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Vegas Snap: A Tale of Greed & Graves
Vegas Snap: A Tale of Greed & Graves
Vegas Snap: A Tale of Greed & Graves
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Vegas Snap: A Tale of Greed & Graves

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VEGAS SNAP: A Tale of Greed & Graves … Set in glitzy Las Vegas, this mystery novel unravels two grotesque crimes. Relive the heady days of the U.S. real estate bubble when greedy bankers and brokers dealt painful fraud. Look inside the mind of a Vegas con man and watch him first gain, then exploit, the trust of an investor group, one nest egg at a time. The book’s theme says it all: Those seduced by greed can lose not only their money but also their sanity and soul.
THE COPS: One cranky, one wistful. Meet Detective Frank Stetson and partner Billy Snow, alter egos and feisty foils for each other. Stetson is a grumpy, burly ex-linebacker who barks at his team. Snow is the softer side, witty and cool, but still a tough and solid sleuth. Billy moonlights as a screenwriter.
THE BODIES: Con artist Roger Blackstone and his brother Walter, bagman for their real estate scams. Walter is found headless and hanging upside down, limp as a jumbo shrimp, from a freeway billboard. Cringe when Roger pushes one scam too far and gawk as his mark goes berserk and unleashes a truly bizarre weapon.
THE CLUES: Follow the cops as they decipher clues from as small as a 20-dollar bill with cryptic words and digits to as large as a luxury yacht docked at an unknown harbor. Discover more clues: Telltale words whispered to a prostitute; a padlocked storage space behind an artist’s gallery; and a creepy skull encased in a bowling ball. When the skull ball shows up, it is indeed a clue but presumed at first to be a prank.
THE KILLERS: One accidental, one vengeful. Both snapped. Shadow Stetson and Snow as they hound these culprits, combing a construction site of ghost condos, plumbing the facade of a dusty mining town to search for the con man’s stolen cash, and snaring a fugitive in a chase that climaxes atop Hoover Dam. And channel Michael Connelly’s Black Echo while you squint in the dark as two suspects are stalked in the dismal flood tunnels beneath the Vegas neon.
LanguageEnglish
PublisherBookBaby
Release dateSep 15, 2012
ISBN9781483506364
Vegas Snap: A Tale of Greed & Graves

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    Vegas Snap - P. Lawrence Plansky

    BC)

    1: Billboard Corpse

    (June 27, 2007. Mid-Morning)

    Where in hell is the victim’s head, Detective Frank Stetson bellowed at his partner Billy Snow. Billy shrugged his shoulders. They both looked up at the headless man, hung upside down from the freeway billboard’s steel-grated platform. The swaying corpse seemed to be mocking the billboard’s message above the platform: Own Your Dream Home: Low Down, Great Rates.

    Frank was baffled by the missing body part. He planted the sole of his right shoe on the concrete base of the billboard’s high steel post as if he was checking its stability. Then he removed his shoe from the base. The detective mimed he was clutching the post. Next, he feigned he was shaking that metal cylinder. From the rocky vacant lot, Frank swiveled his neck to scan the sky like a birdwatcher.

    What are you doing, boss, Billy asked.

    Thought I might jiggle the head loose, that it could be stuck up there somewhere, and it would tumble down and land at our feet.

    Come on, Frank. We look at two, three, maybe four corpses a month, but I’ve never seen you lose it like this. What’s eating you?

    You could tell, huh? Well, it has nothing to do with work. Let’s just leave it at that, okay?

    Okay. Just keep in mind this metal cylinder isn’t a goal post. Wouldn’t want to disturb the crime scene, right? It seems like you’ve never left the gridiron. Relax. At least pretend that it’s halftime.

    "Sure. But I do get a little edgy when I see a scene this brutal. My personal stuff must have magnified it. Sometimes I wish I wasn’t out on the playing field anymore, but instead up in that broadcast booth, just calling the game."

    "You are calling the game. But this game is murder."

    Of course it is. I’m fine now, really. And thanks for the perspective.

    Anytime, partner, Billy said. See that Black Hearts nightclub over there? Well, we’ve already checked it out. They never heard a word or a sound outside last night. The club’s concrete block walls are thick enough to tamp down the music inside so the residents down the street don’t complain. To make it even quieter, the owner installed extra soundproofing.

    If there’s no one at the club that can help us, how about the person who called in the crime?

    It was an anonymous caller, but we traced his number to a cell phone owned by a Buddy Crawford. He’s coming in tomorrow for questioning.

    We’ll see what this Buddy has to say. Tell me about the victim. Do we know who he is?

    "For now, we think he’s Roger Blackstone, based on the wallet we found here. Had his Nevada driver’s license, credit cards, and forty bucks. All we know about Blackstone: He was a long-time Vegas real estate developer.

    Something else, Billy added.

    Our researcher, Joanna Jensen, is contacting the county tax assessor’s office to see who owns this vacant lot. There could be a link between the lot’s owner and this crime.

    Again the detectives looked up, noticing the ropes tied to the dead man’s calves and ankles were also knotted around his pearl-studded cowboy boots.

    A single fixed pulley secured his beheaded body from the top of the left-side platform of the billboard. Because so much of the victim’s blood was found at the scene, it was likely the murder took place on this lot.

    Soon the Clark County Coroner’s Office would remove the body, still fully clothed in jeans, leather belt, and a green-and-yellow plaid shirt. Then the forensics team would take over, working its magic. But the corpse, with its crucial missing evidence, would pose quite a challenge: There was no talking head.

    Squinting through the hazy yellow-orange light, and shading their eyes as if they were taking a snapshot of the dangling man, the Vegas Homicide cops knew there was nothing routine, nothing routine at all, about how this late June morning had started.

    2: Tequila Eyes

    (June 26, 2007. The Previous Evening)

    Buddy Crawford strummed and picked his electric guitar until his numb fingers bled. Still in sync with the group, he was glad the last set was almost done. The crescendo came right on cue as the drummer jangled cymbals with a whirlwind flourish. After the last note, the nightclub’s patrons were either too tired to clap or too drunk to care. They shuffled out the thick oak door of Black Hearts.

    Buddy moseyed to the long bar for a nightcap. Sipping a salty Margarita, he swiveled his butt on the bar stool, turning to scan the almost empty club. Quiet now, no band sounds. Ceiling spotlights dimmed, winking at the black, red, and purple walls. The Black Hearts logo painted on the center of the dance floor faded as lights softened. Only liquor bottles on the glass shelves above the bar still shined, like garish jewelry at a carnival. Band members reclined in cushy lounge chairs.

    When the place was packed, during one of the band’s breaks, Buddy spied two young women clinging to a middle-age man who kept throwing down drink money. The faster they drank, the deeper the man sunk into the couch along the far wall. The bold women, one on each side of him, rubbed his knees, then moved their hands up his thighs. Buddy mused: Who says money can’t buy love? Okay, lust.

    Irked by the one-free-drink policy for the band, Buddy devised a plan to snag a larger share. After the bartender left to retrieve more ice, he slinked toward the end of the bar. Saw no one watching so he crawled on the sticky floor mat behind the bar. Sweat streaked his neck. Hands trembled. Spying the prize, Buddy swiped a tequila bottle from the lowest shelf and tucked it under his black denim jacket.

    Scooting back around to his stool, he sat, smug and mute. But it was a dumb-ass idea. Buddy was not a clever thief. A band member had glimpsed his pathetic, clumsy moves and tipped off the bartender. Too bad the returning bartender was also the club’s owner and a weightlifter.

    Nice move, Buddy, said the owner. If I ever see you in here again, I’m calling the cops. He frisked Buddy and fished out the bottle. Then he hoisted him like a barbell, motioned to the ratfink in the band to open the door, flipped Buddy sideways, and heaved him almost headlong into the gravel parking lot.

    Don’t come back, the owner yelled from the club’s doorway. The band will split up your share. He tossed the tequila bottle at Buddy, and sneered, "Consider this your last paycheck." The bottle rolled and landed near Buddy’s scraped and shaken body, now sprawled on the cold ground. Another band member came outside to bring him his guitar, laid it by his side, said nothing, and left.

    Buddy staggered and swayed when he tried to stand. At least he had his guitar, and the booze. As he walked from the club, he unscrewed the tequila bottle cap and took a few bitter swigs. He kept drinking and walking. And thinking: Flat broke, how would he ever pull off his next cocaine fix? For now, the tequila would have to do.

    Holding his guitar case by the handle with one hand, Buddy pitched the half-empty tequila bottle with the other hand into a dumpster. He’d had enough. The bottle ricocheted inside the dumpster, shattering as it collided with all the other broken glass. The foul mixture of whiskey and beer stung his nostrils: Boilermaker fumes to choke a brain-dead fool. He tilted forward into the final hours of another lost night.

    Buddy did not look back at Black Hearts. But he heard the buzz of its tawdry neon sign, two black hearts crying red. Before heading for his 1987 Honda Civic coupe, he would not be denied his routine visit to that vacant sandy lot nearby. There, he’d savor a cigarette and just chill out. Let the desert night stars above Las Vegas serenade him.

    His right leg aching, he hobbled toward the long rectangular lot. He could already picture his favorite smoking spot: the base of that steel post that held up those twin billboards, its ads visible in opposite directions from the Boulder Freeway. He liked to lean up against that cool metal cylinder and rest his head on it. Soak up the stillness and solitude. Maybe an arid evening breeze would ease his pain.

    At three a.m., his left hand clutched the guitar, and the tobacco burnt fingers of his right hand twirled one of his last Marlboros. Yellowed, crooked teeth and chapped lips welcomed the cigarette. Buddy had just lit up when he sensed a strange, raw smell kicked up by the desert wind. Human or animal, he wasn’t sure. As he rounded the corner of the brittle, cracked sidewalk, perhaps fifty yards from the metal post, Buddy saw it.

    A body was hung upside down from a rope suspended by a pulley that dangled and twisted below the platform of the left-side billboard. Blood had splattered on the metal post. Buddy shook his head from side to side. Was it the tequila’s eyes or his eyes? Could this hanging corpse really be headless?

    Shaken, he dropped his guitar case. The case hit a rock and clicked open, his black Ibanez Munky guitar tumbling out. Dazed, he gagged on his glowing cigarette and cast it aside. Slumped to the dusty ground and scraped his knee on a chunk of gravel. The puncture pierced the black denim fabric, inflicting a nasty cut.

    Lying there awhile to make sure he wasn’t hurt too badly, Buddy rose to gaze at the appalling, swinging corpse. Yep. Sure looked like someone lopped off that guy’s head. And how on earth, he thought, could they have raised up the body so high on to that billboard platform?

    About to split so he wouldn’t be tied to this dreadful deed, Buddy began to retrace his steps toward Black Hearts and his maroon Honda, when his right leather boot struck a small, solid object, something too soft to be a rock. My God, he mumbled, it’s a wallet ... Must be the dead guy’s. He doesn’t need it now, but I sure do.

    He picked up the bulging tri-fold and brushed off the dust with his shirtsleeve. Sure looked pricey. Hmmm, might be alligator. He opened it, and found a fat wad of 20s. Buddy saw a zipper compartment, and thought, oh, Lord, went this far so I might as well unzip her. He hoped for better than scratch-off lottery luck.

    What he saw pleased and shocked and scared him. He hesitated when he realized they were all Franklins, more than he had seen in a long, long time. Don’t stop now, Buddy, he urged himself. He grabbed all the cash except a pair of 20s and stuffed the thick stack into his own wallet. Like after a big meal, he felt full again.

    Buddy took the kerchief from around his neck and wiped off any fingerprints he might have left inside or outside the billfold. He gently set the wallet down where he first found it. Then, he walked in calm but brisk paces from the vacant lot.

    Miles away in his rundown Honda, Buddy keyed 911 on his cell to report the crime. Just seemed like the right thing to do. Who’s calling? the dispatcher asked. Aware of his prior drug busts, he said, Nobody you know and hung up. At home, a few hours before dawn, he counted all the bills – by far his best windfall in years.

    3: DNA and Pranksters

    (June 27, 2007. Early Afternoon)

    Every dead body tells a story.

    "This corpse is not Roger Blackstone, asserted Charles Barnes, the M.D. conducting the autopsy. Dr. Barnes told his assistant, Rachel Meyers, that the DNA does not match Blackstone’s. But we can’t search for fingerprints because the tips of his fingers were cut off. It gets worse: Both his legs were broken. And see, there are no surgical incisions where there should have been for Roger’s heart operation."

    We learned about the operation from Blackstone’s medical records? asked Rachel.

    That’s right ... You know, I’ve seen mutilations before, amputated arms and legs. But this is my first decapitation. We really have no idea who the victim is. Sure would help if we had a face with unique features to ID, but, with no head, there’s no face.

    Still no sign of the victim’s head?

    "Not yet. But once this crime hit the media, Homicide became fair game for practical jokers. One prankster delivered a Jack-in-the-Box, and the head that popped out wasn’t a jester but a bloody-toothed vampire. Next, a crate rolled in addressed to Frank that had a carved pumpkin face inside. Just like the one in The Legend of Sleepy Hollow where the Headless Horseman terrifies Ichabod Crane."

    People have nothing else to do? Rachel chimed in. It’s not even close to Halloween.

    True. But here’s one more. Billy told me yesterday that someone, perhaps to add a dash of local color, shipped the detectives a skull encased in a clear crystal bowling ball from the pro shop at Red Rock Lanes.

    Creepy but creative, Rachel said.

    "But that wasn’t all. Working the real estate angle, the exterior of the bowling ball box was decorated with decals from the construction and appliance worlds: Energy Star stickers, Good Housekeeping Seals, and that smirking Pink Panther, the cartoon character who urges you to insulate your attic with fiberglass."

    "Here I am, trying to learn forensics, and you’re telling me all this stuff? ... What about the cause of death? Do we know that yet?"

    Looks like the actual COD was multiple puncture wounds in the abdomen and chest that clearly preceded the beheading. But why break someone’s legs and cut off their fingers if the ultimate goal was to kill him?

    So do you have any theories about the weapon that inflicted the fatal wounds? Rachael asked.

    "Hard to say; it could have been something with sharp-edged metal teeth. Of course, there’s no way to match his teeth to dental records not without a head!"

    You’re a pretty funny guy, Doctor, to be doing such serious work.

    4: Cryptic Clue, Unfolded

    (June 28, 2007. Mid-Morning)

    Downing morning coffee from his Dallas Cowboys mug, Chief Detective Stetson tapped out a jazzy tune with the knuckles of his free left hand. Wisps of wavy red hair shadowed his furrowed brow. A hulking reminder of his college football days, Frank’s sturdy six-foot, and four-inch frame readily filled the doorway when he entered a room.

    The crew at Vegas Metropolitan PD kept a safe distance from Frank to avoid his notorious temper. Researcher Jensen often made incredibly wide circles around his desk. Some of Stetson’s team swore he shoved his desk half-an-inch a day closer to the rest of his staff as his anger grew when he kept asking them to report to him.

    Snow, get your butt over here, Frank said. What’s new on the Blackstone case?

    His partner Billy shuffled to Frank’s military-gray desk. "We’re still stuck at zero. Coroner says the corpse is not Roger Blackstone. And that wallet is an obvious plant. So now we’ve got a John Doe. But we have no idea where Roger is. Maybe he’s hiding out or left town."

    All right, Frank said. We’ve got a lot of work to do. That Crawford guy’s here, the one who found the body, so I’m going to have a little chat with him. Want you and Joanna to keep probing Blackstone’s real estate realm. Where there’s money, there could be motive.

    Got it, boss, said Billy. Leaving Frank’s desk, he almost tripped over the pile of the Las Vegas Review Journal’s Sports sections his partner had stacked on the floor.

    Buddy Crawford and his electric guitar sat in the interrogation room when Frank strode in. Buddy was wearing matching black denim shirt and pants, accented with silver sequins and red piping. He figured a guy’s work clothes said a lot about who he was. Night or day ... didn’t matter.

    Bet you know why you’re here, Buddy, Frank said. What on earth were you doing at the crime scene? Why were you on that empty lot at that time of night?

    Pretty simple, man, Buddy explained. Starting to squirm in his chair while caressing his guitar, he softly plucked one string. "Have a gig at that nightclub, Black Hearts. Well, had a gig. Got another one now at Full House Lounge. Funny name ‘cause it’s always half full. So, I was just going to that lot, like I always did, to have a cigarette, maybe two. It helps me relax after work before I go home."

    Home ... Where might that be?

    Over on Paradise. Got me a furnished studio at Siegel Suites. They got weekly rates over there.

    That’s right, Buddy. We know where you live. We also have records of your priors. You know, the drug busts.

    "I’m totally clean on this one. No law against walking on a lot that’s not fenced off and without any No Trespassing signs, right?"

    Right, but there was a dead body hanging there – with no head! ... Did you see the head lying around anywhere?

    Buddy didn’t answer. His pupils seemed to enlarge like when they put those drops in your eyes during an optometrist exam.

    Did you, Buddy? Did you see the head?

    No sir. No way. No head! ... When I saw that raunchy corpse, I was shakin’. Just hung up there like a slab of beef at a meat market. Split real fast, but before I did, picked up this here guitar. Had dropped it like hot coals. The blood stains on that billboard’s steel post almost made me puke.

    I bet they did. Tell me, Buddy, do you take that fancy guitar with you everywhere you go?

    "Yep, pretty much, even to the john. This here Ibanez Munky is pretty special ... A real T-Rex bone crusher. Goes to dark, deep places, like you’re in a blue grotto that’s wired for sound and all the notes are red, black, and deep purple."

    Enough. You’re depressing me. Here’s another thing. We found a wallet at the scene. ID said it belongs to Roger Blackstone. You know him?

    Nope, only Roger I know is Roger Maris, that New York Yankees home run guy.

    Smart ass ... Did you see it or pick it up?

    "Maybe, I mean there was a wallet, but how would I know if it was the dead man’s or some other guy’s?"

    Cut the crap, Crawford. You tried to wipe off your prints, but you missed a few spots. How much cash did you lift before you dropped it?

    Damn ... So I took a few bills, big friggin’ deal. Guess it was my lucky day, uh, night. Maybe I pulled out a few bucks, not that many.

    A few bucks ... Take any credit cards?

    No plastic. But I think I might have something you could use.

    Like what? You want to sell me some stuff? You got some coke for me?

    I’ll ignore that. About the money, I did take a 20. But I never spent it.

    You kept it? ... Why?

    I held on to it. Someone done wrote on it, weird words and some numbers, maybe a phone number. Makes no sense at all, but I figured it might be important.

    Might be ... If you’ve got it, let’s see it.

    Buddy was pleased he saved the strange message and was relieved to get rid of it. Here it is, whatever it is, he said. His outstretched hand pushed the Jackson, folded in half, like a croupier on a craps table, down the line toward the detective.

    Frank looked at the cryptic bill, slipped on a latex glove, and slid it into a plastic evidence bag. He stared at the cursive letters Lost Legacy, scrawled across Andrew Jackson’s face. Below that were neatly printed large numerals: 219-6419.

    You know, that’s what cops do. We write on bills, usually C-notes. That way, we don’t cash them. You think twice before you break a hundred.

    You think the dead guy was a cop?

    Doubt it ... So far, Buddy, you’re the only one we know who saw the corpse that night. But if you were the killer, why would you call in the crime? Agree? Buddy didn’t answer. You can go now, Frank said, but we may need to talk to you again. So don’t leave town. And I know you won’t forget your Munky."

    5: ‘Caesar’s Palace on Fight Night’

    (June 28, 2007. Late Morning)

    What happened in there with the Crawford guy? Billy asked his partner.

    We should ignore him as a suspect. He’s just a guitar-strumming cokehead who happened to walk on that lot to smoke. But he did provide a possible clue. Frank showed Billy the obscure clue, wrapped in a flat plastic zip-locked bag. "See, Frank said, he gave me this 20-dollar bill with writing on it that he took from the wallet at the scene."

    Here, Frank said as he laid the sheathed Jackson face up in Billy’s palm. "You’re good at decoding stuff. Does Lost Legacy mean a stolen Subaru? Those digits could mean anything. Might be scrambled or truncated. Looks like a phone number, but could be numbers for a combination lock, a storage locker, or a safe deposit box. Whatever it is, if you can crack it open, the beer’s on me."

    I’ll get on it, boss. And maybe Joanna will have some ideas too.

    The partners were sitting at Frank’s desk, strewn with casework and encircled on the nearby floor with enough stacks of old Sports pages to thrill a fishmonger. "Why do you keep all these old papers, Frank?"

    Hell if I know. It must go back to my high school sports editor days. I’d just dive into the pile and grab a stat from an old box score. Then I’d write what so-and-so was doing and compare that to his past performance. Just an old habit ... Billy, you’re just distracting me with all this. Can we get back to the case? Billy agreed.

    Good, Frank said. "We’ve

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