Hair of the Dog (21 page)

He checked in with Carol who was arranging trays of cookies and bottled drinks just inside the front doors. Her long flowing black dress just lacked a tall pointed hat to make her costume complete.

“I'm so excited. The man outside St. Augustine who bought the two race dogs from Jackson had no idea they were stolen. Giving the ear numbers to various tracks paid off. He's bringing them here tomorrow. But everything's in the envelope—including transcripts from phone calls. I left my office open.”

“Great. Thanks for your help.”

“It was the least I could do…under the circumstances. Mr. Warren put his life into this casino and track. Oh dear, literally, I guess.” Her eyes welled up and she immediately turned back to the table.

Dan thanked her again for her help. She had certainly been loyal to her boss. He skirted the restaurant full of costumed workers—including several greyhounds in various costumes. He wondered how the jaunty black beret stayed on the head of one dog whose black cape and white scarf made him some kind of artist. Did dogs really enjoy all these trappings? Actually, the greyhounds seemed to be okay with it. If more people knew how great these dogs were, adoptions wouldn't be a problem. He was really pleased that Daisy/Sheba would have a good home.

As Carol promised, her office door was open. Dan flipped on the lights and picked up the thick manila envelope. And couldn't resist a peek inside. As Carol said Maximillian and Mellow Yellow would be returned to the track tomorrow. Sandy's Dandy and Roger Dodger were still at the Pensacola prison. Those two would be entrusted to a warden and brought by car. Relief. A huge sense of relief. He'd email UL&C later.

Now to find Fucher. Dan headed back through the main entry, grabbed a frosted pumpkin-shaped cookie from the table, looked for Carol but didn't see her, and continued out the front doors into the parking lot. It had filled up in the last half hour and he was jostled by skeletons, a couple Obamas in rubber masks, and to top it off a woman with her arms and legs sticking out of a large rounded, padded egg and carrying a live chicken. He wondered if there was going to be a costume contest—he'd put that one up for honorable mention at the very least.

He continued to the car but didn't see Fucher and Daisy. He didn't remember saying to meet him back at the car so maybe Fucher was still at the kennel. Dan put the envelope on the front seat and locked the car again. He jogged toward the side of the building. Two of the lights were out at the edge of the parking lot, which made the south side of the casino pitch black. He made a note to mention it to security. Interesting, but the “sweep” cameras on this side were stationary. Were they inoperable? That made him vaguely uneasy. Lights off, cameras not working…he turned back and made another trip to the SUV. Just a precautionary trip. His .38 was always in the glove box when he wasn't carrying. He tucked the gun in his belt and checked the flashlight in a side pocket. A bright, strong beam illuminated the car's interior. Great. Batteries working.

This time he could see clearly. He tried the back door to the kennel office. It was locked tight but the next door down that opened next to the vet's office and lab was open.

“Fucher?” No Fucher answered his shout, but about twenty dogs set up a chorus of barking.

“You lookin' for that Crumm guy?”

Dan could thank the Lord for strong sphincters, the skeleton-clad worker with a rubber “howling” mask who stepped out of the shadows gave them a test. Now if he could just get his heart to stop racing. “Yeah, know where I can find him?”

“Don't know for sure. He took off with Fred, but I know he's coming back to pick up Sheba.”

Fred. Wow. He hadn't expected to hear that. Dan thanked him and tried not to let himself overreact to knowing Fucher was with Fred, alias Franco. If Fred knew the Feds were looking for him…he'd bet he wasn't in the casino at the party. Dan walked back outside and stared hard at the maintenance barn. The lights weren't on but he'd swear he'd seen a flicker. Just an instant of illumination like someone had switched a flashlight on and then off.

He quickly ducked back under the overhanging eaves, put his back to the siding-covered exterior wall and stayed in the deep shadows of the kennel as he moved forward. He slowed his pace. No noise, no light, no advanced warning if he could help it. There was approximately fifty feet of exposed ground between the gate at the end of the exercise area and the maintenance barn's double doors. The barn's outside spots were also off along the south and west sides of the building and above the entrance. Still, he was definitely an exposed target. Someone had the advantage of cover and maybe night-vision goggles. And he felt someone watching—waiting for him to make a run toward the barn. But who? And why? What was supposed to happen tonight that required darkness?

At the muffled burst of gunfire coming from the casino, he jumped forward and eased through the gate of the exercise area. What the hell was going on? His .38 was in his hand but by the sound of the ammo being sprayed about inside the casino he was probably outmanned and underpowered. He hesitated—gunfire was being returned. Whatever was going down it wasn't all by the bad guys. Suddenly five figures—a cowboy, a surgeon, a cop, an astronaut, and a priest slammed through the back doors of the restaurant, ran to a parked car next to the kennel, and took off.

“I'm going to need the keys to your car. And I'll take the .38” Dan felt the muzzle of the Glock before he heard the words. How could he have been so stupid? He'd taken his eyes off of the maintenance barn and was about to pay for it.

“Where's Fucher?”

“Where he won't cause trouble.”

Dan didn't need to see under the mask to know the replica of Popeye who just pocketed his .38 was Franco Marconi. And the arms weren't pumped-up, fat-suit fakes. The guy worked out.

“Now, turn around and walk away from the building. Nice and easy. Yeah, that does it.”

Suddenly his peripheral vision caught movement. Dan saw the witch step out of the shadows. Crooked hat, black flowing dress…a perfect costume right down to the wart on her rubber nose.

“Put the gun down, Fred.” The voice was cold, calculating, very familiar and the .45 loomed like a cannon held steady in two hands. “I found Wayne's letter—what to do in case he didn't return. The day before we're going to have a service because you fucking took that away from me, too. Ashes. Not even a body. I know everything—the money, how he found out, how he begged you to just leave. But you couldn't do that. Not some old Mafioso has-been. Wayne knew you tortured and killed Jackson Sanchez. Why? Because he stole something you thought was yours—he was needy and flat broke. Then you threatened Wayne with his life if he reported what he'd seen. But you couldn't leave it alone. What did he do to you? How could you butcher that dear soul? The love of my life. I never wanted anything else. Just Wayne Warren.”

“Hey, Carol, com'on sweetie, we can talk.”

Popeye should be wetting himself about now. Not a good situation. Dan eased his head a slow half-turn to the left trying to keep an eye on the Glock now pointed at his back.

“You've run out of talking time. Put the gun down. NOW. I will not let you kill again.”

Dan watched Fred lay the weapon on the ground in front of him and then was slow standing back up. Hesitation, a slight almost imperceptible move forward, knees remaining bent. Oh shit, he was going to launch himself at Carol and knock her gun away. The decision to intervene was taken out of Dan's hands when the .45 thundered and Fred fell backwards—the second and third shots probably weren't needed. Fred or Franco was very dead and a sobbing witch had dropped her gun, ripped her mask off, and buried her face in her hands. Just to make certain, Dan knelt and checked Fred for a pulse. All three bullets had hit the chest in a tight circle. Ms. Taichert was one hell of a marksman.

“This doesn't bring Wayne back but it makes me feel good.” Carol turned a tear-stained face toward him. “I found Wayne's letter this afternoon. He wrote everything down. Everything. And it wasn't just the money laundering, Wayne found out how the group got messages back and forth from their leader.”

“Who was in charge?”

“Tony Falco. He directed everything—when the money was delivered, picked up, the accounts…and it was all in the collars of the dogs.”

“I'm not following you.”

“Dates, amounts, destinations all were in code and written inside the collars of the greyhounds transported from this track to the prison. They left here with individual collars and returned with collars. In the meantime, a little information had changed hands.”

“Pretty slick.”

“Only Wayne figured out what was going on. Oh, Mr. Mahoney, he gave his life to try and save this track.”

Dan found a tissue in his jacket pocket. There was a time when he wouldn't have had one. Domesticity. Could he admit to that?

“Glad to see you two are among the living. Franco Marconi?” Scott Ramsey pointed to the body on the ground and waited for Dan to give the affirmative nod before slipping on latex gloves. He then picked up the .45, next the Glock and bagged each separately. “Am I going to find another firearm out here?”

Dan pointed to his .38 sticking out from the edge of the body. Scott carefully pulled it out and slipped it into a clear plastic bag. “I know you know the drill. Gotta keep this for awhile. Want to tell me what happened out here?”

“Ms. Taichert saved my life.” Dan proceeded to reiterate how he happened to be in a compromised position and let himself be ambushed. “I was on my way to find Fucher. My guess is he's in the barn.”

Scott motioned for two officers to join them. “Check the barn area. Be careful. Take someone with you. We're not sure everyone's accounted for.” The two men took off at a jog.

“Ms. Taichert, I presume?”

“Yes, formerly Mr. Warren's personal assistant. I think you may be interested in this.” Carol pulled an envelope from a skirt pocket. “He left a detailed account of what he'd discovered going on here at the casino including first-hand knowledge of Jackson Sanchez's death and a warning that his own death might be next.”

Any comment by Scott was interrupted by Fucher running toward them with Daisy bounding along at his side. He stopped when he saw the body, then sank to the ground beside it. No one said anything. Dan kicked himself for not doing something, preparing Fucher for seeing his friend dead, trying to explain that sometimes we find out people we trust can do bad things. He watched helplessly as Fucher fumbled for Fred's hand and then held it. No one moved but Dan would bet everyone was feeling just a little of Fucher's pain.

“Fred was my friend. But he did bad things.”

“I know, Fucher, but I believe he liked you very much.”

“Maybe.” He stood up. “He locked me in the bathroom. With Daisy.” Fucher waved a hand toward the barn. “He said I had to be quiet. Then I heard lots of guns. I was scared. But I had to be brave for Daisy. I held her tight. She was shaking.”

Dan stepped forward and put an arm around him. “Let's go back up to the casino. I bet I could find you a cup of hot chocolate.”

“And candy?”

“I saved two Snickers bars just for you. Those Halloweeners didn't get everything. I'll make sure you get them before you go home.” Carol added.

“You can go inside in a few minutes. The forensics team will be here soon and a couple ambulances are on the way.” Scott turned to Dan, “The boys were able to stop the guys with the money but not until after a shoot-out.”

“Money? I thought that had left the casino earlier in the week—with Stanley and mom's look-alike.”

“That was a decoy. We were getting close so only a part of the loot was handed off. The majority was here…pretty much right under our noses but we'd missed it. Had a tip as to where to look. There was a false bottom to Kevin Elliott's freezer in his lab. We'll debrief inside—make certain we're all on the same page.”

Scott stayed behind and waited for the forensics team who took swabs of Dan's and Carol's hands before they were allowed to leave the scene. Who had fired their weapons wouldn't rely on testimony but rather evidence or residue. Finally, the three of them were allowed to walk back to the main building with Agent Ramsey. Officer Bartlett met them at the casino's back door and directed them toward the restaurant where several tables had been pushed together. “The chief wants you over there.” The man didn't look happy but, then, he never did, Dan thought. Funny, but he wouldn't have put money on Officer Bartlett being one of the “good” guys. Perhaps he was wrong.

“We'll do a little debriefing in here.” The chief motioned for them to take a seat. Carol, Fucher, and Dan found places at a round table in the corner. Scott was detained at the door but soon joined them. The wail of ambulance sirens could be heard in the distance and the casino itself had been cleared of partygoers. It was a relief to not see witches and skeletons and Popeye…

“Oh, thank God, you're all right.” Dan barely had time to stand up before Elaine was in his arms. “I saw what was happening on the news. Three people were killed. But, of course, they couldn't give names.” She had thrown her arms around his neck and was holding him so tightly, he was afraid to swallow. But, hey, who was complaining. He was lucky in more ways than one. After a deep breath, she let go and stood back, “I was so afraid.”

Dan put his arm around her and pulled her back close. “It's over now. We're all safe. Carol, Fucher, Mom, you, and me.” He turned and smiled at the group. “And five greyhounds.”

“I have a couple questions then you can all go home.” Chief Cox indicated the chairs across from him.

“First, I have something I want Fucher to do.” Dan leaned over and whispered, “Go to the kennel and bring back a half dozen collars—ones the dogs wear when they are transported. Remember? We talked about them.”