Three

“Las Vegas? You’re kidding, right?”

Las Freaking Vegas? Shit! That’s the last place on Earth I ever wanted to go to again. Well, maybe I wanted to go back, but I knew I should avoid it like a whore shuns confession. Is God getting back at me for all the bad things I’ve done in my life? Scary thought.

“Yes, Las Vegas. Is that a problem? Hell, I’d love to go.”

“It’s not one of my favorite places.”

“Sorry about that. But new information we discovered suggests he’s booked at the Players Choice Hotel And Casino through Saturday night. When you hear all the details, you’ll understand why we think Bishop’s our man. See ya in a little while.”

She hung up before I could reply, although I’m not sure what I would have said. I rolled my eyes and sighed. Las Vegas. Really? I guess even God has to get his jollies once in a while.

I reset my emotions and then checked my watch—two hours before my appointment with Butler Farms. I decided to visit Alice’s sister, Donna Forsythe. It was a short drive—a little further east on Truxtun Avenue, turn left and then right after a couple of blocks to Camino Primavera, a real nice part of East Bakersfield. It’s the neighborhood I grew up in. I pulled into Donna’s driveway and parked.

She wasn’t coping well, said her parents were totally devastated. I could only try to imagine the horror of a parent losing a child. My visit was brief. They needed more time before a formal interview. I was grieving, also, but had a job to complete.

Following a calm lunch at Carl’s Jr. on the corner of Auburn and Oswell Streets, I kicked back for a few minutes. I needed that downtime, even if it was no more than a brief romance with a double cheeseburger, onion rings, and a Coke at a fast food joint.

After trashing my sandwich wrapper and soda cup, I contacted my brother. Max had been a Kern County Deputy Sheriff for eight years. His number was third on my contact list.

“Hey, Sis. Ya doing okay?”

“Not really. I’m dreading Alice’s funeral tomorrow.”

“That really sucks.” He paused for a few seconds. “You just need to talk, or is there anything else I can do for you? Either way, I’m all ears.”

I blew out a breath of frustration and anger. “Does the Sheriff’s Department have anything on Alice’s murder? Even the smallest clue might help.”

“Sorry, but we got nothing. It’s being handled by the Bakersfield folks, not the county. We’re not involved unless they ask us for help, which they haven’t.”

“That’s what I figured. Thought I’d ask anyway.”

“Tell you what. I’ll speak with Jim Jankowski at the police department. He and I are pretty tight. If he knows anything, I’m sure he’d tell me.”

“You da best, Max.”

“So I’ve heard. Now, if I get anything from Jankowski, you didn’t hear it from me.”

“Of course not. Love ya. And give my love to that beautiful fiancée of yours. You’re lucky to have found a girl like Natalie.”

“I’ll relay your greeting. And yeah, I am lucky. Love ya, too.”

I checked the time on my phone before dropping it into my purse—almost one-thirty.

I parked Patsy in the Butler Farms side parking lot and climbed the stairs to Anna Flores’ second-story office. She noticed me through the glass insert in the door and motioned me in.

I took a seat at her cluttered and scraped desk. Talk about a dismal office—olive green walls, dingy gray floor tiles, two metal desks, several old file cabinets, and a few chairs looking like they came from a 1950s doctor’s waiting room. Even the two windows overlooked a drab parking lot.

“So, whatcha got on this guy.”

Anna pulled a manila folder from the top drawer of her desk and pushed it across to me. “I made copies for you.”

“Thanks.”

I glanced through the papers. He’d been hired from Grafton Produce, Butler’s biggest competitor. Forty-two years old, six feet tall and two hundred pounds. His file photo showed him with thinning blond hair and a noticeable scar on his right cheek in the shape of a nearly perfect “U”. Interesting—I wonder how that might have happened. No record of arrests or convictions. Just two recent speeding tickets.

“So, what makes you think Andy Bishop is our guy?” I took a closer look at his photo and burned it into memory.

“He was making good money at Grafton Farms—more than we’re paying him. I find it odd he would leave money on the table and years of seniority to come here to do the same thing. Sounds fishy as hell to me. They gave him a good recommendation. You’d have to talk to Darlene Watson at HR about that. Still, I say something’s a little off."

Anna leaned back in her chair and stretched her arms over her head. “He worked for us as a data analyst. The position allowed him access to most of our operational details. Everyone else in that office has been a loyal employee for at least five years, most of them a lot longer. I have no reason to suspect any of them. And Bishop often stayed late without being asked.”

“Interesting—the staying late thing.”

“Yeah, real interesting. If the extra effort had been needed, that would have been great. But Lupe Santiago, his supervisor, said there was no reason for him to stay late. Last week, just a few days before he failed to show, she told him he’d have to leave at the normal quitting time. I’m thinking he might be a mole for Grafton and his after-hours work was to benefit that arrangement.”

“Makes sense. I’ll check it out. Now, tell me why you think he’s in Vegas.”

“This morning, Lupe had the IT people check his emails. They found a reservation confirmation from The Players Choice Hotel and Casino in one of his emails. His browsing history showed he'd visited their website several times. I’d bet my paycheck that’s where he is.”

I gripped the time-worn armrests and pushed myself from the chair. “Thanks a bunch; I appreciate the info. I’ll leave for Vegas tomorrow afternoon.”

“How about this evening? It would be a shame if he checked out early and we missed him.”

“My best friend’s funeral is tomorrow morning. I’ll leave after that. That’s the earliest I can get away.”

Anna nodded. “Sorry to hear about your friend.”

“Yeah, me too. Thanks.” I sucked in some stale air and blew it out. “I’ll get back to you when I have something worth telling.”

Bishop’s file in hand, I left the building and headed to my car. As I opened Patsy’ door, I thought about Alice’s funeral. I decided to take the rest of the day off and chill out somewhere.

Pop! Zing! Thunk!

A bullet whizzed by my ear and hit the next car over. I dropped to one knee between Patsy and the car struck by the bullet. I waited—nothing else for the next thirty seconds.

I peeked over Patsy’s hood, my knee still planted on the pavement. The barking of tires and the roar of a powerful engine blasted from the front of the building. Feeling it was safe, I ran to the street, probably seventy-five or eighty feet; but the vehicle was gone by the time I arrived. A faint drift of swirling blue smoke was the only evidence the shooter had been there. As the blue haze dissipated, my nose reminded me burnt rubber wasn’t a pleasant smell.

Several empolyees had gathered near the front entrance of the plant. Nothing like a gunshot to stir up a little interest.

I went back to Patsy and cranked her engine. As her three hundred horses hummed under the hood, I had a disturbing thought.

Maybe I was the intended target at the bistro, not Alice.

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