The Dead Don't Speak (16 page)

Once called for, Tovak stood alone in the middle of the room. It felt like he was pledging Pi Sigma Epsilon all over again.

"Mr. Tovak, can you please walk us through why you chose to book an unknown twelve-year-old."

Tovak cleared his throat, "Well sir, I was at the Simon Simmons show the night Zach embarrassed him on stage. It was obvious from his no-nonsense delivery that the boy has the makings of a talented orator. That, coupled with the things he knew about the couple in the audience, made the matter worth investigating further. I took a couple meetings with Zach's family. They'd been working the State Fair circuit all summer, and I got the impression they'd like to settle down. I offered them a low-end contract for a year, to see how it goes. If the boy works out we will pursue a lengthier contract."

The Board digested this. A man Tovak didn't know spoke, "Our concern is that you've tied up roughly three million dollars in assets to give someone what amounts to an extended audition."

"I think the three million dollar figure is a little excessive," Tovak said.

"Between the contract for Zach, the contract for his sister Cayte, the corporate house, the cost of the theater, tutors for the children, and perks yet to be paid - I think the three million dollar figure may be on the conservative side," the man said.

"Among my many job duties is the responsibility to scout, sign, and develop new talent. Fact is, you can't sign new talent without some sort of offer being made. I gave this family what they needed and we've gained two performers because of it. The girl can sing. I sat in on her audition," he lied.  "I know Zach is for real. The kid is a superstar in the rough."

"But three million dollars..." the man trailed off.

Guy's a broken record, Tovak thought. He said, "Three million is a paltry sum compared to the offer discussed with Simon Simmons."

"What offer is that?" the man asked.

"Daphne Carter was involved in discussions with Simon Simmons and his manager, Chris, to lure him away from Camelot. If memory serves, the numbers exceeded twenty million. I think, compared to that, three million is a bargain for a comparable show. You know the size crowd a good psychic can draw."

"What's this about Daphne?" another man asked.

"Nothing ever came of it, but there were discussions about a large contract with a healthy chunk of guaranteed money. I have an e-mail about it if you want the details."

"Let's focus on you," the first man said. "What if this kid, Zach, doesn't work out?"

"We'd be out a relatively small amount of guaranteed money and we move on wiser than we were before. However, I don't foresee that happening."

"There's nothing relative about dollars and cents, Mr. Tovak." The man looked at him a moment. "Your track record for bringing in good performers cannot be argued and the Board doesn't want to interfere with you doing your job. Just please remember, Mr. Tovak, we'll be keeping an eye on you."

"I'd expect nothing less," Tovak said, turning to leave. "Thank you for your time."

Tovak stomped off toward his office wondering if he should have told the Board he needed to take a shit and see if he had permission to wipe his ass.

*****

Simon sat in the backseat of a taxi with his head resting against the window. He reflected on the morning's happenings. He'd found removing his money from the bank was easy; however, removing the safe deposit box key from his former suite had not been a simple matter.

No sooner had Simon entered the lobby at Camelot than he was confronted by two men from security.

"Can we help you, Mr. Simmons?" A big burly guy asked.

"Yes. I need to get some things from my suite. It won't take long."

"Please wait here, sir," the man said and walked away. The other man stood a silent guard over Simon.

A few minutes later the big guy returned with Lenny Murdock.

"Mr. Simmons, I am Leonard Murdock, head of security. Brent and I will accompany you to your suite. You may take whatever personal belongings you'd like."

They took Simon to the suite. He packed a suitcase, made sure to find his safe deposit box key, packed his toiletries, and stole a few washcloths when no one was looking. Brent escorted Simon to the elevator and Lenny rode down with him.

"Shame about that Hernandez girl," Lenny said as the elevator descended.

"Who?"

"Cassandra Hernandez, girl went missing little over a week ago. Someone found her body in the desert. Strangest thing, funny really - whoever dumped her chose the worst possible spot. It was right near a factory that makes chemicals for water filtration systems. The birds must smell the chemicals in the air or something because they avoid the area like the plague."

Simon's stomach gurgled loudly from the adrenaline coursing through him.

"Stomach troubles?" Lenny asked. He noticed how rigid Simmons became when he'd said the name Cassandra.

"Yeah, drinking... you know." Simon tried to smile but in the reflective interior of the elevator it looked more like a grimace.

"I hear ya," Lenny said.

That was a good hour before Simon arrived at the bank. He hadn't calmed down much, but the people who worked at the bank also read newspapers and they knew of Simmons' troubles. They made sure to avoid hassling him. Celebrities freaked out every once in a while and often came back better than before. Why get on his bad side now? Maybe he'd remember the kind folks at Wells Fargo. Simon was able to get in, extract his cash, and carry it out in Chris's gym bag.

Simon took the cab from the bank to the liquor store and then back to Chris's house. He handed two one hundred dollar bills to the driver, telling him to keep the change. The driver frowned, the amount on the meter was $196.58.

Once inside, Simon put the money in the floor-safe, opened a bottle of Dewars, and got smashed.

"Warren, over here," Stan Mitchell shouted.

Warren saw Stan's hand waving back and forth from thirty or so yards away.

"What is it?"

Stan pointed to the black Ford Taurus, "I have no record of this one. You know when it was brought in?"

Warren studied the vehicle from behind as he approached, "Not sure, don't recognize it either."

"Think Gladys did it?"

"Not if it's missing from the paperwork. She's anal about that stuff."

Stan smirked. Gladys was his ex-wife and business partner at GSW Salvage, along with Warren. The smirk was for Warren's use of the word "anal" as it pertained to Gladys. It brought back memories of an avenue he was never allowed to explore despite repeated attempts.

Warren walked to the front of the Taurus and whistled, "Look here. That look like blood to you?"

Stan examined the dented hood. Upon seeing the brown smears he said, "Sure as hell does. I'll call the sheriff."

The Clark County Sherriff's deputy arrived an hour later. He was a young guy, too young to be a cop, Stan thought. His name tag said M. Raymond.

"What's the M stand for?" Gladys asked him once they were seated in the air-conditioned office.

"Michael," the deputy said.

"That's a nice name."

Stan interrupted, "So what do we do?"

"Well, the vehicle was reported stolen little over a week ago. Dispatch is going to contact the owner. We'll tow the vehicle to impound for now, give it a good once-over."

"You see the blood on the hood?" Stan asked.

"Yeah. Driver probably hit an animal. We'll check with State and Metro to see if the vehicle's description fits any accident reports."

"How long that take?"

"Minutes. Dispatch should be radioing any time now."

As if waiting for its cue, Deputy Raymond's radio crackled to life.

"Positive hit on black Ford Taurus with Metro PD. Investigating officer, L. Pushkin. Made contact, investigator will contact salvage yard."

Before anyone could respond verbally the phone rang. Gladys answered, "GSW Salvage."

"Hi, my name is Leon Pushkin. I am a detective with Las Vegas Metro. I understand you have an unknown vehicle on your property, a black Ford Taurus and it looks like there's blood on the hood. Is that correct?"

"Yes, sir, it is. There’s a deputy here now."

"LVM will be sending a tow truck for the vehicle. A forensics team will be there shortly to check out the vehicle. Once they're done we will tow the vehicle to our impound. Should be sometime this afternoon."

"We provide wrecker service," Gladys said.

"That's fine, ma'am, but we contract with a vendor, Able Towing. They will be the ones coming to pick it up. Could I speak with the deputy, please?"

"Sure," Gladys extended the phone to Deputy Raymond.

"This is Deputy Raymond."

Gladys, Stan, and Warren listened to the deputy's half of the conversation.

"Nah, nothing like that. Footprints all over the place but nothing too close to the vehicle. Think the wind erased any trace of whoever abandoned the vehicle here." The deputy shook his head. "No. Nothing suspicious that I could see through the windows, looks empty."

*****

Daphne Carter sat with her chin in her hand, dozing in Sarah's hospital room. The hiss of the respirator coupled with the rhythmic beeps and whirs of the other machines lulled her toward sleep.

Her brain registered the swish sound of the door opening and closing but refused to issue her body the order to look up.

"Daphne?" Tim said.

"Yes, dear?"

"Are you awake?"

"Only a little. Why?"

"We need to talk."

Daphne removed her chin from her hand and sat up straight in the chair. She rubbed her eyes, "About what?"

"What is going to happen to Sarah?"

It was a conversation Daphne had been dreading, any parent would. Their little girl wasn't showing signs of improvement. She'd crashed and been revived twice since her arrival at the hospital. The doctors didn't even pretend to offer hope anymore.

"I met a young boy yesterday,” Daphne said. “Good looking kid, smart, too. He's going to work at the casino. He's a psychic. I was pissed off because Dylan Tovak, the DOE at work, went behind my back, killed my deal, and brought this kid in. So I challenged him, asked him to prove he was psychic. First thing he says is that he can hear Sarah's voice, only it's quiet. I didn't think much about it at the time. It only pissed me off more. I figured Tovak had told the kid about her. Now I'm not so sure. Second thing he told me was that he could hear my brother, Ben. Remember I told you about him? The one who drowned when we were little?"

"That's interesting, Daphne, but we need to make a decision here about our daughter."

Daphne sighed and slumped back in the chair. She stared at her husband. She noticed Tim was still using his prosthetics, as he had since Sarah's accident. He had a pen and piece of paper in his hand.

"What's that?" Daphne said pointing at the paper.

"A DNR form."

"I suppose that doesn't stand for Department of Natural Resources..."

"No, Daphne."

Daphne's hands came up to her face. She spoke through them, "I can't do this Tim. I can't do it."

"It's the right thing. You know she wouldn't want to live like this, being kept alive by machines, perpetually unconscious."

"She's our little girl," was all Daphne could say.

Tim went to his wife, who sat forward in the chair as he moved toward her, and cradled her head against his abdomen.

"I barely saw her this whole last year," Daphne said, her words muffled and thick.

"Don't say that. You have a very important job. You have to do it the right way."

"I wish I had been around more. Seen her more. Talked to her more. I miss her so much. She's here but she's not
here
, you know?"

"I do."

Daphne pulled back from Tim. She wiped her eyes and stood beside the bed, looking down at her only child. She put her hand against Sarah's cheek to feel her warmth one last time. She leaned forward and kissed her forehead. Daphne lowered her head level with Sarah's ear and said quietly, "I always loved you the most. I hope you knew that. I'll never forget how you lit up my life every single day since you were born. I promise I'll be there more for your father, so don't worry about him. You can go now, baby; we'll be all right."

Daphne turned, took the DNR form and pen from Tim's hand, and signed it. She set it on the little table near Sarah's bed and walked toward the door.

She paused and said, "Let me know when it's done."

"Where are you going?" Tim asked.

"I can't see it happen."

She heard Tim sigh from behind her. "I know you can't. It's all right."

Daphne pushed through the swinging door. Nothing was all right. Not yet.

*****

It was a sunny Nevada day. Julian, Margaret, and Zach waited in the lobby of the Clark County Juvenile Rehabilitation Center. Margaret looked admiringly at the floor to ceiling, tinted windows that comprised one wall. There was a large metal free-form sculpture that sat along the opposite wall.

The receptionist, dressed in blouse and skirt, noticed Margaret's interest and said, "We have a fabulous metal works program here."

"I'll say," Margaret replied.

"Yes, CCJRC is very proud of our students. Our Trade Skills program is one of the best in the country. We have a job placement rate of ninety-two percent."

"That so?"

"Yes, ma'am. It's quite a program."

"Got to admit, I expected somethin' more like a prison than this big ol' office buildin'," Margaret said.

"Unfortunately, many of our students have been in and out of juvenile detention for much of their lives. We find a professional environment encourages good work habits and dramatically cuts down on violence."

There was a buzzing noise from somewhere and Cayte's face appeared in the window of a door leading into the facility. The door opened and Cayte was led out by a butch lady in slacks, shirt, and blazer.

Cayte ran to Zach and wrapped him in a tight hug. He hugged her back, wondering where she'd gotten the clean clothes she was wearing.

"Come here, baby girl," Margaret said and pulled Cayte away from Zach.

Margaret squeezed her daughter, "I was so worried."

Cayte stood, arms at her sides, until Margaret was done putting on her show.

Julian drove back to the house, Margaret rode shotgun, and Cayte yacked at Zach in the backseat about the Juvenile Rehabilitation Center, which she kept calling "The Center".

"I thought it would be a place full of toughs. Like, bad kids or whatever. But it wasn't at all. Some of them looked like they'd been through hell but ever'body was nice."

"If it was so great, we could bring you back," Margaret said from the front.

Cayte stopped telling Zach about The Center.

*****

Dylan Tovak paid Walter Hepson another visit. It was just after 2:00AM and Dylan found Walter asleep.

"Walter," Dylan nudged him. "Wake up."

Walter groaned, then tried to roll over but the restraints held him in place. His eyelids parted slightly and he coughed.

"Walter, are you awake?"

"What do
you
want?" Walter asked, his voice groggy.

"I have something for you," Dylan set a plastic shopping bag on the bed beside Walter. He held the top open and angled it so Walter could see the contents. The bag held several bundles of twenty dollar bills, folded in half and wrapped in rubber bands.

"What's that for?"

"For you, Walter. There is twenty five thousand dollars in this bag. And it this one," Dylan brought up a second plastic shopping bag, "is a change of clothes."

"What are you doing?" Walter asked, confused by the sudden swing in Dylan's attitude toward him.

"I am buying your son from you. You get your freedom and twenty-five grand; I get Zach until he's eighteen. I also need you to sign the annulment papers," Dylan produced the form. Walter noticed it was already signed by Margaret.

"Yeah," Dylan went on, "Vegas weddings are a dime a dozen. They should hand these forms out at the chapels. Course, it’ll take a month or so before the annulment takes effect. You may notice Margaret already signed it. She didn't take much convincing, a kind gesture and a little... attention. If you know what I mean."

Walter kept his cool. Sobriety had its advantages.

"I want a hunder’d grand for Zach."

"That's a lot of money."

Walter nodded, "He's worth at least twenty times that, but I'm a reasonable man."

"You know Walter, I like you when you're not drunk. You're not as stupid as you look. How about we consider this a down payment, with the rest due you in a couple weeks."

"How do I know you'll pay?"

"You'll have to trust me."

Walter snorted. It didn't matter, twenty-five grand would be enough for what he had planned anyway.

"All right, give me the damn paper and a pen," Walter said.

Dylan obliged and Walter signed the annulment.

"Well, a deal's a deal," Dylan said. He unfastened Walter's restraints, confident there wouldn't be a confrontation and, if there was, that he could best a man who'd been stabbed five times.

"See you around," Dylan said as the door to Walter's room swung closed.

"Damn right you will," Walter snarled to himself.

*****

Leon Pushkin took his time going through the Ford Taurus. The lab geeks had had their fun the day before and now it was time for some real detective work. The glove box didn't yield anything useful. The vehicle was registered to Chris and had been reported stolen the morning after the hit and run at Camelot. There were some napkins and an expired insurance ID card. From the Taurus's condition, Pushkin judged it had been involved. The back seat yielded little more than lint and dirt.

The trunk was another story. He stared at the marks left behind by the lab geeks. There were traces of blood, they'd said.

Pushkin didn't care for all the interdepartmental politics, trying to work with the sheriff’s office. He'd had his fill of it, and then some, working the Fremont Slasher case. Everybody wanted to get the glory, but no one wanted to get their hands dirty catching the bastard.

He slid into the back seat of the Taurus and closed the door. The car was cramped. Pushkin drove a nice, roomy, Cadillac when he wasn't working. Not the new, high-tech, heap of shit model either. Pushkin's was an '83 in showroom condition, the kind where if you hit a pot hole the thing didn't stop rocking for days.