In Your Name, page 21
‘Yes, she blew away a couple of local hoods who tried to carjack her boss. She was working as his personal security and shot them both dead.’
‘When was this?’
‘About a week ago, I guess. She was a piece of work that one, cool as you like. We tried to rattle her but nothing doing.’
‘Why did you do that? Didn’t she have the right permits and paperwork?’
‘All that was fine. We tried to rattle her because she worked for Harry Silverton, an obnoxious piece of shit who blows into town now and again throwing his cash around. He has an oil drilling and distribution business based out of Philadelphia, and spends a fair amount of time in Vegas. He’s a real pain in the ass. We’ve never been able to prove it but we reckon he’s dirty.’
‘In what way?’
‘Drugs. The word is he traffics narcotics into Vegas and pushes them onto the street through his network. He’s a sharp operator, very slick and very careful. The details are on the system, search under Silverton. It’s a big file.’
Moran’s head was in overdrive.
How the hell did she not know this? But the more she thought it over, the more she convinced herself it didn’t matter. So what if Mechanic worked for a shady oil guy who dabbled in drugs? Her focus was getting Lucas to offer up Harper to Mechanic and prevent any more deaths, then use it to trap her.
‘Hey, Moran, got a minute?’ Mills poked his head around the office door. What was he doing here at this time?
She placed the folder in her desk drawer and followed him out.
He disappeared into the conference room opposite and started pacing around. The walls were full of pictures and handwritten notes. Coloured string connected items together like a giant subway map.
‘I need to bounce something off you,’ he announced.
‘Yeah, fine, what is it?’ She was distracted by the worst shirt yet, it looked like a toddler had thrown their dinner at him.
‘I’m turning myself inside out but the motel murders are going nowhere. The bullets and the pick marks on the locks all match. The handwriting expert says the same person wrote all three messages. But that’s it, that’s the end of the good news. The rest is a big fat nothing.’
Moran agreed with his assessment.
‘So I got to thinking about what you said,’ he continued.
‘What did I say?’
‘You said this was about patterns and inconsistencies.’ Mills waved his arm at a second evidence board, this one covered with the pictures taken at the drug-related murder sites. Moran recognised each of the victims as they stared lifelessly from the wall, especially the three with metal spikes protruding from their faces.
‘The motel murders and the drug killings are totally different, but in other ways they’re similar.’ Mills wasn’t making too much sense.
‘They look completely different to me,’ Moran said shaking her head. ‘These are gangland hits probably driven by a turf war, and this is the work of a serial killer who targets couples in motels. I can’t see any similarities.’ Her mind was racing, trying to fathom where this was leading.
‘At face value I completely agree. But I come back to what you said—’
‘I was out of line,’ she interrupted. ‘I wanted to make an impact and went about it all the wrong way.’ For Moran, this was pride-swallowing on a gigantic scale, but she needed to keep the peace with Mills. She wanted him happy and useless.
‘But I think you had something, you said it was about patterns and inconsistencies.’
‘I said a lot of things, I was trying to make a point and I was wrong.’ She held her hands up in mock apology.
‘Hear me out. The connection is that both are styled as executions and both send a message.’ Mills pointed at the three men impaled with the metal bar. ‘This sends a message saying, “I did this, and when I take out the next crew I’ll do it again. It’s my calling card.” The same with the writing on the walls, that’s a calling card as well.’
Moran allowed him to jabber on.
‘And then there’s the chronology.’ Mills was on a roll. ‘The drug killings started and the motel murders followed shortly afterwards. What if both sets of killings are drug related?’ Moran was desperately trying to determine if this new-found enthusiasm from Mills was a problem or not.
He continued, ‘What if these are tit-for-tat murders? What if the motel crimes are in retaliation for the hits on the drug teams?’
‘Wow, that’s a huge leap.’ Moran considered the implications. ‘There is nothing connecting the motel victims.’
‘But I’m not sure we’ve looked hard enough. ‘In your name’ suggests the killings are targeted at hurting someone. Penance is a form of retribution, right? The writing on the wall is a message, the iron bar is a message. These could all be connected, we simply haven’t found out how.’
Moran’s mind was fizzing. If Mills were seriously considering linking the two investigations that would mean his already stretched resources would be even less effective. The more Moran could slow down the motel cases the better. It was time to be supportive.
‘Yes, I see it now. You might have a point. If we understand more about the drug killings it might help us with the motel murders.’ This was seriously screwed up thinking, which from Moran’s perspective should only be encouraged.
‘That’s right. I think there’s a connection, we haven’t dug hard enough.’
‘So what’s the next move, do we widen the investigation?’
‘Yes, I guess that’s the way forward.’
‘Maybe we can divert people from the motel killings to look more closely into the gang murders.’
‘Yes, I think we’ll have to.’ This was perfect, Moran felt a warm glow of satisfaction.
Mills flicked through his notebook and stabbed a finger into a cluster of photos on the wall.
‘Get a pad and note these down, we can get cracking in the morning.’
Moran did as she was told and waited like an expectant secretary.
‘These are the Turks run by a guy called Mehmet Hassan, they control the east side.’ He moved onto a second cluster. ‘These are the Crips headed up by Billy Crosier, they have the west. And the first team to be hit were Asylum run by …’ he flicked over more pages, ‘… a man named Harry Silverton, they run most of the Strip.’
Moran stopped writing when she heard the name. In fact, her whole world stopped when she heard the name Harry Silverton.
Lucas sat in his hotel room battling the usual demons. He stared at the phone, it was fast becoming his enemy. Every encounter with it left him angry and frustrated. He picked up and dialled home.
‘Hello.’ It was Darlene.
‘Darlene, honey, it’s me. Don’t hang up, please.’ For once he’d managed to avoid the horror that was Heather. The line was silent, but not dead.
‘You’re home, that’s great.’
‘I needed to collect a few things.’
‘This will all be over soon,’ Lucas said. ‘I’ve been thinking about what you said about me not being there for you and you’re right. This will end in the next few days and I’ll come home. I promise I’ll come home to you.’
‘I’ve heard this all before.’
‘No you haven’t. I’ve never acknowledged it before. I understand now and I can’t stand the thought of losing you.’
‘But that’s the point. It’s me that’s lost you. You’re always somewhere else, thinking about that damn woman. And I know what she did, and I know how it hurt you, but at some point you have to let it go. It’s destroying you, it’s destroying us and you’re allowing her to win all over again.’
‘I know that now. I need a few more days, that’s all, and I’ll be home. Whatever the outcome, I’ll come home to you.’ There was a long pause.
‘Take care.’ Darlene hung up, not believing a word of it.
52
Mechanic looked at the neat bundles of one hundred dollar bills wrapped in Clingfilm on the table. It was the money taken from Silverton’s suite, she didn’t consider it stealing, more like severance pay.
There was enough cash there to keep Jo looked after for another eighteen months but she was acutely aware that might be a little over optimistic so she had included an extra three thousand dollars for funeral expenses. She stuffed the money into a padded FedEx envelope and peeled away the cover on the adhesive strip. The Huxtons’ address was on the front.
Mechanic was torn. All her instincts told her to avoid the Huxtons’ place, it was bound to be under surveillance, she would be taking a huge risk if she returned. But her heart screamed to see her sister one last time.
Once the penance was paid, Mechanic knew her time in Vegas would be over. Bonelli’s men wouldn’t stop until they had her cut into little pieces and fed to the sewer rats. She had to hit the eject button and get out, however painful that would be.
She sealed the envelope and noticed the backs of her hands. They were tanned the same colour as her face, a deep walnut brown. A bright blue silk scarf covered her head and the long flowing dress swept the floor when she walked. The disguise was a bad caricature, but she’d achieved her objective – she looked starkly different.
Mechanic now felt physically better following her ordeal at Fremont Street. She had slept and eaten more than usual to regain her strength, along with some gentle exercises to get her joints and muscles back in working order.
She had given Lucas seven days and by her reckoning this was day three. The preparations were in full flow, this had to be planned and executed with absolute precision. The clock was ticking.
There was a rap on the door and Mechanic opened it to see a young man in a dark blue shirt and shorts waiting patiently on the front step. She shielded her eyes from the morning sun.
‘Morning, ma’am, FedEx collection, I’m here to pick up a package.’
Mechanic paused holding the envelope and turned it over in her hands.
‘Ma’am, I’m here to pick up a package?’
‘Oh I’m sorry,’ Mechanic said still not looking up. ‘It’s not ready to go yet, can I call your office again for it to be picked up?’
‘Yes, ma’am, that’s fine.’ He was already halfway to his van.
Mechanic had made up her mind.
She could hand-deliver it to the Huxtons when she visited her sister for the very last time.
Alonso Bonelli was much less polished than his older brother, he hated oysters and was teetotal. While Enzo had looked after the front-of-house side of the business, Alonso took care of the less palatable aspects of running a drug cartel. He was the enforcer and kept regimental order amongst his foot soldiers, while inflicting catastrophic damage on those who deserved it.
Enzo’s sudden death catapulted him to head of the firm and he wasn’t entirely sure what to do. He was, however, clear about one thing, that silver-haired bitch of a bodyguard needed to have her tits removed with a rusty blade.
A man with spiky hair wearing ripped jeans and a vest stood in front of him not looking forward to what was about to come next.
‘Have you found her?’ Alonso asked in a low voice.
‘No sir. Her place is deserted and we have everyone looking for her.’
‘And are people being cooperative?’
‘Yes sir. The other firms have their guys out on the street looking too.’
‘Then where the fuck is she?’ He slammed both hands down on the table and spiky-haired man almost shit his pants.
‘Sir, we’ve got everyone out on the streets, she can’t hide for long.’
‘I want that woman wrapped in barbed wire, with her guts hanging out, pleading with me to kill her. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Yes, boss, we have everyone on it. We’ll have her soon, I promise.’
‘Let’s hope so.’ Alonso’s low tone had returned, which sounded more chilling than his outburst.
He looked at the three photographs on the table.
‘You found these at Silverton’s place?’
‘Yes sir, they were half-hidden in a bookcase. Someone had already gone through the hotel suite before we got there. The drawers were prised open and it was difficult to tell what had been taken.’ Spiky-haired man thought it best not to mention that the person in question was still on the premises at the time. Probably a wise decision.
‘Do we know who they are?’
‘We know one.’ He handed Alonso a sheet of paper which he read in silence.
‘Now what would Harry Silverton be doing with a picture of an ex-cop in his possession? Anything on the other two?’
‘Not yet, our pet police officer got himself distracted.’
‘Then make sure he’s focused, I want to know who these people are.’ Bonelli pushed the photos across the table. ‘Do we have any intel?’
‘We checked the hotels and flight manifests and turns out our man is here in Vegas. We got a search underway as we speak, sir.’
‘As we can hardly ask Harry Silverton why these pictures are important enough to hide, we’ll have to ask him, so go find the son of a bitch.’
‘Yes sir.’ The guy collected up the photos and marched out.
Alonso didn’t have time to grieve the loss of his brother, he was too busy seeking vengeance.
Harper was partial to taking a mid-morning stroll around the Strip, or at least that’s what he told Lucas and Bassano.
‘I know it’s twenty-eight degrees outside but it keeps me fit,’ Harper told them whenever he went on his constitutional. No one wanted to join him in the sweltering Vegas heat, which was precisely what he banked on.
The Hooters bar was located three blocks from their hotel, a place where Harper could while away a pleasant hour doing the two things he liked the best – drinking beer and looking at pretty women. He had to be careful not to return drunk, which on occasion was a bit of a struggle.
He opened the glass door to be met with a rush of cold air. It wasn’t the smoky, claggy atmosphere he was used to, but then it did have a parade of spectacularly tight T-shirts to compensate.
Harper sat at the bar and checked out the scenery. The beers and solitude helped him to think. Putting himself forward to be a target for Mechanic was either a brave move or a really stupid one, he couldn’t decide. One thing was for sure, he needed closure and being so close to catching Mechanic only made him want it more.
The beers flowed nicely as did the procession of T-shirts. Harper read the paper, watched some sport and, for a glorious fifty minutes, completely forgot about everything.
He checked his watch and paid his bill, leaving a sizeable tip. The women called ‘Thank you’ after him as he walked outside into the Vegas heat. Harper pulled his baseball cap down to shield his eyes and made his way back down the Strip.
A car pulled up next to him at the kerb with its hazards flashing, and the passenger window slid down.
‘Hey, buddy, can you tell me the way to the Hacienda?’ Harper looked at the lone well-dressed driver with a street plan in his lap. ‘I know it’s round here somewhere but I can’t seem to find the damn place.’
Harper approached the car. ‘You need to carry on about three blocks then hang a left—’
From behind him a man stuck the muzzle of a gun in the side of Harper’s neck.
‘Get in old man.’ He reached around, opened the door and shoved him into the passenger seat. The back door slammed shut and Harper once more felt the gun cold against the back of his neck. The driver turned off his hazards and eased out into the flow of traffic.
53
The landscape changed from urban sprawl to barren desert as Harper was driven away from the Strip. The two men in the car said nothing despite Harper’s constant stream of questions. After about fifteen minutes he gave up.
Harper compiled a mental log of every detail: the roads they used, the type of car, what the guys were wearing, distinguishing marks, anything that might help him once this was over. He was desperately trying to work out who the hell they could be. The problem was the list of scumbags with a grudge against him was as long as his arm. The man sitting behind him, dressed in jeans and a jacket, pressed his gun hard into the back of Harper’s seat, the muzzle digging into his spine as a constant reminder.
The farther they drove away from the city the more Harper could feel a knot of panic growing inside him. This was not looking good. He was isolated, with no weapon and no idea what was in store for him. Harper normally remained cool under pressure but even he was beginning to crack.
The sun blazed through the windshield as they cruised across the Mojave wasteland. The driver slowed down and swung hard right onto a dirt track. He flicked the air-conditioning to off but that did little to stop the dust from blowing through the air vents.
‘Can I open a window?’ Harper asked, buzzing it down to allow some fresh air into the car. Bad idea, the dust nearly choked him.
After a couple of miles the car skidded to a halt. The driver switched off the engine, removed the keys and both the men got out. They stretched their legs and the man from the back seat lit up two cigarettes. He handed one over.
Harper was left sitting in the car. He was unsure if he was to stay in the vehicle or not. He elected for not.
He got out and patted himself down trying to shake out the red dust. The sun was blistering hot. His two captors sat on the hood of the car casually chatting, not paying any attention to him. Harper looked around at the flat, featureless terrain. He could run but to where? There was nowhere to hide. He was stranded.
‘Hey, can I have one of those?’ He called to the two guys smoking. The well-dressed one looked over, then turned back to continue his conversation. ‘I suppose that’s a no then,’ Harper said to no one in particular.
Harper checked his watch. They had been in the middle of nowhere for forty-five minutes. He sat on the ground in the shade with his back against the car, while the two guys still chatted about who knew what. Then he became aware of the distant sound of engines and tyres on dirt.
Harper got to his feet, shaded his eyes and looked towards the noise. Two vehicles approached sending a column of dust spiralling behind them. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest.
