Michael and Kimberly held hands and appeared to be two lovers—which, in fact, they had become—out for a pleasant evening. Anyone watching them dining would never suspect the striking young couple were there primarily to rate the restaurant for Michael’s Anonymous Gourmet column in the Las Vegas Times.
The waiter had just cleared the table of emptied plates and poured their after-dinner coffee when Michael’s cell phone rang. It was Myra calling.
“Hi, baby. Have you finished eating yet?” she asked.
“Yes. Did you have dinner?”
“No, and I’m absolutely starved. Where are you?”
“We’re at Papa Paul’s. It’s at Flamingo and Rainbow. The food’s pretty good here. Do you want to join us? We can have dessert while you’re working on your entrée.”
“Okay. I’m at the Blue Hawaii, so I’m less than five minutes away. Go ahead and order something for me—I don’t care what, but not too heavy. You know what I like to eat. I should be there by the time the food’s ready.”
“Did you find out anything about Cicily Purdue?”
“Yes and no. I’ll tell you about her when I see you. By the way—don’t say anything to Kim yet, but I was able to run out this afternoon and pick up that little item you asked me to buy.”
“Good. I think she’ll be pleasantly surprised.”
“I know she will. I’ll see you soon. Ciao.”
“Ciao.” Michael pressed the end button on his new digital cell phone.
Kimberly smiled. “Most people think ciao is an Italian word.”
Michael raised an eyebrow. “It isn’t?”
“Well, it is and it isn’t. The Italian word ciao is derived from an Austrian word that literally means slave, but it’s usually translated to your obedient servant.”
“I guess that describes me to a T,” Michael laughed. “Your obedient servant. And Myra’s, too, of course.”
“I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop on your conversation with Myra, but I’m a little mixed up. I heard you ask about Cicily Purdue, and a moment later you said, ‘She’ll be pleasantly surprised.’”
Michael chuckled. “I can see why you might be confused, since Purdue’s dead. My latter remark was about someone else. Myra had changed the subject.”
“Oh?” Kimberly asked, waiting for Michael to elaborate. When he failed to do so, she decided not to press the issue.
A few minutes later, Myra entered the restaurant. She glanced around, spotted Michael and Kimberly, and stepped briskly to their table. “This looks like a pleasant little restaurant,” Myra commented. “Did you place my order yet?”
“Yes,” Michael answered. “An antipasto appetizer and an individual-size pizza with three types of cheese, pesto, and sun-dried tomatoes.”
“That sounds wonderful.” Myra removed a small gift-wrapped package from her purse and handed it to Kimberly.
“What’s this?” Kimberly asked, realizing she was the surprised person Michael had mentioned a few minutes earlier.
“Go ahead and open it,” Michael instructed. “It’s a little present from Myra and me.”
Kimberly tore off the ribbon and paper to reveal a small box, flocked to look as if it was covered in blue velvet. She opened the box and removed a gold ring identical to the wedding bands Michael and Myra were wearing.
“We can’t be legally married, but we wanted you to have a wedding ring to match ours,” Myra told Kimberly. “Put it on. See if it fits. No, better yet, have Michael slip the ring on your finger. That’s more symbolic.”
Kimberly’s eyes were watering up. She held out her left hand and Michael slid the gold band onto Kim’s ring finger. It fit perfectly. “I’m flabbergasted. Nothing the two of you could have given me would make me any happier.” Kimberly gave Michael a passionate kiss, then turned to Myra and kissed her with equal fervor. Two teen-age boys at a nearby table gawked and snickered.
“I love it! But what will people say when they see I’m wearing a ring that matches your wedding rings?” Kimberly worried.
“Who cares what they say?” Myra answered. “As far as we’re concerned, this ring makes our relationship official. In our eyes, the three of us are married, aren’t we?”
“That’s right,” Michael confirmed. “From now on, both of you are my wives. I don’t know what to call the relationship between you and Kimberly, though—”
“Let’s forget about the labels,” Myra said tersely. “The fact we’re all in love with each other is what’s important.”
The waiter brought Myra’s antipasto. “Your pizza will be ready in just a few minutes,” he informed her. In other words, lady, eat fast.
“What did you find out about Cicily Purdue?” Michael asked, after giving Myra time to start her appetizer.
“Cicily didn’t have any friends at Blue Hawaii. At least, I couldn’t locate any. Most everyone she worked with described her as a bimbo, a slut, a tramp, a whore, or a lush. One keno runner dubbed her ‘queen of the one-night stands.’
“Apparently, as soon as Cicily’s shift ended, she’d head straight for one of the casino bars and try to pick up some man. Any man. Then, the two of them would leave together. Sometimes she’d be gone for the night. Sometimes she’d service the guy in his hotel room or the parking lot and be back at the bar within forty-five minutes or so looking for another trick.
“Cicily especially liked construction workers—plasterers or electricians or sheet metal men. Many of them stop by the bar after work for a few beers. The construction workers make good money and are always looking for some action. They passed Cicily from man to man, it seems.
“One of the bar backs came right out and said he’d fully expected Cicily to get hurt or killed sooner or later. She dated some rough characters.”
“I don’t think Geller would want to print that in the Times,” Michael noted. “Not without full documentation. The paper could get sued by Purdue’s relatives.”
“She was living with a guy. Peter something-or-other. I wasn’t able to get his last name,” Myra continued. “He’s apparently skipped town. The police have an APB out on him. I guess they have Peter fingered as Cicily’s killer.”
“He probably was fed up with her cheating on him and did her in, in a fit of rage,” Michael postulated. “Can’t say I’d blame the man, but if he’d been smart he would have just moved out of their apartment. I’ll check with Lieutenant Mark Caruso tomorrow. I’m sure you both remember him. Mark is in charge of the Homicide Department of Las Vegas Metro Police. Maybe he’ll have some additional information on Purdue.”
The waiter brought Myra’s pizza and the tiramisu Michael and Kim had ordered for dessert.
“Oh, the two of you are going to share your dessert!” Myra exclaimed. “I think that’s so precious! Now you really look like a couple in love.”
“We are,” Kimberly purred.
Michael was once again amazed at Myra’s unbridled enthusiasm for his enhanced intimacy with Kimberly. Myra never showed the slightest trace of jealousy when he and Kimberly made love. In fact, it was just the opposite, Michael thought. More often than not, when they bedded down together, Myra encouraged him to have sex with Kim.
“One thing that’s a little strange,” Myra puzzled. “Purdue’s body was discovered yesterday morning—Sunday. She was probably killed sometime late Saturday night. I spoke with Jeff Herbert in Human Resources. Jeff told me Cicily had been in a closed-door meeting with Lois Lewis—she’s the head of H.R.—for over an hour Friday afternoon. I thought if any of the men Cicily dated—especially those who frequented Blue Hawaii or worked there—were giving her a bad time, she might have mentioned something to Lois.”
“Did you talk with Lois?” Kimberly inquired.
“Yes. That’s what’s so strange. She said she barely knew Purdue, probably wouldn’t have recognized her if they’d passed on the sidewalk, and denies having a meeting with her last Friday or any other time.”
Michael’s brows wrinkled. “How reliable is
Herbert?” he asked. “Could he have been mistaken?”
“I don’t think so,” Myra responded, shaking her head. “I know Jeff pretty well. A couple of times we’ve had coffee or lunch together in the Help’s Hall. He’s in his mid-forties, intelligent, stable, a rock-solid family man. Three teen-age daughters, as I recall. Oh, yes. I remember Jeff telling me he was an elder in his church.
“Jeff is in charge of employee training. He said he could never forget Cicily. She completely disrupted one of his training sessions. Everything he tried to teach the employees, Cicily twisted into an off-color joke or a sexual innuendo. He said she really made a fool of herself.
“I talked with Jeff again, shortly after I spoke with Lois Lewis. He was astounded that Lois denied meeting with Cicily,” Myra said.
“Did anyone else see Purdue go into Lewis’s office?” Michael asked.
Myra took a bite of her pizza. “I don’t know. It seemed best not to make a gansa megillah of the disparity between their statements.”
“You’re right,” Michael agreed. “Perhaps Cicily spoke to Lois in confidence and Lois didn’t want to break that confidence.”
“What could it matter now that Cicily is dead?” Kimberly questioned.
“That’s what I thought, too,” Myra said. “So, even though I didn’t question anyone else in H.R., I did go to see Rick Lacey. He’s Chief of Security for the Crest Resorts—Silver Crest, Gold Crest, and the Blue Hawaii. I asked Lacey to review the eye-in-the-sky surveillance tape of the H.R. offices for Friday afternoon.”
Michael sat up straight in his chair. “And—?”
“That was a dead end. The casino doesn’t have any surveillance cameras in the private offices. Only in the public areas. There is a camera positioned in the hall outside the main entrance to the Human Resources department, however. When I reminded Lacey, he agreed to have someone in Surveillance check the tape from that camera to see if Purdue went into H.R. Friday afternoon, and, if so, find out how long she was there.
“I almost wish I hadn’t talked to Lacey, however. He made me quite uncomfortable. Lacey couldn’t understand why I was asking employees questions about Purdue. He quizzed me—interrogated is probably a better word—for about fifteen minutes. I didn’t want to tell Lacey I was checking on Purdue for you and whatever I found out might be printed in the Times.
“Lacey knows I’m in charge of Blue Hawaii’s Public Relations department, so I made up a cock-and-bull story. I said I needed to have information about Purdue available in case any newspaper reporters came by. That seemed to mollify him somewhat.
“But then, Lacey went on to say the murder was a police matter. He said Purdue wasn’t killed on the property and her death had nothing whatsoever to do with the Blue Hawaii—so I shouldn’t get involved. Lacey told me to direct any inquiries to him and not attempt to answer them myself. He said if I continued to snoop around, he was going to have to report me to The Big Guy. I took that as a threat.”
“Who’s ‘The Big Guy’?” Kimberly asked curiously.
“Marshall Brendan. Brendan’s the majority owner of Crest Resorts,” Myra replied. “He’s a good boss, but I certainly don’t want to have the head honcho angry with me.”
“You’ve done more than enough, Myra,” Michael decided. “Don’t jeopardize your job by asking more questions at work. Lacey is absolutely right. The murder is a police matter. I’ll talk with Mark Caruso tomorrow and see if he has any info about Purdue that Geller can use. Then, we should all wash our hands of the affair and move on to more important things.
“When you finish your pizza, would you like me to order another tiramisu? I’ll be glad to share it with you.”
Myra smiled coyly. “Yes. I’d like that, Michael. Very much.”
Seven
MICHAEL PLOPPED A BOX of doughnuts on Mark Caruso’s desk. “I brought the sinkers, Mark. You’ll have to supply the java.”
Mark smiled at his friend. “A full dozen? Didn’t you hear?—I’m on a diet. I’ll be able to eat just nine of them. What’s up, Michael?”
“I want to talk with you about the Cicily Purdue murder. Geller asked me to gather some background information for the Times.”
Caruso shrugged. “It’s an open-and-shut case, Michael. According to Purdue’s neighbors, she was screwing everything that wore a pair of pants, right under her live-in boyfriend’s nose. Rubbed his face in her whoring. I figure Peter Walker—that’s the boyfriend’s name—took all the humiliation he could, then stabbed Purdue to death and hightailed it out of town. We located Walker’s truck in the long-term parking garage at McCarran Airport and had it towed to an impound lot.”
“That’s about what I’d guessed,” Michael said. “Myra spoke with a number of Purdue’s coworkers at Blue Hawaii and they all said the same thing. She was just poor white trash.”
“That’s right. Purdue used to tell everyone her big goal in life was to pose for porno pics. Some ambition, huh? Ah, here comes our coffee.”
A uniformed officer brought two Styrofoam cups of coffee, packets of sugar, and individual-size plastic containers of half-and-half into Caruso’s office. Michael emptied two sugar packets and one container of cream in his coffee, then helped himself to a cake doughnut with maple icing and chocolate sprinkles.
“Did you talk with anyone at Blue Hawaii?” Michael asked.
“Naw,” Caruso replied, shaking his head. “There was no need. We already know Walker’s our man. Why do you ask?”
“I told you Myra did a little checking around at Blue Hawaii. Funny thing, one man said that the day before Purdue was killed she had an hour-long closed-door meeting with Lois Lewis, head of the Human Resources department. But Lewis denies the meeting took place.”
Caruso took a large bite of a jelly doughnut. Some of the red currant jelly squirted out of the doughnut and rolled down his face from his mouth to his chin. He wiped the jelly off with a finger, then licked his finger. “That does seem a little odd. Maybe I should have a talk with Lewis. Who told Myra about the meeting?”
“A man by the name of Jeff Herbert. Myra knows him pretty well. She says he’s a reliable witness.”
“I’ll talk to Herbert, too.” Caruso finished off his jelly doughnut with the second bite and reached for another.
“Myra tried to get some information from Crest Resorts’ Chief of Security, Rick Lacey. Lacey tried to intimidate her. He told Myra to keep her nose out of the matter and threatened to tell Marshall Brendan that Myra was trying to stir up trouble for the company, or some such nonsense.”
Caruso nodded. “I know Rick Lacey. Behind his back, he’s called Dick Tracy. Maybe because he has a square jaw, like the comic strip character. Or, maybe because the names rhyme. Who knows?
“Lacey’s only thirty-three years old, which is pretty young for someone in his position of authority and responsibility. He’s an ex-FBI agent and plays the part like an actor on a made-for-TV movie of the week. Light brown hair cropped short, penetrating blue eyes, clean-shaven face, muscular build, highly polished wing-tip shoes. Even when Lacey’s wearing casual clothes, such as a polo shirt and slacks, he always looks immaculate. All in all, he gives the impression of being a handsome, clean-cut all-American guy. I’ve always felt Lacey could model for a white supremacy poster.
“Most every morning, Lacey chauffeurs Marshall Brendan to the same health club I belong to. Early, about six a.m. They work out together. I see both at the club once or twice a week. We’ve talked a number of times. Nothing of any consequence, we just schmooze about the weather or a ball game.
“The Chief of Security for Crest Resorts used to be an older guy named Vance Bircher. A good man. An ex-cop. Retired from Metro ten or twelve years ago. When Bircher’s wife died after a long bout with the big C, he developed a heavy drinking problem. Heavy, hell. That’s an understatement. He was soused all the time. One day Bircher caused a scene at the Silver Crest and Brendan let him go. Retired him with a good pension, actually. Brendan brought Lacey
in as Bircher’s replacement.
“I never could figure why a young guy like Lacey would quit a promising career with the FBI to work for a casino. My guess is he was either asked to leave the Bureau because of something he did or he was given one helluva salary at Crest Resorts. Knowing how casinos pay, I don’t think it was the latter.”
Mark’s face took on a dour look. “There’s something about the man I don’t like. I wish I could put my finger on it, but I can’t. It’s just that I get a creepy feeling whenever I’m around him.
“So—what have you been up to lately, Michael?”
“As a matter of fact, I just got back from Cancun last Saturday. Geller let me use his timeshare villa for a week.”
“You took Myra with you, of course.”
“Yes. Myra, and Kimberly Cohen. We had a great time.”
Mark did a double take. “Kimberly Cohen? Your assistant? I remember when Myra thought you and Kimberly were having an affair and threw you out of your condo.”
Michael could feel color flooding his face. “That was just a temporary misunderstanding. It was all straightened out a long time ago. Myra and Kimberly have been friends since they were in high school. They’re closer now than they ever were. I don’t think I could separate them now if I tried. In fact, Kim just moved in with us. It was Myra’s idea.”
Caruso shook his head in disbelief. “It’s just not fair. You’re living with two gorgeous women and I can’t keep a girlfriend for more than a month or two. It’s the job, I think. My schedule’s too erratic. When you make a date, women want to know you’ll show up and not stand them up. I can’t guarantee that. I can be called in to investigate a homicide any time of the day or night.”
Michael finished his coffee. “Maybe what you need is a girlfriend on the police force. She’d understand your schedule—or, rather, total lack of one.”
“Have you seen any of the broads who work for Metro, Michael?” Caruso groaned. “I want someone to make love with, not arm-wrestle.”
A Time For Us (Michael Kaplan Mysteries) Page 5