Killer Year Page 7

  Cassandra frowned. “Cut it out, Jerry.”

  “Let me finish.” Kravitz kept his gaze on Jennings. “But instead of taking a cue from Cassie here and handling your grief like an adult, you took all the goodwill the department offered you and turned it into mud.”

  “Jerry—”

  “And that tells me all I need to know about what kind of man you are, Jennings. That’s how you treat your friends. You hurt people. So why should we give you the benefit of the doubt now?”

  Jennings felt as if the top of his head was about to explode. He glared at Kravitz, barely able to contain the urge to strangle him right then and there.

  Thing is, Kravitz was right. Every word he’d said.

  But Jennings didn’t need this dredged up along with everything else tonight. And he could see from Cassandra’s expression that she wasn’t particularly happy about it, either. “Jerry, go outside.”

  “You telling me I’m wrong about this guy?”

  “I’m telling you to go outside. We’re in the middle of a murder investigation and I don’t need you two standing here trying to prove who’s got the most testosterone.”

  Kravitz smiled again. “Is it even a contest?” He shot a glance at Jennings, then swept past him and headed out the door.

  After he was gone, Jennings said, “So how long have you been sleeping with that idiot?”

  Cassandra’s face went cold. “Are you gonna agree to the ISID or not?”

  “I’ve got nothing to hide,” Jennings said. “Get the tech in here, we can do it right now.”

  She turned and headed for the door. As she reached the threshold, she looked back at him, quiet contempt in her voice. “For the record, Nick, I know you’d never hurt anyone intentionally.” Then she added, “You just can’t help yourself.”

  His hand didn’t turn blue.

  The only one surprised by this was Kravitz, who, for whatever reason, seemed to have an emotional investment in Jennings’s culpability.

  Jennings told them about the girl who tore past him on the staircase right before Holly went into the pool. They noted it dutifully, asking if Jennings had recognized her.

  “Just some kid,” he said. “Looking scared.”

  “You happen to notice if she had a weapon?”

  Jennings shook his head. “I don’t make her for the shooter. I never heard a shot, and somehow I don’t see a teenage girl packing a suppressor. But the speed she was moving, I’d lay odds she saw something. Or someone.”

  “We’ll put it out there,” Cassandra said. “But I’m not expecting much.”

  They left the apartment complex after the crime scene unit had done its damage and most of his neighbors were questioned. Jennings wasn’t privy to the answers. Cassandra made it clear that his involvement in the investigation was not wanted, needed, or in any way condoned.

  He was a witness. Nothing more. Which was fine with him.

  But Cassandra wasn’t convinced. “I know you were fond of her, Nick, but leave this to Jerry and me. There’s nothing worse than an ex-cop on a mission.”

  “All I want is a nice hot shower,” he said. “You two have fun.”

  He watched from the window as the caravan drove away, Cassandra at the wheel of her gray Infiniti, Kravitz riding shotgun. Beyond them, he could see the lights of the Strip bleeding into the darkness, a world that seemed to exist in an alternate universe.

  He thought about Cassandra and what they’d once had and wondered how he’d let himself sink so low. He was a man who defined his life by putting “ex” in front of everything. Ex-cop, ex-husband …

  Ex-father.

  Foregoing the shower, he doused the lights and climbed into bed, jeans and all, letting the night drain away from him as he rolled onto his back and stared up at the moonlight that played across his ceiling.

  Images of Holly crowded his head. The sweet smile. The perfect body. The sad eyes.

  The bullet hole adorning her throat.

  Why had she come back to Vegas? Had she come alone? Who was she afraid of? Was her assailant friend or foe?

  It wasn’t up to him to answer these questions, but there they were, accompanied by that unmistakable feeling of guilt he knew so well. True to form, Nick Jennings had once again failed someone he cared about.

  Three and a half years ago, his daughter, Michelle, had been the object of that failure. Snatched out of her own bedroom while he and Cassandra slept just six feet and a wall of plaster away. They never heard a thing. And two weeks later, her body was found in a drainage ditch.

  While Cassandra somehow managed to find the internal fortitude to continue on with her life, Jennings fell hard and still hadn’t landed.

  Now, he felt an itch rising inside him and for the first time in years it wasn’t the thought of a game that got it going. It was a different kind of itch, the one he’d always felt at the beginning of a new case.

  A sudden sense of resolve washed over him and, despite his ex-wife’s admonitions and his own protests, he knew he wouldn’t rest until he’d scratched that itch.

  Cassandra was right. There’s nothing worse than an ex-cop on a mission.

  “I’m sorry, what was your name again?”

  “Kravitz,” Jennings said. “Detective Jerry Kravitz.”

  “And did you wish to speak to Mr. Hartley or Mr. Fine?”

  “Mr. Hartley.”

  “I’m afraid he’s out of the office. Can I have him call you back?”

  After discovering that cell phones don’t react well to pool water and cursing himself for never getting a landline, Jennings had found a battered pay phone about a block down from his apartment building. This was a long-distance call using an old phone card he’d managed to scrounge up, and there weren’t too many minutes left.

  “It can’t really wait,” he said. “Is there another number I can call? A cell phone maybe?”

  “Actually, Mr. Hartley’s on vacation and doesn’t want to be disturbed. He does check in a couple times a day, but—”

  “It’s about his wife.”

  Up until now, the voice on the phone had been generic. A typically efficient female receptionist in tenor and tone, which, to Jennings, was practically a miracle at eight o’clock in the morning.

  Now the voice faltered. “Is Mrs. Hartley in trouble?”

  “Why would you ask that?”

  “I just assumed that since you’re with the police …”

  “Do you know Mrs. Hartley?”

  “Just in passing. They split up several months ago.”

  “That’s right,” Jennings said. “Any idea what caused the breakup?”

  “I’m afraid I wouldn’t know.”

  “Come on, now, you’re right in the middle of rumor central.”

  “Sorry, Detective, I don’t believe in speculating about people’s private lives.”

  “Sure you do,” Jennings said. “Otherwise why would you ask if Mrs. Hartley’s in trouble when most people would’ve asked if she’s okay?”

  “Is there a difference?”

  “You know there is.”

  Another pause. This one longer. “Las Vegas,” she said, finally. “He’s spending the week in Vegas.”

  “Isn’t that a coincidence.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Never mind,” Jennings said. “Where’s he staying? The Diamond?”

  “He usually stays at the corporate condo. His secretary should be here in a few minutes. Shall I have her call you?”

  “Just give me the address,” he said.

  She hesitated again. After a few moments he heard the clacking of computer keys, then, “Do you have a pencil?”

  “I’ll manage.”

  He memorized the address and was in the middle of thanking her when the line suddenly went dead.

  His minutes were up.

  He managed to scrounge up enough change to call Scully for a ride and a new cell phone. An hour later, they pulled up in front of a cluster of town houses located
about a half mile from the Strip.

  Scully killed the engine. “You ready to tell me what’s going on?”

  “Surprise visit to an old friend,” Jennings said. “You wait out here.”

  “You kidding me? It’s already ninety degrees.”

  “I need you to keep an eye out. If my ex-wife and her new boyfriend show up, give me a jingle, then get your butt out of here.”

  Before Scully could protest, Jennings threw his door open and crossed the sidewalk to unit nineteen, the corporate getaway for Hartley-Fine Real Estate, of which Chuck Hartley, Holly’s ex-husband, was CEO.

  He leaned on the buzzer. No answer. He tried again. Still nothing. Moving to the window, he took a peek inside but saw only the usual trappings of corporate wealth: expensive but generic furniture, reproductions of famous paintings, a well-stocked wet bar. Everything looked neat and tidy.

  Jennings stepped away from the window and pulled his wad of bump keys from his pocket. He had several makes, each with its key cuts trimmed down to maximum depth. When he found one that fit the door lock, he shoved it in, then took his pocket knife, held it by the blade and used it like a hammer, knocking the key deeper into the lock. He hit it several times until the cylinders finally fell into place. When he turned the key, the lock clicked open.

  He’d been smart enough to bring his piece this time. Taking the nine mil from the small of his back, he carefully started inside. He was halfway through the door when he realized he wouldn’t need it.

  Things had just gotten complicated.

  “Let me guess,” Scully said. “He lost the argument.”

  Jennings turned. “I thought I told you to wait in the car?”

  “I’m fryin’ out there. I figured this place would be air-conditioned.” He sniffed, made a face. “Not that it’s doing this guy any good.”

  Beyond a small dining area was a doorway that led into the kitchen. A man of about forty-two lay faceup on the linoleum, staring lifelessly at the light fixture overhead. He was wearing only boxer shorts.

  “Is this the old friend you were talking about?”

  “Never seen him before,” Jennings said. When he’d first spotted the body, he’d thought it was Chuck Hartley, Mr. Real Estate. But he remembered Hartley being much bigger and blonder than this guy.

  He crossed to the kitchen for a closer look. There was a bullet hole, another neck shot. Stepping around the pool of blood, he crouched down and grabbed hold of one of victim’s hands. Rigor had already set in. He’d been dead for a while.

  “If you’re finished spreading your DNA,” Scully said, “we’d better get outta here.”

  “Go work on your tan,” Jennings told him.

  “Suit yourself. But you got five minutes before I bag out.”

  When Scully was gone, Jennings crossed through the living room to a short hallway that led to a bedroom and bathroom. Stepping into the bathroom, he flicked on the light, checked the sink. Two toothbrushes in the holder.

  Jennings popped open the medicine cabinet and found the usual assortment of bath products: a couple wrapped bars of soap, some dandruff shampoo, shaving cream and a razor, and a couple sticks of deodorant—his and hers.

  Had Holly been staying here? If so, why lie about the Diamond?

  Maybe the toothbrush and deodorant belonged to someone else. Some young fluff the dead man had picked up off the Strip. Some young fluff who had vacated the premises shortly after drilling a hole in the guy’s neck.

  But if that was true, how did Holly fit in?

  Jennings went into the bedroom and glanced around. The bed was unmade, clothing strewn on the floor: jeans wadded up in a corner, a pair of panties and a dark blue T-shirt at the foot of the bed.

  Jennings picked up the shirt—size small—and stared at the words plastered across it: IRON MAIDEN. There were a couple long blond hairs stuck to the fabric.

  The image of a scared kid in a Megadeth T-shirt and flowing blond hair tumbled through his brain. The girl on the staircase. She, not Holly, had been the houseguest here.

  But who was she?

  He moved to the corner, snatched up the jeans and patted the pockets. They were empty. Crossing to the dresser, he yanked open the drawers but found only boxer shorts and a few pairs of socks. He was about to turn away when he spotted something in the trash can next to the dresser. Reaching in, he pulled out a small, crumpled piece of pasteboard. It was an insert for a mini-DV video tape box.

  He stared at it a moment, his mind clicking, then glanced at the bed and the clothing on the floor. Had someone been making a home video?

  A home video with an underage kid?

  He looked around for camera equipment, but found none. There was, however, a row of track lights facing the bed, and the bulb wattage was much too high for everyday use. This was a makeshift movie set, plain and simple.

  Crossing to the nightstand now, he yanked the drawer open. Inside was a phone book, a clutch of keys and a wallet. Opening the wallet, he found a driver’s license inside, the face of the dead man staring up at him.

  Joseph Edward Fine. Chuck Hartley’s partner.

  “So who do you think did it? The kid?”

  They were back in Scully’s Jaguar and headed across town. After listening to Scully whine for ten minutes, Jennings had finally given him the details.

  Jennings shook his head. “They were both professional hits. No question about that now. But I’m still trying to figure out how Holly fit in.”

  “Maybe she and this Fine guy were having an affair. Maybe that’s why she and Mr. Real Estate broke up.”

  “So she and Fine start getting into underage porn? You don’t know Holly. That’s about as believable as the title on this car.”

  A few minutes later they pulled into Abe’s, which had been owned and operated for the last thirty years by a guy named Carlo Pronzini. Scully was complaining of hunger pains, so they found a booth in back and ordered breakfast. A few minutes later, Carlo came out of the kitchen and greeted Jennings. “Heard you stopped by last night. You shoulda said hello.”

  “Who’d you hear this from?”

  “Your ex and her partner. They came in asking questions about you and Holly. Real shame what happened to her.”

  “So what’d you tell them?”

  “That she stopped by around ten. Which was a surprise. Figured I’d seen the last of her after she snagged the rich guy.”

  “You talk to her?” Jennings asked.

  “Just to say hello, say it was good to see her. She didn’t look all that thrilled to be here, though. Kept looking out the window like she was expecting the sky to fall.”

  “She happen to mention what the problem was?”

  Carlo shook his head. “She didn’t seem all that interested in conversation. Not with me, at least. She made a few phone calls, then a cab pulled in and she was gone.”

  “A few calls? How do you know that?”

  “Saw the coins drop, heard her talking. Your name was mentioned more than once.”

  Jennings nodded. “She was leaving me a message.”

  “No, this wasn’t to you. It was about you.”

  “Oh? In what way?”

  “Something about you being someone they could trust. That you’d be able to help them.”

  Kravitz must’ve had a field day with that little tidbit of information. “Them?” Jennings said. “Any idea who she was talking to?”

  “Not a clue. But, whoever it was, she was planning to meet up with him.”

  “Yeah?”

  Carlo nodded. “She gave him your address.”

  Jennings considered heading to the Diamond to see if Holly had been shacked up with someone, but he was pretty sure that Cassie and Kravitz had already covered that ground. No point in giving hotel security a reason to start making phone calls.

  As they pulled away from Abe’s, Jennings thought about Holly’s call. Not the one to him, but to whomever she’d given his address. It was obvious now that they’d done someth
ing to get them in nice and deep with a very nasty crowd—a professional crowd—and had expected Jennings to pull them out.

  Could it have been Fine she was calling? Or what about Hartley? His receptionist said she thought he was staying at the corporate condo, but there’d been no sign of him. So where had he disappeared to?

  Back in the old days Jennings would simply have gotten the pay phone records, but that wasn’t possible now. There were no friends to call for favors, because the only friend he had was sitting next to him. Scully may have been a good R&D man when it came to home invasions and such, but his connections with the Metro Police Department were nonexistent. And the only decent informant Jennings had ever had was lying on a slab with a bullet in her neck.

  He remembered how Holly had liked to play up the cloak and dagger when they worked together, offering to get him photos and other evidence, her flair for the dramatic often superseding her good sense. Everything was a movie to Holly. Always had been.

  So what role had she been playing last night?

  Scully, ever the deep thinker, said, “What does Carlo put in those eggs? They’re starting to back up on me.”

  Jennings ignored him. A sudden thought had surfaced, an image straight from the Time Machine: Holly letting herself into his apartment to leave cryptic messages on his bathroom mirror.

  He’d found no such message this time, but Jennings had assumed that Holly was headed toward his apartment when she was shot. What if she had kept her key and had already let herself inside? What if she had left some kind of message behind that he’d simply overlooked?

  “Take a left,” Jennings said.

  Scully belched. “Where we headed?”

  “Back to my place.”

  When they got there, his door was splintered and hanging open. The place had been ransacked. Every stick of furniture overturned, cabinets ajar, newspapers and a couple dozen casino decks scattered across the floor.