Victor Methos - Sin City Homicide

The hostess signaled to him that his order was ready, and he walked back, paid, and left the mall, to find Marty sitting on the hood of the car, smoking.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

They climbed in, and Marty pulled away from the curb.

“What are the pizzas for?”

“Just a welcoming gift.”

Because of the traffic, the trip to the precinct on Martin Luther King Boulevard took nearly half an hour. The precinct office building was a modern design, made of steel and glass. Where the Northern Precinct in San Diego was neglected and forgotten, the Las Vegas Metro Police headquarters looked as though it were being constantly cleaned and renovated, as did the surrounding property.

Marty parked up front in a reserved spot, and Stanton got out then waited for Marty to tuck in his shirt, which had come out in the back. The pizzas were cold now, and he could feel the grease soaking through the boxes.

They walked into a building that ignored them. Uniforms, detectives, sheriffs, lieutenants, secretaries, lawyers, and paralegals bustled from one room to the next, answering calls and having meetings. The energy was vibrant, and Stanton could feel the drive of the people in the building. They were focused and disciplined. He watched them just a little too long, and Marty asked him if he was okay.

“Fine.”

“Sheriff Hall’s office is upstairs.”

They took an elevator to the top floor, then Marty led him down a long hallway to a corner office.

“I’ll see if I can find him.”

Stanton sat down in the brown leather chair set out for guests. The office was cluttered but not messy, and it was filled with photographs of Orson with sports figures and local and national politicians. In each one, he was wearing finely tailored suits. Not a single photograph showed him in a uniform.

“Jon Stanton,” a voice bellowed. “Didn’t think you had the balls to come back here after the ass-kicking you took from me last time.”

Stanton smiled and rose to shake Orson’s hand. “Two strings on my racquet were loose, and you wouldn’t stop long enough for me to grab a new one.”

“Your racquet was fine. It was your attitude that was bad. You think too much and choke. You gotta learn to turn off your brain sometimes.”

“It may not turn back on, as you’ve demonstrated.”

Orson laughed as he went behind the desk and sat down. “How the hell are you?”

“Good. Better than I’ve been in a long time. How’s everything here? You keeping this cesspool relatively clean?”

“You have no idea, brother. San Diego’s got its scumbags, but every piece of shit in the world comes here, at least for a couple of nights. We busted someone from fucking Tuvalu few days back for beating up a hooker. You know that Tuvalu was even a country?”

“No.”

“Me neither. But that’s what we got.” He played absent-mindedly with a pen on his desk, rolling it a few inches one way then the other. “Sorry as hell to hear about Melissa. She was a good woman.”

“She is. Sometimes, it just doesn’t work. It’s nobody’s fault.”

“Did you have any idea it was coming?”

“Yeah, some. Just a vague feeling. We knew it was over, but we kept trying to make it work for the kids. I think we went on for about six months like that. Then we just couldn’t take the denial anymore.”

“Well, you’re young and good-looking. What the hell would I do if Wendy ever left me, Lord forbid?”

“Probably just get fatter. What have you been eating, by the way?”

“Hey, don’t knock it. I can rough and tumble with the best of them still at two-sixty. Man needs some fat on him to tell the world he doesn’t care that much about what it thinks.” He leaned forward on his elbows. “I appreciate you coming out here, Jon. I really do.”

“I appreciate the vote of confidence, but I really don’t know what you expect me to do. You got some of the best detectives in Robbery-Homicide that I’ve ever seen. I’m sure I can’t do anything they already haven’t done.”

“Maybe, but I gotta try. We’re getting desperate. The file’s with the assigned detectives. I’ll call over and get them to bring it here.”

“No, don’t do that. Let me meet them on their turf.”

“Gotcha. I was gonna ask you that, but I didn’t know how you’d take it. Their names are Jay Reed and Javier Trujillo. Marty’ll take you over to ’em when you’re ready.”

“Thanks.”

“Marty’s going to be your guide while you’re here. He’s a good guy but a little slow, so go easy on him. He’s had some brain trauma from a motorcycle accident.”

“He’s great. Thanks, Orson.”

“No, thank you. I’m sure you wanna get started so you can get back to the beach, but let me just say, anything you need, you call me directly. You have my new cell number?”

“No.”

“I’ll text it to you. And Jon, I ain’t kiddin’. You call me if you need anything at all.”

“I will.” Stanton rose. “Hopefully, I won’t be a total waste of your money.”

“Well, probably, but if you ain’t a gambler, you got no business being in this town.”

Stanton turned to walk out of the office and realized he’d left the pizzas on the chair next to him. He grabbed them, and Orson stared but didn’t say anything.

“Do you want some?”

“If you don’t mind. I had a small lunch.”

“Not at all.” Stanton gave him a box. “Enjoy.”

Marty was waiting down the hall, his arms crossed, staring blankly at the floor. When he saw Stanton, he straightened up. “How’d it go?”

“Fine,” Stanton said. “I need to see Jay and Javier.”

“They’re downstairs. Come on. I’ll take you to ’em.”

Walking side by side, they were quiet for a long time.

Then Marty asked, “Did Sheriff Hall say anything about me?”

“He said you’re a good cop and that you’re going to be showing me around while I’m here.”

“Yeah, it should be fun. I’ve lived here since I was born, and I know all the fun places. I thought tonight, you’d want to go to a club. It’s a good place to meet people when you don’t know anybody.”

“I appreciate that, but I’ll probably just head back to the hotel after I’m done here.”

“Oh, okay.”

On the walk back to the elevator, Stanton watched Marty’s footsteps. He hadn’t noticed it before because he wasn’t looking for it, but Marty had a spastic gait: a stiff walk dragging a foot, caused by contractions of the muscles on one side of the leg. It was typically attributed to a conversion disorder, which was a quasi-scientific way of saying that science couldn’t explain the cause. Typically, symptoms appeared after stressful events and could be as severe as blindness or complete paralysis. Psychotherapy was the only known cure.

They got down to the first floor and hurried through the maze of corridors before reaching a large door marked ROBBERY-HOMICIDE. Stanton opened the door, but Marty grabbed his arm.

“Did Sheriff Hall tell you about Captain Parr?”

“No, what about him?”

“Well, you’ll see. But, Jon, just be careful, okay?”

“I will. Thanks, Marty.”

Marty nodded then walked away, glancing back once before stepping onto the elevator.

Stanton waited nearly twenty minutes before the detectives were ready to see him. Instead of sitting at their desks, they were in an interrogation room, where a video was set up. Stanton walked in and waited by the door. The two of them were sitting a couple of feet from a television, watching a boxing match.

“I thought you guys might be hungry,” he said, placing the pizza down on a large table.

The two detectives turned to him. Jay was tall with red hair, and he was wearing a crisp white shirt with suspenders. However, Javier was wearing a T-shirt, his badge clipped to his belt. Tattoos on his forearms ran from his wrists to his elbows.