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  The room smells of lilac, probably an air freshener…I'll never enjoy the odor of the purple flower again.

  Then my worst fears are realized…a spade shaped mole adorns the right side of the remnants of her neck, near her collarbone.

  My jaw is clamped so hard my jaw muscles are beginning to ache. I back away, careful that I've not stepped in any blood, and move quickly back to the kitchen door, turn the lock so it's left as found, and stride down the side yard across the Bermuda grass, and head for the truck. Just as I hit the driver's door, a little old blue-haired lady steps out from in front of the truck and I stop so suddenly I almost trip. I didn't know old ladies still wore nylons, and if so, rolled them down so the rolls show below the hem of their paisley housecoats.

  "You got time to look at my tub? It's been dripping for a month." Her voice quakes with age, but her eyes cut from side to side as if she's watching for a rabid dog to rush her from the nearby landscaping, and she's ready to pounce to the roof of the van.

  "Sorry, ma'am. I've got another emergency call. I'll phone someone else and have them come by. The yellow house here is yours?"

  "Yes, sonny. You sure you don't have time?"

  "Got to run, ma'am. I'll send someone."

  "Not this afternoon. I have bridge."

  "Good luck with the bridge game," I say, giving her my most devastating smile, and keeping my back away from her as I climb in the driver's seat, or she'll be asking me if I have time to check for termites.

  She stands, hands on hips, watching with watery faded eyes as I drive away. I have a wisp of guilt, as I'm not really going to call someone to come by Mrs. Blue Hair's house. With luck, she's got a touch of dementia and will forget I was ever in the neighborhood.

  Finding a pay phone in Santa Barbara county is about as tough as finding an honest politician, but I discover one in the only service station I know of in Montecito, I park behind a small supermarket where my van won't be tied to the guy who made the phone call, and place a quick call to Santa Barbara 911, inform the operator that I heard blood curdling screams coming from Carol's address, say I don't want to get involved, and hang up quickly. I even wipe the fingerprints off the quarter before I insert it in the phone, as I know the SBPD will be hot after whoever committed this murder, and know they are very good at what they do.

  Now, to get some revenge for this beautiful woman, mother, and ex-wife…and finding the ex-husband seems the obvious place to start. I'm sickened by what's happened to this gorgeous lady, my mouth is as dry as a flour sack, my heart feels as if it's full of lead shot and, as God is my witness, some dirty son-of-a-bitch, or more than one, will pay. I have to follow my gut instinct and believe that she's truly innocent, but my gut is usually right on.

  Leaving the jurisdiction of the California office of the U.S. Marshal's Service seems a propitious move, nonetheless, so I'm leaving for Vegas.

  5

  I find a quiet off ramp on the way back to Ventura, with only a few surfers' vans and ancient station wagons parked nearby, and pull the signs off the van, get out of my coveralls, and apply a couple of wide blue magnetic strips down each side. Since I'm headed to Nevada, I pull the California plates and slap on Nevada ones, which happen to be the only legit ones I own.

  When I'm done with the busy work, I take a moment to lean on the van, cross my arms, and contemplate how totally shitty the world can be. The ocean breeze is refreshing, the sun warm on my skin, the surface of the sea is rising in great sheets beyond the beginning of the surf, where waves build then eventually become falling white caps. The screeching sea gulls make me want to scream along with them, but now's not the time to attract attention. Every one hundred yards or so a young person—and some not so young—is trying to make today's low surf into something more exciting. If they only knew how exciting Carol's day had been. I take a long last deep breath of ocean air and head for the driver's seat.

  The van is registered to an LLC, Grubner Security, a shell company owned and controlled by buddy Pax, who lives in Vegas, so even if stopped, I should cool any check of either driver's license or registration. My Nevada alias is Richard Head, since I have a twisted sense of humor—AKA Dick Head, a favorite label of one of my long ago drill instructors for all us struggling jarheads. I also have business cards and a driver's license as Toby Ornot, Grubner Security, with a Salt Lake City address, which I many times introduce myself as Toby Ornot to be. I smile as I change driver's licenses in my wallet. Another is John Mioff, my friends call me Jack, with a Ventura, California address. Peter Long is a Florida license as is Dick Strong, both of which are likely to cause comment when introduced to the ladies…but I play it straight, no pun intended. My only legit license is Mike Reardon, Sheraton, Wyoming. Like I said, a twisted sense of humor.

  It's a six hour drive from Santa Barbara, California to Las Vegas, Nevada, if the traffic is no worse than normal…normal being cars spaced a car length or less apart, all travelling eighty miles an hour. It's just after 4:00 P.M. when I hit Ventura, give my buddy Pax a call and bring him up to speed.

  "What's up?" he asks.

  "Headed your way, following up with the Z family."

  "So, you got a job from the beautiful blonde?"

  "I did, but I'm not getting paid."

  "You've always been a sucker for a beautiful blonde."

  "Right, but this time I'm a sucker for a beautiful very, very dead blonde."

  "What…what happened?"

  "Some low-life scumbag or bags killed her in her own bedroom, and the MO says cartels are all over it."

  "What makes you think so?"

  "They cut off her head. Makes my stomach turn to think about it."

  "Jesus, it's getting to be a shit ass world. Is this a secure line?"

  "Probably not, so don't name names. I'll be in about ten. Save supper for me."

  "Where?"

  "It's your town. You tell me. And can I sack at your place?"

  "You're in luck. My live-in moved out yesterday."

  "What's that…number twenty three?"

  "Ha ha. Only about six. I'll call you back if I can get a reservation. I'm not doing McDonald's again."

  "Bullshit. I'll bet I can name ten live-in ladies, and you know I prefer Wendy’s." I hang up.

  I call him again when I pass The Bass Pro Shop just off the freeway as I'm heading into town.

  "You said you were visiting the Zamudios?" he asks.

  "Yeah, so what?"

  "So I just saw on the news that their club is on fire, has been since early this morning, probably a total loss."

  "Any report on what started it."

  "Arson was the preliminary report. Somebody must be mad at them."

  "You think? Where are we eating?"

  "Not at the Zamudios' club. I got reservations at Piero's. I'm in the mood for Italian. You got a clean shirt?"

  "And slacks and real shoes even. I'll be there in twenty minutes. Find out what you can on the fire, and see what's up in Santa Barbara on the recently departed."

  I was barely presentable—having changed in the back of the van—for a nice joint like Piero's, but jean's with a crease, loafers, a black pullover and a black silk and wool blend blazer seemed more than appropriate when I made my way to the bar and checked out the rest of the patrons. Cocktail lounge dress is not what it used to be.

  Paxton Weatherwax, my best buddy is still an imposing sight, even with one leg an inch shorter than the other thanks to an Iraqi wielded AK47 shell through the thigh. He's perched at the bar, a booze-less tonic with a squeeze of lime cradled in his large hands. Being smarter than I am, he abhors alcohol. He's about half again as wide as the rest of the locals perched in front of their dirty martinis and I guarantee you he's twice as mean when mean is called for. But under normal circumstance, he's a sweetheart, as the two ladies standing near him seem to believe. He's spun around, his back to the bar, turning on the charm. There are a few things I'm better at than Pax, but using the computer and picking up women
are not among them. I'm surprised he's survived his years in Vegas and not diddled himself to death with all the long-legged dancers who frequent the pubs.

  Where I am still attached to my Marine buzz cut, Pax has let his curly black hair grow stylishly long, and the prettier of the two blondes can't seem to keep her fingers out of it. She's petting him like he's her toy poodle. The second is shorter but pretty as well, as sexy as she is pretty, and a little more like a pole dancer than a ballerina—boobs standing so high and proud they look like they'd like to jump the fence. She glances my way as I amble over.

  Her smile is dazzling, and welcoming. "You must be the buddy Pax here has described…and these are his words, not mine…butt ugly?"

  "If Pax says it, it must be true."

  "Why…you're too easy," this time the smile leads a glance from my soles to my Marine buzz. Glad I shined the loafers.

  "The name's not really 'butt ugly.'" I have to think a second, and remember what driver's license I'm carrying…who I am. "It's Dick Strong, from West Palm Beach." Pax just shakes his head; he never knows who I might be at a given time.

  The bartender gives me a glance, so I jump right in, "Double Jack neat." There’s lots of bad taste to wash out of my mouth, and besides, having an alcoholic father it’s a personal challenge, a kind of an ‘I’m not him’ sort of thing. I prove it by drinking, and then prove it more so by stopping every once in a while just to prove to myself that I can.

  She stands there a little wide eyed and speechless, then finally gets out, "Well, bless my hot little bod…one can only pray mama named you right." Her laugh lights up the room.

  "And your's?" I ask, paying her back the glance, only mine lingers a little longer.

  "Well, we'd make the perfect couple were it Pussy Galore, like the girl from Goldfinger, but it's Jennifer like about half the girls my age."

  "I think I'll call you luscious, so I don't get you confused with the others."

  She laughs again. "You get to know me a little better and there won't be much chance of that happening."

  "I'll take your word for it," I say, and then turn to Pax, who's been watching this act with a smug smile. "Are the ladies eating with us?"

  Pax unlimbers, standing and stretching. "They said they've eaten…but they've agreed to join us and have a cocktail while we eat, then dessert, if Jennifer here approves and doesn't find you so ugly you'll ruin her appetite." He turns to her. "Jen, it's your call."

  "I think I can make it through dessert at least."

  The ladies are kind enough to realize that Pax and I have a little business to discuss, and while they talk shoes or some other fashion accessory, I quiz Pax. "So, this fire. Are they onto anyone?"

  "Nope. But whoever did it was serious. They parked a stolen gasoline tanker behind the club, opened the valves and walked away with some kind of a timing device to light her up once they got clear. So far there's four reported dead and it's a wonder it's not forty. Had it been earlier in the evening it would have resembled Nagasaki."

  "You pick up anything on the Zamudio family? Lawsuits? Wants and warrants? Anything?"

  He chuckles. "I don't think their enemies are the kind to file a lawsuit. If there's any kind of suit it'll be a concrete suit and they'll be dropped off Hoover Dam. That seems more the style of Zamudio enemies."

  He stops and takes a sip of his soda water, and I slug down some of the Jack Daniel's on the rocks I've been enjoying.

  Then he adds, "The most interesting thing I found in regard to the blonde is that she wasn't Raoul's only interest. Seems he's had a long time lady as a backup right here in Vegas. And no, not a dancer or cocktail waitress…an accountant with O'Reilly and Rosenlieb, if you can believe it. Her name, another can you believe it's Wallace Rosenlieb. Her daddy, also named Wallace, is a partner in the place. She goes by Wally, as you might imagine."

  The girlfriend figures, I think, but don't say. Instead I ask, "What's up with my beautiful cuckolded blonde in Santa Barbara?"

  "It's all over the web news and will be all over the Santa Barbara News Press tomorrow. It's not often you have a murder vic with no head. Investigation underway. No suspects, but the ex-husband was mentioned."

  "And the daughter?"

  "Cops have indicated that she is reported to be with her father, in violation of spousal visitation. However, it seems he's now the sole parent."

  "Any indication he's here in Vegas? Maybe hanging with the mistress?"

  "Nothing shows up."

  "You can bet the Santa Barbara PD is hot after Raoul Zamudio. How do I get to have a chat with the Zamudio brothers?"

  "His father is Enrico, and the uncle is Alfonzo. They go by Rick, or sometimes Rico, and Al and they've got a half-dozen no-necks hanging around at all times. I imagine they're a little extra touchy about visitors at the moment, having just lost a forty million dollar casino…a little small by Vegas standards, but high class in a below-the-border sort of way."

  I laugh. "It's insured. Hell, maybe over insured and the fire was Jewish lightning."

  "I doubt it. They were looking at a pubic offering…I've got the filings…and were profitable as hell for the last five years. Almost a million a month, like clockwork. Even when the other clubs were having trouble, they were filling the place with rich Mexicans and Central and South Americans."

  "Get me an address for the brothers."

  "I got it at the office, if the filing had good info. They'll be hard to get next to."

  With that we get back to the important business of getting laid.

  The good news is the little blonde, who turns out to be a Keno runner, has a nice apartment on the west side; the better news is she lives alone and doesn't mind some company, at least for the night. Jennifer DiMarco is her name, and athletics in the sack her game, and so good at it she makes me forget, for a while, the scene I left in Santa Barbara. She's hitting the zees hard, and she's earned it, when I leave at five thirty, with Carol Janson again on my mind.

  It's time I had a chat with the Zamudio brothers.

  6

  The Zamudio compound lies between Vegas and Lake Mead, in the fairly new development of Lake Las Vegas; four lots in a one-acre lot minimum have been combined behind one entrance gate constructed of iron bars that would repel a small military tank. Fenced, guarded, alarmed, and most likely defended with weaponry as if it were suspecting an assault at anytime, the compound has a simple five-foot high vine covered exterior fence, but between it at and a taller eight-foot fence, which looks to me to be electrified along its top, is a grassed open area of thirty feet that an intruder would have to cross without benefit of cover—impossible to do so without be seen.

  It is just after dawn, after slipping away from Jennifer's place, when I recon the Zamudio place, driving by a couple of times, finding a dirt track leading on west toward the red rocks which gets me slightly elevated, but not enough even with my 60 power spotting scope to see into the compound or the windows of the residences. The scope can't see over fences. But I can see that a couple of places have poles which support small video surveillance cameras, which means there are a dozen more that can't be so easily spotted. It seems the Zamudios are fond of palms and several dozen of several varieties adorn the compound, many of which, I imagine, serve as mounting spots for cameras.

  Pax provided me with detailed aerials of the place, as well as some schematics from the last time they'd applied to build a pool and artificial creek surrounding the two main residences, two guesthouses, and two pool houses—the latter being the size of a normal three bedroom two bath residence. The main houses are at least ten thousand square feet each, under red tile roofs at each extreme end of the compound. There's a large building, which I presume is garage, between the two, near the front iron-gate. None of that is well delineated on the building floor plans, so I'm in the dark, even if I can get on the grounds, which seems unlikely.

  My third drive-by arouses the interest of a guard posted in a guard-shack at the front gate, enough s
o he steps out and stands watching me pass. I wave at him, but he simply glares.

  I'm going to have to go to plan B, which doesn't surprise me. What would have surprised me was if the Zamudio compound was easily breeched.

  I decide to find a coffee shop and chow down, Miss Jennifer left me satiated in one way, and starving for sustenance in another. Just as I slip into a booth, my phone vibrates. I check the time as I see that it's Pax, and I answer. "What gets you up at seven A.M.?"

  "My new friend Babs has to work today, so she was up early and the scent of coffee lured me out of the sack. There's a very good chance I've found live-in number seven—"

  "Bullshit, twenty-seven is more like it."

  He ignores me. "I hope your phone didn't buzz just as you were slipping past a Zamudio guard."

  "Hardly. I'm having breakfast."

  "Good. Morning news says the Zamudio interests are meeting with the fire marshal at eleven o'clock. I presume that will include Rico and big Al."

  "I'll be in the neighborhood. In the meantime, stay on the Santa Barbara thing if you don't mind."

  "You got it."

  "I've got to check on my mini-storage, then I'll swing by the office."

  "Coffee will be waiting."

  I maintain mini-storage spaces in three cities: Las Vegas, Nevada, Ventura, California and Sheraton, Wyoming. They are not just for storing my old high school pictures and the Seth Thomas clock grandma left me. In addition to the bug-out bag I keep in the van, and mini-version thereof in the narrow storage bins on the back of my Harley, I have major ones in each storage room. With any of the major bug-out bags I could live in the Rockies, the Sierras, or the deserts for a long, long time, if not forever, without the benefit of cities, if you can call cities a benefit.

  I've accumulated a nice collection of weapons, and they are widely distributed among secret side panels in the van, and in hideouts in the three storage rooms. On casual observation, you see no weapons. In each storage room I have an upright armoire size cabinet with hidden weapon storage. Both ends swing open with hidden push latches to reveal four long arms in each, and drawers under what appear to be three inch thick shelving hold ammunition, side arms, and other accouterments. The shelves are covered with clothes and other mundane items to make the armoire look as if that's its purpose.