Moon Music. Faye Kellerman
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“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