Razor Sharp (9 page)

At the bottom of the steps she stopped short. “Now what?” she asked herself. She was saved from making a decision when her cell rang. It was Cosmo.

“I’m having a slight problem with the mortician.”

“What kind of problem?” Lizzie asked.

Cosmo told her.

“Give me ten minutes.”

Lizzie called Annie, who then called Avery Snowden, who then called Little Fish, who called the mortician.

Lizzie waited exactly eight minutes before she pressed her speed dial and said, “I’m on my way. Tell me where you are exactly. My GPS will do the rest.”

“Okay, it’s a go. How
did
you do that?” Cosmo asked.

“Someday, Sweetie, I’ll tell you all my secrets, but not right now. How long before the…you know?”

“She’s on her way. We can pick up the urn later today. You want to do lunch?” Cosmo asked, his voice sounding so weird Lizzie had a hard time believing it was him.

M
aggie Spritzer stared down at the text message she’d just received. Bert Navarro was asking her to send Ted Robinson to Vegas. “What’s up with this?” she mumbled to herself. She shot off a one-word response: “Why?”

The answer was, “To make it look good, and he’s a hell of an investigative reporter.”

Well, half of that was true, Ted was the best of the best.

“Give me ten minutes to confirm,” was her next message, at which point she called Annie and asked for permission to send the Gulfstream to Vegas.

Annie authorized it, and Maggie confirmed, noting details would follow. She then hit her speed dial and ordered Ted to the airport.

“Damn, Maggie, you have to stop doing this. Or else you need to buy a condo or something in Vegas. I’m getting to be a regular commuter.”

“You love it, admit it. You also need to stop whining, it’s not becoming for someone like you who is sooo manly and virile. Just go. Bert and Lizzie will fill you in when you get there. Tell Espinosa he’s on his own, but I need to see him ASAP.”

Maggie worked the
Post’s
BlackBerry at the speed of light. She never let any grass grow under her feet.

Twenty-four hundred miles away, Bert Navarro exited McCarran International Airport. He looked around for the Special Agent in Charge, who was to meet him. When he didn’t see anyone he recognized, his eyes narrowed to slits, and his lips stretched to a thin, straight line. Heads would roll for this dereliction of duty. He was about to leap the barricade and head to the taxi stand when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Sir!”

Bert whirled around, then offered his hand to the head of the Las Vegas Field Office. “Nice to see you again, Wright. Where’s the car?”

“Right there, sir,” the Special Agent in Charge said, pointing to a four-door black sedan parked third in the line of waiting cars at the curb. Bert grinned; a person would have to be totally blind to miss the two FBI signs, one in the rear window and the other under a windshield wiper. He also noticed at the same time how the busy travelers were going out of their way to avoid going anywhere near the dark sedan.

The minute the two of them were seated in the official vehicle, Bert took charge. “Fill me in. Every detail.”

The short, stubby agent winced. Sweat glistened on his balding head. He was tempted to swipe at it but thought better of the idea and kept his hands tight on the wheel and his eyes on the road. “I don’t know which is worse, Vegas traffic or airport traffic. I literally have nothing, sir. My agents have not been able to come up with anything. We scoured the…the Happy Day Camp. Everything was in order, clean, neat, and tidy. Fingerprints by the hundreds, but that was a given. The actual living quarters of the employees was wiped down clean. Nothing we could match up. The madam’s quarters the same thing. The really weird thing is no one has ever had a picture of the madam. Nothing has surfaced. It’s like she never existed. There wasn’t so much as a chewing gum wrapper or stray paper clip to be found anywhere. The refrigerator was clean, empty, and disconnected. All the major appliances were disconnected. It was so…sterile, for want of a better word, that my first thought was the place was just waiting for a new tenant.”

“And her car?”

“In the garage. Wiped down clean. Paid in full. The lady dropped off the face of the earth.”

“That’s impossible, Wright. We’re the fucking FBI. You must have missed something. Don’t try telling me some stupid woman is smarter than the FBI because I am not buying it.” Bert knew he’d pay for that remark if any of the Vigilantes discovered that the words had come out of his mouth.

Wright’s voice turned testy. “Sorry, sir, but for now that’s the way it looks. We did manage to speak with the gardener, who tried to give a description of the madam to our in-house artist. We tried sweating him, but it was a no go. He said he only saw ‘the boss,’ as he called the madam, on a few occasions. He’s an old guy, moves pretty slow, and his English is limited. Other than ‘she was a pretty lady,’ and ‘all the ladies were beautiful,’ that’s all we got. The composite, in my opinion, isn’t worth circulating because he kept saying, ‘No, no, that’s not the way she looks.’ Dark hair, medium height, weight about 110. He said that the few times he saw her, she was wearing sunglasses, jeans, and a jacket. That’s it.”

Bert felt secretly pleased at what he was hearing. The Sisters would be even more pleased. He cleared his throat, and barked, “Did any of your fine agents think to query the help at the casinos?”

“Sir, that was the second thing we did after we checked the Happy Day Camp. They’d heard of her, but no one claimed to have ever met her, much less availed themselves of her services. It’s a dry hole unless you have some ideas we haven’t come up with.”

“How’d she find out something was going down?”

“That’s a very good question, and I don’t have the answer. I know, Director, that you aren’t happy with what I’ve been telling you, but we don’t have a single, solitary thing to go on.”

“What about the working girls? How many were there? Where did they go? Did they leave en masse or one by one? Every madam has a right-hand. Who was it? Someone had to make travel arrangements for all those people.”

Wright clenched his teeth. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel. “We know all that, sir, but it’s a blind alley all the way. I can truthfully say we left no stone unturned. The departure was planned in advance, and it was like a drill. They got the word and acted on it. My guess would be they left one by one in their own cars, left them somewhere, and took flights to wherever they were going.”

“Money. Always follow the money. Did you talk to any of the other brothel owners? What are they saying?”

“They’re saying nothing other than that Clark ran a very lucrative business, much to their chagrin. Her girls were top-of-the-line, very much in demand. In other words, cream of the crop. Those other places, no comparison. And, before you can ask, yeah, we swarmed in and sweated them all. Those people do not talk to law enforcement, and they are not afraid of the FBI. One cheeky woman told me we should hire the Vigilantes if we wanted to find the ladies from the Happy Day Camp. Sir, she actually said that, and all the other women hooted and hollered and agreed. I can tell you we all felt like shit.”

“And well you should,” Bert snarled. “So, what’s your next move?”

“We were waiting for you to get here to tell us what you want to do. We have no leads, no witnesses. Translation, we have zip, nada.”

“What about the cell phone records, the camp telephone logs, the passenger manifests from the airlines? The johns, or whatever the clients are called these days, for God’s sake! Did anyone think to check the doctors and dentists in the area? If this was such an up-and-up deal, those women had to have medical checkups. Five will get you ten they all had their teeth capped at some point. I want reports. Not guesses.”

“All in the works, we’re waiting for reports.”

“Bank records?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary. Bills. Paid on time. Accounts closed. The business for the most part is cash. They did accept credit cards, but, again, we have some records and are waiting for others. No one wants to leave a paper trail, and the Happy Day Camp did not accept checks. Not only is it a stone wall, it’s a
high
stone wall. Sir, you know prostitution is legal in the state of Nevada in certain areas. Crystal Clark acted within the law.”

“Until she took her dog-and-pony show to the nation’s capital. By the way, where are we going, Special Agent Wright?”

“I thought you’d want to visit the Happy Day Camp. Vegas is pretty filled up, room-wise, but you’re all set for your hotel although you can’t check in until four.”

Bert nodded. He had to shake this guy pretty soon so he could call Lizzie to see what was going on. He fished out his BlackBerry and saw a text from Maggie that said Ted Robinson was on his way and would land in four hours and meet up with him at the Elvis Chapel. The message went on to say that Ted had assured her that Bert would know where the Elvis Chapel was. For sure he had to shake Wright, and he needed some wheels. He checked to see if there were any other messages and was disappointed that Lizzie hadn’t checked in. He felt a chill run up his arms.

Thirty silent minutes later, Special Agent in Charge Duncan Wright swerved onto a gravel road that wound through a dense line of overgrown shrubs and trees. At night, road lights that looked to be solar-powered and were almost flush with the gravel road would light the way for the Happy Day Camp clientele.

“Here it is!” Wright announced, bringing the sedan to a complete stop.

“Who do those cars belong to?” Bert asked.

“My agents,” Wright responded.

“You have four agents guarding an empty building? Why? I hope I can understand your rationale for this; otherwise, you’re going to be guarding that dam out there in the distance.”

Wright flinched. “They’re waiting for me to give them their orders. I wanted to wait to see what you wanted to do. My plan was to send two back to town to keep canvassing the casinos. Believe it or not, Director, men who frequent this type of establishment do not advertise…their needs. The gardener has been paid through the month, so he’s still working. One of my men keeps talking to him, hoping something might surface, but we aren’t hopeful. And there is always the possibility that a few customers who haven’t gotten wind of what is going on might come out here for a little…exercise. Like I said, we’re working with what we have.”

It made sense, Bert thought, so there was no reason to rip this guy a new one. He nodded. “Okay, leave one agent. Take the
CLOSED
sign off the door. Have your man stay indoors, but not until I finish my own inspection. Send the other three agents back to town but leave me our car. You can go with them, Agent Wright.”

“Yes, sir. If there’s anything you want us to do, call. I’ll be at the office waiting for all the reports to come in. I’ll let you know as soon as we know something.” Wright held out his hand, and Bert grasped it.

“Good work, Agent Wright,” Bert said, deciding to be magnanimous. “We’ll talk later.” Without another word, Bert trotted over to the steps, bounded upward, and entered the log cabin structure.

Just in case the remaining agent decided to take a look through one of the windows, Bert walked through the building. Downstairs he marveled at the quality of the workmanship, the beautiful furniture that looked neither old nor sleazy, and the building’s clean fragrance. The kitchen had stainless steel appliances and was spotless. The bathrooms exquisite. He took a moment to wonder where the money had come from to build and outfit such a structure. The revenues must have been astronomical. Even the grounds outside, what he saw of them, were exceptional, with every variety of desert plant there was. The place looked, at least from the outside, just like what the sign said it was: a camp.

Bert made his way up the polished staircase to the second floor. The bathrooms there were just as beautiful as the ones on the first floor, though the six bedrooms were a little more spartan, with just enough furniture to make the rooms appear comfortable. He looked down at the buffed and polished wide plank floor. The Special Agent in Charge was right—the place was immaculate. There wasn’t so much as a speck of dust, a thread, a paper clip, or a bit of paper.

Bert sat down on the edge of the bed and whipped out his phone. A second later he was talking to Lizzie, who cut him so short his jaw dropped. He blinked, snapped the phone shut, shoved it in his pocket, and walked back downstairs and outside. He motioned to the agent, and said, “It’s all yours. You stay indoors until you hear otherwise or you’ll be relieved.”

“Yes, sir,” the young man said.

“Plug in the television set and get caught up on ESPN.”

The agent grinned. Like he wouldn’t have done that anyway. “Yes, sir.”

Bert walked around the back to the twelve log cabins that dotted the landscape. While he was no authority on such matters, he assumed that the cabins were where business was conducted. He figured that if he checked out one, he could be fairly sure that the others would be the same.

It was beautiful, with a huge fieldstone fireplace, minikitchen, and a loft. Plank floors throughout, deep, comfortable furniture. Empty wine rack on the wall in the minikitchen. Exquisite bathroom. No towels, soap, or anything else of that sort. He ventured up the open-backed wide plank stairs to peer into the loft. Stunning.

Bert went back down the steps and meandered over to one of the deep, overstuffed chairs. He sat down, his gaze going in all directions. His mind raced.
Where did the money come from to build this place? How long did it take to clean it out? What’s up with Lizzie? Will Ted come up with something once he gets here?
Bert was no fool, he realized that people clammed up when it came to the FBI. Reporters were notorious for getting ordinary people to talk, especially when they offered to pay for information, something the FBI reserved for its paid confidential informants.

With time on his hands, Bert walked back outside to look for the gardener. He found him in a neat two-room utility shed. He was standing over a wheelbarrow, mixing peat moss and something that smelled like manure. He looked up, his weather-beaten face curious but not alarmed. Bert spoke to him in Spanish, and he answered in kind.

An hour later, Bert realized that the local Bureau personnel were right, the man knew nothing, was withholding nothing. He was just who he said he was, the gardener, who had been paid through the month. Bert asked him what he would do when he left.

The man smiled, and said in English, “I retire. I let my wife wait on me.”

“Good idea. Do you have a pension?”

“Sí.”

“Well, that’s good. You can sleep late and sit in the sun. Where is the pension from?”

It was an innocent question, but the man’s face crumpled. The gardener pointed to the main log cabin. He bit down on his lower lip.

Bert nodded. “It’s okay, I don’t care about that. I won’t say anything.”