THE GOLD CITY PAWNSHOP LAS VEGAS, NEVADA SEPTEMBER 5TH
Family law attorney Stan Stopher sat in his rented Chevy and made sure the address was correct. He glanced at the envelope and the name, and they matched with what was on the old neon sign out in front of the building. Stan opened the car door and stepped into the Las Vegas heat that hit him as if someone had just opened the door of a blast furnace. He walked back to the trunk, retrieved the aluminum box, then hesitated. This act of delivering the case was tantamount to admitting that he would possibly never see her again. He knew she was in trouble, but for the life of him couldn’t figure out why she was sending the fossil to a pawnshop.
He closed the trunk, walked up to the door, and pushed down on the old thumb plate. The door easily opened. He didn’t notice that the cameras placed in the doorway and three more across the street followed his every move. He felt the blessed air-conditioning strike him in his face, instantly cooling his sweaty brow. He set the case down and removed his sunglasses as his eyes adjusted to the brightly lit shop, then retrieved the case and followed a cramped aisle toward the back of the shop. Two young girls were going through the used CD collection, but other than them, the pawnshop was empty of customers. A large black man was seated behind the counter, reading a newspaper, both of his muscular arms resting on the glass. At least, to an untrained eye, he was reading. Stan was an observant man and he saw the black man’s gaze take in his thin frame. Then the man closed the paper and looked up at him overtly. His left hand stayed on the glass countertop but his right disappeared.
“Hi, there,” the black man said. “What have you got? I hope it’s not vinyl LPs; can’t get rid of ’em anymore,” he said, indicating the aluminum case.
Stan placed the shiny box on the counter and smiled. “No, I would never sell my collection of phonograph records.”
“Oh, then how can I help you?” the clerk asked. His right hand was still not in view.
“Well,” Stan reached into his shirt pocket and brought out the envelope and his business card, “a close friend of mine asked me to deliver this,” he said, tapping the container and handing the black man the card.
The clerk looked more closely at the bright aluminum box and then stepped on a small red button on the floor by his foot.
“I see, Mr.—” he looked at the business card, “Stopher. Let’s start with who your friend is and then we’ll move on to what’s in the case.”
At that moment another man stepped out from behind a curtain at the back of the counter and without looking, only whistling, walked around to a rack of sunglasses. He started using a pricing gun left-handedly to mark the price of the glasses.
“Well, the container belongs to a very dear friend whose name is Professor Helen Zachary. She is director of Zoology at Stanford University, and what is in the box is for the recipient only.”
“And that is?”
Without looking at the envelope he said the name he had memorized, “Dr. Niles Compton. Does the good doctor own this establishment?” Stan asked.
“He owns the building, we just lease. I can deliver this, as long as it’s not a bomb,” the clerk said and smiled. The man pricing sunglasses didn’t. The fingers of his right hand were lightly tickling a Beretta automatic pistol lodged just inside the front of his shirt.
“No, nothing as exciting as a bomb, I’m afraid.”
“Well, we can get it to him. Can I help you with anything? Maybe add to your collection of LPs?”
“No, thank you, your prices are kind of steep, I noticed.” Then he became deadly serious. “Look, I need to know where this case is going. This is a very dear friend of mine and I’m worried beyond measure.”
“Sir, if you were instructed to deliver this package to Dr. Compton, you can bet action will be taken to help. I’m sure someone will be in touch as soon as possible.”
The attorney wasn’t satisfied, but put his faith in the fact that Helen must have known what she was doing.
Staff Sergeant Will Mendenhall watched as the old man left the shop. He looked at the card and then over to Lance Corporal Tommy Nance, United States Marine Corps.
“We better get this X-rayed,” said Mendenhall, standing from his stool, where he had been in easy reach of the .45 automatic holstered behind the display case. As he grabbed for the aluminum box, he heard the click of an M-16 being placed on safety from behind the curtain. “Watch the store, Corporal, and try to get those two girls to buy something.”
Corporal Nance straightened his collar and walked over to the girls, his broad smile gleaming.
“Hi, there,” he said as suavely as he could.
The tallest one turned around and smiled, revealing a mouth full of braces. She couldn’t have been more than fourteen years old. Nance’s interest deflated. He kept busy ticketing for the next twenty minutes, listening to the two underage girls giggle and flirt with him. Sometimes gate duty truly sucked.
The back room at the Gold City Pawnshop was no different in appearance than a hundred others with in the Las Vegas City limits. Stored there were items just tagged as collateral and others that had been pulled off the shelf for not selling. It was the door in the back that led to the office that hid the wizard behind the curtain.
Staff Sergeant Will Mendenhall was sitting and looking at the aluminum case and shaking his head. He had just finished speaking with Lieutenant Commander Carl Everett, who had ordered the attorney followed. A two-man team was currently tailing Stanley Stopher to wherever he was staying. Just in case they needed him for any reason. When Mendenhall had explained what the X-ray had turned up, security protocol went into immediate effect. The case and envelope addressed to Director Compton was sitting on the watch commander’s desk.
Mendenhall heard the elevator arrive from the lower level, and the false-fronted wall slide aside. He turned and stood when he saw it was not only Carl who had arrived, but Major Collins also.
“So, we have a skeletal hand in a box?” Jack asked.
“Yes, sir, wasn’t expecting that,” Mendenhall said with a smile.
“And our tail is still in contact with our attorney friend?”
“Yes, sir, they just checked in. It seems Mr. Stopher is heading for McCarran airport. You want them to follow along?”
Jack pursed his lips and thought. “I’ll have the USC field team pulled off duty and tail him long enough to make sure he’s who he says he is.”
Jack looked the container over and then read the heading on the envelope. He then pulled the computer monitor around to face him and Carl. The X-ray image was still up and he examined it. “Nothing but the aluminum case, bone, and foam, with a hard rubber gasket lining the lid and soft neoprene for atmosphere evacuation. The computer is one hundred percent on this?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Still, how is it that someone can walk right in off the street and know that this is a gate to the Group?” Carl asked.
“Simple, if he didn’t know it was a gate and was instructed to deliver the item to this address by a former Group member,” Mendenhall ventured.
Both Jack and Carl stopped talking and stared at the sergeant.
“Or maybe not,” Mendenhall said, looking embarrassed for interrupting the two officers.
Jack looked from Mendenhall and then back to Carl, who slapped the sergeant on the shoulder.
“Look, Will, anytime that you see your commanding officers overlooking the obvious, feel free to make them look and feel like idiots,” Carl said.
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, let’s play postman and deliver the mail,” Jack said as he pocketed the envelope and lifted the container.