Link 2

A short stocky figure wearing a black Stetson and a ground length black oil-skin drovers coat stood watching the nervous man, who paced in the alley behind the Golden Nugget Casino. A single streetlight illuminated the area, casting shadows in the deep corners. A cat growled inside a nearby open dumpster causing the skinny, frumpily dressed man to jump in terror. The cowboy shook his head, slowly ambling out of the shadows behind the man.

"Ye have what I asked feir, Weasal?" A deep Highland brogue flowed smoothly from the shadow of the Stetson. The nervous man flinched, swinging around swiftly. He stepped back hurriedly when he realized how close the cowboy stood to him. He wanted to avoid touching the shorter man.

"I-I-I'm still w-w-w-working on it," Weasal stuttered, wringing his bony hands.

"Ye have anythin'?"

"Only that G-G-Gillespie sent a sh-sh-shipment up to Tahoe today. Legit and otherw-w-wise."

"'Ow mooch, ot'erwise?"

"Unkn-n-nown." The cowboy sighed harshly, reaching a gloved hand up to rub the side of his chin in thought.

"C-C-Canvasser?"

"Aye?"

"How's Dancer Girl?"

Canvasser cocked his head slightly to one side. "Has sh-sh-she adjusted to being b-b-back?"

"Weasal, she's been baak fer a year now. I t'ink she's ajoosted quite weel," the cowboy stated annoyed.

The nervous man smiled, nodding. "Good. Will you g-g-give her my regards?"

Canvasser was silent for a moment. "Ye aught to know by now," he growled menacingly, "that I dinna speak to the wooman. Not now, not ever!"

"W-W-Was what she d-d-did so bad?"

"Aye! It was!"

"Y-Y-You've got to resolve this, Canvasser. It w-w-wasn't her fault." Weasal tried to encourage the man.

"T'hell, ye say!" The cowboy turned and disappeared back into the shadows, leaving Weasal to look around, wringing his hands nervously.

"Why c-c-can't there just be you?" Weasal mumbled to himself sadly as he turned, leaving the alley.

Chapter 1

After being in the house with all the cigarette smoke, the walk felt refreshing in the crisp night air. Even watching the Gang of Four's bridge game had become boring after awhile. In the distance, sirens blared, growing louder. Abruptly they ceased. It was a normal sound for the neighborhood. A second thought was not given until at the corner, half a mile away from the house. Swirling, flashing blue and red lights lit up several houses in the third block. A light-colored tape was being woven through a wrought iron fence. Chris saw the lights and thought it was the crack house two doors down from her mom's, finally being busted. 'Bout time, she thought. Then realization struck. The brisk walk became a jog, then an all out panicked run.

Chris knew North Las Vegas was no longer a great place to live; anymore, that is. Her mother had raised her family here and refused to move away when the area began its decline. An uplifting spirit helped the remaining homeowners to stay, despite the drugs, gangs, and the fear and death that had come with them. She simply refused to let them take over her life with trepidation.

Chris didn't notice the uniformed officer that was moving to intercept. He grabbed her around the shoulders, stopping the impelling force, knocking them into the hood of a black and white police cruiser. It's circling blue lights reflected off the silver badge on his uniform.

"Whoa, there! Where do you think you're going in such a hurry?" the cop asked, when they were back on their feet. Chris's brown eyes reflected the lights, and anguish that was creeping into her thoughts.

"My mother lives here! What happened?" Chris's voice shook and cracked with panic.

"Your mother lives here? C'mer." The cop waved his hand as he walked to another police car closer to the front gate. "Just sit tight. I'll go get the detective. He'll answer all your questions."

Stunned, Chris sat on the hood of the car, with her feet on the bumper. She looked at the yellow caution tape that was woven through the wrought iron fence before she closed her eyes and lowered her head to her hands. For several minutes, thoughts of worse case scenarios ran wild in her mind, before someone cleared their throat, drawing her back to the present.

"Are you Officer Christopher Marie Kallen?" The baritone voice of subtle disbelief shook her back to reality.

"Yeah. What's happened here?" Chris looked up suddenly. "Wait a minute? How the hell you know who I am?" Chris glared at the plain clothes cop. An image of a blue uniform flashed in her mind. A blackboard; pen, handwritten notes on paper. The Academy.

"I ran the plates on your car to find some info. Besides, I knew your father when I was a rookie. I'm Detective Howard Karolsky, homicide. I was also one of your instructors at the Academy, I believe." He pulled a top-spiral notebook from his jacket pocket. "I know you don't live here anymore, but I need to know who does? For the record."

Chris nodded, her memory registering that he had been an officer in City Metro, now a detective with the sheriff's homicide department. "Harrie and Jake Kallen. My mother and younger brother. Are they all right?" Chris looked past the detective at the mass of officers milling about the front yard and in the house.

"I'm sorry, Kallen," the detective spoke casually, swallowing uncomfortably. "Your mother died shortly after our first officer arrived on the scene." He paused. "I need you to identify the bodies."

"Bodies!" Chris's body snapped up, pushing off the bumper and bolted for the gate. "Oh my God! The Gang of Four!"

The detective tried to stop her as she ducked out of his reach. He yelled for assistance. She slammed open the gate on the way through. It crashed against the fence and bounced back, narrowly missing the detective as he followed her. On the walkway, a young man in plain clothes, with semi-long hair and roundish wire frame glasses, stood in her way.

"Stop her, McLean!" Chris heard Karolsky yell.

"Josey, stop," the baritone voice pleaded, grabbing her arms.

Chris heard the familiar name, regarding the face behind the voice. Something shiny, momentarily blinded her right eye. She blinked quickly.

"Get out of my way, Ricky." She shoved him aside, leaping onto the porch and ducked under the arm of another cop standing in the doorway. Her dash was broken by the sight of the destruction in the room before her. Blood splattered the carpet and white textured walls. The card table lay on its side in the middle of the living room. The cards were scattered across the floor. Chairs were knocked askew, lying on their backs or sides, close to three shrouded mounds. Each form was covered with a sheet that was spotted in red. A fourth body was surrounded by three paramedics. Chris took a step or two forward until a hand landed on her shoulder, stopping her.

"Where do you think you're going?" growled the cop standing in the doorway. Before she could answer, Karolsky came to her rescue.

"She's cleared, Colt. Let her go."

He took his hand from her shoulder. "Sorry."

Chris gave a quick nod as she slowly moved around the medics, until she got a clear view of who was on the floor.

"Oh God, Kelly." Chris brought her hands up, covering her mouth to keep from screaming. She forced them back to her sides as two of the medics stood and left, taking some of their equipment. The third stayed beside the woman.

"Chris? That you?" The woman opened her eyes, trying to raise her hand. The bangle bracelets, on her wrist, tinkled gaily as she reached out.

"What happened?" Chris knelt down by the woman with her chest bandaged, taking the pale hand in hers. "Who did this?"

"After you...left...J...Ja...." Her voice was faint and raspy.

"Jake?"

"...came home...." The strain was beginning to show in Kelly's face.

"It's okay. Don't say anything." Chris's hands shook as they held Kelly's.

"Does Karolsky have what I need to know?" Kelly nodded faintly. "Damn! I should never have left." She felt the warm tears on her cheeks and tasted the salt as they reached her lips.

"No! You're alive. Your...brother...did this!" Kelly closed her eyes, her head lolled slightly to the side as she passed out from the strain.

Chris felt for a pulse in Kelly's wrist, finding it very faint. She looked up at the detective standing behind the paramedic.

"Did this?" She put the woman's hand down as the two medics returned with a stretcher. Chris stood, moving out of the way, as she wiped her wet face. She looked at Karolsky. "He did this?" she whispered harshly, waving her hand about the destroyed room, her anger building by the second.

"From what we've been able to gather from witnesses, and her," he motioned to the woman on the floor beside Chris, "your brother could possibly be involved. Though to what degree, we're not sure. There's an APB out for him now." Karolsky moved to the closest body.

To what degree? Oh my God, what have I done? Chris's mind started rolling through all the information she had gathered and pulled fact from the fiction. "Officer Kallen, if you would identify your mother and the other two victims?"

"Huh?" Chris blinked a few times watching the stretcher roll out of the house. "Oh, yeah." She moved next to him and knelt, lifting the cover. She bit her bottom lip, closing her eyes for a second shifting her mind into a defensive blank.

"Mrs. Rita Smith. Mid-fifties, divorced, no kids. Lives...lived up the street." Chris dropped the sheet and moved around the card table, to the body closest to the kitchen and lifted the corner of the sheet, then dropped it back.

"Mrs. Margorette Grisson." Chris closed her eyes and stood, her back to the third unidentified body. She knew, but did not want to accept any of it.

"Margo's sixty-seven. Lived three houses down across the street. Widow. Two sons, both died in the early seventies."

She walked over to the third covered body. Slowly, she sank down on her knees, hands resting in her lap. With a trembling hand, she took the corner of the sheet and carefully folded it back from her mother's face. She looked so calm, so at peace with herself considering the events surrounding her death. Tears slid down Chris's face dripping onto her shirt.

"Mrs. Harriette 'Harrie' Kallen," she said slowly. "Oh, Mama." Chris bent down wrapping her arms around Harrie's head, their faces touching. "Who did this to you?" she whispered mournfully. "Was it Jake?" Tears ran down Chris's cheeks onto her mother's face. A hand touched her shoulder. She sat up, gently releasing Harrie, brushing a stray lock of greying hair out of her mother's closed eyes. "Age fifty-four." She sniffled. "Widow. Survived by four children." Chris wiped her eyes with her shirt sleeve and the back of her hand.

A sigh quivered behind her. "I'm sorry you had to go through this, Kallen, but it's necessary." The detective spoke softly looking up from writing in his notebook.

"I understand." Chris bent and kissed her mother's forehead, "It's part ov're jobs," she muttered pulling the cover back in place, looking up at the homicide detective. Out of the corner of her eye Chris saw a familiar figure standing in the doorway. She saw him nod at her, then move away slowly.

"I want to know what happened, Karolsky?" Chris asked urgently, startling him. "Tell me everything that's been gathered about this case."

The detective opened his mouth to say something. Chris raised her hand to stop him. "And don't give me that song and dance about when the reports 're complete.

You know it won't wash with me." He looked at her for a second, startled by the authoritativeness in her voice, then flipped to the front of the notebook. "The call came in around nine-thirty. A Mr. Floyd Campbell reported shots being heard across the street, at this address. Said a few minutes later, two youths left the house. One was carrying a tote bag and what looked like a hand gun. No sign of forced entry." Karolsky flipped through the pages. "Was a pistol found in the far front bedroom?" Chris asked, knowing it was not going to be found, if her brother was behind this.

"I'm afraid not. What was found was some white powder on the carpet in the hallway and that front bedroom."

"What?!" Chris looked back and glanced at the hall entrance. "White powder? Drugs?"

"We don't know that for sure. We're having the lab analyze the substance."

Chris closed her eyes, then opened them, looking at the ceiling for an answer she didn't want to question. She shook her head.

"Ms. Harnstead said something to the effect that it belonged to your brother, and his friend - Ken?"

"Ken Bracston," she said absently. "Oh Christ, Jake? What have you gotten yourself into?" She looked around the room, bewildered. Have I been that blind? She thought, sighing. Oh, God, what have I done by not listening to Cleo? She shook her head, twisting her face up.

"An occasional user? And, or dealer?" Karolsky raised his eyebrows.

Chris blew her breath out sharply, looking back down at her mother's shrouded body. She ran her fingers through her red-brown hair.

"Possibility's always there, Karolsky. I've seen the signs and ignored them, hoping they were wrong." Chris looked at the table near the front door. There sat framed photos of better times, and a whole family. "But why would he want to kill his own mother? He adored her. He always tried to do right by her. He was her baby."

"Spoiled?"

Chris got to her feet and began to pace the length of the room from the front door to the kitchen, then back. "No." She stopped and looked at him, shaking her head. "That was something she never believed in. What else is there?" She started pacing again.

"To continue," Karolsky looked back at his notes, "Mr. Campbell was sure that the youth carrying the bag and gun was your brother, Jake. He didn't know the other one, but he's seen him around. They got into a black Trans Am Cruiser. Jake was driving."

Chris startled Karolsky when she abruptly stopped pacing and faced him. "A black Trans Am? He doesn't own a Trans."

"Oh?"

"He owns a blue and rust Chevy Impala." You're about to find yourself on the short end of a swinging rope, little brother, she thought hiding her wary look from the detective.

"Mr. Campbell," Karolsky continued, "said he couldn't read all the plate, but what he did get was T, blank, blank, blank, S, blank, A, N."

Chris nodded. She knew what the missing letters were, and that hurt. There was no fiction to any of it. The rumors were all true. Everything was true. Jake had become one of many wanted drug dealers in Nevada. The elusive 'Trans Man'. She shrugged, hiding the truth she knew from the detective.

"Excuse me, Detective?" The cop named Colt stuck his head in the front door. "Coroner's here."

"Give us a few more minutes." Karolsky motioned him out, then turned back to Chris. He was silent for several moments watching her clueless face.

"Let's go outside, Officer Kallen."

Chris looked around the blood splattered room. "By the way," she moved towards the door, passing him, "I'm no longer on the force." She walked out onto the porch that wrapped around the side of the house. She heard a loud Harley motorcycle somewhere in the street. She looked back over her shoulder seeing that the detective had followed her.

Karolsky watched her silently as he pulled a pack of cigarettes from his jacket. "Out of Metro?" he asked hesitantly, while tapping out a cigarette. He lit it.

"Yeah." Chris noticed Rick sitting on the porch past the swing, cigarette in hand, and wondered why he was there. She took a seat on the swing drawing her feet up, her knees under her chin. Three stretchers were rolled into the house, followed by a middle-aged man in a green sweat suit, clipboard in hand. Chris looked out past Karolsky to the gathered neighbors.

"What will happen when he's caught and there's not enough evidence to hold him?" Chris asked more to herself, than to the detective.

"He goes free," he answered, looking at the sad, lost face.

She looked up at him. "When will they be released? So I can make arrangements for them?"

"I really couldn't tell you. It depends on what comes up in the autopsies. Here, call this tomorrow morning." He scribbled a number on a piece of paper, tore it from the notebook, and handed it to her. "They can give you more information."

Chris looked at it, then stuffed it into her jeans pocket. "I need to know how to get in touch with you, if anything else comes up?"

He paused. "A point of contact now that you're no longer on the force."

"I work at Ali Babba's Casino now. Look up the number." She could feel a tension headache coming on. She reached up and rubbed the back of her neck. "My POC is Josepha. The message'll get to me. Only way to get a hold of me." She slid her hands around her head to her temples, rubbing circles around them.

Detective Karolsky thanked her and stepped off the porch, leaving her to her thoughts. To Chris, everything was moving in slow motion. The cars that passed the house, the people that milled around beyond the wrought iron fence.

"You okay, Josepha?" a voice asked softly, behind her.

Chris jerked in the swing, twisting around to face the voice that belonged to the familiar figure that had grabbed her earlier. "You know not to call me that outside the casino, Richard," she said in desperation, watching him clinch his jaw at her use of his given name he so hated. "Not here. Not ever. Not out of character. Only there."

Rick stood with one foot on the porch nodding his head. "You're right. Sorry." He looked away for a second. "Are you okay, though?"

"Yeah, I'll be a'right. In time." Her voice shook slightly. She noticed the silver badge reflecting the house lights on his sleeveless shirt vest. He's a cop! Why the lousy...Wait a minute? She let out a shaky sigh. What right have I got to be mad at him for not telling me? I can never tell him the truth.

Rick took a draw from the cigarette, then flicked it away. He watched her expression change from anger to disappointment, as she looked away, sighing again. Chris turned back to him with a blank look in her eyes. "It's going to be hard calling you Chris after calling you Josey for so long, ya know?"

"I know. But it has to be that way." Chris stood and stepped to the edge of the porch. "Josey only exists within the confines of Ali Babba's and its people."

Rick nodded. "I'm sorry about your mom." He hopped up onto the porch and came to stand beside her. He reached out to touch her arm, but lowered it back down, unsure of how she would react.

"Thanks." Chris glanced at him for a second, then back through the living room window at the coroner at work. "How could he do this?"

"Who do what?"

"Nothing." She shook her head. "Don't look for me at work for the next few days." She looked at his youthful face. His green hazel eyes shadowed by the porch light. "I have some business to attend to." Her voice was low and dangerous. He knew it was not directed towards him, but it still worried him just the same.

"Let the police deal with this," he warned her.

She looked at him. "I am...!" She bit her lower lip, looking down at her feet before she could explode at him. She shook her head hard in frustration. Her long hair pulled into a ponytail, whipped back and forth.

"How long you been a cop, McLean?"

"A few years."

"Homicide?"

He hesitated for a brief moment. "Narcotics."

She understood why he was there. She kicked the porch beam next to her, then leaned against it. "I only went for a walk, Ricky. And now there's nothing left, but an empty house, and a hollow heart." She stepped off the porch, heading for the driveway and the blue Chevy Malibu parked there.

"Don't do anything foolish, Chris," Rick said to himself, as she opened the car door. The Chevy roared to life, turning all heads its way. She watched through the windshield as the first of the three bodies was brought out of the house. She didn't notice the man dressed in biker leather, his light brown hair about his shoulders, walk across the front yard towards the house and Rick.

"Purrs like a kitten, huh, Wagner?" Rick commented to the plain clothed officer as he walked up to him.

"Yeah. Sam would probably drool if he saw what's under that hood." Wagner watched Chris back out of the driveway, breaking the yellow tape and peel about ten feet before letting up on the accelerator. Rick shook his head in exasperation.

"You know her?"

"Yeah, I know her," he said, glancing at the biker.

"That's the dancer?" Wagner asked surprised.

Rick looked down for a second. "I need to talk to Karolsky for a sec." He stepped down off the porch and headed across the yard toward the detective who was talking to a group of uniformed officers. Wagner followed silently. The detective looked up at the young undercover narcotics detective.

"Haven't you left yet, McLean? Whatcha need?"

"She's in no condition to go off like that. She needs to be tracked."

"What are you concerned about her for?" he asked sarcastically.

"I'm concerned, because she's in no condition to be driving, Karolsky!" Rick growled.

"Oh, didn't realize," he said apologetically. "Besides, I don't think she's going to do much, but go home and cry herself to sleep. Her place isn't far from here."

"You really believe that, Karolsky?" Wagner asked.

"Not really. But there's not much anyone can do for her right now." Rick shrugged in frustration and walked off, shaking his head. Except maybe Chief. He can tell you what to do, Wagner thought. "Name's Chris Kallen?"

"Yeah." Karolsky answered absently as he flipped pages in his notebook.

"Where she work?"

"Ali Babba's." He looked up. "Fremont, I think. POC's someone named Josepha."

"Thanks, Howie." Wagner thumped his shoulder with a fist.

"Anytime, Ramsey."

So, Christopher's Josepha de Al-Akabar. Ramsey Wagner let the thought roll around in his head as he walked outside the fence toward a Harley-Davidson. "I'll be damned. After all this time, she's been under our noses." He searched the roadway spotting the familiar tan pickup truck Rick drove. "I wonder if McLean knows?"

"Damn, damn, damn!" Chris pounded the steering wheel as she drove north on the vacant road. "Jake, if you are behind this, I'll hunt you down and hang you out to dry." Tears streamed down her cheeks. Over the blare of the music, the cellular phone could be heard chirping. She turned the car's stereo volume down, and picked up the phone, switching it on.

"What!"

"I just got back into town. Ripley informed me of what happened." The voice on the other end sounded tired, and sad. "I'm so very sorry about your mother. She was a good woman." It had probably been a long day for him that ended with the shocking news.

"Yeah, she was. I'm gonna miss her." Chris wiped the tears away with the back of her hand that held the phone, as they slid down her cheeks. She put the phone back to her ear. "...also informed that your brother may be involved in it, along with some drugs," the voice on the other end was saying.

"Yeah, I was told that too. But not in so many words. If he's who I think he is, I want to see everything that's been collected on him to date."

"Would that be smart, Christopher?"

"I don't know, and I really don't care! If he's the 'Trans Man', I want him to pay for this, Thom!" She turned the car off onto a dirt road and stopped it.

"He'll pay. But only in a court of law. Not by you, or anyone else! I know how you feel, Chris," he said sympathetically, "but I can't let you see the files, other than on what happened tonight concerning the Gang of Four. Jake's been under surveillance by a special task force unit since before you came back. They may not want to hand over anything."

"Screwing up every step of the way from the looks of it," she muttered under her breath to herself. "You've got to be kidding, Bradshaw? Those boys don't have what I've got."

"Forgive me for asking, but what do you have?" he asked cynically.

"The inside. He's becoming one of Nevada's biggest dealers, but he's still my little brother."

"I know, but he's only a small part of a larger case. Part of the one you're working on yourself. That's why I didn't hand you the case when you returned. For those two reasons alone."

"What'd you think I'd do? Shoot him?" she snarled.

"Possibly." He paused. "Let me check on it. See if I can work something out. I'll just have to get back to you on it."

"Yeah, I hear ya." Chris opened the car door. "Hey?"

"What?"

"Someone needs to tell Cholly about Mom." Her voice began to crack. "I...I can't do it."

"It'll be done."

Chris turned off the phone and dropped it onto the seat. She stepped out and walked around the door, looking out at the bright lights of downtown Las Vegas. The desert air was cooler here than in the city. She hopped up onto the hood and sat quietly for several minutes watching the stars and twinkling casino lights.

Jake was the baby and loved by everybody, especially by their older brother, Louis. But during the six years, since Louis had moved to Boston, Jake had grown distant. Cleo had seen it on her last trip home over a year ago. She had told Chris, when she returned to Albany, but Chris was sure he was going through some teenage phase. She reminded Cleo of the trouble they had caused at that age.

"He threw darts at me, Chrisy! Granted, he missed, but it was deliberate. He's also been threatening Frank. You go back, you watch him! You make sure he doesn't hurt Mom, or you. One of these days he's going to explode and cause some real damage."

The memory of the phone call between Albany and New York City was a clear memory that came flooding back. Chris knew now she should have taken heed and started investigating the problem when she returned to Las Vegas. She was not looking forward to breaking the news of their mother's death to her older siblings. She knew she could not tell Louis the whole truth, knowing he would blow a cork at her and create an even bigger problem. Chris slid off the hood and got back into the car, heading home to call the East Coast.

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