The Dead Don't Speak (8 page)

She squirmed, kicked, and grabbed his wrists; he was much too strong for the diminutive Cassandra.

Right before she slipped into unconsciousness she thought,

My dad is going to be so sad.

*****

Dylan Tovak had sat in the audience, stunned like the rest of them. He'd come to see his soon-to-be new acquisition in action. What transpired was a very pleasant surprise. Instead of letting Simon Simmons' terrible behavior be Daphne Carter's downfall, he had a new idea.

That little boy was the answer, the missing piece to dethroning her. In two minutes that kid had made one of the top performers in Las Vegas look like a fool and captured the attention of the entire audience.

Dylan Tovak left the theater in one hell of a hurry. He followed security, at a distance, until the family of four were escorted outside. That’s when he made his approach.

"Folks! Folks, wait up a minute," he called after them.

The quartet halted.

"Hi. Sorry about sneaking up on you like this but I think I may have just won the lottery with you."

"Come again?" Margaret said.

"I'm sorry, forgot my manners. I'm Dylan Tovak. I work down the Strip at Versailles. I'm the Director of Entertainment. I saw what you did tonight," he said to the boy. "What's your name?"

"Zach."

"If you work at that other place, why were you at the Simon Simmons show?" Walter asked.

"We were thinking about bringing him to Versailles. But after what I just saw, I want Zach instead."

That was fast!

Zach decided it was best to present an “aw shucks” front to the casino man.

"Me? In Las Vegas?" Zach said. Then, "Could I go to school here?" He stiffened, expecting a slap on the back of the head from Walter. The slap didn't come.

"I don't see why not," Dylan said. "Look, I know I've just come out of nowhere at you people. Here's my card," he handed one over. "Talk about it amongst yourselves. I'm not going anywhere. Matter of fact," he took the card back, scribbled something under the Versailles logo. "Here's my personal cell number. Call me any time, day or night, with any questions."

Walter spoke up again. "I got a question right now. How much money we talkin'?"

"Oh, honey," Margaret said, putting a hand on Walter's shoulder.  He shrugged her off.

"It's okay, ma'am," Tovak said. Then he looked at Walter and said, "We're talking seven figures." This was a gross over-estimate but he needed their attention.

Chris sat alone at his favorite bar at Camelot, Lancelot's Tavern and Microbrew. He stared at the long lance, striped with blue and white, that was suspended over the bar. He had tried his luck with the two girls he'd wrangled for Simon. However, without Simon being there it looked like a scam. They promptly left.

He swirled the beer in his mug. Chris stared down as the strong, coffee-colored Doppelbock sloshed about, an opaque crystal ball.

Chris's cell vibrated in his shirt pocket. He fished it out, saw it was Simon calling, and answered.

"Simon, what's up? Feeling better?"

"Chris, get your ass up here
now
!"

"What's the matter?" Chris asked.

"I need to talk to you, face to face."

Chris sighed, "Give me a minute. I'll be right up."

Chris took the time to finish his beer, his mind wandering over what Simon might want. It wasn't like him to call, much less to ask for help. That kid must have really rattled him tonight.

With a breathy sigh, he rose from his place at the bar. He rode the elevator alone.  He navigated the mural-covered halls of the eleventh floor to Simon's door.

Chris knocked.

The door flew open, Simon pulled him inside, and the door slammed shut. Simon had Chris pressed up against the wall.

"Took you long enough," Simon snapped. He reeked of booze and his eyes were frenzied.

"I had a beer to finish. Smells like you've had a couple yourself."

Chris's eyes wandered around the suite. They didn't get far before seeing the large red stain over Simon's shoulder.

"What happened?" Chris asked.

"I'll show you. Follow me."

Chris followed Simon to the bathroom. An odd, metallic smell permeated the commode. In the bathtub was, what appeared to be, a pile of red stained blankets.

"Please tell me that's not blood," Chris joked.

Simon didn't say anything. He sat down on the toilet lid and held his head in his hands.

Chris’s tone turned serious, "Simon, tell me that's not blood."

"It's blood."

Chris's chest tightened; his pulse felt like it might burst his veins. Sweat began to bead on the back of his neck.

"What happened?" Chris asked.

"The girl, the little Mexican slut from a couple weeks ago. She brought me this," Simon passed the note to Chris.

Chris took the paper out of habit, and immediately wished he hadn't. Now his finger prints were on it. He was officially part of a crime scene. Then he figured he would have been anyway; the girl in the tub wouldn't have met Simon without his help.

Chris read the note.

"Blackmail, huh?"

"Yeah."

"You call this number? The one on the note?"

"No."

"Talk to anyone besides me?"

"No."

"How long ago did this happen?"

"Ten, twenty minutes. I don't know." Simon looked up at Chris.

The look on the man's face was startling. He was lost, utterly without hope. It was obvious to Chris that Simon had no idea what to do next. Simon needed help. Then it occurred to Chris that he could leave right now. Walk away. Go to the police, turn Simon in. Yes, Chris was a wrangler for Simon. Sure, he brought girls to the Green Room but no money changed hands, and getting your buddy laid wasn't a crime.

But then what would Chris do? Go back to stealing people's identities? No way. This job was legitimate, mostly. It was the first legal job Chris had ever kept longer than a couple of months.

No, he had to protect Simon.

"All right," Chris said. "Let me think."

*****

Sarah waited in her Jaguar, in the parking garage at Camelot, for Cassandra to return. She'd been waiting nearly half an hour. What was the hold up?

She looked in the rearview mirror. The eyes that met her gaze looked troubled and careworn.

I should call her.

But what if Cassandra had gone up there and then Simon showed up unexpected? Maybe Cassandra was hiding right now and her cell phone going off would alert him.

Sarah decided to give it ten more minutes.

*****

"I think she's working with someone," Chris said.

"Why?"

Chris glanced at Simon. In that moment, under the high pressure, and in a volatile situation, Chris had a flashback to when they'd met in prison.

Chris was doing a couple years for credit card fraud and identity theft. Simon was a “fish”, a newcomer, just delivered to the prison via a baby-blue bus. He was about to start a year-long sentence for passing worthless checks.

It may not have been the state of Utah's plan to put the fraudsters together but that's how it shook out. Having similar criminal interests, the two became quick friends. Simon was a people person, a stereotypical con man, but he wasn't very bright. Chris, on the other hand, had plenty of brains but not much charisma -- though he could lie convincingly to anyone's face. In each other they found the remedies to their criminal weaknesses.

Chris snapped back to the situation at hand. He answered, "Because it's too difficult a thing to work alone. Especially since she wanted money. You'd have to drop it somewhere and she'd have to go in alone to get it. No way. She's got at least one person in on it with her, probably a guy. Maybe her boyfriend, who knows."

Simon was known around Camelot for making large messes in his suite. He was prone to going on serious benders and trashing the place. The housekeeping staff had taken to keeping a small arsenal of cleaning supplies in one of his unused closets. It'd annoyed Simon when they'd requested the courtesy of him but he was thanking every deity he could think of now for not having to leave his suite to fetch anything.

Chris organized the clean-up. Simon was in charge of bagging the bloodied towels, blankets, and clothes. He would deal with the body. They used ultra-thick, industrial-grade trash bags, the kind used in the kitchens that service the hotel. The bags could hold around two hundred pounds without tearing.

It was a relief to Simon to be told what to do. He was in chemical and emotional overload. Why had the stupid little spic come back
again
? Why did she make him do this? And that little shit from the show! The whole world was against him.

"I have an interesting story for you," Chris said, grunting with exertion.

"What's that?"

"You know who this girl is friends with?"

"Who?"

"Someone named Sarah Carter."

"Should that name mean something to me?" Simon said.

"You know her mom."

"Carter," Simon said to himself. "Carter, Carter..."

"Daphne Carter," Chris said. "The woman who'll pay us millions."

Simon actually laughed, "You're shitting me!"

"I'm not."

"Small world." He laughed again. "What should we do with her stuff?"

"What stuff?"

"Her purse is in the living room."

"I'll toss it in a restaurant dumpster or something. Good thing she's small too," Chris said. "Since you don't have a saw in this place."

"There's something wrong with you."

Chris let the opportunity to point out which of them had committed a murder in the last hour to slip by.

*****

It'd been a little over an hour and Sarah still sat in her Jaguar. Her insides were a twisted mess. Something had gone wrong. She knew it. It was time to try calling. Past time, actually.

Sarah lifted her cell phone with a shaking hand. Sitting in her Jaguar in the parking garage, she only had one bar of service. She held her breath as she called Cassandra.

*****

A noise like an old-fashioned telephone ringer came from Simon's couch. The two men looked at each other. They were both on their hands and knees, working quickly to clean up the mess on the tile floor by the suite's entrance.

"Her cell phone," Chris said.

"Do we answer it?"

Chris thought a moment. His first instinct was no, but what if it was the girl's accomplice checking up on her when she didn't return. It could provide some valuable information because, like it or not, there was one giant flopping loose end.

"I'll answer it," Chris said.

He got up and grabbed the purse. He dumped the contents onto the cushions and picked up the phone. The display said, "Sarah Calling..." He answered.

"Hello, Camelot Housekeeping, Harry speaking," Chris said.

There was silence on the other end.

"I'm not sure who you're trying to reach. This phone was left in a hallway, probably dropped by accident. Do you know who it belongs to, so we can page them?"

The line went dead. Chris lowered the phone from his ear.

"Who was it?" Simon asked.

"Carter's daughter," Chris said.

Chris used Cassandra's cell to dial a number he had long since memorized. It rang on the other end.

"EOI Security, Dennis speaking."

EOI Security was an independent contractor who serviced Camelot's security equipment. They also stored Camelot's security data offsite, this included security camera video.

"Dennis, Leonard Murdock here," Chris said.

"Lenny, how are you?"

"Good, good. Yourself?"

"Can't complain. What can I do for you?"

"Bit of a snafu on our end. East bank cameras are on the fritz. Looks like half of them aren't recording. Probably an internal error but can I get you to do a hard reset on the whole East bank?"

"Sure thing, Lenny. Give me a minute." There was hyper fast typing in the background.

"Resetting as we speak. Give it five minutes and you'll be back up."

"Fantastic. Thanks, Dennis. Say 'hi' to Bella for me."

"Will do. Have a good one."

"You, too." Chris hung up.

Chris said to Simon, "We've got five minutes."

"How do you know that guy?" Simon asked.

"Safety precaution. I call him once in a while to ask innocuous questions, or make a suggestion. Just letting him get used to my voice."

"Who's Leonard Murdock?"

"Head of security at the casino. Christ, man. How long have you lived here?"

*****

Daphne Carter woke to the sound of her office phone ringing. She rolled off the sofa and stumbled sloppily to her desk. A few hours prior she'd had an argument with Tim. Marrying a former litigator sometimes seemed like a mistake. He won every fight and was able to look good doing it. The corner of Daphne's mouth curled up in a rueful half-grin.

She lifted the receiver. "Daphne Carter," she said.

"Mom?"

"Sarah? What's wrong?"

"He took Cassandra. He took her."

"What? You're not making sense. Who took her?"

Am I dreaming
? Daphne wondered.

"He took her. He
took her
!"

"Sarah, you're hysterical. Calm down. Take deep breaths, honey. Now slowly, very slowly, tell me what's going on."

"Oh God, oh god,
oh god
!"

The line went dead.

*****

Simon and Chris carried two trash bags, via the parking garage elevator, to where Chris's Ford Taurus was waiting. Simon didn't have a car because he lived where he worked. The bags were heavy and the two dragged them over the concrete floor. Luckily, Chris had parked only a few spaces from the elevator.

The garage was deserted, save for a girl a couple rows over. She was on her phone and appeared to be crying. Chris tugged his bag to the rear of the Taurus, praying the rough concrete wouldn't cause it to rip. Simon followed in the same fashion.

Chris used his key to pop the trunk and they hefted the bags inside. The two got in the car. Simon slipped into the driver's seat, the stress and the hours having cleared his mind of all alcohol. Simon would drop Chris off at home and then dump Cassandra somewhere outside the city. Chris would throw away Cassandra’s purse and its contents at the metro bus stop near his house. Simon would abandon the car somewhere and cab it back to the hotel. In the morning this would all be just a bad memory.

Simon maneuvered the car backward, stopped, and shifted into Drive. He followed the arrows painted on the floor. The garage was a maze to him. They came around the end of a line of parked cars and saw the crying girl standing about a hundred yards away.

The parking garage was very well lit and Chris recognized the girl from his research into Daphne Carter.

"That's Sarah," Chris pointed. "The one who called Cassandra's phone."