Moon Music

by Faye Kellerman

"I didn't say that," Minors whined. "I just said I knew about it and tried not to interfere."

  Poe said, "Can we go back to my original question? If you knew about it, had this understanding…why did you beat her?"

  Minors said nothing, leaving Poe to wonder what information he was sitting on.

  "Did she take up with someone else, Trent?" Poe asked.

  Minors stiffened. "Hey! I kicked her out. Not the other way around."

  "After you found out she was shagging…who?"

  Minors bolted upward. "I don't have to talk to you—"

  "Sit down!" Poe commanded. He put the mug on the coffee table. "Stop acting so…emotional."

  A long silence. Then the dealer sat down.

  Poe stated, "Brittany had gotten involved with someone. Tell me who it was, and then I don't drag you downtown. You make my life easy, I don't have to say it came from you."

  Minors cleared his throat. "She took up with the boss."

  Poe paused. Did he mean Havana's pit boss? "Are you talking about Pete Delatorre?"

  "Bigger than Havana." Minors hitchhiked his thumb in an upward motion. "And higher up."

  "A casino manager—"

  "Higher still."

  Poe tried to keep cool. "This isn't twenty questions, Trent. Give me a name."

  "How about Parker Lewiston?"

  Poe opened his mouth and closed it. Lewiston owned half of downtown Vegas. Generally his taste in women ran a little older—mid-twenties and a hell of a lot more classy than Brittany Newel. Honey had been one of Parker's ladies. Before he had put Honey out to pasture, he had fixed her up. The papers to a condo plus a yearly stipend. So what had happened with Brittany? And why would Parkerboy be attracted to a cheap whore like her in the first place?

  A pause.

  Of course, to paraphrase Virginia Hill's statement to the HUAC, Newel, in her prime, could have been the best cocksucker in America.

  "Hard to believe, huh?" Minors had turned acerbic. "Brittany with Parkerboy."

  "Lewiston takes care of his women, Trent."

  "I told you. Brittany was out of control!"

  But Parkerboy never allowed his women to get out of control. If they used, he provided for them…kept them happy and content. Poe was suspicious.

  Minors was saying, "…threw it in my face constantly." He turned his voice high-pitched and shrewish.

  Imitated, "'You keep whopping me and I'm gonna tell Parker on you.'"

  "But she never did. Because if she had, you wouldn't be working here…in this city." Poe waited a beat. "She was using big-time when she died. Who'd she get her stuff from?"

  Minors shrugged. "Maybe Lewiston."

  "Not if he dropped her."

  "Then I don't know."

  "Who'd she get her stuff from when you knew her?"

  "Lewiston."

  "She told you that?"

  "Yeah." Angrily, he said, "Parkerboy made her what she is today."

  "A corpse?"

  Minors turned crimson, stammered, "No, no, I'm not saying…I'm not implying Mr. Lewiston had anything to do—"

  "Stop sweating, Trent. He ain't in the room."

  Minors looked over his shoulder. "All I meant was…well, she wasn't using heavy until she hooked up with him. He turned her into a crack whore."

  Poe noticed that Minors had dropped his voice a notch.

  As if the walls had ears.

  And maybe they did.

  She had wanted to pretend she was sleeping, but Steve had caught sight of her open eyes.

  "You still up, baby?" he cooed.

  She said nothing when Steve sat down on the edge of the bed and loosened his tie. Out of her corner vision, she saw him lower his hand, felt him stroke her shoulder. An instant wave of revulsion pushed through her body. But this time she was determined not to withdraw from his touch.

  Make him think you're getting better.

  Jensen continued to caress his wife. "I didn't wake you, did I?"

  She shook her head no.

  "Another rough night, honey?"

  They're all rough.

  "I'm fine."

  Her voice was a hush.

  Jensen checked his watch—five in the morning. Reluctantly, he stopped petting her. Stood and took off his shirt. "Nasty night out. We found someone in the desert. And lots of paperwork. That's what took me so long."

  She nodded.

  "It was…hard. This one in particular. Not that you have to worry about it. Some hooker who went with the wrong guy…obviously."

  He realized he was gripping his shirt, nails digging into fabric made wet by his sweaty palms. He bit back panic and tried to smile.

  "Forget I said anything, Alison. I'm…running off at the mouth. I'm stupid sometimes."

  No response.

  She knew he was aching to talk, to find an outlet for his troubled soul. Shouldering everything for so long. And still blaming himself for her illness. Silly. Because she had been decompensated long before he had started cheating.

  But back then, she had hid it better. Still, she was certain that he had his suspicions.

  She had been twenty when they had married; he had been thirty-two. Thinking about their wedding pictures. They had made such a handsome couple. When she combed her hair, she supposed they still looked good together.

  Jensen drew back the covers of the bed. "You're still wearing your bathrobe, honey."

  "Too lazy to change," she whispered.

  "That can't be comfortable—"

  "I'm fine—"

  "It's so bulky, Alison," Jensen said. "Let me get you your silky nightgown. The one you say is so soft against your skin. Now, do you want the purple or the pink?"

  "Pink's fine."

  "Hey, it's fine with me, too." A weak smile. "You look great in pink, hon."

  She swung her legs over the mattress, about to get herself upright. Steve was right there with a chivalrous arm. "Let me help you."

  This time she shook him off. She straightened and looked him in the eye. "I'm not an invalid."

  His face was wounded. "Of course not, Alison. I didn't mean—"

  "Forget it."

  Her voice sounded harsher than she meant.

  "I'm sorry, Alison. You know me." Another weak smile. "I just love to baby you."

  She felt moisture in her eyes, but couldn't let him see. To distract him, she let her robe slip to her feet, boldly allowing him full view of her fine form.

  He gasped, a sharp intake of breath piercing his lungs. Whispering, "God, you're beautiful."

  She looked away, but then returned her eyes to his face.

  Eye contact. Tentatively, Steve moved toward her.

  "Just…astonishingly…gorgeous."

  Another step.

  And she still didn't move away.

  "Beauty…personified."

  Now he was close enough to touch her. But he didn't dare. Both of them were waiting.

  Finally, he said, "Can I kiss you, baby?"

  She nodded.

  Could it actually be?

  He kissed her.

  And she didn't stiffen.

  "I love you," he whispered.

  She didn't answer.

  "Love you very much." Slowly, he encircled her body with his arms, drew her to his bare chest. "Love you…oh so much."

  Still there. In his arms.

  Carefully, he drew her down onto the bed.

  This time, she'd let it happen. Because with the corpse in the desert…he was really hurting. And after all, she knew about that, didn't she?

  As always, she climaxed in about five minutes. He came moments afterward, swooning with delight and words of love. How beautiful she was, how responsive.

  Nice to be responsive, she thought. But having an orgasm was never the point of the whole thing. Just the product.

  You see, now she was filled up with his sperm.

  A great excuse to get up and go wash.

  SIX

  "ACCORDING TO the computer, Newel's mother
lives in Ohio." Mick Weinberg slugged down black coffee. "We called the number—it was disconnected. So much for our hookup to Washington's Find a Person Search database."

  Squinting behind his glasses. The lieutenant needed bifocals, but had been too busy to make the appointment. He lowered his specs, looked across the table at three of his homicide detectives. A good bunch…a tired bunch.

  Weinberg rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt, loosened his tie. Stuffy without the fan. Moisture had formed in the pits of his muscled arms and on the top of his bald head. He wondered when Myra intended to turn it on.

  He went on, "Nothing comes up by way of a father. So that means someone here who knew Brittany is going to have to make a formal ID. The ex-boyfriend's our best bet. Rom, you go call—Rom, you with us?"

  Poe yanked open his eyes. "I'm here."

  The lieutenant pushed Poe's coffee cup toward his sergeant. "Drink."

  Poe picked up his mug, sipped, then drummed his fingers on the tabletop. "Is there any milk?"

  Weinberg shouted, his voice carrying easily in the empty restaurant, "Myra, could we get some Mocha Mix? Also maybe a little food? These good public servants need some nutrition."

  The phantom voice responded, "The steamer's still heating up."

  "What about the griddle?" Weinberg called out.

  Myra answered, "If you beg, I suppose I can whip up some deli omelets."

  Weinberg faced his crew. "Deli omelets okay?"

  "Sounds great." Jensen suddenly realized he was famished.

  Patricia answered, "I'll eat anything."

  Someone started pulling on the locked glass door. Weinberg turned around, yelled, "We're closed!" Gesticulations. "We open at eleven." Flashing ten splayed fingers, then the index digit. "Eleven!" Frowned. To himself, the loo muttered, "Can't they read the damn sign?"

  Poe continued to swallow the sour brew. "Were you talking to me, Lieutenant?"

  "I just assigned you Brittany's ex-boyfriend, Trent Minors. Take him down to the morgue for a positive ID."

  "Do you want Brittany ID'd in her current condition?"

  "What condition, Poe? She's dead."

  "Lieutenant, she's monstrous. Half of her has been flayed. Her left eyeball is miss—"

  Abruptly, he stopped talking.

  "What?" Weinberg asked.

  Poe blinked. "Nothing."

  "Don't give me that."

  "A passing thought."

  "So pass it by me, Poe."

  "A flash of déjà vu." Poe hesitated. "When I was a kid, there was this case—a grotesque murder—maybe even more than one, I don't remember too well. Judging by today's standards—with guys like Jeffrey Dahmer and John Wayne Gacy—it doesn't seem extraordinary. But as a kid, I…we were all terrorized. Thought this guy was the bogeyman incarnate. That's what we called him. The Bogeyman. For a while, the whole thing terrorized the town."

  "Which town?" Patricia asked.

  "Here. Vegas."

  Weinberg said, "I don't remember anything like this."

  "Probably before your time, sir. Roughly twenty-five years ago."

  "A good ten years before."

  Poe said, "Even then I doubt if it infiltrated into the Strip. If the powers that were kept atomic testing under wraps, I don't imagine a couple of murders would be a problem. But back then, in the 'burbs…" He raised his brow. "It freaked us out."

  "Do you even remember the specifics?" Jensen remarked.

  Poe suddenly felt a chill. Things that happened in childhood…so much more intense. "There were rumors. Probably apocryphal, but they said that the killer had desecrated the corpses. He had scooped out the eyeballs—"

  "Omelets, anyone?" Myra chirped. In the middle of the table, she plunked down a platter of scrambled eggs filled with pastrami, salami, and smoked turkey. Big chunks of flesh-colored meat gelatinously wrapped in quivering ovum.

  Jensen said, "Ever notice how visceral-looking eggs are?"

  The table groaned.

  Unceremoniously, Myra dropped four plates and silverware onto the table along with a carton of Mocha Mix. She put graceful, blue-veined hands on her hips. She had short nails…immaculately clean. She was in her mid-fifties, hazel eyes with short gray hair cut like Prince Valiant's. A round, open face which, at the moment, spelled annoyance. She wore a white shirt, gray skirt, and white chef's apron. Tennis shoes covered her feet. "You have complaints, take it elsewhere."

  "Looks good to me." Jensen picked up a spoon and a plate, then heaped eggs on his dish. "Looks wonderful, in fact. Thanks, Myra. I'm starved."

  The woman smiled warmly. "More coffee, Steve? Orange juice?"

  "Both would hit the spot, thank you."

  Weinberg passed out the remaining dishes. "Help yourselves."

  Patricia eyed the eggs. Now if she was going to eat toast, she'd better give herself a small portion of omelet. A pause. Then again, she hadn't eaten since dinnertime last night. And it was half past ten. Still, all that salami and pastrami. All that fat! Wherever she looked…subversion.

  Poe poured Mocha Mix into his coffee. "You know, you're spoiling us, Myra."

  "She spoils everyone." The lieutenant polished off his coffee. "We have so many people running in and out of our condo, I'm thinking about selling time shares."

  "Everyone loves Vegas," Myra said.

  "Everyone loves a freebie," Patricia said.

  "You got that right, Deluca. We keep getting all these out-ofthe-blue relatives popping in. People she's never heard of, let alone met." Weinberg looked at his wife. "But she lets them stay anyway."

  "Just in case," Myra answered.

  "In case of what?" Jensen asked.

  Myra stared at him, shrugged.

  "As if that explains it," Weinberg groused. "Are you going to turn on the fan, Myra?"

  "Yeah, it is kind of stuffy, isn't it." She spooned eggs onto her husband's plate. "Eat before they get cold, Mick. I'll get the toast." Before Myra left, she tapped his head.

  From his pants pocket, Weinberg pulled out a yarmulke. He placed it over his bald pate. To Poe, he said, "So what made you think of this twenty-five-year-old case? The scooped-out eye?"

  "Probably."

  "Was it true?" Patricia asked.

  "Beats me." Poe shifted the conversation. "Loo, I think Trent Minors deals the noon-to-midnight shift. I'll try to catch him before he goes to work."

  "Good idea. I also want one of you to go back and comb the scene of the crime now that we have some visibility. I got a uniform out there guarding the place. The sooner the better."

  Jensen asked, "What should we be looking for?"

  Weinberg chomped at a piece of pastrami gristle. "She was found nude from the waist up. Maybe some kind of top…shoes…maybe a purse." He washed down his breakfast with a full cup of water. "Some storm last night. The wind could have blown items all over the effing place."

  "If the killer dumped her belongings along with the body," Poe said.

  Patricia said, "Think the killer would want to keep a trophy, Loo?"

  "Sure. But how likely would it be that he'd keep everything? We found her pretty bare-bones, no bad pun intended."

  Poe speared a piece of smoked turkey, chewed it thoughtfully. "Patricia, you want to go out?"

  "I'll go out."

  "And me?" Jensen asked.

  Poe said, "We still don't have any idea about Brittany's final hours. Someone should start checking out the bars—"

  "Wouldn't that be better done at night, Sergeant?"

  Poe nodded. "You can do that as well. But based on how low Brittany had fallen, she could have been a day-tripper, too. Someone should check out the naked city."

  Jensen said, "I'll do it."

  "I thought you had tickets to the fabulous Oldies show at the MGM," Patricia said.

  "I…gave them away." Jensen sighed. "Alison hasn't been feeling well."

  No one spoke for a moment.

  Poe broke the tension. "How about this? After you two finish up with
the crime scene, Patricia can comb the bars and Steve will work the bellmen. I think they'd open up easier man to man."