Chapter 24 #2
Cal interlaced his fingers with his palms pressed together.
“We had enough evidence for a grand jury to indict but were in a race to get to Ivan before Emory did. He was closing in on his brother and hell-bent on serving his own justice. In the end, it didn’t matter.”
Two years ago, the DA called with the news.
They found Ivan Holt’s mangled body in a car at the bottom of a deep ravine.
Between burns, decay, and scavenging animals, the rotten flesh clinging to his bones was unrecognizable.
The medical examiner identified him through dental records and called it a day.
“Justice served. You’re off the hook,” the DA had glibly told Cal, who’d boiled with rage. A quick death was hardly justice.
“Here’s what I needed to tell you, why I insisted we meet.” Kingsley stiffened and licked his lips before cautiously proceeding. “Ivan isn’t dead. He’s very much alive and leading the charge within the Velascos. Philippe wasn’t just running from an eventual coup. He was running from Ivan Holt.”
At a loss for a proper response, Cal shook his head and stared at his hands that looked folded in prayer, though he’d long ago lost his faith.
“You’re sure?”
“Positive. The body recovered from that wreck wasn’t him. Ivan knew he was a hunted man. Staging an accident got both you and Emory off his back and gave him time to regroup.”
Cal heard Kingsley as if from a distance. Muddled and misty, the words sunk in on delay.
“Why?” he asked.
“A means to an end.”
“What end?”
“Emory.”
Cal’s skin crawled with the name. He never understood the hatred between the Holt brothers. They seemed more kindred than not—one a suspected murderer and the other at the helm of a brutal criminal organization.
“A blood war,” Cal said.
“Yes. The Velascos and Moriartys have stayed out of each other’s business. Sure, there’s heat here and there when territories clash or associates double dip, but this won’t be a war between them. It’ll be a proxy war between the Holt brothers.”
“Why now? Ivan could have ended it before Emory took over.”
“The fall is harder from great heights. Emory’s enjoyed his life protected at the top. Now, Ivan will usher in that fall and relish every inch of the tumble. It’s already started. The Velascos murdered Giovanni De Luca a few days ago. Emory and Jack were there when it happened.”
Cal pinched the bridge of his nose as the beginnings of a headache grew from the center of his forehead.
“Jesus Christ. Gio was the goddamn patron saint of the Moriartys.” Cal dropped his hand and stared at Kingsley. “Well, is anyone on our side gonna do something about this?”
The idiot who fired up The Moody Blues whistled along, but his face was still obscured as he swayed in front of the jukebox. The two strangers at the bar looked on, but their attention drifted to Kingsley and Cal.
“Vegas PD insists on handling it.” Kingsley stared at a water-stained ceiling tile above him and scratched at the stubble on his chin. “It’s what I hate most about this job. You get hamstrung with bureaucracy and red tape and then—”
“Evil walks,” Cal cut in. “It lives while innocents pay for the misdeeds of monstrous men. The girl from the tape, her father came to my office, flew in all the way from New York just to plead with me. He’d buried the parts of his daughter that were found and wanted closure through justice.
I had to turn him away. There was nothing I could do. ”
Cal’s chest tightened, and that lump in his throat returned, but he forced the words that came out sharp and sour.
“I never want to do that again. And I never want to be that man, to bury my daughter while a monster gets to live.”
“You won’t,” Kingsley insisted. “We will find Amelia and bring her home.”
We. The sentiment struck a chord more deep, resonant, and moving than Cal could’ve anticipated.
“So, what does this all mean? Amelia’s running, but to where?”
Kingsley shrugged and said, “If the Velascos had caught up to her, we would’ve known by now.”
Dead. She’d be dead. Could still be dead. Chin to his chest, Cal refused to voice the possibility.
“Look, the motel clerk is making progress,” Kingsley said.
“His doctors think he might pull through. If he does and can place Amelia at the motel that night, my office will open an investigation into her disappearance. Those pliers I mentioned are with the lab. We’ll see if they hit for prints or DNA.
In the meantime, I know an investigator in Vegas PD who can help us.
He’s a little out there, but he’s got a beat on the Moriartys. ”
“A dirty cop?” Cal snickered.
“Not quite.” Kingsley glanced at the jukebox still singing and lights still whirling. Rudy paced behind the bar as if he sensed some trouble ahead. “Here’s the deal, though. You can’t stay here.”
Cal waved off the notion and drained the last of his beer. He also couldn’t live his life on the run. A drunk stumbled from the bar and his stool crashed to the floor, but the two strange men weren’t watching the commotion. They instead exchanged a glance with the man at the jukebox.
“These people know who you are,” Kingsley whispered. “There’s no obscurity in a town like this. Let’s get your things and get you out of here.”
Cal surveyed his surroundings with fresh perspective. The bar lost its charm and gained an abrupt hostility. The walls looked sallow in the ghastly light, and the floors seemed stickier when Cal went up front to pay.
The two men watched as he waited for his change, and the jukebox fired up again as Cal and Kingsley headed for the door. Kingsley pressed on, but Cal’s legs refused as a guitar strummed its melody. A week ago, that tune had brought him comfort.
Cal locked eyes with the man at the jukebox. With a smile, he raised two fingers to his forehead in sinister salute as “Wish You Were Here” filled Rudy’s bar.