Into the Devil's Underground (20 page)

Nathan wished she’d send Avery out of the room.

“So I was lookin’ around down there,” Burrell continued. “I could tell no one was in there much. Place was dusty as shit. I was about to leave when I saw this big stack of boxes in the corner. Might be something good in them, you know? Started digging one by one, moving them around. The door was hidden behind them. Thought I was hallucinating at first.”

Nathan waited for the question he knew Ronson would ask next. The police had been deliberately vague to the media about the door’s exterior and condition.

“Can you describe the door?” Ronson asked.

“Old. Wood. Probably oak. Solid.” His words were coming faster now, as though telling the story out loud was a great relief. “It was faded and cracked, but the handle still worked. Took some elbow grease, but I got the thing opened enough to squeeze through.”

“You touched the door?” Avery asked.

“Wouldn’t you?”

“Your fingerprints weren’t found.”

“That’s ‘cause I’m no dummy. I wiped it clean—used a cleaner from my kit.”

“What did you see after you opened the door?” Ronson asked.

“Nothing, for a minute. Turned on my flashlight and about pissed myself. Cobwebs everywhere, big old spiders, cockroaches, some squirmy, grub lookin’ things. And the stink. Holy God, it was awful.”

Nathan’s heart raced. Burrell was telling the truth.

“I shined my light and could see it was a tunnel of some sort,” Burrell continued. “Bunch of crap was on the floor: yellowed newspapers, old glass bottles, some coins. I wanted to check those out, but I couldn’t go too far in. The spiders hung from the ceiling and creepy-crawlies moving all around. Couldn’t handle that shit.”

“You see anything like that either time you were in there?” Johnson asked.

“No,” Nathan said. “Creepy likes history. He probably took everything.”

“You live in the storm drains,” Avery said. “We’re supposed to believe you were too creeped out to explore the tunnel?”

Burrell stared at Avery. “I live in the tunnels because I don’t have anywhere else. That night at the bank, I still had a home.”

“Then what?” Ronson pressed forward.

“I chickened out. Shut the door, latched it, and stacked the boxes back. Got the hell out of there.” Burrell rubbed his biceps as though suddenly cold. “Weren’t just the bugs, you know. The place gave me a creepy feeling, like the earth would swallow me up if I went inside.”

“That was eight months ago?” Ronson asked.

“Yeah.”

“When did you first enter the storm drains?”

“I didn’t want to end up there, you know.” Burrell fidgeted with the black string tied around his wrist. “I’d heard about the homeless down there but never thought…well, my life was paycheck to paycheck. I couldn’t pay the rent and was out on my ass.” He rubbed his forehead, gaze downcast. Burrell cleared his throat. “That was around Christmas time. It was chilly. Some dude told me to get into the drain on 15—the one near the ‘Welcome to Las Vegas’ sign. So I did.”

“All the bigwigs and high-rollers in this city, and we got people living in the fucking sewer.” Johnson shook his head. “Welcome to the American dream.”

“Tell us about your encounter with the suspect,” Ronson said.

“Was in January,” Burrell said. “I remember ‘cause it was cold, in the low thirties. Me and a dude I’d hooked up with—they call him Snake because of this tat around his waist, a big-assed boa constrictor. Fucking creepy.” Burrell took off the dirty cap and a pack of GPC’s fell out. “Can I smoke in here?”

“No.” Avery’s lip curled. “Continue.”

Burrell shoved the cigarettes back in the cap and stuck it back on his head. “Snake had a little fire pit. Used to gather up newspapers and trash to burn when it was cold. So we were sitting by the fire, drinking some beer Snake’d come by. Two guys come up. Snake knew them both.”

Nathan leaned forward. Had the man actually seen Creepy?

“They asked if they could share our fire. They had more beer. We said yes.”

“What did they look like?” Ronson asked.

“One was short and real skinny, malnourished looking. Probably from the damned crack he kept smoking. He was white too. Pale white. Too much time down below.”

“Definitely not Joe,” Nathan murmured.

“And the other man?” Ronson offered Burrell a bottle of water.

“Tall. Beard, but not too long. Trimmed. Couldn’t tell for sure if he was black, but I thought so. Maybe mixed race. Talked weird. Kind of choppy. Seemed fake.”

“Emilie was sure Creepy disguised his voice,” Nathan said.

“I didn’t think he was legit.” Burrell shrugged. “He looked poor enough. His clothes weren’t any better than ours. But he was real clean, and his nails were nice and trimmed. And he spoke like a higher-up.”

“A higher-up?” Avery asked.

“Like you. Like he had money and a classy life.”

Avery’s cheeks colored. “Did you question him about his demeanor?”

“Nah. Didn’t really care.”

“Why did you tell him about the door?” Ronson said.

“I was drunk, you know? We sat around bullshitting, talking about how life had wronged us. Schemed about how to make it right.” Burrell ran his fingers over his scruffy face. “I’d forgotten all about the door, but then Snake mentioned robbing a bank. The short crackhead laughed and said that was impossible nowadays. Couldn’t escape the cops.”

“But you had a way,” Ronson said.

“I wasn’t going to act on it. I ain’t no hard criminal.”

Ronson waited.

“So I piped up like an asshole and said I knew of a secret passage out of WestOne. Snake and Crackhead, they laughed and told me to cut myself off. But the tall one—I can’t remember his fucking name—got real interested. Until then, he’d been pretty quiet, just hanging out. But man, he jerked forward and got right in my face. ‘What are you talking about?’ he asked. He looked like a junkie himself then, his eyes all wide and his fingers twitching. I figured he must be hard up to get back to his fancy life. So I told him about the door.” Burrell shrugged.

“And what was his response?” Ronson asked.

“He wanted to know everything: where it was located, where it led to, who knew about it, what was in it—he went on and on. ‘Cracky’ went over to get high, and Snake passed out. But the stranger just kept asking questions, trying to figure out where it led. I finally told him I didn’t have no more information for him.”

“Did you ever see any of those men again?” Ronson asked.

Burrell nodded. “Saw Snake a few times. He said the tall guy was an oddball. Liked to go on about how the tunnels were some kind of metaphor for Danté’s journey. Guess it was because of that mural in one of the drains, over by the Strip. But this guy talked about roads to hell and perdition and purgatory.” Burrell chewed on a fingernail. “Snake told me the guy was determined to find the passageway to the bank, and Snake didn’t want no part of that.”

“Not up for robbing the bank?” Avery said.

Burrell shook his head. “The dude spooked Snake, and he don’t spook easy.”

“What exactly spooked him?” Ronson pressed.

“Snake didn’t think the guy’s plan was about money.” Burrell looked at the window, chewing his lips. “Look, maybe both me and Snake should have come to the cops sooner. But Snake’s a loner, and he don’t like to get involved.”

“Just tell us what Snake said.” Ronson’s tone was firm, but held no reproach. She gave Burrell an encouraging smile. “All we care about is finding our kidnapper.”

Burrell blew out a hard breath. “Snake said the guy kept muttering about how ‘it was the perfect route, that she would love it.’ Guess your guy talked a lot about some woman.”

“Snake didn’t have a name for either one of them?” Ronson demanded.

“If he did, he never said.” Burrell looked down at the table, shoulders sagging. “Snake ain’t in the wrong here.”

Nathan stepped away from the glass and turned to Johnson. “So how did Creepy know the tunnel connected to the storm drains? He had to have gotten access from inside the bank, or someone did it for him.”

“Unless Burrell is omitting something,” Johnson said.

“I know when someone’s lying, and he’s not. He came here to get it off his chest because he feels responsible,” Nathan said.

Inside the interrogation room, Burrell rose from the padded chair. “Look, I know it sounds bad, but Snake said to forget about him. And I had other issues.”

“Did you ever see him again?” Ronson asked.

“A few times, just passing through. He always smiled real big—freaked me out.”

“Why didn’t you report this right after the attempted kidnapping?” Avery said.

Burrell shook his head. “I didn’t hear about it for a few days. Was working the casino circuit. Then I was scared shitless, afraid I’d be pinned. I didn’t have nothing to do with it.”

“I believe you,” Ronson said. “Could you ID this man if you saw him again?”

“Yeah.”

“One last thing,” Ronson said. “What about Snake? Is his real name Joe, by chance? And can you describe him to me?”

Burrell twitched in his seat. “Don’t know his real name. Snake’s a tall guy, really skinny. Usually has a beard.”

Ronson nodded. “Have you seen him recently?”

“Not in the last couple of weeks, but that’s not unusual. Like I said, he’s a drifter.”

Ronson nodded. “Will you excuse us for a moment?” She motioned for Burrell to sit and headed out of the room with Avery close behind.

“He’s telling the truth,” Ronson said as soon as she shut the door. “And Snake clearly wasn’t Joe.”

“So you need to find this Snake,” Johnson said.

“What do you think?” Ronson looked at Nathan.

Nathan ignored Avery’s glare. “Creepy isn’t a tunnel dweller. I think he might have been looking for a place to hide Emilie—or some other twisted reason brought him to the drains—and when he saw the mural, he latched onto the idea of the tunnels as a symbolic road to hell. Like if he can escape with her through them, he’s paid the price for kidnapping her.”

Ronson nodded. “And he surely had help from someone other than Burrell to find the exact location of the bootlegging tunnel and where it connected to the drains. He had to find out about the bootlegging tunnel from someone inside the bank.”

“I agree.” Ronson nodded. “We need to find Snake—he’s our only other lead to our kidnapper. Maybe he has more information than Burrell knows. Burrell can guide us through the tunnels. Madigan, I want you to go with us.”

“What?” Nathan and Avery chorused.

“Your instincts on this case have been spot on, Madigan. I want your impressions when we’re in the tunnels.”

“Agent Ronson.” Avery’s face had turned beet red. “Madigan is not a detective. The police department has jurisdiction, and this is my case. I won’t allow it.”

“Correction, detective; this was your case.” Ronson’s calm voice held a tone of warning.

“We’ve had a press leak since the beginning, and it’s hurting the investigation. I called the police commissioner and voiced my concerns. Given the media attention on the case, he thought it was best I take over the investigation in an official capacity, including speaking with the media. Given the leaks, you’re lucky you’re being allowed to stay on at all.”

“You have no right,” Avery spluttered.

“It’s done. You’ll still be working the case. But final call goes to me.” She turned to Nathan. “You in?”

The last thing he wanted to do was go back into the tunnels. But if going back helped Emilie, he only had one option. “I’m in.”

18

E
MILIE LOCKED THE
door to her office. Her third day back at work was over. It had been easy to hide in her office while she caught up, but tomorrow she’d have to venture outside its protective walls.

Agent Ronson had called an hour earlier to tell Emilie about a witness who’d given Creepy information in the storm drains.

“But Creepy had to have additional help,” Ronson cautioned. “We’re still trying to figure out how he knew the tunnel led to the storm drains.”

Could Lisa have known? Emilie couldn’t see Miss Fashion Queen exploring the bootlegging tunnel. She’d be too afraid of breaking a nail.

Jeremy was the only one left inside the bank. His door was closed, and he was on the phone. Emilie crossed the lobby to wave goodnight, but her attention was drawn to her left. The hallway Creepy had dragged her down was brightly lit and looked about as unthreatening as a newborn kitten. She moved through the hallway, running her hands along the freshly painted drywall. Its texture was a shock to her system. She’d clawed at the wall as she was pulled, trying in vain to free herself.

Several pieces of tile had been replaced near the top of the stairs, their new surfaces shining brighter than their aged counterparts. Nathan bled there. How was his arm? She hadn’t thought to ask.

There was a miniscule, dark gray stain on one of the older tiles. On Emilie’s second day as branch manager, she’d dropped an entire cartridge of ink and splattered the black goo everywhere. Only the tiny spot remained. She had joked the hallway was cursed for her and vowed never to make a trip to the storage room again. The old basement had always given her the heebie-jeebies.

She put one foot on the stairs. Her brain demanded she turn around, but Emilie plunged forward. The storage room door was locked. She stuck in her key and turned it. The door pushed open with a creak. Emilie stared into the dark room.

Dizziness. Sweat beading on her forehead. Her stomach churned the way it had when she was a kid and played on the swings.
Deep breath, force the fear away.

Emilie slid along the wall and flicked on the light. The room had been reorganized and some of the old junk taken out. In the far corner, the door waited.

She didn’t realize she’d crossed the space until she was standing in front of the door. She ran her hands along the faded wood.

“Ouch.” A splinter dug into her finger.

A padlock had been fitted over the rusted latch. Jeremy planned on having the door removed and the tunnel sealed once police gave him permission. But for now, all that stood between Emilie and the escape route was a piece of metal purchased at a local hardware store.