Nightwalker (10 page)

“Be careful in your own house, that’s what I’ve got for you so far. What you do with that is your concern,” Dillon told him, standing. “If you want more, then you damn well need to give me more.”

“What the hell more can I give you? Someone is after me. I know it. I don’t know who, but I know I’ve been followed. And now Green is dead. That’s what I’ve got, and if I had more, I’d damn well give it to you, because this is my life I’m trying to preserve,” Emil Landon growled. “Find out what happened to Tanner Green and why, then maybe we’ll know where to look and what the hell is happening. Now get out of here and go do something useful.”

“Fine,” Dillon snapped. “I’d like to get your limo to the crime lab.”

“My limo!” Emil Landon exploded. “You’re working for me, remember? Go to the Sun. Check out
their
fucking limo!”

“I find that very curious, Mr. Landon. I’d think you’d want to know what was happening in your own backyard,” Dillon commented dryly.

“You know what? You’re fired. Your sorry ass is fired,” Landon screeched. “Get out! Get out of my office
now!
”

“As you wish,” Dillon told him, and turned to leave.

“Wait!” Landon called to him.

Dillon turned.

“Just check out their damn limo first, will you?” Landon demanded. “Then…come back to me.”

“I’ll need a warrant for that.”

“Get one.”

“I’m not a cop. I’m a P.I.”

“Hell, you can get whatever you want, and you damn well know it.” Landon waved a hand in the air in dismissal.

Had Landon hired him with a hidden agenda? To help him in setting up someone else?

Dillon walked over to the desk and leaned on it, staring Landon in the eyes. For a moment the casino owner looked afraid. “I’ll do my best,” Dillon said. “But don’t let me find out that you’re jerking me around. Because when—not if—I find out the truth, if you’re guilty in any way, I’ll make sure you pay the price.”

He left before Emil Landon could respond to his threat.

Jessy loved kids. They were so quick to suspend disbelief, and they were delighted with simple things, like chocolates wrapped in gold foil. The pirate show was probably her favorite of all the shows she’d ever done. It never felt old or routine to her.

But today, while she was once again in the midst of a battle of words, she found herself looking out and seeing the man. Tanner Green.

Staring at her through the glass.

She turned away, insisting to herself that he wasn’t there. He couldn’t be there. Tanner Green was
dead
.

She focused on her lines and on her fellow actors.
She avoided looking past the audience to where she had seen him.

But she could still
feel
him watching her.

She tried hard not to look, but in the end she couldn’t stop herself. Being careful not to lose a beat, she turned to look and was relieved to see that he was gone. So maybe that was the answer. Ignore him. Pretend that she didn’t see him, because, of course, she
couldn’t
be seeing him.

Ghosts weren’t real. And if they weren’t real, they couldn’t walk around in human form, staring through glass with a melancholy expression.

Anyone who thought they saw ghosts was crazy.

And she was completely and totally sane.

Completely.

And totally.

She forced herself to concentrate on the children’s reactions, on the story she and the rest of the cast were telling, and on the ad-libbing that was so much a part of the show.

And she didn’t look toward the glass.

A little girl in the front row held a foil-wrapped chocolate coin, one of the “pieces of eight” the cast gave out. Now Jessy strode toward the girl, saying, “I see treasure, and there’s more to be had!”

The little girl offered her the chocolate. “Ah, no, lassie! That’s your treasure. I be wanting me own!” The kids all laughed, and Jessy smiled and returned to the stage, determined to keep her eyes on the kids and nowhere else.

“Hey, how’s it going?” Jim Martin asked, sliding into the booth across from Dillon at the coffee shop just
off Paiute land. Like Dillon, he had Paiute in his background; in fact, his brother was an officer with the local tribal police.

“Good, thanks, and thanks for coming.”

“Not a problem. I don’t work today. Actually, I had to drag myself out of bed to get here.”

“Sorry.”

“No, it’s okay. I needed to get moving. And I’m happy to help out—if I can.”

“You were working, overseeing the croupiers, when Tanner Green died,” Dillon said.

“Yeah, I was.” Jim shook his head. “I was there, and I didn’t see a damn thing.”

“Nothing at all?”

“I probably should have seen him stumbling through the crowd. It was weird, though. I mean, wouldn’t you think he’d have been trying to get help? I don’t know why he didn’t grab someone outside, or in the crowd. But he made it all the way over to the table. The thing is, I had just come on.”

“What?”

“I had just come on duty. Darrell Frye was on before me. He went on break, and I came on just as things were going down, and I didn’t notice because I was busy getting a feel for what was going on. There’s huge money out there on those tables, you know. And we’re responsible for making sure everything runs smoothly.”

“Well, thanks for coming to talk to me,” Dillon told him a few minutes later, after they’d run through the events of Green’s death again, just to be sure they hadn’t missed something. “I appreciate it. I’ll find Darrell Frye
and see if he can remember anything about what happened before you got there.”

“Sure. You’d think someone would have noticed something. Green sure took one hell of a long walk with a knife in his back. Maybe he was stoned or something and didn’t even know he’d been stabbed.”

“Maybe he was,” Dillon said. Not only would that explain why he had stumbled through the crowd, half-dead, without stopping someone and begging for help, it could explain his confusion and fear as a ghost.

The minute James left, Dillon put in a call to Cheever, cursing the fact that he needed to go through the proper channels if he wanted to remain in the loop.

He was given the runaround for several minutes, but if there was one stereotype he rather liked, it had to do with the belief that men of Indian blood were stoic. Determined. He kept that thought in mind as he waited, and eventually Jerry Cheever came on the line.

“What?” the cop asked, and Dillon wasn’t sure if the question held annoyance or curiosity.

“I was anxious to see if the autopsy report was in on Tanner Green.”

“Autopsy report? You were there—the man had a knife in his back,” Cheever said sarcastically.

“Right,” Dillon said with an edge. “And a man with a knife in his back would want it out, I imagine. Wouldn’t you think he’d approach the nearest person and ask for help? Unless he was disoriented.”

“A knife in his back would make him disoriented—wouldn’t
you
think?”

“He stumbled like a drunk man. Or someone who had been drugged,” Dillon said.

“I’ll get back to you. I’m sure the morgue ran a basic tox screen. If not, I’ll see that they do,” Cheever said.

“Thanks. I appreciate it.”

Dillon was pretty sure Cheever muttered something as he hung up. Whether he was irritated for not having figured out himself that Green might have been drugged, or if he was just annoyed that his superiors had told him he had to work with a private investigator, Dillon couldn’t tell. And he didn’t really care, as long as the man followed through.

There had been other witnesses that night, of course, and it would be interesting to find out what they had to say. Especially Darrell Frye, the pit boss who had been in charge, only to disappear just when Tanner Green had stumbled in. Not that there was necessarily anything suspicious about that. People went on break all the time.

But it was possible that the limo had belonged to the Sun, and that might make Frye’s whereabouts relevant. He took a stroll over to the casino, and was told that Darrell Frye wasn’t working, that in fact he was taking some vacation time.

Back out front, Dillon asked for Rudy Yorba.

He was startled when the woman at valet parking sucked in her breath and stared at him in horror. “I’m so sorry. I guess you haven’t heard.”

“Heard what?”

“Rudy’s dead.”

“What?” Dillon said, incredulous.

“He’s dead. Hit-and-run last night. It’s so terrible!
It’s been all over the news the last few hours. He was walking along the shoulder of the highway when he was hit and thrown down an embankment…. No one even found the body until a few hours ago.”

Dillon winced inwardly. He always listened to the news, but he’d woken up so late this morning that he hadn’t even turned on the TV. And Cheever might have heard about it, but he wouldn’t have thought about saying anything because he wouldn’t have seen the connection.

“My God. No, I’m sorry. I haven’t seen the news today.”

The woman shook her head sadly. “He was killed not five miles from his home. It’s just so sad. They think he was struck on his way home last night. A guy driving out to Lake Mead saw the vultures, so he went to see what they were so interested in, found the body and called the police out. It’s just so awful, everything that’s going on around here. First that bodyguard, and now Rudy…it’s just tragic.”

Dillon thanked her and turned away.

It wasn’t just tragic. It was criminal.

B
ackstage, before she even got out of her costume and makeup, Jessy called Sandra and arranged to go to the movies. Anything to take her mind off what was going on. Not only that, she didn’t want to drive, because she was afraid of what she would do if she looked out the window and saw Tanner Green. Luckily Sandra had no objection to picking her up, and she sang to herself all the way home, thinking that might keep any ghosts at bay. Whatever the reason, she made it home without incident.

She and Sandra pulled up at almost the same moment.

“You look like hell,” Sandra told her with the comfortable bluntness that came from years of close friendship.

“I know. I didn’t sleep well,” Jessy told her.

“Are you frightened?”

“Frightened? Of what?” Jessy asked warily.

“Well, of whoever killed Tanner Green thinking you could recognize him and coming after you, too.”

“Of course not,” Jessy responded immediately, glad the possibility hadn’t occurred to her earlier. “I mean, if I knew anything, I would have told the police, and the person would already have been arrested. Right?”

“Of course. If the police could figure out who he was from your description.”

Jessy stared at her. “You know, you’re not helping.”

“Sorry,” Sandra said, then forced a reassuring smile and asked, “Hey, what happened to tall, dark and very handsome?”

“Who?” Jessy asked.

“You know exactly who I mean.”

“Oh, Dillon.”

“Yes, Mr. Oh-Dillon. What’s up? What happened to him?”

“What do you mean, what happened to him? To the best of my knowledge, he’s fine.”

“You haven’t talked to him again?” Sandra sounded dismayed.

“Actually, I have. He took me to dinner last night after the show.”

Sandra stared at her in total exasperation. “Honestly, Jessy, if for no reason other than self-preservation, you should be hanging with that hunk of lean, mean security right now.”

“Sandra, I am not going to hang with a guy just for protection.”

“People have done worse,” Sandra said with a shrug. “Wait, I have it.”

“Have what?”

“The reason you’re steering clear of him. Of all men. Because I know you’re attracted to him,” Sandra accused. “The thing is, you’re chicken, and you have been for as long as I’ve known you. You’re afraid of being hurt, so you push guys away.”

“I have responsibilities,” Jessy told her.

“Don’t make excuses. You have a grandfather who loves you. He suffers from being old, but so do lots of people. The whole human race comes with baggage, Jessy, but if you let yourself be scared of every guy out there because you’re defensive about Timothy, you’re turning him into a brick around your neck, which he’s not—and I know you don’t really think he is, either. You’re afraid someone else wouldn’t love him the way you do, and that’s not fair to Mr. Oh-Dillon or anyone else, or to Timothy himself. So start trusting someone, or else you’re actually hurting Timothy yourself.”

To Sandra’s credit, Jessy saw the truth in her friend’s words and was appalled at herself. “It’s not Timothy. I know he’s a gift in my life. And it isn’t a lack of trust in humanity, or not only that. It’s also a lack of time. Only it isn’t any of those things with Dillon Wolf.”

“But you do think he’s hot,” Sandra said, grinning.

“He’s an attractive man,” Jessy said evasively.

“Yes, so…?”

“All right, honestly? First off, he hasn’t asked me on a date. He wants information, that’s all. Second, I’m still not sure about his job and who he works for. It seems
as if he answers me honestly, that he likes and respects the man he works for, and that everything’s on the up-and-up, but…I still don’t understand exactly what he does, what he has done, why he’s here…. I mean, Dillon claims there’s nothing shady about what’s going on, but what is Harrison Investigations, exactly? How is that no one seems to know anything about it even though he says it’s all out in the open, but somehow he has access to cops who don’t really want him butting in? I don’t get it. Who
are
these people?”

“You’re sounding panicky,” Sandra said.

“I’m not panicky, I’m concerned. I just want to know who he really is and understand what’s going on. So…what are they? Do you know?”

“Ghost hunters. Real ones,” Sandra said soberly.

“What?” Jessy demanded. “Ghost hunters?”

“Okay, that’s not what they call themselves. But it’s what they do.”

“And you know this because…?”

“Because I read,” Sandra said.

Jessy frowned. “Hey, I read all the time.”

Sandra laughed. “I’m not casting aspersions. I read
People
cover to cover, too. But I did some research when the whole Harrison Investigations thing was first mentioned, and what I found was pretty interesting. Adam Harrison declines interviews, and says he and his people are just like any other investigators. But…hang on. I had a feeling you’d be interested, so I brought a few things with me.” Sandra reached into her huge tote and pulled out several magazines. “Read these.”

The first magazine was a sensationalist rag. The
headline read,
Elvis never died. He was just recalled to his ship!

Jessy stared at Sandra, arching a brow.

“Oh, ignore that,” Sandra said. “Go to page four.”

Jessy flipped through to an article about a ghost in the D.C. house of one of North Dakota’s state senators. Harrison Investigations had been called in, only to report that the “eerie noises” and weird happenings in the historic home were being caused by a nest of squirrels—and an unhappy constituent who had managed to get a job as a housekeeper for the senator. The reporter claimed to know, however, that the house had been haunted by a man shot in a quarrel after the Lincoln assassination for insisting that Dr. Samuel Mudd had treated John Wilkes Booth’s leg as he would have any patient’s, unaware that Booth had just killed the president. The reporter was certain that a member of Harrison Investigations had assured the ghost that Mudd—and he—had been vindicated, and the ghost had moved on.

Jessy stared at Sandra. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Check this one out, then.”

She handed Jessy another magazine, a respected news weekly, which carried an article about the same incident and mentioned several others, finishing by saying,
Whatever the problem—wildlife, pranksters or even revenants with a grudge—Harrison Investigations seems capable of solving the problem, quietly and without fanfare.

“So they investigate squirrels,” Jessy said irritably.

“They’re ghost busters,” Sandra said firmly.

“If that’s true, it just proves my point exactly. Do I
really want to get involved with a whack job who thinks investigating ghosts is the way to solve a crime?”

“You’re hopeless,” Sandra said. “Don’t get involved with him, then. Have sex. Maybe even let him be a friend—with benefits. But stop spending your life in a funk, doing nothing but working, eating a TV dinner, going to bed—”

“I never eat TV dinners,” Jessy protested.

Sandra ignored her. “And visiting Timothy. And frankly, hanging out with a nice strong guy would be a pretty good idea, if you ask me, because I think you
should
be afraid. That guy didn’t die from having too much fun. He was murdered. Knifed in the back. And like it or not, you’re connected to his death. The more I think about it, the scarier I think it is.”

“What the hell is the matter with you, trying to scare me like this?” Jessy demanded.

“I’m looking out for your welfare,” Sandra told her.

“By scaring me to death?”

“You’re not dead, so apparently my evil plan didn’t work. But I still think you’re in danger,” Sandra said, nodding to show how serious she was.

“So you want me to get…involved with a man who might be crazy,” Jessy accused.

“It’s what you want, and you know it,” Sandra said.

Jessy groaned and changed the subject. “Are we seeing a movie or not?”

“There’s a new horror—” Sandra began.

“Very funny,” Jessy said.

“Sorry,” Sandra teased. “How about that new cops film?”

They agreed, then moved on to wrangling over what restaurant to go to as they left.

Dillon arrived at the crime lab just as the shift was changing, was hoping to find an old friend, Wally Valdez.

The first thing he had done after hearing about Rudy Yorba’s death to was call Jerry Cheever and suggest it was too much of a coincidence not to be connected, even revealing the fact that he had talked to Rudy shortly before he was killed. Cheever told him that they had already checked out Rudy’s car, which had been found parked on the side of the highway. It had been out of gas, plain and simple. Some cowardly drunk was probably busy, even now, praying that he wasn’t somehow traced.

“You got anything to go on?” Dillon had demanded.

Cheever had grown impatient at that point, stressing that it wasn’t his case and was being handled as accidental vehicular homicide. His own hackles had been raised by Cheever’s attitude, keeping him from being totally forthcoming when Cheever demanded to know what Yorba had told him.

As soon as they’d hung up, he’d come here.

As he was asking after Wally, Sarah Clay, the woman who had helped him with the video the day before, appeared in the reception area.

“What are you doing here?” she asked him.

“Just looking for a friend, Wally Valdez. Do you know him?”

“I do.”

He frowned. “Actually, what are
you
doing here? I thought you worked over at the station.”

Sarah smiled. “Actually, I’m usually here. I was just called in to work with the casino tapes. Anyway, Wally is off tonight, but he’ll be back tomorrow.” She paused and looked thoughtful.

“Wally says you’re one of the good guys.”

“Glad to hear it.”

She smiled. “If I can help you…?”

“Thanks for the offer. It’s nothing to do with the casino tapes, actually. I’m here because of the hit-and-run last night.”

“The Rudy Yorba case,” she said somberly.

“Right. It just seems odd to me that Rudy Yorba, who happened to be parking cars at the Sun when Green was killed, managed to run out of gas and end up struck by a hit-and-run driver in the middle of the night. Even in Vegas, that’s a quiet time.”

“There are always lots of drunks behind the wheel in this town, though,” Sarah told him.

“Still, it’s quite a coincidence, don’t you think? Two dead in two days, and both deaths connected to the same casino?”

“I wish I could say our non-natural death rate was so low that that seemed weird to me,” Sarah told him gravely, “but it’s not. One murder, one accident. A pretty normal ratio around here, really.”

“Still…I questioned Rudy about what had happened the night Green died just hours before he was killed. Have the investigators come up with anything yet? Any clue at all?”

She studied him gravely for a moment. “I don’t know anything yet, and it’s not my case. But I can try to find
out what’s going on, and I’ll be able to give you what we get on paint evidence, if nothing else. I think they were able to find a few chips on the body,” she said. “I’ll call you when I have something. Just give me a number. I did hear that the cop on the case has been calling body shops, and no one has come in with a damaged car.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it.” He gave her one of his cards, then turned to leave.

“He was struck really hard,” she said softly.

He turned back to look at her. She had large brown eyes and a heart-shaped faced, and, despite the scrubs she was now wearing over her uniform, she was a beautiful young woman, one who right now looked not just sad but worried.

“As if there was something personal? As if he was struck on purpose?” he asked.

“In my mind, yes,” she said decisively. “How do you hit a man hard enough to break just about every bone in his body—and not crash into the guardrail or go over the embankment yourself? Especially if you’re a drunk, so your reflexes are slow?” She shook her head. “I’m not high enough in the force for anyone to want my opinion, but that’s my take on the situation. If you want it.”

“Definitely. And thank you again.”

“Call me. Anytime.”

He was pretty sure she was actually flirting with him then. And she was certainly attractive, bright and intriguing.

He was working, he reminded himself.

But that wasn’t what caused him to ignore the
signals and courteously extend his thanks one last time, then walk away.

It was the memory of a woman with deep cobalt eyes and a mane of sunset hair.

Sandra was quiet as they drove back to Jessy’s house after their night out.

“What’s the matter?” Jessy asked her.

“Want to come and stay with me?” Sandra asked.

Yes, I do,
Jessy thought, surprising herself.

But she wasn’t going to abandon her home. If she did, she might never have the nerve to go back.

“Thank you, but I’m fine.” She frowned. Sandra was actually looking worried.

“What is it?”

“I admit I was trying to get to you before. But now…I think I’ve managed to actually scare myself over you.”

“I have an alarm,” Jessy reminded her. “And if someone was really afraid I knew something, they’d have to know I’d have spilled it by now, right? Haven’t we already figured all that out?”

“All right. But if you need anything, call me.” Sandra paused, then added, “Hell, if you’re really scared, dial 911. Fast.”

“You know I will,” Jessy assured her.

“I’ll go in with you,” Sandra volunteered.

They walked through the house together, Sandra brandishing one of her spiked heels like a weapon, just in case they surprised an intruder.

But the house was empty. Not that Jessy had ever thought there was actually someone there.

Not a
living
someone, anyway.

She told Sandra good-night, then silently repeated her new mantra.
Look straight ahead. No peripheral vision allowed. Do not make eye contact.

She hummed loudly, and blasted her television as she made a cup of tea and got ready for bed.