Fade to Blue (18 page)

Stretched out now on Ace’s couch, his huge flat screen television tuned to CNN, I begin to assess my position. I’d had no choice but to use a credit card to buy my ticket, so if the FBI was interested enough, and started checking, they would know I’d flown to Las Vegas. Andie certainly would want to know. It was she who had told me about the lead in Las Vegas.

What was in my favor was that during that whole Gillian Payne case, even her capture in Las Vegas, I’d had almost no contact with Ace Buffington. Andie and Coop both knew of my total falling out with Ace, so I don’t think either will immediately conclude I’m here. During the case, I’d gone undercover with a band to draw Payne out, and it had worked all too well. Unfortunately for her brother. She’d almost killed him. But why would she come back to Las Vegas? What was the connection? Did she have a friend here, someone helping her, someone she was forcing to help her?

I drift off, my mind swirling with questions and scenarios until I feel a hand on my shoulder. “How about some dinner?” Ace asks.

I rub my eyes and sit up. “Guess I dozed off. Yeah, I could eat.” The TV is off now and the sounds of Bill Evans’ piano filters in from the stereo. I recognize the tune, “Detour Ahead.” I was certainly on one.

“I’ve got some potatoes in the oven and a couple of steaks to grill. While I get a salad together, have a look at these.” He hands me a few computer printout pages. “I got them off the Internet. Most of it’s old news from when she was captured, but there’s a couple of things about her escape and the nationwide manhunt.”

I look through the stories, but Ace is right. There’s not much. Just a recap of her reign of terror and eventual capture. There is one photo, probably a booking mug shot. I’d only seen her once. The long black hair is cut short now, but the face is the same, and those deep dark eyes that seem bottomless. My name is in there plenty, more than I would like. I see now where Grant Robbins and Ryan Stiles got their material for the screenplay.

Over dinner, Ace and I catch up. He had a short stint as department chair, had written some more articles, but sheepishly confessed he had abandoned the book about Chet Baker.

“I’ll just enjoy his music. My little adventure in Amsterdam was enough to put me off anymore hands-on research. Besides, there have already been two biographies in the meantime.”

“So, you’re just teaching, doing a little writing, enjoying life, eh? Now here I come about to disrupt all this blissful existence.”

“Please. It’s gotten pretty boring. I’m ready for a little excitement.” He puts up both hands. “Remember, I said a little.”

“I promise I won’t ask you to do anything illegal or dangerous.”

Chapter Eighteen

I have no idea which pharmacy Gillian Payne had tried to fill her prescription, or for that matter, if she was really seen. I also have no idea what the prescription was for, so I’m starting from scratch. I use the Yellow Pages to compile a list of pharmacies in the area, and fan out from Ace’s house, using his old VW Bug as transportation. With supermarkets, drug stores, and discount stores, there are dozens of possibilities. Ace wishes me luck and heads for his classes at UNLV.

Las Vegas is a big city now, over two million people. Somebody thought they might have seen Gillian Payne, but who knows what the FBI decides is a lead. My list is discouragingly long, but at least I’m doing something other than sitting in a hotel room. Between stores, I try to fine-tune my cover story, beyond saying I was there to pick up a prescription for Gillian Payne or Gillian Sims. So far I’d struck out at eleven stores and gotten a few mildly questioning glances from pharmacists when I didn’t know what the prescription was for. My guess is Valium or Zanex, but for all I know, Gillian could have some real ailment.

Number twelve goes much better. I join the line of a half-dozen people in front of the pharmacy counter at a Walgreens Drug Store on West Sahara. There’s only one clerk on duty, so each transaction takes several minutes as people either pick up a prescription they’ve called in, ask questions, or are told they’ll have to wait while their order is filled.

I glance around the store, checking my watch impatiently, then suddenly catch sight of a man coming toward the pharmacy, a slip of paper in his hand. The resemblance is too strong to ignore. I step out of the line, duck down an aisle for toothpaste, and walk to the end. He’s the last in line now as I peek around the end of the aisle. I get a quick look at his face as he looks back over his shoulder. There’s no mistake. Even though it’s been several years, he’s changed very little. The hair is a shade lighter, but I’d know that face anywhere.

I’m looking at Gillian’s brother, Greg Sims.

It takes another fifteen minutes for Greg to get served. He hands a slip of paper to the pharmacist, who retrieves a small bag, rings it up, staples the receipt to the bag, and hands it back to Greg. He pays in cash, then turns and heads for the exit. I follow him out to the parking lot and watch him get in a late-model Toyota. I run for the VW, start the engine, and slip in behind Greg’s car as he exits and starts down Rainbow heading north.

I stay a few cars behind, keeping his car in sight but not close enough for him to spot me. At the end of Rainbow, he takes I-95 North, past several developments of new homes, and finally exits on Lake Mead. He continues east a few blocks then turns left on a two-lane strip that leads into an underdeveloped area. There’s a lot of empty desert, some newer houses with
FOR SALE
signs that look abandoned, a few older houses, many of them run down. I hang back farther, watching Greg turn onto a dirt road to a small isolated house surrounded by brush and cactus.

I park along the main road. Greg gets out of his car and greets a large black dog that comes around from the back of the house, barking and wagging his tail. Greg stops to pet him, the prescription bag in his hand, then goes into the house without looking back. I watch the house for awhile, deciding what to do next. Is Gillian in there? Have I found her? I check my watch. Almost three o’clock. I light a cigarette and wait, still unsure what to do next.

If Gillian is there, I could call the police. But with no cell phone, I’d have to leave, find a pay phone, and chance Greg leaving, maybe to meet Gillian if she’s somewhere else. Twenty minutes later, while I’m still trying to decide, Greg comes out. He’s dressed in black pants, a white shirt, and bow tie, carrying a rolled-up black cloth in one hand. He gets in his car, turns around, and heads toward me. I duck down in the seat as he turns and passes me, hardly glancing at my car.

I wait a couple of minutes, start the VW, make a U-turn. I catch up with him at Lake Mead. He turns right, back toward the freeway, then pulls into a 7-Eleven store. It’s a busy one with lots of cars. I park in front, but shielded from the door. Greg goes inside then returns, a pack of cigarettes in his hand. As he gets in his car, I get a better look at his shirt. I won’t have to follow him now. Mirage Hotel is embroidered over the pocket.

Greg is a dealer and he’s going to work.

To avoid a sneer from valet parking guys, I find a spot in the self-parking lot for Ace’s old VW. I make my way into the Mirage though a side entrance and shoulder my way through the noisy, crowded casino, scanning the tables for Greg Sims. It takes about twenty minutes for me to finally find him at a five dollar Blackjack table, dealing to three players. From a distance, he handles the cards and payoffs with the cool efficiency and detachment that goes with the job.

Occasionally, his eyes go from the table to scan the casino crowd. I move in closer then take one of the seats as one player gathers up his chips and heads off. I lay down a twenty for buy in. Greg nods then his eyes meet mine and for a second, he freezes. He pushes four chips toward me and deals a bit slower. My first card is a king, the second an ace. I turn them both up and smile.

“Thanks, pal. That would have been mine,” a guy in a Hawaiian shirt next to me says.

Greg shoves two chips toward me and finishes the hand, turning up his cards that show nineteen, beating the other two players. He scoops up their chips and cards and deals again. When he comes to me, I tap my watch. I have two tens this time and I win again.

“Twenty wins again,” he says, turning his head toward the bar across the casino. I nod my understanding, scoop up my chips, and leave the table. At the bar, I find a stool that gives me a view of Greg’s table, order a coke, and wait for the change of dealers coming off a break. A few minutes later, a dozen or so dealers, almost in formation, make their way to the tables. As Greg’s relief comes up behind him, he backs off, taps the table and joins a group heading for the break room. As they near the bar, Greg peels off and joins me.

He’s nervous, his eyes dart everywhere before he takes a seat facing the casino. “I never thought I’d see you again,” he says. “I know why you’re here.”

“Where is she, Greg? Where is Gillian?”

“I don’t know. She’s trying to keep me out of it.” His eyes won’t meet mine. “What about the prescription you picked up for her? I was there. I saw you.”

“I left it at the house. She said she would pick it up while I was working.”

“What’s it for?”

“She has asthma. It’s inhalers.”

“And then?”

“I don’t know. I don’t want to know.”

“Why is she in Las Vegas?”

“She has a friend here.”

“Did she say anything about me, wanting to find me?”

“No, nothing. She just said…”

“What?”

“She said she won’t go back to prison.”

I mull that over for a moment, wanting to believe what he says is true. He glances at his watch. “I have to go. My break is almost over.” He stands up, starts to go as another formation of dealers appear.

“Don’t go home tonight.”

“What are you going to do?” I see panic spread across his face.

“Stay with a friend or something. Get a motel room. Just don’t go home.”

He turns away and starts through the crowd toward the tables.

“Greg. They’re going to catch her.”

He turns back toward me. “I hope they do.”

I watch for another few minutes as he takes his place at the table, then throw some money on the bar and make for the exit. I push through the glass doors and almost bump into a couple coming in. The light is not good. It takes me a second to recognize them, two people I never expected to see.

“Doing a little gambling, Horne?” Ron Ardis says. Standing next to him, hands on her hips in a dark pantsuit is Andie, her eyes fixed on me with wonder.

“You didn’t last as long as we thought.”

With Andie riding with me in Ace’s VW, Ardis follows in his car. They want a place to talk, so I head for the nearest place I can think of, a coffee-pancake house on Spring Mountain. “Let me get this straight. You knew I’d bolt from the hotel?”

Andie smiles. “It took some convincing, but Wendell finally went for it. When you used your credit card to buy a ticket to Las Vegas, Ardis and I drove up.”

“You were all very convincing. But how did you know about—”

“Ace? I didn’t know about him but Coop did. We’ve had you under surveillance since you got here.”

I pull into the parking lot at Blueberry Hill and shut off the engine. “So Ardis is not in trouble?”

“No, he was in on it, too.” Andie watches me for a moment. I just shake my head and stare out the windshield.

“Come on, baby, we’re the FBI. It wasn’t hard to discover Greg Sims was a dealer at the Mirage. You have to have a sheriff’s card to work in this town. We were on the way to see him when you bumped into us. You just saved us the trouble.”

Ardis pulls in to the next parking space and we all get out and go inside. It’s brightly lit with red leatherette booths and Formica tables. A waitress takes our order for coffee and Ardis studies the big menu. “I’ve never seen so many kinds of pancakes,” he says. When the waitress brings our coffee, he smiles at her. “I want some of these chocolate chip pancakes. A full stack.” Andie and I pass.

“How did you find Sims?” Andie asks.

I recount my journey to pharmacies and drug stores. “I got lucky. Sims came in as I was standing in line. I followed him home and waited. He left but stopped for something at a convenience store and I got a look at his shirt with the Mirage logo. I figured he was on the way to work.”

“My, aren’t we clever,” Andie says.

“You did talk to him, I assume,” Ardis says.

“Yeah, I did. She’s here but not staying with him. She’s supposed to pick up the prescription he got for her sometime tonight while he’s at work.”

“What’s the prescription for?” Ardis wants to know.

“He says inhalers. She has asthma.”

Andie and Ardis look at each other. “Okay,” Andie says. “Here’s the deal. You’re going to show us the house, then you will go back to your pal Ace’s and wait.”

I start to say something but Andie cuts me off. “That’s not negotiable.”

The waitress comes back with Ardis’ order. Three huge pancakes, riddled with chocolate chips and topped with whipped cream fill a large plate. Andie and I watch him dig in.

“So what are you going to do?”

“Wait her out. What time is Sims’ shift over?”

“Midnight.”

Ardis is halfway through his pancakes. “Yummy.” He pauses and leans back. “Should we talk to Sims first?”

“No,” Andie says. “I don’t want to spook him, and we need time to organize some backup. We’ll have to get Las Vegas Metro in on this.”

Ardis nods and looks at me. “That was pretty slick, jumping on that airport shuttle.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to get you in trouble.”

“You didn’t. Wendell told me to give you some leeway. We’re just glad you didn’t steal a car. We’d have had to arrest you for that.”

The check comes and Ardis pays at the cashier desk. Andie and I walk outside to the cars. I light a cigarette as Andie digs in her purse and hands me my cell phone. “You might want this back. It’s fully charged.”

“Thanks.”

“Okay, you lead the way. I’ll ride with Ron. I’ve got some calls to make.”

At Sims’ house I park along the road where I was earlier. We get out of the cars and Andie and Ardis look things over. I point out the house up the dirt track. We can see one light on. “This is not good,” Andie says, scanning the area around the house. “It’s so exposed.”

“There’s a dog, too.”

“Great,” Ardis says.

Andie paces around, thinking, looking at the house. Finally, she stops. “I’ve got an idea.”

She turns to me. “Okay, you’re done here. Go on back to Ace’s. I’ll let you know how it goes.”

“What if she doesn’t show?”

“Then we go to plan B.”

“Andie, be very careful. Greg is still scared of her and he told me she won’t go back to prison.”

“We’ll see about that.” She pushes me toward my car and gives me a brief kiss. “Go.”

Driving back to Ace’s, I start to have second thoughts. At one long traffic light, the urge to make a U-turn and go back to Greg Sims’ house is strong, but I manage to stifle the feeling. I’d just be in the way, and Andie would never forgive me if something went wrong. I pound the steering wheel in frustration.

I find Ace sprawled on the couch, an open book on his chest, his glasses halfway down his nose. I give him a shake. “Hey, Professor.”

He blinks and sits up, the book slipping to the floor. “Evan. When did you get back?”

“Just now.” I sit down and stretch my legs out, feeling the tension start to drain out. There’s nothing more I can do now but wait to hear from Andie.

“How did it go with the pharmacies?”

“I got lucky.” I catch Ace up on things. He nods and listens and shakes his head.

“Sounds like they have it under control, providing she comes back for the prescription.”

“Yeah, that’s the key.”

“Want something to eat?” He gets up and heads for the kitchen. “A sandwich, or I’ve got a frozen pizza I can nuke.”

“Pizza sounds good.”

“Coming up.”

I turn on the TV to CNN. Ace comes back with a couple of beers we start on while we wait for the pizza. Ace and I catch up on music, the movie deal, my move to Monte Rio, and Andie as we eat.

We both lose track of time then Ace flips through the channels to a local station for the Eleven O’clock News. A wave of dramatic music and a red banner fills the screen proclaiming
BREAKING NEWS!

“I’m Keith Harris and this is happening now,” the anchor says as the screen becomes a remote report. A young Asian woman holding a microphone stands about where my car was parked earlier near Greg Sims’ house.

“As you can see behind me, Keith, this remote house in the northwest Las Vegas is surrounded by Metro police, and we’re told also, agents of the FBI. Police suspect escaped serial killer Gillian Payne may be in the house.”