Stripped (17 page)

“It’s a long way from unrequited love to murder,” Serena said. “Sounds like Moose had a better motive. Or you, for that matter.”

“That’s true,” Helen acknowledged. “Then again, we didn’t leave town right after the murder. Why else do you think the word went out that Walker wasn’t in Vegas that night? Boni was covering for his whale. Walker was there. I saw him at the first show.”

“Tell us what happened that night,” Stride said.

“I don’t know, not really. We did our two performances of
Flame
that evening, at eight o’clock and then eleven o’clock. Amira was in both shows. She left around one in the morning. I saw her leave the backstage area. There was nothing unusual about it. By the next morning, the word was all over the casino that she had been killed.”

“Did you see Walker at the second show?” Stride asked.

“No. He usually attended both shows when he was in town, but he was only at the first show that night.”

“Did you see him in the casino at all after the first show?”

“I never saw him again, period. Ever.” Helen raised her eyebrows as if to say,
That’s what I’ve been telling you
.

“What did you do after the last show?” Serena asked.

“I went to one of the hotel rooms. Leo met me there, and we sweated up the sheets for an hour.”

“Leo Rucci? The casino manager?”

Helen nodded. “That was what he called himself, a manager. He was mostly just dumb muscle for Boni. He managed people by bullying and threatening and beating them up when he needed to.”

“So why sleep with him?”

Helen seemed amused at their naïveté. “Well, first, I was ambitious, like Amira. I knew whenever she decided she wanted more money somewhere else, I’d have a shot at the lead role. I thought Leo could put in a good word for me with Boni, and he did.” She winked. “But it wasn’t just that Leo also had the biggest cock I’d ever seen. Nine inches and fat like a sausage. I could only do him after a show, because there was no way I could dance after having that thing inside me.” She said it matter-of-factly. Stride got the feeling that Helen liked being outrageous. He tried not to blush but felt his face growing hot.

“How long was Leo with you?” Serena asked, coming to his rescue.

“About an hour. That was about two o’clock in the morning. Normally, I could count on Leo for a couple of go-rounds, but he had to leave.”

“Why?” Serena asked.

“Mickey called him. There was a problem outside.”

“Who’s Mickey?”

Helen shrugged. “One of the lifeguards. There were always students who took summer jobs to make money and screw some of the wives while their husbands were at the tables. Mickey told Leo some guy was drunk near the pool and trying to start a fight Leo went outside to break the guy’s nose.”

“That was how Leo solved most of his problems?” Stride asked.

“Oh, yeah. He was a vicious son of a bitch. Huge, like a linebacker. He slapped me a couple times, too, and that was the end of it for me.”

“Did you hear anything more about the fight?” Serena asked.

“Not a word. I assume it was some nobody. If it was Dean or Shecky, that would have been news. As it was, the next day, all the talk was about Amira.”

“And you didn’t see Leo again that night?”

“No, not until the next day.”

“Did he tell you anything about the murder?” Stride asked.

Helen smiled. “Only that I should keep my mouth shut and not ask any questions. The other girls got the same story. If anybody asked, we didn’t know a damn thing.”

“What about the detective who was investigating? His name was Nicholas Humphrey. Did you ever speak to him?”

“Sure. He interviewed all of us together, and Leo was there, too. No one said a thing. If you ask me, Nick didn’t look too disappointed. I’m not sure he was all that interested in the truth.”

“Nick?” Stride asked. “You knew him?”

“He was a regular at the Sheherezade,” Helen replied. “Sometimes he had private security gigs for the stars.”

Stride began to think that maybe Rex Terrell was right and the fix was in. “Did Nick Humphrey ever provide security for Walker Lane?” he asked.

“Well, it’s possible Nick helped him out on
Neon Nights
. I’m not sure.” Helen leaned closer to them. “Can I ask you something? How does this involve me? Or Peter?”

“Our first thought was that someone was trying to keep you quiet,” Serena said.

“But no one threatened me,” Helen insisted.

Stride watched her closely. He could see age there, no matter how much she tried to hide it with plastic surgery and makeup. He saw vice, too, plenty of it. But not deceit. Not fear. She wasn’t hiding from anyone or covering up the truth.

“Right now, we don’t know who’s doing this or why,” Stride admitted. “So please be careful. Until we know what game this person is playing, we don’t know his next move.”<

Being up here, Stride thought, was like being on top of the world, staring down. Jagged, barren mountaintops of red-orange rock were set against a blue sky that seemed as tall as heaven. Streaks of erosion on the cliffs looked like grooves that had been carved into the hills with a knife. It was stark, surpassing beauty, ringing the valley.

The late afternoon weather was warm but not hot, although he could feel even in the waning glow of the sun how easily it could turn ferocious. He remembered the summer and how he had baked then, barely able to take a breath, feeling superheated grit clog his lungs. There were none of the lake breezes or storms from Minnesota, no electrical shows of thunder and lightning, no cool dampness. Just an oven, set on broil and left to cook for three months.

He took a last look at the whitewashed stucco of Helen’s palatial home.

“So how do you think she is in bed?” he asked, glancing at Serena with a smile.

“I think she’s more than you could handle,” Serena replied.

“You got that right.”

His cell phone rang. Sara Evans again. Restless.

“This is Sawhill.” Stride imagined him with his stress ball in hand, squeezing rhythmically.

“Hello, Lieutenant,” Stride replied.

Serena drew a finger across her throat and mouthed,
He’s going to cut us off
.

“Cordy tells me you think there may be a connection between MJ’s murder and the death of Peter Hale,” Sawhill said.

“It looks that way.” He explained how they had discovered the link between Helen Truax and Walker Lane, and what Helen had told them about Amira Luz.

“I thought I told you that line of inquiry was dead,” Sawhill said.

Stride chose his words carefully. “You did, sir. And it was. This was professional curiosity, nothing more. It was simply luck that Serena recognized the boy’s grandmother in a photo that ran in
LV
. In Rex Terrell’s article.”

“Professional curiosity,” Sawhill said, repeating the phrase as if he were tasting a sour wine. “Tell me, Detective, do you expect me to believe that story?”

“Not for a moment,” Stride replied.

Sawhill actually laughed. “All right. I fire cops who think I’m an idiot. I respect a cop who follows his instincts, even if it lands him in hot water. Which this still may, Stride.”

“I realize that,” Stride acknowledged.

“What about the murder in Reno?”

“Serena talked to Jay Walling. So far, it doesn’t look like the woman who was killed, Alice Ford, or her family had any connection to the Sheherezade or Amira, but he’s going to keep digging.”

As he talked to Sawhill on the street, Stride heard Serena’s cell phone ring, too. He watched her take the call and cup her ear, moving several steps away.

Sawhill kept talking. “For the time being, we keep this out of the press. Got it?”

“Agreed.”

“My restriction still stands. Don’t talk to Walker Lane again without clearing it through me.”

“Fair enough,” Stride said. He didn’t mention that Walker Lane was already back on his list, along with another name that would drive Sawhill crazy: Boni Fisso. This investigation had all the makings of a political tornado, sucking people into the updraft.

“What’s your next move?” Sawhill asked.

“I want to talk to Nick Humphrey,” Stride said. “The detective who handled the original investigation of Amira’s death.”

“All right, I’ll get you his address,” Sawhill replied. “He still lives in the city.”

Stride heard the clicking of computer keys, and then Sawhill rattled off an address in North Las Vegas. Stride jotted it down in his notebook.

“Step carefully, Detective. I’m willing to let you run because it looks like your instincts were right. But keep your professional curiosity on a short leash.”

Sawhill hung up the phone. A few feet away, Serena did the same.

“A reprieve,” he told Serena. “Sawhill thinks the connection is tenuous, but he’s not shutting us down. Yet.”

Serena was smiling. “He’s a lying bastard.”

“What?”

“That was Cordy,” Serena said. “There’s nothing tenuous about the connection. We ran the Aztek for fingerprints, and there was a beautiful print left for us on the inside of the front windshield. It matches the print you guys found on the slot machine at the Oasis. It was the same guy.”

“Son of a bitch,” Stride said. “Sawhill knew?”

“Cordy just left his office.”

“And to think I was actually polite to him.” Stride laughed.

They climbed into the Bronco and headed down the long stretch of Bonanza back to the city. The elegant estates disappeared behind them as they descended into the valley, replaced by drab middle-class housing behind gray walls. Stride pulled up to a stoplight, then turned and stared thoughtfully at Serena. They were working the same case again. Like the murder of Rachel Deese that summer, when they first met. It gave him a jolt of adrenaline.

“So we have the same killer,” Serena said. “And the guy is leaving his calling card behind at each crime scene.”

“Did Jay Walling run a match for prints at the scene in Reno?”

Serena nodded. “No match.”

“So maybe there’s no connection,” Stride said.

“Or we haven’t found it yet It’s possible the perp didn’t think about leaving a print behind until the hit-and-run. Then he decided he wanted to lead us on a merry chase. So he left the receipt as a clue to tie in the murder of Alice Ford at her ranch.”

“Except Helen and Walker Lane are both mentioned in Rex Terrell’s article in
LV
. They have a connection to Amira Luz. The Fords don’t, as far as we can tell.”

“You think the article by Rex is the connection?” Serena asked. “That’s what got this started?”

“Maybe,” Stride replied. “No one cared about Amira for years before he started nosing around. Rex may have got someone’s attention.”

As they climbed up Nick Humphrey’s driveway, a little blur of white came streaking like a comet from next door. They stopped as a West Highland terrier sped around their feet, dancing on its hind legs and then flopping over on its back. Serena laughed and crouched down, rubbing the dog’s belly. It closed its eyes, in heaven.

An elderly black man limped over from the neighboring house. “I’m sorry about that.”

The dog leaped up and began jumping for attention at the man’s legs, wanting to be picked up. He bent over with a groan and scooped her up. “Some watchdog you are,” he grumbled at her. The dog kissed his face.

“What a sweetie,” Serena told him.

“Yeah, she loves people,” the man replied. He added, “I’m Harvey Washington. You coming to see Nicky?”

They nodded.

“He’s inside. Probably watching ESPN. Me, I prefer the History Channel. I love it when they do those dinosaur shows.” He put the dog down, and the dog sat and stared up at him. “You wouldn’t have liked those days, huh, missy? You would have wound up an appetizer for one of them T-Rexes.”

The dog looked unconvinced. It pawed at Serena’s leg and then flopped over on its back again.

“Oh, you’re a lady, for heaven’s sake,” Harvey said. “Don’t go offering up your tummy like that. You want people to think you’re easy?”

Harvey had gray curly hair and a broad nose. His chocolate skin was wrinkled and hung like ill-fitting clothes on his arms and legs. He wore navy blue shorts and a white polo shirt.

“Have you known Nick long?” Stride asked.

“Oh, for years. Long before both of us moved here.”

“Were you on the force, too?” Serena asked.

“No, nothing like that. I can see you two are on the job, though. You both have that look. I’d know it anywhere.”

Stride saw a twinkle in Harvey’s eyes and wondered if the man knew the police from personal experience. He wouldn’t have wanted to be a black man in Las Vegas in the old days.

“I won’t keep you,” Harvey said. “I’m sure you’ve got ground to cover with Nick. When you see him, ask him if he’s taking his lisinopril. The man’s blood pressure could pop a champagne cork.”

He waved good-bye with his dog’s paw and shuffled back to his yard.

A small plane floated overhead, its engine whining. They weren’t far from the North Las Vegas Airport. Nick Humphrey lived on a street of tract houses just off Cheyenne. There was still a lot of open land out here. Stride could hear the rumble of bulldozers digging up the rocky soil somewhere, giving birth to another look-alike development like this one. Each unit was cheap and without any soul, painted the same mute beige, dropped next to one another like part of a build-by-numbers master plan. Stride was sorry to think that this was the best Humphrey could afford, after several decades on the job.

Stride and Serena continued to the front door and rang the bell. Humphrey answered immediately, as if he had been waiting for them. His eyes were hooded with suspicion. Stride explained who they were and that they wanted to talk to him about an old case, but his granite expression didn’t change.

“Amira Luz,” Stride added.

“Yeah, I thought as much,” Humphrey said. With a shrug, he let them in.

Humphrey had a shock-white crewcut and a goatee. He was bulky for his age, and when he shook their hands, his grip was crushing. He wore jeans and slippers, but no shirt, and a green terry robe tied loosely at his waist. He led them into a small living room, trailing an aroma of Bengay.