Into the Devil's Underground (7 page)

“We’ll protect your privacy.” Avery’s tone made the end of the subject clear. “Right now, we need your clothes.”

Emilie grabbed the stair rail. Her ears were ringing, so maybe she’d heard incorrectly. “Excuse me?”

“You had direct physical contact with the suspect,” Avery said. “The forensics lab needs to process your clothes for hair and fiber evidence. We’ll continue our interview at the hospital.”

“Now?” She just wanted to go home and shower. Sleep. Make it all go away.

“Yes, now.” He averted his eyes. “I’ll do my best to find something for you to wear.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Burning pain in Emilie’s ribs sucked away any embarrassment. “I keep a change of clothes in my office.”

Avery motioned to a woman in the hall. “Our tech will collect your clothes after you change.”

Upstairs, markers littered the hallway denoting bullet holes and shell casings from the partner’s gun. Fingerprint dust covered everything as technicians combed the lobby. Emilie thought the whole process looked far more glamorous on television.

In the privacy of her office, she closed the blinds and pulled her spare set of clothes out of her oversized bottom drawer. She didn’t have any extra shoes.

The tech knocked on the door. “I’ve got an evidence bag for your things.”

Emilie quickly changed and handed the tech her work clothes.

“That should do it.” The tech sealed the evidence bag. “Do you need any help getting dressed?”

“No, thank you.” Pain radiated throughout her body as she slipped the white, cotton T-shirt over her head. During the struggle, she’d barely been aware of the beating her body was taking. The hospital had better give her some good painkillers.

“I’ll tell Detective Avery you’re ready.” The tech disappeared.

Reality began to sink in. This couldn’t have been about money. Her stepfather was loaded, but anyone looking to suck funds out of him would go after Claire, not her long-absent daughter. And Creepy never seemed interested in anything beyond consuming her. Why?

A loud rap on the door sent Emilie scrambling to her feet.

Avery and a stocky paramedic assisted Emilie onto a gurney. Avery walked alongside as they headed to the bank’s east doors. “We tried to keep the press away from the ambulance, but they adapt like cockroaches,” Avery said. “I’ll stay in front of you.”

The doors opened, and the flashbulbs swarmed. Emilie shielded her eyes from the blinding flashbulbs. The voracious mob of reporters closed in shouting question after question. Queasiness struck and then vertigo. Her mother would know soon.

“I’ll see you at the hospital.” Avery closed the ambulance doors, shutting out the obnoxious noise.

Wonderful.
Hospitals meant records. That meant everyone knowing about her last stay.

“Still feeling the same?” The paramedic softly probed her face, checking for fractures. “No new pain, nausea, lightheadedness?”

“I’ll make sure to aim away from you if I have to throw up.”

“I’m used to it. Last shift a drunk heaved all over my brand new uniform. It’s impossible to get the smell of Jack Daniels mixed with vomit out of your clothes.”

“Lovely job you have.” Emilie glanced around the cluttered ambulance. “Please tell me picking up drunks isn’t a regular occurrence.”

“I would, but this is Vegas.”

5

H
E HID IN
plain sight, blending into the crowd with little effort. The woman commanded his attention the moment she stepped into the room. Her auburn hair, swept into a loose twist, glowed under the recessed lighting. The white dress made her look like an angel. She walked with her shoulders back and her arms crossed over her chest. She was mesmerizing.

She stopped in front of the painting. Minutes ticked by, and still she remained. What was it about the Renoir that had captured her attention?

He moved forward, nodding to other patrons. He was appreciated, even revered, here. No one suspected his dark torment.

The woman remained in front of the painting. His eyes lingered on the smooth skin of her back and the exquisite line of her neck. She was lovely, although her profile was not perfect. Her lips were plump and slightly large for her petite nose, and a small mole—a beauty mark—adorned her naturally pink cheeks.

“Excuse me.” He pitched his voice low to keep from attracting attention. He drew out his words into formal English to hide his distinct accent.

She jumped at the intrusion and turned to face him. “Yes?”

Her eyes rendered him speechless. For a moment he was trapped in the past, unable to distinguish this new woman from the secrets that haunted him. He’d thought the resemblance would end when they were face to face, that he would be able to focus on the real business, if she were in fact who he’d been looking for all these years. But his prior plans floated to the back of his mind.

“Can I help you?” A modulated voice, laced with curiosity and apprehension.

“Forgive my intrusion, but I couldn’t help noticing your admiration of the painting. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

She studied him, unsure of his intentions. He smiled and stuck his clammy hands in his pockets, forcing his attention back on the painting.

“Yes,” she finally answered. “It’s very special to me.”

“Why?”

Sadness drifted across her face, but her lips twisted into a wistful smile. “This painting is how my grandparents met.”

“Really?”

“Paris had an exhibition of Renoir’s work. This painting turned out to be a great pick-up line. Mémé was flattered he thought she looked like the Girl.”

He gazed between the woman and Renoir’s famous Girl. “I assume you’ve inherited your grandmother’s lovely auburn hair?”

A brief ripple, followed by curious eyes. But that was all. She didn’t remember him. “Yes, but all Mémé shared with the Girl was her hair.” She smiled. “Grandpa just didn’t know how else to approach her.”

He stepped closer. She smelled like sweet jasmine. How could he resist?

“Fascinating. How long have they been married?”

“Until his death in 1978.”

“Is your Mémé—”

“She died five years later.”

Triumph waltzed through him. “I’m sorry. But they have a beautiful story, don’t they? We often take life’s simple moments for granted.”

She nodded and went back to the painting. He did the same, sipping champagne. How much did she remember? How much had she been told? “I can tell you appreciate the importance of our histories.”

“The past is an important part of life,” she said, still gazing at the painting with a look of passionate reverence, the way a nun bows before the statue of Christ. “It can affect us forever. A split-second decision can change everything.”

In that moment, he realized she knew his kind of pain. They were far more connected than he’d dreamed. Perhaps they could be more than adversaries.

But he’d left those ways behind seven years ago, buried along with the evidence. He couldn’t risk everything again.

He couldn’t walk away, either.

*   *   *   *

C
RAWFISH CRUNCHED UNDERNEATH
his boots as he sprinted through the standing water. His footsteps reverberated off the concrete walls. Moving through the tunnels was like being wrapped in a smothering blanket. Only the smell was worse: trash, feces, and rotting water blended together to resemble the odor of a corpse.

Filth of every kind flourished in the tunnels, including human scum. For every decent man just trying to survive, there were others who would sooner cut a person’s throat than look at him in the eye. Crackheads, meth dealers, rapists, murderers—all sought refuge in the storm drains.

His lungs burned, but he couldn’t stop running. Not yet. He was still too close to the scene. Some intrepid cop looking for glory might be on his tail. The safe haven he created for Emilie and himself was off limits as well. Too much work had gone into creating their new life to risk leading the authorities right to the location.

The only option was to keep moving until he reached an open-air channel far enough away from the bank. The police were too wary of the tunnels to go very far inside. They would focus their search on the entrances closest to the bank.

Fury pushed him onward. So much effort had gone into creating the perfect rendezvous, only to be ruined by foolish pride.

He’d been sure she was ready for their new life together. Didn’t she understand they were meant to be? They’d been connected from the start, and she carried the evidence with her. Wore it like a talisman.

Damn her. Months of waiting, of searching for the right hiding spot. Cleaning out the old bootlegging tunnel—all that effort wasted.

The open-air channel loomed ahead now, and he finally slowed. His rubbery legs carried him into the overgrown weeds. He gulped the reasonably fresh air. Traffic moved above, but there were no sounds of a search or of panicked cops.

After hiding his things, he cautiously crawled out of the abyss and made his way onto the sidewalk. Despite the change, the stink of the underground clung to his clothes and skin. People gave him a wide berth.

He was hungry, tired, and disappointed. They were supposed to be together by now. Once again, circumstance had ripped happiness away from him, and he needed to regroup. The endeavor he had spent months researching and planning down to the last detail was now washed away with the rest of the trash in the drains.

He would have to think of something else, and soon.

6

N
ATHAN PEERED THROUGH
the chain link fence. He didn’t know how he was going to climb with his arm wrapped up and burning. “Is that it?”

“I didn’t even know this culvert was here.” Chris started to climb. “I drive over it every day too.”

“That’s why they call them box culverts,” Johnson said from the other side of the fence. “You don’t see them unless you’re walking inside.”

Several blocks north of the raucous Fremont Street Experience was an entrance to the storm drain system.

Nathan gritted his teeth and started to shimmy up the fence, putting as much weight onto his good arm as possible. “Why couldn’t we just cut this thing down?” The fence wobbled as Nathan jumped down.

“Because no one in Metro wants to deal with the city officials over it,” Johnson said. “You all right?”

“Yeah.” Nathan shined his light toward the culvert. Bathed in shadows, it stood silent and empty. A chill of foreboding washed over him. “Talk about spook central.”

“Watch yourselves.” Johnson led the way as the three men entered the culvert, weapons ready. “Anything could be lurking.”

Standing water covered the toes of Nathan’s boots. The air was thick with mildew. “Drain’s over there.” He shined his tactical light on the flood map. “To the right.”

The temperature dropped as they entered the large drain. Darkness engulfed them.

Chris’s whistle cut through the eerie stillness. “Wow. It’s a hell of a lot cooler in here. Place smells like feet, but I’ll take what I can get.”

Nathan shined his light on the walls. Colorful graffiti decorated the concrete. “Someone’s a talented artist.”

The darkness thickened with each step. The odor grew increasingly foul.

“Jesus, I can taste the stench in my mouth.” Chris gagged and spit into the dirty water.

Nathan didn’t respond. He was too busy fighting the pain in his arm and trying to keep the contents of his stomach down. How did the people who lived in the tunnels stand the smell and the constant dangers? The drains provided relief from the sweltering desert heat and free housing, but they were death traps. Large portions ran directly underneath the city streets, and inhabitants risked carbon monoxide poisoning and the frequent threat of flooding. Nathan grew up poorer than many in North Las Vegas, but he couldn’t imagine having no other alternative than to live minute by minute.

“We shouldn’t run into any camps,” Johnson said. “They’re deeper in. One of the biggest is right under the Strip.”

“You know we aren’t going to find shit,” Chris choked out. “It’s too dark. Guy planned this for months. He knows his way around. Nate, you need to get that arm stitched up.”

“It’s clean and bandaged,” Nathan said. “It’ll hold.”

Silence fell over the men as they moved farther into the stinking drain. Something hard crunched underneath Nathan’s boots. He nervously shined his light into the black water. Crawfish swam around his feet, probably on their way to the Las Vegas Wash. A mushy white glob looking suspiciously like used toilet paper floated by, and he focused his light away from the stream.
Better not to know what I’m stepping on.

A loud splash ahead brought all three to a halt.

“You hear that?” Johnson asked.

“Sounds big.” Chris stepped in front of Johnson and raised his Glock.

“Las Vegas SWAT,” Johnson shouted. “Identify yourself.”

Nothing.

“Maybe it was an animal,” Nathan said.

“That’s even worse than a junkie,” Chris said. “With my luck, Cujo’s man-eating cousin will show up and give me rabies.”

“They have shots for that now.”

“No shit, Sherlock.”

A second loud splash was followed by the distinct sound of footsteps sloshing through the water.

“That’s no dog.” Chris sprinted after the runner with Nathan and Johnson closely following. The beams of their lights flashed haphazardly against the walls making the tunnel even more ominous.

A strange brightness glowed several yards ahead of them. Their quarry came into view. He was too short and stocky to be their man, but he could have information.

Chris tackled him just as the group emerged into the moonlight.

“Get off me. I ain’t done nothing wrong!”

“Settle down, then.” Chris yanked the man to his feet. “We just want to talk to you.”

Nathan inhaled the semi-fresh air and looked around. They stood in an open-air channel, with tall, raggedy weeds and swarms of bugs. “Why’d you run?”

“Don’t like cops.”

“We’re not here to arrest you.” Johnson flashed his badge. “Las Vegas SWAT in pursuit of a fugitive. He tried to rob WestOne Bank this afternoon and nearly kidnapped a woman. You seen anyone suspicious tonight?”