Las Vegas Crime by Leslie Wolfe

Author:Leslie Wolfe [Wolfe, Leslie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Italics Publishing
Published: 2018-11-15T16:00:00+00:00

25

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Thirty-five hours missing

Fletcher sat behind his desk, slurping loudly the remnants of soda from a can with the help of a thick, green straw. When he started sucking more air than fluid, he tossed the can into the trash and popped open another one he took from his drawer. Satisfied, he gulped thirstily about a third of the fizzy liquid and burped discreetly into his hand.

He didn’t take his eyes off the screen the entire time, mulling in his mind the best course of action under the circumstances. He usually would’ve called Holt and dumped his findings in the detective’s charge, but with his daughter missing, he wasn’t really a viable resource. Baxter was out there with Holt, helping him. That left Fletcher by himself to deal with a potentially homicidal, crooked cop.

He had no idea what he should do. If he took the case to his captain, a slew of questions would arise, items best left unanswered, at least for a while. The alternative, however, was to let a crooked cop go about his business undisturbed, a couple of days after being paid off to make someone disappear. Maybe it wasn’t too late for that someone.

He shouldn’t’ve let himself get drawn into this off-the-books mess. Good intentions paved the road to the unemployment line, possibly the yellow line, the one behind twelve-foot fences, ornately decorated with rolls of barbed wire. He’d never been so scared in his life. What if he made the wrong judgment call and people would die?

Fletcher scratched the roots of his curly hair right above his right ear and whistled, pushing his anxiety away, happy for a brief moment that the precinct was almost deserted. It was after 7:00 PM, and every cop in the city was out there looking for Holt’s daughter, asking questions, pressing informants, banging on doors. At least he could think in peace.

When he least expected, the composite sketch of the cop who Meredith and Casey had seen conducting business in the men’s room of the Perdido Club had returned a match. A sergeant from Sector A by the name of Pete Mincey. He had twelve years with the force; this was going to get ugly.

He stared at Mincey’s photo, displayed on his main screen in a view from the LVMPD employee database that he’d accessed with special approval from the sheriff. He could try to speak to the sheriff about it, but what would he do other than delegate the case to Captain Morales? And the captain would have questions, more questions than the sheriff had asked, starting with why he’d gone over his head straight to the top honcho for approval.

“Argh… crap,” he muttered, “this is going to get ugly.”

“What’s going to get ugly, Fletcher?”

He jumped out of his skin and turned around so quickly he almost fell off his chair. A quick tap on the keyboard made Sergeant Mincey’s service photo disappear from his screen, but it was too late.

“Um, Captain, n—nothing, really,” he replied, flustered, stuttering badly. He breathed and counted to three in his mind, invoking whatever form of zen he could think of.

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