by Rob Thomas
“That doesn’t get people suspicious? Hotel staff, other guests?”
“You’d be surprised how little anyone cares what’s going on in the next room over.” The girl sounded weary, almost disgusted. “If anyone talks to him, he just says he’s waiting for a friend. If you act like you’re supposed to be there, people generally don’t ask too many questions.”
Fair enough. It was a strategy Veronica had used many times.
“Did he do anything else besides hit you?”
“Nope. I showed up to the room, he gave me a once-over and decided to be mean. Some guys are just looking for an excuse. He had a problem with everything I did. Kept calling me a stupid bitch. Whatever, it’s his dollar—and it’s not like that was the first time I’ve been called names—but he just got madder and madder, like he was deliberately working himself up. He got in my face and told me I looked like a whore, hit me, and that was it.”
Veronica was silent for a moment, thinking.
“Anything else? I’ve kinda got to clear the line here,” Nikki said.
“Should I assume you don’t want to give an official statement about this?” The girl just snorted. Veronica sighed. “Okay. Okay, thanks, Nikki. You’ve helped a lot.”
“I hope your friend’s okay.” There was a soft click as she hung up.
Veronica swiveled in her chair. Bellamy had learned from his mistake. He’d discovered what happened when he gave a girl a chance to scream. So he’d started choking them, at first just to keep them quiet, but then perhaps he realized he actually liked that part. Liked to strangle them, liked to hurt them.
Her reverie was interrupted by the phone cutting through the silence. Her screen displayed a number with a Vegas area code.
“This is Angie,” she sang into the receiver.
“Hi, Angie, this is Isabella.” The voice was young, a throaty purr. “I’m returning your call?”
Veronica frowned, changing the phone to the other ear. “I’m sorry, who?”
“You called for Madelyn but she’s not with the agency anymore. I thought I’d give you a call back and see if we couldn’t set anything up instead.”
Her heart picked up speed. “Madelyn’s not with the agency?”
“If you’re looking for a three-way…”
“Did something happen to her? Do you know where she is now?”
Isabella was quiet for a moment. “Just a minute.”
The line went on hold. Veronica waited. It was almost three minutes before Isabella came back.
“Who is this?” she asked.
“My name is Veronica Mars. I’m not a cop. I’m a private investigator. I’m trying to find proof that a suspect has been raping and assaulting high-end escorts all over the country. I think Madelyn may have had an encounter with him.”
“I’m not talking about this on the phone,” Isabella said. “Can you get to Vegas?”
Veronica leaned back in her chair. “Maybe. Do you know Madelyn Chase?”
“Stay at the Mercury tomorrow night. Call me back at this number and leave your room number once you’re there.”
“Did something happen to Madelyn, Isabella?” Veronica asked urgently.
But the girl had already hung up the phone.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
“Pony! Drop it. Drop it!”
Veronica knelt down next to the puppy, trying to wrestle her favorite boot out of the dog’s mouth. It was the morning after her conversation with Isabella, and Veronica’s suitcase was open across the bed, half packed with clothes. The hard-shell case of her snub-nosed .38 Special was just visible from under a folded pair of jeans.
Pony gave a little grunt of exertion, her hindquarters waving back and forth with excitement as she tugged on the boot. Veronica sighed and stopped pulling. The struggle was just getting tooth marks all over the leather. She rested her chin on her hand and looked the dog in the eye. “Why don’t you go chew up Daddy’s things? He has a bomber jacket just begging for some puncture marks.”
“I heard that.” Logan’s voice came from the hallway. She straightened up as he poked his head in the door. His cheeks were pink, his hair streaked from the sun. He leaned against the door frame and smiled.
“You’re home. I didn’t hear the door.” She stood up and went to kiss him on the cheek.
“It’s my advanced military training,” he said. He wove back and forth in a shadow-boxing stance. “They teach you to move like a panther.”
“Oh yeah? Is there a lot of call for stealth in the cockpit of a fifty-million-dollar fighter jet?”
“The SEALs aren’t the only ones with moves.” He leaned down to pet Pony, who licked his chin. “How’re my girls?”
“Well, one of us peed in your shoe. And the other barked all morning,” she said. “How was the trip? Were there some gnarly waves?”
“There were indeed.” He noticed the suitcase and frowned. “What’s up? You going somewhere?”
“Just for one night. I have to fly out to Vegas for a case. But I should be back Thursday afternoon, barring anything unforeseen.” She put her arms around his neck.
That was when she saw the manila folder he was holding. “What’s all that?”
“My paperwork. To get back on the Truman.” He opened the envelope and slid out a stack of papers. “I’m going to get it in the mail this afternoon.”
Without thinking, she let go of him. He raised his eyebrows at her, his smile turning both wry and wistful. “Okay. Let me have it. Again. Give me your best Columbia Law School try.”
“I’m out of ideas,” she said, trying to keep her tone light. “Unless you think a rendition of ‘Billy Don’t Be A Hero’ will work.”
“Nothing’s going to happen to me. These guys we’re fighting, they don’t have anything that can take down a Hornet.”
“You do realize I just went to a military funeral, don’t you?” She stared up at him, her spine bristling with a sudden surge of anger. “And there are Wikipedia pages about every single aviation accident in naval history?”
His face darkened. “Come on, Veronica. I don’t do this to you. The stuff you do is at least as risky as what I do. I mean, you’re off to Vegas to do God knows what. You work crazy hours, you deal with dangerous people. I don’t like it, but I’ve learned to accept that it’s the price of admission.”
Her cheeks flushed. “How long have you been holding on to that argument?”
“Well, it is the obvious one.”
She raised her hands. “Look, I’m not saying you don’t have the right to do exactly what you’ve made up your mind to do. I’m just saying, don’t act like it’s nothing. Don’t act like you have to do it. Don’t act like it’s just another day at work. It’s a big deal, Logan. You could be hurt. I could—” She suddenly came up short. She’d been about to say I could lose you; instead, she bit her tongue.
Veronica took a deep breath and glanced down at her watch.
“Look, I have to go, I can’t miss my flight. We can talk about this later.”
“Later, right.” Logan sighed.
She took him in, guilt forming in her chest as she realized how few laters they had left. But she had to find out what Isabella knew.
Just like he has to go back and join his squadron, she told herself. Because, for better or worse, that was the way they were both wired.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
The Mercury Resort and Casino was one of the newest hotels on the Strip, a sprawling, thirty-three floor behemoth. It boasted five different restaurants, a nightclub, forty high-end shops, a full-service day spa, and the world’s longest waterslide—the Quicksilver, a long, knotted tube that stretched from the eighteenth floor of the hotel down to an amoeba-shaped pool below. It was a pleasure dome that would likely have disappointed S.T. Coleridge but was right in the wheelhouse of a Baton Rouge dermatologist with money to burn.
Veronica stood for a moment outside her $300-per-night room. A few feet away, a small black table held a towering ikebana
arrangement, a cluster of plum branches and irises arcing out at surreal angles. She glanced around, then carefully set a tiny wireless nanny cam just behind the vase. It was synced to her phone, and showed a clear shot of her own door.
Then she went into the room and dialed Isabella’s number. She got the girl’s voice mail. “Hi, this is Isabella. Do leave me a message.”
“Um, hi. I’m at the Mercury, room 347. It’s Veronica.”
Congratulations, Veronica. You’ve just ordered your first call girl.
Then she settled in to wait.
No one could accuse the Mercury of blandness. Thick amethyst carpet covered the floor of her room. The walls were papered in an elaborate gray filigree, the curtains and bedspread shiny white. But there was a tiny tear along the base of the velvet armchair, exposing just a centimeter of yellowed foam cushion beneath. In Vegas, the veneer of glamor was bright but thin. You didn’t have to look that hard to see the darker realities that lurked beneath the surface.
Isabella hadn’t specified a time for their meeting, and Veronica hadn’t thought to ask. An hour ticked by, then another. Every time she heard footsteps she whipped out her phone and checked the camera. The only people she saw were other tourists heading back to their rooms.
She thought about calling the agency again, but if their phone call was any indication, Isabella wasn’t the kind of person who’d respond well to being hounded. So Veronica kept waiting, too on edge to turn on the TV or open the New Yorker she’d brought to read on the plane.
Maybe she got cold feet. Or maybe someone stopped her from coming. The thought sent a stab of cold through Veronica’s stomach. She’d gleaned from her research that a lot of escort agencies were scarcely better than pimps, bullying and manipulating the girls in their employ. What if someone had decided to silence her?
When a soft knock came at the door she jumped and looked down at her phone. The screen was black. Someone outside the door had turned the nanny cam facedown.
She stood on her toes and stared through the peephole. There, in front of her door, was Isabella. Unlike the escorts in other cities, the Vegas girls tended to show their faces on their websites; both Isabella and Madelyn Chase had been fully visible when Veronica looked them up. Isabella was abundantly curvy; she bore a passing resemblance to a young Monica Bellucci, if Monica had the word “goddess” tattooed along the curve of one full breast.
Veronica opened the door.
“Isabella…” She stopped as an enormous man shouldered around from behind the door and into the room. Isabella stepped in behind him and quickly shut the door.
“…and friend,” Veronica finished lamely. The man was at least six-five, cleanly bald, and unsmiling. A black sports coat strained to contain his bulk. His head was massive, his features broad and stony, as if he’d been rough-chiseled from a boulder. Gold hoops glinted from his ears. Veronica took a few steps back as he advanced into the room. She bumped into the bed and lost her balance. Suddenly, the man’s brawny arm shot around her shoulder. She tensed for a moment, then she realized he’d reached out to keep her from falling.
“Careful there.” His voice was a bass rumble. Her breath came back to her all at once, a sharp stab in her lungs. She gently detached herself from his arm.
“I didn’t know to expect an entourage. I would have ordered us a cheese platter. Some Bellinis. Maybe some hookers. Make a party of it,” Veronica said, looking from Isabella to the giant.
“Oh, funny. She’s funny, Sweet Pea.” Isabella leaned against the wall, a cool, haughty tilt to her chin. She reached into her purse and pulled out an engraved cigarette case.
“I think this is a non-smoking room,” Veronica said.
Isabella lit her cigarette and exhaled a long stream of smoke in Veronica’s direction. “Guess they might hit you with a $200 upcharge then. They’re thieves.”
Veronica wondered, fleetingly, if she’d been somehow set up. If the plan had been to rob her, or worse. She thought about the gun in the holster at the small of her back. It didn’t seem the right time to go for it, though—not yet. She forced an expression of calm as Sweet Pea walked quickly to the bathroom, turned on the light, and looked around. Then he came back into the bedroom.
Isabella raised her cigarette to her lips again, exhaling in a long, cool stream overhead. “I read about you. After the Bonnie DeVille thing. You’re shorter than I expected.”
“Yeah? You’re more people than I expected,” Veronica said, glancing at Sweet Pea. “So neither of us got what we were counting on.”
Sweet Pea spoke. “Couldn’t be helped. You call us up out of the blue, asking about missing girls, I got to be involved.”
That got her attention. “Missing? Madelyn Chase is missing?”
Sweet Pea and Isabella exchanged a quick glance before he spoke again.
“Since December of last year.”
A sudden sick feeling came over Veronica. She stared at Sweet Pea, trying to see if this was some kind of con. His expression didn’t falter.
“You didn’t know that?” Isabella broke in. She sounded almost angry.
Veronica shook her head. “No, I…I don’t know anything about Madelyn. That’s why I’m here.”
Sweet Pea pulled a chair out from under the desk and offered it to Isabella. She shook her head impatiently, so he sat down himself.
“So what is it you do know?” he asked.
Veronica crossed her arms over her chest.
“I know the confidentiality issues in the PI business are probably similar to those in the escort business,” she said. “You know I can’t just tell you what I’m investigating.”
Isabella pushed off the wall, jabbing at the air with her cigarette. “You knew something happened to Maddy, and you’d better start talking, or I’m—”
“Hey.” Though Sweet Pea’s voice wasn’t loud, it filled the room. He gave Isabella a meaningful look. “Everyone in here wants information, okay?” He turned back to Veronica. “How about you tell us what you came out here to find, and we’ll see where it takes us?”
Veronica sat down slowly on the edge of the bed. I guess I can give them a version of the truth. Tit for tat. “A woman I know in Neptune was assaulted by a client in March. She’s an escort. I’m trying to help her prove it was a rape. I’m sure you know all the reasons why that’s tough to prove.” She glanced at Isabella, who was slouching back against the wall again. “I’m trying to find other victims. If I can show this is a pattern I can force the issue. The cops won’t be able to ignore it, then.”
Isabella gave an angry snort. Sweet Pea frowned.
“And what makes you think the same guy did something to Madelyn?” he asked.
She hesitated. Isabella, at the very least, had googled her. And something told her Sweet Pea was smarter than most in his line of work. If she said too much she’d risk them tracing the same set of clues she’d found. She didn’t know what they’d do with that information and she couldn’t afford a loose cannon.
“Can you tell me a little more about Madelyn’s disappearance?” she deflected. “Is anyone looking for her?”
“What do you think we’re doing?” Isabella went to the corner sink and filled a cup with water. She threw her cigarette in and placed it on the counter. When she turned back she seemed calmer.
“I meant the cops.”
“Oh, I talked to the cops,” Isabella interrupted. “They don’t give a shit. They have her picture in a file somewhere, but they’re not doing anything to find her.” She sat down on the edge of the bed, across from Veronica. Her eyes were dark, almost black—restless and sharp. “Maddy and I were friends. I want to know what happened to her.”
“When exactly did she go missing?”
“December sixth, 2012,” Isabella said promptly. “It was a Friday. We met for drinks at Emerald’s at around nine. I had a date at eleven at the Four Seasons. She wasn’t prebooked that night, and she was debating whether or not to go work the floors.”
; “Work the floors?” Veronica asked.
“Yeah, sometimes we hang out at the casinos, talk up guys, see who’s spending money and who’s making money. It sucks, though, because you’re hoofing it all over the Strip, and a lot of times you strike out or waste a lot of time with a guy who turns out to be a cheapskate. We only do it if it’s been a slow couple weeks. She was thinking about heading home and taking a night off. But a few minutes before I took off, she got a call. A client.” Isabella smoothed out the tassels on one of the pillows, her brow crinkled. “She agreed to meet him at midnight. I left right after that. That was the last I ever saw her.”
“When did you try to contact her again?” Veronica asked. “And how long was it before you realized something was wrong?”
“I texted her the next morning. She never answered back. That was a little weird, but not raise-the-alarms kinda weird. Our schedules are so crazy, sometimes we’re not in contact for weeks at a time. But a few nights later she had a big client on the books—one of her regulars, a guy she’d never stand up without good reason—and she didn’t show. That’s when we knew something was up.”
Veronica furrowed her brow. “She went alone to meet this last-minute client, the one she knew nothing about?” She gave Sweet Pea a sidelong look. “Is that how it normally works in your agency?”
Sweet Pea’s expression didn’t falter. “We usually do send someone out with the girls, especially if they’re seeing someone new. Mad called in that night, asked for someone to come around, but we didn’t have no one free. She still wanted to take the job. Well, good luck telling one of these hos what to do, you know what I’m sayin’?” Isabella snorted again, but this time with more humor than anger. “I ain’t no pimp. The girls, they’re independent contractors. We just do booking and security. So she went ahead on her own.” His knuckles tightened almost reflexively. “But you’re right. It was a lapse. And I don’t like lapses.”
Somehow, his businesslike demeanor was even more terrifying than if he’d raged or snarled. Veronica suddenly had no doubt that this was a man who’d hurt people, methodically, dispassionately.