Tied Up in Knots (19 page)

“So they all came out here together?”

“They did.”

“Well, I hope he’s not married to the idea of being a superstar.” Callahan rubbed the back of his neck as we walked and then pulled his badge out and let it fall on top of the zipper on his hoodie as we passed by a guard on our way from the secured area. “Because he’s got no choice. He’s going into WITSEC and that’s gonna kill any other kind of career for him.”

Hess, front man of the rock band Decoder Ring, had witnessed a murder. He wouldn’t need protection if it was simply one thug killing another, but it turned out it was Dorian Alessi killing his longtime rival in the opiate trade, Romeo Sinclair. They were both scary mean with dozens of felonies between them, and the Orleans Parish district attorney was happy to have Sinclair rotting in the morgue and Alessi in custody, remanded without bail, until his trial. Hess’s appearance in court was set for February.

Hess agreed to testify and initially said no to witness protection. He moved to Las Vegas from New Orleans, certain that between changing cities and using his mother’s maiden name, he’d be safe. But even though Hess was careful, the rest of his bandmates were not. They were all on Twitter and Snapchat, Facebook and Instagram, and he was the one they all took pictures of and shared, because he was the main draw… he ended up right back on Alessi’s radar.

Two weeks ago, he started seeing the same faces wherever he went. It was “freaking him the fuck out”—that was actually in my report. He liked his life and wanted to keep it, but lately he was having doubts it was possible. He thought Alessi’s men had made the connection and were in town to talk to him. He’d called the marshals office back in New Orleans—the Eastern District of Louisiana, because those were the men he’d started with—explained what was going on and asked if someone could come check on him. Newly alerted to his location, the marshals’ office in Vegas had decided to bring him in, forcibly put him in WITSEC, and transfer him across the country. When they asked where the next available opening was, the database chugged out the Northern District Office of Illinois, our office. Kage received the transfer order and put me on a plane to take the rock star into custody. Hess was in danger, so we were responding.

Even though no one could say for certain if Hess was seeing things, the threat was considered credible since the case was ongoing.

“The band is breaking up,” Callahan explained to me out of the blue. “Tonight’s show at Aces and Eights is supposed to be their last.”

“That’s lucky.”

He shrugged. “We’ve been watching Hess for two weeks now, and it’s pretty easy to see that he’s the only one with any kind of talent or work ethic. The rest of his band doesn’t take their music very seriously.”

“So maybe he won’t be all torn up to leave them.”

“Maybe.”

“Aces and Eights is a club, then, or a bar?”

“It’s basically a dive bar, similar to Double Down, but it’s smaller and hasn’t been around half as long,” Redeker answered.

“I’m from Chicago,” I reminded him. “I have no idea what that place is.”

He snorted out a laugh. “Have you been here before?”

“Yeah, but only on the Strip.”

“Then you haven’t ever really been to Vegas.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

Callahan grunted.

“What?” Redeker snapped.

“Just because you’re still drinkin’ till the wee small hours doesn’t mean the grownups do,” Callahan said, his tone snide. “Maybe taking in a show and having a good meal is Vegas for Jones.”

Redeker rolled his eyes, and I was left again feeling like I was in the middle of… if not a fight, something close.

“So Aces and Eights is on the Strip or not?” I asked Callahan.

“It’s east of the Strip over on Naples Road.”

I had no idea where that was, either, but they were there to take me.

We exited the terminal, got into an older-model Dodge Durango, and as he settled in on the passenger side, Redeker told me there was bottled water in the cooler behind my seat.

“You wanna eat?” Callahan asked.

“Yeah.”

“Is breakfast good?”

“Always.”

“Really hungry or only a little?”

“Starving,” I admitted, because I was almost nauseated. That was how ravenous I was.

“Hash House A Go Go it is.” Redeker yawned, rolling down his window and resting his elbow there before leaning his head back and closing his eyes. “Let’s go, Cal.”

“Maybe he’d like something more—”

“Just do what I said,” Redeker muttered, not opening his eyes.

“You’re hungover,” Callahan stated, and I heard the edge in his voice.

“And you care why?”

“I
don’t
care. You’re just supposed to take better care of yourself. You’re a grownup, after all, right? You’re not supposed to do that.”

“Do what?”

“Drink all fuckin’ night.”

Redeker grunted.

“How are you helping me if you can’t aim your gun?”

“I can shoot just fine, kid.”

Callahan growled.

Oh, this was fun. “So what do you guys work beyond the usual roundup stuff?” I asked, to stave off any further bickering.

“We mainly work the regular FIST Task Force,” Callahan answered, looking at his partner instead of the road. “We don’t normally do a lot of witness transfer anymore, but we just got a new boss and he likes to rotate everyone around.”

“We do that too,” I said, just to make conversation, pleased to see he started paying at least some attention to maneuvering out of the airport and getting on the freeway. “It’s all interagency with us, except in our own office. We don’t do undercover or stakeout unless we’re in charge.”

“We do a lot of crap with the DEA,” Redeker rumbled, shifting to get as comfortable in his seat as he could, considering the length of his legs. He had to be at least six three, with his younger partner about my five eleven. “But that’s to be expected, with all the fuckin’ drugs.”

I made a sound of agreement and settled in to watch the brown go by while trying Ian’s phone again. I’d called from home and O’Hare, I called when I took off and called when I landed before making my way down the concourse. It went to voice mail each time, and though I wasn’t surprised, it would have been nice to at least get a text with an update.

The trip to my hotel, Days Inn Las Vegas at Wild Wild West on Tropicana, was fast, being just three miles from the airport, and when we got there they waited as I checked in. It wasn’t on the Strip, but I couldn’t have cared less. The important part was that it was cheap and clean and, if I needed a car, the parking was free. It was perfect for me.

After I ditched my bags and the suit and tie I was wearing, we got back into the car and drove over to the Strip, to the Plaza Hotel and Casino and Hash House A Go Go inside it. It was busy, but Redeker had either called ahead or had an in with one of the managers, I wasn’t sure. I didn’t ask. I just followed when he told me to and took my seat in the booth across from him and Callahan.

“Don’t even look at the menu,” Redeker ordered. “Just have Andy’s Sage Fried Chicken Benedict. You’ll thank me.”

“It’s too big,” Callahan cautioned. “Take a look at the other—”

“Starving,” I reiterated, passing Redeker my menu. “I’ll have that.”

I had orange juice and coffee, and when my food came, what looked like ten pounds of chicken. I took a picture and was going to send it to Ian, hoping that it might spark a quick text in return, but then I realized that wasn’t
me
. I’d never done it before. Even if I felt that needy on the inside, showing the ache to Ian wouldn’t fly because it did nothing for either of us. I’d make him sad and then I’d feel guilty. It was useless on both sides, as was hoping for some word. When he was doing anything related to the military, there was never any word. I had to be better about reminding myself of that.

My problem was putting Ian out of my mind. It was easier said than done, especially when faced with a meal he would have found so much joy in sharing with me. Taking a breath, I pulled out the large rosemary stalk jammed into the top of my dish and dug in.

“Jesus,” Callahan said a while later, staring at me. “You’re actually going to finish that.”

“You should see what my partner and I normally do for breakfast,” I told him.

“No, I don’t think I should,” he teased.

Once they both relaxed, the company was as good as the meal. I got to hear about their last case, and there was much debate over who hit the windshield of the car that made the driver swerve. The conversation made me homesick for Ian, but when I went quiet, neither man noticed.

When we got back to the hotel, Callahan and Redeker checked in with their boss, Supervisory Deputy Braxton Ward, who was by all accounts a man who yelled often and hated the DEA as much as I did.

“Yeah, you could transfer out here,” Callahan assured me. “You’d get along with Ward just fine.”

As I worked on my laptop, pinging Ian just in case, I watched Callahan moon over his partner and wondered how Redeker was missing it when it was so transparent.

When Callahan had him look at something on his laptop, Redeker leaned in close, and even if I hadn’t seen Callahan inhale, I would have heard it. He was pining…
hard
… and I was guessing from Redeker’s lazy smile and “lighten up, kid” attitude that he had no clue he was inspiring such hunger. I wondered if I was ever so dense, or if Ian had been quite so oblivious.

I was probably reading way too much into their partnership.

“We need to go over the plan, Jones,” Redeker said as he crossed the room and sat down beside me on the bed.

It was really very simple. We’d go to the lounge, dive bar, whatever it was, in the early evening and catch Hess between sets. If he was ready to go, we’d call for backup, follow him home, and get him into custody. If he wasn’t, he’d have uniformed police officers watching him who would put a serious crimp in his freedom.

Callahan and Redeker left me about two o’clock so I could catch a nap and we could all shower and clean up. Before I crashed out for maybe a couple of hours, I called the office and Kohn and Kowalski were on desk duty, answering phones and running background checks.

“Check the news,” Kohn told me after we exchanged greetings. “The interim chief apologized to Becker today.”

“No shit.”

He grunted.

“Did Becker go to the press conference?”

“Fuck no. You know that ain’t him. Plus, a marshal that has his picture splashed all over the place is not a smart man.”

“True.”

“Becker did issue a statement saying that the practice of pulling people over when their only crime is driving while black must stop.”

“I’m betting it was worded differently.”

“It was pretty close to that.”

“And how did that go over with the brass?”

“As well as can be expected.”

“I’m thinking the marshals’ office is not all that popular down at police headquarters at the moment.”

“I’m thinking you’re right.”

I sighed deeply. “I’ll watch the apology. I want to hear what it sounded like.”

“It sounded like politics, but at least they did it. You have to keep chipping away at this shit, or it’s never gonna change.”

That was very true. “Vegas is boring,” I told him.

“There’s the whole goddamn Strip, Jones, how the hell is it boring?”

“I’m not much for gambling.”

“Just the lights and the atmosphere are awesome.”

I grunted.

“You’re such a whiner, Jones.”

I told him to go to hell.

He told me to make sure I got some sleep.

I hung up without saying good-bye.

ACES AND
Eights, it turned out, was a lounge close to the intersection of Naples and Paradise Road east of the Strip. We all changed so we looked better; they dressed up and I dressed down. I went all in black: dress pants, dress shirt, and the Alexander McQueen black monk strap boots I had with me. The holster on my calf was black too, not that anyone would see it, hopefully, and my star was on my belt under the untucked shirt. I’d slicked my hair back and thought about wearing sunglasses, but I was going for scary, not douchey.

Callahan cleaned up nice in dark jeans and a white linen shirt, but really, of the three of us, it was Redeker who was going to turn heads. Between the worn cowboy boots, dark-brown khakis, and short-sleeve white cotton button-down that strained around his biceps and accentuated the heavily veined forearms, I was thinking he could get laid just standing there breathing. Callahan was having trouble moving air through his lungs, from what I could tell. I hadn’t noticed him staring when we walked over together, him more or less at my back. But now, inside, under the dim lights, I could tell he was concentrating hard on the whole breathe in, breathe out thing.

When Redeker went to get us drinks, me a bottle of water and his partner a Coke, I rounded on Callahan.

“What?”

“Is Redeker gay?”

He almost swallowed his tongue. If Ian had been there, he wouldn’t have let me open my big fat mouth, because it was none of my business. But me there alone, without a keeper, everyone around me was fair game.

“The fuck did you—I—Jones, do you—what?”

I snorted out a laugh. Jesus. “You should tell him you want him to fuck your brains out, and if he doesn’t, find someone who will.”

He looked like I’d just kneed him in the balls.

“I can see it, the pining, clear as day,” I sympathized. “It’s gotta be exhausting for you.”

“No, you’ve got it all wrong.”

He didn’t trust me, but that was okay. He didn’t know me. “I’m gay,” I said levelly, meeting his gaze. “And everyone I work with knows and doesn’t give a shit. If they care here and that’s why you’re not telling your partner, you should think about transferring. My boss is looking to bring on four more guys.”

His face went from thinly veiled terror to discomfort, and I immediately understood.

“No, man, I live with someone already and he’s way prettier than you.”

Instant glare before he flipped me off.

I scoffed, and the smile I got in return was worth the time it took to finally see the full blazing glory of it directed at me. He was a very handsome man. If scruffy Malibu Ken dolls did it for me, I’d have been all over him.