Vanishing Point - Marc Cerasini [64]
"Not much here," Dallas noted. "There was an assault and truck jacking this morning, out at Mesa Canyon, corner of Smoke Ranch Road and North Buffalo. The truck was a late model Dodge Sprinter, white with commercial plates. It was a Fit-Chef delivery van."
The sergeant made a face. "My ex-wife ate that crap all the time. Shit cost an arm and a leg, but she never lost an ounce from that fat ass of hers."
Brad Dallas had met his partner's ex-wife. She was an attractive woman with nice legs and a biting sense of humor, and he didn't think she had a particularly fat ass, either. Officer Dallas wasn't going to argue the point, however.
"Hey, this is weird," Dallas said a minute later. "Someone else jacked a Dodge Sprinter this morning. Over near Mulberry Mall. It was white, too... Same model year."
He flipped through the pages. "Damn. Here's another one. Nine AM, a uniform supply company van in front of a Dunkin' Donut."
"Okay, so you're thinking that somebody's planning a big heist using a trio of Dodge Sprinters? How likely is that?"
"I didn't say that," Dallas replied. "I was just saying I thought it was interesting, that's all. Anyway, if you're thinking about it, why stop with three?"
"Okay, partner. I'm hooked," Sergeant Locklear declared. "I think it's time you check the police data banks in Reno and see if they're losing Dodge Sprinters, too."
They turned onto Las Vegas Boulevard. Traffic was moving, but the streets were already packed with cars.
Washing down the last bite with a gulp of Diet Coke, Dallas put his greasy burger wrapper on the seat and swung the dashboard computer so it faced him. The young policeman wiped his fingers with a napkin, then cracked his knuckles. The RATS patrol had special access to up-to-the-minute car theft data from all over the state, not just Vegas. In a moment, Brad Dallas was exploring the state's law enforcement database, city by city.
* * *
9:18:19 p.m. PDT
Las Vegas Boulevard
With each swerve and bump, Curtis managed to shift position, until he could observe the two men in the front seat. The driver was grizzled and well into middle-age, with sagging eyes and a blubbery neck. Curtis recognized that one — the fellow who beat him into unconsciousness and tied him up.
The man in the passenger seat was young, with dark, excited eyes under bushy eyebrows and close-cropped hair. His name was Hector and he seemed nervous and jumpy. While Curtis watched, the man swallowed an amphetamine without water. Both men wore nondescript navy blue uniform-type overalls that appeared black in the gloom of the truck's interior.
Right now Curtis was helpless to do more than watch. There was no way he could free himself from the wires binding his wrists. They were firmly embedded in his ravaged and swollen flesh. Fortunately, after the older guy had beaten him down, he did a sloppy job of wiring Curtis' legs. By twisting around for several minutes — and ignoring a considerable amount of pain — he'd managed to loosen the wires enough so that he could sit up, maybe get to his knees or even his feet, when the time came.
"You missed the turn, Salazar. The Babylon is on the other side of the boulevard," Hector cried.
The young man suddenly turned his head around, to peer over the back of his seat. Curtis froze, but the man's gaze passed right over him, to the view out of the rear windows. After a glance, he turned around again. Curtis relaxed enough to breathe.
"You have to circle around now, old man. Try making a U-turn and be quick about it. Come on, come on, do it man. we're running behind schedule."
The younger man's voice was laced with adrenaline. He trembled with nervous impatience.
The older man frowned, rubbed his hairy neck. Then Salazar jerked the steering wheel into a sharp turn. Hector grunted in surprise, clutched the dashboard. Curtis, still on his back, used the vehicle's momentum to help him roll to his knees. Fighting to remain upright, the steel truck bed digging into his kneecaps, Curtis heard tires squeal and