Jeff Sherratt - Guilty or Else

“I’ll say this: Karadimos has balls, sending her to room to snatch the tape,” Sol said.

“How’d you figure out she worked for him?”

“If the hotel sent her, Johnny would’ve known about it, and if she’d lied about that, what else did she lie about?”

“Why didn’t he just send one of his goons?”

“His men would have been noticed by hotel security. They know all the wise guys, part of the job. Besides, you might’ve been a little concerned if you’d discovered some big ugly gorilla with a reptilian brain lounging on your bed instead of a blonde bombshell.”

“It didn’t take long for you to figure it out, Sol.”

“It was easy, a looker like that shows up in your room and doesn’t ask for money up front? C’mon, my boy. You’re not that good, are you?”

“Thought I was.”

Sol laughed. “Actually, Jimmy, hotel security caught the bellboy who gave her the key to your room. Candi went down on the poor schmuck in the employee locker room and he was putty in her hands, so to speak. The whole lascivious scene was captured on one of those new video cameras that the hotel had installed a few weeks ago. I saw the tape: disgusting!” Sol grinned.

“He copped out about giving her the key?”

“Yeah, spilled his guts. Once caught, he knew if he didn’t come clean, he’d be in one of those unmarked graves out in the desert.”

Even with everything I heard about the plan to steal the tape, I still hadn’t gotten over the fact that I’d been an idiot to let it out of my sight. I told Sol I felt terrible about screwing up so badly.

“Jimmy, it wouldn’t have been a good idea anyway to tell the cops about the tape. Remember, rule number one.”

I knew what he was going to say. “That’s rule number two.”

“All right, rule number two: Don’t put yourself in the slammer to get your client out.”

“Yeah, I know. But I wasn’t going to turn over the tape. At least, I don’t think I would’ve.”

Before he could reply, the bar manager rushed to our table with a telephone. “Phone’s for you, Mr. S.,” he said as he plugged it into the jack.

“This is it, Jimmy.” Sol grabbed the phone and, after a few grunts and okays, he slammed the receiver down. “Let’s go. Sica’s men have Kruger stashed at the Lake Mead Lodge. Bungalow, number six.”

I shot out of the booth and made a dash for the exit, Sol beside me. “How far is it?” I asked on the fly.

“About thirty miles.”

My Corvette was parked under the canopy. Someone had washed it during the night. “The keys,” I hollered to the valet, pointing at the car. He tossed them to me. I caught them and jumped into the driver’s seat. Sol got in the passenger side. He boomed directions and held on as I weaved through traffic. I hung a right onto Boulder Highway, then punched it.

The Vette fishtailed through the turn, but it held the road tight. I straightened out and accelerated to ninety. I ran a red light in Henderson and screamed through the town.

I heard the sirens before I saw the flashing red lights in the rearview mirror. Damn, I thought, cops on my ass. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw two police cruisers bearing down on us, closing fast.

“Better pull over, don’t make it worse,” Sol said.

“Yeah, guess so.”

I did as he said, but the cruisers didn’t slow down. They closed the gap and blew by me going about a hundred.

“What the hell?” I said.

“What’s that all about?” Sol asked.

“Did you see the markings on the squad cars?”

“Yeah, Clark County Sheriff’s Department.”

Just as I was about to pull back onto the road, a third cop car zoomed past us, going in the same direction as the others.

“Something’s up, Sol.”

“Yeah, don’t like it.”

We drove through the quiet town of Boulder City at a respectable speed. I turned off the thoroughfare at Lakeshore Road. To the right I saw the intense blue expanse of Lake Mead shimmering in the afternoon sun. We wound down the desert slope to the valley below and onto a road that fronted the recreational area. Close to the lodge entrance, a sheriff’s cruiser with its red lights flashing straddled the gravel road. A deputy-a large economy-sized guy-leaned on the hood. As the Vette crawled closer, the deputy raised his chubby hand, palm out. I stopped the car.

“I’ll see what’s up. Wait here.” Sol climbed out and walked toward the cop. “What’s going on?” he asked the guy.

“Road’s closed.”

“Why?”

“Police activity at the lodge.”

“What do you mean?” Sol asked.

“Just what I said, police activity. What are you doing here anyway?”

Sol flashed his PI credentials. “We’ve got business at the lodge.”

The big cop stood straight and tugged at his Sam Browne belt. Without taking his eyes off Sol, he reached into the squad car and pulled out the radio mike. “Okay buddy, stay right there. Don’t move.”

He keyed the microphone. “Roy, it’s me, Wally. I got a private dick over here. The guy says he’s got business at the lodge. Might have something to do with the shootout.”

When he said shootout, my stomach lurched.

The radio crackled. “Hold him there. I’m on my way.”

I scrambled out of the Corvette, my shoes crunching on the gravel as I walked toward them. “Sounds like there was a gunfight at the lodge,” I said.

“Yeah, a bad one,” the cop said.

We turned toward an approaching patrol car, which roared up and stopped, sending sand and gravel flying. A tall officer wearing a crisp uniform with sharp creases climbed out. The lieutenant bars on his collar gleamed in the sun.

“What have we got here?” he asked.

“These guys were going to the lodge.” Wally, the deputy, pointed at Sol. “That one’s a private peeper.”

“What went down at the lodge, lieutenant?” Sol asked.

“About twenty minutes ago, three or four men approached bungalow six and shooting started. We think the four men inside the unit were the targets. That’s all we know right now.” The lieutenant shrugged. “Could be a drug thing.”

“Anybody hurt?” I asked.

“Yeah, two guys. One fatality.”

“Any names?”

“You guys know anything about this?” the lieutenant asked. “You seem mighty interested.” Sol and I didn’t say anything. “Okay, let’s see some ID.”

We handed him our identification. He studied our licenses, then peered at Sol over the rim of his Ray-Bans.

“You’re Sol Silverman, the investigator?”

“Yeah, that’s me.” Sol pointed at me. “And this is my friend, Jimmy O’Brien, criminal lawyer.”

The lieutenant glanced at me. “Never heard of you, but I’ve heard a lot about you, Mr. Silverman. I’m Roy Garza. Good to meet you.” Sol shook his hand. “Sheriff Lamb mentions the big case every now and then. Remember, back in the sixties, the singer’s kid who’d been kidnapped?”

“Yeah, it was pretty basic. Just a day’s work.”

“You working on a case that has something to do with this, Mr. Silverman?”

Sol was quiet for a moment. He glanced around and seemed to focus on a hawk circling over a rocky hill in the distance. He turned back to Garza.

“Look, Roy, Jimmy may have a conflict of interest talking to you about this, but I’ll make you a deal. You tell me what you know, and if I can fill in any details without compromising Jimmy’s client, I will. You know I’m a straight arrow.”

The lieutenant thought for a moment, then nodded. “We don’t know a lot. A few witness reports, but as I said, four shooters approached cabin six, and shots were fired. When the smoke cleared, one guy inside was dead and another wounded. Fat guy took four hits, but he’s still alive. The wagon hauled him to the emergency room at Valley Hospital in Vegas. Everyone else split before we arrived on the scene.”