Chapter 15
Jennifer and I had taken the first plane we could find to Nevada, hunting down Mosby and Elizabeth Ellington. Using the contact
information they’d left with the Panguitch sheriff’s department and our DHS cover, we’d given them a call and found out that
they’d decided to spend a few days on the Vegas Strip.
They were staying at an RV park attached to the Circus Circus casino, so I’d coordinated to meet them right there directly
after landing in Vegas.
The flight connections from DC had been a little bit of a hassle, but getting the rental car had been smooth, and the GPS
was saying we were less than five minutes away. We continued north on Las Vegas Boulevard, watching the people along the sidewalk
like visitors at a zoo.
Stuck behind a slow-moving truck with a billboard advertising something that involved a G-string and nipple pasties, Jennifer
said, “Nothing from Knuckles?”
“Nope. He’s made it to Utah and talked to the sheriff’s deputies, but they had nothing new. They confirmed that Marley’s vehicle
was forced off the road due to the damage it sustained, but the investigators still don’t have anything concrete. They’re
looking at a biker gang called the Nomads, but they don’t operate around Panguitch. At least they haven’t in the past. Honestly,
that whole theory is a huge stretch. Why would a one-percenter biker gang want to bust out an Arab terrorist? And how would
they even begin to get the information to do so?”
“But if it was a specific hit on the sheriff, it would make more sense. Maybe the Ghost just managed to run while they were executing Marley. Maybe when they found him in handcuffs, they just told him to go.”
“Yeah, maybe, but I can’t see them planning to kill a law enforcement officer in cold blood and leaving any witnesses. For
all they knew, the Ghost was just a guy in thirty-day confinement for a DUI who would run straight to the nearest badge because
he wanted no part of a murder. Especially the murder of a sheriff.”
She nodded her head, having no answer to that. A few seconds later, she said, “Have they talked to the sheriff’s wife yet?”
“No. They’re on the way to see the family next.”
She sighed and said, “Glad that’s not our job.”
“Me too. It sucks that he went to war with the Rangers for years only to get killed by some shithead in our own country.”
She reached over and squeezed my hand and I said nothing for a moment, thinking about Marley and his “retirement” job helping
out the Taskforce. Thinking about the Ghost. The terrorist I’d put in his backyard.
She saw my face and said, “This isn’t our fault. It might not have anything to do with the Ghost.”
I ground my teeth and said, “Either way, when I find out who killed Marley, I’m going to plant them in the ground.”
She let go of my hand and said, “That’s not the agreement with the Oversight Council. We don’t do any law enforcement with
respect to Bob Marley. We’re after the Ghost, period. Anything we find related to Marley’s death, we turn over to the FBI
for them to handle.”
I said nothing. She waited a bit, then said, “Right?”
I nodded, grunting out, “Sure, sure. I get it.”
She didn’t look convinced, but said nothing.
We reached the north end of the Strip, the fancy casinos in the rearview mirror, the Circus Circus building rising up about
two blocks away.
I’d stayed there about fifteen years ago, mainly because it was cheap, and I had vowed that no amount of savings was worth that punishment again.
It had been pretty threadbare then, and I couldn’t imagine what it was like now.
One thing was for sure, I wouldn’t be eating any seafood at their buffet.
Mosby Ellington had given us the keypad entry to the RV lot on the north side, and we pulled into the gate. Calling it an
“RV lot” was stretching it a bit, as it was nothing more than a large pad of pavement surrounded by a chain-link fence. From
what I could see, outside of the hookups for the RVs, the only amenities were a fenced-off area with Astroturf for the pets,
the fake grass covered with piles of turds, and a square concrete pool filled with tepid water that looked more like something
you’d see for alligators at a Florida reptile show.
We drove through looking for the slot number Mosby had given us, and found it near the back. I could see two people in lawn
chairs underneath a rolled-out veranda, the man shielding his eyes as we approached.
I parked and got out, saying, “Mosby Ellington?”
He stood up, saying, “It’s about time. We’ve been sitting here all day waiting on you guys.”
Jennifer said, “Sorry about that. It was hard getting an early flight out of DC, even with the time change.”
He was an older guy with a receding hairline speckled in gray, but he was thick in the chest, with rough hands. I was pretty
sure he could handle himself in a bar fight and probably had a time or two.
He said, “I don’t care to hear your excuses. I care that I’ve been sitting here boiling in the sun waiting on you guys. I
don’t mind it when we’re RVing in the mountains or by a lake and that’s the plan for the day”—he waved his arms around—“but
this place is a damn dump. The power keeps cutting out. The only reason we’re in Vegas is to gamble, and I’m stuck here waiting
on you two.”
The female stood up, saying, “I’m Liz. Don’t mind him. He’d bitch at you if you’d agreed to meet him in the casino and paid
for his blackjack. He lost all our gambling money yesterday. We aren’t going to the casinos anymore.”
She was just as sturdy looking as he was, with her hair pulled back into a bun and a stocky frame, but her face held a beauty that was fading but still fighting, like a pageant winner from years ago.
He grumbled something, then said, “True enough. We planned for three days here, but one will do. I’ve had enough of Vegas.”
He stuck out his hand and I took it, saying, “Thanks for meeting us. I’m Pike Logan, and this is Jennifer Cahill. As we said,
we’re with the Department of Homeland Security and we just wanted to follow up with that event in Utah you were involved in.”
He said, “Yeah, I was wondering why Homeland Security was checking on that. Damn government is getting so big they got agencies
on top of agencies looking at shit. It’s no wonder nothing gets done.”
Liz said, “Stop it, Mosby. It’s the least we could do, since we couldn’t save the man’s life.”
He turned to the door, saying, “Come on in. I’m pretty sure the only reason you’re out here is because you found out we were
in Vegas. Get the government to pay for your trip, then spend three days here on the taxpayer’s dime playing craps.”
He opened the door and I followed him inside, saying, “Believe it or not, I can’t stand gambling. I’ll be leaving out of here
as fast as you.”
For the first time, he smiled, saying, “I’m just busting your balls. You two don’t look like the typical government leeches.”
He waved us to a couch, him and Liz taking a couple of chairs, and we went through what had happened. Most of it was in the
police report, but a few things stuck out. One, I learned that Liz was a registered ER nurse and had tried to keep Marley
alive, which made me feel a little better, as I was thinking he’d just gasped out his dying breath with two helpless passersby
standing by idly watching.
Two, he’d told the sheriff’s deputies who’d arrived on the scene about the phone call to the Taskforce.
I said, “Who answered when you called?”
“I don’t know. Somebody just asked a couple of questions and hung up, thanking me for contacting them. They didn’t act like it was any big deal, like they got calls all the time from people talking about burning vehicles and guys getting shot. Weird, if you ask me.”
He looked at me closely, and I could tell he’d made a connection with the “weird” call and it being weird that “Homeland Security”
had shown up at his RV in Vegas.
Nothing I could do about that. I said, “What did the sheriff say about the call? Did they pursue that as a lead?”
“Don’t know. That’s on them.”
If they had, someone at the Taskforce had shut it down. I just hoped that stuck.
I said, “Walk me through what you saw in the vehicle. Was there anybody else in it? Any clothing or luggage?”
“I couldn’t get to the vehicle while we were helping the man. It was burning like a funeral pyre. When they put it out, there
was nobody else inside, but there was a stack of burned luggage. A duffel bag and other stuff. Nothing in it was salvageable,
though. It was roasted to a crisp.”
I knew the Ghost had some travel stuff for the transfer, but it looked like he’d left it behind. Meaning he’d been forced
to leave in a hurry. But why? Once the sheriff was out of commission, he’d certainly have time to get his bags—before they torched the truck.
Either way, it was something for Knuckles to check out. Maybe there was something useful left in the charred remains of the
luggage.
I felt my phone vibrate and looked at the screen, thinking, Speak of the devil.
I stood up, saying, “Sorry. I have to take this. Jennifer, walk them backwards to their last stop, starting with the arrival
of the police.”