“Give me a time and place.”
Poe started snapping his fingers, stopped himself. “Back at the Bureau in what … two hours. Let’s call it for nine.”
“I’ll be there.” Jensen rubbed his face, looked up. “I’ve got to … don’t want to leave her alone.” His jaw tightened. “Although I don’t think she relishes my company.”
“Steve, I—”
“Forget it.”
Poe nodded. Jensen was right. Leave it unsaid.
The big man patted Poe’s shoulder, turned, and walked back inside his house. Poe remained rooted, his eyes racing across an endless inky sky, the sounds of his snapping fingers echoing in the stillness of the night. Slowly, he forced himself to move. To go away.
He had a giant headache.
Probably too much caffeine.
Next time, he’d cool it with the coffee.
Taking a couple of practice swings, the iron whizzing through the air. “How’s your game coming, son?”
Poe answered, “I don’t play golf, Mr. Lewiston.”
“Pity.” Several more slices into the air. Then the moment of truth. Lewiston bunched up his body in concentration, his eyes focused on the tee. He took aim and swung. A clean shot, the ball rising, falling, rolling across the ground. It fell into a sunken cup around fifty yards away.
That’s how big the office was.
Poe estimated that it took up over half the top floor of the Laredo. Floor number twenty-six. Twenty-five actually, because the elevator had gone from floor twelve to floor fourteen. Lewiston’s domain kept going and going, with desks and chairs and couches and tables, all of the furniture resting on a carpet of natural sod. Verdant, clipped sod. The temperature inside his working quarters was a muggy seventy-four degrees.
Lewiston leaned against his iron, said, “You say you don’t play golf?”
“Correct.” Poe was seated in a leather club chair whose legs were buried in the grass. The apparatus had settled slightly to the left, throwing his perspective off-kilter.
“Have you ever tried the game?”
“A few times.”
Lewiston straightened. Poe felt the heat of the casino owner’s eyes, peering at him as if sighting prey. Steely blue things that were reptilian-cold. A chiseled face with a strop-sharpened-razor shave, his complexion so smooth as to appear wet. Short haircut, the color too iridescent to be called gray. It was more like silver. At sixty, Lewiston stood erect and tall—about Jensen’s height. For the golfing demonstration, he had donned a pair of black silk-and-wool slacks and a white silk shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His feet were housed in black croc boots. He wore a string tie held together by a jeweled pendant—aquamarine maybe. He had thrown the tie over his shoulder lest it interfere with his shot.
“Son, you’ve never tried the game until you’ve tried it with me. Why don’t you join me on one of my courses this Saturday? Golfing always puts me in a social mood.”
“My handicap would be too big, sir.”
Besides, fraternizing with the big boys is a no-no, Parker. Sort of ruins the objectivity.
“You know how to aim a gun?” Lewiston asked.
“Of course.”
“Shoot a target?”
“Yes.”
“Then golf should be a snap.”
“I think holing a fifty-yard chip takes a little more finesse than blasting a cardboard cutout.”
“Well, it shouldn’t take more finesse,” Lewiston insisted. “Because shooting has a lot more ramifications than sinking a putt. You should work some finesse into your shooting, son.”
Poe was not about to be undermined. “Maybe it has something to do with split-second decisions. Difficult to have finesse when you’re looking down the barrel of a shotgun.” He whispered, “Hand’s shaking too hard.”
Lewiston smiled with brown-stained teeth. “You should work on that, too. Never let them see you sweat.”
“I’ll keep that in mind next time I’m running down an armed bank robber. Better still, I’ll call you. You can bring down your clubs and really show him who’s boss.”
“In a tight situation, a Magnum might be the preferred weapon. You can always borrow mine.”
“I wouldn’t mind, but the department may have other thoughts.” Poe balled his hands into fists to keep himself from fidgeting. “Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Lewiston. I really do appreciate it. Especially because you are a hard man to reach.”
Two hours of plodding through the channels had accomplished zilch. But twenty minutes at the blackjack tables had caught their attention. Place had a new pit boss. Shame on Parkerboy for not keeping his guys up to date.
Lewiston said, “My staff knows how I value my privacy.” The eyes squinted into small knots. “You seem to be a persistent fellow. One might even call you a pest … or a gnat … or something annoying.”
Poe appeared thoughtful. “With all due respect, Mr. Lewiston, I don’t agree. Like take tonight. Instead of getting all mean-mouthed and pushy when I kept being put on hold, I just left a couple of messages. Figured I’d wait you out. So I just plunked myself down at a table and bided my time.”
Poe took out a thick wad of bills with Ben Franklin on top. Slowly, he flicked the stack with his thumb, thousands of dollars dancing past like an old cartoon motion book.
“That’s all I was doing, sir. Just passing time.”
Again the apple-rot smile. “How ’bout we call it a going-away present?” A wave of the hand. “As in you … going away.”
Poe pocketed the cash and took out a notebook. “I’d like to ask a few questions about Brittany Newel, sir.”
“Brittany Newel?” Lewiston seemed confused. “Is the name supposed to be familiar?”
“She claimed she was one of your girls.”
“Claimed. As in the past tense. Is she denying it now?”
“She’s not saying anything, sir. She’s dead.”
Lewiston shrugged. “It happens.”
“Did you know her?” Poe asked.
“Not that I can recall.”
Poe took out a picture, showed it to Lewiston. “How about this girl? Did you know her?”
Lewiston looked at the photograph. “She’s a pretty little thing. Who is she?”
Is Parkerboy shittin’ me or what?
Poe said, “She doesn’t look familiar?”
Lewiston held a perfect poker face. “Son, she looks like a thousand other showgirls in this city.”
Poe said, “This was Brittany Newel.”
Lewiston took another look at the photograph. “Shame. Don’t think she ever worked here.”
“Her employment tax records said she did.”
Without missing a beat, Lewiston picked up the phone’s intercom. “Lois, can you get hold of personnel. Find out if a young thing named Bethany—”
“Brittany.”
Lewiston turned to Poe. “Spell the name for me, son.”
Poe complied.
“All right, dear,” Lewiston said into the phone. “Thank you, dear.” Turning to Poe. “It’s going to take time. Check in with me tomorrow afternoon.”
After you’ve raped the files. Luckily Poe had been there first. He said, “Thank you, Mr. Lewiston.”
The casino owner gave out a chuckle. “You’re obviously a bettin’ man, son. You’ve done well at my tables. I’ll give you another hour and we’ll give you double odds. How’s that for being daring?”
Most of the games in Vegas were clean, because house odds usually worked magic without cheating. Still, there were thousands of ways to rig a game. Especially since casinos had dozens of cameras, giving them eyes to everyone’s cards. Lewiston seemed out for revenge.
Poe wasn’t about to play dupe. He rose from his slanted chair, extended his hand. “Some other time. No hard feelings?”
“Never.” Lewiston took the proffered fingers, crushed them in his grip. “Not at all.”
Poe counted to three, then pulled back his hand, smiling all the way. Asshole! His bones felt as if they had been put through a winepress. Yet he wasn’t bothered too much. At least now his fingers were too sore to snap.
Lewiston said, “Now if you’re not going to join me for golf on Saturday, you’d just better be running along.” A slow grin. “Don’t make me call my lawyer. City Hall wouldn’t like it.”
“Not necessary.” Again, Poe pulled out his cash. “Can I get a cashier’s check for this?”
“Downstairs.” Lewiston intercommed his secretary. “Lois, can you show Detective Poe out, please?”
“Sergeant.”
But Lewiston had picked up his iron and was whipping at the wind. Pretending not to hear.
Because of space problems, Homicide had moved away from the City Hall complex into its own building, mistitled an “executive park.” Completely unprepossessing, the structure was an unmarked one-story stucco thing with a tile roof and a double-mirrored door, better suited to hold an insurance agency or an escrow company. There was a small parking lot in front, another paved area in the rear which fronted an architecturally similar low-slung box.
Still, the move was celebrated by Homicide; the detectives loved their new surroundings. Their own place, putting miles of distance between them and the other departments as well as the scrutinizing eye of the brass. It was a quiet sanctuary, somewhere to think and work. Standing behind the Bureau lay the Crime Scene Analysis building. Just a short walk from the desk to the lab, making it easy to check up on physical evidence. With the two places in such close proximity, things rarely got lost.
Sitting at his desk, Jensen took a break from his notes and leaned back in his chair. It was ten to nine. Meaning the others should be here soon. Deluca and Poe were notoriously punctual. Taking a deep breath, letting it out slowly. He got up, walked to the coffee station, and started a pot of decaf.
More than mistresses, more than alcohol or a night out with the guys, being in this squad room, alone at night … that gave Jensen peace. The workspace was designed as one large, rectangular room. Completely open. No cubicles to block sound waves. Everyone could hear cases being discussed. Important details were often picked up in casual conversation. The walls were painted pastel blue, the floor was done in wall-to-wall deep blue carpet. Square panels of fluorescent light checkerboarded the ceiling. Currently, there were fifteen workstations lining the walls, each detective having his/her own desk, chair, computer, printer, phone, and java mug.
What more could anyone need?
A fridge and Mr. Coffee machine in one corner, a gun vault in the other. The unit’s vulture mascot was perched above the entrance door. During the day, the back windows gave a view of a parking lot. The appearance was definitely more like an office than a homicide bureau, but that was fine with Jensen.
He often watched the boob tube. One thing he could never figure out was how big-city TV cops worked in such chaos, trying to write reports with felons cursing, people shouting, women having babies. He guessed it made for good drama, though no one could think amid all that pandemonium. Here everything was low-key … quiet … like a small-town sheriff’s office. Which was fitting, because Vegas had originally been built as a Western saloon town. Now, with a population of over a million, Las Vegas owned big-city problems. Plus it had to cope with an enormous transient population. Outsiders often took their problems to the gambling mecca. And when things turned to shit, guess who cleaned up the mess?
Deluca walked through the door, threw her purse on her desk, and sat down. She ran stubby fingers through her freshly washed hair. Her face was flushed and open. “I got a lead.”
Jensen straightened in his chair, took in a whiff of air. “Are you wearing perfume?”
“Just a splash.” Patricia paused. “Did I overdo it?”
“No. Actually, it smells nice. What’s the occasion?”
“It has to do with my lead.” Patricia pulled out her notes. “I was questioning this bartender who kinda took a shine to me. His name is Nate—”
“Who’s Nate?” Poe asked, walking through the door.
“A bartender who has the hots for Patty.”
“That’s Fat Patty to you, bub.” Patricia winked at a blushing Jensen. “I know what you guys call me behind my back.” She turned to Poe. “I got a lead. A bartender who might have seen Brittany at Barry’s Place last night.”
She gave them the address.
Poe took out his notebook, wrote it down. Jensen said, “Never heard of the place.”
“It’s a native bar,” Patricia said.
“Native as in Native American?” Jensen asked.
“No, native as in native Las Vegan. Look at the address. Right in the heart of blue-collarville.”
Poe said, “Betcha Y would know the place.”
“I wouldn’t doubt it,” Jensen said. “Guy knows every bar in the city. How old is he, anyway? About eighty?”
“More like sixty-five, seventy,” Poe said. “His face is just weathered.”
“He looks like cured jerky,” Jensen remarked. “Is he related to you? Or don’t you readily admit to having Digger blood?”
“Of course I admit it. I’m proud of it.” Notebook still in hand, Poe plunked himself down, propped his feet on his desktop. “How’d you hook up with this bartender, Patricia? What’s his name, by the way?”
“Nathan Malealani.”
“Hawaiian?” Jensen asked.
“More like Samoan. By day, he tends the Oasis in Casablanca. The bar was on Weinberg’s hit list. Guess I got lucky.”
“Sounds like you made your own luck.” Poe turned to Jensen. “You find out anything we should know about?”
“Nothing radical.” Jensen picked up a list from his desk. “I got two, three … four bellmen who threw Newel some action. No one used her as a regular—too unreliable because of her chemical problem.”
“What was the split?” Poe asked.
“Fifty-fifty at first,” Jensen said. “When Brittany started losing her looks, it dropped to forty-sixty. Mostly she made calls to them on the weekends when things got busy.”
“Did she make enough money to carry her through the week?” Patricia asked.
“Depends on how much she made on weekends. Or maybe she simply hit Lewiston up for a loan.”
Poe stuck a wad of gum in his mouth. “He denied knowing her.”
The room went silent. Jensen broke it. “You actually talked to Parkerboy.”
“After two hours of getting the runaround, I became bored, started wandering through the casino. Lo and behold, Laredo done got itself a new pit boss.”
Patricia smiled. “You did well, sir?”
“Yes, ma’am!” Poe yanked his feet off the desk, stood up, and clapped his hands in glee. “Double-shoe decks. I fleeced the SOB. Serves Parkerboy right for keeping an officer of the law waiting.”
Jensen said, “Dealers there don’t believe in shuffling the cards?”
Poe laughed. “I had some lucky breaks. About an hour later, I get the familiar tap on the shoulder. I turn and smile and show Mr. Gil Lawson—probably né Guido Lombardi—my badge.”
“Way to go, Poe,” Jensen said.
Poe said, “Now the guy is stuck. He wants to kick me out, but I’m a cop. Doesn’t know what the hell to do. So I figure I’d help him out. I’d leave the table without making a scene if I could have a word with the boss. Ten minutes later, I get a call. How’s that for results?” He laughed, shook his head. “Guy’s a golf fanatic. His entire office is carpeted in sod so he can take practice shots.”
“Aw, c’mon,” Patricia said.
“I kid you not.”
Jensen said, “Doesn’t he own his own private course? The one off Sahara next to the Rancho Fiesta development. I played there once for some police benefit. It’s a good course.”
Patricia said, “He owns his own golf course?”
“Why not?” Jensen said. “Wynn owns the course at UNLV.”
“Yeah, but that one is open to the public, isn’t it?” Patricia said.
Poe shrugged. “Anyway, the upshot is that Lewiston denied knowing Brittany. And I’m wondering why.”
“Maybe he didn’t know her.”
“I don’t think so,” Poe said. “He used the words ‘I don’t recall’ knowing her. Like Reagan not recalling arm sales.”
“Maybe Reagan didn’t,” Patricia said. “He was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s.”
Poe said, “Everyone knows Lewiston’s a major lech, that he’s done tons of girls. Why would he be squirrelly knowing Brittany?”
“It doesn’t mean he’s involved,” Jensen said. “Maybe he didn’t want to get his hands sullied. You know, he starts saying, ‘Yeah, I know her.’ Then you start asking more questions. Easier to cut you off from the start.”
Poe answered, “More like he’s hiding something. I’d love to find out where he was last night.”
Jensen smiled. “Why don’t you question the hired help?”
Poe laughed. “Great idea, Steve. Is this before or after I get the shit beat out of me?”
“C’mon,” Patricia said. “Bugsy’s dead and gone—”
Jensen interrupted, “But the image lives on.”
“They wouldn’t do that to a cop,” Patricia insisted.
“Probably not.” But Poe wasn’t too sure what would happen if he started stomping on toes. “So what do we have? We have a girl shredded to death by some sadistic control freak who shot her up with dope beforehand—”
“How do you know that?” Jensen asked.
“Rukmani’s educated guess.”
“What else did she say?” Patricia asked.
Poe paused, flipped through his notes. “No stab wounds, no gunshot wounds, bits of metal found in a few tissue samples consistent with a metal implement, bits of enamel found that were consistent with tooth enamel. But no distinct bite marks. More like teeth tearing at the flesh.”
He closed his notebook, looked up.
“Dr. Kalil thinks all this was done while Brittany was still breathing. Possibly unconscious, but alive. We’ve got to nail this monster.”
Poe started snapping his fingers and winced. His hand was still sore from Lewiston’s crushing grip.
“Okay, so we know that Brittany bar-hopped. Patricia’s going to check out Barry’s Place … maybe she was there last night. Maybe she left there with someone in tow. She also hooked.” To Jensen, Poe said, “Any of your bellmen set her up with someone last night?”
“If they did, they didn’t admit it to me.”
Poe said, “Go back and lean on them.”
“I’ll do it, Rom. But I think Newel’s call girl days for the big hotels were long past. If she hooked at all, I betcha it was for pushers in exchange for drugs.”
“Since Patty and you are tied up, I suppose that leaves me to check out Naked City.” Poe raised his brows. “With Brittany’s arrest record, I’m sure she was an honorary citizen.”
Nate hadn’t been kidding when he said it was a workingman’s bar. No pretense of attracting the tourist trade. The place was dark, smoky, and smelled ripe. Roomy, though. A horseshoe-shaped wood-laminate counter with red Naugahyde stools, plus about twenty tables and scattered chairs. A separate area for playing pool. Occupancy ran about a third full, but the night was young. Most of the drinkers were men, but there were some big-haired forty-plus women. To pass the time, they schmoozed or played the countertop slots and poker machines. A live poker game was going down in one of the corners.
Taking a moment to adjust her eyes, Patricia chose a seat at the far end of the counter. Six stools away sat two women in tight jeans and plaid shirts, drinking beer and flirting with the hired help.
Strangely, she felt at home. The place seemed friendly and everyone was behaving himself. And if anyone acted up, Patricia was sure that Nathan Malealani and his coworker—a man resembling a sumo wrestler—could take care of any situation. Nate had wetted and combed his unruly Brillo locks, had donned a shocking-pink Hawaiian shirt printed with palm trees and woody station wagons. Their eyes met; he waved her over, his bright smile luminescent across the room. Without thinking about it, Patricia found herself smiling back. She sat in front of him, then absently dropped three quarters into one of the slots. Pressed the button that said “play three.” The barrels stopped at three cherries, her profits announced with dings and dongs.
Malealani said, “A good start.”
“If I stop now, I’ll stop a winner.”
The bartender said, “That’s the key … knowing when to stop.” He pushed a button, removing the winning receipt from the machine. “I’ll keep this for you.”
“Thanks.” Patricia studied the bartender with a cop’s eyes. His name hadn’t turned up a yellow sheet anywhere in the West, so she hadn’t bothered with NCIC. That could be a mistake. But she knew she hadn’t pursued it because she hadn’t wanted to look too hard.
“I like the shirt.”
His smile widened. “Thanks. It’s one of my favorites.”
Favorites? How many does he have? “Shows individuality.”
“That’s me. Can I get you a beer? Or is it still club soda with a lime twist?”
“I’m still working, so it’s still water.”
Malealani’s smile dimmed at the mention of the word “work.” Surely he didn’t think she was here on a social visit.
Then again, she was wearing perfume.
He poured out a tumbler of club soda, his manner more reserved. “Guy working the bar with me?” He cocked his head to the right. “His name is Raymond Takahashi. We call him Big Ray.”
“Makes sense. He’s a big guy.”
“Six-six. Mr. Bennington likes us big. You know, it’s a psychological edge when things get hairy. Anyway, I think you should talk to Ray. I think he served the girl you’re looking for.”
Patricia sipped her water. “Did you ask him about her?”
“No. I didn’t want it to come out wrong, so I didn’t say anything. Besides, you know how it is. You mention cops, some people get nervous. I didn’t want him to rabbit before you had a chance to talk.”
“Smart thinking.”
“Just common sense. Should I bring him over now?”
“That would be great.” Patricia smiled. “Hey, thanks for your help. I appreciate it.”
Malealani ran his fingers over the countertop. “Are we on for tomorrow night?”
Patricia shrugged. “How could I go wrong with an Italian buffet?”
The bartender tried to hide his glee. “Or if there’s something else—”
“Italian sounds fine, Nathan.”
Two girls roosted next to Patricia’s right. She moved three stools over. “Better if people don’t hear us.”
Malealani said, “It’s past ten. Gonna start to get crowded. I guess I should let you do your thing.”
But he paused.
Not wanting to let her go.
She said, “I don’t think I ever told you my name.”
“It’s on your card.”
“Still, that’s no introduction.” She stuck out her hand. “Patricia Deluca. Most people call me Fat Patty.”
Nate laughed. “How ’bout just Patty?”
“That’s fine, too. I really should talk to your friend.”
Malealani called out, “Hey, Big Ray.” Beckoned him with a finger. “Want you to meet someone.”
Big Ray stopped wiping the counter, froze, turned, stared, then lumbered forward. Not an ounce of fluidity in the man. Each physical action was done in a separate, robotic movement.
Like Nate, Big Ray was Melanesian. He wore an untucked blue rayon shirt over a pair of jeans. He looked like he was ready to bowl. He eyed Patricia, licked his lips. He nodded.
Malealani said, “This is Detective Deluca. She’s looking for someone.”
Patricia offered a handshake. “How’s it going, Big Ray?”
Ray took it, his face as animated as a tile of slate.
“Who are you looking for?”
To Patricia, Malealani said, “You have the picture, don’t you?”
Yes, Nate, I have the picture. She took out the photograph, showed it to Big Ray. “I’m with Homicide. This woman was found dead last night. Nate said you might have served her.”
