Nothing else matters, p.3
Nothing Else Matters, page 3
“It is so great to see you, Sam.” Chief Murphy’s plastic smile conveyed the same sincerity as his handshake, a limp grasp by two fingers and a quick release.
“I guess congratulations are in order on your promotion,” Sam said dryly. She noticed he hadn’t changed much. He wore what was probably the most expensive tuxedo on the rack. A man driven by power and prestige.
“Well, I guess my predecessor’s integrity left a lot to be desired.” The corners of Murphy’s mouth turned up slightly. Chief Don Connelley had been Murphy’s adversary. It hadn’t helped that Connelley had been Sam’s godfather and had been one of the people Sam trusted the most. It hadn’t helped that he had been her father’s closest friend. Don Connelley was one subject Sam didn’t care to broach, but Murphy plodded on. “Sometimes the people you put all your trust in just end up disappointing us, don’t they?” His smiling eyes mocked her and Sam was beginning to feel the small bites of her crackers slowly rising. They were standing near the bar and Murphy made no attempt to move their conversation to more private quarters.
In an attempt to change the subject, Sam said, “It will feel great to be back at work. I have my hearing in a couple weeks so...”
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” His smile broadened, creasing the corners of his eyes. “The Board of Police and Fire Commissioners won’t be able to meet for at least four more months on your case. They have such a backlog.”
Sam’s crackers were now in stage two. Eyeing him suspiciously, she said, “I’m sure it has nothing to do with the fact that in your position as chief you’ll be appointing new members to the Board of Police and Fire Commissioners.”
Murphy arched his eyebrows in surprise. “My, that does fall under my jurisdiction, doesn’t it?” With a shrug he added, “I’m sure you are still struggling with some kind of defense as to how your gun fired those fatal shots.” He paused a beat, making sure he had the attention of everyone close by.
Lamon stepped closer. “Chief, I’m sure we don’t have to discuss this now.”
Murphy dismissed him with the wave of a hand and pushed on. “Of course, you will be submitting a written statement to I.A. I am kind of curious what Connelley had to do with your father’s death. And how did he end up in your Jeep that morning?” Murphy cleared his throat and smiled that Cheshire grin.
She could feel her heart pounding and swallowed to keep her crackers from coming up but did think they’d look great right now splattered on Murphy’s silk tie.
Fire flashed in her eyes and the words tumbled out before she could reel them back. “One thing about Chief Connelley is that he was the epitome of class. He wouldn’t have taken an opportunity like tonight to discuss sensitive personnel issues, class which YOU obviously don’t have.” Her third earring of beads and feathers whipped against her left shoulder as Benny’s hand tugged at her elbow.
“By the way, it will be required at your hearing that you take a lie detector test, Sergeant Casey.”
“Maybe we can have you take one, too,” Sam countered, feeling Benny’s hand a little firmer.
The room was silent. Sam was vaguely aware that camera’s were clicking. And she suddenly realized the members of the Board of Police and Fire Commissioners were standing directly behind Murphy.
Murphy tilted his head, a victorious smile on his face the deeper Sam dug her grave. “And I’m sure we will definitely need a report from your psychiatrist on your mental health.”
Psychiatrist. He was making her sound like a raving mental case. “You bastard,” Sam whispered. She vaguely remembered being dragged out by Benny. It wasn’t until she was in the safety of his car that she broke down in uncontrollable sobs.
CHAPTER 6
The faint beat of a rock tune was drowned out by the incessant ringing of slot machines. Over one thousand enthusiastic gamblers filled three floors of the River Queen Casino as it floated back to its dock at the Calumet Marina. It usually sailed eight miles along the lake shore from Chasen Heights to Chicago and back, treating its guests on the observation deck to a spectacular view of the skyline.
Cocktail waitresses in hot pink satin jackets that just barely covered their rears weaved their way between the aisles. They seemed cloned...long blonde hair, long nails, hot pink lipstick, satin and feather hats.
Dealers in tuxedo shirts with hot pink bow ties came in all sizes and nationalities. The felt layouts by the roulette wheels were stacked with chips; the crap tables were three deep in players and spectators.
Black ceilings dotted with tiny white lights gave the feeling of a night sky. Large black domes hung from the ceiling every twenty feet, concealing surveillance cameras. Security guards in white shirts with turquoise epaulets roamed the floors watching for unruly guests and delivering fills of chips to the tables.
A small room at the bow of the boat on the second floor was set aside as a non-smoking room. It was there, near a five-dollar slot machine, that Everett Smith sat watching the players, checking his watch occasionally, patting the brown satchel that hung from his shoulder.
An Asian woman tethered to her slot machine by a coiled blue plastic chain looked curiously at him. She fed silver dollar tokens into the machine three at a time. As though she weren’t losing her money fast enough, she started to feed the machine next to her.
Reverend Smith gave her a passing glance, then shook his head. He was dressed conservatively in a dark blue V-neck sweater over a dark blue shirt. His navy blue trench coat was thrown over the back of his chair. Checking his watch again, he gazed nervously at his surroundings.
In fifteen minutes the boat would be docking and he could get off. But he had yet to meet the man who was supposed to take the satchel.
Sparrow watched Everett Smith from the bar in the main casino. He had followed his target to the observation deck and then to the deli on the third floor where the Reverend had a sandwich and cup of coffee. Sparrow thought it odd that Reverend Smith didn’t spend any time gambling. Just kept clutching the satchel and watching the gamblers with part disdain and part disinterest.
That feeling crept into Sparrow’s gut again. Something wasn’t right. His instincts told him to move cautiously. He searched the room, looking for some reason why the alarm bells in his head were ringing.
No one was giving Sparrow a second glance. He had on a gray wig and short graying beard, a white shirt open at the collar, a green sweater, and slightly tattered brown suit. Nothing flashy. He was a master of disguise. Today he was Mustafa Habib, a sixty-year-old businessman from New York City. He walked with a slight limp but was assisted by a sturdy metal cane with ingrained wood at the handle grip.
Square rose-tinted glasses sat snugly on his nose. He took a sip of his vodka and tonic, a drink he had been nursing most of the cruise. He needed all of his faculties tonight.
Sparrow was an expert at martial arts and jungle warfare, and fluent in five languages. Previously Special Forces, which was so many years ago it almost seemed like a different lifetime, he had learned not only how to stalk a victim, but also how to tell when someone was stalking. And he had noticed it an hour ago.
A man approximately five-foot-eight, wearing blue jeans, a blue knit shirt, and blue jean jacket, had been glancing once too often at Reverend Smith, following at a far enough distance, but his eyes never left him. His appearance was seedy at best, with a five o-clock shadow and oil-slick hair. He had sat in the same seat Sparrow now sat in, had ordered a beer, and then wandered off to the non-smoking room to casually play a quarter slot machine, glancing every so often at Reverend Smith.
Sparrow picked up the matchbook the man had left on the bar. Beverly Hills Where the Customer Always Comes First. He stored the information in his memory bank. The remote control in his left pocket would be cutting the power on the boat at approximately five minutes before docking. The night scope in his right pocket would fit easily onto the nickel-plated Beretta 950 Jet Fire pistol concealed in his cane. The butt of the gun served as the grip for the cane. Also a weapons expert, Sparrow had equipped the gun with a sound suppressor.
He could hear the boat’s engines, smell the fuel, as the three hundred-foot River Queen maneuvered into its dock space. Senior citizens, businessmen, blue jean-clad yuppies, passengers in all shapes and colors were beginning to line up near the doorway opposite the bar leaving Sparrow a clear line to the seat Smith occupied.
The boat shifted slightly as it hit the dock. Sparrow pressed the button on the remote control and threw the room into total darkness. Laughter and comments were bantered around. “Grab the money,” someone joked. No panic, no confusion. The generator lights snapped on casting a shadowy glow to the room. Sparrow could see that the dealers had covered their bankrolls with some type of metal and glass lids. He touched the remote control again and killed the generator lights.
Working swiftly, he released the gun from the cane, snapped on the night vision scope with a laser sight, and pointed it at Smith’s chest. The alarm bells were ringing again as he instead kept a close eye on the stalker who had just moved in front of the Reverend. Sparrow saw the change in the Reverend’s body as it slumped against the slot machine. The stalker slipped the satchel from Reverend Smith’s grasp and faded into the crowd.
Something was definitely wrong, Sparrow thought. It was too much of a coincidence that on the night he was to eliminate a target, someone else did. Within ten seconds the lights were back on to the applause of the passengers. Sparrow’s gun was safely back in the cane, the night vision scope back in his pocket. He kept his eye on the man in blue jeans, and, as the doors opened, followed him.
CHAPTER 7
The restaurant on the outskirts of town was dimly lit with high-backed booths, something Sam preferred about now. She didn’t think she would have an appetite after her altercation with Murphy and almost had Benny pull over because she thought she was going to be sick. Seated in a booth across from Benny and Lea, Sam felt their sympathetic eyes, which made hers well up again.
“I’m sorry,” Sam said as she dabbed her cheeks. “Guess I’m out of practice in dealing with Murphy.” Not to mention her hormones which were out of whack and making her bare her normally well-hidden emotions.
Lea reached across and grabbed Sam’s hand. “You gave him just what he deserved.”
“Yes, I did. I gave him my job on a silver platter.”
The waiter came and Sam ordered a glass of wine. One glass of wine wouldn’t hurt, shouldn’t hurt, Sam thought. She leaned back against the cushioned seat and perused the menu.
“Maybe it’s best that you don’t go back to work just yet,” Lea said. “It brings back so many negative feelings.”
Sam glared at them over the top of her menu. “You both think I’m pushing it too fast?”
Benny nodded. “Yes. You have been through more in the past few months than most people I know.”
“Enough with this talk of shootings and Murphy. Sam needs to think positive thoughts. Happy thoughts.” Lea’s face brightened the room. Eyes wide in excitement, a broad smile. When the waiter brought their drinks, she held hers up in a toast. “To a brighter tomorrow.”
Sam tried to quell the jitters in her stomach, thinking not of tomorrow but of two tomorrows, when she would have to face Jake.
The conversation turned to Benny and Lea’s three children, gymnastics, their families back in Honolulu, and Beanie Babies.
“Beanie Babies?” Sam blinked. Throughout her meal of filet and baked potato, Sam listened as Lea rattled on about a store called Spoil ‘em Silly in Crown Point, Indiana. That was where Lea purchased the stuffed animals for her youngest daughter. But she admitted they were also for her. She was collecting them.
Just as the waiter brought Sam’s pumpkin pie and whipped cream, Benny’s cellular phone rang. Several minutes later he hung up and announced. “We have a homicide at the River Queen Casino.” He looked at his own slice of pie sitting in front of him. “But I can finish my pie first. The body ain’t goin’ anywhere.”
Guests milled around the spacious lobby of the River Queen pavilion waiting to be questioned by police. The press was cordoned off in the VIP lounge just off the entrance to the ramp. Benny had dropped Lea off at home, and against his better judgment, let Sam talk him into letting her tag along.
They were met at the bottom of the ramp by two police officers and six of the casino’s security guards. Benny showed his identification. Sam presented her shield and they each signed the log book which documented everyone who was accessing the crime scene. Neither of them bothered to mention that she was officially off duty and had no business being there.
After boarding the boat Sam paused, surveyed her surroundings in awe. Mirrored ceilings reflected the flashing lights; pulsating neons advertised progressive jackpots. The carpeting was a kaleidoscope of color in hues of stained glass. She had never been to Vegas and knew nothing about gambling. Even though the casino boat had been closed after the discovery of the body, she could still feel the excitement in the air.
“This way,” the young officer said as he led them to the area roped off by black and yellow tape.
The body was lying on the floor in front of a five-dollar slot machine. Crime Lab technicians moved around the room cautiously. Sam leaned over the tape to survey the body. The area would not be accessible until the Crime Lab had completed taking pictures. She could feel the aura pulsating in the room, and wished she could get close to the body. Although Abby’s powers were with the living, Sam’s were with the dead. She could sense things about the victim and killer just by touching the deceased or an item the killer had touched. Neither of them could predict when it would happen and sometimes they couldn’t sense anything. But Sam could feel the aura pulling her from all directions and it was unusually strong.
Several feet behind her and to her left, Sam saw Frank Travis seated at a mini-baccarat table questioning a security officer. Frank was Jake’s partner and she assumed the primary on the case since Jake was out of town. Frank looked different but she couldn’t put her finger on it.
Standing near the table was a dark-haired man, streaks of blonde at the temple, medium height and build. If he didn’t blink every few seconds, one could almost mistaken him for a mannequin.
Others stood around looking just as grim, men in dark suits and ties, official. Sam guessed them to be state police who were part of the Illinois Gaming Board, members who were on the boat at all times. IGB. Sam smiled. She had heard of them referred somewhat affectionately as KGB, by gamblers arrested on suspicion of theft or cheating.
Sam said, “Looks like a gun shot wound, Benny. What do you think?” A dab of blood was visible on the front of the victim’s shirt. Eyelids were partially closed and staring toward them.
“Probably a small caliber,” Benny agreed.
“Excuse me.” A uniformed officer, whose badge read Reynolds, appeared at Sam’s side. “Ma’am, would you follow me?”
Sam’s gaze darted to Benny. “Guess Murphy must have found out already.”
She followed Officer Reynolds off the boat and down the ramp to the pavilion. How like Murphy to keep tabs on her whereabouts. He probably even knew where she went for dinner. Sam half-expected to see television crews set up in the pavilion to catch her altercation with Murphy on tape for the ten o’clock news. But instead, Reynolds led her through a door and down another hallway. He held open a door marked Training Room and closed the door behind her.
Only one overhead light above a crap table was lit. She could barely make out blackjack tables and a roulette wheel surrounded by stools. Then an eerie feeling crept up her spine. She wasn’t alone. In a darkened corner she could see tasseled loafers, legs crossed at the ankles. But the shoes weren’t ostrich-skinned so she doubted it was Murphy. The pants were charcoal gray, pleats pressed flat against a firm stomach. One hand was shoved into a pants pocket, the jacket opened revealing a shield clamped on a belt.
A match, lit by the flick of a thumbnail, illuminated an unsmiling face, brows hunkered over deep set eyes with a hardened look that bordered on despise. It was Jake. Sam braced herself for the barrage of rhetoric: You could have called, could have answered my letters. What happened to all we shared? Did it mean nothing to you?
Instead Jake said, “I hear you caused a bit of a scene at Murphy’s dinner.” He inhaled long and deep, letting the smoke drift out slowly.
Sam held her breath. For ten weeks she had hoped all her feelings for him were dead. But damn, he looked good. He wasn’t drop dead gorgeous. It took time for him to grow on you. It was his quiet reserve that attracted women. Tall and muscular, rugged looking with a ruddy complexion and furrowed eyebrows. He smiled rarely, as if life hadn’t shown him anything worth smiling about.
“Rumor mill is still fast and furious.” She fumbled with the stray hairs caught in her earring then stopped. Why care what she looked like? “Thought you were out of town.” She moved to one of the blackjack tables, her suede boots scuffing along the carpeting.
“It ended early.” He pushed away from the wall, his eyes assessing her in one sweeping gaze.
This time she braced herself for a barrage of apologies: I’m sorry you had to go through that. I should have been there with you. Why didn’t you tell me you were home?
But again, she couldn’t predict his thoughts. Instead, he said, “You should have known better than to go anywhere near him.”
Another long drag and a piercing glare that made Sam gather her cape around her tighter.
There was a knock on the door and Reynolds stuck his head in. “Sergeant?”
Sam and Jake both responded, “Yes?”
Sam jerked her head around. That explained the suit. Jake had always preferred to dress casual, sometimes even wearing gym shoes just to piss off Murphy. Now he looked just like what he was...a former FBI agent.
