Binding Ties (14 page)

Grissom, filing away the conversation as the sociological oddity it was, thanked the roommate.

He didn't really get anywhere until contacting Sergeant O'Riley's old LA buddy Tavo Alvarez, who called back in half an hour with what he'd learned: It seemed Patty was using her mother's maiden name,
Lang, on her UCLA registration. From there it was nothing to get her phone number.

He tried her apartment first, but the young woman didn't answer. Next, he tried her cell phone and she finally picked up on the third ring.

“Hello.”

She had a sweet voice with a smile in it. Faint traffic sounds made it clear she was in a car.

“Patty Lang?”

“Yes. Who's this? I don't recognize the voice.”

He identified himself and told her about trying to locate her father.

“Wish I could help, Mr. Grissom. Daddy called me, day before yesterday … to tell me he wouldn't be coming out after all?”

The girl's up-lilting sentence/questions reminded Grissom of Sara's cadence, a Valley Girlish lilt that he rather liked, for no objective reason.

“Did he say why he cancelled seeing you?” Grissom asked.

“Yes. He said he was about to break a big story. One as big as CASt—one that would ‘put him on the map again?'”

“Did he tell you what that story was?”

She laughed once. “Do you know my father very well, Mr. Grissom?”

“Fairly well.”

“Has he ever told you about a story
before
it appeared in print?”

“No. You make a good point, Patty.”

Her tone turned serious. “Do you think there's something wrong? With my father, I mean? Is he in some kind of trouble, or danger?”

With a father who worked the crime beat, Patty having this reaction seemed natural to Grissom.

“We don't think so. We just wanted to talk to him about an ongoing investigation. Everyone seems to be under the impression he was in LA with you.”

“Well, that had been the plan. But a ‘big scoop' came up—of course, with my father, it could be ice cream!”

She laughed, and Grissom smiled, but he could hear a shade of worry in her voice.

“Is there anything else I can help you with, Mr. Grissom?”

“No,” Grissom said. “Thanks for your time.”

“Would you … do me a favor?”

“Of course, Patty.”

“When you do see Daddy, tell him he better call me. You've got me kinda worried.”

“Sorry. Not my intention.”

“But it's that kind of world, isn't it, Mr. Grissom?”

He didn't lie to her: “Yes it is, Patty. Thank you. Good-bye.”

“Bye!”

He cut the connection and sat back in his chair.

If Bell wasn't in LA—if he was working on a “big scoop” here in Vegas—why hadn't the crime writer been into the office for two days?

Or was the “story” a fabrication to give him the
opportunity to kill Enrique Diaz while the world thought he was out of town? But if Perry had been trying to assemble an alibi, why would somebody who knew his way around criminal matters create such a tissue-thin one? Call the daughter, and poof—bye-bye alibi.

The longer they were unable to locate Perry Bell, the more the questions mounted. As one of the few people on the planet who might actually
gain
from the resurgence of this vicious serial killer, Bell had no alibi for the first murder and had disappeared completely right before the second.

Then, a keycard from Bell's workplace turns up in the hand of the second victim. Had the victim managed to snag it from Bell, as a dying clue?

Grissom normally rejected such overly convenient and clever “clues” as something out of Ellery Queen or Agatha Christie. He was reminded of the old movie cliche—it's quiet out there …
too
quiet….

Perry Bell was looking like a good suspect.

Too good.

The ride through the Delamar Mountains up 93 had been even more boring than Brass had anticipated.

As scenery, mountains did not really do it for him; the fascination some people had for rock formations missed him. And for company, Damon was only half a notch above the mountains. The NLVPD detective had two subjects: shop and professional wrestling.
Brass had about as much interest in what the North Las Vegas boys were up to as he did about a sport that had a script….

After what seemed like only one lifetime, they pulled up to the main gate of Ely State Prison. Eight buildings, broken down into four connected pairs, made up the maximum security penitentiary. Twelve-foot-high chain-link fence topped with concertina wire formed the perimeter, along with four three-story concrete guard towers at each corner.

A guard with a clipboard came out of the air-conditioned shack next to the gate, his walk that distinctive combination of authority and indifference that characterized the breed. He wore dark glasses and a campaign hat pulled down low.

Brass rolled down the window as the guard approached.

“May I help you?” the guard asked, though the subtext was:
Why did you bring me out into this heat?

Brass and Damon both showed their IDs.

“We're here to see a prisoner,” Damon said.

The guard had a
no kidding
expression.

Brass said, “We're on the list.”

The guard was already checking the clipboard. “Yeah, here you are. You guys know the drill?”

“I
do,” Brass said.

The guard ambled off.

Damon asked, “What is the drill?”

“Well, it starts with hurry-up-and-wait.”

They boiled in the sun for close to five minutes
before the guard finally came out of the shack again and waved them forward. As he did, the gate seemed to magically open, like Oz (whether Frank L. Baum's or HBO's version remained to be seen) and Brass guided the car on through.

The rest of the process took the better part of half an hour before the detectives were sitting at a metal picnic table in a small concrete-block room. Their guns locked in metal drawers near the guard's office, the two plainclothes police officers sat silently, sun streaming through the barred window to make abstractions on the table, as they waited for their guest.

After a somewhat shorter time than the ride to Ely, a key thunked in the lock and the door swung open. The young man who strolled in, followed by a guard, hardly looked like a killer; but Brass knew—too well—that killers came in many packages.

This one was a skinny, blond kid with wide-set, wide-open blue eyes, more pretty than handsome. His orange jumpsuit was immaculately pressed and—even though his hands were cuffed before him—Rudy Orloff moved with an easy grace, almost dancerlike … floating on air.

Without an invitation, Orloff sat opposite them at the picnic table.

His smile showed even, white teeth. “I remember you,” he said to Brass. “But I don't remember your name. You and those CSI showboats rousted me on some murder, couple years back.” Then he gazed at Damon, insolently. “You're cute, but I don't know
you…. Not really fair, is it? You know who
I
am.”

Brass and Damon both showed their IDs.

“Must be important, trading Vegas for Ely,” Orloff said, “even for an afternoon. You may have noticed—this place is the devil's armpit.”

Brass said, “Rudy, we came all this way just to see you. Talk to you.”

“What a great big goddamn honor! Now who do you think I killed that I didn't kill?”

“Your DNA,” Damon said, “was found at the scene of two murders.”

Orloff didn't miss a beat. “My DNA. What, hair? Skin?”

Brass said, “Semen.”

With an evil grin, Orloff said, “You boys are twisted, aren't you?”

“Heel, Sparky,” Brass said. “Your spunk showed up on the bodies of two men murdered in Vegas—
last week.”

The prisoner reared back; his smile was more confused than insolent, this time. “Say what?”

Brass told him again.

Orloff now seemed amused, if interested. “With me in stir for most of the last year, how do you suppose I managed to accomplish that? Prison library fax? Good aim?”

Brass said, “We've already checked—you haven't been released for a funeral, or on work release, or anything else. Your ass has not been outside the prison yard.”

“You
are
a detective, Captain Brass. What's
your
idea how it happened?”

The detectives said nothing for a long moment, then Brass said, “We were hoping you might enlighten us.”

“Why should I help
you?”

“I'll talk to the warden and write up a report that oughta put some gold stars on your good-behavior chart.”

“Well … that's a start….”

Damon said, “This guy we're after is evil.”

Orloff backed away, hands up like Al Jolson singing “Mammy.” “Wow, evil! There's an oldie but goodie.”

Brass said, “We're talking a serial killer. Remember CASt?”

“He's
making a comeback? And here I was hoping for a
Seinfeld
reunion.”

Brass's mouth smiled; his eyes didn't. “Your come—how come?”

Orloff shrugged. “All I know for sure is—I didn't kill your two dead men. Beyond that, hell … I'd just be speculating.”

“Please do,” Brass said.

The wise remark seemed to strike Orloff as a compliment, and he sat forward, folding his hands, and in a conspiratorial, one-expert-to-another fashion, asked, “You're
sure
it's my DNA?”

“CODIS matched it.”

“Someone froze it, then.”

“Gee, we hadn't thought of that. Did you sell your sperm to a clinic?”

“No. Or my blood, either, though there were times I tried. See, they make you pee in a cup, and I couldn't piss the physical.”

“So comes the question,” Brass said, “who would think freezing Rudy Orloff's semen sounds like fun?”

The kid sat back, not sullen—thinking.

Brass tried to prime the pump: “Look, we know you've been inside for a while. What we don't know is, when's the last time you were in Vegas?”

“Eighteen months ago, more or less. About right.”

“You turned tricks. Anything kinky?”

Orloff grunted a laugh. “What, guys paying guys for sex? What kink could ever come up in
that
situation?”

“Anybody who … paid for … take out?”

Orloff smiled, crossed his arms. “You mean a collector?”

“Is there such a thing?”

Again Orloff sat forward and while he was pretty, his grin wasn't. “You name the bend, somebody out there's made that way.”

“I believe you. Back to Vegas …”

The prisoner shrugged, resumed his leaning-back, folded-arms position. “I met a bunch of party people when I was there. But my memory's cloudy. Maybe if there was something in it for me, the sun might come out.”

Brass tapped Damon on the shoulder and they both rose.

“What?”

“We're out of here,” Brass said.

“What, you don't want to
haggle?”
Orloff asked, brows beettled. He was damn near pouting. “I thought you came to play!”

“We came to work,” Brass said. “Anyway, I don't think you've got anything to sell.”

“Sit down, sit down—don't get all huffy. If I give you something, would it be worth something in return?”

They sat.

Brass asked, “Like what?”

“Solitary confinement.”

Damon asked, “You
want
solitary?”

“Listen, I been working on good behavior. I'm in on attempted murder, not murder, guys. There's light at the end of this tunnel, and helping you guys builds my file up, in a good way. But we get the TV here, we get the papers. If these animals find out I helped the
heat
… even if it is some messed-up serial killer—they'll think it's open season. I'll never survive, if I don't find a way out.”

Brass nodded. “You give me something I can use, I'll get you solitary.”

“And while I'm in solitary, you get me transferred out of here, too.”

Brass reared back. “Rudy—I don't know if I can make that happen.”

“There's plenty of places cushier than this. I have trouble breathing this thin mountain air.”

Brass wondered if Orloff had made some enemies in here that he was trying to evade; maybe that would be helpful to the cause….

“I'll do what I can,” Brass said.

Orloff studied him for a long time. “I believe you. I choose to believe you. But remember, if you need me as a witness, I gotta be alive! Corpses can't do shit on the witness stand.”

“Understood.”

“Okay. Okay, there were two guys. I don't know either of their names.”

“Oh, great start, Rudy,” Brass said.

“Hey, we weren't in the kind of place where you give names,” Orloff said. “At least not right ones. Or do you want me to tell you, go look for Smith and Jones? … Anyway, there were these two guys. One was older.”

“How old?”

Orloff shrugged. “Fifty maybe—that neighborhood.”

“What did he look like?”

“Bald, glasses, dressed like he hadn't been shopping since he saw
Saturday Night Fever.”

“Bald?”

“Yeah, he had, you know … wispy stuff, but that was it. He wore lots of polyester. You know—nice jacket, who shot the couch?”

“Okay,” Brass said. “He was a … collector?”

“Yeah. He used to love to watch me strangle the chicken. He'd hold the cup for me to do it in, and then … he'd take it home. What he did with it in the privacy of his pad was not my concern—the C note he gave me was. The other guy did the same thing, only he got a little more … involved. Helped me.”

Brass said, “Tell me about this other guy.”

“Thirtyish, dark hair. I liked him—nice build, kind eyes.”