"He who is slow to anger
is better than the mighty.
And he who rules his spirit,
than he who captures a city."
Proverbs 16:32
Unable to sleep, Win Steele wandered through the compact living room of his late son's rented condominium. A sliding-glass door opening onto a golf course admitted faint predawn light. Faux-marble flooring was cool and soothing beneath his bare feet. The master-bedroom door was closed. Maybe Kyler was getting some much-needed rest.
Win spotted a copy of his coauthored book, Counterspace, on an expensive marble coffee table. He opened it to the title page and read a handwritten inscription. He'd signed it shortly after the novel's release the previous September. A dog-eared page suggested Erik had not finished the techno-thriller.
So much unfinished, Win agonized. The condo still held a hint of Erik's presence, like a shadow that somehow persisted, after the body that created it had vanished. The air had a distinctive scent that reminded Win of his son.
Near the front door, a desk was cluttered with the tools of a young professional's trade: Leather Franklin planner, laptop computer, to-do lists compiled in Erik's distinctive bold scrawl, a container of pens, several notebooks and a pile of Cardiac Response Corporation technical brochures.
A plastic file box, sandwiched between a gas-log fireplace and an expansive, nine-foot-tall bookcase, was overflowing with neatly labeled folders. A couple of unwashed drinking glasses were in the kitchen sink and a half-full pitcher of blueberries blended with Living Fuel protein powder sat in the refrigerator. A Canon multifunction printer's control panel was illuminated.
Every item was waiting, frozen in time, locked in gut-wrenching suspended animation. Although silent now, the residence and its contents fairly shrieked, I'll be right back!
But Erik would never again walk through that door, sit on this sofa, drink the rest of that blueberry-and-Living Fuel concoction, watch the news or a movie on that big-screen TV… or finish Counterspace. His life had been abruptly, cruelly terminated in the span of a few heartbeats. Not paused, not interrupted. Ended!
Detritus of a stolen life, Win thought, scanning the room. Why, Dear God? Why was Erik murdered?
Fighting tears and crushing chest pain, he stood at a counter separating the dining area and kitchen. He absently examined items the Clark County Public Administrator's office had confiscated, then returned to Kyler. The random nature of those articles was striking.
Why would the PA snatch these, while leaving high-dollar watches in the closet and a stack of valuable, collector-grade rifles under the bed? Totally illogical—unless one accepted that the PA and his Metro sidekick had found and stolen precisely what they wanted: Several of Erik's firearms. But why?
From a second bag, Win retrieved a tube of ChapStick lip moisturizer fortified with SPF-15 sunblock. His fair-skinned, red-haired son always carried protective lip balm. Win removed the cap and studied the pale, waxy substance. Its edges were rounded off.
This touched Erik's lips. His DNA is on that stick, Win thought, staring at the balm. He felt an overpowering urge to smear the salve on his own lips. It was macabre, almost obscene, but he desperately wanted that cream-colored gel in contact with his own lips. It was a connection, a way to touch Erik one last time.
That's too damned weird, he concluded, angrily jamming the cap in place. God, I'm going nuts!
For perhaps the thousandth time, he wondered how a parent could survive such heart-searing pain—the absolute impossibility of facing another day, knowing that a priceless son had been seized without mercy, snatched from life, never to return. And for no sensible reason.
"Hey, Dad." Kyler appeared behind his father. Eyelids were puffy, and bloodshot brown eyes stated the obvious. "Get any sleep?"
"Damned little. Kat's account was too graphic. The high-def mind-movie wouldn't stop. Played all night, over and over.
"How 'bout you, son?"
Kyler yawned and ran a hand through pillow-scrunched dark hair. "If I did, it wasn't much. I finally got up and worked on this."
He extended a yellow legal pad.
Win glanced over a long list of tasks.
Just like his mom.
"Good plan, Big Guy. Can you handle most of it? Link has me lined up for a batch of media interviews. I'll be running all over town today."
"Yeah. This morning, I'll work with Diana to outline a memorial service. She and Max said they'd take care of all the arrangements."
Despite being devastated by their close friend's death, Max Decimus and his wife, Andrea, had been rock solid, invaluable allies. They had suggested Layna stay in Sacramento, until later in the week, while Max, Diana and the wife of another friend set up next Saturday's service. Layna was still reeling from two family fatalities, and this would spare her another agonizing burden.
Win and Kyler discussed logistics details, then headed for separate showers. It was going to be a busy, gut-devouring day, but the demands of "gotta-dos" would keep that horrible, inescapable truth at arms length: Erik was gone.
* *
Ned Scott, a senior reporter and anchor for Channel 7, The Voice of Nevada, greeted Win and Link Mann in the lobby of KWNV's studios. Scott expressed heartfelt condolences, while leading them to a darkened soundstage. Bright lights and fabric reflectors mounted on adjustable stands created a patch of stark illumination around two chairs.
"I'll start with a few questions about Erik. The community needs to know more about your son," Ned explained, while a technician fixed a microphone to Win's shirt collar.
"But this is your show. Say whatever's on your mind."
As investigative reporters, Ned and Win had known each other for at least eight years, sharing tips and tidbits of information about "black aircraft" programs. That history had established a level of professional respect and trust.
The technician seated Win facing Ned, the bank of blinding lights, and a high-definition TV camera. Link Mann parked himself near a black-painted wall, barely visible.
"Ready… We're on," the camera operator announced.
"Win, tell us about your son, Erik Steele."
For the next twenty minutes, Win capsulized his son's impressive life: An active, mischievous, happy boy, who played football in high school, displayed early leadership qualities as student body vice president, won the Catholic school's coveted Scholar Athlete award, and secured an appointment to the U.S. Military Academy at West Point. There, he played 150-pound varsity football, majored in Spanish with a minor in Systems Engineering, graduated in the top quarter of his class, and was commissioned an Army second lieutenant.
"What did he do in the Army?" Scott asked.
"Erik 'branched' to Armor," Win continued, "and was a tank platoon commander in M1A2 tanks, assigned to the First Cavalry at Fort Hood, Texas. He was a very good leader, and received a number of commendations.
"For example, the first time his unit rotated to Fort Irwin, a huge desert training complex in Southern California, the commander parked Erik's platoon way over on the West side, noting, 'You won't see any action over here.' But that's exactly where the Opposition Force rolled through.
"When his tanks started taking hits, Erik kept trying to figure out, 'Who's targeting us?' He spotted an OH-fifty-eight Kiowa Warrior helicopter, fitted with a mast-mounted sight, hovering behind a hill. He knew that helicopter was targeting his tanks and was responsible for his people taking hits.
"So, on his own initiative, Erik directed two of his tanks to turn their big guns and aim at a certain spot. He said, 'On my command, FIRE!,' just as the helicopter popped up. They nailed the bird with their MILES system 'laser-tag' cannons.
"The exercise observers said they'd never seen such an innovative tactic. As a result, they awarded Erik the Army Achievement Medal.
"That was typical. He was always an innovator — and an excellent leader."
Win summarized Erik's post-Army business career, focusing on his success in medical sales and commercial real estate, particularly in Las Vegas.
"At the time of his death, he was a sales rep for Cardiac Response Corporation, selling and servicing pacemakers, which included assisting doctors and heart patients at all hours.
"Erik was the kind of remarkable man that made a father very, very proud."
"When did he go to Duke University?" Ned asked.
"While here in Las Vegas, working full time, he dove into the Cross-Continent program at Duke, and received his Masters of Business Administration degree in May of oh-three."
"Was there anything in his personality that might explain the events that unfolded here?" Scott asked. "Like being…confrontational? I think I know the answer, but go ahead and tell me, from the position of a dad."
"Obviously I don't know the details of what happened," Win said. "We'll have to wait until the investigation is completed. However, extremely good, first-hand reports from credible people within six, eight feet of Erik tell a much different story than what Metro's putting out through the media. A lot different! The eyewitness accounts are much more consistent with the Erik I know. That is, when things are dicey, he would become very calm. Erik was always cool and calm, under fire.
"If I were in a really tough situation, there are two guys I want with me: Erik, and my other son, Kyler." The elder Steele paused and cleared his throat. "They just don't get more solid than those two."
"Are you concerned that people will try to find dirt, or trump up something from his background? Anything that might be blown into something that it's not?"
"Of course. As a reporter, Ned, you know that a story can be created from just about anything. But I'm confident that any honest person won't find any skeletons in Erik's past. However, there will be attempts to discredit him. That's Metro's standard MO."
Taken aback by the blunt accusation, Scott changed the subject. "Have you been able to piece together a picture of what went down? You've spoken to his girlfriend, who was right there with him, about this 'tearing through merchandise, reaching for a gun.' From what you can tell, how accurate are the reports we've been reading in the paper?"
"I'm not going to get into the details of what we know or don't know, Ned. But I will say that those reports are grossly inaccurate. Believe me, we have a pretty good picture of what happened."
"What can you tell me about Erik's training and familiarity with guns? Why would he be carrying one?"
"Erik had a legal concealed-carry permit, issued by Metro, the same outfit that killed him. It was not unusual for him to carry a weapon. He once said, 'Dad, in my job, I go into some rough areas of Las Vegas.'
"And, as you know, Ned, Las Vegas has been plagued by crime—home invasions and such—since the economy collapsed. Erik carried a firearm for personal protection. His permit certified that he was of sound mind, had completed the proper training, and had a clean background."
"Hold it there, okay?" the camera operator interrupted.
As he loaded a fresh tape, Ned said, off-camera, "That's great, Win. Exactly what everybody needs to hear."
Steele nodded and took a deep breath to steady himself. He'd almost lost it a moment ago. No way was he going to let that happen on-camera.
"Ready… We're back on," the tech said. Ned waved, indicating Steele should continue.
Win discussed how his sons were raised to respect firearms, use them with the utmost safety and to consider a gun as merely another tool.
"In the Army, Erik learned to use a variety of weapons and was comfortable with them. Consequently, I have no reason to believe much of what's being reported in the media. That's misinformation being put out by Metro to cover their incredibly senseless, tragic mistake."
Win shifted in the chair and cocked his head. Slate-blue eyes hardened, matching a shift in tone of voice.
"At some point, Ned, you're going to ask, 'How do you feel?' Hell, I'm in shock! Erik's mother, Erik's brother and I are extremely distraught.
"Look, as a flight test engineer, I tested airplanes. The engineer part of me simply can not find a link between cause and effect. There's no logical connection between what Erik was doing in the store and being shot to death.
"Then there's the father part of me that says, 'Call in the airstrikes right now!'"
He hesitated, eyes flashing and jaw set.
"Then there's the journalist in me that says, 'Withhold judgment. Don't overreact. Don't assume anything, until all the facts are in.'
"So, I'll be watching this investigation very closely. One way or another, we will see justice done."
"I'm wondering whether you've been told anything about Ho's security cameras," Scott said. "Did they capture video inside or outside?"
"We've not been told a damn thing about the surveillance video. We know Ho's had plenty of cameras. Metro's leaks about the video system possibly being inoperable simply aren't credible. A fiction writer could have a heyday with what I'm hearing, so far."
"So, would you be surprised to find the cameras weren't working in those areas?" the reporter pressed.
"No. Would you?"
Ned ignored the retort. "Any other thoughts?"
Win nodded slowly. "It's impossible to accept that something this bizarre and senseless could have taken my son's life. I feel like those seven rounds hit me in the chest and blew a massive hole in my heart, a hole that will never be filled.
"If I were a Las Vegas resident, I would be concerned. If this could happen to someone like Erik Steele, a prominent, law-abiding citizen and a successful businessman, it can happen to you. Somebody can concoct a false story, call the police, and a scared, trigger-happy cop could kill your son, or daughter or wife or husband. It can happen to anybody.
"I would love to see Erik Steele's legacy be the citizens of Las Vegas demanding that Sheriff Uriah clean up Metro. Do whatever it takes to make sure this never happens again.
"A lot of people have been killed in Las Vegas. Many were killed by Metro cops. Those victims didn't have a voice. Now, they do.
"Let me make one point very clear, Ned: This time, they killed the wrong guy."
* *
Clips of the Steele interview ran on Channel 7 news shows that afternoon and evening, and the full sixteen-plus-minute segment was posted on the KWNV website. By noon the next day, more than 250 viewers had posted comments on the website, including several written by eyewitnesses of the shooting.
Win was driving to yet another TV interview, when Ned Scott called. "Hey, you really struck a nerve!" he exclaimed. "Our website has been slammed by comments! We've never seen a story that resonated with people like this one!"
"Any pattern to those comments?" Win asked, weaving through heavy traffic to keep Link Mann's Mercedes in sight. If he lost it, he'd be seriously late for the next interview.
"Definitely," Ned replied. "Two statements really grabbed our viewers: Your point that this could happen to anybody hit people hard. They see themselves in Erik and know it could just as easily have been them or someone they know.
"The other was your last statement: 'This time they killed the wrong guy.' That got everybody's attention."
Ned had to take off, but promised to follow up later in the day.
Brief interviews with each of the local TV stations and a longer, more detailed session with a reporter from the largest local newspaper, the Las Vegas Review-Journal, consumed several hours. Steele stuck to the same points, refining his message with each successive interview, based on feedback from Link. The latter's professional guidance was invaluable.
By day's end, Win was emotionally and physically drained, but Link was invigorated and fired up.
"Man, you scored big-time, every time!" the media expert exclaimed. "You stayed on-message and definitely won over a gaggle of reporters."
"Except Mattie," Win said, grimacing. The dark-haired TV reporter with enhanced mammaries and a deep, raspy smoker's voice had attacked Steele and his son's memory unmercifully.
"Forget Mattie. If I'd known she'd be doing the interview, I never would have agreed to it."
"What's her problem, anyway?" Win snapped.
"She's a dyed-in-the-wool badge-licker. Hell, she's sleeping with a cop!" Link grinned. "You watch. Before this weekend, she'll have an 'exclusive' with Sheriff Uriah, giving him a platform to trash Erik. And she won't challenge his bullshit. Softball questions and pablum follow-ups. Guaranteed."
At the moment, Win was too wrung out to care. He'd done his best to stay calm and cool, but, as fatigue set in, he'd popped off a time or two - and Mattie-the-Metro-lover would capitalize on those flashes of anger. Not good.
He and Link agreed to meet at another news-media office the next morning. Link still had paying clients to serve, and would probably be working half the night, playing catch-up.
Win, again, expressed deep appreciation for Link's assistance. Without question, Link Mann was one of those precious Earth Angels sent to ensure the Steele family survived this horrific nightmare.
* *
"We definitely have a solid wrongful-death case," Sofia Knight asserted. "No guarantees, but I think we can win this."
Her large blue eyes danced between Win and Kyler Steele.
"I'll be honest, Sofia," Win said. "Numerous lawyers have tracked me down and offered their services. Some of Erik's friends say you're not the right attorney for this case.
"What's your strategy? How does it differ from your competitors, and why should we sign up with you?"
The questions were polite, but with an edge. Sofia hadn't closed the deal.
"Because I'll file in federal court," she said. "The usual suspects will file in local court, because that's what they always do. But state law puts a cap on what those courts can award. Federal court doesn't have caps."
"Why doesn't everybody go the federal route, then?" Kyler asked.
"Much harder to win in federal court, and the hurdles are higher. I'm one of maybe three attorneys in Las Vegas, who have handled a case like this in U.S. court," she said. "In a federal civil rights case, you need a unanimous jury. Getting a hundred percent is tough, but doable."
Win nodded, watching Sofia closely. "Understand. I don't care about the number. I only have one requirement: Make it hurt. These bastards killed my son, and I want them to be held accountable."
Sofia raised an open hand and pledged, "I'll give you a thousand percent, Win. I'll do everything in my legal power to bring this in for you.
"Far as I'm concerned, Erik was a brother-in-arms. We both wore a uniform and served our country. As I see it, these low-life cockroaches killed one of my own."
After clarifying a few points, Win signed the contract. Sofia Knight was now the family lawyer, committed to representing the Steeles in a grueling battle with Clark County, the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department and Ho's Corporation.
"This will be a marathon, not a sprint," she cautioned, also signing the document. "It's going to get very nasty, too. You should expect Metro to lie and cheat at every turn. They're already out there, trying to dig up dirt about Erik. Metro works closely with the District Attorney's office to completely assassinate a victim's character. Their strategy will be to demonize Erik—discredit, obfuscate, besmirch, slander and attack him viciously.
"During the inquest hearing, they'll distort the facts, manufacture evidence and tell only their side of the story. I'll fill you in on that perversion of justice later. For now, be prepared for really hideous things to be said about your son. An all-out assault on his character."
Win's eyes narrowed. "But why attack Erik?"
"Because that's what Metro always does, and the DA helps Metro destroy the victim," Sofia shot back. "These are the most corrupt, mendacious weasels you will ever encounter. They always blame the victim, try to create a perception that this was a very bad person, then imply, 'Good thing we killed the scum-ball, huh?'
"These jerks have no morals. Lies, lies and more lies. That's their standard game plan. And, in Las Vegas, it usually works."
She slapped the polished conference table and, in a low, menacing tone, added, "Until now. Paraphrasing what you said last night, Metro really did kill the wrong guy.
"We're going to destroy those bastards, Win."
* *
Stanton Kern swirled a glass of fine Merlot and eyed the attractive woman on the other side of a linen-covered table for two. His daughter, Sofia Knight, was excited and animated.
"Dad, this could be the case! The one that finally takes Metro down." She took a sip of golden Chardonnay, and continued, "There's absolutely no doubt that Erik Steele was murdered—literally executed. The surveillance video will prove it, but there also were forty or fifty eyewitnesses. If we can find even half of them, we'll have an airtight case."
The elegant former district judge nodded slowly, watching the red liquid rotate in a smooth, practiced motion.
"Are you sure you want to take on Metro, hon?" he asked, choosing his words with care. "You'll be up against more than a few dumb cops, you know."
"'Course, I know, Dad! Metro and the entire DA's office, the Public Administrator, half the judges in town, our esteemed Senator Al Slaten, plus Dick Nardel and his police-union gang.
"Did I miss anybody?"
"Yes. A certain billionaire on the Strip," the retired district judge added with a wry smile. "When Antone Galocci yells 'jump,' the sheriff and his clowns yell 'How high?' on the way up.
"Metro officers are Galocci's enforcers, and 'Woody' Ryns, our integrity-challenged district attorney, ensures cops are never held responsible for broken knees, cracked skulls and innocent—but seriously dead—civilians. You know how it works."
"Yes, I do, Father dear," she said. The sarcasm was intended. "How long did it take to finally put that bastard Gilbert behind bars? Nine years! And for what?"
"Not for what he did to you, hon," the ex-judge said softly. "But convicting him for trafficking in illegal weapons was better than leaving that lowlife on the streets."
Sofia absently picked at the remains of steamed broccoli and a thick fillet. She sighed and wiped moist eyes.
"You're right. You're always right. He still got away with… ." Her voice trailed off, the memory too painful.
"I'm sorry, Dad. Erik's murder reopened the wounds."
"I understand, baby," Kern said, patting her arm. "It still pains me, too. When I saw Gilbert in the courtroom, during his trial, I wanted to beat his brains out."
He straightened, arm crooked, holding up his wine glass.
"But you moved on, because you wouldn't let that animal ruin your life. Naval academy grad. Marine Corps intelligence officer. Combat duty in Iraq. Then law school. Underwritten by Uncle Sam, no less! Five years as a Marine JAG [Judge Advocate General], and now a full partner. I couldn't be more proud of you, Sofie."
He raised the glass in salute.
Sofia blinked tears away, then downed the rest of her wine.
"Thanks, Dad," she breathed. "Sometimes, I don't feel like that tough Marine you so admire, though."
She sighed, pushed her plate away and placed folded arms on the table.
"Enough poor me! Right now, I need your advice." She outlined her preliminary strategy for handling the Steele's wrongful-death case.
Kern listened closely, nodding now and then, swirling the last drops of wine.
"It sounds good to me, Sofie. Except for timing. I'd wait until after the inquest hearing to file a suit.
"Metro and our unscrupulous DAs will do their usual cover-up Kabuki dance, during the hearing, but you'll get more than you have now. And you'll finally get a look at the Ho's surveillance video."
Sofia started to protest, but the judge silenced her with an open palm. "Sofie, you will not be allowed to view that video, before the hearing. Yes, you'll file motions up the wazoo, but Metro and their DA lackeys will never let you see the video. They might show selected clips at the hearing, but you should get the whole video thereafter.
"Just don't lock yourself in too early," he cautioned. "The hearing could alter your strategy. You might even decide to drop the case."
He sounded faintly hopeful, Sofia thought.
"I will not drop it, Dad!" she declared, irritated. "I promised Mr. Steele I'd give him a thousand percent. I'm damn sure not abandoning this guy."
"Truth, honor and Academy sense of duty?" He was smiling, but the words were intentional jabs. He ignored the flash of anger in her eyes.
"Look, hon. I watched your client's interview on TV last night, and I agree with your assessment. The guy's got guts, and did an admirable job of holding it together. I'm sure Erik Steele was every bit his father's son—a damned fine man. I get it.
"Now, please cut your father a little slack for wanting to protect his little girl from the certainty of a very ugly battle.
"And I have to ask: Are you sure you're doing this for the right reasons? Are you taking on this fight for Erik's sake, or is it about Sofie getting even?"
She slammed a fist on the table. "This is not about getting even, Dad! I want this fight! Yesterday, I got a good look at the stinking little Ho's toad, the guy who fingered Erik. This tragedy was caused by a stereotypical tin god exercising his miserable two cents of authority.
"Metro shot and killed Erik, but Ho's loaded the guns. There was absolutely no justification for that creep calling the cops, or for them to confront Erik and shoot him to death. That handsome young man should be as alive and healthy as you and I. But he's dead, because little men with tiny brains, no balls and big guns killed him.
"I'm going to nail those worthless bastards, dad!"
The ex-judge sighed, resigned. "Alright. How can I help?"
"Thought you'd never ask!" Sofia laughed. "I need money and resources. More lawyers to conduct depositions. Experts on cops' use of force, medications and God-knows-what else. I can handle the case, but, as you know, we're a boutique law firm."
"Hmmm… . Since I founded that firm, I might understand," Kern smiled. "I'm fairly sure I can round up the money and a few itinerate lawyers, when the time's right.
"Meanwhile, find those eyewitnesses and get their testimony on tape, before Metro's homicide dicks get to them. But don't file a lawsuit, until all our ducks are in formation. Deal?"
She nodded and took her father's age-spotted hand. "Thanks, Dad. I knew you'd help me take this leap."
She stretched over the table and whispered, "Can I tell you a secret?"
"Of course," Kern said, concerned.
She crooked a finger, drawing him closer, and stage-whispered, "I'm scared shitless, Dad. But I know I can win this case."
Kern adopted the same conspiratorial tone.
"You should be scared, baby girl. You're swimming with sharks. Big sharks. Watch your six, Marine."
He wasn't smiling.