“My, you smell so good this morning,” Myra complimented. “What brand of aftershave are you wearing?”
“You taste good this morning, too,” Kimberly added. She was the more oral of the two women. “I’m going to have to try your mouthwash.”
Michael smiled but said nothing. As he walked to his Mercedes, he decided sometime during the day he would pick up love gifts for Myra and Kimberly. Perhaps bottles of perfume, perhaps a dozen red roses for each.
Myra spread a toasted bagel with a dollop of cream cheese. “This is going to be our first Shabbat together as a family, if you don’t count the one last week when we were still in Cancun. Would you like to go to services tonight?”
Kimberly thought for a moment. “That would be nice. I haven’t been inside a synagogue in months. Do you and Michael go to shul frequently?”
Myra refilled their coffee cups. “Yes. Every other week, at least. We usually go to Bet Tikvah b’Midbar. In English, that translates to House of Hope in the Desert. It’s a Conservative synagogue. The largest in Las Vegas.”
“That’s fine with me.” Kimberly peeled a piece of skin back from her chub and found a morsel of smoked fish she’d overlooked.
Myra took a sip of her coffee. “On the other hand—”
“Yes?”
The wheels were turning in Myra’s head. “Instead of going to Bet Tikva tonight, let’s go to Rabbi Hellmann’s temple. Temple Mazel Tov.”
Kimberly’s forehead wrinkled. “Temple Mazel Tov?”
Myra dug in her purse and found her lighter and a pack of cigarettes. She offered a cigarette to Kimberly, then lit the lighter and held the flame to the tip of their cigarettes; Kimberly’s first, then hers. “Yes. As you know, mazel tov means good luck in Hebrew. Can you think of a better name for a Las Vegas synagogue?”
“No, I guess I can’t,” Kimberly laughed. “Tell me about Rabbi Hellmann,” she requested.
“Rabbi Hellmann—his name is spelled the same as the brand of mayonnaise—is a Reform rabbi. Very, very reform. Everyone calls him the maverick rabbi. He apparently likes the title, for he even uses it himself.”
Kimberly leaned forward in her chair. “Why is Hellmann a maverick?”
The corners of Myra’s lips turned up in a smile. “He does what he wants to do, whatever he believes to be right, hang the consequences, forget the opinions of his congregation or his board. Hellmann conducts Shabbat services—usually starting twenty or thirty minutes late—in jeans and cowboy boots. He used to demonstrate out at the Nuclear Test Site at least once a month. He went on peace marches in the Soviet Union, before that nation was broken up.
“Rabbi Hellmann is unsurpassed at funerals. He can weep buckets of tears on cue, even if he never met the deceased. I’ve been told he also conducts funeral services for dogs; presumably, Jewish dogs.”
Kimberly roared with laughter. “What, no cats?”
Myra joined in the laughter. “Yes. I almost forgot. He officiated at Herman Katz’s funeral.
“Hellmann was fired from one synagogue because of a dispute over life cycle fees—money given to the rabbi for attending a bris, baby naming, bar or bat mitzvah, performing a wedding, conducting a funeral, and so on. The board of directors said the rabbi was being paid a substantial salary, not only to conduct Shabbat services and head the religious school, but also to do the congregation’s life cycles. Therefore, any payment he received for life cycle ceremonies belonged to the temple. The rabbi argued that the gratuities were personal gifts to him and refused to turn them over.
“The life cycle fee dispute was the reason given to the public for Hellmann’s dismissal. The real reason the rabbi was fired, so I’ve been told, is because he was caught cheating on his wife with a shiksa—a Gentile woman. He eventually divorced his wife and married the shiksa—though she did convert to Judaism and, like most proselytes, became more zealous than if she’d been born into the faith. She now writes most of Rabbi Hellmann’s sermons.
“Hellmann has a hard-core nucleus of followers; people who believe he walks on water. After he was fired from Temple Emet, he started a new shul—Temple Mazel Tov—and took about half of the members of Temple Emet with him. That lasted a few years, but then he got into a squabble with his new board of directors—over life cycle fees again, of all things—and the entire board, the cantor, and most of the temple members stormed out of the meeting and formed another congregation. The man never learns, it seems.”
Myra lit another cigarette, took a deep drag, and blew a cloud of blue smoke. She had been trying to quit, but it was proving to be difficult with another smoker now living in the condo.
Kimberly took a cigarette from Myra’s pack and lit it for herself. “Nu, why are you suggesting we go to Temple Mazel Tov tonight instead of Bet Tikva?”
Myra paused before answering. She looked directly at Kimberly. “Another of Hellmann’s unofficial titles is the marrying rabbi. He marries anybody, whether they’re Jewish or not. It’s rumored he’s performed wedding ceremonies for same-sex couples, even though the marriages aren’t legally recognized by the state.”
Kimberly’s eyes opened wide. She put her coffee cup down in mid-sip. “Are you suggesting—”
Myra grinned. “Why not? At least, it won’t hurt to ask. All Rabbi Hellmann can do is say no.”
MARK CARUSO POINTED to an item listed on the menu. “I’ll have the number two graveyard special breakfast,” he told the waitress—whose name was Maude, according to the badge pinned to her uniform. “Ham, eggs over easy, hash browns, whole wheat toast, and coffee.”
“Make mine the number three special,” Michael said, closing his menu. “Sausage and pancakes. I’ll have coffee, also.”
Michael waited for the busboy to fill their glasses with ice water and their cups with coffee and move on to another table before quizzing Mark. “How did you catch Peter Walker? Did you have the airport staked out?”
Mark let loose with a loud guffaw. It caught the attention of a man seated two tables away. “No. We had no idea Walker was coming back to Vegas. You’ll probably think this is amusing—I certainly did—but Walker called Metro.”
“To turn himself in for killing Cicily Purdue?” Michael asked incredulously.
Caruso was still chuckling loudly. “No. To report his truck had been stolen. Walker didn’t know we’d towed it to an impound lot.”
“That is funny,” Michael said. “So, when you got the word Walker was at McCarran, you had the airport security police hold him for you?”
Mark was still laughing. “Even that wasn’t necessary. Walker’s cooling his heels in the airport security office willingly. He’s waiting for me to meet him and fill out a report so he can file a claim with his insurance company.”
“You don’t think Walker will catch on and try to get away?”
“Naw. If he should try anything, he won’t get very far. The security officers at the airport know what’s going down. They’re tickled as hell.”
“I can imagine they would be,” Michael grinned.
Maude brought their breakfasts and their check at the same time. “I’m going off duty now. If you need anything else, Betty will help you.” The waitress was hoping Mark and Michael would pay the bill and give her a tip before she went home. Maude knew she would never see the tip if Betty got her hands on it.
A man who was seated two tables away and had heard Mark’s loud laughter stepped over to the table. He wore golf slacks and a knit shirt emblazoned with a small Crest Resorts logo on the pocket. His wing-tip shoes were highly polished.
“Hello, Mark. It’s good to see you. Let me comp breakfast for you and your friend.” The man opened a small metal container that held a pre-inked rubber stamp and imprinted their check with his name and authorization number.
Mark stood and shook the man’s hand. “Thanks, Rick. That’s nice of you. Have you met my friend Michael Kaplan?”
The man Caruso had identified as Rick extended his hand toward Michael. “No, I
haven’t had the pleasure—but I do know your wife, Myra. I’m Rick Lacey.”
Michael rose and shook Lacey’s hand. Lacey’s grasp seemed intended to be a display of strength.
“Myra has mentioned your name on several occasions,” Michael acknowledged.
“Rick is Chief of Security for the Crest Resorts casinos,” Mark introduced, though he knew full well Michael knew who Lacey was.
“What kind of work do you do, Michael?” Lacey asked, knowing full well Michael worked for the Las Vegas Times.
“I write for the Times,” Michael responded. He did not tell anyone he was the Anonymous Gourmet, so as to protect his anonymity and thus the column’s integrity. If a restaurateur knew the Anonymous Gourmet was reviewing his place of business, the quality and quantity of food served and the service rendered might not be typical of the establishment, and thus Michael’s rating would be inaccurate.
Lacey’s eyes fixed on Michael’s. “Are you a reporter?”
Michael avoided Lacey’s stare. He decided Rick’s penetrating gaze had been laboriously cultivated and practiced. “Something like that,” he waffled.
Lacey turned his attention to Mark. There was a chill in his voice. “I hope you’re not at the Blue Hawaii on police business. Especially, with a reporter from the Times.”
Caruso was taken aback at Lacey’s sudden shift in attitude. “No, Rick. If I were here on police business you’d be the first to know. Michael and I are old buddies. We’re just having breakfast together before going to work.”
Lacey seemed relieved. “That’s good. Anytime I can do anything for you here at Blue Hawaii, be sure to tell me,” he offered, nodding to both Michael and Mark. “Go on—enjoy your breakfast. Please excuse me, but I’m late for a meeting.”
After Lacey departed, Michael commented, “Wow. I can see what Myra meant. Rick seems to be quite intense.”
Mark wrinkled his brows. “Yes, he does, doesn’t he.”
RICK LACEY CALLED SURVEILLANCE and instructed the person who answered the phone to zoom in on Michael and Mark. He gave orders to keep the cameras focused on them as long as they were on the property, and to feed the signal to the monitor in his office.
He watched uneasily as Michael and Mark finished their breakfast, then paid close attention as they headed for the valet parking entrance. Satisfied Michael and Mark had exited the building, Rick Lacey turned off the TV monitor and started thumbing through the morning’s mail and inter-office memos.
Thirteen
THIRTY-FIVE YEARS AGO McCarran was a modest-size airport, typical of commercial aviation airports serving most small cities. In those days, it was possible to choose a readily-available parking space from among the several hundred spots conveniently located in front of the terminal building, park your car, walk a scant hundred yards or so to the ticket counter, purchase a ticket and check your bags, step to the gate, board, and be ready for takeoff—all in less than half an hour.
As Las Vegas has grown, so has McCarran International. The behemoth complex now includes multilevel parking garages with a total of 7,500 spaces, most of which are occupied at any given time. Passenger traffic ranks tenth highest of all airports in the United States, and fifteenth highest in the world.
McCarran has more gift shops and clothing stores and fast-food outlets than most malls and more slot machines than most casinos. Unless one arrives at McCarran an absolute minimum of two hours before scheduled departure, there is a strong possibility that by the time the car is parked, luggage is checked, carry-ons are X-rayed, and the long walk or monorail ride to the gate is traversed, the flight will have already departed.
Michael left his Mercedes with the valet parking attendants at Blue Hawaii and rode with Mark to the airport. When they arrived, Mark parked his Plymouth sedan in a lot reserved exclusively for visitors on official airport business. Two uniformed Metro officers in a black and white were waiting for him. The four men conversed briefly before heading to the office of Airport Security.
They immediately spotted Peter Walker, slouched in a chair reading a dog-eared paperback novel. He appeared to be in his early fifties and was slight in stature, with a thin face, hollow cheeks, a bushy mustache, and long black hair interspersed with numerous strands of gray, tied into a ponytail. Walker wore a cowboy shirt, blue jeans, and boots. Sitting beside him were a khaki-colored duffle bag and a worn guitar case.
“Are you Peter Walker?” Caruso asked.
“Yeah, that’s me,” Walker acknowledged, standing. “It’s about time you guys showed up. I’ve been waiting for you for over four hours,” he groused.
“I’m Lieutenant Mark Caruso,” Mark informed the man, but did not say he was from the Homicide department, nor did he introduce Michael or the two uniformed officers. “Let’s find an empty office where we can talk.”
Soon, the five were sitting around a conference table. Mark noted the quality of the furniture in the small conference room was top of the line and appeared to be brand new, unlike the shabby, decades-old tables and chairs that adorned the offices at Metro. Obviously, the Airport Commissioner had more juice with Clark County’s Budget Committee than the Chief of Police did.
“I gotta say one thing,” Walker commented gratuitously, apparently in at attempt to be amicable. He may have been feeling regret for making remarks critical of the police a few minutes before. “It may have taken you guys a long time to get here, but you’re here in full force. I didn’t expect so many cops would come just to file a report on my stolen truck.”
“Before you say anything else, I’m going to read you your Miranda rights,” Caruso informed him.
Walker seemed confused. “My Miranda rights? Mercy. I didn’t know you had to read them to crime victims. I thought you only read them to suspects.”
Mark’s face acquired a tight-lipped grin. “Mr. Walker, I’m not here to file a grand theft report on your truck. I know exactly where it is. Your truck wasn’t stolen. I had it towed to an impound lot.”
Walker’s face went blank. “Mercy, why did you do that? I didn’t park in a handicapped spot or anything, did I? Am I in some sort of trouble for the way I parked?”
Mark ignored Walker’s questions. “Let’s talk about Cicily Purdue.”
Walker seemed flustered by the mention of Cicily’s name. “Why? What did that dumb bitch do now? Did she get busted for prostitution?”
Okay, thought Mark, we’ll play the game your way. For now. You know damn well Purdue’s dead and you murdered her. “Cicily Purdue is dead. She was brutally murdered. In the apartment the two of you shared.”
Walker gasped and started to stand. When the uniformed officers jumped to their feet he slumped back down in his seat. He appeared to be genuinely astonished by the news, but not particularly distressed. “Oh, my goodness. That’s terrible. Mercy. What happened?”
Mark had his yellow lined legal pad readied. “Why don’t you tell us, Walker? Why did you kill Cicily? Were you jealous of her many lovers?”
Caruso’s rapid-fire questions threw the suspect into a state of panic. Walker nervously ran his fingers through his hair, looked frantically around the room, saw two burly policemen stood between him and the door, and broke out in a cold sweat. “I didn’t kill Cicily. You’ve gotta believe me. She was alive when I left Vegas last Saturday morning. We had coffee together in our apartment.”
Caruso was taken aback. The coroner had fixed the time of Purdue’s death at midnight on Saturday. Because he believed Walker had fled the state, Mark assumed he was Purdue’s killer and had not bothered to verify the time Walker’s truck entered the parking garage. It was an egregious error on his part. But then, Mark rationalized, with his heavy workload he was entitled to make a mistake once in a while.
“What time was your flight last Saturday?” he questioned.
“Eleven a.m,” Walker answered, without hesitation.
“And where did you go?” Caruso was writing all of Walker’s answers down on his yellow legal pad.
Mark examined the papers with skepticism. Maybe I didn’t make a mistake, he considered. Walker could be smarter than he looks. He would have had ample time to fly to San Francisco, take a turnaround flight back to Las Vegas, leave his truck parked in the garage at McCarran, catch a cab to his apartment, slice up Purdue with the hunting knife, take another cab back to the airport, and fly to San Francisco again before Purdue’s body was found. The subterfuge would give Walker an almost perfect alibi. The time he parked his truck and his canceled ticket for the first flight would make it appear he was in San Francisco when the murder took place.
“What did you do in San Francisco on Saturday?” Caruso pressed.
Walker had apparently regained some of his composure. “What does anyone who goes to San Francisco for a short holiday do?” he retorted sarcastically. “I partied. Some of my friends picked me up at the airport. We hung out together all afternoon at a house in Haight-Ashbury, then I went out to dinner with a friend. After we ate, we hopped the North Beach bars until they closed at two. I spent the night with my friend. I have plenty of witnesses. You can check on everything I’ve told you.”
“I will,” Caruso stated. “But something’s bothering me. You don’t seem to be very disturbed that your girlfriend was murdered. Why not, Walker?”
Much of Walker’s confidence had returned. “I’m disturbed but not shocked. I’m not even very surprised. I kept telling Cicily that if she continued whoring around she’d get herself hurt or killed,” he whined. “But let me clear one thing up for you. Cicily was not my girlfriend. We shared an apartment, that’s all. She did her thing and I did mine. She liked having me around for protection, in case one of her dates freaked out on drugs or gave her any trouble. Cicily and I never slept together. I’m gay.” He waved his arms as he explained. “Can I go now? How do I get my truck?”
A Time For Us (Michael Kaplan Mysteries) Page 9