Kitabı oku: «Moon Music», sayfa 5
8
Exercise. Exorcise.
Stomping furiously on the treadmill, sweat dripping down—pouring down—as if her entire face were crying. Her wet palms were barely able to hold on to the handgrips. In a minute, they’d slip off and she’d go flying into space. Off the belt and into a wall like some Hollywood slapstick stunt. So as long as she could, she pumped her legs, running aslant on the instrument’s full tilt. She felt it in every vertebra of her backbone.
To keep her mind off the pain, Alison thought of her research. The green book. All the answers were there if she’d just take the time to look in it. If she could only get off this blasted treadmill and concentrate on her research.
It drove her crazy. To have to run. But she did it because she was too afraid not to do it. If she stopped, terrible things might happen. The nasty voices could come back. The horrid visions might return—flashing images of blood and guts and sticky stuff. They never came when she was busy. Why leave anything to chance?
Running.
Running to nowhere.
An adequate assessment of her life.
To run, run, run without any fun, fun, fun.
But she stopped short of bludgeoning herself. She had come so far. It used to be that the fear kept her in bed almost twenty-four hours a day. Steve had to carpool, Steve had to cook meals, Steve had to shop and go to parents’ conferences and do everything.
Now she could function. She could shop and pick up the kids from school … smile at the teachers and say hello. Often they’d smile back and say hello, too. And when she left the house, she made sure she was well groomed and presentable.
At times, she was oh so normal. A normal woman doing normal things. But then there were the other times …
So that’s why she ran.
If Mama had run, she might still be around today. But Mama hadn’t run and that had been the problem.
The steady whir of the machine’s motor buzzed through Alison’s head. Her leg muscles contracting and expanding, the exertion building up her lungs and heart and stamina. The exercise was making her strong.
If only Mama had run.
But of course, in her own way, Mama had run. But not in a healthy way. Her strange forays during the night. Two, three o’clock in the morning, she’d be gone. Her disappearances had terrified Alison as a child. Papa had been no help at all, as he had been frantic with worry. Sometimes Mama had stayed away for days in a row. And when she returned … the way she had looked. There had been times when Alison had wished that Mama hadn’t come back—this stranger so silent and sullen, her eyes feral and always bloodshot.
Drinking maybe.
Because her breath had turned fetid. As if she had lived on carrion.
The ensuing arguments. Papa asking her where she had been. Mama saying she didn’t remember. Papa accusing her of lying. Mama going hysterical. Papa begging her to see a psychiatrist. Mama stalking out of the house.
The scene repeated over and over until finally it became moot.
Mama’s nighttime escapades. When she was ten, Alison had asked one of her own psychiatrists about them. Dr. Jones had called them fugue states. Alison looked up the word fugue in her junior dictionary.
A musical form or composition in which a theme is taken up and developed by the various instruments or voices in succession according to the strict laws of counterpoint.
Had Mama been playing music all this time?
The idea puzzled Alison for years. Until she was older and looked the word up in an unabridged dictionary. There were two meanings, the second one stating:
A state of psychological amnesia during which a patient seems to behave in a conscious and rational way, although upon returning to a normal consciousness, the patient cannot remember the period of time nor what was done during it. A temporary flight from reality.
A temporary flight from reality.
Not so temporary in Mama’s case.
When Alison didn’t answer the doorbell, Poe took out his picks. A minute later, he was inside the house. She was exercising on the treadmill, her face as red and wet as a rain-washed plum. Her long legs were cutting long strides to keep up with an unnaturally fast pace. Her fingers were so tightly wound around the handlebars that the knuckles had turned bloodless. Her breathing was fast and furious and much too shallow.
Poe went inside her hallway closet, pulled out an octagonal red stop sign mounted on a dowel handle. He took the sign, placed it in front of her face.
As if she were looking at air.
Even before Poe did it he’d known that this time, it wasn’t going to work. She was running too fast … out of control. Time to take action. Slowly, he reduced the machine’s rate until she was barely walking. He let her go for five minutes, then turned off the treadmill.
She stood in place, not uttering a sound.
“Look at me,” Poe whispered.
Alison met his eyes. Then she dashed into her bedroom. He heard a sudden blast of water rushing through the pipes. He’d give her ten, maybe fifteen minutes tops.
While waiting he realized he was hungry. It was half past six and Poe had eaten his last meal, at Myra’s, well over eight hours ago. He returned Alison’s stop sign to its place in the closet, then went into the kitchen and opened the fridge, happy to see it well stocked. He made himself a meatball sandwich with dark mustard on thick sourdough, poured himself a glass of orange juice. He ate slowly, hoped that the water would stop. Of course, it didn’t.
With reluctance, he got up from the table, went into the bedroom.
Their bedroom.
Into the bathroom.
He opened the shower door, reached inside. The water had turned cold and Alison was shivering. He turned off the taps, placed a bath towel around her shoulders, and led her back into her bedroom, placing her in front of her dresser mirror. Carelessly, she let the towel fall to the floor.
Poe took in her nakedness, tried not to react. He held out her robe, then averted his eyes.
After a moment, she accepted it, slipped it on. Observing herself in her looking glass. She picked up a brush and began ripping into her hair. “I look like shit.”
“You look gorgeous.”
“I can’t figure it out. No matter how long I run on that damn thing, I still have these big, fat thighs!” She pounded her flesh for emphasis. “Like saddlebags.”
“You’re as thin as a cat’s tail. Shame on you for buying into that anorexia shit.”
“Don’t yell at me.”
“You’re overdoing it. It’s not healthy.”
“Can you kindly leave so I can get dressed?”
Poe paused. “All right, I’ll leave. But if I hear the water running—”
“Stop it!” She threw her towel at him. But she was smiling now. And a beautiful smile at that. “Go make yourself useful.”
“By doing …”
“Make some coffee.”
“Where’s your family?”
“Steve took the boys out for dinner.”
“When did they leave?”
Alison gave him a slow, seductive look. “You’re allowed to be here even if he isn’t. I’m not chattel.”
Poe wasn’t too sure about that. “I’ll make some coffee.”
She joined him just as the pot had finished brewing. Dressed in a loose black tunic over black leggings. Her face was awash in an after-exercise blush, her blond hair combed and pulled back in a ponytail, emphasizing perfect cheekbones. Two gold studs decorated her earlobes. Her lips were coated in something pink and wet.
He poured two mugs of coffee: they sat at the kitchen table. The house was ranch-style, a decent-sized thing on a generous lot which held a pool. It had a formal living room and dining room off an entry hall. The back part of the home was made up of an enormous kitchen, a breakfast area, and a den—the true living room of the house. At the moment, it was a bit messy—a stack of old papers, a couple of discarded items of clothing, a dirty dish on the coffee table. But Poe had seen it worse. The bedrooms were on the left side of the house—three of them.
“Why are you here?” Alison asked.
“Just to say hello.”
“Yeah, right.” She sipped coffee. “You’ve got that look in your eyes. What do you want? Besides to sleep with me. The answer is no.”
“Alison, when was the last time I asked you to sleep with me? Like twenty years ago?”
“Try six months ago.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You kissed me, Rom.”
“Alison, it was your birthday—”
“Not a chaste kiss. You gave me tongue.”
“You gave me tongue.”
“I don’t want to talk about this, Rom. Just drop it!”
Poe didn’t respond. Instead, he began drumming his fingers against the tabletop.
Alison put her hand over his to quiet his fidgeting. “Steve was really working last night, wasn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“A corpse in the desert.”
Poe eyed her. “He told you?”
“Occasionally we do talk. He was very upset by it. Did he know the woman, Rom?”
Poe shook his head no.
Alison studied him, scrutinized him. “You’ve become very hard to read.”
Poe said, “It was an awful case. She was … messed up.”
“Stabbed?”
Poe didn’t answer.
“Just spit it out, Rom. I won’t melt. He slept with her, right?”
Poe said, “Alison, do you remember the Bogeyman case?”
Anger coursed through her heart. Fiercely, she glared at him. Poe paled at her fury. “Wha … wha … what’d I say?”
Knowing she was irrationally angry, Alison softened her expression. “You don’t remember, do you?”
He thought: Oh God, what nerve did I touch this time?
The Bogeyman. He had been around ten. Which meant Alison had been seven, maybe eight—
Her mother!
Anything associated with her mother …
He said, “It was right around the time of your mother’s death. I’m sorry, I didn’t think—”
“It’s not just mere association. Think harder.”
Poe was confused, remained silent.
“How could you have forgotten?” she chided.
“I … I’m sorry, but—”
“My mother … her death. The cops had ruled it a suspicious suicide. They came to my house to ask me questions—”
“Oh, Christ!” Mentally, Poe kicked himself. “I don’t believe …”
How could he be so stupid! He had been there. The knock on the door. Two men in suits, one dressed in a cowboy hat and string tie with a turquoise clasp. They came in without even asking permission. Descending on the two of them. Two little kids. They’d been playing Clue—game number twelve or something like that. Her father had asked Poe if he could watch Alison while he did some grocery shopping.
Grocery shopping that took six hours.
Man, her dad had disappeared for a long time.
The men had introduced themselves as detectives. Started asking questions even though her father wasn’t home. Questions about her mother that made her cry. It had been only a month or so after the funeral.
Finally, Y had shown up. The Paiute Indian—an old friend of both his and Alison’s mothers—had materialized like some kind of apparitional savior. Seeing the police questioning two frightened children, the old man went ballistic. Poe still recalled the veins throbbing in the Indian’s red neck. Y had told the cops—in colorful terms—to leave. As far as Poe knew, the fuzz had never returned.
Eons ago. When Y had been strong and vital … Poe said, “Jesus, Alison, I am so sorry.”
“They thought Mama was one of the Bogeyman’s, you know. That she might have been with him the night she … killed herself. Because … she had cut herself up pretty badly.”
Tenderly she reached for his hand.
“You can’t remember everything. I’m sorry. I’m emotional these days.” A small squeeze. “Why did you ask me about it?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Does this case remind you of the Bogeyman?”
Poe cleared his throat. “Maybe. From my faded childhood memory, perhaps there are some similarities.”
He waited a beat.
“Faded memory is right. How could I forget? The whole thing … it’s so clear in my mind now. Y popped in during the interrogation. Booted them all out. He was the real hero of the story.”
“Absolutely.” She took her hand off Poe’s. “How is the old man?”
“Same as always. Gambling away his Indian benefits. Both he and my mom …”
Alison said, “He was very close to my mother. I think they were lovers.”
Poe nodded.
“The Bogeyman case had a very disturbing effect on my mother.”
“Alison, we don’t—” Poe stopped himself. If she wanted to talk, let her talk. “Go on.”
She composed her thoughts. “During the murder—rather murders, I think there were two of them—she became unusually agitated. Of course, she was disturbed even before the Bogeyman. But if you’re looking for an excuse as to what drove her over the top, I’d say the killings.”
Poe heard the front door open.
Angrily, Alison whispered, “I wish he’d just go away!”
“I’d better go away.” As Poe started to rise, Alison grabbed his wrist. “What are you afraid of?”
Poe looked at her, sat back down. “Nothing.”
The boys—Harrison and Scott—came charging into the kitchen. Both her sons were redheads like Alison’s father. She hugged them like a mama lion. “Hey, sluggers. How’s it cooking?”
“Hey, Mom,” Scotty answered. “We brought you back some orange chicken and fried rice.”
“Sounds great!”
“I’m going up to my room,” Harrison said. “Homework.”
Scott put the take-out bag on the kitchen table. “I gotta work on my math folder. Then you have to sign it.”
“Fine,” Alison said.
“I mean, you don’t have to read it or anything. Just sign it.”
“I don’t mind reading it.”
“I kinda prefer if you don’t read it.”
“Whatever you want, Scotty.”
The boy looked tenderly toward his mother. “Are you okay?”
Alison forced herself not to cry. “Great.”
Still, Scotty was skeptical. He kissed his mother’s cheek. “Take care. Bye.”
Alison stood up and gave her husband a half-smile. “Thanks for taking them out.”
Jensen kissed her on the lips, throwing Poe daggers from the corners of his eyes. Easy to think the worst. But he knew Alison. Moreover, he knew Poe. Married women weren’t his thing. “Am I interrupting anything?”
“Not at all,” Alison chirped. “You want some coffee, Steve?”
Jensen forced himself to smile. “No, I’m fine.” He saw Poe getting up, said, “Don’t let me rush you.”
Feeling as wanted as ice on jet wings, Poe said, “Gotta go. Certain people await me.”
Jensen mouthed, “Lewiston?”
Poe nodded.
Jensen said, “I’ll walk you out, Boss.”
“’Night, Alison.” Pointedly, Poe kissed her cheek. Just to show him it was all very innocent.
“’Night.” She turned her back and busied herself at the counter.
As soon as they were out of her sight, Jensen grabbed Poe’s arm, shoving him out of the house. He slammed the front door behind them, all pretense of calm dissipating like smoke. “What did you two talk about?”
“Get your goddamn hands off me!”
Jensen blushed, dropped Poe’s arm. He said, “What did you two talk—”
“None of your business,” Poe answered. “And don’t you dare interrogate your wife to get answers—”
“I’m not interrogating her, I’m interrogating you.” Jensen spun 360 degrees on his heels, faced Poe with rage. “You think it’s jealousy, don’t you? You think I’m this big, bad jealous schmuck who’s—”
“Steve, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You don’t goddamn get it, do you? Every time you talk to her and start reminiscing about the good ole days, it sets her back. You don’t see it. Because to you, your little talks are nothing but great fun. And because when she talks to you, she puts on her normal act—”
“Steve—”
“—but get her a couple hours later, when you’re long gone, out screwing your whores or girlfriend or playing your cards being Mr. Asshole Carefree Bachelor, then she’s left alone. And when she’s alone, she sinks, Rom. And guess who has to deal with her shit!”
No one spoke.
Jensen exhaled forcefully. “Every time you come to visit, you put her back six months’ worth of therapy.”
Again, there was silence.
Jensen said, “In case you haven’t noticed, she’s very fragile and disturbed—”
“I’m well aware—”
“You aren’t aware of anything except what she tells you. And that’s always her own slant. Her own bizarre thoughts. I’m not saying she can’t be helped. But you ain’t the one to do it, all right?”
Poe stuck his hands in his pocket, eyes looking upward, into a black, starry sky. “If I’ve been … causing problems between you and your wife, I apologize.”
“I don’t need your apologies, Rom. I need you to leave her alone. Understand?”
“Clearly.”
Jensen suddenly wilted, exhausted and spent. “Weinberg’s looking at me strange. You didn’t tell him about—”
“No.”
“She ask about the case at all?”
“Who? Alison?”
Jensen nodded.
“Yeah. She said you were very upset last night. She asked whether you had slept with the victim.”
“And you told her no?”
“I won’t dignify that with an answer.”
Neither spoke for a moment.
Poe said, “You find out anything?”
“About Brittany?” Jensen shrugged. “Nothing that points to a killer. Just bits and pieces.”
“We should meet, compare notes with Patricia.”
“Give me a time and place.”
Poe started snapping his fingers, stopped himself. “Back at the Bureau in what … two hours. Let’s call it for nine.”
“I’ll be there.” Jensen rubbed his face, looked up. “I’ve got to … don’t want to leave her alone.” His jaw tightened. “Although I don’t think she relishes my company.”
“Steve, I—”
“Forget it.”
Poe nodded. Jensen was right. Leave it unsaid.
The big man patted Poe’s shoulder, turned, and walked back inside his house. Poe remained rooted, his eyes racing across an endless inky sky, the sounds of his snapping fingers echoing in the stillness of the night. Slowly, he forced himself to move. To go away.
He had a giant headache.
Probably too much caffeine.
Next time, he’d cool it with the coffee.
9
Taking a couple of practice swings, the iron whizzing through the air. “How’s your game coming, son?”
Poe answered, “I don’t play golf, Mr. Lewiston.”
“Pity.” Several more slices into the air. Then the moment of truth. Lewiston bunched up his body in concentration, his eyes focused on the tee. He took aim and swung. A clean shot, the ball rising, falling, rolling across the ground. It fell into a sunken cup around fifty yards away.
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 mean-mouthed 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 double-mirrored 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?”
