Prologue
HE WILL SUFFER, as he has caused countless others to suffer. He will learn the meaning of agony and despair, as the world he knows falls apart at his feet. Gross indignities will strike at his foundations and tear at his roots. He will be disgraced and humiliated; his reputation will be in ruins. His days will be filled with pain and his nights with terror. He will die a thousand deaths, each more horrific than the one before. And then, forever broken in spirit as well as in body, he will succumb to the final ravages of my sweet revenge.
I shall curse him from now to doomsday. I loathe what he has done. His total disrespect of life is beyond contempt. For each he has callously killed—sometimes a score in a single week—he will pay dearly. For each lifeless body he denied a fitting final place of rest, he will feel my wrath, my mordancy.
My abiding fury will not abate until he is completely destroyed. Every time I recall my dearest friend, my constant companion for so many years, tears well up in my eyes. And as I grieve for her, for a death that need not have been, I renew my vows to extract an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. I will rejoice in ending the life of her murderer. I will dance on his grave with delight.
One
E.J. GELLER took a long drag on his bootleg Havana cigar. As he filled the air with a thick cloud of acrid smoke he stared at the man sitting on the other side of his desk.
“Let’s see, Michael, you’ve been with this newspaper for about five years now, haven’t you?” Geller asked.
“That’s right, E.J.—about five years,” Michael Kaplan agreed. He wondered where the conversation was heading, but knew better than to press Geller into delivering the bottom line before the man was ready.
“And you’re nearly thirty-five years old—” Geller continued.
Michael shook his head disgustedly. “You’re making me old before my time,” he interrupted testily. “I’m not going to be thirty-four for nearly six months.”
“Close enough. Close enough.” Geller often repeated himself for emphasis. “What’s a year or two between friends. Never be ashamed of your age, Michael. Thirty-three isn’t old. Not at all, not at all. Not from my viewpoint, certainly. This year I’ll be closer to sixty than to fifty-five.”
Michael chuckled under his breath, but said nothing. The statement was true enough, but it was no less true that Geller—the managing editor of the Las Vegas Times and Michael Kaplan’s immediate supervisor—was closer to sixty-five than he was to sixty.
Geller had brought his dog into the office, a tri-color hound he’d encumbered with a pun for a name—Loxen Beagle. The animal’s white-tipped tail twitched nervously and her nose nudged Michael’s leg, as if to say, “Whatcha got for me to eat, sport?” Loxen had a reputation for being continually hungry, but the fact she was considerably overweight belied the impression the sad-eyed dog attempted to convey: Woe is me, no one ever feeds me, I’m on the brink of starvation.
Geller waited until Michael’s attention was no longer focused on the beagle. “Michael, let me give you a little fatherly advice. It seems to me you’re wasting your talents.”
Michael ran his fingers through his curly black hair. He was more than a little perturbed by Geller’s statement. “What do you mean, E.J.?”
Geller gesticulated as if he were smoothing Michael’s ruffled feathers. “Well, you are an attorney. You’re a member of the California Bar. Yet, here you are, in Las Vegas, working as a restaurant critic for the Las Vegas Times. Why? Why aren’t you practicing law?”
Michael and Geller had discussed the same subject several times previously, but, rather than be impolite—could it be that Geller was becoming forgetful in his advanced age?—Michael reiterated his usual explanation. “I never really wanted to be a lawyer, E.J. My father more-or-less forced the legal education on me. So, out of respect and to please him—and for no other reasons—I went to law school. After graduation, I took the bar exam, passed it the first time, and joined the California Bar. As I said, I really didn’t want to be a lawyer. What’s more, I prefer to live in Nevada, and I could never get a license to practice law here.”
Geller’s eyebrows arched. If he and Michael had conversed about this matter earlier, he either failed to recollect it or chose to ignore the fact. Perhaps, Michael thought, E.J. was having a senior moment. “Oh? Why is that?”
“The law school I attended wasn’t accredited by the American Bar Association, and therefore I’m not allowed to sit for the bar exam in Nevada,” Michael replied with finality.
Geller’s right eyebrow raised questioningly. “Yet, you’re fully qualified to practice law in California?” He was not ready to let loose of the subject.
Michael nodded his head in agreement. “Yes, I am. I have the same rights and privileges as any other lawyer in that state. But not in Nevada.”
“That doesn’t seem fair. I would think if you’re qualified to be a lawyer in California—which, I understand, has one of the toughest bar exams in the country—Nevada should recognize your accomplishment and allow you to practice here.”
Michael shrugged his shoulders. “You’re right. It isn’t fair. I took the same test in California as everyone else. But because my university—which is over a hundred years old—didn’t have enough books in their law library or fell short of the ABA’s expectations in some equally foolish way, my diploma doesn’t command the same respect as diplomas issued by much younger institutions that somehow managed to comply with the ABA’s arbitrary requirements.
“Even though the lack of my school’s ABA accreditation prevents me from practicing law and even prohibits me from taking the bar exam in Nevada, so I could prove my capabilities, that magnanimous organization eagerly looks forward every year to receiving my membership dues. As a matter of fact, I recently sent them a check for over three hundred dollars.”
“Ouch. That must have hurt,” Geller sympathized. He flicked a half-inch ash onto the gray mound building up in his large ceramic ashtray.
“Yeah, it did,” Michael conceded acidly.
Geller waved his cigar at Michael. “At any rate, as the Anonymous Gourmet here at the Times, you’re selling yourself short. I should think you would want to better yourself.”
Michael now knew the direction Geller was going. Geller was not merely giving gratuitous guidance, he was laying the groundwork to increase Michael’s workload at the Times. “I’m content with what I’m doing,” Michael muttered.
“Maybe so, maybe so. But you have an innate talent for investigative reporting. Who knows, with the proper coaching—”
Geller puffed up slightly and pointed a thumb at his chest. “With the proper coaching, such as I can provide, your writing might even earn you—and our esteemed newspaper—a Pulitzer Prize.”
Michael flinched noticeably. “E.J., twice now you’ve conned me into taking an investigative reporting assignment and each time it was an absolute disaster. Oh, I got the stories for you all right—but, in both instances, I became the prime suspect in a murder investigation. In both instances, I was nearly killed by the bad guys.” As if in empathy, Loxen applied a moist tongue to Michael’s hand.
A frown appeared on Geller’s face. He could not believe Michael’s apathetic attitude. It was one thing, Geller thought, when Michael was a happy-go-lucky bachelor, free of responsibilities. But he’d been married now for nearly a year and talking about taking on the responsibility of starting a family. With his background and intelligence, writing a restaurant column for a daily newspaper was far beneath his potential. “Surely, you must have some ambitions—some serious goal to work towards.”
“Well, I was thinking about writing a book,” Michael offered.
Geller looked at him inquisitively. “Oh? What kind of book?”
“Restaurant reviews. Similar to those I write for the Times. A tourist’s guide to dining in Las Vegas.”
“Hah. That’ll never fly,” Geller decided derisively.
“Why do you say that?” Michael was miffed.
Geller raised his index finger in the air. “For one very good reason. Not your writing, Michael, not your writing. Your restaurant critiques are excellent. But as soon as the book is printed—assuming, of course, you’re able to find a publisher—it will be out-of-date. Restaurants come and go so quickly here in Las Vegas.
“I remember one, a favorite of many people—Robert’s Place. You might have heard of it, though it closed years before you moved to the city.”
Michael had heard of the restaurant, but he sat impassively and gave Geller no sign. He waited for the managing editor to get his point across.
“Robert’s Place was a wonderful eatery. It was located in a converted house on West Charleston, just a few blocks from the freeway. The dining room had brick floors, antique furniture, and elegant—though mismatched—antique bone china and tableware. Lots of live plants and greenery, both inside and out; the patio could be seen from most tables. The ambience made it feel more like you were a guest in someone’s home than in a commercial establishment.
“But as you know, Michael, ambience is only a rather insignificant part of the dining experience. The main attraction is always the food, always the food. For me, anyway. And Robert’s Place never let its diners down. It had garnered quite a reputation for its California-style nouvelle cuisine. Delicious low-fat, low-starch entrees, served with light sauces and very fresh miniature vegetables, all arranged so beautifully on the plates that each dish was virtually a work of art.
“The service was impeccable, too. All of the servers were personable college students and the owner—Robert—was a perfect host. He always visited each table to chat with the diners for a few minutes, which made the customers feel like they were old friends.”
“You know my theory,” Michael interjected. “In order for a restaurant to succeed, it must possess three of four attributes. Excellent food, superior service, a pleasant ambience, and moderate prices. Any three will insure success. However—if a restaurant has all four attributes, it will fail. Is that what happened? Didn’t they charge enough to generate a profit?”
Geller shook his head sadly. “There was a different problem. The owner got into a big beef with the Culinary Union. The union wanted to organize the workers, and, naturally, Robert didn’t. From what I understand, the majority of his employees didn’t want any part of the union, either. Regardless, the place was picketed for a long time, which put a damper on business. And then, one night after hours, after everyone left the building, there was a big explosion and fire that destroyed nearly everything.
“Robert accused the union of arson, and they countered that he probably set the fire himself to collect the insurance proceeds. Nothing was ever proven either way. Robert rebuilt and operated the business for a year or two, but his heart was never in it after that. One day he closed the restaurant, sold the property, and left the state. He moved to Colorado, as I recall.”
“And that was the end of Robert’s Place?” Michael asked.
“Exactly. Now, Michael, for the sake of argument, let’s say you’d listed Robert’s Place in your book, giving it one of the highest ratings in Las Vegas. Imagine this scenario. A business executive—perhaps here in town for a convention—read your recommendation. He wants to take some of his best customers out to dinner. Playing the big shot, he raves about how he’s going to treat them to the best meal in the city. ‘You’ve never tasted meat like they have where I’m taking you,’ he might say.
“Visualize his consternation and embarrassment when a taxi driver delivers the party to the address listed in your book, only to find out the building that formerly housed Robert’s Place restaurant is now the home of Robair’s Funeral Parlor—which it is.
“Restaurant reviews are fine for periodicals, but because of the turnover and attrition—here in Las Vegas, anyway—they don’t belong in books of a more permanent nature.”
Michael could not help smiling. “I see your point, E.J. Perhaps the restaurant guidebook isn’t such a good idea after all. At least, not in Las Vegas.”
“Right. So tell me, Michael, how are you going to support the big family you’ve been talking about having? I know Myra’s income is enabling the two of you to enjoy a comfortable lifestyle right now. But what if she decides to stay home after she has a baby? You would have to take in quite a few notches on your collective belts. On the other hand, if you were to become a full-fledged journalist, perhaps even syndicated, your income could soar.”
Michael squirmed uncomfortably. He was obviously ill at ease with the subject Geller had just introduced, but, he thought, perhaps this would be a good time to discuss it. He certainly needed to talk to someone about his problem.
“Uh … um,” he stammered, “I’m not sure we’re going to be having any children right away. Myra’s kinda cooled on the idea.”
One of Geller’s eyebrows arched again. “Oh? There are no problems on the home front, I trust?”
Michael’s face colored slightly. “No, nothing like that. I don’t think so, anyway. It’s just that—well, Myra’s become very involved in her work at the Gold Crest. The company’s growing by leaps and bounds—they’re building another new hotel and casino—and, as public relations manager, Myra’s putting in many more hours than she used to. Some nights I’m already in bed asleep by the time she gets home. Even when Myra’s home early, she’s always tired or says she has a bad headache. I’ve practically begged her to cut back on work, but she’s become a driven woman. It’s no longer a job with her, it’s become an obsession.
“But I have to admit you’re right, E.J.—Myra’s earning almost twice as much money as I do, and right now we couldn’t afford to be without her salary. Especially if we had another mouth to feed.”
The beagle began running in circles, sniffing the floor with her licorice gumdrop nose more intently as the arcs tightened. Geller reached into his top right-hand desk drawer and retrieved a brown leather strap and a fistful of tissues. “I think I’d better take Loxen for a short walk,” he announced. “Come along—we can continue our discussion outside.”
They ambled down the stairs, Loxen tugging furiously at the leash. Once the beagle reached the small strip of lawn adjoining the company’s parking lot she seemed to forget the purpose of the excursion and stood, sniffing the air.
“So that’s why, when you make your anonymous restaurant visits, you’ve been taking your assistant to dinner and not your wife?” Geller surmised. “I had suspected—no, let me just say the thought had crossed my mind on a couple of occasions—that perhaps something was going on between you and Kim.”
Michael turned his face away from Geller. He could feel it turning red. Absolutely nothing had transgressed between him and Kimberly Cohen, but not because she wouldn’t relish having an affair. She had brazenly suggested it more than once. More than once a week, that is. Sometimes, more than once a day.
“Of course not. I’m deeply in love with my wife,” Michael objected strenuously. “As a matter of fact, Myra and Kimberly are the best of friends.
“Nothing improper is going on between Kimberly and me and nothing will ever happen in the future. Moreover, Myra isn’t the slightest bit jealous when I take Kim to dinner. She knows it’s only business. The only reason I take Kim with me is so I can review the restaurants properly. It’s impossible for a party of one to get the same treatment in a restaurant as a couple. Besides, by sharing our meals I can evaluate more entrees,” Michael rationalized.
“Sometimes, when Myra isn’t working late, all three of us go out together,” he added. “And when Myra and I have dinner at home—which isn’t too often these days—Kimberly usually joins us.”
&nbs
p; Geller let out a big sigh. “I’m relieved to hear you tell me that, Michael. You know how gossip and rumors spread around the office—”
Michael started to respond to the allegation, but Loxen had finally finished her business and Geller bent over to pick it up with the tissues. He unceremoniously deposited the excrement in a nearby Dumpster. As Michael followed Loxen and Geller back into the building and up the stairs, he noticed Geller had become nearly as overweight as Loxen, and they both waddled as they walked. Perhaps it was true that pets and their owners tend to resemble one another after living together for a period of time.
When they reached Geller’s office, the editor signaled for Michael to sit down again. Apparently he had more to say before turning Michael loose.
Geller picked up the stub of his cigar, inserted it in his mouth, and clamped down with his teeth. More often than not—and this was one of the “more often” times—Geller didn’t bother to light the cigar, a custom that was most appreciated by the employees in the adjoining newsroom. Michael nervously drummed his fingers against the arms of his chair.
Blue Goodness (Michael Kaplan Mysteries) Page 1