The Sarah Roberts Series Vol. 4-6 Page 51

  How the hell was she supposed to get admitted? And why did she have to beat the driver? That’s gotta suck for the guy who happens to pick her up.

  Even though she questioned some of Vivian’s messages, Sarah always followed the instructions as close as possible. Whether it made sense or not, she would do it.

  For now, she wouldn’t think about Russell and whether he was her cousin or not. She would put the fact that he showed up at the right time at the pharmacy and the warehouse to the back of her mind. When her mother called back, she would deal with it then.

  Sarah motioned for the waitress.

  It was time to go beat a cab driver.

  Then get herself admitted into the hospital.

  Maybe she would get the sleep she needed in a hospital bed.

  Chapter 20

  Maxwell Ramsey removed his sunglasses at the front doors of the police station. He had lived his entire life in Vegas. Many of the police officers on duty knew him. Some of them even went to school with him.

  The men in this building who knew him when they were younger knew right from the start that Maxwell would end up on the opposite side of the law that they were destined to be on. But after years of drug running, small-time violence and robberies, Maxwell had gone legit. He had bought shares in an up-and-coming casino in downtown Vegas just off Fremont Street. After a few years of dividends and a couple of other financial ventures, Maxwell had enough money to live well and become one of Vegas’s top money lenders.

  The only difficult part of the job had been in the collecting end of things. That attracted the wrong kind of attention. But without a show of force, people felt they could walk all over Maxwell. He had grown to hate lending money, but it brought in too much revenue to stop.

  At least until the little casino on Fremont began to attract bigger and bigger crowds. So Maxwell purchased more shares. Finally, four months ago, he approached Alfred Carter, the current owner of the Fremont casino who happened to be searching for a financial partner, with a deal. Sign Maxwell on as a partner in the business and Maxwell would handle all the security and the booking of the entertainment. All Alfred had to do was count the money—half the money.

  Alfred had refused to just sign him on. He asked Maxwell what was in it for him. Maxwell had to buy into the casino. Then Alfred offered a counter deal. For five hundred million, Maxwell could buy the casino and Alfred would walk away. There were two problems with that. The first was, Maxwell didn’t have that kind of money. The second, he didn’t appreciate Alfred’s attitude. So, Maxwell had been attempting to convince Alfred to sign the papers or lose the casino outright.

  A fire had started inside the casino on three different occasions. A waitress was found murdered outside the casino’s restaurant. A fat banker committed suicide inside one of the casino’s hotel rooms. Although Maxwell had nothing to do with the banker, he was happy the man chose Alfred’s casino to off himself.

  The final straw was Maxwell’s threat that Tyrone Percy, one of Alfred’s long-time friends, someone he had tried to save from the life of crime, would be dead within three days, as well as Mark Stead. That was two days ago. He figured Alfred was chewing his fingernails raw at this very moment, waiting for Maxwell to call. If he knew what was good for him, he would have his lawyers present and the paperwork all drawn up to sign over half the business to Maxwell. Otherwise, Alfred wouldn’t like it very much when Maxwell increased the pressure.

  By the weekend, if Maxwell wasn’t a co-owner of the casino, Alfred’s wife and his parents would have terrible accidents. Finally, if that wasn’t enough, Maxwell wasn’t above torture. Actually, he loved it and looked forward to the prospect of using pliers on each and every fingernail and toenail Alfred had. By the end of their session, Alfred would never walk right again, if at all. Maybe he would leave one hand unscathed so Alfred could still sign the documents.

  At the counter, Maxwell asked to see Detective Collins. He was told to wait and that Collins would be right down.

  Maxwell walked to the far wall and studied the pictures of the cops who patrolled the streets of Vegas. It was like a trophy wall of police officers holding awards and graduating the academy. Made him sick to see some of the men he used to run around with thinking they’d made something of themselves by wearing a badge.

  “Maxwell Ramsey,” Collins said behind him. “What brings you to the police station? You’re not wearing handcuffs.”

  Maxwell turned around slowly. He adjusted his light-colored suit jacket and flicked a piece of fluff off his shirt. Then he met Collins’s gaze.

  “Your sense of humor was never really that good.” He moved closer to Collins. “I wanted to discuss Tyrone Percy and Mark Stead. I’ve heard things.”

  Collins’ eyes twitched slightly.

  You wouldn’t be good at poker, Maxwell thought.

  “Is this a confession? Should we move into an interrogation room?”

  “Why you breaking my balls? We go way back. I was there when you got messed up with that kid thing. When your girl wouldn’t abort—”

  Collins turned and headed for the main doors. “Follow me,” he said over his shoulder.

  Maxwell adjusted his suit again, looked around and smiled, wondering if anyone had overheard him. He could break balls as hard as anyone else. With the appropriate amount of gangster limping, Maxwell followed Collins out of the building.

  Outside, under the oppressive sun, they stared at each other through sunglasses.

  “What was that back there?” Collins asked. “Why bring something up that happened over two decades ago? What’s your beef with me?”

  “You aren’t too friendly these days. I come in asking about two of my friends and you want to arrest me, embarrass me. I’m legit nowadays.”

  Collins shook his head and blew air out of his mouth. “You’re not legit anymore than lava is cold.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? I am a businessman. I pay my taxes.” He looked at Collins from his head to his feet, sizing him up. “Or is it the level of success you’re upset about? What’s a detective make, huh? I probably make five or six times your annual income … in a month. That why you’re all up my ass when I come to have a friendly chat?”

  “Yeah, that’s it.” Collins smirked. “Why are you here?”

  “Tyrone was a friend. Mark is a friend. I wanted to see how the investigation is going.”

  “It’s not my case,” Collins said and started to walk away. “Go ask the detectives handling it.”

  “I’m asking you.” Maxwell grabbed Collins’ arm. Collins looked down at Maxwell’s hand and waited until Maxwell let go.

  “You’re going to have to read about it in the papers like everybody else,” Collins said without turning around.

  “Look, you don’t have to like me or what I do. In fact, you can hate me.” Maxwell moved around Collins and faced him. “But I live here and work here, just like you. Those were my friends.” He loved acting and hoped Collins couldn’t see through this performance. “Tyrone used to work for Big John, and you know that means he worked for me. Only a couple of months ago, Tyrone was at my place, enjoying drinks with me and the missus. But now he’s dead. I heard that he was cut into little pieces. What’s up with that? Who would do that sort of thing? Sickos, man.”

  “You’ve heard a lot in a short time.”

  “Word travels fast. You know that.”

  Sweat beaded on Collins’ forehead. He wiped it away with a handkerchief.

  “I can’t tell you anything, even if I knew. It’s an active investigation.”

  “Do you guys have any suspects?”

  “Yeah, one.”

  “Who?”

  “Can’t say.”

  Maxwell regarded him for a moment. “You’re fucked, you know that?”

  “Is that a threat or an observation?”

  “You’re lying to me. You don’t have any idea who killed my friend last night and who tortured Mark.”

  “Okay, then we d
on’t. Wish I could’ve helped you.”

  Collins turned and walked back toward the building.

  “You always this sarcastic with members of the public?” Maxwell shouted after him.

  Collins stopped at the door and looked back at Maxwell.

  “Only legitimate gangsters who think they’re actually contributing members of society. Those are the ones who I save up all my sarcasm for. But don’t worry, Mr. Ramsey, we’ll find who hurt your friends and when we do, he will go to prison for a long time. Or maybe he’ll choose another option.”

  “What option?”

  “Death by cop.”

  Collins shut the door and disappeared inside.

  “Motherfucker,” Maxwell mumbled as he stepped off the sidewalk and started for his car. “Death by cop. You worded that wrong. It’s death of a cop, asshole.”

  Chapter 21

  Sarah paid the waitress and was outside fast enough to see Russell get in a yellow cab a block away. The driver made a U-turn and drove by the front of the steak house. As it passed, Sarah caught a glimpse of the driver wearing a red baseball cap and thought how lucky he was that he didn’t pick Sarah up.

  A part of her rebelled at the thought of randomly beating up a taxi driver. But Vivian would know what was happening and why. All Sarah had to do was respond.

  There were times the messages didn’t make sense. Times when performing a task for Vivian could be deemed morally wrong. It was five years ago when Sarah began receiving messages from her dead sister. She learned early on when she didn’t respond to one about a man just up the street from where she lived. Later that night a young girl was beaten. All because Sarah didn’t perform a simple task.

  Since then, regardless of what she was told to do, even if she couldn’t see the value or the wrongs that would be righted, she had vowed to do whatever she could to perform the tasks asked of her.

  Maybe it was because she felt that God, or a higher power on the Other Side, had allowed Vivian to communicate through her and that was a special honor. For that alone, and that all the messages were to stop criminals and protect the innocent, she would do as the messages asked each and every time.

  She was innocent once. She wasn’t protected when her neighbor violated her. Nor was Vivian.

  Memories of those moments when she was eight years old fluttered behind her eyes like a bird locked in a room, smacking against the window to get out.

  It was the reason she hated cops, even though she knew her hatred wasn’t rational. That they would allow one of their own to violate her in such a way at such an early age had nothing to do with protect and serve. No wonder by the time she was nine she was depressed, lost color in her complexion until she looked like a cadaver and started pulling her hair out.

  She was a victim of trichotillomania, until she stopped pulling her hair when she found true purpose in life again, when her will to live was resurrected at eighteen after being kidnapped. It was then that her life was saved—under conditions that could have killed her.

  Since then she had stopped pulling her hair, gotten a warm color back into her pale skin and ate better. Now in her twenties, she was healthy, vibrant and ready to fight for her sister.

  She blinked in the sun and stepped off the sidewalk by the restaurant’s front windows in search of a cab.

  “Who gets to be the lucky taxi driver?” she murmured to herself as she walked past parked vehicles, heading to the road.

  Five vehicles ahead, a car door opened and a woman got out. She seemed to be watching Sarah, more than a cursory glance.

  Sarah slowed, then stopped. The well-built woman leaned on the roof of her car with arms that had to pump iron. Sarah couldn’t detect an ounce of fat on her anywhere. The skin-tight pants and the tight tank top showed everybody exactly what she owned underneath. Sarah could tell this woman wasn’t shy letting the world know the level of discipline involved in sculpting a body such as hers.

  “Do I know you?” Sarah asked as she started walking again.

  The woman shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

  “With the way you’re staring, maybe you’ve mistaken me for someone else?”

  The woman didn’t respond as Sarah walked past.

  “No mistake,” the woman said.

  She stopped and looked back at her.

  What the hell?

  The woman checked her car door, then headed toward the restaurant without looking back.

  The heat has to be getting to people.

  In her business, Sarah could never be too careful. At any time, an old enemy of Armond Stuart’s or Rod Howley’s or Hank Frommer’s could pop up and take a shot at her. Watching her back and being paranoid came with what she did.

  A yellow cab moved along the road slowly. The woman had entered the steak house and disappeared. The cab was getting closer.

  Sarah jogged to the road and waved the cab over.

  “I hope this is the one, Vivian,” she said under her breath.

  She slipped inside behind the driver and closed the door.

  “Where to?” the driver asked.

  His face caught her attention right away. The air conditioning was on full, yet the man was sweating buckets. His eyes in the rearview mirror looked panicked.

  “West end of Vegas.”

  The cab started away.

  “Do you have an address?” he asked.

  She almost forgot to check the time. At least fifteen seconds had elapsed before she got her phone out.

  “Just a second. I’m looking it up.”

  The cab made a U-turn and started back toward where she and Russell had walked earlier. Maybe the driver knew an easier way to the west end.

  “I can get the address in a couple of minutes. Just start heading toward the west end. As we get closer, I’ll tell you where I’m going.”

  The driver nodded.

  They stopped at a light. The driver looked back a few times. Their eyes met. It was like he knew what was coming.

  Less than two minutes left.

  She looked out the window, not wanting to see his face. A chill went through her. The air in the back of the cab had to be below freezing. But it didn’t matter. In a minute, she would be getting out.

  The part of the message that said get yourself admitted too deeply disturbed her. How the hell was she supposed to get hospitalized? And what for? She hated hospitals. Spent too much time in them over the past few years.

  But now she was supposed to be hospitalized.

  The cab drove under a bridge and Sarah saw the hospital coming up on their left.

  Could he know?

  She looked at the mirror again, but he stared through the windshield.

  Thirty seconds left.

  “This isn’t west,” she said.

  “I have a quick fare I have to pick up at the police station.”

  “What? You already have a fare. Me.”

  The doors locked.

  She tried the back door but it didn’t budge.

  “What’s this?”

  He glanced through his mirror at her. “A man is waiting to meet you. Don’t worry.”

  Her cell phone said twelve seconds left.

  “What’s his name?” Sarah asked.

  “Maxwell Ramsey. He asked me to bring you to him at the police station. We will be there in a sec.”

  Her cell phone clock hit three minutes.

  The driver turned right, away from the hospital. They hadn’t gone five feet before Sarah leaned forward in her seat, grabbed the hair on the side of the man’s head, pulled him to the right and then rammed his head into the driver’s side window.

  Something cracked. She wondered if it was the window or the man’s head.

  Before she could smash his head again, he slumped in his seat. The car slowed and angled to the right. It hopped up on the curb and came to a stop in a thicket of bushes.

  Two cars were slowing to see what happened. Sarah hopped over the front seat and exited from the passenger
side. After running around the back of the cab, she gently opened the driver’s side door and caught the man before he fell out. Blood matted in his hair. The window had a red smear with bits of hair on it.

  She shoved him across the front seat and sat behind the wheel.

  “This is fucking crazy,” she said out loud as she shut the driver’s side door.

  She backed the cab away from the bush, and then angled out onto the road. A man in a Malibu watched everything, probably wondering if she was hijacking the cabbie, but she didn’t care. If he called the police or followed her, she wasn’t going far.