The last thing she wanted was to see daylight, but whoever was at the door wouldn’t stop knocking. Not her mother. Her mother had a key.
Not Michael. He was still in the hospital.
Not Carla. She was dead.
The knocking continued.
What the fuck? Go away.
Maria opened her eyes. She was lying on the couch. She hadn’t been able to go back into her bedroom. Couldn’t sleep in the same bed she’d shared with Carla. Couldn’t sleep behind a closed door. Every time she closed her eyes she saw rotating images, her father on the floor, the gun sitting there next to him, Carla manacled to a chair, Michael’s body bouncing as the bullets tore through him.
What was the point?
The knocking. Still. Incessant.
Then a male voice, “Look, I know you’re in there.”
Did she know that voice? It was familiar. Muffled but familiar.
“We need to talk.”
She knew that voice. Why did she… Craig. The FBI agent who’d accused her of killing everyone. What the hell was he doing at her house? She reached under the sofa cushion and pulled out her gun. Walked to the door, swung it open, and pointed the gun directly at Craig’s chest.
Processing what was happening took him a second, but he stepped back, kept his hands away from his pockets.
“What do you want?” Maria said.
“I want to apologize.”
“Do that by fucking off,” Maria said. She slammed the door shut.
Maria went back to the couch. Sat down and put the gun on the coffee table.
Craig was still there outside the door. She could hear him shuffling around, trying to figure out what to do. A scratching along the bottom of the door, a white business card pushed through the crack.
“When you’re ready to talk, call me,” he said.
Maria could open the door and shoot him twice in the chest, and they’d lock her up, and she wouldn’t have to think about what to do next. Every day would be the same as the one before. Just her and a cell and bars and food when they gave it to her, and she could sit there and just do nothing.
She reached out and grabbed the gun.
Her mother could come visit.
Maria wouldn’t have to think. Wouldn’t have to dream. She could just exist.
Footsteps retreated from her door. A car engine started up, and the car drove off.
Next time, she’d decide sooner.
Maria opened her eyes.
She’d fallen asleep sitting up. For a solid three hours from the time on the clock. She’d love to sleep for a week if her would let her, but she knew her mother wasn’t kidding about dragging her off of the couch by her hair.
More knocking at the door. That’s what had woken her up. Softer this time. Not the hard rapping of an asshole FBI agent. She heard a woman’s voice, “Are you in there?”
Did she know that voice?
Why did she have such a headache?
Maria’s eyes roamed to the coffee table. Saw the half empty bottle of whiskey. Had she really drank that much? She didn’t know. She’d probably be ashamed if she figured it out.
More knocking.
Maria stood up off the couch. Picked up her gun and went to the door.
“Who is it and what do you want?”
“It’s Nancy James. I need to talk to you.”
Nancy looked uncomfortable, sitting at the kitchen table. Her eyes went from Maria’s face, down to the gun sitting on the table, and back to Maria’s face.
“Do you really need that?” Nancy said.
“What did you come here to talk about?” Maria asked.
Nancy leaned back. Crossed her arms.
“I heard you’ve had a brutal few days,” Nancy said.
“If you came to give me condolences, the door is that way,” Maria said.
“Do you have any idea who it was that attacked you?” Nancy said.
Maria just sat there. Wondered how difficult it would be to drag Nancy out of her apartment by her hair. Nancy couldn’t weigh but a hundred pounds, but Maria’s head was pounding, and she didn’t feel strong. When had she eaten last? Maybe, she could eat something and then drag Nancy out of the apartment and throw her down the stairs.
“I think I might be able to point you in the right direction,” Nancy said.
“Where have you been?” Maria said.
“I was in Florida,” Nancy said.
“Interesting timing for a vacation,” Maria said.
“Les’s death sped up my investigation,” Nancy said.
“Oh yes, that investigation you told me you knew nothing about,” Maria said.
“I had no idea what Les was working on,” Nancy said.
“I saw your name on the corkboard above Connor. Les had you looking into something with that hit-and-run accident,” Maria said.
Nancy wrinkled her nose.
“Connor? Who’s Connor?” Nancy said.
Maria had wanted to punch a person more in her life, but she just couldn’t remember exactly when.
“Did you really come here to continue lying to me?” Maria asked.
“I didn’t work with Les on his projects. That was all Pedro,” Nancy said.
“Then why was your name on the corkboard?” Maria asked.
“How the hell should I know? I don’t even know what corkboard you’re talking about,” Nancy said.
“Everything was laid out in Les’s office. Then I go looking for you, and you disappear,” Maria said.
“I’ve never been to Les’s office. I don’t even know where it is,” Nancy said.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, you’re just the hard-working reporter sent off to Florida. Call me crazy, but the newspaper doesn’t seem to have much of a budget for airline tickets,” Maria said.
“You’re right about that. I paid out of my pocket to go,” Nancy said.
“Why are you here?” Maria asked.
“Because I found out some things in Florida, and everything flows back to the Patrick Miller campaign, and you’re the only person I feel like I can trust with this information,” Nancy said.
“I’m suspended, well technically on leave, and I doubt I’ll ever be going back,” Maria said.
“And if Patrick Miller is the person who ordered the killing of your partner and girlfriend?” Nancy said.
“If you’ve come here to spit bullshit at me, I swear to god, you will be leaving my apartment through the living room window,” Maria said.
“Just hear me out, and if you still think I’m full of shit when I’m done, I’ll jump out the window myself,” Nancy said.
“It’s the second floor. If you don’t go out head first, it doesn’t work,” Maria said.
Nancy had been after Patrick Miller for a while. Something about the picture-perfect life and image brought out all of her cynicism. She’d heard how he was actually faithful and decent and God loving, and she just knew in her gut it had to be a bunch of crap. So, she’d dug into his life and found on a personal level, he seemed to be as decent as he appeared. She’d followed him to dinners and watched him when he thought no one was looking. He didn’t display any of the attitudes of the entitled. He wasn’t a dick to waiters or valets, and he was completely and totally focused on his wife in a way that was truly rare.
“I would be lying if I didn’t say I was a little jealous of Wanda. Patrick Miller is a hunk and a gentleman. Even when his wife wasn’t around, Patrick wasn’t looking at other women or treating anyone with anything less than complete and total respect,” Nancy said.
“I hope you’re getting to the point soon because all this talk of good manners is getting boring,” Maria said.
The rumors about Patrick’s alliance with developers, though, that seemed to be true. Nancy couldn’t find any improper fundraising activities, but Patrick was, at least when he started his political career, a big fan of development. He couched it in terms of housing affordability, and he also claimed building more buildings would force technological change to solve water problems. All his explanations sounded reasonable coming out of his mouth, but the reality was that he spent a lot of time with George Powell and other developers, so Nancy was sure it was the typical politician supporting his donors. A part of her was relieved to find out that her cynicism hadn’t been misplaced.
Then something changed.
Patrick went from spending a lot of time with George Powell to not returning his calls. Patrick stopped talking about development and started talking about taking care of the water supply and being cautious about building more houses, especially in the Southwest. He started talking about the importance of single-family homes, and the need to protect the character of a neighborhood.
“Sounds like typical politics to me. His campaign decided he needed a different message,” Maria said.
“That’s the thing, I talked to people on his campaign, and they were as shocked as George Powell was by the shift. They described it as coming completely out of the blue and not fitting at all with their plan,” Nancy said.
“When did this shift happen?” Maria asked.
“About three months ago,” Nancy said.
“Was that why Les was investigating Patrick?” Maria said.
“I can only assume. I know Les did a lot of work for developers. Sometimes they were hagiographic profiles, other times they were hatchet jobs on politicians who were getting in the way. It’s a controversial issue here. We’ve built so much over the last twenty or so years, but the water levels are getting lower and lower. We seem to be at our limits,” Nancy said.
“This doesn’t really seem like something people get killed over,” Maria said.
“I think Patrick has something to hide, and someone is using it to influence his policies,” Nancy said.
“What is it he has to hide?” Maria said.
“That’s what I can’t figure out,” Nancy said.
“So basically, you don’t have anything but suspicions?” Maria said.
“No, I have more than that,” Nancy said.
A 501c named Save Our Homes had been a nominal supporter of Patrick Miller. Figuring out who was really behind a 501c was difficult work largely because the system was designed to let certain kinds of organizations keep their donors secret. Save Our Homes had deep pockets and had interests in governors’ races all around the Southwest. Their stated mission was supporting politicians that looked out for single family home zoning. They presented themselves as champions of individual property owners, but in reality, the organization was funded by five different companies that bought up and rented out single-family homes all around the country, and increasingly they were focusing their attention on the Southwest. This group had spent generously in supporting the incumbent whom Patrick was running against.
“So, if they’re opposed to Patrick, what does this have to do with anything?” Maria said.
“I was in Miami trying to speak with the principals of one of the companies behind the 501c, a BH Limited,” Nancy said.
“Les had that company listed in his notes,” Maria said.
“I ended up charming their CFO, and he told me they didn’t care who won the Nevada race because both of the candidates would look out for their interests,” Nancy said.
“So, I don’t understand why they’re so opposed to development. You’d think there would be more houses for them to buy and rent out,” Maria said.
“The way it was explained to me, once financing costs, insurance costs, and maintenance costs were taken out, there really wasn’t all that much money left over. At least not for a fund of that size, but if they could guarantee the housing supply wasn’t going to increase, they’d always make money off of appreciation of the values. They pay out through refinancing, and apparently that is a matter of tens of millions of dollars,” Nancy said.
“So, were they paying off Patrick?” Maria asked.
“That’s the thing. I asked how he could be so sure since Patrick Miller had previously been for more development, so he could pretty easily swing back to that stance after the election. The CFO told me they’d done a favor for him, but the way he said it was in the passive tense, a favor was done, not clear who did it or who even could get close enough to the candidate to do the favor, and I had the feeling from the CFO that he didn’t really know either,” Nancy said.
“So, you have nothing but the bragging of some CFO. Let me guess, he had a spray tan,” Maria said.
“It was Miami. He didn’t need a fake tan,” Nancy said.
Maria rolled her eyes.
“But he did give me a contact at the central office, a bookkeeper named Lorna. She was a little disillusioned. She’d thought when she signed on that the group actually cared about homeowners and would be going after fraudulent HOAs. At least that’s what she had been led to believe when they offered her a below market salary. Supposedly, the good they were going to do needed cut rate pay. When I spoke with her, she had a new job lined up and was about to put in her two weeks. She let me look at what she considered odd payments. There were four different companies that she couldn’t figure out why they were receiving money. Three of the companies, I was able to later figure out, were tied to people running the 501c. Basic double dealing, but one of the companies was run by an ex-Navy Seal who served with Patrick Miller, Vance Nixon, and he lives in Nevada,” Nancy said.
Maria knew that name. A past case? Maybe friends with another cop, and she’d met him at a bar. She couldn’t be sure.
“Vance is the suspected leader of a militia,” Nancy said.
Most of the time when Maria saw people named members of militias, they ended up being overweight white men who felt like a failure at life and wanted the excitement of running around like GI Joe. They were mostly harmless or useless or both.
Vance Nixon.
Now she remembered. A young man had been accused of raping a fifteen-year-old girl. The man had just turned eighteen. Still a kid, really. He went to high school with the girl. His name had been James or maybe Jamie. But he was a black kid, and the girl was white. It had happened at a party. He said, she said. The girl’s father was irate. He didn’t feel like the detectives were pursuing the case strongly enough. The detectives thought maybe the girl had been dating James but didn’t want to tell her father.
Next thing you knew, someone beat James until he was unconscious outside his house. Whoever it was broke James' jaw and both his hands. James swore he didn’t remember anything from the night, but the detectives liked the girl’s uncle, an ex-military man named Vance Nixon. The father had a clear alibi. He was in a casino when it all happened. Vance claimed to have been out of a town, and there were no witnesses.
Vance Nixon.
“The bookkeeper couldn’t see a reason for Vance to be receiving any money, and I did some research into him. Watched some of his YouTube videos. I have a hard time seeing a connection between Vance and Patrick, except for the fact that they served together,” Nancy said.
“Why?”
“Vance is a big Great Replacement theory guy. He thinks America is losing its culture because of too many Mexicans coming across the border, and Patrick speaks Spanish fluently and makes a point of hiring diverse staff,” Nancy said.
“Not to mention if the press got wind of him hanging out with someone like Vance Nixon, it would make it hard for him to get elected in Nevada. How much money are we talking about?” Maria said.
“Three hundred thousand dollars. Could it have been to kill someone?” Nancy said.
“If it was, they got ripped off. Hitmen aren’t nearly as expensive as the movies would have you believe,” Maria said.
“Whatever it was, it can’t be a coincidence,” Nancy said.
Maria stood up and walked to the window. Looked outside at the parking lot. Empty cars and sunshine. The best part about life was that most of these terrible things went on in the background while ninety-nine percent of the world went about their day blissfully unaware of the machinations of the wealthy. It all seemed so far away because the negative repercussions were so spread out. Does anyone really notice that they paid ten thousand dollars more for a house than they would have otherwise? No, because they didn’t know some hedge fund paid three hundred thousand dollars for a man to do something in order to influence policy. Everybody noticed a gun pointed at their face, but they didn’t make the connection between their car insurance going up because their neighbor committed fraud. This was why criminals like the men behind Save Our Homes rarely ever suffered consequences, and they weren’t going to suffer any this time.
But Vance Nixon. He was within Maria’s reach.
Could Maria even be sure Nancy was right?
“Why did you come here to tell me all of this?” Maria asked.
“Because you are a woman who gets shit done. At least, that’s what everyone says, and let’s be honest, Vegas is a pay to play town. Always has been, always will be, but maybe this time, we can make them pay for the shit they’re pulling,” Nancy said.
“We?” Maria said.
“The only way they go to jail is with press coverage. The pressure has to be high enough that nobody can make it disappear,” Nancy said.
“So, you want a story,” Maria said.
“I’m a reporter. I always want a story. But I also want whoever is pulling the strings to be exposed, and I want whoever did the actions to pay,” Nancy said.
“I’m on leave. There’s nothing I can do,” Maria said.
Nancy didn’t look shocked, but she did look disappointed. The look annoyed Maria, even though she knew she was lying. There was no way Maria wasn’t going after Vance Nixon and anyone else who might have been involved, but she couldn’t have Nancy knowing that.
This was the kind of case that wasn’t going to end in the newspaper.
“You’re full of shit,” Nancy said.
Maria rolled her eyes. Turned away from Nancy.
“Even if you’re going to kill them, at least let me help you find them,” Nancy said.
“I’m a cop. I don’t kill people. I arrest them,” Maria said.
“Tell that to the guy in that cabin from a few weeks ago,” Nancy said.
“I didn’t have a choice there,” Maria said.
Nancy put a business card on the table. Told Maria to call her if she changed her mind.