The Dead Don't Speak (18 page)

Julian and Molly were lying in bed, exhausted and happy. He tried to sound nonchalant as he asked Molly, "You ever sleep with Mr. Tovak?"

"Sometimes. Why?"

Sometimes. Why?

Molly said the words like it was not big deal, simply business as usual.

"Because I like you and I'd rather you stopped," Julian said.

"But he's my boss," Molly said sounding confused.

Doesn't everyone sleep with their boss?

"What has that got to do with it? If anything, that makes it worse. He can't use his position as your boss to force you to sleep with him."

"Oh, no. He never forced me. He's a good-looking guy. It was fun."

Julian only stared at the red-headed woman lying in bed next to him, completely naked, completely uncovered, and completely unaffected.

"You ever consider stopping?"

"Sure, plenty. But you know, he hints at it sometimes and a girl's got needs."

"I can take care of your needs," Julian said with a smile.

"Honey, you're not kidding. I still can't feel my toes."

"So what do you think? Want to give this monogamy thing a shot?"

Molly shrugged, "What the hell." She looked at Julian and smiled.

"So what's the word around Mr. Tovak's office? How's the deal with Zach coming along?"

Molly sighed, "It's a mess. I think Dylan is really overstepping his bounds. I'm pretty sure he had sex with the kid's mom the other night.
And
he had me get him annulment papers. Also, he's asking me to look into adoption procedures for the state of Nevada."

Julian didn't say anything; he let the logical, information-processing part of his brain run with that one.

*****

Detective Pushkin sat in a tiny room, about half the size of Lenny Murdock's office, staring at a computer monitor. He was watching security footage shot on the eleventh floor. The angle was terrible; the camera did not have a line of sight to Simmons' suite. Nevertheless, with persistent watching, Pushkin was sure he saw Cassandra Hernandez.

Pushkin consulted the elevator footage from roughly the same time and made a positive identification. Cassandra had been to see Simon once between the time she went backstage after his show and the night she disappeared.

Pushkin considered his options. He could tell the sheriff’s office. It was their case after all and he was only supposed to be investigating Sarah Carter's hit and run. Or he could obtain the warrant himself, as the crimes were undoubtedly related, and perhaps recapture some of the spotlight he craved. Pushkin opted to reclaim some of his former glory and dialed the personal number of Judge Fred Scott, a long-time friend.

Once off the phone with Judge Scott, Pushkin located Leonard Murdock's office and asked him for a fax number. He texted the fax number to Judge Scott and twenty-two minutes later Pushkin had search and arrest warrants in hand.

"What are you going to do with those?" Murdock asked.

"I am going upstairs to arrest Simon Simmons," Pushkin responded, a little confused because of the obviousness of the situation.

"But he's not up there," Murdock said.

"Where is he?"

"Hell if I know. We evicted him days ago when he missed his second show. He was in breach of contract and the DOE wanted to play hardball."

"Where did he go?" Pushkin asked, his face reddening.

"May have run, hard to say. He's not our problem anymore."

"Forensics will be here to check out the suite. I assume
that
is still here."

"Absolutely! He wrecked the place. We had to tear up the carpets and all. It was pretty nasty."

Pushkin's already rosy cheeks turned crimson and then purple. He spoke through gritted teeth, "You mean to tell me you tampered with a crime scene?"

"Me? Hell, no, I would never. Housekeeping did it, them and maintenance. Got the place looking good as new." Murdock knew he should lay off the detective but prodding the man was too much fun. He was a goddamn diva anyway. The prima donna deserved it.

Murdock continued, "I would hate for the hotel to be complicit after the fact."

Murdock picked up his desk phone and hit a speed-dial button; Pushkin heard half the conversation.

"Hi, Bruce, Lenny Murdock here. Listen, did we send housekeeping and maintenance to the suite on eleven while it was being held as is for a pending investigation?"

Pushkin watched as Murdock listened, nodded, and made a few comments in the affirmative.

"So, there was no order to hold the room as is? Are you sure?"

"I see, well thanks, Bruce."

Murdock replaced the handset on the cradle and looked up at Pushkin with an expression that said "what can you do?"

"Forensics will be here in an hour, keep the room vacant until then," Pushkin said and stormed out.

Lenny Murdock smiled. While a former corrections officer, he had hated cops like Pushkin. They were only out for themselves, never the victims.

*****

Pushkin arrived at Chris Wright's residence at 10:37PM, according to the clock on his car's radio. The entire street was quiet, only one window of the house was lit by an interior light. Pushkin made his way to the door, his sidearm gripped firmly in his right hand, and knocked with his left.

No one answered.

Was it foolish to attempt to apprehend Simmons on my own,
Pushkin wondered. It should be fine, the man was a drunk; he was probably passed out right now. Pushkin shone his flashlight through the window next to the door. There didn't appear to be anyone inside. He made his way along the perimeter of the home until he reached a large window in what looked to be the living room. The room's only occupant was an empty Dewars bottle lying on the carpet.

As he scanned the room with his flashlight, Pushkin noticed that the back door stood open. That was his ticket in, he knew. If the door was open he didn't need a warrant. Pushkin thanked God for drunks the world over, making the job of the police that much easier.

The house smelled like stale booze and sweat. Pushkin did a quick room-by-room search that did not yield Simon Simmons. What it did yield was a treasure trove of evidence in the murder of Cassandra Hernandez. In the bedroom, Pushkin found Cassandra's purse, her cell phone, and the blackmail envelope and letter.

Why save them? Why go through all the trouble of hiding the body, ditching the car, and killing the security cameras if they were going to keep a stash of the more damning evidence? What did these people gain other than time?

The click in Pushkin's head wasn't audible but he felt it.
Time
was the answer. They weren't avoiding arrest, they were buying time. Or rather, Chris Wright wasn't trying to avoid arrest; he was sticking Simon Simmons with the bill.

Pushkin replayed the night of the disappearance in his head:

Simon Simmons, for whatever reason, flips out and hits the girl over the head, then he strangles her. He calls his partner in crime (literally), Chris Wright, who comes to his aid. Why would Chris help? Because Simon was his meal ticket. So Chris arrives, sees what his buddy has done, and helps him clean it up. Simmons is still a wreck so Chris must have placed a call to the security company to have the camera system reset. Chris was a social engineer, convincing people to do what he wanted by pretending to be someone else. The two move the body to the parking garage while the cameras are down. Low and behold, there's Sarah standing around talking on her cell phone. Whoever was driving, probably Chris if Simon was still in a bad state, floors it and runs her down. They stop to make sure she's dead.

"Wait," Pushkin said aloud to the house. "How did they know she was a threat? She could have been anyone."

Pushkin's brain was in over-drive and it showed him a sign saying, Simon Simmons Psychic. Something he'd known all along suddenly snapped into place, finding its niche in the mosaic he was creating. Chris researched the people in the audience, probably using their ticket orders to learn their addresses and expanding the search from there.

"What else..." Pushkin said, the picture not yet complete. "How do either of these guys know Sarah Carter?"

Saying the name Carter out loud gave him the answer: Daphne Carter. She'd talked about making an offer to Simon Simmons to perform at Versailles, essentially stealing him from Camelot. If Chris Wright was the thorough type, and it appeared that he was, he would absolutely check out Daphne Carter. With social media interconnecting everyone on the planet, it wasn't a stretch to think he would know a little about Daphne Carter's daughter. He had to have seen a few pictures of her. Hell, it wasn't a stretch to think he'd found out that she and Cassandra Hernandez were friends.

Unfortunately for Pushkin, the question remained: where the hell were Chris Wright and Simon Simmons?

*****

The same question, or rather half of it, plagued Daphne Carter. She'd seen Chris leave the house in the early evening. Where had he gone? Chris left carrying a large gym bag, so it was possible he was running.

As Daphne drove north on I-15, she smiled, the previous half hour replaying in her mind:

Thirty minutes earlier, she'd crept to the back of the house. Daphne heard music coming from inside. The rear door was unlocked but not well oiled. She opened the screen door without a sound but the heavier, wooden backdoor squealed in its hinges.

Simmons popped his head around the corner and Daphne scurried through the door and into the kitchen. The screen door slammed shut. A couple of moments later the music stopped.

"Oo's eere?" Simmons drunkenly called out.

Daphne pulled the Taser from her pocket. She'd picked it up a couple days earlier at a police shop. With the music off she could hear his steps near her hiding place, just around the entrance to the kitchen. He stumbled and landed, chest down, on the floor. He fell with his head turned right at Daphne.

"Oo you?" Simmons asked.

She put the Taser behind her back.

"Daphne Carter. I'm here to see Chris to talk about your contract with Versailles."

"'aphne Carter? Really? Oo still want me?"

"Of course we still want you. You're Simon Simmons. Where'd Chris go?"

"Dun know. I 'oke up and he's gone. Think he took the 'oney."

"How about we take a ride? I've got my car parked right outside. We can get you checked into Versailles."

"Can't. Need to talk to Chris."

"Come on, we'll shoot over there and be back before Chris knows you were gone."

Simmons shook his head slow yet emphatically, as if he'd just received some very sad news, "Can't."

"Simmons, you're coming with me one way or another."

Something in Daphne's tone must have struck Simmons as sinister, she judged, because the man jumped to his feet and bolted out the back door.

She leapt down the back steps after him. Simmons was surprisingly steady for a man so drunk. Daphne leveled the Taser at Simmons's back and fired.

The Taser’s hooks shot out and found their target, easily penetrating Simmons' sweaty shirt. There was the crackle of electricity as Simmons fell to the ground. Daphne stood beside his sprawled body, and gave the bastard another jolt.

Daphne knelt beside Simmons, "I'm going to take the hooks out of your back."

Simmons groaned when the hooks came out but he held perfectly still. She removed the hook cartridge, effectively turning her Taser into a stun gun. It had one charge left, if necessary.

"Get up," Daphne said. She lifted her t-shirt, revealing the handle of a Glock 9MM. The weapon had been a gift from Tim years ago, back when they still lived in a sort of rough neighborhood. That was a long time ago. Back when he was a clerk at the DA’s office and she was a peon in the Entertainment department at Stardust.

Simmons got to his feet, with Daphne's help, and allowed himself to be led around the house to the van. Before they got as far as the street Daphne grabbed Simmons by the scruff of his neck to stop him. Simmons swayed, slightly off balance.

"We are going to cross the road fast and you're not going to struggle. If you do I swear on Sarah's grave I will gun you down right out in the open. If you behave and get into the van I promise I won't kill you."

"Why are you doing this?" Simmons asked. His predicament seemed to have sobered him up, Daphne thought.

"You have information I need."

"What do you want to know?"

"You'll see."

Daphne marched Simmons across the street and opened the rear of the van for him. Simmons didn't see the zip-ties until he was already inside.

"Put your hands behind your back and cross your wrists," Daphne said.

Simmons complied.

"Now cross your ankles."

Simmons did.

She tore a length of duct tape off a brand new roll and placed it over Simmons' mouth.