Into the Dark (17 page)

“I agree.” Ronson nodded. “We need to find Snake. Burrell can take us into the tunnels and help us look. I want you to go with us.”

“What?” Nathan and Avery chorused.

“Your instincts on this case have been spot on, Madigan. I want your impressions when we’re in the tunnels.”

“Agent Ronson.” Avery’s face had turned beet red. “Madigan is not a detective. The police department has jurisdiction, and this is my case. I won’t allow it.”

“Correction, detective; this
was
your case.” Ronson’s calm voice held a tone of warning. “We’ve had a press leak since the beginning, and it’s hurting the investigation. I called the police commissioner and voiced my concerns. Given the media attention on the case, he thought it was best the FBI take jurisdiction. He faxed over the paperwork immediately. And after the way you dinged Burrell in there, you’re lucky you’re still on this. We could have lost him.”

“You have no right,” Avery spluttered.

“It’s done. You’ll still be working the case. But final call goes to me.” She turned to Nathan. “You in?”

“It’ll have to be off-duty,” Johnson said. “With Adam still out, I can’t spare any men.”

“Understood. Nathan?”

The last thing he wanted to do was go back into the tunnels. But if going back helped Emilie, he only had one option. “I’m in.”

Chapter Eighteen

Emilie locked the door to her office. Her third day back at work was over. It had been easy to hide in her office while she caught up, but tomorrow she’d have to venture outside its protective walls.

Agent Ronson had called an hour earlier to tell Emilie about a witness who’d given the Taker information in the storm drains.

“But the Taker had to have additional help,” Ronson cautioned. “We’re still trying to figure out how he knew the tunnel led to the storm drains.”

Could Lisa have known? Emilie couldn’t see Miss Fashion Queen exploring the bootlegging tunnel. She’d be too afraid of breaking a nail.

Jeremy was the only one left inside the bank. His door was closed, and he was on the phone. Another business deal. Emilie crossed the lobby to wave goodnight, but her attention was drawn to her left. The hallway the Taker had dragged her down was brightly lit and looked about as unthreatening as a newborn kitten. She moved through the hallway, running her hands along the freshly painted drywall. Its texture was a shock to her system. She’d clawed at the wall as she was pulled, trying in vain to free herself from the Taker.

Several pieces of tile had been replaced near the top of the stairs, their new surfaces shining brighter than their aged counterparts. The SWAT member had bled here. Was he out of the hospital yet? Emilie had been too self-absorbed to find out.

There was a miniscule, dark gray stain on one of the older tiles. On Emilie’s second day as branch manager, she’d dropped an entire cartridge of ink and splattered the black goo everywhere. Only the tiny spot remained. She had joked the hallway was cursed for her and vowed never to make a trip to the storage room again. The old basement had always given her the heebie-jeebies.

She put one foot on the stairs. Her brain demanded she turn around, but Emilie plunged forward. The storage room door was locked. She stuck her key in and turned it. The door pushed open with a creak. Emilie stared into the dark room.

Dizziness. Sweat beading on her forehead. Her stomach churned the way it had when she was a kid and played on the swings. Deep breath, force the fear away.

Emilie slid along the wall and flicked on the light. The room had been reorganized and some of the old junk taken out. In the far corner, the door waited.

She didn’t realize she’d crossed the space until she was standing in front of the door. She ran her hands along the faded wood.

“Ouch.” A splinter dug into her finger.

A padlock had been fitted over the rusted latch. Jeremy planned on having the door removed and the tunnel sealed once police gave him permission. But for now all that stood between Emilie and the Taker’s escape route was a piece of metal purchased at a local hardware store.

An imperfection in the aged wood caught her attention. Emilie knelt down. The bottom third of the door had a small knothole.

She dug in her bag until she found her phone. She dropped it.

“Goddamnit, get a grip and get it over with.”

Emilie picked up the phone and shined its light into the hole. She peered into the tunnel. She saw dirt, wooden posts, and more darkness. A crab spider scuttled across the ground, startled by the phone’s light.

This was the fate the Taker had meant for her—to drag her through that rotten hole for God only knew what purpose. Sick of the torment, she slammed her hand against the door. What had she done in those ten minutes of conversation at the Bellagio to set the Taker off? What right did he have to snatch her away?

A memory rose in her head. She smelled Joe’s stench, felt the Taker’s possessive hand on her back.

The man guided her behind the teller counter, away from the other hostages. “You’ll sit here with me. I’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this, but we’ll have to wait it out. Soon enough.”

Soon enough. Emilie had thought the Taker was referring to getting out of the bank, but now she knew the truth.

Nathan’s words from the other day came back to her. Had she sunk low she would allow the Taker to snatch her away without a fight? Was her life worth nothing?

Mémé
would be so disappointed. Everything she’d done for Emilie wasted because of her own inability to cope.

“I can’t hide anymore.” Her voice sounded small in the large room. “I’ve got to do something. But I need help.”

* * * *

Nathan came prepared this time. In his backpack was an extra Mag-Lite, batteries, a second clip for his Glock, and an additional pair of boots. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck. Just beyond the tunnel opening was sheer darkness.

Near the Strip’s famous ‘Welcome to Las Vegas’ sign and just out of sight of the tourists lay one of many entrances to the storm drains. Judging by the amount of trash and needles lying around, the location received plenty of foot traffic.

“Keep your weapons available, but don’t make it obvious.” Ronson wore jeans and combat boots and carried a small rucksack. “I’ve got a digital recorder and extra batteries. I want to make sure we record any information we get.”

Beside her, Avery was pasty white. He still wore a suit. He’d shed the heavy jacket and donned a pair of Nike running shoes. Even his tie was still tightly knotted.

Locals were going to love him.

“Avery, at least take your tie off,” Ronson said. “You look like a lost accountant.”

“Where’s Burrell? Wasn’t he supposed to meet us here?” Avery tore off the silk tie and stuffed it in his pocket.

“I told him noon.”

“Should we wait?” Avery looked around with nervous eyes.

Before Ronson could answer, heavy footsteps splashed in the stream behind them. Nathan reached for his weapon.

“Just me.” Burrell held up his hands. “Was working the casinos, lost track of time. You ready?”

“Lead the way.” Ronson turned on her flashlight.

She stayed behind Burrell while Nathan fell into step next to her. He shined the Mag-Lite into the deep as they followed Burrell into the east tunnel.

Darkness swallowed the group. Nathan heard Avery hiss behind him. Pussy. Shining his light on the walls, Nathan saw the drain was similar to the tunnel near Fremont Street, decorated with graffiti, trash, and cockroaches. The smell, while not as pungent as the previous tunnel he’d been in, was still foul.

“This stink is atrocious.” Avery’s voice was muffled, most likely from his hand. “How do you stand it?”

“You get used to it,” Burrell said. “Better than being unsheltered in the heat.”

“Just keep moving,” Ronson said.

“How far in are the camps?” Nathan asked. “The night SWAT searched, we only went a few hundred feet.”

“Depends on the tunnel,” Burrell said. “This one’s a busy place.”

The path curved left. A small pinpoint of light glowed in the darkness. Nathan’s chest tightened. He adjusted the Glock on his belt. It was impossible to know who was waiting for them.

“Who’s there?” a female voice called.

A woman? Of course he knew women lived down here, but hearing a woman’s voice call out of the dark was jarring.

“Angel, it’s me, Rod.”

“Who’s that with you?”

“They’re cool.”

“Cops.”

“They ain’t here for petty shit. Lookin’ for a bad dude.”

The flicker of light grew stronger as the group approached. A bright flash made Nathan see red spots. Tucked in a small nook sat the woman named Angel. In the dense blackness, the camping light she’d turned on seemed as powerful as floodlights on a football field. A small cot was propped up on cement blocks, and a large box sat on another block, presumably full of Angel’s possessions. Next to her sat a large bucket of water and a can of what appeared to be beef stew, a tarnished fork stuck in its center. In the corner was another bucket, a roll of toilet paper beside it.

“This is Agent Ronson from the FBI,” Burrell said.

“The FBI?” Angel stood up from the black crate she’d been sitting on. Nathan could see a baggie of something underneath it—drugs. Barely five foot, Angel wore dingy clothes, and her hair was pulled into a tight ponytail. Track marks and meth burns marked the woman’s skin. Guessing her age was impossible.

Angel glared at Burrell. “What the fuck you doin’ bringing the FBI down here? Trying to get killed?”

“We’re not trying to interfere,” Ronson said. “I don’t care what you’re doing down here. We’re just looking for information.”

Angel flashed her light on Nathan and Avery. “And you brought a sexy cop and a mortician to help?”

Nathan choked back a laugh. “Nathan Madigan, Las Vegas SWAT.”

“And Detective Avery.” Avery emphasized his rank and took a step toward Angel. “I’m not as forgiving as Agent Ronson. If I find a reason to haul you in, I will.”

“Fuck you.” Angel reached into her pocket, searching for God knows what.

“Angel.” Once again, Nathan had to negotiate, thanks to Avery’s fat mouth. “Agent Ronson is in charge. She’ll stick to her word. We need your help. Please.”

“Come on, girl,” Rod said. “It’s cool.”

“You’re lucky you’re easy on the eyes.” Angel looked at Nathan. Her hand retreated from her pants pocket. “I’ll listen to just look at you for a while.”

Avery snickered.

“And you better shut up.” Angel pointed a finger at Avery. “I might change my mind.”

“Fair enough.” Ronson reached into her rucksack for the composite sketch of the Taker. Thanks to Emilie’s memory of the museum encounter, the sketch now had a complete face. “We’re looking for this man. He doesn’t live in the tunnels, but he may frequent them. He tries to blend in, but there’s something off about him. He’s got clean fingernails, newer clothes.”

“Nice shoes,” Burrell piped up. “I’d forgotten about them. Expensive, like Doc Martens or something. I remember thinking those might get him killed.”

“Have you seen or heard of anyone like that?” Ronson asked.

“What’s in it for me?” Angel crossed her arms over her chest.

“Angel, this man tried to kidnap a woman from WestOne Bank,” Nathan said. “His plan was to drag her down here. He’s disappeared, and her life is in danger. She needs your help.”

“How you know he ain’t left Vegas?” Angel sat back down on the crate and picked up a pack of Camels and a cracked lighter off the floor. “Why would he stick around with you searchin’ for him?”

Ronson nudged Nathan with her flashlight. He took another step forward. “Because he sent the victim—her name is Emilie Davis—a newspaper clipping about the attempted kidnapping. He wanted her to know he was still out there. He’s been watching her for a long time, planning on kidnapping her. Obsessions like that don’t disappear because the cops are on your tail.”

“She got kids?”

“No. She’s alone. That might be why he chose her.”

“What about the rest of her family? Can’t she go stay with them?”

Avery made an impatient noise. Ronson shushed him.

“She’s not speaking with her family,” Nathan answered. “Hasn’t seen them in years.”

Angel took a long drag off her cigarette and blew the smoke in Avery’s direction. “My family shit on me too. That’s why I’m out here. No one wants me or my habit.”

“I’m sorry,” Nathan said honestly. “No one deserves to be treated that way.”

Another drag. “You ever seen someone die?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not talking about a murder victim or whatever. Someone you love.”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

Damnit. He didn’t want to talk about Jimmy, not with Avery listening and waiting to pounce. “My uncle. He was stabbed when I was fourteen. Died in my arms.”

“You have anything to do with it?”

“Why would you ask that?”

“You got that look in your eyes. More than pain. Guilt.”

Nathan looked away. He stared at the graffiti on a nearby wall. Someone had painted a woman with her arms stretched toward a cloudy sky, an agonized expression on her face. “He was there because of me.” The pain cut as deep as ever. He swallowed hard.

Angel tossed her cigarette into the nearby stream of dirty water. “My brother got killed ’cause of me. I couldn’t pay up my drug debt.”

“I’m sorry.”

She stared at him for a minute, as if debating. “I’ve seen this guy a few times. Further east, toward Fremont Street. Never talked to him. He kept to himself. Always watching everyone.”

“Did you see him in a certain area?” Ronson asked.

“Nah. He just came and went. And it’s been a while.”

“He with anyone?” Burrell said.

“Snake. And Cracky Joe. Sometimes Petey. But I haven’t seen Petey around for a while.”

“Same guys as before,” Ronson said. “Do you know where we can find Snake or Cracky Joe?”

Angel shrugged. “Cracky could be anywhere, looking to score. Snake, he’s a loner mostly. I heard he’s got a camp over by the Tropicana but that was a couple of months ago. May have moved.”