A teasing breeze kicked up some dust around the car as he got out and ambled toward the building. On the trip out here, he had considered several ways to play this. Several scenarios had been rehearsed in the theater of his mind. Now, none seemed right, so he would play it straight.
Jim Brass always did.
He opened the door, the rush of cold air like a soothing slap. A tall, impressive redhead stepped forward to meet him in a reception room running to dark paneling, indoor-outdoor carpeting and gold-framed paintings of voluptuous nudes, none more voluptuous than the hostess approaching him. and her voice carried a soft southern lilt. “Hello, Handsome. I'm Madam Charlene—and how may we help you, today?”
She was probably fifty and looked forty—albeit a hard forty. She had been gorgeous once, and the memory lingered.
He flipped open the leather wallet and showed her his badge.
“Oh, shit,” she said, the southern lilt absent now from a Jersey-tinged voice. “Now what the fuck?”
He said nothing, let her take another, closer look at the badge to see that he was from town.
She frowned. “You're not even in the right county, Sugar.”
He twitched a nonsmile. “I'm looking for one of your girls.”
Her hands went to her hips and her mood turned dark. “A lot of fellas are. For anything in particular?”
“For information. She was with a trick at the Beachcomber. That is my county.”
The frown deepened, crinkling the makeup. “And you're going to bust her for that? What two adults do in the privacy of their own, uh, privacy?”
Brass shook his head. “This isn't a vice matter. The trick ended up dead—shot twice in the head.”
Alarm widened the green eyes. “And you think one of my girls did it?”
He kept shaking his head. “I know she didn't. I just need to ask her a few questions. She was with the guy some time before he died—probably the last to see him alive, other than his killer.”
She studied Brass. “. . . Just some questions and nothing more?”
“That's right. I don't want to be under foot any longer than necessary.”
“Considerate of you. . . . Which girl?”
He gave her half a smile. “Uh, Connie Ho. That's not her real name, is it?”
Madam Charlene gave him the other half of the smile. “Sad, ain't it? I think she's come to wear that name as badge of honor.”
“If you say so.”
“Anyway, she's one of our best girls. Popular, personable. Trim little figure—but legal.”
“Thanks for sharing.”
“You can go on back.” She pointed the way. “Room one twenty-four. Down the hall and to the right.”
“Thank you, Charlene. We'll do our best not to make each other's lives miserable.”
She gave him a smile that didn't seem at all professional. “For a cop, you have possibilities.”
Brass made the turn, walked down more indoor-outdoor carpeting and finally came to room 124 almost near the bottom of the “T.” He knocked, waited, knocked again.
“Coming,” said a female voice through the door.
Very little accent, he noticed. “Ms. Ho?”
She opened the door. Connie Ho was Asian, yet very blonde—platinum, in fact. Maybe five-four and 110, she wore a tissue-thin lavender negligee and black pumps and nothing else.
“What can I do for you, Handsome?”
Brass had been called “Handsome” maybe four times in recent memory—two of them, this afternoon. He flashed the badge and her eyes and nostrils flared, as she tried to shut the door in his face. Wedging his foot inside, door-to-door-salesmen style, and bracing the door with both hands, he forced his way in.
She backed to the far wall and wrapped her arms around herself, as if she'd suddenly realized how nearly naked she was.
The room was small, just big enough for a double bed and a mirrored makeup table with a chair in front of it. The walls were pink brocade wallpaper, and the bedsheets were a matching pink, no blankets or spread. An overhead light made the room seem harsh, and the smell of cigarette smoke hung like a curtain.
“Who the hell do you think you are,” she snarled, “barging into my room without a warrant!”
“The proprietor invited me in, Ms. Ho—I don't need a warrant.”
“You know we work within the law out here. I'm a professional.”
He held up a single hand of peace. “Ms. Ho, I just want to ask you a few questions.”
“I've got nothing to say.”
“How do you know, when I haven't raised a subject?”
“That was a Las Vegas badge. I don't have to talk to you.”
“It's about the other night—at the Beachcomber?”
“Never heard of the place—never been there.” She stalked over to the makeup table, where she plucked a cigarette out of a pack and lit it up. Suddenly she seemed much older.
“Maybe we got off on the wrong foot, Ms. Ho. Shall we make a fresh start?”
“Go to hell.”
He just smiled at her. “I've got your fingerprints and lip prints on a wineglass, and I just bet if we check the stains on the bedspread, your DNA is going to turn up. And you're telling me you've never heard of the Beachcomber?”
“Never. I don't work Vegas. I work the ranch.”
“Then it won't be much of an incentive to you, if I make it my life's work to bust you every time you come into the city to turn a trick?”
Her upper lip curling back over tiny white teeth, she gave him the finger. “Sit and spin.”
Exasperated, he started for the door. Turning around, he said, “That john, at the hotel? Here's how serious this is: he got murdered, shortly after you left him.”
Her face changed but she said nothing. She took a few little drags on the cigarette, like she was trying to make it last.
Brass said, “Hey, I know you didn't kill him. I just want to ask you about the time you spent with him.”
“I don't know anything.”
He started to turn away again, but her voice stopped him.
“Listen—he was nice to me. Seemed like a nice enough guy.”
Brass went over to her—not rushing. He got out a small notebook and a pen. “Did you know him? Was he a regular?”
She shook her shimmering blonde head and plopped onto the chair in front of the mirror. “Charlene sent me. I'd never seen the guy before.”
“What can you tell me about him?”
She shrugged. “He was clean and that's about as nice as tricks get.”
“Anything else? Did he talk about his business or anything?”
She shook her head.
“Did he seem nervous or overwrought?”
Another head shake.
“Walk me through the night.”
She sighed, thought back. “I went up about eight. We had some champagne. I gave him a blowjob, he came real fast. He'd paid for a full evening, so I helped him get it up again and we did it again. You're not gonna find any DNA, though.”
“Oh?”
“We used rubbers both times.”
How little they knew. “Go on,” he said.
“He showered, got dressed, and said he was going out. He said I could stay in the room for a while, order room service, take a shower or a nap. He didn't care. He just said that I had to be out before he got back and he said that would be around five in the morning.”
Brass jotted notes, then asked, “Can you think of anything else?”
“That's it. I kind of liked him. It's too bad.”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I gave him a good time before he went.”
“Twice,” Brass said, nodded at her, thanked her, and went out into the hall.
He found Madam Charlene inside a small wood-paneled office off the lobby. She sat at a metal desk with a telephone and several small piles of what looked like bills; Post-it's were all over the place. A computer on the desk symbolized how far prostitution had come.
Knocking on the doorjamb, still being polite, Brass asked, “Charlene—could I talk to you? Won't take long.”
She stopped in the middle of writing a check and looked up at him with large green eyes. “Anything else I can do for you, Sugar?” she asked, the southern lilt back in her voice.
He mimicked the drawl back at her. “Why didn't you tell me you set up Connie's date at the Beachcomber—Sugar?”
Again the Southern lilt wilted. “I provide rides out here, for guys who wanna get laid.”
“You don't provide an . . . out-reach service?”
“I don't risk it—I leave that to the escort services in Vegas. Not my gig.”
“So Ms. Ho is lying—she booked this client herself, against your wishes.”
She sighed, leaned forward. “Look—I just didn't think it was important. You said you wanted to talk to her. Have I cooperated?”
He nodded. “Yeah—and I do appreciate it. Now I'm asking you to cooperate a little more—what about setting up that date? You did set it up?”
“I did, but . . .” Madam Charlene gave him an elaborate shrug. “It was just another date.”
Shaking his head, he said, “I don't think so. If it was a normal date, you would have told the guy to come out here. Let him find his way, or send your limo service. So why'd you send Connie into the city? You said it yourself: it's a risk; not your gig.”
She shrugged again.
“Look, Charlene, I don't want to sit at the county line and bust any of your girls that enter Clark County, but I will.”
“. . . Close the door.”
He did.
“If I tell you what I know, you'll leave me and my girls outa this?”
“If I possibly can.”
“You promise?”
“Boy Scout oath.”
She sighed heavily, found a pack of Camels on her desk, and lit up a cigarette.
Everybody in this joint must smoke, Brass thought. For about the millionth time, he wished he hadn't quit.
She took a long drag, then blew it out. “You know who the guy is?”
“Lawyer named Philip Dingelmann.”
Her forehead frowned; her mouth smiled. “And that doesn't mean anything to you?”
Brass shrugged. “Such as?”
“Dingelmann is the lawyer for, among other illustrious clients, a fine citizen name of Charlie Stark.”
That hit Brass like a punch. “As in Charlie ‘The Tuna’ Stark?”
Stark was high up in the Chicago outfit—a mobster with a rap sheet going back to the days of Giancana and Accardo. Sinatra had sung at Stark's daughter's prom.
“Maybe it's some other Charlie Stark,” she said dryly. “And maybe I did this favor for Dingelmann 'cause he represents little old ladies in whiplash cases.”
“A mobbed-up lawyer,” Brass said to himself.
“You will keep me out of it?”
“Do my best,” Brass said, “do my best.”
And he stumbled out of the brothel into the sunshine, at first shellshocked, and then a smile began to form.
He had said, from first whiff, that this was a mob hit; and Grissom had, typically, pooh-poohed it. Evidence was Grissom's religion; but Brass had known that his twenty-two years in the field, as an investigator, counted for something.
Jim Brass headed back to Vegas.
6
AFTER THREE-AND-A-HALF HOURS' SLEEP, A SHOWER, AND some fresh clothes, Catherine found herself back in the office again. She grabbed a cup of the coffee from the break room and forced herself to drink some of it. Not so bad—a little like motor oil laced with rat poison. She found Nick in her office, camped in front of the computer monitor.
“I don't get out of bed in the middle of the day for just any man,” she told him.
“Glad to hear it.” He cast one of those dazzling smiles her way, and pointed to the screen. “Check this one out.”
Catherine peered over his shoulder. “Fortunato, Malachy? How ‘fortunate’ was Malachy?”
“Not very,” Nick said, referring to the file on screen. “Disappeared from his home fifteen years ago, leaving a bloodstain in the carport, on the gravel driveway—no sign of Malachy since. The original investigators let the case drop—a bloodstain does not a crime scene make.”
“True.”
“Plus, the detectives were convinced the married Mr. Fortunato ran off with his girlfriend, and that the blood stain was a dodge to throw the mob off the track.”
“The mob?”
“Gamblers, anyway. The variety that breaks limbs when markers go unpaid.”
“If Malachy's the mummy, I'd say his dodge didn't work.” Looking over Nick's shoulder, she slowly scanned the file. “Small-time casino worker, big gambling debts, suspected of embezzling at work. Ouch—that might have gotten a contract put out on him.”
“He worked at the Sandmound,” Nick said, referring to a long-since demolished casino, which had dated back to the days when Vegas had been a syndicate stronghold. “Two bullets in the back of the head, that's a fairly typical expression of mob displeasure.”
“Okay,” Catherine said. “I'm liking this . . . but why do you think Malachy's our mummy?”
Nick's tight smile reflected pride. “I traced the ring you found on the body. Jeweler who made the bauble recognized it. Bada-bing.”
“Please. . . . Okay, you did good. Let's print out this report so we can look at it a little closer.”
Nick printed the file.
“There's a sample of the bloodstain from that carport and a cigarette butt from the backyard in Evidence,” Catherine said, sitting, reading the hard copy. “We can pull them, and try to get a DNA match, to make sure this is our guy.”
Nick flinched. “Damn—that's gonna take forever.”
“Good things come to those who wait . . . and while we're waiting . . .” Her voice trailed off as she noted Fortunato's address, and reached for a phone book. “Says he lived with his wife Annie.” Thumbing the white pages, Catherine found the FOR's, ran a finger down the column, and said, “And she still lives there.”
Neither was too surprised; the real residents of Vegas put down roots, like anyone anywhere else.
Nick squinted in thought. “Does that mean we have a fifteen-year-old crime scene?”
“It means I'm going to track O'Riley down, and run out there.” She waved the printout. “I want to meet the little woman whose husband ran off with his girlfriend . . . and have a look at what may be a really not-fresh crime scene.”
Nick bobbed his head. “I'll get on the DNA.”
“Good.” Glancing through the file one more time, she noticed a note that said the police had returned Mr. Fortunato's personal effects to his wife. “What the hell?”
She handed the note to Nick, who read it and shrugged. “So?”
Catherine's half-smile was wry and skeptical. “If Malachy the mummy was missing, what personal stuff did they have of his?”
“There's no inventory?”
She shuffled through the papers one more time. “Nope.”
Nick shrugged. “Could be anything.”
“Could be something.” She rose, went to the door and turned back to him. “Nice work, Nick. Really nice.”
He gave her another dazzler, pleased with himself. “I'm not as dumb as I look.”
“No one could be,” she said with affection, and he laughed as she waved and went out.
O'Riley met Catherine in front of the Fortunato house and she filled him in. She liked working with the massive, crew-cut detective because the man knew his limitations, and wasn't offended when she broke protocol and took the lead in questioning. She did wonder where he'd come up with that brown-and-green-plaid sportshirt; maybe the same garage sale as the who-shot-the-couch sportcoat.
The one-story stucco ranch had an orange tile roof and a front yard where the sparse grass was like the scalp of a guy whose transplant wasn't taking. Heat shimmered up off the sidewalk, and from the asphalt drive that
had, in the intervening years, replaced the gravel driveway of the file photos. The carport, at least, remained.
The detective knocked on the door and almost immediately it opened to reveal a thin, haggard, but not unattractive woman in her fifties, with a cigarette dangling between her lips.
“Mrs. Fortunato?” O'Riley asked, flashing his badge. He identified himself and Catherine.
“I used to be Mrs. Fortunato. But that's kind of old news—why?”
Catherine said, “You're still listed under that name in the phone book, Mrs.—”
“I'm still Annie Fortunato, I just don't use the ‘Mrs.’ It's a long boring story.” She looked from face to face. “What's this about, anyway?”
Catherine held the evidence bag containing the ring out in front of her—the distinctive gold-and-diamond ring winked in the sunlight, the “F” staring at the woman, the woman staring back.
Taking the bag, a slight tremor in her hands, Mrs. Fortunato studied the gaudy ring. A tear trailed down her cheek and she wiped it absently. Another replaced it and another, and soon the woman shook violently and slipped down, puddling at O'Riley's feet even as he tried to catch her.
A burly man in a white T-shirt and black jeans bounded into the living room from the kitchen. “Hey, what the hell?” he yelled, moving forward toward the stricken woman.
O'Riley, surprised to see the guy, pulled his badge and tried to show it to the man who barreled toward them, his fist drawn back ready to punch O'Riley in the face. The badge slipped from O'Riley's grasp and his hand came back toward his hip.
In horror, Catherine realized the big cop, spooked and unnerved, was going for his gun. She grabbed O'Riley's gun hand, keeping him from drawing his pistol and, in the same fluid motion, stepped in front of the detective, ready to take the blow from the large man freight-training toward them.
Facing the oncoming potential attacker, she almost yelled, “It's all right, sir! We're with the police.”
The punch looped toward her and Catherine flinched, but the blow never landed. Her words registered just in time, and the brute halted the punch just short of her face.
Double Dealer Page 6