Sin City Homicide

20

Alma Parr checked the clock. It was 7:23 pm, time to call it a day. He turned off his computer and rose, stretching the muscles in his neck and back. He glanced at the empty spot on top of a three-foot high pillar in the corner. One of Mike Tyson’s signed boxing gloves was supposed to sit there, but Tyson left Vegas the day before Parr had enough free time to go down to the sporting goods store where he was signing autographs. He would come back. Celebrities past their prime had a natural affinity for this city. They always came back.

He said goodbye to the few people hanging around at that hour and found his Mustang parked in a handicapped spot out front. Parr flipped on his sunglasses as the engine roared to life, then he took off out of the parking lot.

The streets were busy, but he maneuvered expertly through the mass of SUVs, cabs, luxury cars, and family sedans. At a stoplight, he pulled his Browning out of the holster and placed it on the passenger seat. He drove well above eighty miles per hour as darkness blanketed the city and the artificial lights glittered like fallen stars. It was a twenty-minute drive to his house in Paradise Hills.

The road wound up the hill like a coiled snake and offered a view of the valley below and the lake that wasn’t more than a couple of miles away. There was a country club nearby, as well, with two lush golf courses. Parr had never set foot there. That would have gotten him in trouble. He had no patience for condescending people.

The road took him past what had once been a manmade forest, where developers had planted a variety of trees, but in 1981, a fire wiped out a good half of them. The burnt remains stood like skeletons along the side of the road. Parr thought they added beauty to the stretch of road. Everything in Paradise Hills was planned and built by man. The chaos and unpredictability of nature was pleasing, and it was where he felt most comfortable.

His home, white with a terracotta Spanish-tiled roof, was built on a plateau. The driveway was long, and the house was far enough from the road that he couldn’t hear the traffic. He parked near his garage and stepped out of the car. The sky was lit with stars. They were never visible in the city, but out there, he felt as if he were alone and that they sparkled just for him.

He went inside and threw his keys in a clay bowl decorated with Native American designs. The house was filled with bearskin rugs, hand-carved wooden art depicting wolves and deer, and a few hunting trophies. Massive antlers hung in the living room over a bookcase, and several holstered firearms dangled from them. He placed his Browning back in its holster and hung it up with the others.

At the counter of the bar that he had built near the kitchen, he took out a glass and put in two ice cubes before filling a third of the glass with amber liquid from a whiskey bottle waiting there. It was a special type of whiskey made in Tennessee: Heth’s Tears Whiskey.

His grandfather had been a bootlegger there during Prohibition, and the company he had started had grown into a legitimate brewery and distillery. The business had been left to Parr and his three brothers. Parr’s brothers ran the operation in Tennessee and sent him his share of the profits once a year in the form of a cashier’s check. His brothers hadn’t argued with him when he’d requested this arrangement. He was the oldest brother and, technically, the business was entirely his. His grandfather had bequeathed it all to him, believing that it was the right of the oldest to inherit and to distribute to the family as he saw fit.

There was a knock at the door. He finished the drink in two gulps and answered it. Outside stood a leggy brunette in a tight red dress and heels, smiling wryly. He stood aside and let her in. She threw her purse on the counter and began fixing herself a cocktail at the bar.

“You didn’t call me today,” she said.

“I was busy.”

“With what?”

“Same old horseshit.”

“You’re such a poet.”

He walked to the sliding glass door that overlooked the valley. A fire burned in the distance on the side of a hill. It gave the night a dim orange glow. “How was work?”

“Is that really what you want to talk about?”

“No. I just thought that’s what normal people do. Talk about work.”

She brought out two cocktails and handed him one. She placed one hand on his shoulder and took a sip of her drink with the other.

“I love this view. I can only see a brick wall from my apartment.”

“What drink is this?”

“Mojito.”

“Tastes like queer juice.”

“You don’t have to always be the macho swinging dick around me, Al. I don’t care. I see through you just like you see through me.” She pulled him toward her and placed her mouth over his, sliding her tongue past his lips. She pulled away and looked into his eyes. “Fuck me right here.”

He threw back the drink and tossed the glass on the floor.

Parr woke to a blanket of stars in an otherwise pitch-black sky. He was lying on his carpeted balcony. He sat up and glanced at his neighbors’ homes to make sure none of them were up. The lights were on in two of the homes, but the blinds were drawn.

Karen lay next to him, nude except for his shirt, which covered her torso like a blanket. He stood up and pulled on his boxers before going inside. He went to the bathroom and raised the toilet seat, staring at himself in the mirror and flexing his gargantuan triceps as he pissed.

When he was through, he washed his hands and brushed his teeth. Karen came in and slid past him, running her nails along his back. She slipped into the shower but picked up the towel first and placed it on the shower rod.

Parr froze, staring at the towel. His wife used to do the same thing because she could never reach the towel rack from the shower. The pain struck him like a blow to his chest. He spit out the foam in his mouth and rinsed as Karen told him about something that had happened earlier in the day. He walked out and went into the bedroom. On the nightstand was a photo that was nearly eight years old. Has it really been that long? He thought back, counting each year.

The photo of him and his wife, Terry, had been taken while they were climbing Mount Hood. Their faces were pressed together as she took the photo with a disposable camera at the summit. He picked up the photo and stared at it.

“You never talk about her.”

Startled, he glanced up to see Karen standing there with a towel wrapped around her slender physique.

“Go finish your shower.”

She stood there quietly a moment. “I’m here, Al. I have flesh and blood and feelings, and I have things to say. I have opinions. She doesn’t anymore. She’s not coming back, but I’m here. I’m here. I can’t compete with a dead woman.”

“There’s no competition,” he said, staring up at her. “Get dressed and get the fuck out.”

“You don’t mean that.”

He sighed and put the photo back. “No, I don’t. You can stay if you like.”

“What happened to her, Al?”

He leaned back on the headboard. “She was… she was at work. It was an office building near the-”

The phone rang. He looked at it a moment, not entirely sure what it was. He could count on one hand the number of people who had his home phone number.

“Hello?” he said.

“Al, sorry to catch you at home. It’s Mindi.”

“How the hell did you get my home number?”

“Oh, sorry. I got it from the sheriff. I thought it would be okay.”

“What do you want, Mindi? I’m tired.”

“Um, you know that guy Orson’s brought in from San Diego? Jon Stanton?”

“What about him?”

“He didn’t come in to the precinct today.”

“So what? Maybe he got laid.”

“No, he’s not like that. I’m worried. He’s not picking up his phone, and he’s not at his hotel. This doesn’t seem like something he would do.”

“What’ve you known the guy for, a week? How the hell do you know what he would do?”

“Al, I’m asking you for help.”

He ran his hand over his head. “I know. Look, he probably just got caught up in a casino or something. Maybe he got trashed and passed out somewhere. He’s not just going to disappear. Have you called Orson?”

“Yeah, his phone is off.”

“I’ll tell you what-I’ll check it out tomorrow. Ask around and see if anybody’s seen him.”

“Okay. I guess that’s better than nothing. See ya tomorrow.”

He hung up and placed the tip of the antennae in his mouth, biting down softly with his front teeth. He looked to see if Karen was still there, but she had gone back to the shower. He dialed a number.

“This is Manny.”

“Hey, it’s Alma. You on my mark?”

“Just got an update from the team an hour ago. They’re on him.”

“Where?”

“Um… house on Flower. He went inside earlier today and hasn’t come out yet.”

“How much earlier?”

“’Bout ten o’clock.”

“He’s been inside one house since ten, and you didn’t call me?”

“I figured he had some pussy there or something.”

“Gimme the line to the van.”

“I don’t think I should do that, Al. It’s against protocol.”

“You fucking shitting me? Gimme that fucking number, you little pissant, or I swear to all that’s holy, I’ll be at your fucking house in an hour to get it from you.”

“Wow, that’s an overreaction. Calm down, man. You’re gonna get an ulcer or something.”

“I’m not fucking around. Gimme the number.”

Manny gave him the number, and Parr grabbed a pen off the nightstand and wrote it down on his palm. “Thanks.”

“Sure,” he said and hung up.

Parr dialed. A male voice answered on the third ring. “Station Three.”

“This is Captain Alma Parr. You folks are on my dime right now. I need an update.”

“Looks good, Captain. He’s just inside a house over here on Flower.”

“What’s your name?”

“Henry, sir.”

“Henry, I want you to go knock on the door. If anyone answers, you apologize and say you got the wrong house and leave. But look inside and see if the mark’s there.”

“Gotchya. Hang on.” There was some shuffling around then the sound of a door opening. There were footsteps on pavement, knocking, and then a long wait. “Don’t look like anybody’s home.”

“Any lights on?”

“Nope.”

“Go around back and see if you can look into any of the windows.”

“’Kay, one sec… back window into the basement is broken out.”

Parr bit down and shook his head. The stupid bastard let him slip away. “Get in the house and see if anyone’s home.”

“Um, we don’t have a warrant or nothin’.”

“I’ll take the heat. Just get in there.”

“All right. Lemme check the door… back door’s open.”

“Radio the van and tell your partner you need back up.”

“All right. I gotta hang up, though.”

“Call me right back. I’m not fucking around-you call me right back.”

“I will, sir.”

Parr hung up and paced the room. The Homeland Security Unit at the Metro PD had been created in response to 9/11, and it had been stacked with college grads looking to get some experience before moving up to the feds to start careers as bureaucrats. A few were solid cops, but Parr hadn’t interacted much with them. He should have stuck to uniforms he knew.

His phone rang. “Yeah, this is Parr.”

“Henry again, sir. We’re inside the house.”

Parr heard Henry’s partner shout, “Clear.” Then feet shuffled on linoleum.

“Upstairs is clear, sir. We’re heading down.”

“Stay on your toes.”

Parr bit his thumbnail and walked to the bar in the living room. He pinned the phone to his shoulder with his cheek and poured himself more whiskey. He went to his balcony and stood watching the fire as helicopters dropped hundreds of gallons of water over it at once.

There was shouting then swearing coming from the phone.

“Uh oh,” Henry said.

“What? What’s wrong?”

“We’re gonna have to call it in, sir. We got a body here.”