The Beast (37 page)

“An eighty-nine-year-old guy is a threat?” Silver said.

“He had a twelve-hundred-pound Bengal tiger at his disposal,” Marge said. “He also had venomous snakes, and spiders. And when all else fails, even an old man can pull the trigger.”

BY TWO IN
the afternoon, Havert had just awakened. Rather than wait for him to come to the police station, the cops offered to drop by the house. The neighborhood was a few miles away from the Strip, more Mojave than glamour. It was block upon block of small houses of white stucco with red tile roofs and two-car garages. Lawn was scarce. Most of the plantings were succulents and heat-tolerant foliage interspersed among beds of white rock. The group came up to the door and Silver knocked on the top of the screen. Havert shouted out, “It’s open. Be out in a sec.”

The cops went inside.

Furnishings included a brown cloth sofa, two tan chairs, a laminate
coffee table and end table. There was a flat screen on a scarred dresser, wires and cables snaking all over the worn ivory carpet. An Xbox and a slew of games rested on the floor. Bacon was frying, and coffee was brewing. Havert came out, wearing a yellowed terry cloth robe. He stood six feet tall without shoes and could have used a shower. His darting eyes couldn’t find a place to rest. He didn’t ask for ID. “Sorry about the mess. Just got up . . .” He sniffed the smoky air and ran his fingers through greasy dark hair. “Lemme check on my food.”

“Go ahead,” Crone told him.

“You guys want some coffee?”

“We’re fine,” Silver said

Havert disappeared and came out a minute later with a paper plate of crisp bacon. He ate with his hands. He finally decided to sit down. “Yeah, so . . . like what’s going on?”

Since Crone was from LVMPD, he made the introductions, and as soon as he mentioned LAPD homicide, Havert’s face flinched.

Marge took out a tape recorder. “Do you mind if we record this?”

Havert’s eyes grew even jumpier. “Why?”

“Because my memory isn’t so great.” She held up her notebook. “I use it as a backup against my own scrawls. Is it okay?”

“I guess so.” He tried to act calm. “This is Vegas. What gives with LAPD?”

Marge gave him a reassuring smile. “You did live in L.A. up until about two weeks ago.”

“A two-year stopover. Vegas is my home.”

“Two years is a long stopover. Where’d you live while you were there?”

“I hopped around.” His knee was bouncing; his robe was partially open at the chest. “Rotten city. That’s why I moved back to Vegas. At least, here you know what you got.”

Marge took out a notepad. “You left L.A. in a hurry.”

“I just got fed up. Didn’t have a lot, so I picked up and left.”

“What got you fed up?”

“Everything. Like I said, it was a rotten city.”

Silence. Silver said, “You know, Bruce, big casinos don’t want any problems. The pit bosses don’t like people with baggage.”

“Everyone here has baggage.”

“Not recent baggage. I’m sure you’re good at what you do, but there’s a waiting list for dealers about a mile long . . . lots of people itching to take your place.”

“Why are you guys hassling me?”

Oliver said, “All Detective Silver is saying is that you’ve got a good job and I’m sure you want to keep it. Let me tell you why we’re here. And then maybe you can help us out.”

Marge said, “We’re investigating the murder of an eighty-nine-year-old man named Hobart Penny. He lived and died in our district. He was an odd man—”

“No shit!”

Marge said, “So you knew him.”

“Not personally.” Bruce paused. “Am I gonna need a lawyer?”

Marge sized him up and took a chance. “Ordinarily I’d try to talk you out of calling your attorney, but since all we’re looking for is information, go ahead and call him up. We’ll wait. It’s your money. I’m sure he isn’t cheap.”

Havert fidgeted. “No joke.” A pause. “I didn’t do anything to that man.”

“I never said you did. All we’re looking for is information.”

Oliver said, “Tell me about Casey’s Massage and Escort.”

“It was legitimate. All the girls were licensed.”

“Tell me about your business.”

“Like what?”

“You can start with a list of your clients.”

“That’s private information.”

“We’re investigating a murder, sir,” Oliver said. “Last time we checked, you weren’t a doctor, a lawyer, or a person of the clergy.”

“I’m not naming names.”

“We appreciate your integrity. Just tell us if Penny was one of your clients. He’s dead. He’s not coming back to sue you.”

Havert scratched his nose as he thought about it. Why deny the obvious. “He was a twice-a-week regular.”

“What services did he get?”

“He booked massages. It was all legit. All of our girls were licensed.”

“Yeah, you said that, and we believe you,” Oliver said. “Bruce, we’re not from vice. We don’t care about an old man getting a rubdown in personal places. We’re from homicide.”

“Don’t know anything about that.”

Oliver said, “What’d you do with the cars?”

“Huh?” Havert said.

“The two powder blue Priuses that you leased.”

“What about them?”

“You returned one of them when you still had six months to go and paid a penalty. You must have wanted out really quickly.”

“I didn’t pay a penalty. I sold the lease back to the dealer. Priuses are in demand. So you got your information wrong.”

“My bad,” Oliver said. “Did you sell both of them back?”

Havert’s eyes kept flitting back and forth. “Why do you care about the cars?”

Oliver didn’t answer the question, trying to keep him off balance. “Which girls did you send to Penny?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Sure you do,” Marge said.

Crone said, “Lots of people on that waiting list for your job, Bruce.”

Havert made a sour face. “I need coffee.”

Silver stood up. “I’ll get it.”

“You’ll get me coffee in my own house?”

“Just relax.” Silver put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s gonna turn out fine.”

Marge said, “Detective Oliver was just asking you which girls you sent out for the massages. If Penny was a regular, he probably had preferences. The apartment manager saw the same girls going in and out.”

“That little shit!” A forced laugh. “Don’t believe a word the asshole says.”

“Okay,” Marge told him. “Why’s that?”

“He was constantly pestering the girls . . . always trying to get a freebie.”

Marge jotted down his words. “How many times did you talk to Mr. Paxton?”

Again the knee went up and down. “I never met him personally. But the ladies hated him. Called him a little cretin gnome with a little dick to match.”

“How did the ladies know about his dick?” Oliver said.

Havert looked down. “I heard the girls talk about him. Like I said, I never met the asshole.”

“Which ladies did meet the asshole?”

“You’d have to ask Randi. She did the assignments.”

“That would be Randi Miller?” Oliver said.

Havert looked at him. “Yeah. Randi Miller.”

“I’d love to talk to her.” Marge smiled. “She isn’t in L.A. anymore, either. Any idea where she might be?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. We split up for good after we arrived in Vegas.”

“So she’s here?”

“Don’t know. I haven’t had contact with her since we got here.”

Oliver smiled. “That’s bullshit.”

“Check my phone.” He got up and hunted around the apartment for his cell. He finally found it tucked behind a chair cushion. He handed it over to Marge and recited off ten digits. “That’s Randi’s number. Check to see if I’ve called it or not.”

Marge checked the phone number and the texts: no calls between them for the past week.

The question was why. To Marge, it appeared as if they had both decided that they’d be better off alone, meaning that both he and Randi knew something about the murder.

Silver came in with a cup of coffee. He’d been gone for a long time. The detectives knew that he had taken the extra minutes to hunt for something—weed, pills, powder—something to use if
Havert was uncooperative. He handed him the paper cup. “Here you go. This’ll wake you up.”

“I’m awake.” Havert sipped in silence.

Silver said, “You want some more bacon? There’s still some in the pan.”

“Yeah, sure. Thanks.”

“Your own police butler. How about that for service?”

Havert gave a weak smile and Silver left again.

Marge said, “Randi was your manager, your coworker. You two were together for a long time. Why did you suddenly stop communicating?”

“We had a . . . falling-out.”

“What kind of a falling-out?”

No answer.

Oliver said, “Bruce, let me lay it open for you. We’ve got a murdered man and your girls were the last ones to see Penny alive.”

“How do you know that?”

“We have security tapes. The timing matches up.”

Havert went pale. “What . . . what kind of tapes?”

Marge stared at him.

Why was he afraid?

Because he was there.

It was probing time. Marge lied, “We know who went in and out of the apartment, Bruce.”

Silence. Silver came back with the bacon. “Here you go.” When Havert looked nauseated, Silver said, “I’ll just put this here on the table.”

Oliver said, “We need to talk to Randi Miller, Mr. Havert.”

“I told you. I don’t know where she is.” When no one answered, he said, “She talked about going back home.”

“Where is home? Montana?” When Havert didn’t say anything, Marge said, “See we know all sorts of things. So just get it out so I know you’re being righteous.”

“Yeah, yeah. Missoula, Montana. She’s thirty-three. She has been in L.A. since she was sixteen. She’s had it up to her eyeballs.”

“Is this number current?” Marge read off the digits.

“I wouldn’t know. I told you I haven’t called her since I left L.A.”

“Call it.”

Havert complied. The phone line registered as disconnected. He shrugged. “I swear I don’t know where she is.”

Marge said, “But you know she’s from Missoula.”

“That’s what she told me.”

“Do you have the name of her parents?”

“It’s only her mother. I assume her name is Mrs. Miller.”

“Do you have a first name?”

“No.”

“What about the other girl? Ginger Buck?” Havert acted stunned. “Or was her name Georgie Harris?”

Havert stared at them. “You don’t have any tapes, do you?”

Marge said, “We have a lot of tapes, which is how we found out about you and Randi and the Priuses. We tracked you down, using those security videos. That’s why we’re here.”

“Where were the cameras?” He paused. “Did the freak have cameras hidden in his apartment?” Marge let her silence do the talking. Havert said, “If he did, then you should know exactly what happened.”

More silence.

“If you do have tapes, then you definitely know that I had nothing to do with that freak’s death.”

Marge played along. “Absolute—”

“The man was a fiend . . . I mean c’mon . . . keeping a
tiger
in an apartment?”

“It’s weird,” Oliver said.

“He was a fucking monster!”

Marge lied, “We know you were there, Bruce. We know that, as clear as the tapes show your face. But sometimes the tapes and cameras don’t tell the whole story. They just tell a story from one angle. And that angle might not be what really happened. So why don’t you tell us what really happened?”

Oliver said, “Just get it out.”

“I dunno what happened.” Havert slumped and sank into the cushions. “If you have tapes, you have to know I wasn’t there when it happened.”

“Of course.” Marge played along. Her mind was reeling. “But you did come afterward. We have you entering the apartment.”

Havert’s complexion turned pasty. “Randi called in a panic. She put me in a panic.”

Marge said, “Bruce, the tapes we saw don’t have audio. What did Randi tell you specifically?”

Havert swallowed hard. “She wasn’t making much sense.” Everyone waited for him to continue. He said, “I wasn’t
there
. If you want to know what happened to him, you need to talk to Randi.”

“It would help if we could find her. Help you out as well.”

“All I know is that she’s from Missoula and talked about going back home.”

“What about Georgie Harris or Georgina Harris?” Oliver asked. “Any idea where she is?”

Havert sat back and regarded them with confusion. Marge’s brain continued firing out all possibilities. He insisted he wasn’t there when Penny was murdered. But Randi was, and she had called him in a panic.

If Randi shot Penny and no one else was involved, then Havert would have told her to leave the apartment immediately. Then they’d both pack up and skip town. He certainly wouldn’t have gone to the apartment, placing himself at a murder scene, unless there was a good reason.

Like cleaning up a mess that could come back to haunt him.

Two girls went in carrying duffel bags. But Bruce mentioned only Randi coming out.

Marge whispered, “Bruce, we never saw Georgie leave the apartment. But we did see you lugging those duffel bags. And we could tell that it held more than just clothing by the way you were dragging it.”

Silence. As four pairs of eyes went to Havert’s face, the dealer looked down. Spots of water dripped down his cheeks. Marge touched his hand. He looked up, dazed but not confused.

“It’s time to get it all out. Tell us how Georgina died.”

S
ITTING ON HER
white and blue French Regency sofa, Sabrina Talbot had gone through an entire tissue box in record time. “I don’t know what happened!” she sobbed. “I was never part of what he did there!”

Her wailing was directed to Will Barnes from Santa Barbara PD. He was tall and large, and his once dark hair was giving way to silver. His relationship with Marge had been years in the making, and lately the two of them had been talking about rings. Since both of them were around the half-century mark, it wasn’t a surprise that neither was in a hurry.

Hobart Penny’s murder was in Decker’s jurisdiction, but his potential murder victims were not. However, since Decker had a package of frozen fingers, he had more than just a passing interest in what had gone on behind the iron gates.