Read Online Replaceable: An Alan Lamb Thriller by J.W. Bouchard - Free Book Online
Authors: J.W. Bouchard
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east side of the building; on the west was a place called the Kaishi Grill. Down a long corridor, there was a small bar, and past that a buffet.
Alan wasn’t a gambler. In his rather plain world of blacks and whites, he had never taken to letting things ride on chance, even if it was only money. But he had been in casinos before, and he could scarcely remember visiting one that had been so devoid of life. Save for a handful of law enforcement personnel and a skeleton crew of employees, the place was deserted.
The Painted Horse was being treated as a crime scene. The entire building was on temporary lockdown.
The few employees that remained had grouped themselves into small clusters, huddled around each other and speaking in whispers. Spreading gossip, Alan thought.
He wondered if they had interviewed any witnesses, wondered how the various accounts differed. In times of crisis, people tended to process things differently. One witness might swear a suspect was wearing a red hat, while another would testify that it had been a black one. Peoples’ perceptions of events often varied tremendously, especially if they were being asked to describe the details of a criminal act.
The smell of desperation and cigarette smoke clung to the air. There had been a five year stretch where Alan had been a heavy smoker. He had picked up the habit when he was sixteen and hadn’t quit until he had started his career in law enforcement. Quitting had been tough. He had done it cold turkey. There were people who claimed that the craving returned whenever they were around that familiar smell. Alan felt exactly the opposite. He hated the odor of secondhand smoke. Whenever the stench hit his nostrils, it induced a small, tense rage within him; a rage that threatened to compromise his objectivity.
The law enforcement personnel on sight, which included uniformed police officers, special agents from the Division of Criminal Investigation and the Iowa Racing and Gaming Commission were gathered in clusters much as the remaining employees were. Crime scene technicians dotted about, gathering evidence.
Ten yards ahead of him, Alan spotted a man wearing a navy blue windbreaker, gray slacks, and black loafers. A badge dangled from a chain around his neck. Alan made a beeline for him.
When Alan was within a few feet, the man turned and said, “Special Agent Lamb, I presume?”
The man had short black hair, brown eyes, and was an inch or two taller than Alan. He offered his hand and Alan shook it.
“Darrow,” the man said, flashing a smile that revealed a mouthful of perfectly even and brilliantly white teeth. “I’ve been wondering when our paths might cross.”
“Let me guess,” Alan said. “You’re the guy that’s been dumping shit in our toilet?”
Darrow’s smile widened. Alan wondered if the man used whitener. He could have been a TV model for Colgate. “Did I forget to flush?”
“What I don’t understand is why the FBI keeps handing these off to us.”
“Who said I was with the FBI?” Darrow asked.
Alan stared at the man, sizing him up. “Your name’s on all the reports.”
“So many forms. Who can keep track, really?”
Alan didn’t care for riddles. “I’m guessing it has something to do with the deviation in DNA.”
“I’ve been wondering how long it would take you to figure it out,” Darrow said. “I’m not sure I understand the confusion. Isn’t that within GCB’s wheelhouse?”
“Why play games?”
Alan realized that he was teetering toward the edge of a cliff. He was precariously close to violating one of Gant’s golden rules. As much as Gant hated playing the game, he did err on the side of politics when it came to extending the proverbial olive branch to their brothers and sisters in law enforcement. You didn’t shake the trees and you most definitely did not shit in their sandbox. Professionalism, in Gant’s eyes, was key. Alan was aware of this, but he was almost to the point of not
Alan wasn’t a gambler. In his rather plain world of blacks and whites, he had never taken to letting things ride on chance, even if it was only money. But he had been in casinos before, and he could scarcely remember visiting one that had been so devoid of life. Save for a handful of law enforcement personnel and a skeleton crew of employees, the place was deserted.
The Painted Horse was being treated as a crime scene. The entire building was on temporary lockdown.
The few employees that remained had grouped themselves into small clusters, huddled around each other and speaking in whispers. Spreading gossip, Alan thought.
He wondered if they had interviewed any witnesses, wondered how the various accounts differed. In times of crisis, people tended to process things differently. One witness might swear a suspect was wearing a red hat, while another would testify that it had been a black one. Peoples’ perceptions of events often varied tremendously, especially if they were being asked to describe the details of a criminal act.
The smell of desperation and cigarette smoke clung to the air. There had been a five year stretch where Alan had been a heavy smoker. He had picked up the habit when he was sixteen and hadn’t quit until he had started his career in law enforcement. Quitting had been tough. He had done it cold turkey. There were people who claimed that the craving returned whenever they were around that familiar smell. Alan felt exactly the opposite. He hated the odor of secondhand smoke. Whenever the stench hit his nostrils, it induced a small, tense rage within him; a rage that threatened to compromise his objectivity.
The law enforcement personnel on sight, which included uniformed police officers, special agents from the Division of Criminal Investigation and the Iowa Racing and Gaming Commission were gathered in clusters much as the remaining employees were. Crime scene technicians dotted about, gathering evidence.
Ten yards ahead of him, Alan spotted a man wearing a navy blue windbreaker, gray slacks, and black loafers. A badge dangled from a chain around his neck. Alan made a beeline for him.
When Alan was within a few feet, the man turned and said, “Special Agent Lamb, I presume?”
The man had short black hair, brown eyes, and was an inch or two taller than Alan. He offered his hand and Alan shook it.
“Darrow,” the man said, flashing a smile that revealed a mouthful of perfectly even and brilliantly white teeth. “I’ve been wondering when our paths might cross.”
“Let me guess,” Alan said. “You’re the guy that’s been dumping shit in our toilet?”
Darrow’s smile widened. Alan wondered if the man used whitener. He could have been a TV model for Colgate. “Did I forget to flush?”
“What I don’t understand is why the FBI keeps handing these off to us.”
“Who said I was with the FBI?” Darrow asked.
Alan stared at the man, sizing him up. “Your name’s on all the reports.”
“So many forms. Who can keep track, really?”
Alan didn’t care for riddles. “I’m guessing it has something to do with the deviation in DNA.”
“I’ve been wondering how long it would take you to figure it out,” Darrow said. “I’m not sure I understand the confusion. Isn’t that within GCB’s wheelhouse?”
“Why play games?”
Alan realized that he was teetering toward the edge of a cliff. He was precariously close to violating one of Gant’s golden rules. As much as Gant hated playing the game, he did err on the side of politics when it came to extending the proverbial olive branch to their brothers and sisters in law enforcement. You didn’t shake the trees and you most definitely did not shit in their sandbox. Professionalism, in Gant’s eyes, was key. Alan was aware of this, but he was almost to the point of not
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