“You have ten minutes to convince me your husband was murdered, and five of them are gone. Go.” Dallas flipped the hourglass over on his desk and watched sand pour through to the bottom.
Eileen Shames looked confused, then furrowed her brow and wasted precious seconds before answering. “To be honest, Mr. Worth, I’m not positive that he was.” Color drained from her hands as slender fingers clenched tightly together. “I just find it hard to believe Steven committed suicide like the police said.”
“Like any police department, Las Vegas Metro has its problems. Yet it’s been my observation that they normally do a thorough job. Do you feel their investigation was inadequate, or incomplete? That someone accidentally, or even purposefully, didn’t do his or her job properly?” The hourglass continued draining.
“No,” she said. “I don’t believe there was any impropriety. But my instincts tell me that something’s not quite right.”
Instincts. Dallas snorted. Through the window, he watched the kid who lived across the street kick rocks onto his driveway. When he realized he’d been seen, he threw on a “wasn’t me” look and walked off, slowing to toss off a plastic sports drink bottle. Had he been spying? Was he one of them? Dallas pulled the drapes shut and returned his attention to the young woman sitting across from him. Half of the sand had poured through.
“Anything else, Ms. Shames?”
“I’m not sure I get your meaning.”
Dallas swiveled around in his chair and faced her. “From what you’ve told me so far, three weeks ago, a maid found your husband hanging from a beam in a motel room. The police were called, and an investigation followed. The detective assigned to the case determined that after a night of drinking and general excess, your husband, Steven Shames, for reasons unknown, decided to hang himself with a bed sheet. No evidence of foul play was discovered. Is that the essence of it?”
She nodded.
“You say that something’s ‘not quite right.’ Could you be more specific? Could it be that the sequence of events leading up to your husband’s death don’t make sense, or that a piece of physical evidence can’t be explained?”
“No. No, that’s not it. The bed sheet was taken in for forensic examination, and the examiner concluded that there were no suspicious circumstances. But there wasn’t a note. Don’t suicide victims usually leave a note and explain why they did what they did?” She said it like an accusation, as if she were a prosecutor attempting to trip up a witness during a criminal trial.
“Not always. For various reasons, some don’t feel the need for one.” Dallas tried a different line of questioning. “Could you possibly feel guilty because you couldn’t prevent the death of your husband? Or maybe this is your subconscious’s way of finding closure?”
Eileen adjusted her slight frame in the chair. “Is this a Zen parable, Mr. Worth? Amateur psychology plus the sound of one hand clapping equals a polite push out the door?” The inquiry was made evenly, without sarcasm.
“I wasn’t trying to be insulting. Please, tell me about him.” Dallas stole a quick glance out the window as he spoke.
“Steven was an actor. He’d only been getting bit parts and commercials the last year or so, but he was starting to get noticed. We met in college. I worked part-time at a property management company. One day he came in to pay his rent, and we struck up a conversation. We started dating, and eighteen months after he graduated we were married.”
Dallas wondered if he should check the house for electronic bugs. “Where did he work? Aren’t most of the West Coast actors based in Los Angeles?”
“He divided his time between Vegas and L.A. California provided more work opportunities, but filming out here is growing because of the lower costs. Plus, I didn’t want to leave my job. I work as a magician’s assistant.”
Dallas thought for a moment. “Lunatic Lenny, the comedy magician. He recently finished his Bucket of Blood tour, right?”
“Yes. We were in Philadelphia when I got the news about Steven. I flew back early and missed the last few nights there. Are you a fan?”
“Not per se. I like to take in a show every once in a while, especially if I’m comped. I’m a big fan of free stuff. Fits my budget.” The last of the sand hit the bottom of the hourglass. “Okay, let’s say I’m interested. First off, there’s more than a good chance my investigation will simply confirm what’s been established: that your husband, for whatever reason, hanged himself and that no one else is involved. If that happens, you have closure but your money’s gone. Can you live with that?”
“Yes.” No hesitation before answering.
“My fee is five hundred a day plus expenses. Given the scope of the investigation, I estimate completion at no more than a week, though I’ll probably be finished sooner. Should I need longer, I’ll meet with you, discuss what I’ve found and where I’m at, and ask if you want me to continue. Will that be a problem?”
“No.” Again, no hesitation.
“Fine. I also require a two thousand dollar retainer that will be applied toward your balance owed.”
“Cash, right?” She plucked her purse from the floor.
“Yes. I’ll also need a list of friends, relatives and anyone you can think of who Steven was with the last few days leading up to his death.”
“I won’t be of much help in that area.”
“Why’s that?”
Eileen sighed. “Steven was outgoing, but he kept his business life separate from his private life. His private life being me. He was loose with his money, when he had any, and had more than enough ‘friends’ willing to help him spend it. A lot of the people he hung out with, I’m not even sure he knew. Friends of friends. Celebrity followers. Those who wanted a brush with fame. That sort of thing.”
“In that case, tell me what you do know and I’ll start from there. Many times, one lead will connect to another and so on. With a little luck, maybe I’ll be able to cobble together something that will satisfy you.”
She did as asked. Minutes later, Dallas was finished writing.
He asked a few more questions, then walked her to the door and watched her drive off. Walking back, he spied the same neighbor kid once again knocking rocks onto the driveway. He’d displaced enough to expose a patch of dirt almost a foot in diameter. He was now in the grassy section, making holes by digging into the ground with his heel.
Dallas relaxed. They wouldn’t have enlisted the aid of a minor to help track him down, he realized. Still, he was annoyed. He went back inside and into the garage. He adjusted the timer on the sprinkler system and seconds later heard a startled yelp as dampened feet made for the safety of home.
He reset the system, went into the living room and fired up a joint from a box he kept behind a fake potted plant. For the next hour, he sat cross-legged on the floor and wondered if the impromptu prank would count against him now that he was a newly-anointed Zen master and pondered how best to research the sound of one hand clapping.
*
A month earlier, Stanley Bupkis had been eating lunch in the prison cafeteria when he was summoned to the warden’s office. While there, he was debriefed, given the items he had carried in with him two years earlier after being incarcerated, and told to stay out of trouble upon his release or else he’d end up right back where he was. After another hour of formalities and several sets of signatures, he became the second convict mistakenly released by the Nevada Department of Corrections for the year.
Thinking it might be a clever ploy that he didn’t understand, Stanley had stayed in Las Vegas in case the police were watching the borders and air terminals in anticipation of his departure from the area. He knew that didn’t make any sense, but neither did releasing him a year early. He considered telling someone about his situation, but thought he’d be tagged an escapee and have another two or three years slapped onto his sentence.
No thanks.
Instead, he told his well-off brother who lived out of state that he’d received early parole. The brother promptly fronted him a good amount of cash when talk of a visit surfaced. Soon after, Stanley located someone who specialized in new identities.
“Who you want to be?” the specialist had asked.
“Doesn’t matter. Find a book of names and pick something southern. I’m originally from Texas.”
The man complied and flipped through the first tome he came across, which was a road atlas in his car. An hour later, Stanley Bupkis had a birth certificate, driver’s license and other paperwork that clearly and authentically showed he’d been born and christened Dallas Fort Worth.
The specialist presented all and said, “That to suit you, sport?”
“Well,” Stanley said, not really knowing what to think, “You get what you pay for I guess.”
Dallas rented a house in Centennial Hills and soon after obtained a beat up Chevy Blazer for transportation, firearms for safety, and a dog for companionship. He had an associate quietly put out the word that he was looking for work, anything not involving resumes or nosy questions like what he’d been doing the past twenty-four months. Under-the-table transactions only. As for skills, he was physically strong and good at finding things. The associate had put him in touch with Eileen. Things were turning around.
If only he could do something about the paranoia.
What others are saying:
Anthony Curtis, Gambling Expert/Huntington Press Publisher
"A multi-colored fireworks display of a first novel. Amazingly funny. Ken Hattaway has an eye for detail and the city's seamier side."
Brian Rouff, award-winning author of Dice Angel and Money Shot
"Ken Hattaway knows Las Vegas. Sin City Refugees oozes authenticity: quirky characters,wry observations, noir atmosphere. It's all here."
Joyce Spizer Foy, author of the Harbour Pointe Mystery Series
“If Elmore Leonard and Carl Hiaasen were cloned, you'd meet one fresh face in the person of author Ken Hattaway. Sin City Refugees is crisp, fast paced, and sure to please noir fans
for the 21st Century.”
Rob Preece, Amazon Top 500 Reviewer
"Author Ken Hattaway mixes hardcore grit with tongue-in-cheek humor as he follows the lives of a number of people over a few days in America's 'sin city.' Hattaway's strong voice and professional
writing kept me engaged in the story. Sin City Refugees is one of those books I finished in a single reading. I have no hesitation in recommending this one."
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