“Let me run through this,” Connie said. “Lillian Paressi, Howie at McDonalds, Carl Rosen, and possibly Samuel Singh are all tied to the same serial killer. And now he's targeted you.”
“I don't know about Howie, Carl, or Samuel, but Lillian Paressi received red roses and white carnations and a note just before she was killed.”
“Like the flowers and notes you've been getting.”
“Yeah. So I'm guessing he likes to taunt his victims. Likes to get them afraid before he strikes. Some kind of game for him.”
“Are you sure it's a him?”
“I'm not sure of anything. In the beginning I suspected Bart Cone, but the police are keeping a close watch on him. If Cone's still in Trenton and Singh turns up dead, that eliminates Cone from the suspect list.”
When we got back to the car, Lula was still snoring and there were two dogs patiently sitting on the curb by the passenger side door.
“I don't know what's more creepy,” Connie said. “You getting stalked by a killer or Lula walking around with a purse filled with pork chops. I'm feeling like I'm in Stephen King land.”
It was two o'clock so I called Califonte and asked if Singh was there. Califonte said no, sorry. I gave Califonte my cell number and asked him to call me if Singh showed up.
Connie and I got back into the car and put our fingers in our ears. After five minutes my shirt was soaked and sweat was running down the side of my face. This was the glorious life of a bounty hunter.
“Tell me again why we're sitting here, melting,” Connie said.
“The dog.”
“I need a better reason.”
“There's something about that dog that gives me an estrogen attack. He's small and helpless looking. And those little button eyes! The eyes are so trusting. And he's going to the pound. How awful is that? I can't let that happen.”
“So you have to save the dog.”
“He's counting on me.”
“Stephanie to the rescue,” Connie said.
“I could call you a cab,” I said. “And you could go back to the hotel.”
“No way. I'd have to sit around the pool and get a tan and have half-naked waiters bring me cold drinks. Where's the fun in that when I could be sitting here listening to Lula?”
Susan Lu left the house a little after two. She walked to a bus stop on the far corner. After five minutes a bus appeared and Lu got on.
“Thank God,” Connie said. “I'm at the end of the line with the snoring and the sweating.”
I gave Lula a shove. “Wake up. Susan Lu left the house. We can get the dog now.”
Lula squinted at me. “I feel like my eyes are fried. I'm not as young as I used to be. I can't do this all-night shit anymore. And this place is hotter than snot. How can anyone live here?”
I cranked the car over and pulled into Lu's driveway. Lula, Connie, and I got out and walked around to the back kitchen door.
“Door's locked,” Lula said. “Too bad you have this thing about busting in.”
“This is for a good cause,” I said. “I suppose we could force the door if we did it really carefully.”
“Hunh,” Lula said. She swung her purse into the window beside the door and shattered the window. “Oops,” Lula said. “Guess I accidentally broke a window.” Then she reached in and opened the door.
“Gripes,” Connie said. “Could you make more noise? Maybe there's someone left in the neighborhood who didn't hear that.”
I tiptoed over the glass shards, scooped up Boo, and handed him to Lula. I quickly walked through the rest of the house. I took Singh's laptop, but found nothing else of interest. I wiped Lula's prints off the doorknob and we left.
“We're like Robin Hood or something,” Lula said. “We rescued this cute little guy. I feel like singing the Robin Hood theme song.”
We stopped and thought about that for a second.
“Damn,” Lula said. “There's no Robin Hood theme song.”
We got into the rental Taurus and hightailed it out of the neighborhood. Best not to delay, in case someone confused us with dognappers and called the police. The police might not understand about Robin Hood.
I stopped at a supermarket and bought a dog leash and collar, and a small bag of dog food for Boo. I bought popsicles for Connie and me and two pounds of sliced deli ham for Lula.
I didn't know if dogs were allowed at the Luxor and I didn't think it was worth the hassle to check. I wrapped the dog in my sweatshirt and smuggled him up to the room.
“Isn't this a pisser,” Lula said, going into the room. “Look at what's here. My luggage. Came just in time to lug it back home.”
“Hopefully they won't lose it this time.”
“Damn right they won't lose it. I'm not flying. I'm done flying. I'm driving home.”
“It'll take you days.”
“I don't care. Nothing you could say would make me get back on a plane. I got the rental car and I'm driving. And I can take Boo. I don't like the idea of handing him over to those airport people.”
Boo was on the floor, snooping around.
“He's a cute little guy,” Lula said. “I can see why Nonnie wanted him back.”
I had a problem now. There was a small chance that the flowers were a hoax and something other than death had kept Singh from showing for the job interview. I didn't want to take off only to find out down the road that Singh was alive and well in Vegas. I called Morelli and Ranger. Neither had anything to report. I called my family next.
“We're all fine,” Grandma said. “Except for Albert, who seems to be in labor. That isn't possible, is it?”
When I was a kid my family seemed so stable. I was the flaky kid and my mom was always right, my sister was perfect, my dad was the rock. It hasn't been until recently that I've come to realize nothing is that simple. People are complicated and chock full of problems. That said, my family's problems don't seem so huge. We're a family of plodders. We put one foot in front of the other and keep going forward. And eventually we get someplace. Maybe the place isn't spectacular, but it's a place all the same. And while we're plodding sometimes the problems solve themselves, sometimes the problems get pushed low on the list of priorities and get forgotten, and sometimes the problems cause little pockets of irritation in our bowels.
Mostly we solve our problems with cake.
I was hungry and I would have liked to order room service, but I was afraid Boo would be discovered. Room service is third on my list of favorite things. Birthday cake is first. Sex is second. And then room service. Room service is better than having a mother. You order what you want and they bring it to your door, guilt free, no strings attached. Pretty amazing, huh?
“I'm going out for something to eat,” I said. “And I'm going to check on Susan Lu. I want to make sure she really did go to work.”
“I'm with you,” Lula said.
Connie was on her feet. “Count me in.”
The three Mouseketeers.
We gave Boo a glass of water and told him to be a good dog. We put the Do Not Disturb sign on the door, locked up, and left.
According to Connie’s information, Susan Lu worked at Caesars. Caesars was exactly the wrong distance from the Luxor. Too short to feel justified taking a cab. Too long to hoof it in the heat.
We stepped outside and sucked in blast furnace-quality air and Connie made the decision for us.
“I'm not walking,” she said. “And I'll shoot anyone who tries to make me.”
Caesars is everything a casino should be ... noisy, smokey, gaudy, and bustling with people who can't wait to throw their money away. And if that isn't enough, it has a terrific shopping center. The waitresses servicing the game tables all wore little toga outfits. Some looked better in their togas than others. I suspected Lu would not look wowie kazowie in her toga. We did a casual walk around the room and didn't spot Susan Lu.
“This isn't gonna work,” Lula said. “It's too big. There's too many of the toga women. And there are cock
tail lounges on the sides, too. And restaurants.”
“I don't know how to break this to you,” Connie said, “but I think we're being followed. You see the guy in black over by the statue of Caesar?”
Lula and I turned and looked.
“Don't look!” Connie hissed.
Lula and I stopped looking.
“You have to be sneaky,” Connie said.
Lula and I did a sneaky look.
“I don't recognize him,” I said.
Connie slid him a sideways glance. “He was in the lobby of the Luxor when we came through.”
“Probably just a coincidence,” I said.
He was about five feet, ten inches and average build. He wore a black suit, black shirt, and black silk tie. His hair was dark and slicked back behind his ears.
“I bet he's got a purple car with a bobble-head doll on the dash,” Lula said. “I bet he's a pimp. I guess I know a pimp when I see one. The question is, why would a pimp be following us?”
Connie and I looked at Lula.
“What?” Lula said.
Lula was wearing a skin-tight pink stretchy T-shirt with sexy written across her boobs in silver sequins. It had a low scoop neck showing an acre of cleavage and it was tucked into a matching spandex miniskirt.
“Hey, I'm not the one wearing a shirt asking if you got crabs,” Lula said.
I looked down at my shirt. “It's for the baseball team in Lakewood. Joe bought it for me.”
“Hunh,” Lula said.
I didn't think the guy in black looked like a pimp. I thought he looked like someone who bought GQ and took it seriously. Probably he was from L.A. and worked in the CAA mailroom.
“Let's go across the room and find a blackjack table,” Connie said to me. “See if he follows you.”
“Fine, but I can't play blackjack. I'll just stand and watch.”
“That's ridiculous,” Connie said. “Everyone can play blackjack. All you have to do is count to twenty-one.” Connie was pulling me along by my purse strap. “I'll have Vinnie bankroll you.”
“You play blackjack.”
“That won't work,” Connie said. “I want to see if he's after you. Maybe he's the carnation guy. This way, you sit down and Lula and I can sort of fade away, all the while keeping our eyes on you. Then we wait to see what he does.”
“Here he comes,” Lula said. “He's coming along with us. He's trying not to be noticed, but I'm onto him.”
Connie tugged me toward an empty chair. “Sit,” she said, “there's an opening at this table.”
“This is a twenty-five-dollar table,” I said. “Aren't there any loose change tables?”
There were two men and two women already playing at the table. They were drinking and smoking and their faces were without expression. They looked like they knew what they were doing. They'd look at the dealer and tap the table and obviously that meant something. One of the women wanted to double. She lost her chips after that, so I made a mental note not to double.
When the hand was done Connie dropped fifty dollars on the table. The dealer gave me two chips and the fifty bucks got whisked away by the dealer and stuffed into a slot on the table.
Everyone put chips out, so I put one out, too. I looked over my shoulder at Connie. Connie was gone. When I swung my attention back to the table I had two cards face up in front of me. A king and an ace.
“Twenty-one wins,” the dealer said. And he gave me a bunch of chips.
Wow. I won. I didn't even have to do anything.
Everyone else played out their hands and then we all started again with new chips on the table. I put mine out, too. The dealer gave me two cards face up. A six and a jack. Panic. I had to add. A jack was worth what? Ten? Okay, ten seemed reasonable for a jack. So I had sixteen. I looked around. Everyone was waiting for me to say something.
The dealer asked me if I wanted a card. More panic. I didn't want to go over twenty-one. I had to subtract. I hate to subtract. “Sure,” I said. “Give me another card.”
The dealer asked me if I was certain I wanted another card. “You have a six showing and the book says not to take another card,” the dealer said.
I didn't know what book he was talking about, but all the other players agreed with the dealer and the book so I decided not to take a card.
The dealer had a six and a ten on the table. He dealt himself another ten. “Dealer busts,” he said.
And I got another chip. Hot damn. No wonder people liked to gamble. This was easy.
We started a new game and I got sixteen again with the first two cards. The dealer had a nine showing. I told him I didn't want any more cards. What the hell, it worked the first two times. Now he told me the book didn't like that decision. Well, God forbid I should go against the book. “Okeydokey,” I said. “I'll go with the book and take another card.”
I got dealt a king of hearts.
“Busts,” the dealer said, and he took my chips and my cards.
So much for the book.
I played another hand. Lost another chip. Everyone played their hands out and we started over. Connie was nowhere to be seen. The guy in black was behind me, watching me. I could feel him back there. The photo images of shattered skulls popped into my head. The memory of the heat and numbing blackness that followed the hit from the dart washed over me. I felt a panic attack trying to get a toehold.
The dealer wanted to know if I was going to play.
“What?” I asked.
“You need to put a chip in to play”
I shoved a red chip into my circle.
“Red chips are worth ten,” the dealer said. “This table has a twenty-five-dollar minimum.”
I pushed a different colored chip at him. The chips had numbers on them, but I was too flustered to make sense of it.
The dealer gave me a ten of spades and a two of hearts. This was easy to add. Twelve. A long way to go to twenty-one, right? I asked for another card. This started a lot of arguing. Apparently the book wasn't clear on this one. The dealer gave me a ten of diamonds. Damn! Busted again.
I didn't know exactly how much I had because I was having a hard time adding up all the different colored chips, but I knew I didn't have a lot. One more hand, maybe.
When the new game started I pushed a couple chips into my ring. The dealer gave me a nine of spades and a three of clubs. I bit into my lower lip, unsure what to do, and I felt a hand settle on my shoulder. I turned and looked. It was the guy in black.
“I'm going to help you,” he said.
There was a lot of noise behind me. I heard Lula let out a shriek and the guy in black gasped in surprise, jerked away from me, and went over backward. Everyone at the table stood and gawked, including me.
Lula and the guy in black were on the floor. Lula was ass up, on top of the guy in black. You could hardly see him under the pink spandex. He was squashed spread eagle under Lula so that only his hands and feet stuck out. Connie was standing on one of his hands.
To the Nines Page 18