FAYE KELLERMAN
MOON
MUSIC
For Jonathan, Mom, and the children:
my celestial beings
Special thanks to Phillip Roland, Community
Partnership Coordinator,
Sharon Masada, Senior Law Enforcement Official,
and Detective Sergeant William Keeton (Ret.)
of the LVMPD for their invaluable help,
and for being so generous with their time. Any inaccuracies in place and procedure are mine, not theirs.
Contents
Title Page
Dedication Page
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
About the Author
Praise
Books by Faye Kellerman
Copyright Notice
About the Publisher
PROLOGUE
IT WAS a land—hostile and unforgiving. Vast stretches of savage, alkaline desert where the wind blasted grit in the winters and summers were relentless hours of sweltering heat. Deep into August, the wasteland surfaces withered and cracked, producing deep fissures to a fiery hell. An area so seemingly without heartbeat that it had once been used for atomic bomb testing.
But to the chosen few—like herself—it was a place called home. Because she knew this barren topology as well as she knew every cell in her body. She knew its crevices, its caves, its rocks, and its shelters. As she surveyed the area from above, a tear formed in her eye.
Once, the mesas had held flourishing greenlands—wild grasses and flowers fed by natural artesian springs. So beautiful the Indians had referred to the land as The Meadows, translated into Spanish as Las Vegas. But the White Man grew greedy and raped the ground's precious resources—the oh-so-righteous Mormons with their all-knowing God, the silver prospectors with their debauchery, the Department of Energy shooting off bombs, the gaudy gangsters bringing crimes and corruption, and the billionaires with their lifeless corporate empires.
All of them—parasites. They may have built the desert, but they couldn't make it bloom. Because they never gave a thought to the land's indigenous inhabitants—the majestic bighorn sheep, the powerful rattlesnakes, the playful rabbits, the ancient desert tortoises, the clever coyotes, and the beautiful, athletic birds which soared in the open sky as if gliding to heaven.
Still, she smiled. There was hope. Because the land rapers had been all take and no give, they were in the dark about the true power of the land, unaware of its deep mystery and magical forces. Mired in tunnel vision, they were ignorant that the land and its creatures had power.
But she knew the secret.
The desert could fight back.
ONE
IGNORING THE subtle vibrations under his pillow because he was just too damn comfortable. Warm and sated, inhaling the rich sensuality of musky sex. With force, Jensen opened a rebellious lid, his vision assaulted by the Strip's strobic neon. Outside the winds moaned, pushing everything in their paths. Grit crackled against the picture window as his eyes swept over the vista. A panoply of garish colors nonexistent in nature.
Looking away from the glass, back down at his covers. Beside him, Gretchen slept—young and lithe—beads of sweat lining the crack of her small, round ass. He wanted to take a bite out of it. His breathing became pronounced, audible.
Then his pager went off again.
Jensen swore to himself, then, with resignation, lifted his head from the pillow. He'd never realized how much a cranium could weigh. Digging his palms into the mattress, he hoisted his large frame forward until he was sitting. He tried to make out the number in the dark, but gave up and flicked on the light.
"Hmmm," she grunted. "Turn it off."
"In a minute."
"What time is it?"
Jensen's heart jumped as he read the number. Rom's mobile phone. How long had he been beeping in?
"What time—"
"One-thirty," he snapped back.
"One-thirty?" She was whining now. "C'mon, baby. Bebe says we got the room until three. Turn off the light."
Jensen already had his pants on. "I've got to go."
"But it's so nasty outside."
"Nasty" was an understatement. The wind was howling dust and sand. Jensen slipped on his shirt and socks and tied his size eleven shoes. Brought up the hotel's outside line and punched in Rom's numbers. Static over the wires like lightning. Still he could make out a terse "Poe."
"It's Steve."
"Lemme go inside my car. If we get disconnected, call me back."
The line managed to keep as whooshing sounds, like tidal waves, came through the receiver. Jensen knotted his tie, then stroked Gretchen's ass. She purred, then rolled over and made a little snoring noise. Just as well. No sense starting what couldn't be finished. He heard the pop of the car door closing, the gusts die down. "What's up?"
"You turn your pager off, Stephen?"
"Why? How many times did you beep me?"
"Half a dozen."
Jensen knew Poe was exaggerating. "Must have slept through it."
Not a total lie, but one Poe wasn't about to buy. "You know, I almost broke down and called your house."
Jensen's heart started hammering. For once, he paused before speaking. Rom had said "almost."
As if Alison didn't know. Yet she chose to play dumb. After fifteen years of marriage, he still hadn't figured her out. In the early years, she had kept him at arm's length. He had put it down to her youthful shyness…their difference in age. Later on, her mental state made her impenetrable, her mind blocked by a steel-trap door of undiagnosed illness.
Jensen was all professional now. "What's going down, Rom?"
"Single desert dump off West Charleston."
"In Red Rock?"
"Before." Poe gave directions. "And, in answer to your unasked question—how someone came upon the body by happenstance at this time of night and in this weather—no, it doesn't make any sense. The call came through a public phone outside Big Top." A beat. "Where are you, by the way?"
"Big Top." Pause. "Want me to go downstairs and check it out?"
"You have a print
kit on you, Steve?"
"I meant to guard the phone." Jensen's voice rose a notch. "You got a problem with me tonight, Rom?"
I've got a problem with you every night, Stevie. Instead, Poe said, "I've already sent someone down to dust. But sure, go down and take a peek if you think it'll do some good." A hesitation. "I've got to get back, watch the corpse to make sure the sand doesn't totally bury it before the ME gets here."
"Stiff a male or female?"
"Female. One of her breasts was partially exposed. I can't tell if her entire body is nude, because the rest of her is coated with sand. I couldn't find a purse or any ID. Useless to search now. Tomorrow we'll go on a treasure hunt to look for things tossed and blown."
"Who's we?"
"You, me…probably Patricia." Poe swiped limp, dark hair from his black eyes, stared out the windshield of the Honda. Darker than syrup and about as thick. Even the moon was having trouble breaking through. "After you check out the phone booth, get down here. And bring some light. The grit is so thick I can barely make out my shadow."
Over the line, Jensen said, "Why don't you hammer down a stake and go home?" A pause. "Body'll keep till morning."
Poe could picture Steve's flip smile as he caressed the backside of his latest mistress. What was her name again?
Greta? Something like that. "I'm hanging up."
And he did.
To prevent hair from blowing into his eyes, Poe had attempted a ponytail. But the lank tresses were too short and kept coming loose, tickling his eyes, making them red and irritated. He blinked repeatedly, wishing he had brought his protective goggles. His disposable face mask did little to cut the sting of the grit. He snapped his fingers through gloves, then caught himself and dropped his hands at his sides. A makeshift tent had been erected around the stiff, an attempt to give it and the pathologist some protection. Inside, flashlight beams shimmied in strobic fashion. Jensen was standing a few feet away, hands tucked into his pockets, coat collar turned up. Poe sensed the burn from the big man's suspicious eyes. Jensen was ten years older than he, a good six inches taller, outweighed him by fifty pounds of muscle. But circumstances had dictated that professionally the younger would rule the elder.
Poe shouted to him, "You can wait in the car."
"You sure?"
"Yeah, go ahead. We'll take shifts."
"Thanks." Jensen lumbered over to his latest four-wheeldrive—an Explorer. He slipped inside and shut the door.
Poe remained restless. He jogged over to the tent and stepped inside. The body had been photographed, its current position outlined by three-foot stakes. Although the desert floor held a top layer of loose sand, a foot or two below lay pure clay. He knelt beside the pathologist.
Calmly, she remarked, "You're blocking my light."
Rukmani's hot breath was laced with Indian spices—not unlike his own. Their quiet dinner of baigan masaledar had been rudely interrupted by the page from the Bureau. Under a coat, she wore regulation scrubs. But her face was framed in a traditional Hindu veil—this one was green silk to match her working clothes.
"Sorry." Poe stood up, then backed into the shadows.
He stood outside the canvas and bounced on the balls of his feet. He shivered. Miserable and cold and exposed. Even after six months of somewhat steady dating, Rukmani was a hard woman to read. Attentive when they were together, yet she insisted that they take separate cars to the crime scene. Take separate cars almost everywhere, unless he made a point of picking her up. Poe supposed that was telling of something.
Rukmani called out, "You know, Rom—"
"Can't hear you." Poe came back in, knelt in front of the blanketed body. "What?"
"I've done all I can out here. I took her temperature, but I doubt it's accurate, the liver being exposed to the wind. I dare not open her up further, pollute the body with more flotsam and jetsam. As it is, she's in bad shape. Did you get a good look at her?"
"No."
Pulling back the tarpaulin, she uncovered the dead face. Poe felt his stomach lurch. It took him a moment to find his voice. And when he did, it took the form of old malicious speech patterns. "Wha…what…ha…happened to her face?"
Rukmani ignored his stutter. "You mean what happened to half of it. Could you push up my glasses? They're falling off my nose again."
Poe complied, feeling his gut jerked once again. How could that woman be so placid? Maybe it was seeing all those bodies float in the Ganges during her childhood. "Wha…what happened to her?"
"Offhand, it looks like someone gouged her." Rukmani's dark eyes peered at the visage. "Raked her clear down to the bone. He also scooped out the left eyeball—"
"Enough, Ruki!"
The pathologist was taken aback. "What's wrong with you? You're acting like a rookie."
"She looks so…grotesque."
"That she does." She studied the mutilated face. "I fear someone was proving a point. Look at the perfect bilateral symmetry…right through the tip of the nose. Ruler-straight. Right side of the face is completely untouched, the left completely destroyed. Know what it reminds me of?"
"I don't want to hear this."
"Phantom of the Opera. Wonder if your killer is an Andrew Lloyd Webber fan." She threw the tarp back over the face. "I'll get my guys. Take her down to the morgue and finish her up indoors."
"Could you call Steve in?"
Rukmani snapped off her gloves. "Be glad to, Sergeant."
Technically it was detective sergeant. Poe smiled back without meaning it. As soon as she left, he pulled back the sheet, eyes immediately focusing on her face…on the lone eye. It had been blue. Now the pupil was fixed so that it appeared black. Using extreme imagination, he could picture her pretty once upon a time. A nice complexion, a high cheekbone, thick lips—half of them. Gently, he pulled the blanket away from her body, then winced and backed up.
Her upper torso mimicked the face. One half was totally intact. Delicate bones. A large breast, no doubt with the help of implants. The side held smooth skin, a flat abdomen, a swoop of waist…shapely legs. The other side of the rib cage was shredded hamburger. Loose tendrils of muscle had remained attached to exposed bones, dancing with each blast of air.
At that moment, Jensen chose to make his entrance. Openmouthed, he stared at the half-mangled corpse. Instinctively, he retreated, groped for one of the tent panels, and stuck his head outside. He felt his dinner bubbling up until it erupted with volcanic pressure. Hot molten lead in his mouth, spewing into the wind. Heaving until he was empty. When he was done, he ejected the last chunks from his mouth, then wiped his eyes and lips with a handkerchief. Shakily, he returned his focus to the body, then looked away.
"Sorry about that."
"Who was she, Steve?"
Jensen licked his sour lips. "What are you talking about?"
"You know her. Why else would a vet like you puke—"
"Did you get a look at her face?"
"Yes. It's an abomination. Who was she?"
Trapped. Jensen rubbed his face. Better to head Rom off before he dug too deep.
Jensen coughed. "I think her name is…was…Brittany. Brittany Newel."
"You think?"
Jensen was quiet.
"Age?" Rom asked.
A big sigh. Jensen said, "Maybe twenty-two…twenty-three."
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