Cat In A Neon Nightmare Part 30

Bahr hawked out a laugh as another man might expel phlegm.

"The eyes have it," Molina went on. "Contact lenses. Vivid blue-green. Looks like the lady couldn't make up her mind. Was she blue, or was she green?"

"Green," Matt said. "She worked for the IRA."

"Or maybe Ralph Nader," Bahr put in. "You do know her, then?"

Matt wasn't sure that his relationship with Kitty O'Connor could be described as "knowing."

He tried for the objective eye. Saw long, narrow neck. Pale skin paler now in death. Small determined chin. Slightly upturned nose. A pretty girl without the hatred that made every feature sharp and feral. She should behanding out appointment cards in an office somewhere, a dentist's or a chiropractor's.

All the anger that had propelled her, made her vivid, living, had left her.

She's gone. She left.

"Is it Kitty O'Connor?" Molina asked, unconsciously shifting into the neutral reference that remains demanded. It. The remains.

He glanced over the entire figure again, this time seeing something like a spider on one of her prominent hipbones. Even as he thought somebody should brush away the trespa.s.sing insect, he caught his breath as he realized the black blot was a tattoo. Of a serpent swallowing its own tale, just as Kitty's lifelong flirtation with death had finally been consummated. The worm Ouroboros celebrated in the unwanted ring she had given him, and taken away.

Only she would bear such a mark.

"Yes," Matt said.

"You're sure?"

"I was sure when I walked in. But I needed to make double-sure. It just seems . . . impossible."

"She was mean, but she was mortal."

He nodded. That terse epitaph fit his stepfather too. But Cliff Effinger plainly had been murdered.

Kitty had not died so obviously. Could mere accident have claimed her when bitter opposition could make no dents on her stainless steel soul? Anything was possible.

Including the fact that his worst enemy was dead, that he was free.

Free to live out the legacy she had left him: a lot of atypical acts, enough guilt to ensure Purgatory for eternity, eternal regret for another life lost.

He heard Molina and Bahr conferring, as if Kathleen O'Connor's dead body were just another conference table to gather around.

"A couple of odd abrasions on the nape of the neck, almost cuts," Bahr was saying.

"Hmmm. Know what I'm thinking?" Molina asked.

"Women can get those from abrasive labels at the back of the neck. I'll check out her clothing."

"-the only anomaly, and it's a minor one for a spinout into a dry wash like this," Bahr's voice was grumbling.

A spinout in a dry wash. It sounded like an epitaph for a frustrated and wasted life, Matt thought.

A hand closed on his ann.

Molina' s.

"We can leave now," she said.

Matt wasn't so sure you ever left Grizzly Bahr's realm, not once you had seen it.

"Good job," the man himself said, grinning. "You didn't upchuck once. Disappoint an old man, will you? Out of here, then. You've graduated Ghoul School with honors."

Chapter 41.

Sweat Shop "What's the story on the man with the golden arm?" Molina asked Alfonso later that morning. He stood before her desk with a manila folder in his hand and a Cheshire-cat smile on his well-used face.

"How'd you guess?"

"I a.s.signed my detectives to sweat a possible witness who's clammed up. First you'd do a thorough background, which I a.s.sume is what fattens that manila folder in your hand. Next, I told you to let me know when you had him ready for the ropes. And here you are bright and early Monday morning."

"Awesome, Lieutenant. You're wasted behind that desk."

"Tell me about it."

"Yup. You got it. Guy's name is Herb Wolverton. Energetic, strong for his size. Was in the merchant marine years ago. Can lift hefty luggage as easily as he can pocket hundred-dollar bills. 'Retired' to Vegas from Biloxi, where he had acc.u.mulated quite a rap sheet, all petty stuff but as long as an octopus's arm. Drunken brawling, gambling ... and it used to be illegal there unless you were on a licensed riverboat. Nothing felonious, just cantankerous. Had a chip on his shoulder, old Herb did, and it turned into a brick when he drank.

"Anyway, vice was no stranger and when he hit Vegas eight years ago he settled down to work his way up as a bellman. Since he'd been used to greasing his palms in Creole town, he fit right in. Real accommodating to anyone with green palms."

"What have we got on him that we can use?" Molina rose and headed into the corridor for the interrogation rooms.

Alfonso's grimace exaggerated his hangdog features as he caught up with her, huffing slightly. "Not much. He's threatening to call a lawyer, but we keep telling him we're just interested in his testimony as a witness. I have a feeling this guy is real scared, but I can't tell of who."

Molina quashed an urge to correct him. Whom, it was whom. She'd told Mariah that at least a couple hundred times.

"Alch and Su in?" she asked instead.

"Yeah, but Barrett and ..."-maybe he had read her mind-"and I brought him in."

"Still, I'd like you and Su to do the interrogation. Alch and Barrett and I can watch."

"Me and Su? We're not partners. We don't know each other's moves."

"Exactly. I want to shake this clam up until he burps up a pearl or two. An edgier interrogation just might do it. And we're investigating the death of a woman. Su might make him feel guilty, subconsciously at least."

"Psychology, Lieutenant? Guys like this only know fists or rolls of cash."

"Humor me," she advised, not remotely sounding like anyone who knew a thing about humor.

Alfonso got the idea and shut up.

Barrett was holding up the wall outside one of thecramped interrogation rooms when they arrived. Molina sent him to round up Alch and Su while she and Alfonso slipped into the adjoining room with the two-way gla.s.s every suspect knew was there. It still came in handy. Observers could spot things interrogators might miss in the heat of the Q & A, and the sense of unseen hovering watchers unnerved all but the most hardened criminals.

When the three detectives arrived, Molina had to explain her thinking again. What she didn't tell them was that detective teams could get like old married couples, if there was any such thing nowadays: so used to each other's ways life was a sleepwalk. Complacent. Much as they all grumbled about the unusual pairing, Molina noticed Alfonso and Su sizing each other up as they went next door to meet Herbie Wolverton, boy bellman.

They made a Mutt and Jeff combo, no doubt, with gender and racial differences accenting the unlikely pairing. Wolverton would be distracted by the odd couple. A distracted witness was an unintentionally frank witness.

"You don't make this guy for a killer?" Alch asked, turning a chair around and straddling it, his chin balanced on the plastic-sh.e.l.l back.

She understood his paternally protective att.i.tude toward Su (much resented by Su but good for sharpening her edge). Differences, not similarities, made a detective team cook, Molina had discovered. And maybe marriages. You can't learn anything from a clone of yourself.

She settled into her own uncomfortable chair, intrigued by the show she had set in motion. She realized that Herb could reveal facts that would lead to Matt Devine and ultimately to her. So be it. She wondered what would persuade a bellman to shut up so completely when all he had to do was describe the usual comings and goings on an ordinary bought-and-paid-for night shift in Las Vegas.

It was all up to Alfonso and Su, unlikely partners: unearth information, and maybe bury their lieutenant.

Herb Wolverton was already unhappy, an excellent sign.

He fidgeted on his own plastic hot seat, sitting at the plain table with the tape recorder its only accouterment.

Molina could have studied the rap sheet in the manila folder Barrett had given her, but she preferred to write her own scenario, then do a reality check.

He was around thirty-five, a well-used thirty-five. Over-muscled the way some short men will get, but still a boyish and jaunty carriage. Aye, aye, sir. Yes, ma'am. His freckled face was surfer tanned. Although not stupid, he had allowed youthful potential to decay into mere canniness.

His blue eyes darted doglike to Alfonso and Su, Su and Alfonso. The big sloppy man unnerved him. That kind of St. Bernard confidence had always escaped him. He'd had to be wiry and shipshape to get some respect. Su . . . oh, he'd seen a foreign port or two and he liked those delicate Asian ladies. Just his size. He could be a courtly fellow if he wasn't feeling threatened.

"Ma'am," was his first word, with a nod to Su. He almost rose from his chair, but Alfonso gestured him down. Down, boy.

The tension was already riveting. Herb ached to charm and disarm Su, the appealing toy Pekinese. He knew Alfonso could crush him if he wanted to, hardly knowing it. He didn't know Su could too. But she would know it.

Fox terrier, yes. Aggressive but eager to please. Already conflicted and now ... scared.

Molina could smell his fear through the two-way gla.s.s. Alch leaned forward. "Someone's got to him good."

"But who? This guy is combative, a sc.r.a.pper."

"Small potatoes," Alch noted.

"Right," Molina agreed. "He's not used to a town like Las Vegas, running on major juice. You think a former client of Va.s.sar's, some big mojo guy, resented her profession? Tried to claim her?"

"Anything's possible," Alch said, "when you're dealing with s.e.x in the City, especially this city. Mr. Big, is what you're suggesting. Va.s.sar was a prime piece of real estate. Wonder if Rothenberg has dealt with that before, having girls so cla.s.sy the clients get possessive?"

"We'll have to ask her," Molina said, "but first our team needs to have a go at Herbie."

Beat policemen often referred to suspects by childhood diminutives and Molina had adopted the habit. Infantalizing suspected perps reinforced their own shaky sense of control. Made the Bogey Man into Little Mikey. It was a self-deluding ploy, but must have served a purpose. The police were so often impotent when it came to the courts and defense attorneys. Only place to show muscle was on the streets.

"Mr. Wolverton." Su sounded as demure as she looked. "I've gone over your rap sheet. It's pretty minor. I'm guessing that you'd want to cooperate with the police in a capital murder case."

"Capital murder?"

"Well, it's possible that the victim was held against her will in the hotel room. That would be kidnapping."

Wolverton's frown aged him a decade. "I don't think ... Va.s.sar, she was always a pretty savvy lady."

"You knew the victim then?" Su inquired as if making chitchat at a garden party.

"Yeah, sure. She was a regular. Came and went all the time. Cla.s.sy act from entrance to exit. But not my type," he added, as if fearing admiration might be mistaken for obsession. "Too big."

Alfonso weighed in lazily. "It wouldn't take much strength to push a tall woman over that chickens.h.i.t balcony. Those stiletto heels she had on? Would have made her unstable. Tippy."

"Look." Wolverton licked his lips and eyed Su. "My job is to see people up to their rooms, drag in their luggage, turn on the air conditioner, get ice if they want it, show 'em which way the faucets turn. Then I'm outta there."

"Didn't you forget something?" Su asked gently. Too gently.

"What? What'd I forget? It's my job, for chrissakes, not yours. I know my job."

"The tip." Su brushed her middle finger over one of her exotically plucked brows. "You got good tips, didn't you?"

"Yeah. Great tips. Everybody was happy with me. Why not? I am a happy guy."

"Most Happy Fella," Alfonso put in a like a genial un- cle. A little too like a genial uncle. Like a G.o.dfather.

Herbie jerked his head, loosening taut neck muscles. "It's a pretty good job. I meet some very interesting people."

"But you really get tipped for what you don't do," Alfonso insinuated. By now he was smirking like a fellow transgressor.

Wolverton glanced at Su. "I don't get it . . . 'what I don't do.' "

Alfonso rested his forearms on the table and leaned inward, taking up more than half the surface, edging into Wolverton's s.p.a.ce.

"A happy fellow, a good citizen, would report solicitation instead of profiting from it. Las Vegas ain't no chicken ranch down the highway. That stuff is illegal here."

"Everybody does it. Why are you on me about it?"

"Because you're lying," Su finally interjected. "What red-blooded male could forget what room Va.s.sar went into and who was in it? The tip for placing her with a customer must have been big."

"Su," Alfonso remonstrated, "you're forgetting one thing. Maybe Herbie here isn't a red-blooded male."

"Hey, I'm as red-blooded as any hunk of meat out there. But it's a business, see. Faces come and go in Las Vegas like everybody's on a merry-go-round. There's no point in remembering something you'll never see again. Besides, I dig girls, not guys. Why would I take inventory of just another john?"

Alfonso leaned closer. "Haven't you had any famous check-ins?"

"Yeah. Ah, Mel Gibson one time. And Rod Steiger before he died. But they didn't want call girls, I remember that. Most other people are pretty anonymous."

"Why do you use Judith Rothenberg?" Su asked out of the blue.

"Why not? Her girls are clean and cla.s.sy. You never have trouble with a Rothenberg girl."