Bubble Screen (Burnside Series Book 3) Page 7

  An uncomfortable silence continued to hang over the room.

  "I don't mind packing a bag," I said, and also thought of Kyle Otto up in Vegas. Going there might help me find out more about Marcellus Williams. Two birds with one stone.

  "Good," Clara said. "Find out anything and everything you can. And as soon as you can. I'm not the type that likes sitting around and waiting for things."

  I could easily relate. "Me neither."

  *

  I walked down the hall with Roberto DeSanto. We didn't speak right away and he didn't look very happy. The buzz of activity around Miles' office continued.

  "That's quite a family," he remarked.

  "Not big fans of the government, are they?"

  "Yeah. I just love it when we get that kind of support."

  "It happens."

  "I hear you used to be on the job."

  "Thirteen years."

  "And then you left."

  "I got fired. Let's call it what it is."

  "I heard it was complicated. I also heard you were very good at police work."

  "Still am."

  DeSanto laughed wryly. "Some habits don't leave you."

  A bulky uniformed man approached us. He had close cropped blond hair and a square jaw. "Hey man, it's lunchtime," he said to DeSanto. "Wanna grab a burrito, señor ?"

  DeSanto shook his head. "I'm good." The officer shrugged and walked off.

  "Not into burritos?" I asked.

  "No, and I'm not Mexican either. Worked with that guy for five years and he still doesn't know I'm Filipino."

  "That's L.A. for you."

  "I've had my fill of it. I'm thinking of leaving. Fresh start somewhere else. Wish I could do what you do. Jet off to Vegas on a client's whim? That's the life."

  I didn't tell him about the long weeks and even months when no business came through my door, and making rent was a hit-or-miss thing. Or dealing with clients who expected miraculous discoveries overnight. Or police departments that treated private investigators like dirt under their shoes. I sometimes wondered if panning for gold in Alaska might be a more dignified way to earn a living. Running my own detective agency did offer a lot of freedom. But so did homelessness.

  I doubled back with Juan and told him of my weekend business trip. After watching him shake his head in a mixture of envy and disgust, I jumped into my Pathfinder and headed back to Santa Monica. On the way, I tapped Gail's phone number and her voice came on the speaker.

  "Hey there," I said.

  "Hey yourself."

  "Want to take a trip?"

  "Where to?"

  "Vegas, baby."

  "Wow. I can't wait to hear how this came about. When do we leave?"

  "How soon can you pack?"

  A brief pause surfaced. "How soon can you get here?"

  It was a little before noon, but being a Saturday, the freeways were wide open. And there is no better time to saunter through LAX than on a Saturday afternoon, when the airport feels spacious and relaxed. After a brief wait at the terminal, we boarded our plane, and the 45-minute flight went by quickly. I had briefly considered bringing my .38 along, but decided I'd probably have no need for it in Vegas, and I didn't really want to waste time checking luggage. If the need arose, I was fully capable of defending myself, and that included using my rapier wit.

  The rental agency offered up an SUV when the mid-size car I had reserved was unavailable. By the time we climbed into the 4Runner and headed out of McCarran Airport, it was almost 4:30. The golden sun hung low on the desert horizon as we sped down Paradise Road and turned onto Flamingo.

  "So are you going to tell me why we're here?" Gail finally asked, tying her lustrous brown hair back into a pony tail.

  "I'm surprised you didn't ask sooner."

  "I was waiting for you to volunteer it."

  "Would it disappoint you if I said this was a business trip?"

  "I wasn't expecting to come back a blushing bride."

  I drew in a deep breath. Vegas is known for many things. Wedding chapels were something that hadn't sprung to mind right away.

  "We've talked a bit about our long-term plans, but never seriously," I said, thinking out loud.

  "Anything you want to talk about now, compadre?"

  I gulped. "Maybe not just yet."

  "All right. Take your time. I've got some decisions of my own to make soon, especially if this job in the U.S. Attorney's office in San Francisco comes through."

  "It would be tough to keep our relationship long distance indefinitely."

  "I know. I'm also looking into something in L.A. There may be a job in the City Attorney's office."

  "Sounds terrific," I smiled. "You've come a long way from working campus security at my cross town rival."

  "I was pretty good at that job, you know."

  "I remember. You know how to take care of yourself. But you've got the brainpower to do a lot more. I'm really proud of you."

  "Thank you honey," she said, leaning over and giving me a kiss on the cheek. "You should say those sorts of things more often."

  Indeed I should. We don't always express our appreciation enough. While my future with Gail was fluid right now, and our relationship needed more thought and discussion, it wasn't something I wanted to focus on today. I was crazy about Gail but also fully dedicated to my work. Bridging that divide would take some juggling. And some pondering. And maybe some compromising.

  "Are you hungry," I asked suddenly, moving back into guy mode and changing the subject.

  "I can wait. No hurry."

  "Okay. I've got a few ideas on some places for dinner. But I want to stop by the Malco warehouse before it closes."

  I avoided the bumper-to-bumper traffic inching along on the Strip, breezing past the congestion of the weekend revelers. We headed towards an industrial area on the other side of Interstate 15. This was the other part of Vegas, the work-a-day world that most visitors don't see and don't want to see. Maybe because it reminds them too much of home.

  I turned onto Valley View and then onto a small side street that felt like the back yard of some of the magnificent hotels that lined the Strip. But instead of a blaze of colored lights and stunning high rises, we drove past a school for blackjack dealers, as well as lumber yards, recycling centers and a utility sub-station.

  The Malco warehouse was situated next to a granite yard, and was surrounded by a chain link fence, complete with barbed wire coating the top of it. The front entrance was darkened, but the gate around back made it look like the facility was still open. I pulled in and drove to the loading dock. A couple of workers looked like they were finishing up, moving a very large metal trash bin out of the building and placing it near the fence. I parked and walked up to them. Gail stayed in the car.

  "Hi there."

  They both stopped in their tracks and stared at the intruder.

  "Can I ask you a question?"

  They looked stupidly at one another for an answer. Neither seemed to have one.

  "Um, listen," I said. "I'm looking for a guy named Adam Barber. He around?"

  One of them finally found his tongue. "No, he left already. He'll be back tomorrow."

  "He works Sundays?"

  "We're a 24-7 operation."

  I looked around. Something felt strange, but clearly I wasn't going to get anywhere with these guys. I thanked them and they resumed pushing the heavy metal trash bin. It was overflowing with cardboard boxes and when they hit a bump, one of the boxes fell off and plummeted to the pavement with a thud, rather than the more hollow sound of an empty container.

  Devising a plan, I went back to our 4Runner and we drove off.

  Chapter 7

  The last vestiges of a gorgeous desert sunset were still visible, with traces of red, purple and gold remaining in the distant sky. We drove through a suburban part of Las Vegas, passing business parks, strip malls and housing communities that looked like they had just been recently developed. There wasn't a lot of traffic tho
ugh, and I wondered how many people actually lived around here. These housing developments were hastily constructed during the boom years, but the population scattered when the economy began to tank. If potential visitors were struggling to pay their rent back home, a trip to Vegas would be one of the first casualties. And since tourism drove the economic engine of Las Vegas, the absence of tourists was hurting it badly.

  "Get what you need?" Gail asked.

  "Not exactly," I said. "Something's off about them. We may need to come back later."

  Gail smiled. "You certainly know how to show a girl a good time in Vegas. I hope you have more elegant plans for dinner tonight."

  "Hmmm. How does artisan pizza sound?"

  Gail answered by saying nothing and looking out the window. Message received.

  We drove a few more miles before stopping at a local mall. I pulled into a space in front of a well-appointed eatery. The name on the sign said "Michelangelo Pizza." I got out of the car. This time Gail accompanied me, but she did not seem happy about it.

  The restaurant was spacious and featured high ceilings. The granite walls and exposed ducts gave it a sophisticated atmosphere. Only a few tables were occupied, but it was not quite dinner hour. The smell of garlic wafted through the air. A heavy set man about my age approached us, wearing a green apron over a white shirt.

  "Table for two?" he asked.

  "First tell me what an artisan pizza is."

  He gave me a funny look. "Okay, it's like this. We make our own dough on site. Hand crafted. We only use fresh, locally sourced ingredients. The pizzas are cooked in a wood burning oven. We get it up to eight hundred degrees. That's the secret."

  "Are you licensed?'

  "Excuse me?"

  "To make pizza."

  "You don't need a license," he said, a bit of irritation growing in his voice.

  "Are they good?"

  "They're very good."

  "Looks like you've eaten a few. Maybe more than a few."

  A small smile crept across the big man's face as he rubbed the knuckles on his right hand with his left palm. At first I wasn't sure if the grin indicated recognition, or if it was just the evil smile of an old brawler, happy to get back into the ring again with someone who needed to be taught a lesson.

  "You've got a big mouth," he said.

  "I always did, didn't I?"

  He studied my face carefully. "You're starting to look familiar."

  I smiled. "Johnny Cleary sends his regards."

  The big man shook his head. "Oh man. If it isn't my favorite free safety. I was afraid I was going to have to deck you."

  "You still might."

  The big man reached out and gave me a bear hug, extra tight. "Good to see you, Burnsy."

  "Likewise," I said and turned to Gail. "Gail Pepper, meet Kyle Otto."

  Gail smiled that big smile as he turned to greet her.

  "Don't tell me this is your wife."

  "Girlfriend."

  He shook his head. "Run like hell, darling. You'll thank me one day."

  Gail kept her smile. "He'd catch me. I don't think I could get away."

  "C'mon you two," he said, leading us to a table in the back. The three of us sat down together. He called over a waitress. "Bring these folks anything they'd like."

  "Water for me," I said.

  "I think I could use some red wine," Gail smiled.

  Before we knew it, a bottle of Pinot Noir from the Willamette Valley was being opened and poured. Kyle took a glass for himself and handed another to Gail. She sipped it and complimented him on his good taste.

  "Happy to provide," he smiled. "Are you here on a weekend getaway?"

  "Work, actually."

  "Too bad," he said. "Heard you left the force awhile back. Sorry to hear about that girl. But I'm glad you cleared your name."

  I was glad, too. My encounter with Judy Blue Eyes felt like a lifetime ago. In fact, it had been nine years. It was the roughest part of my life, being accused of something I never did. A bogus charge of running a prostitution ring which effectively ended my LAPD career. I still didn't like thinking about it. Fortunately the subject didn't come up much anymore.

  "I'm here on some business. Client is a big SC donor. Or was. Long story on that one."

  "Spare me. I'd had enough of jock sniffers years ago. First they want to be your pal, then they want a favor. Pretty soon you're practically working for them."

  "Part of why I'm here. Tell me about Marcellus Williams."

  Kyle pointed to a flat-screen TV behind the bar. The USC-Arizona game was on. "Speak of the devil," he said.

  "Who's winning?"

  "We are, up 21-0. Megawatt has a touchdown catch, but he's dropped a couple of passes too. Hadn't seen that before. Heck of a player though, and he's only a freshman."

  "Dropped passes?" I said, and raised my eyebrows. Maybe whatever was eating at Marcellus was starting to take its toll.

  "Yeah," Kyle agreed. "Unusual."

  "Heard from Johnny that Marcellus is leading quite a lifestyle up here."

  "Feels like, I've actually seen him up here a couple of times this month. The Bellagio, The Wynn, The Palazzo. He gets around."

  "What's he doing here?"

  "Just hanging out from what I could tell. He's at a table with bottle service and some guys are putting it away pretty good. But near as I could see, he wasn't drinking. Didn't see him dropping any chips at the tables, either."

  "Anything Johnny should be concerned about?"

  "Bunch of girls around him, probably some pros. That's no surprise in this town. I'm sure they also ate like kings. But one of the men there was an agent. Big no-no. Even if nothing was going on, where there's smoke, there's fire."

  "And with SC finishing up with the sanctions, that's the last thing they need."

  "Got that right."

  "So who's the agent?"

  "Guy named Cliff Roper. Has a bunch of NFL guys in his stable. But guys like that always have to recruit. Too easy to lose clients to another agent. These guys are sharks."

  "So you think Marcellus is taking gifts?' I asked.

  "No way to be certain. My guess is there wouldn't be any telltale fingerprints. I remember back in the day when I was being hustled by agents, everything was handled. Hotel rooms, meals, drinks, private planes. I never spent a dime and my name was never on anything. Things haven't changed much, except for the stakes now. And the Internet. Social media changes the game. Everything's public these days. And the money involved today is staggering. Some of these players are getting eight-figure contracts before they've played a down of pro football."

  "I guess you come across this here. Vegas is the place to show a potential client a good time."

  "It's the best," Kyle said. "I've got a detective pal at Vegas Metro, he tells me a bunch of players come here. He sees a lot. Some wind up getting into trouble."

  "Our guys?"

  Kyle shrugged. "A few, but it's the same with almost every school. Before a guy signs with an agent, they want to have some fun. The top players want to get wined and dined and sixty-nined."

  The expression on my face made Kyle pause. We both glanced at Gail.

  "Um, sorry darling," Kyle said. "My manners aren't always perfect."

  Gail smiled a little and shook her head. "It's okay. I like hearing how the boys talk."

  "She's applying for a job with the U.S. Attorney's office in San Francisco," I said.

  "I imagine this'll probably be tame by comparison," Kyle offered, seemingly a bit relieved.

  "Would you mind passing me the name of your contact at Vegas Metro?" I asked. "Wouldn't hurt for me to have a conversation with him at some point."

  "Sure," Kyle said and he walked into the back room for a moment. He returned with a business card for me. "He's a detective, name's Chandler. Stand-up guy. Grew up in L.A. actually. Was a big Trojan fan, said he loved watching us when he was a kid."

  "Just don't tell me how old he is. I'm starting to feel ancie
nt."

  "Nah, he's a few years younger than us. Got connected to him through Coach Bulldog a long time ago. I was having trouble with some local wise guys. Chandler took care of it."

  "Wise guys in Vegas. What a surprise."

  "Yeah, they were trying to shake me down for protection money. Chandler got them to lay off. He's got some juice here."

  We talked for a while longer, reminisced over some memorable games, caught up on some old teammates and relived those halcyon years when we thought we owned the world. Gail and I politely declined the offer of a couple of free pizzas. I decided that if I was dragging Gail along on a business trip, the least I owed her was a fancy dinner.

  "And where are you staying?" Kyle asked as we started to leave.

  I stopped. "Uh-oh."

  "No hotel reservations?" Kyle exclaimed. "On a Saturday night in Vegas?"

  "Uh ... this was something of a hastily planned excursion."

  Kyle and Gail looked at each other.

  "I'll make a call," he said. "You were always better at knocking people down than paving a smooth path."

  "You can find us a room on short notice?"

  "My friend," he said with an air of finality, "I can do a lot of things in this town."

  *

  There are indeed some people in this world who can make things happen. Kyle Otto was one of them. With one phone call, he got a room for us at Caesar's Palace, saying he knew I was old school and would feel right at home. As we drove off, I told Gail there was one more stop we needed to make.

  "More business, I take it?" she asked.

  "Yes."

  "I actually like hanging out with you while you work. It's interesting."

  "You want to play Robin to my Batman?"

  She laughed. "That wasn't quite what I had in mind, but we can figure that out as we go."

  "Starting to get a little peckish?"

  "Peckish?" she asked, still smiling.

  "Hungry."

  "Maybe a little. But we can eat anytime. This is more fun."

  "Sounds like that glass of Pinot is working," I commented wryly. "All right. This shouldn't take long."

  We drove back to the Malco warehouse, which by now was closed for the day. The scenery wasn't much during daylight hours, but now that nighttime had fallen, the area looked even bleaker. The chain link fence gate was wrapped with a blue steel ribbon and an enormous padlock. I parked near the back entrance and as I got out of the car, I pulled one of the carpeted floor mats with me.