The Doomsday Girl Read online

  “You weren’t drinking, I hope.”

  I stood, gripping the phone tightly. “No, I wasn’t, not that it’s any of your goddamned business.”

  “It is my business. You are in my employ. If your billable hours include your time drunk or hungover, I will not pay you.”

  “For Christ’s sake, lady, I haven’t touched a drop since I began working your case. All right?”

  “I suppose I have no choice but to take you at your word. I look forward to your report.”

  “Hey,” I said. “How’s Melanie doing?”

  “We took her to see the specialists who cared for her during her coma.”

  “And?”

  “Their test results are inconclusive, but you needn’t concern yourself. Please focus on what I hired you to do.”

  “Is she there?”

  “Good bye, Mr. Reno.” The line went dead.

  I tossed my phone on the bed, stretched, and rubbed my eyes. “Next time, you can leave me a voice mail,” I muttered. Then I went to the lobby, gulped a cup of coffee, brought a second back to my room, and got to work on her damned report.

  An hour later I was still sorting through the details, and I realized I was compiling a case log bloated with meaningless minutia. It wouldn’t do for a client status report, but I kept at it, trying to capture every bit of data I’d come across. By noon I had three single-space pages typed. It took fifteen minutes to pare it down to a single-page version, which I then emailed to Lillian McDermott.

  The task complete, I called Cody Gibbons, to see if he wanted to head out to Fremont Street and get lunch. When he answered his voice sounded groggy.

  “You’re still in bed?” I asked.

  “I didn’t get to sleep until four. I just woke up.”

  “Why were you up so late?” I asked, but even before the words left my mouth, I was thinking, don’t tell me you bedded down the LVPD woman you took to dinner.

  “Denise and I had a late dinner, and ended up talking for a long time.”

  “With clothes on, or off?”

  “Dirt, you really do have a one-track mind. Is it that hard to believe we spent a few hours together, talking like mature adults?”

  “Is that what happened?”

  “For the most part, yeah. We started off over at this fancy joint at the Wynn, where the cocktails are twenty bucks a pop. We didn’t get out of there until one o’clock, after I dropped about two bills on dinner.”

  “And then?”

  “I mean, Denise and I have a lot in common. I felt like I’d known her all my life.”

  “Like a sister?”

  “Ah, no, not exactly. To be honest, I haven’t felt this way about a woman in a long time. So we ended up back here in my room, and I told her we shouldn’t do anything foolish, and she kept saying I’m absolutely right. She’s sitting at the desk and I’m on the bed, and she gets up and comes over, and I say no, and then I get up and go to the desk and she says no, and I swear we did that until we were freaking exhausted. When she finally left I felt like my schwantz was cast in concrete. Seriously, I was ready to explode.”

  “Wow. What next?”

  “We’re going to dinner again tonight.”

  “What’s Abbey gonna say when she finds out?”

  “Abbey? Why?”

  “Seems a little awkward, you starting a romance with her boss.”

  “Why should it matter? Look, we’re consenting adults, and we didn’t just go jump in the sack. There’s nothing to apologize for.”

  “Well, good.”

  “Damn right, it’s good. Man, talk about chemistry.”

  “You want to get some grub?” I asked.

  “Yeah, meet me in the lobby in fifteen.”

  ******

  We walked down Fremont Street, looking for a restaurant that offered lighter fare, because Cody claimed he wanted to lose a couple pounds. His weight ranged from 280 to 315 or so, but I could never tell the difference. He was wearing the huge army green winter jacket I’d bought him a few years ago after we nearly froze to death during an unfortunate encounter with a corrupt sheriff in South Lake Tahoe.

  “I wonder what it’d be like to live here,” he said, his hands shoved deep in his pockets.

  “You’d consider moving from San Jose?”

  “Why not? You moved from San Jose to Lake Tahoe, of all places. Besides, what’s keeping me there? The traffic sucks, and they keep jacking up my property tax.”

  “Yeah, but you get plenty of work there, right?”

  “I’m sure there’s enough work to be had in Vegas.”

  We walked until stopping at a bar and grill with an empty patio out front.

  “Does Abbey plan on staying here?” I asked.

  “Maybe. If her internship goes well, Denise said LVPD might bring her aboard.”

  “She really wants to be a cop, huh?”

  “It runs in her veins. Isn’t that what you said?”

  “Something like that,” I replied, as we waded into the dark joint. Yellow light from the soffit illuminated the bar’s glasslike mahogany surface. The stools were covered in leather and the chrome beer taps glowed with a promising sheen.

  We sat at the far end, deep in the place, and Cody said to the bartender, “Bring me a light beer and a couple menus.”

  “Diet Coke,” I said.

  “Still punishing yourself?” Cody asked.

  “You know I never drink until sundown.”

  “Your thirty days are up, right?”

  “I might stay dry until my case is finished.”

  “What’s the deal with that?”

  I arched my back and flexed my shoulders, then exhaled and leaned forward on the bar. “I’m tailing some dudes I think might be Russian mobsters. Supposedly, they traffic in young girls, like the ten-year-old I’m looking for.”

  “Russian, huh? So, let’s have a few shots of vodka and take the cleats to them.”

  “I don’t even know who they are yet. All I’ve got is their license plates.”

  “Why do you think they deal in children?”

  The bartender brought our drinks. Once he left, I gave Cody a rundown on my encounter with the pimp known as the McGillicuddy Man, and the results of my visit to the restaurant in Mandalay Bay and the Café Leonov.

  “You captain-hooked him so hard he pissed his pants?”

  “I guess I found his attitude a little annoying,” I said.

  “I imagine you did. Text me the license plates.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’ll have Abbey run them. Then I’ll ask Denise if they’re on the radar.”

  A minute later our food arrived, and I watched him drain half his beer in a single swig, and take a bite out of a cheeseburger so big he could barely hold it with one hand. Cody’s version of lighter fare.

  “Look, you don’t need to stick your neck out for me, Cody. I don’t want you to.”

  “What? Running plates is nothing, and you know it. That look on your face, I don’t know whether to laugh or worry about you.” He patted me on the shoulder with his huge hand, causing some of my soft drink to splash onto the bar. “You’re wound so tight you look like you’re trying to crap out your penis.” He laughed, then waved his hand at the bartender. “Bring me a shot of J.D. No, make that vodka, Stolichnaya.”

  The bartender placed the shot glass on the bar, and Cody held it up to the light and rotated it in his fingers. “Now, here’s the deal, Dirt. I’m gonna help you on your case, and you’re gonna lighten up. And once everything is a done deal, we’re gonna go get hammered, because not only is that your inalienable right, but goddamn, you look like you need it.”

  I closed my eyes and sighed. “Okay, buddy,” I said.

  ******

  When I got back to my room, I double-checked my cell to see if I’d missed an alert from the tracking devices. The Dodge Charger hadn’t moved since I’d bugged it, and the limo was parked back at the Café Leonov. Apparently the owners of these vehicles
kept a nocturnal schedule. That alone didn’t mean they were involved in organized crime, but it did suggest they didn’t have ordinary day jobs.

  I moved to the desk and reviewed the notes I’d typed for Lillian McDermott, then I took the cargo ship manifest from my backpack. My eyes went to the two names I’d highlighted: Steven Castle and Brent Pederman. These were the only civilians listed on the manifest, and the only two American-sounding names.

  I Googled Steven Castle and found references to over a dozen people by that name. I looked at Facebook profiles, Twitter accounts, and a website for a physician and a professional photographer. The ages ranged from nineteen to sixty-four and the online white pages listed addresses in seven different states.

  Next, I typed Brent Pederman into Google. When I didn’t get a single match, I clicked around but still couldn’t find anything. Scratching my head, I logged onto a subscription people finder service and searched for Brent Pederman, and again found no one by that name. I then entered Steven Castle, and found seventeen separate individuals, most with phone numbers listed.

  I began calling the numbers, introducing myself as an investigator looking for Brent Pederman. This aroused the curiosity of those who answered and resulted in some conversation, but it wasn’t until the eighth call I found the right Steven Castle.

  “Yeah, we were on that godforsaken ship together,” he said.

  “You returned from Africa to the U.S. on a cargo ship?” I clicked on his name and saw he was twenty-six years old and had an address in Irvine, about an hour east of Long Beach.

  “I was lucky to get out of there, period, after I got fired and lost my passport.”

  “What were you doing in Africa?”

  “I worked for an oil company. It was a great job until the boss’s girlfriend tried to jump my bones. I resisted her, even though she had a rack that wouldn’t quit, but it didn’t make a difference. When he found out about it, he fired my ass on the spot. So I tried to get a flight out of there, but my passport was gone. I think the bastard might have taken it from my room.”

  “He was that pissed, huh?”

  “Hell, he was drunk and threatened to kill me. I’ve already contacted an attorney about a lawsuit.”

  “So you paid the freighter to take you to Los Angeles?”

  “Cost me two grand cash, but I made it.”

  “Even without a passport, huh?”

  “Dude, it’s Africa. Money talks.”

  “Do you know a Jeff Jordan?”

  “No, who’s he?”

  “How about Brent Pederman?”

  “Yeah, he was the only other white guy on the ship. He came aboard at Angola.”

  “Can you describe him?”

  “About fifty. Big guy, around six-two and two hundred. Completely bald, not a hair on his head. You know who he looked like? That old time actor, Yul Brynner. You know him?”

  “He was in The Magnificent Seven, right?”

  “I think so. Anyway, he was the only guy onboard who spoke much English, so I tried to hang with him.”

  “Tried?”

  “Yeah, he wasn’t real friendly. Not a jerk, just distant. I’d ask him something simple, like what he did for a living or where he was headed, and he’d never answer. Sometimes he’d say philosophical stuff, like he was some kind of mystic. Once he said ‘It’s better to be silent than to speak for the sake of speaking.’”

  “Kind of a conversation killer.”

  “You got that right.”

  “I’m trying to find him. Any idea how I can reach him, or where he might be?”

  “No idea. That dude never said where he was coming from, or where he was going.”

  “Did he ever talk of friends or family?”

  “Not a word.”

  “How about diamonds, or gold?”

  “Nope.”

  “Anything else about him you can remember?”

  “Not really. When we reached port, I was gonna say goodbye to him, but I never saw him, which was kind of weird. But, hey, I think I got a picture of him, if that’ll help.”

  “He was okay with you taking his picture?”

  “He never knew. I was taking a picture of the sunrise near the Panama Canal, and he ended up in it.”

  “Can you text it to me?”

  “Sure.”

  We hung up and a minute later I looked at the photo. The sun was brilliant on the horizon, the ocean sparkling with bursts of silver. On the right side of the picture, a man in a T-shirt was leaning against the railing. His arms were muscular and his waist thin. His face was caught in profile, and it was true he bore a resemblance to Yul Brynner. I stared at the picture for a long time, hoping for an epiphany, but none came. I had no idea what role, if any, this man played in the death of Jeff Jordan.

  After a minute, I dialed Walter McDermott’s cell number.

  “Yes, hello?”

  “Walter, Dan Reno. May I speak with Melanie, please?”

  “Yes, but she’ll call you as soon as she gets out, if that’s okay.”

  “Gets out of what?”

  “She’s having a follow up with her neurologist.”

  “Oh.”

  “It might be another half hour or so.”

  “Are you at the hospital?”

  “Yes, we’re at the University Medical Center.”

  “How about if I meet you there?”

  “That’d be fine, I suppose. Come to the neurology waiting room.”

  ******

  I found Walter McDermott sitting cross legged in a white-walled room on the second floor of the hospital. A middle-aged woman and a teenage boy were speaking in hushed tones to a reception nurse at a desk in front of the room. The boy stared vacantly, and when he reached to scratch his arm, his movement looked awkward, as if his muscles were out of sync with his brain commands.

  “Afternoon, Walter,” I said, sitting beside him.

  He closed the magazine resting on his lap and moved it aside. “Hello, Dan.” He wore corduroy pants, purple socks with an argyle pattern, and leather sandals.

  “I have a picture I’d like to show you,” I said, opening my computer. I turned the screen toward him. “Do you recognize this man?”

  He adjusted his spectacles and peered at my notebook. “No, I don’t,” he said. “Should I?”

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “What does he have to do with your investigation?”

  “I think Jeff Jordan may have met him, about two weeks before Jeff was killed.”

  “But you don’t know who he is?”

  “He goes by Brent Pederman. Ever hear the name?”

  “No.”

  “I doubt it’s his real name, anyway.”

  “Intriguing.”

  I closed my computer and looked at my watch. “Will Melanie be out soon?”

  “She should be.”

  Neither of us spoke for a minute, until Walter said, “Dan, I want to thank you for your patience with Lillian. Ever since the crime, she’s not been herself. Please understand, she’s a good woman, but I think she needs somebody to project her anger upon. It used to be me, but now, apparently, you’re serving that role.”

  “I don’t deserve it.”

  “I know that, of course. But it’s not about deserving, is it? I’ve suggested she see a therapist to help her deal with this.”

  “What did she say to that?”

  “You might be surprised to know she agreed. She actually may see the same psychiatrist Melanie has seen.”

  “Melanie’s seen a head-shrink?”

  Walter chuckled briefly, then said, “Yes, her neurologist works closely with the head psychiatrist here.”

  At that moment a door opened, and Melanie walked out, followed by a slight, balding man in a white lab coat. Walter and I stood as they approached.

  “Melanie’s recovery seems to be going well,” the doctor said without preamble, looking down at his clipboard. His voice was very soft, and I had to strain to hear him. “I see
nothing to be alarmed about. Understand, full recovery from a traumatic brain injury may take many months, or even years.”

  “So, we should expect little deviances in her functioning moving forward?” Walter asked.

  “Yes, that would be normal,” he said.

  Melanie stood with her hands clasped in front of her thighs. Her jeans were low cut and tight on her curvaceous hips, and I thought they were probably new. Her face was framed by her long, shiny hair, which fell to the sides of her cheeks and onto her chest.

  “Your prognosis is optimistic, then?” I said.

  “The brain is a dynamic organ,” the doctor replied, his tone shifting to one of rote recital. “It has an innate ability to adapt and change with time. After injury, the brain recovers by forming new connections between neurons. We call this ‘plasticity.’ It occurs naturally in everyone; it’s how our brains evolve as we react to varying stimuli over time. This dynamic is more pronounced when recovering from an injury. In Melanie’s case, her exposure to stimuli has shifted her plasticity into overdrive. This is a healthy sign.”

  Melanie waited patiently, eyes downcast, while the doctor referred to her in the third person. When she looked up, her expression was both timid and hopeful.

  The doctor turned to leave, and I followed him to the door.

  “Excuse me, doc,” I said quietly, handing him a card. “I’ve been hired by the family to find out who harmed Melanie.”

  He looked up at me, his eyes quizzical. His skin was pale, and he struck me as a man who spent little time outdoors. “Yes?” he said.

  “I’d like to speak with the psychiatrist Melanie has seen. Can you help me arrange it?”

  He hesitated, then said, “It would probably be best to get Melanie’s permission.”

  I looked to where Melanie and Walter stood together. “That’s okay,” I said. “I’ll talk to them and we’ll get back to you.”

  The neurologist left us and I asked Melanie to take a seat while I pulled my computer from my backpack. I brought up the photo of the man on the boat.

  “Have you seen this man before?” I asked.

  She took my PC and balanced it on her lap, then tilted the screen back and stared down at it.

  “Melanie?” Walter said.

  It took ten seconds for Melanie to raise her head. “I think this person is related to Jeff,” she said.