The Dead Don't Speak (19 page)

"Can you breathe okay?" Daphne asked.

Simmons nodded and sat with his back against the side of the van.

That's how, thirty minutes later, Daphne was able to be driving north on I-15 with her cargo sitting patiently in the back.

Pushkin radioed in about what he'd found. He needed to pursue the suspects, he said. They were possibly on foot but could someone please check with the taxi services who worked this area to see if any cabs had been dispatched nearby.

Pushkin hopped into his Crown Vic and backtracked toward the bus stop he remembered passing. There were plenty of folks at the stop. Most of them were going out for a night of fun downtown, judging from the way they were dressed. There was no sign of Chris or Simon.

"Yellow Taxi Service had a cab dispatched to that address," a voice crackled over Pushkin's radio.

"Have we made contact with the driver?"

"Affirmative. She's already dropped them off. At the Plaza Hotel and Casino."

"Fuck! Greyhound!" Pushkin shouted. "Stop the busses running from that location. Lock the goddamn building down. Contact Plaza security, we need to detain Chris Wright and Simon Simmons," Pushkin gave a brief description of each man.

"Contacting Plaza Security now."

Pushkin slapped the removable strobe onto the roof of his car, through the open window, and hit the accelerator.

When Pushkin arrived at the Greyhound station an hour later,

fucking Friday night traffic,

he found Chris Wright sitting in a small conference room. Only this man's ID didn't say Chris Wright. This man was Daniel Cooper, a resident of Florida. Pushkin ran the ID and it came back legitimate. Apparently Chris had been busy.

"Chris Wright, you are under arrest," Pushkin said and produced his handcuffs.

"I'm not Chris Wright! You can't do this." Chris looked at the security guards. "You can't let him take me. I'm not Chris Wright. Check my ID!"

The security guards were young, both in their early twenties, but seasoned enough to know you don't second-guess the police. They kept their prisoner in place until another LVM officer arrived to pick him up. It was always cool to hear someone being read their Miranda rights.

"He have any baggage?" Pushkin asked the guards once he'd finished.

The taller one shook his head and said, "Didn't see any."

Pushkin turned to Chris, "You stash it? I saw the empty floor safe. I know you've got cash. Where is it?"

"What are you talking about? My name's Daniel Cooper and I'm on my way back to Florida. I’ve been here on vacation. I've already checked my bags and just want to go home," he looked to be on the verge of tears.

"You rent lockers here?" Pushkin asked the guards.

"Not anymore, we used to. Got to be too much of a hassle. They're still available, though, if you provide your own lock."

Out of the corner of his eye Pushkin saw Chris smirk; yeah, the asshole had stashed his cash. This was private property, the Greyhound terminal, Pushkin would either need Plaza's permission or a warrant to search the lockers.

"It okay to search the lockers?"

"The ones without locks, sure," the shorter guard said. "Anything with a lock is hands-off."

"Do it. Cut all the locks off," Chris dared. "You arrest a guy who clearly isn't the one you're after but you balk at opening a couple doors. Fuckin' cops!"

*****

Daphne stopped the van. They were about a mile and a half from the side road she'd taken after Exit 100, heading toward Mesquite, not too far from the Arizona border. The location couldn't be better for something like this, not a soul for miles.

She got out of the van, walked around to the back, and opened the rear doors. Daphne pulled Simon from the back of the van, helping him to stand. She pulled the tape from his mouth. Simon took a couple deep breaths. His breath was horrid.

"Where are we?" Simon asked.

"We're here," was all Daphne said.

Simon had been surprisingly calm about everything, the abduction, being bound, and finding himself in the middle of the desert. Then he saw the hole and pile of sand in the shine of red taillights.

His voice came out slow and thick, like verbal motor oil, "What is this?"

"Get out," Daphne said and yanked Simon from the back of the van by his bound wrists.

"You said you wouldn't hurt me."

"I said I wouldn't kill you," she corrected. "And I won't, unless I have to. It all depends on you. You answer my questions and behave yourself, I will drive away. You're only a mile and a half from a road, maybe five miles from the interstate. You can walk that at night. Just follow my tire tracks."

Daphne pulled the Glock from her waistband and pushed the barrel hard into Simon's forehead, "But if you fuck with me out here I will end you. Got it?"

"Got it," Simon said. He watched the Glock being pulled away from his forehead and re-entering Daphne's waistband.

"So then, which one of you ran over my daughter in the parking garage?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Simon said reflexively.

Daphne slugged Simon in the stomach. She may have been shorter than Simon, but she was solid and packed a wallop.

"If I believed that, we wouldn't be here," she said.

Simon coughed, gagged, and vomited a little.

"Who did it?" Daphne asked again.

"Chris did," Simon lied.

"Where were you?"

"In the passenger seat."

"Why did you stop the car after?"

"Chris wanted to make sure she'd die."

Daphne swallowed at the lump building in her throat; they wanted to make sure her little girl would die.

"Get on your knees," Daphne said. "Face the hole."

Simon did as he was instructed. He sniffled a little and Daphne couldn't be sure if it was fear or the aftermath of having vomited.

She took the Glock out again. She pressed the barrel to the back of Simmons' head. The ammonia smell of fresh urine wafted up from him.

"You wanted to make sure she was dead." Daphne repeated.

"Yeah, you know, because she saw us."

"Which one of you killed Cassandra Hernandez?"

Simon sniffled again, "I did."

"Why?"

"She showed up at my place that night, probably thought I was working. She slipped a note under my door, said she would tell people I fucked her if I didn't pay her off. She was seventeen."

"So you killed her?"

"I didn't plan to. I was drinking and when I saw that note on the floor I opened the door and pulled her inside. I read the note. That's when I found out what her plan was, and I got angry."

"Then what?"

"I hit her in the head with a bottle. She went down so fast, I got scared I'd killed her. I didn't want to, you know, I just wanted to teach her a lesson. A ‘don't fuck with me’ sort of thing."

"You hit her. She fell. Then what?"

"She started to scream when she saw her own blood on the floor. I was scared someone would hear. So I got on top her, like with a leg on either side of her ribs, to quiet her down."

"And?"

"The next thing I knew my hands were around her throat, squeezing. Once I'd come this far I couldn't let her go. She'd run to the cops. I'd lose everything."

Simon looked out at the vast expanse of desert around him, all at once realizing that killing Cassandra was exactly the event that
had
cost him everything.

"So you killed her. Then what?"

"I called Chris to help me take care of it."

"
Her
," Daphne said and smacked Simon in the back of the head with the butt of the Glock. "You called Chris to help you take care of
her
. Her name was Cassandra Hernandez. She was a person, my daughter's best friend; not some object to be taken advantage of and thrown away when you were done."

"He helped me take care of her. We got her into the trunk of Chris's car and were leaving when we saw the other girl..."

Daphne hit him again, hard, on the crown of the head, "Sarah! Her name was Sarah, not 'the other girl'."

"We saw Sarah, and Chris recognized her because he'd checked you out when you made us that offer, so he knew who she was. He slammed his foot on the gas and ran her over."

The textured grip of the Glock bit into Daphne's palm as her hand contracted around it. Her vision blurred and the tears she should have shed when Tim called found their way out now. "Then you stopped," she said.

"Then we stopped."

"Then you stopped," Daphne held the Glock high above her head by a fully extended arm, "to make sure my whole world was dead." She brought the weapon down on Simon's head again.

Simon fell sideways under the weight of the blow, unconscious.

*****

After Molly left, Julian drove out to Dylan Tovak's home in Paradise, not too far from the airport. His boss wasn't very happy about finding an uninvited guest on his doorstep when he was getting ready to go see Margaret and, hopefully, cement his deal with her.

"What is it, Julian?" Dylan asked, clearly annoyed. He stood in the doorway, but didn't invite Julian into the house.

"We need to talk, sir."

"So talk."

"I was speaking with Molly tonight. She said you've had annulment papers drawn up for the Hepsons and are looking at how to get custody of a child."

"It's all part of the game, Jules. Anything else I can help you with?"

"Yeah. Don't do it, sir. It's family business,
their
family business. I'm no fan of Walter Hepson," Julian touched the still tender wound on his head, "but it's none of our concern."

"You're wrong. It's my concern. I need to lock that kid up in a contract that'll last decades. He's got a gift. I know you know that. You don't let a cash cow like him slip through your fingers."

Julian stood on Dylan's stoop with his mouth hanging open.

"He's just a kid," Julian said. "He's talented but he's not property. You can't go through his stepmom to take advantage of him like that. It's not right."

"You take these things too personally. It's business."

Dylan's cocky attitude and lack of humanity bothered Julian, so he said, "Molly agrees with me. She thinks you're overstepping your bounds, her words."

"Yeah, Molly's quite a girl. You notice how her vag smells like cinnamon sometimes? You think that's because of the red hair?"

Before his better judgement could stop him, Julian swung a sloppy right hook at Dylan. Dylan stepped back and Julian's hand crashed against the door casing. He let out a roar, as much from anger as from the pain.

"So you're fuckin' Molly?" Dylan said. "Can't say I'm surprised; she is a sweet little thing. Can't trust her though, big mouth on that one." Dylan smirked. "Course, a big mouth ain't all bad, ya know?"

Julian was hunched over, cradling his hand; it felt like it might be broken. He heard Dylan's words, they stung worse than his injury. Julian didn't retaliate, not again. You didn't beat someone like Dylan Tovak by flying off the handle; that's how he beat you. The only way to best a guy like that was with cunning, determination, and the will to see things through to the end.

"Well, thanks for stopping by. I've got a date with a chick from the South. Speaking of, remember how I said to keep your hands off her daughter? I'm thinking I might have to break my own rule," Dylan chuckled. "God, I love my job."

Julian turned and walked toward his car. Dylan called after him, "Don't bother coming in tomorrow." Julian continued walking.

Chris waited in Interrogation Room E for someone to arrive and ask him a question. There was no clock in the room and he didn't have a watch. He realized, too late, that he’d left it in the bathroom after his shower.

Chris thought this was a tactic to loosen him up, time deprivation. The problem was, it was working. It felt like he'd been there for a couple hours, sitting in a hard metal chair that was bolted to the floor. His butt was numb and his back was beginning to ache between his shoulder blades.

The magnetic lock of the door clicked and Detective Pushkin entered. He walked to the table, set an open file in front of Chris, and pointed to the name. It said Chris Wright, beside it was his mug shot and a set of his finger prints.

"Mr. Cooper, could you please tell me why your fingerprints brought up this man's record?" Pushkin asked.

"A one-in-sixty-four-billion coincidence?"

"Can you explain why the man in this picture looks like you, only with longer hair?"

"If our fingerprints match, I'm sure we probably look alike too, having similar DNA." Chris smiled at Pushkin.

Pushkin set Cassandra Hernandez's bright yellow purse, sealed in an evidence bag, on the table next. He hoped to provoke a reaction from Chris but all he got was a blank stare.

"It's too busy for your complexion," Chris said.

"Know where I found it?"

"The women's section?"

"In your house, tonight. We've swept the whole place. If you cooperate now maybe the DA will only charge you with murder two."

"How were you in my house? I live in an apartment in Miami, Florida. I very much doubt Vegas Metro uses the Concorde."

"I'm curious about your friend, or roommate, or whatever you call him. Simon. What can you tell me about Simon?"

"I don't know any Simon."

"Simon Simmons."

"The psychic guy? I saw a couple of his billboards around town. Good-lookin' guy, probably drives the ladies crazy." Another smirk.

"Matter of fact he does. I got a call from one of them just the other day, nice woman named Charlotte. She seems to remember being in a room with a girl named Cassandra Hernandez, Simon Simmons... and you."

"I knew a Charlotte in grade-school once. She was fat and we all picked on her. Too bad really, she turned into a total knockout in high school and wouldn't give any of us the time of day."

"Let’s go to my favorite photo. I just got it a few minutes ago," Pushkin said. He set the photo on the table for Chris to see. It was a picture of him waiting in line at the Miami DMV.

"Is that when I got my license renewed?" Chris asked.

"It's when you exploited a vulnerable system to have a false ID issued. I will show you what I mean."

Pushkin laid another sheet of paper on the table. It was a blown up copy of the actual Daniel B. Cooper's ID.

"Note the address," Pushkin said.

"My goodness. This man has stolen my identity! Why isn't he in this chair? I want to press charges."

Pushkin changed tactics, "You know that mirror over there," he pointed to Chris's left, "is a two-way, right? Hell, anyone with a TV knows that. But can you guess who is on the other side of it?"

"Your mother?"

"Hmmm," was all Pushkin said. He turned toward the door and left the room. Chris was alone again.

There was no one except the DA and another detective on the other side of the opaque glass, but Chris didn't know that. It was a gamble but not a high-risk one. Pushkin left Chris alone with his imagination to figure out who could be there. The hope was Chris would think Simon was in custody and ready to talk.

Pushkin watched Chris through the mirror, seeing the man's brain rolling over his predicament. Simon hadn't been at the bus station and hadn't been at the house. The two suspects separated, but why? Chris had a fake ID and a bus ticket to Florida. He was trying to get out of Las Vegas permanently. Did Simon have a fake ID also? Was he already gone?

*****

When Simon came to he had a mouth full of sand. His head hurt like he'd been on a two-month bender. He spat out the grit.

"Good. You're awake," Daphne said.

"What happened?" Simon sounded groggy. Daphne figured he probably had a concussion.

"Sorry about that. I lost my temper. Won't happen again."

"Okay. Why am I dizzy?"

"I think you have a concussion," she said.

"Oh... no."

Maybe something a little worse? Bleeding on the brain, perhaps?

"Anyway, I'm done asking you questions. I think you answered them truthfully and I appreciate that."

"I did."

"Of course you did. So I'm going to leave, as promised."

"Okay."

"Before I do though, I want you to meet a friend of mine."

A man, slightly shorter than Daphne, stepped out from beside the van and into the red glow of the tail lights. Simon thought he looked Mexican.

"His name is Humberto."

"Hi," Simon said.

Daphne got close to Simon's ear and whispered, "You know his daughter. Her name is Cassandra. At least it was, before
you
happened to her."

"No... no..." Simon blurted, sensing what was to come.

"Yes, Simon, yes."

"You said you wouldn't kill me,” he said, his voice quaking.

"I won't."

Now Humberto approached Simon as Daphne stepped back. She handed Humberto the Glock in passing. Humberto stared straight ahead, like he was in a trance.

Daphne's diminutive friend didn't say a word. He simply chambered a round and put the gun to the back of Simon's head.

Simon's eyes went wide, his gaze focused on the hole in front of him. His body shook and Daphne wondered if he…

Humberto pulled the trigger.

Bang! Splat!

Simon's body lurched forward, sliding headlong into the hole. His face burrowed into the sand at the bottom and his forward progression stopped. Simon lay in an awkward headstand; his knees near the upper edge of his grave. Humberto gave Simon's legs a kick and the body slid the rest of the way in.

Humberto looked at Daphne and held out the gun, as if to say, "You want this back?"

"Keep it," Daphne said.

Humberto did as she instructed, tucking the weapon into his pants. Together they buried Simon Simmons in the desert, neither feeling the tidal wave of relief they'd expected.

*****

Walter's knees were stiff. Standing at the back of a closet for six hours wasn't easy. He felt the snub nose .38 in his pocket and smiled.

Margaret would get hers, trying to steal Zach away from him. Then for fun he might go do Cayte, too, and then snatch his boy and hit the road. Drive around the country for a while, whatever. See the sights. Then swing back by Vegas once everything had cooled down to collect the rest of his money from Tovak. And if Tovak didn't make good, he'd meet Mr. .38, too.

Getting into the house had been a feat of extreme genius and creativity, in Walter's opinion. It was located in a community that could only be accessed through a secured gate. Versailles security rotated duties on the gate out of their casino staff.

Walter's plan for bypassing this super-secure safety precaution was to stowaway on a UPS truck. UPS came into Versailles Village every day, except Sundays.

He'd followed the big brown truck for seven blocks, stopping whenever there was a delivery to be made. He did this on foot. Rich trophy wives, as Walter thought of them, loved to order useless shit on the internet. The UPS driver was a regular face in the whole neighborhood, not just Versailles Village. There was a stop every couple blocks and Walter had no trouble keeping pace.

On what Walter calculated to be the last stop before turning into the Village, he hopped on the back of the truck, pressing himself against the dark, hot metal. It burnt a little but he was a man on a mission of revenge. Walter had calculated correctly, as it turned out.

He hopped off the back to the truck when it stopped for the gate. He then crouched down by the rear, right corner of the truck until it began to move again. When it did, still crouching, Walter slowly walked beside the right, rear tire; he used the UPS truck as moving cover.

It's a testament to how boring security detail was at the Village that the security guard didn't see Walter once the truck sped up and left him exposed. Working security at a gated community, the guards tended to focus outwards. Anyone within the gated walls probably belonged there. This general apathy gave Walter his admittance.

No one answered the door when Walter rang the bell. He tried the knob. It turned. He crept inside and listened. There was a trill of country music coming from within the house.
Cayte
, Walter thought.

He climbed the stairs slowly, being careful to not make a sound, and went to the kitchen. He poked his head around the corner. It was empty. The hallway was vacant as well and Walter went to Margaret's room and hid in her closet. She will be getting a surprise later tonight, he thought.

Problem was Walter didn't realize how much later that would be. Now, six hours having passed, he was growing weary. Walter noticed when Margaret had gotten home two hours prior. A visitor showed up about an hour after that and Walter stood, aching in his joints, listening to Margaret and an unknown man talking.

Probably that black boy, Walter figured. If he took a run at Margaret, Walter would blow him away even before his wife. Could be Tovak, too. Walter considered it. If Margaret was banging Tovak that would certainly explain a lot. For instance, why she was so goddamn giddy to move into this house. It would also explain why she was going to take his boy away.

They'd probably been in on it together from the beginning, Margaret and Tovak, a couple of liars and scoundrels whose only joy in the world was robbing a man of the son who was rightfully his. Walter needed Tovak though, for now. If he offed the casino bigshot he'd never see a dime of the money he'd been promised.

Maybe if he caught them in the act, he could get Tovak to cough up the money right away. Tonight even. Go to the casino and get it. Walter didn't care where the cash came from, just that it ended up in his possession. Then he would shoot the meddling snake right between the eyes. Or maybe something more creative. Shoot the guy's dick off first, let him think about it awhile, then kill him.

*****

When Daphne Carter arrived home she grabbed a trash bag from the garage and stripped all the way down; putting all her clothes, even her shoes and belt, into the bag. The heavy green trash bag then went into Tim's pottery kiln. It was a relic of one of the hobbies he had used to try to pass the time after his accident. She turned it up, high as it would go, and made a beeline for the house. Never in her life had Daphne been more thankful for the tall, bushy hedges that lined their property.

Once in the house Daphne took a shower. She went into the bedroom to get dressed. Tim was asleep in their bed. Daphne looked around the room. When was the last time she'd been in here with her husband? A month ago? Maybe two? The couple had spent more time together at the hospital than they had for the previous year.

Daphne thought about this while gazing out the bedroom window at the graying horizon; the sun would be up in an hour or so. Work had taken over her life, become her life, and what did she have to show for it? A marriage in trouble, her daughter was dead, and she'd just watched a man die. Her position as CFO hadn't caused these things, but that position had stolen her attention for so long that these events were made possible.

Tim rolled over in the bed and noticed his wife standing naked by the window.

"Come to bed, Daphne. You need sleep."

She did as Tim said, sliding into her usual place on the right side of the bed. Tim moved over to her, his hand found her hip, his head lay inches from hers. He traced a finger up over her abdomen. Tim shifted his head just right for his lips to graze his wife's earlobe. He gave it a quick nibble.

This signal was all Daphne needed. She rolled on her side, her arms finding their customary place around her husband. It had been a year or more since they'd last made love but their bodies had not forgotten each other. Tim kissed his wife. She pushed him onto his back; the year-long dry spell between the two was quickly obliterated.