Stripped

by Brian Freeman

“Specifically, a relationship with Amira Luz,” Helen said, finishing the sentence.

  “That’s right,” Stride said. He played a hunch. “You talked to Rex Terrell, didn’t you? He mentioned you in his article in LV as one of the people whose careers benefited from Amira’s death.”

  Helen nodded.

  Stride leaned forward, his elbows on the table. “Why don’t you tell us exactly what happened back then?”

  Helen stared off into the valley, then turned back to Stride with a hardness in her face. “I have a nice life. My husband is an international lawyer, and he makes a great deal of money. And he’s away a lot. I’m sure you understand.”

  She knew Stride had spotted the footprints.

  “It’s one thing to gossip with a reporter on background,” Helen continued. “It’s another to be a witness for the police. We’re talking about a murder at a casino owned by Boni Fisso. Boni has a long reach and a long memory.”

  “Have you been threatened?” Serena asked. “Do you think someone was sending you a message by killing your grandson?”

  “No,” Helen said flatly.“Not at all. I haven’t heard from anyone. Certainly not Boni. The idea that Peter’s death could somehow involve me or what happened in the past-that’s a complete shock to me. I don’t see how or why.”

  “That’s why we need to know what happened in 1967,” Stride told her. “To find the connection.”

  “It may be the only way to find out who killed Peter,” Serena added.

  “Peter,” Helen murmured, struggling with her reluctance. “I can’t believe what happened to him. I’ve never been a very emotional person, detectives. I’m not one to believe that attachments last forever. You can ask my ex-husbands about that. But I loved that little boy.”

  She drummed her nails on the patio table and bit her lip.

  “I guess the first thing to say is that I feel like I have blood on my hands, too. I hated Amira. I was insanely jealous of her. When she was killed, I have to say I was glad. Funny, how petty it seems in retrospect. But I was barely twenty-one then, and ambitious, and Amira was standing in the way.”

  “What was she like?” Serena asked.

  “Amira? She was scandalous.”

  “In what way?”

  Helen gave them a wicked smile. “You two are too young to understand the times. It was the sexual revolution, but there was still a lot of the 1950s about the world back then. Big hair. Ugly black glasses that made us look like librarians. Lots of ridiculous hats. Flouncy little miniskirts so you could practically see our pussies, but we were still supposed to look virginal.” She laughed. Stride thought she was pleased to see that her language surprised them.

  “There was plenty of flesh back then,” she added. “You had Lido at the Stardust, the Folies at the Trop, Minsky’s at the Slipper. All of them bare-breasted, but pretty tame. Even so, we took a lot of heat. We had some councilmen in Henderson who thought a few tits onstage meant the end of civilization as we knew it. They wanted the girls wearing pasties, elevated stages, all sorts of nonsense like that. Fortunately, no one listened to them. Like I said, the nudity was pretty innocent.”

  She took a sip of wine. “Then Amira came along. Looking back, I can admit it now. Amira had something special, something I didn’t. She was utterly uninhibited. When Boni made Amira the lead dancer in our nudie show, she was a sensation. And that show was pretty conservative. But Flame-my God. Everyone thought she was a prima donna going off to Paris for six months, but when she came back, she unveiled Flame. No one had seen anything like it. Amira wasn’t stripping. She wasn’t dancing. She might as well have been masturbating right there onstage. For 1967, my dears, that was scandalous.”

  “What was Amira like as a person?” Stride asked.

  “Cold. Ambitious. Selfish.” Helen traced the top of her wineglass with a painted fingernail. “Does that sound harsh? I admit, I was biased against her, because she treated me like shit. She treated all the other dancers that way. Most of us would pal around, look out for each other, but not Amira. She was only interested in herself.”

  “Do you know how she wound up in Vegas? How she got her start?”

  “If you were a young girl with stars in your eyes, you went one of two places back then,” Helen said. “Hollywood or Vegas. I don’t think Amira liked the idea of being a movie star. She fed off the crowd. She liked performing in front of an audience. And she was all about sex. Vegas was a natural for her.”

  “But you don’t just walk into town and become a star,” Serena said.

  “Most of us, no. But Amira wasn’t like most of us. The first thing she did was have an affair with Moose, and he put her in his show. That gave her an audience. From there, her sex appeal carried her.”

  “How did she get involved with Moose?”

  Helen laughed. “Moose wasn’t exactly playing hard to get in those days. He told me later that Amira was the greatest fuck he ever had. Of course, he didn’t realize the little bitch would turn around and put a knife in his back. Take over his show.”

  “He must have been angry,” Stride said.

  “Furious. Which for Moose is saying a lot. He trashed his dressing room when Boni told him he wouldn’t have his own show anymore and would be a variety performer in Flame. Boni had to have Leo talk to him.”

  “Leo?” Serena asked.

  “Leo Rucci. Boni’s right-hand man. He ran the day-today operations at the casino.”

  “What do you think Leo said to Moose?”

  “I think Leo told him he’d be out on the street with a rearranged face if he didn’t shut up.”

  “So Moose was nursing a major grudge against Amira,” Stride said.

  “Sure. Most of us were. Amira didn’t care who she trashed to get what she wanted.”

  “Did Amira have a boyfriend?” Stride asked. “After Moose, that is.”

  “Not that I ever saw. In fact, I don’t really think she had many friends at all. Amira rarely hung out in the casino when she wasn’t onstage. The rest of us liked to gamble and drink with the other stars. Amira did her act and disappeared. I think that was part of how she cultivated her image. She was unapproachable. It made men want her.”

  “Tell us about Walker Lane,” Stride said. “We heard he wanted Amira, too.”

  Helen’s eyes twinkled. “Well, he wanted me first.”

  “You slept with him?” Serena asked.

  “Once. He was filming his Vegas movie that spring. Neon Nights. Remember that one? Well, it was forgotten quickly, but it made a lot of money at the time. A few scenes were filmed at the Sheherezade, and I got to know him when he came to the show. Over the course of about three months, I think he fucked all the dancers.”

  “Was Amira one of them?”

  Helen shook her head. “She wasn’t back from Paris at that point. But when Flame started up that summer, Walker fell for her hard. Every weekend, he flew in from L.A. and was in the front row. Like a puppy dog. But as far as we could tell, Amira didn’t give him the time of day.”

  “It’s a long way from unrequited love to murder,” Serena said. “Sounds like Moose had a better motive. Or you, for that matter.”

  “That’s true,” Helen acknowledged. “Then again, we didn’t leave town right after the murder. Why else do you think the word went out that Walker wasn’t in Vegas that night? Boni was covering for his whale. Walker was there. I saw him at the first show.”

  “Tell us what happened that night,” Stride said.

  “I don’t know, not really. We did our two performances of Flame that evening, at eight o’clock and then eleven o’clock. Amira was in both shows. She left around one in the morning. I saw her leave the backstage area. There was nothing unusual about it. By the next morning, the word was all over the casino that she had been killed.”

  “Did you see Walker at the second show?” Stride asked.

  “No. He usually attended both shows when he was in town, but he was only at the first show that night.”


  “Did you see him in the casino at all after the first show?”

  “I never saw him again, period. Ever.” Helen raised her eyebrows as if to say, That’s what I’ve been telling you.

  “What did you do after the last show?” Serena asked.

  “I went to one of the hotel rooms. Leo met me there, and we sweated up the sheets for an hour.”

  “Leo Rucci? The casino manager?”

  Helen nodded. “That was what he called himself, a manager. He was mostly just dumb muscle for Boni. He managed people by bullying and threatening and beating them up when he needed to.”

  “So why sleep with him?”

  Helen seemed amused at their naïveté. “Well, first, I was ambitious, like Amira. I knew whenever she decided she wanted more money somewhere else, I’d have a shot at the lead role. I thought Leo could put in a good word for me with Boni, and he did.” She winked. “But it wasn’t just that Leo also had the biggest cock I’d ever seen. Nine inches and fat like a sausage. I could only do him after a show, because there was no way I could dance after having that thing inside me.” She said it matter-of-factly. Stride got the feeling that Helen liked being outrageous. He tried not to blush but felt his face growing hot.

  “How long was Leo with you?” Serena asked, coming to his rescue.

  “About an hour. That was about two o’clock in the morning. Normally, I could count on Leo for a couple of go-rounds, but he had to leave.”

  “Why?” Serena asked.

  “Mickey called him. There was a problem outside.”

  “Who’s Mickey?”

  Helen shrugged. “One of the lifeguards. There were always students who took summer jobs to make money and screw some of the wives while their husbands were at the tables. Mickey told Leo some guy was drunk near the pool and trying to start a fight Leo went outside to break the guy’s nose.”

  “That was how Leo solved most of his problems?” Stride asked.

  “Oh, yeah. He was a vicious son of a bitch. Huge, like a linebacker. He slapped me a couple times, too, and that was the end of it for me.”

  “Did you hear anything more about the fight?” Serena asked.

  “Not a word. I assume it was some nobody. If it was Dean or Shecky, that would have been news. As it was, the next day, all the talk was about Amira.”

  “And you didn’t see Leo again that night?”

  “No, not until the next day.”

  “Did he tell you anything about the murder?” Stride asked.

  Helen smiled. “Only that I should keep my mouth shut and not ask any questions. The other girls got the same story. If anybody asked, we didn’t know a damn thing.”

  “What about the detective who was investigating? His name was Nicholas Humphrey. Did you ever speak to him?”

  “Sure. He interviewed all of us together, and Leo was there, too. No one said a thing. If you ask me, Nick didn’t look too disappointed. I’m not sure he was all that interested in the truth.”

  “Nick?” Stride asked. “You knew him?”

  “He was a regular at the Sheherezade,” Helen replied. “Sometimes he had private security gigs for the stars.”

  Stride began to think that maybe Rex Terrell was right and the fix was in. “Did Nick Humphrey ever provide security for Walker Lane?” he asked.

  “Well, it’s possible Nick helped him out on Neon Nights. I’m not sure.” Helen leaned closer to them. “Can I ask you something? How does this involve me? Or Peter?”

  “Our first thought was that someone was trying to keep you quiet,” Serena said.

  “But no one threatened me,” Helen insisted.

  Stride watched her closely. He could see age there, no matter how much she tried to hide it with plastic surgery and makeup. He saw vice, too, plenty of it. But not deceit. Not fear. She wasn’t hiding from anyone or covering up the truth.

  “Right now, we don’t know who’s doing this or why,” Stride admitted. “So please be careful. Until we know what game this person is playing, we don’t know his next move.”

  SIXTEEN

  Being up here, Stride thought, was like being on top of the world, staring down. Jagged, barren mountaintops of red-orange rock were set against a blue sky that seemed as tall as heaven. Streaks of erosion on the cliffs looked like grooves that had been carved into the hills with a knife. It was stark, surpassing beauty, ringing the valley.

  The late afternoon weather was warm but not hot, although he could feel even in the waning glow of the sun how easily it could turn ferocious. He remembered the summer and how he had baked then, barely able to take a breath, feeling superheated grit clog his lungs. There were none of the lake breezes or storms from Minnesota, no electrical shows of thunder and lightning, no cool dampness. Just an oven, set on broil and left to cook for three months.

  He took a last look at the whitewashed stucco of Helen’s palatial home.

  “So how do you think she is in bed?” he asked, glancing at Serena with a smile.

  “I think she’s more than you could handle,” Serena replied.

  “You got that right.”

  His cell phone rang. Sara Evans again. Restless.

  “This is Sawhill.” Stride imagined him with his stress ball in hand, squeezing rhythmically.

  “Hello, Lieutenant,” Stride replied.

  Serena drew a finger across her throat and mouthed, He’s going to cut us off.

  “Cordy tells me you think there may be a connection between MJ’s murder and the death of Peter Hale,” Sawhill said.

  “It looks that way.” He explained how they had discovered the link between Helen Truax and Walker Lane, and what Helen had told them about Amira Luz.

  “I thought I told you that line of inquiry was dead,” Sawhill said.

  Stride chose his words carefully. “You did, sir. And it was. This was professional curiosity, nothing more. It was simply luck that Serena recognized the boy’s grandmother in a photo that ran in LV. In Rex Terrell’s article.”

  “Professional curiosity,” Sawhill said, repeating the phrase as if he were tasting a sour wine. “Tell me, Detective, do you expect me to believe that story?”

  “Not for a moment,” Stride replied.

  Sawhill actually laughed. “All right. I fire cops who think I’m an idiot. I respect a cop who follows his instincts, even if it lands him in hot water. Which this still may, Stride.”

  “I realize that,” Stride acknowledged.

  “What about the murder in Reno?”

  “Serena talked to Jay Walling. So far, it doesn’t look like the woman who was killed, Alice Ford, or her family had any connection to the Sheherezade or Amira, but he’s going to keep digging.”

  As he talked to Sawhill on the street, Stride heard Serena’s cell phone ring, too. He watched her take the call and cup her ear, moving several steps away.

  Sawhill kept talking. “For the time being, we keep this out of the press. Got it?”

  “Agreed.”

  “My restriction still stands. Don’t talk to Walker Lane again without clearing it through me.”

  “Fair enough,” Stride said. He didn’t mention that Walker Lane was already back on his list, along with another name that would drive Sawhill crazy: Boni Fisso. This investigation had all the makings of a political tornado, sucking people into the updraft.

  “What’s your next move?” Sawhill asked.

  “I want to talk to Nick Humphrey,” Stride said. “The detective who handled the original investigation of Amira’s death.”

  “All right, I’ll get you his address,” Sawhill replied. “He still lives in the city.”

  Stride heard the clicking of computer keys, and then Sawhill rattled off an address in North Las Vegas. Stride jotted it down in his notebook.

  “Step carefully, Detective. I’m willing to let you run because it looks like your instincts were right. But keep your professional curiosity on a short leash.”

  Sawhill hung up the phone. A few feet away, Serena did the s
ame.

  “A reprieve,” he told Serena. “Sawhill thinks the connection is tenuous, but he’s not shutting us down. Yet.”

  Serena was smiling. “He’s a lying bastard.”

  “What?”

  “That was Cordy,” Serena said. “There’s nothing tenuous about the connection. We ran the Aztek for fingerprints, and there was a beautiful print left for us on the inside of the front windshield. It matches the print you guys found on the slot machine at the Oasis. It was the same guy.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Stride said. “Sawhill knew?”

  “Cordy just left his office.”

  “And to think I was actually polite to him.” Stride laughed.

  They climbed into the Bronco and headed down the long stretch of Bonanza back to the city. The elegant estates disappeared behind them as they descended into the valley, replaced by drab middle-class housing behind gray walls. Stride pulled up to a stoplight, then turned and stared thoughtfully at Serena. They were working the same case again. Like the murder of Rachel Deese that summer, when they first met. It gave him a jolt of adrenaline.

  “So we have the same killer,” Serena said. “And the guy is leaving his calling card behind at each crime scene.”

  “Did Jay Walling run a match for prints at the scene in Reno?”

  Serena nodded. “No match.”

  “So maybe there’s no connection,” Stride said.

  “Or we haven’t found it yet It’s possible the perp didn’t think about leaving a print behind until the hit-and-run. Then he decided he wanted to lead us on a merry chase. So he left the receipt as a clue to tie in the murder of Alice Ford at her ranch.”

  “Except Helen and Walker Lane are both mentioned in Rex Terrell’s article in LV. They have a connection to Amira Luz. The Fords don’t, as far as we can tell.”

  “You think the article by Rex is the connection?” Serena asked. “That’s what got this started?”

  “Maybe,” Stride replied. “No one cared about Amira for years before he started nosing around. Rex may have got someone’s attention.”

  SEVENTEEN

  As they climbed up Nick Humphrey’s driveway, a little blur of white came streaking like a comet from next door. They stopped as a West Highland terrier sped around their feet, dancing on its hind legs and then flopping over on its back. Serena laughed and crouched down, rubbing the dog’s belly. It closed its eyes, in heaven.