He would get the dime out of his shoe later, when he had time to sit down.
23
NINETY minutes later Karch was standing outside the fenced employee lot of Hooten's Lighting amp; Supplies with a cell phone in his hand. Parked directly on the other side of the fence was the blue van that had been recorded driving out of the garage at the Flamingo about six hours earlier. Only now there was a license plate attached to the rear bumper. Karch was pacing a little bit, anxious as he waited for a call-back. The small tickle of an adrenaline rush was beginning to caress the back of his skull. He was getting close. To the money, to the woman. He cocked his head back and that seemed to accentuate the trilling up his spine and into his brain.
The phone rang and his thumb was already poised on the button.
"This is Karch."
"This is Ivy. I got it."
Ivy was a Metro detective named Iverson who ran plates for Karch for fifty bucks a shot. He'd do other things for other prices, using the power of his badge to generate two incomes. Karch was always circumspect about his requests, even on totally legitimate jobs. He had learned over the years to treat all Metro cops – and Iverson more than others – with the same caution and distance as the prostitutes, pawnbrokers and casino sharps he regularly dealt with on his cases.
Karch tilted his head and hooked the phone in the crook of his neck while he got out his notepad and pen.
"Okay, what've you got?"
"Plate comes back to a Jerome Zander Paltz, forty-seven years of age. Address is three-twelve Mission Street. That's North Las Vegas. I ran him on NCIC for you and he's got a clean ticket. I threw that in for free, by the way."
Karch had stopped writing after the last name. He knew Jerome Paltz. Or at least he was pretty sure he did. He knew a Jersey Paltz who worked behind the counter at Hooten's. He realized he had always thought the name Jersey referred to where Paltz had come from. He now realized it was apparently a play on his first and middle names.
"Hey, boss, you there?"
Karch came out of his thoughts on Jersey Paltz.
"Yeah. Hey, thanks, Ivy. This clears something up for me."
"Really? What?"
"Oh, just this thing I'm working on. It's a surveillance outside a construction site. The Venetian. This van's showed up a few times and I was kind of suspicious. But Paltz is on the list of vendors. He works for Hooten's L and S and they're putting in the cameras. So scratch that."
"What do they have over there, a theft problem?"
"Yeah, construction supplies mostly. This Paltz guy's van isn't marked so I thought I'd check it out."
"Back to square one, huh? Looking for a wheelbarrow thief."
Karch guessed Iverson was smiling on the other end of the line.
"You got it. But thanks, man. This'll save me some time."
"Catch you later."
Karch closed the phone and looked through the fence at the blue van while he tried to think about his next move. The trace coming back to Paltz put a curve on things.
Finally, he opened the phone again and called information and got the general number for Hooten's Lighting amp; Supplies. He called and asked for Jersey Paltz, who picked up after a half minute.
"Jerome Paltz?"
There was a pause.
"Yes, who is – "
"Jersey Paltz?"
"Who is this?"
"It's Jack Karch."
"Oh. What's with the Jerome? Nobody ever – "
"It is your name, right? Jerome Zander Paltz. That's where the Jersey comes from, right?"
"Well, yeah, but nobody ever – "
"I need you to come outside. Right away."
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about you coming outside right away. I'm waiting for you. Come out through the employee lot. I'm parked on the shoulder. Right on the other side of the fence from your van."
"Tell me what's going on. I don't – "
"I'll tell you when you get here. Come out now. I can probably still help you but you've got to work with me and come out right now."
Karch closed the phone before Paltz could respond. He then walked over to his car and got in. It was a black Lincoln – a Towncar with the old styling and the big trunk. The windows were tinted an impenetrable black. He liked the car but the tank drained too quickly and he was often mistaken for a limo driver. He adjusted the rearview mirror so he could slouch in the driver's seat and keep an eye on the parking lot entrance thirty yards behind him. He opened his jacket and pulled the Sig Sauer nine out of his holster. He then reached under the seat and up into the springs, feeling around until his fingers closed on the silencer he had taped up there. He tore it loose, snapped it on to the end of the Sig and put the weapon down at his side between his seat and the car door.
After five minutes of waiting Karch saw Jersey Paltz enter the mirror's field of view and start heading toward the Lincoln. He was smoking a fresh cigarette and walked with a deliberate, if not angry, stride. Karch smiled. He was going to have fun with this.
Paltz got into the front passenger seat all blustery and with onion bagel breath.
"This better be good, goddammit. I'm on the fucking clock."
Karch looked over at him and waited for eye contact before responding.
"I hope so."
That was all he said. Paltz waited a few moments and then erupted.
"Well, what the fuck do you want?"
"I don't know. What do you want? You called me."
"What are you talking about. You just called me and – "
Karch burst out laughing, which shut Paltz up with confusion. He turned the key and started the car. He quickly dropped it into drive and looked over his left shoulder in preparation for pulling out onto the road. He heard the door locks automatically engage upon the transmission being moved into drive.
"Hey, wait a fucking second here," Paltz protested. "I'm on the clock, man. We're not going any – "
He tried to open his door but the auto-lock prevented it. While he started looking around for a button that would disengage it, Karch gunned the engine and pulled out onto the roadway.
"Relax, you can't unlock it while the car's in drive. It's a safety feature. I was thinking, Ted Bundy should've driven a Lincoln."
"Goddammit," Paltz said, throwing his hands up in disgust. "Where are we going?"
"We've got a problem, Jerome," Karch said calmly.
He turned west on Tropicana. He could see the crests of the mountains rising above the build-up line.
"What are you talking about? We don't have a problem. I haven't talked to you in a year and don't fucking call me that."
"Jerome Zander Paltz… Jerry Z… JerZEE. What name do you want on the stone?"
"What stone? Would you just – "
"The stone they put on your fucking grave."
Paltz was finally silenced. Karch looked over at him and nodded.
"It's that serious, fuckball. They saw your van. Last night. Got it on tape."
Paltz started shaking his head as if he were trying to shake himself awake from a nightmare.
"I don't know what you're talking about. Where are we going?"
"Some place private. Where we can talk."
"We're not talking, man. You're talking and I don't know anything about what you're saying."
"Okay, then, we'll talk when we get there."
Ten minutes later they were past the industrial warrens and the city sprawl was thinning out as they approached open desert. Karch glanced over at Paltz and saw the man was beginning to get the proper feel for his predicament. They usually did as the desert started closing in. He reached down for the Sig and brought it up and onto his lap, the muzzle pointing at Paltz's torso.
"Ah, shit," Paltz said when he saw the gun and fully understood his situation. "That fucking bitch."
Karch smiled broadly.