Her research. It grounded her. All the information in the green book. It was all there. If she could just piece it together, she’d have answers.
She stood at the bathroom sink, her body covered in Steve’s oversized Turkish terry robe. Standing bulky and fluffy, like a snowdrift. More like the yeti of Las Vegas. Her wet blond hair was still knotted, her red-rimmed hazel eyes shelved with dark circles. Turning the cold-water tap on and off.
On and off. On and off. On and off. On and off.
Quietly … so as not to disturb the boys.
Trying to think it through.
Like when she was little.
All the rituals. They had started after Mom had died. Everyone agreed on that. The tragedy had been the triggering factor. At first, the rituals had been harmless enough—silly, childish obsessions. Checking windows before she went to bed. Opening and closing dresser drawers before she pulled out an article of clothing.
But then they had progressed into lengthy codes of unstoppable behavior. Kissing her bedpost a thousand times before she went to sleep. Closing and opening the curtains for a full hour. Constantly checking her closet for hidden burglars. Straightening her desk so many times that she fell asleep before she could study. Her native intelligence had kept her afloat—an A/B student without even trying.
Years of therapy had followed her mother’s death. Dad carting her to every psychiatrist in the city. Yes, the gambling mecca boasted shows and entertainment. But go past the casinos, past the stars, the glitter and glitz. That Las Vegas—the city of her youth—had been a small, naive town with little to offer except heat and sand.
This medication, that medication. This therapy, that therapy. All of it rooted in the tragedy. Because no one had dared to speak the word suicide.
Still, something must have taken hold. Because during her adolescent years, when most of her classmates had gone off on fanciful flights of psychosis and self-destruction, she had become a model teen. Calm, cool, very popular, because she had been smart, classy, pretty, and experienced in all the right places. No, never had problems attracting boys … more like keeping them away. She had treated them like playing chips—discarding or hoarding them at will. Somehow, her compadres had magically forgotten about that weirdo, psycho little girl who sat by herself and never spoke a word.
Not Rom, of course. Rom was different. Rom had eyes in the back of his head—saw and heard everything. Honoring her request, he had left her alone in high school. Yet, he had always been there … lurking in some corner … completely at ease with himself and his geekiness. Nothing had ever bothered him … not the insults, not the taunts, not the rejections. Slings and arrows had bounced off him as if he were protected by chain mail. She had admired him for it. Told him so when they had turned adults.
But back then, she hadn’t been able to accept him. Because she had been popular. And popular girls didn’t say such things to geeks.
Shame suddenly coursed through her veins. Feeling the heat in her face. But it wasn’t her fault. Because she had no one to guide her. Besides … it was all working out. Everyone loved Alison.
Gliding through high school because she had managed to condense her routines into one or two tidy rituals.
Like handwashing. Infinitely better than kissing bedposts. Now, at least, her hands were always antiseptic.
Ten minutes had passed.
Water on and off. On and off. On and off.
Then she took the plunge. Forced herself to turn off the water and pick up the hairbrush. Major anxiety—an accelerated heartbeat, jumpiness in her stomach, lightheadedness. But she talked herself through it.
I’ll be okay, I’ll be okay, I’ll be okay.
Running the hard nylon brush through her shoulder-length locks. Combing out the knots. With each successive stroke, her agitation lessened. By the time she was done, she only needed to turn the water off and on a couple of dozen times. Then she told herself to leave.
Practicing an exercise she had learned years ago. To literally take her own hand and guide herself out of the high-frequency-behavior area. Tugging at her own fingers until she was back in her bedroom.
Now lie down!
An order.
She always listened to orders.
Except when the voices told her not to.
But that didn’t happen very much. No, not too much anymore. Because she knew they weren’t real, and often she talked back to them. Of course, when she did, it made her feel like she wanted to wash her hands again.
Longing to go back to the bathroom.
To run the tap.
On and off.
On and off.
On and off.
No, no, no. Better to do research.
You have a brain, Alison. Just learn to use it. Steve’s pithy encouragement to his young, new wife.
It had been right after they had been married. About a month after their fabulous honeymoon in Hawaii. She had burned something in the oven … probably a chicken. She figured that if it took a chicken two hours to bake at 350 degrees, why not cook it for one hour at 700? Except the oven didn’t go up to 700. So she had turned the sucker on the highest temperature—broil—and waited.
The small wooden house had been moments away from becoming tinder. The firemen had said she had been very lucky.
She hadn’t felt at all lucky.
It hadn’t been her fault. What had she known about cooking? Her dad’s idea of homemade grub had been picking a grapefruit from their backyard tree. Poor little thing … languishing in the clay soil. Still, Daddy had been persistent. He had fed it, nurtured it. And eventually it had given fruit … beautiful sweet, pink fruit.
Just like her.
Two beautiful boys. Daddy loved them so.
Her boys.
Have to stay sane or else they’d take away her boys. She knew that. Not that anyone ever said that to her explicitly. But she knew the score.
She had to stay sane.
It really wasn’t that hard to fool them. She could be sane when she had to be. It was just staying sane … as in all the time. Who could stay sane all the time?
Her research kept her grounded.
To read and write. To write and read.
Anything.
So long as the mind was occupied.
Because when the mind was occupied, there was no room for voices.
“I’m not telling you to spy on him. Just keep him out of situations that could come back to haunt us.”
There was a long beat over the line. Patricia asked, “Am I supposed to play dumb? I don’t feel comfortable with that, Sergeant.”
“No, you can tell him I called … tell him what I said verbatim. Knowing Steve, he’ll do a true confessions as soon as he sees you … get all the garbage out of the way.” Poe raked his hair with his fingers. “Probably’ll say some choice words about me. So be it. Let him rant. Just keep an eye out.”
“All right.”
But she sounded wary. Poe knew he was putting her in the middle. Not a choice assignment, but since he had kept Steve on, someone had to watch him. He said, “Jensen should be there any moment.”
“He’s pulling up now.”
“I’ll be at Havana. Beep if you need me. After that—unless I get some hot lead—I should be back at the Bureau to finish up paperwork. Let’s all plan on meeting in a couple of hours.”
“Fine.”
“Bye.” Poe cut the line, started the car, let it idle in neutral. Before he jerked the stick into reverse, he took off the plastic protective slicker he’d been wearing and slipped on a lightweight ebony blazer he kept in the trunk for emergencies. It wouldn’t keep him warm, but it gave him a look.
Black jacket, black turtleneck, black jeans, black socks and shoes. All-purpose clothes. He’d fit in anywhere. Again, he combed his droopy locks with his fingernails. Checked himself in the mirror. He needed a shave, which gave him the appearance of pulling an all-nighter. Casinos like that image.
West on Charleston, he headed back into town, making it to Main in under five minutes. A few more blocks, then Poe merged onto Las Vegas Boulevard. Some cars and cabs were still on the road, but the Strip was essentially deserted. Things slowed down as night inched toward dawn. People calling it quits, roosting in their hotel rooms, licking their wounds or sleeping off a bender. Besides, the weather wasn’t conducive to strolling.
A pleasure to drive the boulevard empty. Devoid of life but not light. He had spent most of his life in this fabulous city—a bizarre combination of horse town friendliness and metropolitan frenzy. For Poe, the tacky street spectacle held comfortable familiarity. Like his own dysfunctional family—hard to be around, but it was home.
Gaudy Day-Glo colors still sparkling at three in the morning. Silly but actually much tamer than the Vegas of his youth. Yes, hotels continued to erect idols in the neon wilderness. There was the Hard Rock Cafe’s electrified Gold Top Les Paul pointing up toward the all-powerful Guitar God in the sky and an emulsified hologram of King Tut floating in the night air at the Luxor. But since the eighties, the city had tried to class up its act. Instead of eighty-foot pink clicking champagne flutes, the hotels opted for the more corporate marquee look. Besides being perceived as better behaved, the signs provided free advertising for Vegas acts—a Madison Avenue integration of form and function.
Passing the thousand-foot-tall Needle in the Sky—more of a space station than a hotel—then the dowager Sahara, which had once been the hottest showgirl of the Strip, and the Big Top, a tangible homage to P. T. Barnum’s adage “There’s a sucker born every minute.” A family-oriented place replete with theme park, circus acts, RV hookups, and cheap rooms and food. Keeping the kids stuffed and occupied with roller coasters and high-wire acts, allowing Mom and Dad free time to squander away the college tuition. Four separate casinos providing everything and anything—from penny-ante slots on up. Lest the homey facade fool the innocent, old Steve had found Brendon, AKA Bebe—Mr. Connected Bellman. Jensen had been using the hotel for his second bedroom for over three years. Bebe gave him hourly rates in the city’s off-season.
Like now.
Tourism had been especially light the past couple of weeks. April blues. With Mr. IRS Man waiting in the wings, disposable cash was suddenly scarce. Poe had yet to file himself. This year, as in the years past, over half his income had come from gaming wins. Blackjack. He’d been kicked out of most of the big casinos. But there were always ways to work around it.
Poe loved the pits, loved to play. It provided him with a place to sit, cards to hold, and a set of rules to follow. It prescribed his life for a couple of hours, warding off urges to bounce off walls. Just like the job, cards kept him occupied.
Driving past the Stardust, the Mirage, and Treasure Island—the brainchild of the Golden Nugget’s onetime wunderkind Steven Wynn. On warm summer nights, the sidewalks were jammed with gawkers watching buccaneers battle on grounded galleons. Others piled up to stare at a fifty-four-foot fiery volcano complete with spewing lava. Once, Poe happened to be in one of the hotel rooms overlooking the smoking mountain. Peering into the bowels of the man-made Vesuvius … seeing all those gas jets and pipes …
Past the Hilton, past Bellagio, Monte Carlo, Caesars, MGM, Excalibur, the Luxor … to the last few dirt lots before McCarren International.
Havana had recently been constructed as a joint venture by two major hotel moguls. Its grounds were densely planted with coco palms and hundreds of tropical fruit trees and banana bushes. During the summer, the landscape was kept lush and green by a zillion different sprinkler and spray systems. The place was low-rise for the city, and catered to high rollers who wanted old-time decadence and privacy.
The main lobby and hotel emulated a Cuban plantation—a four-story building of vanilla stucco, with green-and-white-striped awnings and red roof tile. Lots of balconies and verandas—unusual because most Vegas hotel fronts were pressed as flat as asphalt. Behind the main structure lay the more expensive—and very personal—bungalows. The rock pool was actually a series of manmade lakes, streams, and waterfalls rimmed with rain forest housing an imported parrot population. But the lodging’s biggest draw was the smoke shop. Though Cuban cigars were illegal to buy and sell on Uncle Sam’s turf, Havana boasted its own line of smokes made from Cuban-stock tobacco. Apparently the leaves were grown on the hotel’s own private land down South. No one had ever verified if the fields really did exist, but word of mouth had been sufficient. The inn’s humidifier was as big as Phileas Fogg’s ballroom.
Pulling into the multilane circular driveway, Poe drove up to the entrance. A valet peered inside the window of the Honda and opened the car door, pausing a nanosecond before giving him a laser-light smile. Poe knew the footboy was sizing up his tip. Poe’s straight black hair, large, almond-shaped dark eyes, and café-au-lait complexion coupled with the cheap car suggested a Southern Paiute Native American—a lowly cigarette-hawking Digger who’d probably stiff him. On the other hand, the straight black hair, dark eyes, and dark complexion could mean Italian and therefore “connected.” Actually, Poe’s lineage held both bloodlines plus pinches from other nationalities. He was a true mongrel. Flashing his badge, he smiled, then tipped generously, told him to keep the Honda out front.
Havana’s lobby was three stories tall and held a half-dozen atria of exotic birds and squawking wildlife, including macaques, which were Asian, not Central American, monkeys. But so far, few if any demanded absolute authenticity. Animal rights activists had tried to stop the construction, but the hotel had preempted them by bringing in the Las Vegas Zoo and designing the cages to simulate natural animal habitats. Poe admired the hotel’s ingenuity.
He had to walk through the Cuban-themed casino—through the flashing lights and an aural assault of bells, whistles, and bongs—to get to the check-in desk. The dealers wore white double-breasted suits and linen shirts, white loafers on their feet and broad-brimmed Panamas on their heads. Cocktail waitresses were garbed in ruffly midriff blouses and multicolored sarongs, flowers tucked in their coifs. When business was hot, they often wore fruit hats à la Carmen Miranda. Poe followed the floral carpet walkway past seas of slots dinging out monotone mantras as coins were absently dropped into ever-hungry mouths. They held no interest for him, no magic allure. Just money down the toilet.
The pits were a different story—the crap games, the wheel games, regular poker, pai gow poker, and blackjack. If a half-shredded face hadn’t been torturing his soul, Poe might have stopped. Instead, he moved on, leaving behind the hushed and genteel action of baccarat. Roped-off area. Very high stakes. There the dealers wore white tailcoats. At three in the morning, there were a half-dozen tables to service a lone player, the ladderman hovering about his charge like a mother hen.
Finally making his way up to the front desk. A long walk. Not too many people could resist the urge to drop a quarter. And once you were hooked …
The receptionist wore a white skirt suit and a blouse fabricked with pink and purple hibiscus against a yellow-and-green jungle backdrop. She was under thirty with creamy skin and blond hair pulled back into a braid. But there was something hard about her face—steely eyes that appraised unsparingly. She gave him a practiced smile, asked how she could be of service. He pulled out his badge, and she frowned, her eyes turning gray.
Her name tag pegged her as Noel Goddard. Poe said, “Night manager around, Ms. Goddard?”
His using her name threw off her rhythm. She stammered, said, “Can I ask what this is all about?”
“Routine investigation.”
“About what?”
“Could you call the manager for me please, miss?”
Noel paused. “Casino manager or hotel?”
A smile. “Whoever’s around.”
She hesitated, then disappeared behind a secreted door in the back of the desk area. Five minutes later, she came out with a can of muscle wearing a white linen suit over a peacock-blue Hawaiian shirt. He was in his mid-fifties, bald, with biceps as big as wrecking balls. No name tag, but Poe had known Peter Delatorre for years.
Poe gave him a smile; Delatorre returned it with a glare. He muttered a thank-you to Noel, then crooked a sausage finger to Poe. Noel opened a swing door and Poe followed Delatorre into a series of backroom mazes. Several minutes later, the manager unlocked the door to a hidden niche.
The room was done up plush in a tropical color scheme. Thick teal carpeting, soft multicolored sofas and slouch chairs, a wet bar with cut crystal holding lots of rum and scotch. A ceiling fan buzzed overhead. In the corner stood a small caned desk with a phone and a fax. The quarters were apparently a suite, because Poe noticed a connecting bedroom. Delatorre shut the common door and pointed to a chair.
Poe rocked on his feet, looked around. No outside windows, but plenty of one-way mirrors. A video camera was mounted in one of the corners. “How’s it going, Pete?”
Delatorre paced. “What the hell you doing, Rom? Flashing muscle like that?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Cramming your badge down that poor girl’s throat—”
“I didn’t cram anything. I showed her ID. I’m a police officer. We identify ourselves. It’s not only procedure, it’s polite.”
Delatorre sneered. “Sit down.” A beat. He stopped pacing. “Or don’t sit. Do I even want you around?”
Poe said, “When did you start working here?”
“Six months ago.”
“What happened to Potetsky?”
“You don’t want to know.” Delatorre waved him off. “So what good cheer do you bring me tonight, Rom?”
“I’m looking into a dancer named Brittany Newel. Heard she worked the floor show at the Copa Room here.”
“Wanted as a suspect, or is she your latest corpse?”
“In the morgue as we speak.”
“Jesus!” Delatorre made a face. “Does this mean I gotta get the keys to the records room?”
“I’d sincerely appreciate it, Pete.”
“You stay outta my pits, I’ll make the effort.”
“I’ll stay out of your pits in any case.”
“Yeah, yeah. Why don’t I believe you?”
“Because I’m untrustworthy.”
“Yeah. I forget. You’re part Digger.”
“I’m part dago, too. It’s three-twenty in the morning. Can we get this show on the road?”
“I thought you were a night owl.”
“Age is catching up with me.”
“Yeah, you look pretty bad.” Delatorre started pacing again. “And you’re only what? Thirty?”
“Thirty-five.” A pause. “I can’t look that bad if you thought I was thirty.”
“I must need glasses.”
“Thanks. I needed a boost.”
Delatorre raised his eyebrows. “You want a boost, I can get you a real boost.”
“’Fraid I’ll have to pass.”
“Just trying to keep the good boys at Metro happy.”
“Thank you. We’re very happy. The keys?”
Delatorre laughed. Again the beckoning finger. “C’mon.”
They exited through a back door, went through a hallway dimly lit and stone silent. Their footsteps were muffled by the thick carpeting. Poe had no idea where they were going, but Delatorre navigated the twists and turns like a conditioned rat. An old-timer, Pete had worked his way up from mopping floors at the Flamingo, to dealing at the Stardust for Lefty Rosenthal, and finally to pit boss at the Riviera and Tropicana. Apparently he finally passed muster and became casino manager at Havana. A big step up in pay and prestige. Well deserved. Delatorre knew gambling. More important, he knew gamblers.
When they reached his destination, Delatorre pulled out an employee identification card, stopped in front of a red panel light, then held the card up to a scanner. Moments later, the panel light turned green. Then he punched a code into a number panel. He turned to Poe.
“Smile at the birdie, Rom.”
“Where?”
Delatorre turned him ninety degrees. “Look up.”
A video camera. Poe gave a little wave. “You’d think you were taking me into the counting room.”
“I trust no one. Especially the police.” Delatorre then pulled out a ring of keys, pushed two of them into the corresponding keyholes, and finally opened an electric security door. “You aren’t packing, are you? Don’t want you to set off any bells.”
“I don’t even have my keys. I left them with the valet.”
“Go ahead. You first.”
Poe walked into a plain room stacked with hundreds of file cabinets. Enough to hold tens of thousands of Pendaflex folders. In the center stood several computer terminals and keyboards atop a bolted-down round metal table. Three bolted-down chairs were positioned around the table.
Delatorre followed, shut the door. A pneumatic seal locked out air and brought on a fan. He explained, “Ever since Wynn’s daughter was kidnapped, management’s been squirrelly, you know. Everything’s nailed down so you can’t use it as a weapon. More security codes than the Pentagon.”
He put a key into one of the monitors and turned it on.
“Not that it does crap if you’re dealing with pros. Hey, they want you, you’re dead meat. But it’s a deterrent. What’s her name again?”
“Brittany Newel.” Poe spelled it.
Delatorre clicked the computer keys. “Got a picture of her?”
“No.”
“Not even a postmortem?”
“She wasn’t pretty, Joe.”
Delatorre grimaced as he punched in words and the computer spit back her name, rank, and serial number. “Yeah, she worked here for about a year. Looks like she was terminated about two months ago.”
“Why was she fired?”
“Uh … let’s see … number fifteen dash four two A. Nowadays everything is coded and double-coded.”
“Keeps you all honest.”
“Nah, just makes smarter thieves. Uh … here we go. She was canned for missing performances. How many?” He shrugged. “Havana’s policy: if you miss two workdays without explanation, you’re out.”
“Anything else of interest on her record?”
Delatorre scanned the file. “Nope … nothing.”
“Can I see her initial employment paperwork?”
“Not policy.” Delatorre looked up. “Confidentiality.”
“Pete, she’s dead.”
He pointed a stubby index finger in Poe’s direction. “Good point.” He scanned the computer, looked up the corresponding file number, wrote it down on a slip of paper, then walked over to a file cabinet. A couple of minutes later, he pulled out Newel’s file, scanned through it.
Poe said, “May I?”
“First I gotta scan it for black marks … see if anything in it concerns our current employees—’cause that could be construed as breaking confidentiality. Gotta keep it kosher.”
“Is there a picture of her?”
“Several.” Delatorre pulled one out, eyed it for a moment. Just enough time for Poe to see another photo of Brittany resting in the file.
“Cute little thing,” the manager pronounced. “Here you go.”
A full-color portfolio head shot. Draping honey-blond hair nestled around soft, nude shoulders, crystal-blue eyes full of wonder, pouty lips daring to be kissed. A graceful neck and the smooth skin of youth. Very beautiful. And very nondescript. Typical L.V. dance fare. Completely unoriginal.
Completely Steve.
A miracle how he’d snagged Alison.
A pause.
Not so, Rom old boy. Alison wanted to be snagged. Back then, she had wanted something mainstream … something very, very normal.
Delatorre was still scanning the file.
