19 Souls

  Copyright Information

  19 Souls: A Sin City Investigation © 2018 by J. D. Allen.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any matter whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Midnight Ink, except in the form of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  As the purchaser of this ebook, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. The text may not be otherwise reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, or recorded on any other storage device in any form or by any means.

  Any unauthorized usage of the text without express written permission of the publisher is a violation of the author’s copyright and is illegal and punishable by law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  First e-book edition © 2018

  E-book ISBN: 9780738754505

  Book format by Bob Gaul

  Cover design by Shira Atakpu

  Editing by Nicole Nugent

  Midnight Ink is an imprint of Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Allen, J. D., author.

  Title: 19 souls: a Sin City investigation/J.D. Allen.

  Other titles: Nineteen souls

  Description: First edition. | Woodbury, Minnesota: Midnight Ink, 2018. |

  Series: Sin City investigation; #1

  Identifiers: LCCN 2017029345 (print) | LCCN 2017039585 (ebook) | ISBN

  9780738754505 | ISBN 9780738754031 (alk. paper)

  Subjects: LCSH: Private investigators—Nevada—Las Vegas—Fiction. | GSAFD:

  Mystery fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3601.L4188 (ebook) | LCC PS3601.L4188 A616 2018 (print)

  | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017029345

  Midnight Ink does not participate in, endorse, or have any authority or responsibility concerning private business arrangements between our authors and the public.

  Any Internet references contained in this work are current at publication time, but the publisher cannot guarantee that a specific reference will continue or be maintained. Please refer to the publisher’s website for links to current author websites.

  Midnight Ink

  Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.

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  Manufactured in the United States of America

  For Allen.

  Your beautiful mind encouraged so many.

  Without you, none of this exists.

  1

  Her bloody finger left a translucent smear on the phone screen as she glanced through the list of private investigators in Vegas. There were more than she’d imagined. Most had important-sounding names like Blackman Private Investigation or United Investigative Services. Big firms. Not what she was after. Her stained nail came to rest on Sin City Investigations. She tapped the link for the web page.

  It was sparse—only two pages. One was a long list of qualifications. The other was his contact info. One cell phone number and one email meant a one-man operation. How corporate could a guy named Jim Bean be? She pictured a string-bean thin man with glasses and a crooked tie. Perfect.

  She tapped the number, cleared her throat. The phone rang.

  “Bean.” The voice was deep and breathy, but not gruff.

  “Hello, Mr. Bean. My name is Cynthia Hodge. I’m looking for an investigator to help me track down my brother.”

  She paused, but he didn’t immediately speak.

  She continued. “He’s been missing for several months. He took off with most of my mother’s nest egg. You know the type.”

  “Drugs?” More labored breathing. He was doing something.

  “Have I caught you at a bad time?” She was ready to get on with the plan. She didn’t have time for his drama.

  “In the middle of something.” Somewhere in the background a man groaned and then came the scratching, rustling sounds of a struggle. “Hold on just a moment, Ms. Hodge.” A loud noise pierced her ear as the phone clattered to the ground. The definite sound of a punch, that smacking of skin on skin, possibly the crack of bones snapping. There was a grunt, then a second of silence. Visualizing the scenario made her pulse jump again. Maybe this Bean guy had more mettle than his name gave on.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Fine. Just needed to get someone’s attention.”

  “Do I need to call you another time?” Not that she would. There were plenty more PIs in the area.

  “How long since you’ve seen your brother?”

  She wanted to tell him the truth. That it’d been seven long years since she’d seen Dan. It almost slipped out, but she managed to catch the words on her tongue. She wasn’t sure how long one would go without searching for a missing sibling. Seven years seemed too long. “Almost two years for me. Mother, a few months back.”

  “What makes you think he’s in Vegas?”

  “I’m not sure he is. He’s been here before, staying with some card players for months on end. But I can’t find him this time. I need to see if he has any of the money left. To confront him. Try to talk him into rehab or something. My father’s passed. My mom’s heartbroken and not able to pay her bills. Knowing Dan stole her money is killing her. She’s not so strong these days. I need your help, Mr. Bean.” She tried for tears. None came. She thought she managed the appropriate amount of despair in her voice.

  “It’s a hundred an hour, plus expenses. If any experts need to be brought in, they get their own fee on top of mine. Finding druggies can be slow. Expensive.”

  He was direct. Unconcerned with her mental state. She had chosen wisely. Jim Bean would serve her well. “I have the resources to make payment.”

  “Five thousand up front to get me started.”

  “That’s fine.”

  “This is a Vegas number. You live here?”

  “I do now, yes.”

  “You know the Coffee Girl diner?” He didn’t give her a chance to answer. “Meet me there at nine a.m. with the retainer. Cash or credit only. No checks. No Discover cards.”

  Yes. He would do nicely. “Tomorrow, Mr. Bean.”

  “Nine a.m.”

  The phone chirped that the call had been ended. She took a cigarette out of her pack. Lit it with a match from a book she’d taken from the dive hotel she’d been forced to endure for the last two months. She blew out the flame. Let the burnt cardboard stick go, watched it flutter, the smoke leaving a crooked path to the floor. It landed next to the dead woman at her feet. Pooled blood was darkening under her head. Her once perfectly coiffed blond bun was now a bloody red mess.

  “Did I sound like you, Ms. Hodge?” she asked the corpse and felt obliged to give it a moment in case there was a response. There was none. She shrugged and tucked Cynthia Hodge’s phone in her own pocket. “Let’s see if this guy can find your brother.”

  Don’t get cocky.

  Her own voice, young and angry, echoed in her head. Condescending. Always judging. Sophie Ryan Evers blew out a large puff of smoke. “Quit your worrying.”

  If Sophie was the type of woman who giggled, she would now.

  2

  “They’re not that bad.”

  Sandy, his favorite morning person, maybe his only favorite person, ha
d stopped just shy of pouring his coffee. He eyed the pot as she held it just above the rim. A tease, so close to filling the empty mug. His coffeemaker at home had broken months ago and he’d not bothered to replace it.

  She was young, cute and blond, midtwenties, a pro at sarcasm. Sandy had been taking classes at the University of Las Vegas for forever, she’d groan. Jim guessed closer to five years judging by how long she’d been serving him breakfast. She’d yet to declare a major. Like many kids, Sandy had no idea what she wanted to do with her life. Waiting tables at this joint was good enough for now. Or so she said.

  Her quip was referring to the eggs, but the whole plate was suspect. Everything she’d put in front of him was mustard yellow. The organic substitute eggs, the shredded cauliflower that was supposed to replace hash browns, and the toast that was some kind of gluten-free cardboard shit that crumbled if you attempted to hold it. Even the plate itself was yellow. He was certain it was exactly that bad. “How does he make it all the same puke yellow?”

  “You come here almost every day and order the same thing. Either quit your complaining or pick somewhere else to have breakfast and conduct your business.” One eyebrow rose, daring him to argue further.

  “I wasn’t exactly complaining. I was trying to figure out the percentage of yellow foods in that kitchen. I thought all healthy shit was supposed to be green.”

  “You want green eggs?” Sandy grumbled like she was tired of his shit. But she was half smiling, half smirking. The exchange routine. He went to great effort to get her face to make just that expression every morning.

  Jim thought on the green eggs for about one and half seconds. “Nope. I do not. I want a real egg that I can order sunny side up. And soft white bread to soak up the yolk.” He pushed his cup closer to her. “I know you don’t have those either.” The pinko bastards had turned his greasy spoon into a vegan something or other food oasis over a year ago.

  She poured. Turned on her heels. “One of these days … ” She walked away, shaking her cute, too-young-for-him ass. He smiled. Banter with Sandy was a great way to start the day.

  He took a couple bites and, once again, he was correct. It was that awful. He took a swig of coffee. A well-dressed woman pushed through the glass front door and stopped at the counter. Sandy greeted her and pointed to Jim. Had to be the new client. Good. She’d showed. He needed the funds. The cat food supply was getting low and Annie was not a happy kitty when she was hungry.

  The woman was tall, red-headed, and well put together. Her hair was pulled back in a loose knot, her clothing snug and professional. Her face was a hint softer than her clothing. “Jim Bean?”

  He nodded and motioned for her to sit. She sneered a little as she checked the vinyl seat. Snob? Maybe he’d read the light makeup and relaxed lips too soon. The place was old but, as was posted in the window, the menu progressive. She didn’t seem convinced. He noted the lingering hint of cigarette smoke on her. She’d eaten a mint, but it was still in the clothes. An inspection of his plate didn’t ease her expression.

  “How’s the food?” She slid into the seat gracefully considering her footwear had tall, pointy heels.

  “Not bad once you wash it down with the equally horrible coffee.”

  She smiled. Wow. That made a big difference. She was a beautiful woman. Nice to have a client with cash and a pretty face. He sat back, pushing his yellow plate aside.

  “Ms. Hodge. Nice to meet you.”

  She nodded. “Thank you for seeing me so quickly.” She folded her hands in her lap over her bag.

  Okay. Down to work. He pulled out his notepad and little golf pencil. “Your brother stole from your parents and you want him back?”

  She nodded.

  “Why not the police?”

  Sandy brought Ms. Hodge a mug and set it down. The redhead nodded again, this time to Sandy. She poured. “Would you like to see the menu?”

  Ms. Hodge eyed Jim’s half-eaten plate with that same repugnant look. “I think not.”

  Sandy left without filling Jim’s cup. Evidently she didn’t care for the uptight woman. Jim wasn’t sure he did either, despite the amazing smile.

  He looked at her and waited for an answer.

  “Oh. Sorry.” She cupped her hands around the cup as if she was cold. “The police will be more aggressive than we’d like. We’re sure he’s got a meth problem. With his history, god knows what else. I want him in rehab, not prison.”

  Jim nodded. He’d heard that before from families looking for lost children in Vegas. “Where was his last known residence?”

  “He quit college years ago to rodeo. Bronc riding, I believe. Last I could find was Texas. He had a camper on the back of his truck.”

  “No real address?”

  She shook her head.

  “And the last time you spoke to him?”

  She looked down. Her face tightened for the first time. “I haven’t talked to him in years. I know he used to come see our mother. But after he got her to sign those papers, nothing. Not even a call on her birthday.” Her gaze was on the cup. She didn’t look at Jim.

  “What papers?”

  She glanced up. “Giving him access to her accounts so he could help her manage her money. She’s got Alzheimer’s and it’s getting pretty bad. She needs full-time care. That’s why I need to find him.”

  Jim shook his head. This was not going to be a pleasant conversation. “Addicts aren’t big on maintaining savings accounts, Ms. Hodge.”

  Her arrogance was momentarily replaced with sadness, it danced quickly around her brilliant green eyes. She nodded. Recovered. “Call me Cynthia, please.” She tilted closer, put her hands on the table. “It’s more about Mother knowing he’s okay than the money. When she’s lucid, he’s all she talks about. When she’s not, she screams for her boy.”

  “You have his phone number?”

  “No.”

  “Have his social security number?”

  “No. Mom can’t remember it. I can’t find any paperwork in her belongings with it listed, either.”

  “You’re not making the job easy on me.”

  “If it were easy, I would have found him myself. I tried all the avenues you’re asking about. Nothing. Otherwise, I wouldn’t need you, would I?” She flashed that killer smile again.

  True. “Anyone else know where he’d go off to? Any other family members or distant relatives he may have made contact with?”

  “We have a cousin somewhere in the northwest, outside Seattle maybe. I called. He said he hadn’t heard from Dan.”

  “Full name?”

  “Daniel Kent Hodge. Born August 1st, 1985.” She fished a snapshot from the small clutch purse she carried. Small bag. Not much room for a cash down payment. That meant she’d be paying by credit card. He’d have to factor in the bank charges in her fee. He jotted down the DOB. Glanced at the picture. It was the two of them together. The pair were smiling. Dan had his arm around her. “Not very recent.”

  “Most recent one I have.” For a wordless moment she was fixated on the snapshot.

  Please don’t cry. Crying women made him uncomfortable. He should be more empathetic in his line of work. But he wasn’t. Everyone had their troubles. Every client brought theirs to his door. Those became his troubles. If he got emotional about it, he’d be in the nut house. Detachment Island was his happy place and he planned on retiring there.

  She tossed the picture onto the open notebook. “He won’t look so different.”

  “Drug addicts always look different.” He watched her eyes. She’d flinched as he said it. “Side effects of the toxins.”

  “You’re probably right. I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “Anything else you can think of?” He’d ask her about fraternities, clubs, or other social activities, but if Dan was using meth, that was his whole life. Jim would start looking at the
arrest records. Probably find him relatively quick that way.

  “Not really. Like I said. I don’t want him arrested, just found.”

  “Got it.” He scribbled a few more thoughts. “The number you called from a good one?”

  “Yes.”

  “This could take a while.”

  “Can you keep me apprised of your progress and what you find out?”

  “Always do. The retainer is five thousand. I will have to travel to Texas. If I find him quick, any monies not billed to my rates or the cost of the investigation will be returned.”

  Cynthia took a stack of hundreds out of her little black bag and tossed them on the table. It skidded across the laminate surface, stopping beside his notepad. The bank band wrapped about it had fifty scribbled on it next to a pair of initials. A withdrawal. Neatly bundled. No need to count. Easy to deposit and pay all his bills with. Thank you, Cynthia Hodge.

  She was all business. Easy and clean. He liked that. Liked that a lot.

  He handed her a standard contract. “You agree to pay me what I need to find Dan and I agree to do my best to recover your brother.”

  She signed without reading it.

  “There is a chance we won’t find him, or that we find out he’s died. I’ve seen it happen more than once. I just want you to be prepared.” He hated this speech, but it had to be put out there. “When you’re dealing with addiction, it takes people into some very dangerous places. Both with the drug use and the people who live in that culture.”

  “Are you trying to prepare me for that eventuality? You think he’s dead?” A few strands of red bangs fell lose and dangled in her eye. She made no move to push it aside.

  “It’s a possibility you need to be aware of.”

  “He’s not dead.” She fidgeted with the corner of her bag.

  He’d heard that before too. But it wasn’t his job to be her shrink. “Okay.”

  She stood. Held out her hand. Jim took it. Her fingers were cold. Her grip surprising. Strong. “Please keep me up to date when you find anything. I like to know where my money is being spent. Remember, don’t contact him. Just find him.”