Act Three
"Toy Trouble"
"You sure we don't need to call the bomb squad in first? Clear the scene?" Nick asked Officer Mitch Mitchell as they attempted to wend their way through the wreckage of what had mere hours before been Las Vegas's premier toy boutique.
"Dispatch just mentioned a disturbance."
Apparently Dispatch was into understatement.
With all the air of a war zone, the former toy haven currently far more resembled toy hell. Finger paint rather than blood splattered everywhere. Thankfully, despite the city's lenient conceal and carry laws, the only guns at the scene were still zip-tied to their cardboard backings. Much of the rest of the merchandise hadn't fared so well. Candy spilled from upturned jars and crushed boxes crunched loudly underfoot. Several talking toys continued to squawk their protests, many horribly off key. Overturned fixtures created a veritable action figure apocalypse, while a zoo of stuffed animals scattered about the floor as if caught mid-flight, a few of them sadly missing their heads. Loose soccer balls, basketballs and bouncy balls congregated into puddles.
All the while over the store's sound system, a six year old Barry Gordon lamented "I'm gettin' nuttin' for Christmas, 'cause I ain't been nuttin' but bad."
Apropos, Nick mused, all things considered. Still shaking his head at the sight, he sighed, "I've heard Vegas has some killer shopping, but this is ridiculous."
Mitchell agreed. "At least nobody's dead. Yet."
"Not from want of trying."
Nick gestured to the rear of the shop where back in the recesses of The Toy Box's usually cozily appointed book nook, store security had managed to corral the presumed perpetrators. Though there was little doubt the lot was guilty. While they all looked definitely the worse for wear, hair and clothes and coats disheveled, several sported cuts and what Nick knew would later prove impressive bruises. Surveying the lot, he did a mental head count and sighed.
"Six crazy women and a - gay guy -" For the lone man sulking in one corner attempting to compose his disheveled hair and clothes looked far too polished and perfectly dressed to be straight. "Did all this?" Nick finished incredulously.
"Apparently."
"Look, I told you already," came the hassled and harassed voice from over by the counter.
From his as yet cowering condition and the candy colored uniform emblazoned with the name Fred in block script over the breast pocket, Nick figured this must be the source of the call in: Fred Gailey, The Toy Box's nigh time sales manager. Poor guy had definitely managed to pull the short straw when it came to late night Christmas Eve duty.
Harried and sporting a shiner of his own, Fred continued, "About an hour before closing the owner stops by. Says he's got something that has to go out on the sales floor immediately. Already posted it on social media and everything. Told me to take the highest offer at closing. And he... He just left. And it was... It was... awful. All the pushing and the shoving. Worse than Black Friday. When the bidding got too high most of them went home, but not them."
He indicated the motley group half huddled about the near empty bookshelves; half scrunched into a series of toddler-sized chairs; all attempting to catch their breath and put themselves to rights again. Well, nearly all. One middle aged blonde, who with her dancing pigtails and flouncing short shirt far more resembled the captain of a high school cheer squad than the soccer mom she more likely was, hasn't stopped talking once.
"I mean I just can't believe it - I can't believe it." Alas, Bailey did sound as shellshocked as his words. "We get one Muddy in and the place suddenly turns into a mad house."
Officer Mitchell leaned in closer to Nick and asked sotto voce, "What's a Muddy?"
Nick scoffed. "You live under a rock, man? They gotta be running the ads twenty-four/seven. You know..." Nick began to sing and dance to the jingle. "'Muddy the puppy - Muddy the puppy - He's my best friend - Muddy the puppy - Muddy the puppy - The adventures never end.'"
Mitchell gawked at him.
"What?"
"Might not want to quit your day job."
Nick shook his head. "Everyone's a critic. Muddy's only THE must have toy of 2012."
"You're telling me all this -" Mitchell motioned at the destroyed store. "Is over a toy?"
"Not just any toy," countered Nick. "Like I said. THE toy. Happens all the time. Must be what - almost thirty years ago now, my cousin Carol HAD to have a Cabbage Patch Kid. Remember Teddie Ruxpin? Or Furbies? Just don't get me started on Tickle-Me-Elmo. All I know is Muddy's the only toy on my nephew Tyler's Christmas list.
"Except there aren't any. Anywhere. Not in stores. Not in the whole state of Texas. Not even on Ebay. Nada. Not one, no where, no how.
"But what I don't get is why this is the crime lab's problem. Why they called you in I get, but..."
Mitchell shrugged. "Want to know who to charge with what I guess."
Nick figured that probably was as good a reasons as any. At the moment it was precisely how to work the scene he wasn't entirely sure of. What he did know: it was about to turn into a very a long night.
He was about to find a place to set down his scene case when he noticed how Gailey, still clutching the Muddy to him like a shield, brightened at the sight of the uniformed cop heading towards him.
"You guys the calvary?"
Neither had a chance to answer before the clerk shoved the Muddy at Mitchell.
"Take it. Just take it. Please. I never - NEVER - want to see another of those damn dogs again."
As Mitchell rather reluctantly did, the somewhat subdued group immediately shot to their feet.
"Hey, that's my Muddy!" A round faced rather youthful looking for middle age African American woman with close cropped dark hair wielded her Starbucks cup at them.
The lanky, big eyed, crimson cheeked and freckled woman behind her tossed her mop of short, shaggy red hair and exclaimed, "Over my dead body."
The impeccably coiffed and coutured man who seemed far better suited to gracing the pages of glamour mag than a six pack of suspects hissed, "That can be arranged."
Next, a tall, leggy, overly buxom plastic blonde chimed in, "I don't know how they do things on the wrong side of town -"
The now livid black woman shot her an I know you just didn't glare before placing both of her hands on her hips and managing to slosh coffee all over the front of her dress. "You talking to me?" she demanded. "You talking to me? Because I know you don't want me to go all ghetto on your ass."
Pigtails hopped as the chatty cheerleader bounced on the balls of her feet. "Guess you can take the girl out of the ghetto, but you can't take the ghetto out of the girl."
"Really," harrumped a pudgy, obviously dyed blonde to conceal her true age older woman still attempting to adjust her granny glasses.
Nick thought it best to step in before things came to blows.
"Ladies - Gentleman - Can we please dial it down a notch -"
"Or two," grumbled Mitchell, the hand not grasping the Muddy hovering over his holster.
"Or twelve," piped Gailey.
A slightly shorter, less busty yet no less plastic looking brunette jeered, "Or what? You gonna call the cops?"
Nick replied, "We are the cops. Well, crime lab and cop."
Mitchell nodded.
The erstwhile cheerleader sidled up to Nick. Resting a hand on his chest, she purred, "If they all look like you, you can frisk me anytime."
"Down girl," laughed the gay man, though truth be told, he'd been actively admiring the investigator himself.
The black woman tisked while the excessively well-endowed blonde shook her head. "Once a ho, alway a ho."
"Who," began the pigtails, "are you calling a ho, Barbie?"
"Barbie? Barbie?!"
"Yeah, you," should have retired her pompoms and stuck to being a soccer mom replied. She indicated the equally fake brunette. "Your friend Skipper. And -" she nodded to the dimpled-cheeked, wavy-haired fashionista. "Your boyfriend Ken over there."
Now that Nick thought about it, the trio certainly appeared as if any of them could have stepped from of one of the pink surrounded cellophane windows that litter the floor. A perfect Ken, Barbie and Skipper if he ever saw one.
"We're not related," sneered Skipper.
At Officer Mitchell's persistent blank stare, Nick sighed, "You must not have had a sister."
Mitchell shrugged. "Might be time for bad cop, Hoss. As good cop sure ain't getting us anywhere."
Nick peered at the Muddy in Mitchell's hands. "I suppose we could just split it seven ways. Worked for Solomon."
Gailey motioned for Nick and Mitchell to come closer. "Look, I don't want any more trouble. It's already late and if I don't get home soon, I've got a stepdaughter who's going to wake up to a box and not a bicycle for Christmas. If it means I get to go home, I'll gladly drop the charges."
Mitchell indicated it was Nick's call. Nick considered this for a moment before addressing the rest.
"Okay, this is what's going to happen. As far as I'm concerned, you're all responsible." Before any of them could even think to protest, Nick insisted, "Equally responsible. So the way I see it, we've got two options here."
He turned to Gailey. "How much you think to clean up all this mess?"
"Insurance should cover most of the damage," Gailey replied, "but between overtime for the clean up and the deductible, I'd say somewhere around eighteen hundred bucks."
Nick did the math. "That comes to... Two-fifty a piece. I'll even chip in the last fifty. If you all pay up quietly now my man..."
"Fred," supplied Fred.
Nick slipped an arm around Fred's shoulder. "My man Fred can still make it home in time to put - what's your stepdaughter's name?"
"Susan."
"Susan's bike together for Christmas."
Unsurprisingly, Nick's proposal didn't exactly prove popular. The lot of them started up again in protest, each attempting to shout ever louder over the other.
"Or -" Nick began, but there was no way he could have possibly been heard over the bedlam.
Having had just about as much as he could take for one night, Officer Mitchell let out an impatient ear-piercing whistle, startling the store into silence.
"Or," Nick repeated in his usual indoor voice, pulling a pack of zip ties from his vest, "we haul the lot of you down to lock up. I spend the rest of my shift filling out the paperwork. Fun, fun, fun. While you all spend the next couple of nights in jail. First arraignment's not until the day after Christmas. That really how y'all want to spend your holiday?"
Their silence plainly indicated definitely not.
Good, thought Nick. Finally something they were all in agreement about.
"So what'll it be: Cash, check or charge?"
xxxxxxx
Officer Mitchell checked off each name from his list, as one by one, each of the as yet disgruntled shoppers surrendered cash or credit cards to Fred Gailey.
The red-haired pixie cut Ann Gruelle grumbled. Pudgy Sally Jane Petite pushed back her mat of dyed curls as she tried to keep the smile plastered on her face. Fiery Elizabeth Katz - Betsy - as she'd hurriedly corrected Mitchell - sipped again at what must have been by now a very cold latte to keep herself from cursing. Even the chatty one, Cathy Ryan seemed to be at a very sour loss for words.
Nick however grinned as the last of the Mattel trio handed over a handful of bills. Turning to Gailey, he said, "You need a hand with that bike?"
xxxxxxx
"More Naughty than Nice"
The Fountains of Bellagio danced in time to soaring melodies of "The Most Wonderful Time of the Year," the signal for the start of yet another light, sound and water spectacle in front of the grand ornate Italianate hotel. Despite the lateness of the hour and the unseasonable snowiness, the considerable crowd of out-of-town onlookers stood as spellbound as ever.
Undersheriff Conrad Ecklie wasn't one of them. Silently cursing the weather, he stomped his feet and rubbed his glove-free hands together to stay warm as he waited outside the lobby's main entrance.
Tonight was definitely not proving to be a holly jolly holiday. He would very much rather be holed up comfortably at home enjoying the night off. Being undersheriff did have its perks after all. Tonight, he was stuck with the responsibilities.
His glower only grew at the sight of the white stuff coming down ever harder. Sara Sidle wasn't the only one not dreaming of a white Vegas Christmas. Ecklie gave his watch another hurried glance, his cold feet another stomp and thought about checking to see what was keeping his daughter, when he heard a voice call from behind him.
"Dad? Dad!"
At least she was dressed for the weather, he thought as Morgan decked in hat, scarves and gloves hurried over to him.
She gave him and his lack of winter accoutrements a hurried once over.
"Tell me you haven't been waiting out here the whole time."
"It's even chillier inside."
"Not having a Merry Christmas?"
"With the mayor, the sheriff and the chairman and C.E.O. of the largest resort consortium in town breathing down my neck -"
"Yeah, I didn't think so."
"Tonight makes twelve," Ecklie added. "Twelve straight nights. The mayor's managed to keep it out of the press so far, but if we don't catch these guys and quick -"
He didn't need to finish. While undersheriff wasn't an elected position, sheriff was and her loss of the casino lobby meant an inevitable loss at the polls, which in turn meant the new sheriff would be perfectly within his or her rights to hire and fire whomever he or she liked. And since shit, as the saying went, always ran downhill, Ecklie knew all to well he stood in the direct line of fire.
Hoping to take her father's mind off such an eventuality, Morgan shifted into work mode. "Brass said something about a gang of pickpockets. Sounds practically Dickensian. And not the Tiny Tim kind."
When her attempt to lighten the mood fell flat, she prompted, "He also mentioned a sting -"
"Got a dozen off-duty plain clothes working the crowd tonight."
Morgan had to work to keep the incredulity from her voice. "On Christmas Eve?"
With overtime budgets having been slashed of late, pay rises frozen and cuts proposed across the board, not to mention that in less than an hour the time-and-a-half of regular overtime would shift to the double time of holiday pay, Morgan wondered where on earth there had been the funds for the outlay. But then -
"When the sheriff calls," she sighed knowingly. "Well, when the sheriff's single largest campaign contributor calls -"
Which explained a lot. Except -
"But why me?"
Her father simply shrugged. "Told her I had my best on the case."
Morgan shot her father a Don't try to snow me, Dad glare.
Ecklie opted for the far more honest: "Guess, I wanted an excuse to work with you."
Of course Morgan couldn't help but soften at this.
"You didn't need one," she said, uncurling the scarf from around her neck and proceeding to drape it about his. "All you had to do was ask."
They both shared a smile at this.
"Much better," she said giving his chest an affectionate pat. "The smile's a lot more convincing. Shall we?"
Keeping a surreptitious eye on the crowd, the two of them took their place along the railing.
As the final jaunty notes of "Frosty the Snowman" faded, Conrad Ecklie finally managed to summon up the courage to say what he'd been longing to say since the song began.
"Morgan?"
"Yeah, Dad?"
"You... uh... remember that last Christmas... With all of us?"
"Yeah," she replied, not entirely sure where he was going with this.
"I screwed up."
He cringed. While he hadn't meant to just blurt it out like that, Ecklie had. Still, it was the truth.
Morgan didn't seem to see it that way. Her "I don't remember -" was still as bemused as her previous yeah had been.
"I did. Your mother... She asked me to pick up the last of your presents. What was it now... one of those baking things with the mixes... You know the ones you could make little cakes and stuff with -"
"An Easy Bake Oven?"
His nod left Morgan no less incredulous.
"It was what she said you wanted," Ecklie insisted. "Anyway, things were crazy at work - You know how it goes."
Morgan did.
"And I - I forgot. It was Christmas Eve when I finally remembered. I tried to sneak out to -"
"So you really didn't get called in that night?"
That Morgan definitely did remember.
"I did - on my way to the store. By the time I finally got there, the place was pretty much cleaned out."
It was Morgan's turn to shrug. "That chemistry set was way cooler anyway."
"You weren't disappointed?"
Her mother certainly had been. Actually it had been more like livid, but Ecklie didn't think that really worth mentioning at the moment.
"I got to pretend to be you. Plus -" At this her grin turned mischievous. "It made the best stink bombs. That and I used it to scare the pants of Julie Burns."
When her father looked more than a little scandalized at this, Morgan added, "She was the neighborhood bully, so I wouldn't feel too sorry for her, Dad. Besides it was just a little hydrochloric acid and -" Her voice trailed off. "Now that I think about it, you probably don't want too know. But it was so worth being grounded an entire month for."
Still grinning, Morgan returned her attention the attendant crowd. Only her father wasn't entirely finished.
"Morgan, what I'm trying to say -"
"Dad, it's okay," she hurried to reassure him.
"It's not. Look, I know I was never there enough -"
"Dad -"
Only her further protest died unspoken as something strange suddenly caught her eye.
But Ecklie wasn't about to be deterred. "When you were growing up -"
"Dad -"
"I - I just wanted to say - I'm sorry -"
"Dad! Look!" Morgan insisted, nudging him to indicate what she'd been trying to show him.
Several people over, a slight, literally elfin-clad figure silently slipped through the crowd. Pausing to linger beside a well-heeled man in a very expensive overcoat who was far too busy chatting up the attractive woman at his side to be paying anyone or anything else any heed, the elf adeptly retrieved Mr. Expensive Overcoat's wallet before equally expertly secreting it into his own festive green tunic.
Morgan breathed, "You seeing what I'm seeing?"
Ecklie let out his own disbelieving murmur of "Elves," before correcting himself. "Little people."
"With little hands. The better to pick pockets with."
xxxxxxx
Back in one of Metro's not entirely comfortable interrogation suites, Captain Brass settled into what was swiftly becoming that night his regular seat. Wordlessly, he dumped the contents of a large sack onto the interview table causing an assortment of wallets, watches and keys to cascade everywhere.
To the diminutive handcuffed figure ensconced in front of him he quipped, "You've definitely naughty. Unless you just take a really bad driver's license photo -"
Brass flipped open a random wallet to reveal the I.D.
"Ten times, Mr. Santiago."
The far more surly than sweet elf merely crossed his arms over his vest.
"It's Chris," he corrected.
Brass couldn't help but ask, "As in Kringle?"
"Cute," scoffed Chris. "Like I haven't heard that one before. As in Walker."
"Any relation to Johnie?"
"If only."
To which Brass had to agree.
"So, Chris, you want to explain all of this -" The police captain indicated the treasure trove of stolen goods before him.
Walker shrugged. "Man's got to make a buck."
xxxxxxx
Jim Brass got much the same once the cops had managed to round up the other three members of Walker's not so merry little band.
Still be-capped and decked out in regulation red and green, the three sat dwarfed behind the big table, their satin slippered feet still swinging unable to touch the floor.
"Got to eat just like everybody else," offered the olive skinned, dark curled Nicholas Papadopoulos.
Brass turned to the lone woman. With the chubby cheeks and dimples to match, she had all the looks of a jolly little elf - apart from the scowl scrawled across her face.
"And you - Miss -"
"King, Noel King," she grumbled. "And yeah that is my real name. And before you ask, no, I wasn't the first. Idiot parents thought it was cute. Stupid really as I was born in July."
"Christmas in July?" Brass helpfully supplied.
"Whatever," was all she replied. "You got kids? I've got four," Noel plowed on, neither waiting nor particularly interested in hearing his reply. "You think all those toys just magically appear under the tree?"
"So you're saying an elf's got to do what an elf's got to do?"
This time the third elf piped in. Straw-haired, blue-eyed Klaus Jansen with a belly that would have jiggled like a bowl full of jelly given the chance, moaned, "You know what the going rate for elves is these days? Somewhere between zip and zilch - I mean how much demand do you think there is for a guy like me in Vegas? They all want Santa's sexy little helper."
"Slutty's more like," cracked Noel.
"And believe you me," Klaus continued patting his formidable stomach, "you don't want to see this in a G-string."
Still Brass was flummoxed.
"But elves?"
Ultimately, it was Walker who provided the answer.
"Why not? Already had the costumes. Besides, who'd suspect an elf?"
To be continued in Act Four: Grandpa Got Run Over by a Reindeer