“Detective McKesson, for one,” Jenna said.
Bernie’s face reddened further, although I would have thought it impossible just a moment before. “That rat bastard?” he asked. “He’s a rogue, just like you. Figures you are working with him.”
“Are you talking or am I sending?” Jenna asked. Her finger was poised over the face of her cell phone, ready to tap the send button.
“We probably know most of it anyway,” I told him.
“Just tell us about your ex-boss,” said Jenna. “About the murders. About all the strange stuff going on lately.”
“If I tell you what I know, it won’t leave this room?”
“Not with your name on any of it,” I assured him.
“And all of this break-in stuff is forgotten?”
“Right,” Jenna said.
He let out a long sigh. “I don’t know much,” he said.
Then he began to talk, and it turned out he knew plenty.
Bernie Kinley’s words painted a strange picture. He had worked for Rostok, a man who was a recluse—who never left the twin towers of the Lucky Seven. Rostok was a Ukrainian immigrant who’d come from a tough criminal background from Kiev. Some said he was ex-KGB, or ex-military. No one knew for sure, but he’d come to Vegas and worked his way up quickly in casino security. He’d built a reputation for predictable brutality. No one wanted to cross him. About a dozen years ago, he’d gone from managing security to managing the casino itself. Then he’d somehow grown rich enough or frightening enough to purchase the entire enterprise. There were tales of disappearances and horrible deaths associated with the man, but nothing had been proven by anyone. There were never any credible witnesses—when there were witnesses at all.
At some point over the last decade, Rostok himself had disappeared from the public eye. Very few had seen his face since then. There was a rumor that held that he had been disfigured in some way. People hinted this was the reason he kept the lights off on the rare occasions when he did meet with people.
“How does McKesson fit into all of this?” I asked.
Bernie shrugged. “He’s the cleanup man for the Community. He puts an official face on anything that goes—wrong.”
“You mean when something bad happens? For example, when a creature like Ezzie gets loose?”
Bernie stared at me. “I’ve never seen Ezzie. It’s some kind of pet of his, or…”
“Or what?” I asked. “Pets don’t usually talk. I heard Ezzie talk.”
“I don’t know,” Bernie said. “I’ve heard theories. People tell stories. Some say she’s a mentally defective relative of his from Russia.”
I snorted. “I think she’s from farther away than that.”
Bernie shook his head. “I really can’t help you on that topic.”
I believed him, but pressed for more. Oftentimes people knew things they didn’t think were important. “Have you heard stories about fires?” I asked.
“Fires?”
“In rooms, maybe. People burning up mysteriously?”
He nodded slowly. “Yeah. We’ve had a couple of cases like that. Sometimes we find scorch marks or little piles of ash. McKesson told me once it was something called spontaneous combustion, and that it probably meant the hotel had wiring problems. That guy is so full of shit.”
“Scorch marks?” I asked. “Like the one in Jenna’s bathroom?”
“Yeah. We thought, at first, when Mrs. Townsend claimed her husband had vanished, it was one of those events. We were even more worried when we learned McKesson was involved.”
“Does McKesson have a good record of figuring these things out?” Jenna asked.
Bernie laughed unpleasantly. “He’s got a perfect record. He never figures out a damned thing. At least, nothing that he ever shares with the rest of us.”
Jenna didn’t look happy with that answer. I could understand why. She’d hoped the police were on her side and were going to help locate her lost Robert. As it appeared now, that was the furthest thing from anyone’s mind.
“So when McKesson showed up, you knew you had one of those special cases, right?” I asked. “Did you suspect Rostok’s involvement right away?”
Bernie shook his head. “No, not really. Your husband was nothing special to us, Mrs. Townsend. He didn’t do anything to make us notice him. When people had vanished before, they were always clear enemies of Rostok.”
“So why did he do it this time?” I asked him.
Bernie shook his head again. “I don’t think that he did anything. I think that’s why he let you go. He’s not sure what’s going on. He asked you to check around, didn’t he?”
I nodded, but didn’t elaborate.