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COSTLY DECEIT
Ian Campbell Crime Novel
Chapter One
There’s no doubt I’m a lucky man, but luck can be a relative thing, and it’s complicated by a tendency to self-destruct.
By lucky, I mean Carolina Rutherford, my bride-to-be, a beautiful and intelligent woman well beyond what I deserve. She’s also the daughter of Eugene Rutherford, president of TransGlobal Shipping and my employer’s largest client, a fortunate happenstance that has saved my job more than once.
By self-destruct, I’m referring to the redhead lying beside me. No, Carolina is not a redhead, nor has she ever been. This lady also towers over my fiancé, at least in terms of vertical height. At present, the lengthy vixen is horizontal and fast asleep.
Once again, I’ve fallen victim to strong drink and amorous indiscretion, a combination that has plagued me. This intoxicated dalliance is the type of thing that could put a strain on our relationship if it were to become public knowledge. I can only hope that Sin City marketing is reliable and what happens in Vegas actually stays in Vegas.
I wasn’t stingy with last night’s drink of choice, whiskey sour, and after consuming enough distilled liquor, I can’t help rolling full steam ahead when the opportunity for misbehavior presents itself. This has resulted in more jeopardizing situations than I care to remember.
The slumbering beauty sports a large, colorful tattoo of assorted tropical flowers that canopy one shoulder and trail down her arm, contrasting seductively against a mid-summer tan. This titillating visual distracts me beyond foolishness and slams my ability to use common sense into park. I really ought to wake the gal and disengage from this predicament at once. But like Caesar, I’ve raced across the Rubicon and it’s too late for a hasty retreat, so I’ll consider mitigating the consequences of poor judgment later. Much later.
Unimpeded by good sense and with total disregard for the first rule of holes, I slide my hand under the bed sheet and lightly finger-walk along her luscious curves. A perfectly rounded derrière halts my progress, a sun-baked erogenous zone that calls out for a sampling of my massage technique. The sleeping temptress stirs, coming to life with the lazy stretch and sultry purr of a lounging jungle cat. Lordy, I love the feline nature of women, especially one with such exotic style.
After several minutes of lusty grappling, I remember, there’s more than monkey business on today’s agenda; I’m here on assignment. Although I’m easily distracted by the softer sex, my commitment to work is unchallenged, except by my boss, who doesn’t think highly of me. On the bright side, his expectations are low, so that makes my job easier.
“Time to get up and at ‘em,” I announce.
We disentangle, and I slide off the bed. Red props upright, gathers the sheet that has worked its way to the foot of the bed and wraps herself in one-thousand-thread-count Egyptian cotton. It’s a little late for modesty, but a charming effect.
“Are you checking out today?” she asks, clutching the sheet tight to her chin.
“No, I believe I’ll stick around a few more days.”
“So we have time for an encore?” Her polished green eyes twinkle and her tongue wets across slightly parted lips smudged with hellfire red lipstick.
It takes a surprising amount of willpower to resist the lure of further misconduct, mischief that might lead to a dereliction of duty. The call of duty overpowers carnal desire. “Twas surely an enchanted evening, my lady, but alas, I must bid thee adieu. There is business at hand.”
A vacant expression sweeps across her face. Methinks the dame is no fan of the good fellow Shakespeare, therefore, failing to recognize the depth of my poetic elocution. “I’m here on business, so I’m not sure I’ll have anymore playtime,” I clarify.
“Oh, your doctor thingy.”
Yes, my doctor thingy. Okay, the Physicians’ Annual Coronary and Heart Convention wasn’t the most creative story ever concocted. Nevertheless, considering I, Ian Campbell, am no doctor, but instead, a private detective of dubious character, the performance was artfully played, even if I’m the only person in this room who realizes it.
Perpetuating the deception, I explain that I need time to prepare for a presentation on cardiomyopathy so we must end this delightful romp. There is, in fact, business that requires my attention, but it has nothing to do with the fictitious Physicians’ Annual Coronary and Heart Convention, rather, professional sleuthing.
Now that her seductive spell has been broken, I’m ready to renovate my commitment to Carolina. I plan to do this with a renewed vow to stay clear of redheads wearing ink, and little else, and other such temptations that in the past have proven problematic.
My relationship with Carolina is loving, passionate and earnest. I envision these feelings lasting well into our old age, which prompted me to present her with a one-point-six carat promise, confirmation of my commitment and devotion. Without reservation, I proposed, and taken aback, she accepted.
Our engagement is a pledge I am dedicated to, however imperfectly, so it’s high time I straighten up and fly right. I’m at that stage in life where responsibility should come as natural as the sense not to mix plaids and stripes. I obviously have work to do, on my relationship, that is. My fashion sense has matured much more quickly than my ability to act responsibly.
Before I get too serious about self-improvement, I’d better take care of this most current indiscretion.
Red and I jump in the shower and engage in more playful make-out under sweltering spray. Before saying our good-byes, we dine in the room on loaded omelets, crispy hash browns and crispier bacon.
I’m in Vegas because John Smotherly is here, and it’s no coincidence we room on the same floor of the Palms Hotel and Casino. The plan, now that I’m no longer distracted and officially on the clock, is to place a chair at the door, prop it open just a crack, enough to see up the hallway, and plant myself there until Smotherly wanders by. My room is strategically positioned between his room and the elevators, so there shouldn’t be any chance of him slipping past me unnoticed, unless I doze off.
Chapter Two
It’s late afternoon before Smotherly emerges, toddling past my room with a black satchel wedged under one arm. He shuffles on the balls of his feet, leaning forward as if fighting against a stiff wind.
At first appearance, he comes across as a science fair geek, a squatty, bookish type. Decked out in a sweater vest layered over a short-sleeve shirt and brown corduroy pants, he apparently received wardrobe advice from the Handbook For Nerds. In fact, he went all-in on the look and completed the dorky ensemble with a pair of gray New Balance running shoes. It doesn’t appear Smotherly uses the footwear for their intended purpose, fitness.
Truth be told, John Smotherly is not all he appears to be; the man is a fence, a procurer of precious gemstones, the illicit kind, and thus, the primary reason for this Las Vegas junket. When first assigned this case, my boss warned me not to underestimate our dear Mr. Smotherly. This old bird is cagey, a pro, a charlatan of the highest order.
I begin my pursuit after allowing him time to make it to the bank of elevators at the end of the hallway. Outside the room, I pause, pretending to secure the door while sneaking a peek in his direction. His back is to me, waiting for a ride downstairs.
I slouch my shoulders and take a deep breath, mustering a disinterested expression, then mosey on down the hall. I try to appear casual and detached, but my success in the performing arts leaves something to be desired. My acting ability is best applied in defense of my many misdeeds.
Pulling alongside the daffy fellow, I avoid eye contact and conversation. We stand together, waiting in silence. He ignores me and I keep my head down, studying his scuffed shoes. I wish I’d waited a bit longer before leaving the room.
This turns out to be a slow elevator, and the pressure to gather as much information about my prey as possible while remaining inconspicuous creates a situation an extra dose of underarm deodorant might’ve helped to alleviate. My touristy shirt is drenched with sweat, the loud fauna print splotched with damp discoloration, and this doesn’t go unnoticed. Smotherly glances over at me, an underwhelmed expression on his face.
The elevator arrives and we board one after the other. Smotherly presses the button for the ground floor. He pulls a yellowed handkerchief from his back pocket and sneezes like an asthmatic walrus, coating the wall with overspray. The door slides closed and our ride takes off.
We descend four floors to the lobby without the distraction of company, facing across from one another. I have Smotherly’s undivided attention, so he has plenty of time to give me the once-over. I might be paranoid, but I get the impression he’s judging me with a critical eye.
Things aren’t going as well as I’d hoped, too much intimate contact with the person I’m supposed to be tailing. My employer would not approve of how I’m handling the surveillance, so I won’t bother to include this episode in my report. I’m sure that every training manual ever written about covert surveillance suggests it’s bad technique to be in such close proximity to your quarry. Since I’ve broken that rule, I should extricate myself from this situation at the earliest opportunity.
The elevator lands on the ground floor and the door clatters open. Smotherly exits to the right. I escape to the left. At this point, it would be counter-productive to continue tailing Smotherly. Instead, I meander to the hotel bar to indulge in an early intoxicant, just enough to settle my nerves and regroup.
The only other patron in the dimly lit watering hole is sitting at the end of the bar peeling the label off his beer bottle. On second thought, a midday drink might send my attitude into a rapid nosedive, so I leave without ordering.
I regain my composure while cooling my heels in the lobby, lounging on a couch as rowdy vacationers whoop it up nearby. People-watching is a hobby of mine and Vegas is fertile ground for such leisure pursuit.
When my portly suspect reenters the hotel, I take cover behind a large pillar, keeping a close eye on him as he beelines across the lobby, straight to the elevators. This time he doesn’t see me, and I feel more like the professional sleuth my business card claims I am.
He doesn’t have to wait around, jumping aboard an open elevator. I have no inclination to follow. It’s safe to assume he’s returning to his room to resume hibernation, and fruitless labor is not my thing.
There’s no telling where Smotherly slipped off to, but why waste an evening in Vegas on something that can stew until tomorrow. I’ll just hang around down here and continue my detecting in the hotel casino. So, in the spirit of due diligence, I head straight over there.
A raucous game of blackjack draws my attention. The revelry signals a hot table, and I join in. Settled in at the gaming table, things begin marginally better than last night when I contributed generously to the massive Las Vegas light bill. I did my part to ensure that future astronauts can enjoy the view of Vegas from outer space.
Due to excessive alcohol consumption, the longer I sit here, the less calculating my bets are, and my luck takes a turn for the worse. Time to walk away.
Up and about, I circle the lobby, lest I be accused of disregarding my primary duty, surveillance. A few passes through the hotel lobby reassures me that everything is status quo. I head upstairs to poke around Smotherly’s room before retiring to my own.
A light shines from beneath Smotherly’s threshold, piquing my interest. I creep up and place an ear up to the door. All is quiet.
While posed in this position of obvious eavesdropping, someone taps my shoulder and I jump forward, cracking my noggin against the door.
I spin around, mouth agape and eyes bulging like a startled Chihuahua. My heart vaults up my throat choking off any attempt at speech. This frazzled reaction is unbecoming and more than a little embarrassing. I might have a goose egg on my head, too.
The person to catch me in this compromising position is none other than Red, last night’s paramour.
“Are you Okay, Doc? You’re not lost, are you?”
As my mind races for a plausible explanation, I step away from Smotherly’s room. There’s a good chance I might’ve drawn his attention when I bounced my head off his door.
“I’m fine. I thought I heard someone in distress as I was passing by, and I’m always prepared to render medical assistance. That’s what I do. Not to worry, though, it was a false alarm.” Quickly changing the subject, I remark, “Don’t you look striking?” And she does.
Fiery hair cascading in loose curls over bare shoulders, vivid tattoo on full display and tall, shapely frame wrapped tightly in a sleek black dress complete an erotic masterpiece. Her torrid eyes and suggestive smile radiate a sexual invitation. Naughtiness is in the air and my ability to remain steadfast against any further lapse in judgment, like last night, is at serious risk. This is going to be troublesome.
“Are you going to your room?” she asks in a velvet drawl.
“I was, but, but…” I sputter along, considering my options.
This is a decisive moment. Will I give in to lust or cling to the committed, monogamous relationship I desire? I’ve been told, you can’t have your cake and eat it too, but tonight, I decide to devour this slice of cake in ravenous delight.
Chapter Three
Her day began as any other, urged from a dreamless sleep by the blasting bullhorn beside her bed. She snuggled deeper into the body pillow, ignoring the alarm clock growing louder and more insistent.
She reached over and fumbled for the snooze button. Poppy wouldn’t be in to shut off the alarm and coax her awake. On those days he traveled on business, her dad expected her to get up and ready for school without his help. She hated to disappoint him, so reluctantly propped herself up on one elbow and yawned. With a little oomph, she rose up, threw her legs over the side of the bed, and rubbed her eyes until they squeaked. Still groggy, she slid off to begin the day.
After cleaning her teeth and raking the tangles from her hair, she went to the closet and picked out clothes Poppy would never have permitted her to wear to school, a pink spaghetti-strap top he claimed was too showy and holey jeans too tatty to wear in public. She considered this a minor act of defiance. Even though the outfit wouldn’t be conservative enough for Poppy’s liking, it was just fine, especially compared to what other kids were wearing.
In a sleepy fog, she plodded heavy-footed into the kitchen to find something for breakfast, settling on a bowl of multi-grain cereal. Her father always bugged her to try his rabbit food, and since his instructions were to eat healthy today, she would make the effort. That, however, was as far as her inclination for wholesome living went this morning. What she really needed was a kick-start, so she brewed a pot of coffee, just as she’d done for Poppy on many mornings.
After pouring a cup and doctoring it with plenty of sweetener and hazelnut crème, she sat at the table sipping the bitter concoction, trying to enjoy the stuff. Now eleven years old and trusted to stay home without a babysitter, she ought to have some adult privileges, and indulging in coffee, however distasteful, was just the thing to impress Sophia. When the two of them walked to school, she would casually mention it to her.
Outside the gated courtyard, she paced up and down the driveway, waiting for Sophia to pass by. Each day, the friends walked together the three blocks to school. On this warm, clear morning, birds caroled overhead and traffic hummed in the distance. Nothing appeared to be out of the ordinary.
A car engine sputtered to life at the end of the street, the high-pitch whine piercing the quiet morning. The vehicle revved and belts squealed in protest before the over-worked motor stalled. With a few grinding cranks, the ancient panel van restarted and gunned from its parking spot, a wake of dirty smoke trailing from the exhaust.
The battered van raced towards the child and came to a skidding stop in front of her. The smell of scorched rubber and oily fumes filled the air.
Startled, she heard herself scream, but stood paralyzed as the terrifying scene unfolded around her. She would later wonder why she had not run to safety behind the gate instead of freezing like a snowman in an ice storm. Everything happened so fast.
Two men, one monstrously large, tumbled out of the side door and charged at her. Both men wore a bandana tied across their face. As they grabbed for her, she came to life with a surge of adrenaline, thrashing and clawing, fighting with wild ferocity.
The men, grunting and sweating, wrestled her towards the van. Alongside the vehicle, the big man swept her off her feet and tossed her through the open side door. He rolled in on top of her. The second man piled in, and before either had a chance to slide the door shut, the driver screeched off, fishtailing down the street.
As suddenly as the chaotic madness erupted, the bedlam calmed, and the neighborhood returned to quiet tranquility. No one saw a thing.
While the largest man scrambled to tie her hands and feet with rope, she struggled in heated rage, screaming for help and yelling profanities. The other man looped duct tape around her head, trying to cover her eyes and mouth. The door wheeled freely back and forth on its tracks, latching closed when the driver pounded the brakes to avoid rear-ending the vehicle in front of him.
Before restraining her, the girl caught a glimpse of the driver. With the commotion still raging behind him, the man had pulled off the nylon stocking he wore over his head and turned over his shoulder to shout orders. His greasy hair was tied back in a short, stringy ponytail and he sported a gaudy diamond stud in his right ear. She also noticed a pronounced scar across his sloping forehead. Someone had likely clobbered him, she imagined. He was, after all, a very loud, crude and ugly man, and he probably deserved it.
The loudmouth yelled vulgar language at the other two, berating them terribly. They put up with the verbal onslaught while struggling to keep their balance. He jerked lane to lane passing slower traffic, rocking the van as he sped around corners. The erratic driving tossed the passengers around the van’s cargo area. The men rolled on top of her, the putrid stench of their body odor causing her nostrils to burn.
Were there no cops patrolling today, she wondered, marveling at the driver’s brazen disregard for safety. This man could use a few driving tips from Poppy. He was a good example of a safe and courteous motorist. This guy was an asshole.
Minutes and miles separated the child from the safety of her home. Disoriented and exhausted, she wilted from the physical pain of the assault, her mind raced. A tenacious spirit shielded her from complete panic, although, she began to hyperventilate. She struggled to catch her breath and slow her breathing, her heart hammering hard inside her chest.
The oafs charged with restraining her situated themselves so they could sit without sliding around and seemed to relax the farther they traveled. Blindfolded, she laid motionless on the floorboard trying to estimate how long they’d been inside the van. She never realized how difficult it was to measure time while sightless and questioned whether there was a connection between sight and the perception of time.
The van left pavement and drove onto a gravel road, interrupting her curiosity.
A short while later, the van slowed. They passed over a rutted stretch that bounced the vehicle violently and then came to a stop. The driver parked and got out, instructing the other two sleazes to watch over her. They hated the driver and their remarks when he was out of earshot were nasty. Not one of these trolls had civilized bearings. There was absolutely no excuse to use such foul language in the presence of a child, and she planned to report their awful behavior to Poppy.
Chapter Four
The driver returned and ordered the men standing outside the van smoking to move the girl inside the house.
The big man tossed his cigarette on the ground, slid the door open and reached inside the van. He pulled the girl out and hoisted her like a feed sack over his shoulder. He followed the driver to the dilapidated farmhouse concealed in a stand of parched juniper, his smaller mate tagging behind.
Carried inside, dangling upside down, the girl concentrated on counting footsteps as they crossed over the creaking floorboards, trying to estimate the size of the house. It proved a difficult task to focus on, and she lost count.
The man lugged her through the house and down a set of stairs. He dropped her onto a cold cement floor and then returned up the stairs, leaving her alone and scared. She struggled to draw enough oxygen to fill her lungs, inhaling the rancid air through her nose in long breaths.
Like a hot branding iron searing cowhide, frightening images burned in her mind. She envisioned herself in the bowels of a medieval torture chamber, waiting for these cretins to perform unspeakable acts of cruelty. Why hold her prisoner in a creepy dungeon if they didn’t plan to toy with her for their own perverted amusement? She watched enough television to realize evil people lurked around every corner, but she never imagined anything like this happening to her.
The attack took her by complete surprise, but she had fought back with the instincts of a cornered badger. Still they overpowered her. She never had a chance, they outnumbered her, and one of them was a towering ogre. When the police capture these heathens, they might as well plan to spend the rest of their miserable lives sleeping on a steel cot in a concrete closet, and she’d help put them there.
Not long ago, she saw a teenager on TV who had also been kidnapped. She told her story to Oprah Winfrey. The girl suffered a similar ordeal, grabbed from in front of her house and carried away. The girl described being chained in a closet and the terrible things the pervert did to her. She escaped, but it took years for the police to catch him, and meanwhile, he did the same thing to other girls. Because of her testimony in court, the jury sentenced him to life in prison.
Now she’s famous and everyone calls her a hero. If that girl managed to stay brave, with everything that happened to her, she’d do the same. If these idiots thought holding her prisoner would break her spirit, then they had another thing coming.
Instead of lying around waiting for someone to save her, she decided to hunt for clues that might help the police later. Her hands and feet were still tied and her eyes taped over, but she was determined not to let this stop her.
She squirmed along the floor trying to get a sense of her surroundings. The concrete that had first been a cooling comfort was now a clammy slab that sent shivers through her. It didn’t take long for her to grow exhausted, and she gave up without learning anything. The place was an empty hellhole.
As time passed, fear burrowed deep inside her, and the fight to remain positive melted away. She heard the men clamoring above her. They were still around, but not once had they come to check on her. Surely, they didn’t intend to leave her locked down here forever. This wasn’t funny, and when Poppy found out how they were treating her, he would be pissed off.
Poppy always warned her that scary movies caused nightmares and had forbid her to watch them, but when he left on overnight trips, she turned them on anyway. She would stay up late into the night watching horror flicks and then go to bed and sleep like a baby. She thought Poppy was wrong about the nightmares, but maybe he’d been right after all. Gory movie scenes now played inside her head, and she couldn’t turn them off. The shivers turned to trembles.
Shortly after her birth, she had left the hospital in her dad’s arms, and he was the only parent she’d ever had. They were everything to each other, and she knew he would never allow anything to happen to her. It was just a question of how long it would take him to find her. Did he even realize she was missing?
The duct tape irritated her eyes and the rope, tight around her wrists and ankles, sliced into her skin, and it hurt. The tape prevented her from breathing naturally and the lack of oxygen made her light-headed. She drifted in and out of sleep.
Curled up on the slimy floor at the foot of the stairs, a loud noise rang out above her, jolting her awake. She realized the blast was a gunshot, and panic washed over her.
The door at the top of the steps creaked open, and she heard footsteps on the stairs. She held her breath, trying to appear unconscious.
The person stopped and stood over her, staring down at her. Her heart raced fast and hard.
Time froze while the person hovered, drawing hard, labored breaths. A flashlight illuminated her face, the light bleeding through the duct tape. Without saying a word, he returned up the stairs.
The throbbing in her temples eased as relief settled in.
A few minutes later, another person rumbled down the steps, a different person. The footsteps sounded more clumsy and tentative. She slid away from the steps after the earlier scare and now prayed she had moved far enough not to be seen.
He walked past her to another area of the basement. A thud echoed as something heavy hit the floor.
“Hey, arya still alive?” the man shouted from across the room.
She recognized the thundering voice of the large man, but didn’t answer, couldn’t answer because they still had her mouth taped shut.
The lummox shuffled over and gave her a kick between the shoulder blades. Although desperately trying to appear unconscious, a muffled wince escaped.
He stooped down and tore away the tape, ripping it from her eyes, roughly pulling pieces from her matted hair. A flashlight lay beside her reflecting a sharp ray off the shiny floor. She squinted in an effort to focus past the eerie glow, but the most repulsive monstrosity she’d ever seen stepped in front of her, and she recoiled.
His grotesque face was pitted and scarred, the skin red and splotchy. Patches of scraggly hair covered his head, but much too thin to conceal ears deformed by melted flesh. He offered a toothless smile, and she nearly fainted.
“Whatya fraid of, girlie? I might look scary, but I ain’t mean. Just gotta get to know me.”
That was the last thing she wanted to do.
The man kneeled down and peeled the last piece of tape from her mouth with a punishing rip that removed a layer of skin from around her lips. She let out a bloodcurdling shriek that jolted the aberration straight to his feet and staggering back a few steps.
From upstairs, a voice cried out, “What the hell is going on down there?”
“Nuthin’s going on. I was just letting girlie get some air.”
“Well shut that bitch up.”
“Whatsa matter with you, girlie? Ya gotta be quiet,” he tried calming her. “I ain’t gonna be able to help if yer gonna act like that.” A disfigurement marked his mouth. The bottom and top lips were fused on one side, causing his speech to come out garbled and gave his face a crooked, off-kilter appearance.
Still tied up, splayed on her side with one arm pinned beneath her, she gasped for air. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Snot flowed from her nose, burning the tender skin around her lips. All her courage shattered as if smashed by a wrecking ball.
The mutilated man recognized the girl’s fragile condition and untied the ropes with an unexpected gentleness.
Once free of the bindings, she scooted away from him and rose to a sitting position. She drew her legs out in front of her and outstretched her arms to ease the cramping, rotating them in a circular motion. The spiral flexing seemed to mesmerize the big man. Without looking at him, she continued the motion until it became painful.
Fear swathed her like an icy fog, dousing her fiery spirit. She knew she was acting like a silly scaredy-cat and Poppy would be disappointed in her, but she couldn’t help it.
“Ya hungry?”
There was absolutely no way she trusted the primitives walking around above her to prepare anything edible. She would hold out until Poppy came and rescued her. It shouldn’t be much longer.
She drew in a deep breath, wiped the tears away with the back of her hand, and looked the man defiantly in the eyes, but said nothing.
This kid acted strange, he thought, as he watched her. He liked children, they had an understandable simplicity, but they found him hideous. Because of their reaction, he rarely had much to do with them. He didn’t know how to respond to their curiosity and prying questions.
Since she refused to answer him, he returned up the stairs and softly closed the door behind him. The lock engaged with a metallic clank that echoed across the empty space.
After he left, she wondered what he had placed on the floor across the room. Now that she was loose and free to roam, she intended to find out. She inched through the tomb-like darkness. Engulfed by the inky murk, she imagined herself inside the belly of Jonah’s whale. The muffled conversation and heavy footsteps above her quieted and the basement crypt grew eerily still. The guttural rattling of her breath filled the air.
Sweeping her lead foot side to side, she edged forward, keeping her arms out in front of her feeling for obstacles. In the thick darkness, she nearly collided with an old furnace. Close by, she discovered a deep, cast iron basin.
At the faucet, she turned the handle, wrenching on it until it broke loose. Water poured from the rusty spigot. She wet her hands and wiped them across her face. The cold water soothed the burning, but had a foul odor. She didn’t dare taste it.
She followed along the wall that supported the sink until her foot bumped a spongy pile covered by a canvas tarp. Cautiously, she raised one corner of the tarp, enough to reach beneath it, and patted along the top of the heap. A wet stickiness repulsed her.
Unable to identify what rested beneath, she threw back the covering and leaped backwards in disgust.
The object lying at her feet brutally assailed her already fragile sanity and sent her crumbling to the floor beside it.
Chapter Five
This morning’s a replay of the previous one. I slept very little and awoke with Red sprawled across my bed. In a panic, I jump up, throw on my clothes from yesterday and race out into the hallway, but not so hastily I forget to check my zipper on the way out the door.
At the end of the hallway, a small group of middle-age vacationers surround a short Hispanic housekeeper, raiding the poor woman’s cleaning cart. It’s early, and she already appears tired and over-worked. I stroll towards them, sneaking a peek at Smotherly’s room as I pass by. His door is just as I left it last night, closed. I don’t know what I expected to find, but for my own peace of mind, I need to make sure he hasn’t flown the coop while I was otherwise occupied.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” I bellow, and wave with an affable enough flourish to get the housekeeper’s attention through the merry band of tourist. She turns away and buries her head in the cart.
In my state of concern, I might’ve come off a little loud and threatening, so I walk slower and closer towards her, and try softly. “Ma’am, can you tell me if my friend in room four-twenty-one has checked out?”
With a stack of clean towels balanced in one arm, she waves me off with the other. I’m sure she’d like to go about her business without another set of hands looting her supplies.
“Ma’am, I just need to know if my friend in four-twenty-one has left. He doesn’t answer his door.”
The mob around her stops pillaging long enough to eye me with alarm. Has someone gone missing? Foul play? The housekeeper is unconcerned, completely ignoring me. Maybe she doesn’t speak English or perhaps she’s deaf, but since I know neither Spanish nor sign language, I’m barking up the wrong tree.
I turn and walk away without further inquiry. The raiders continue collecting their full complement of toiletries and various other sundries.
For the briefest second, I consider going back to my room to call down and ask the front desk for confirmation of Smotherly’s whereabouts. The problem is, Red might overhear the conversation and I prefer not to explain myself. So instead, I redirect and head downstairs, realigning the buttons on my shirt as I go.
A stubby brunette wearing way too much eyeliner toils at the unoccupied front desk. She appears to be at least six months pregnant, not that I possess any prenatal expertise. She may be nine months pregnant or oddly shaped and no baby on board at all. I made this mistake once before and it proved embarrassing for both the girl and me. That’s a gaffe I prefer not to repeat. To be on the safe side, I’ll forego any mention of pending childbirth.
“Good morning, sir. May I help you?” She seems polite enough, but her smile is not what I would describe as guest-friendly. Perhaps that’s a symptom of her presumed pregnancy.
“How are you this fine day? I’m Ian Campbell, a guest here. Can you tell me if my friend in four-twenty-one has checked out?”
“I suppose. What’s his name?”
“John Smotherly.”
She stabs away at the keyboard, inputting Smotherly’s name in the computer, and then gives the screen a confused squint. “No one by that name is staying here. Joseph Weller is registered in room four-twenty-one.”
Now it’s my turn to look confused. “Weller, you say. Did he, by any chance, check in on Wednesday?”
“He arrived Wednesday, and it shows he’s still checked in. I’m not supposed to be sharing this with you though. You won’t say anything, will you?”
“I must be mistaken. In any case, I’ll guard our secret at all cost. Have a pleasant day.” I flash a smile and take my leave.
Isn’t that interesting? Smotherly’s using an alias. That should tell me something, but I’m not sure what. On second thought, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that a known felon would misidentify himself. He must have something to hide.
Back at my room, I find Red occupying the shower. Now that I’m sure Smotherly hasn’t skipped off, I can relax, and since I haven’t showered yet, the only reasonable thing to do is join the lady.
Scrubbed clean, we partake in another room service breakfast at my employer’s expense, make ready for the day and then part company. This chick sure knows how to take a good-bye. She’s not clingy, nor does she solicit for effusive flattery or inducements, the perfect girl for someone. Too bad I’m in a committed relationship.
Today I should devise a better plan for following Smotherly, this time without drawing attention to myself. Endeavoring to do exactly that, I scout a place in the lobby where I can hang out while waiting for him to reemerge from isolation. What in the hell does that man do up there all alone. He’s no party animal, and definitely not in Vegas to indulge in the world-class entertainment. He certainly acts suspicious.
Hours pass and still no sign of Smotherly, or Joseph Weller, if you prefer. It’s two o’clock in the afternoon and I’m growing impatient and feeling lethargic. Watchful waiting isn’t my cup of tea. I require a tad more exertion and better application of my skill set. The laws of inertia are having an impact on my concentration, so I get up to move around.
While making a pit stop, I’m confronted with an awkward situation. Not everyone occupying the bathroom is here for the intended purpose of the facility. It sounds like two wildebeest mating in the end stall. I’m no prude, but the expression, get a room, seems applicable, and since we are in the lobby of a hotel, it also seems convenient. Nevertheless, it’s not my place to say, so I take care of business, wash my hands and quickly move along.
It’s fortunate that I expedited my stay in the bathroom or I would have missed Smotherly. He’s heading towards the exit with purpose, still in possession of the mystery satchel.
Outside in the desert heat, the pudgy criminal stops to light a smoke. With the cigarette dangling from his mouth, he ratchets his head around as if searching for a tail. He doesn’t catch me lingering close by. He burns the cigarette down, and after checking his watch, takes off walking at a leisurely pace down Flamingo Road, towards the Vegas Strip.
For no apparent reason, Smotherly speeds up and crosses over four lanes of traffic, ending up on the Gold Coast Casino side of the road. He picks his way around vehicles and clusters of pedestrians, weaving through the casino parking lot.
By the time he arrives at the main entrance, he looks winded and disheveled. I would recommend that he smoke less, exercise more and stop wearing sweater vests in summer.
Smotherly doesn’t enter the air-conditioned casino, instead, paces in front of the building. This is odd considering his overheated condition. I’d like to go inside to escape the roasting temperatures myself, but we loiter outside, Smotherly at the front door of the casino smoking again and me skulking around the parking lot. I hope security is napping.
Baking in the Nevada sun finally pays off. A svelte, mid-thirtyish blond approaches Smotherly and strikes up a conversation. At first appearance, the exchange seems to be cordial enough, but turns animated, both parties gesturing wildly. Voices are raised, but the two realize they’re drawing the attention of passers-by.
They pause to compose themselves. It’s hard to tell from my vantage which one is getting the upper hand. She’s taller, but he’s rounder. The woman is visibly agitated, bent forward at the waist looking down on him, raking her fingers through her short, fashionably styled hair. She takes several exaggerated breaths while Smotherly locks in on her with a dogged stare, clutching the satchel to his chest with both arms wrapped around it.
After the short breather, the volley resumes at a more moderate back and forth flurry that could easily be confused by casual observers as a marital spat caused by any number of Vegas experiences. Their disagreement doesn’t appear to be resolved before Smotherly spins around and speeds off in my direction, leaving the woman standing with a stupefied look on an otherwise pretty face.
I duck behind a parked car. From a crouched position, I see the babe pull a cell phone from her purse and make a call. She marches back towards the casino entrance, stopping just outside the door, ranting dramatically into the phone.
I’ve lost my visual of Smotherly, but I know he’s coming my way, so I remain stooped behind the car, hoping I’m not mistaken for a vandal. To my relief, the dowdy mischief-maker finally rushes by. Now I must decide which person I should follow, and without hesitation, opt for the woman.
She enters the Gold Coast Casino, and I’m not far behind. The tight fitted red pencil skirt hemmed just above the knees and white sleeveless blouse with a crossover front, immodestly displaying ample cleavage, seems a little over-dressed for a mid-morning rendezvous. She moves fast on two-inch heels, straight for the bar. Visibly shaken, she situates herself on a stool and orders a drink.
Before the drink is served, a man arrives and plops down next to her. The fellow looks to be a little older than her. He has a full head of dark hair graying at the temples and crow’s feet etched around hard-boiled eyes. Attired in a polo shirt, starched dress slacks and polished loafers, he presents a distinguished appearance.
The man also places a drink order and they wait for their cocktails at the bar before moving to a booth. They sit opposite each other, but he leans across the table and they have what appears to be an intimate conversation.
I take a seat at the bar and nurse a whiskey sour while they chat.
After another round of drinks, the man and woman get up to leave. I scramble to settle my bill and follow. The couple saunter to the elevators, and as they wait, the man drapes his arm around the woman’s neck and gives her a squeeze. She leans naturally into him, resting her head against his shoulder. This is not a plutonic relationship.
I haven’t the foggiest notion what’s going on here, but it’s something to think about. What have I learned so far? Not very much, I must admit.
High Crimes 