Moon Music (10 page)

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 meanmouthed 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 doublemirrored 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."