Karen Olson - Driven to Ink

“He sent his thug over here.”

“Thug?” What? Were we in a Sopranos episode?

“That ex-con.”

“Lucci?”

Sanderson nodded. “That’s the one. Says he can make life difficult for me. Well, I turned the tables on him, didn’t I?”

He didn’t seem to realize what he was saying, but its meaning was not lost on me.

“Did you have something to do with Ray Lucci’s murder?” I asked. Sometimes the direct question is the best one.

Or not.

He grabbed my shoulder and shoved me against the wall. I landed with a thud, the wind momentarily knocked out of me.

“Hey!”

We both looked up to see Tim bounding toward us. He pushed Sanderson away from me, and before Sanderson knew it, Tim had his arm twisted up behind him so hard I could see tears forming in Sanderson’s eyes.

Tim looked at me. “Are you okay?”

I nodded, standing up straight, trying to catch my breath.

Tim turned to Sanderson. “I could take you in right now for assault.”

I rarely saw my brother at work. I was used to him lounging around the living room in a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, a beer in one hand, his other hand in a bag of chips, while he watched whatever game was on the big-screen TV. Sometimes there was a woman, usually not the same one from week to week. After Shawna and their three-year relationship, he was playing the field. I didn’t blame him.

But now, his eyes were dark, his face tight, his voice deep with his threat. His muscles bulged in his arm as he strengthened his hold on Sanderson. He was all cop, and it scared me a little, like it was scaring Sanderson. Because, despite the hefty girth on the man and Tim’s definitely thinner frame, Sanderson looked as if he was about to pee his pants at any second. If Tim pulled his gun, it would be all over.

“I didn’t mean anything,” Sanderson finally stammered.

Tim swung him around as if he weren’t any heavier than a bag of potatoes. He let go of Sanderson’s arm and put his hands on his hips, his feet planted on the ground like a cop in one of those TV reality shows.

“You did mean something, and if I ever find out that you did anything like that again, to my sister or to any woman, I’ll come after you. And believe me, you don’t want that to happen.”

Scared the crap out of me, and I wasn’t even on the receiving end.

Sanderson nodded like a bobblehead doll. “Yessir,” he said, even though he must have had at least twenty years on Tim. But cops have that effect on people.

Tim turned his stare to me. “Are you ready?”

I nodded and shifted my bag a little farther up my shoulder.

Tim put his hand at the small of my back and steered me toward the door and outside. The glare hit my eyes, and I squinted, rummaging in my bag for my sunglasses. I slipped them on.

Tim opened the car door for me, and I climbed inside, settling into the seat, pulling my seat belt around me, and clicking it in. He got into the driver’s seat and started the engine.

But then he turned to me. “You’re not off the hook, you know, just because that guy was tossing you around in there.”

I glared at him. “So you’re going to finish what he started?” I challenged.

“Don’t tempt me.”

“He said Lucci came over and threatened him.”

Tim’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. “Did he say that?”

“I heard that Sanderson was trying to steal the Dean Martins. He got one of them. Alan something or other. I thought maybe Sanderson had something to do with what was going on, but he says it was the other way around. That DellaRocco was threatening him. Using Lucci as muscle.”

Tim snorted. “Someone’s lying.”

It was the way he said it that made me take notice.

“What did DellaRocco say?”

Tim braked at the red light, and we sat idling. He stared straight at the light, as if willing it to change. I opened my mouth to ask my question again, but before I could, he spoke.

“DellaRocco said he found ten thousand dollars in a duffel bag in Lucci’s locker the day Lucci was killed.”

My mouth hung open, and I couldn’t find any words at first. Finally, I sputtered, “In cash?” My brain was working overtime, and it got hung up on something, but I needed to think about it a little first. See whether I was off base.

Tim nodded. The light turned green, and we continued down the Strip, Circus Circus to our left, the big top beckoning.

“He told the cops?” I asked.

Tim nodded again. “Flanigan.”

“But Flanigan didn’t tell you?”

“I’m not on the case, remember? The guy’s body was in your car. I’m not supposed to be doing anything.”

“So how did DellaRocco manage to mention this to you?” I asked.

“He thought I knew. He said something about the ten grand-had we figured out where it came from yet?-and I played along and, after a little more conversation, managed to put it together.”

“Do you think DellaRocco will tell Flanigan you were here?” I worried a little about his job, but only a little. Tim had a way about him, something that let him get away with stuff that normal people couldn’t. He could talk his way out of anything, like when he brought his girlfriend home way after curfew in high school and her father started to get on his case. He smooth talked his way out of it, and the father ended up taking him to a basketball game the next week.

“DellaRocco didn’t exactly like Flanigan,” Tim said. “They got off on the wrong foot.”

That was good.

“So DellaRocco didn’t know where the money came from?”

We stopped at another light. I could see the Eiffel Tower several blocks down, hovering over the Strip rather than the Seine.

“He assumes it has something to do with his death.”

“Duh.”

Tim chuckled. “You have a way with words. You know that, little sis?”

I punched him on the arm.

“So I don’t get it,” I said as the car started to move again after a minute. “Ray Lucci steals my car but leaves ten thousand bucks in his locker? Why didn’t he take the money with him?”

“I have no idea. None of this makes any sense.”

I had another thought. “Maybe he did bring the money, and then whoever knocked him off and stuffed him in the trunk took the bag back to the chapel and put it in his locker.”

“Major hole in that story, Brett. Why would someone put the money back in the guy’s locker? It was cash. It was a load of money. He’d just take it.”

Okay, so I wasn’t a real detective. I just played around with being one every now and then.

“But it was a thought,” Tim said.

“What about Lucci threatening Sanderson?” I asked.

“I don’t know about that. DellaRocco said Sanderson was stealing his performers. That’s all. Anyway, if he was really threatening Sanderson, he probably wouldn’t tell me.”

“Probably not,” I conceded. “I think we need to find out where that money’s from.” Although I had an idea.

“Follow the money,” Tim said softly, almost as if to himself.

I was torn. If I mentioned the ten thousand dollars that Dan Franklin had withdrawn from his bank account two weeks ago, then he’d ask me how I knew about that. I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to admit that Jeff and I stole his bank statement. This would have to be approached delicately, so no one would throw us in jail.

Tim turned into the driveway for the Venetian and steered the Impala into the self-parking lane. We passed under the brick facade of the fake Doge’s Palace. Impressive. Looked almost real. If you took away the palm trees, the Mirage, and Treasure Island across the street.

Nah. It would never look even almost real. Because if you took those things away, you’d have only acres of desert. Venice was drowning. You couldn’t do that here.