file?”

Maggie handed it to him, but he did not turn to the file cabinet. Instead, he sat before a computer keyboard and screen.

“All of our records are accessed through here, includ ing vehicle databases. I’m sure if there’s something we can find it.”

“Thank you,” Maggie said.

Dixon was very smooth, Graham thought.

After ten full minutes of clicking and searching,

Six Seconds 341

Dixon shook his head and handed the file back to Maggie.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Conlin, but we’ve got nothing matching your information here. Did you try the depart ment of motor vehicles?”

“Wait, a sec. I don’t understand.” Maggie looked at Wanda. “You said they looked familiar. That you’d probably traded with my husband.”

“She was wrong,” Karl said.

“You didn’t look in the file cabinet,” Maggie said. “Everything’s in the computer. We get a lot of people with a lot of trucks. They tend to look the same.” “No, please. I have to find my son. Look some more. Please.”

“Maggie,” Graham said. “It was an obvious mis take.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” Dixon said. “I wish we could help you. Fine-looking boy you got there, don’t you think, Wanda, honey?”

“He sure is.”

In the instant Wanda’s eyes met Maggie’s, some thing passed between the two women.

An ache. A plea. Fear.

Maggie didn’t understand and collected her file. “You folks have yourselves a nice day.” Dixon showed them his brown teeth in what he meant to be a smile.

After Graham and Maggie drove off, he turned to

Wanda.

“You disappoint me. I saw you going to the cabinet.” “Karl, she’s looking for her kid.”

“She was with a cop!”

“I didn’t know that at the time.”

Dixon grumbled something that sounded like

“dumb bitch” before extracting the keys to his Cadillac from his pants.

“I have to go to the bank, then I have to go to Frank’s.

Don’t know how long I’ll be. Think you can find your brain while I’m gone?”

The whole time Wanda watched him leave she kept turning a small card in her hand. The one Maggie

Conlin had left from her motel.

Maggie had penned her cell-phone number on it, too.

Wanda kept turning it over and over, running her finger along the edge, wishing it were a knife as Karl finally vanished.