by A. D. Miller
“Looks like she stayed in the fourth-floor suite,” the clerk said. “And she upgraded to the Indulgence package.”
“Which means what?”
He shrugged. “Bottle of champagne and some restaurant vouchers.”
“Not exactly the height of indulgence.”
“Depends what you’re used to. Usually it’s something couples buy.”
“Was she here with someone else?”
“She booked at the two-person rate, at least. But we never ask for the name of the other guest.”
“Who paid the bill?”
The clerk squinted at the screen. “Could’ve been anybody. It was a cash payment. All three nights in advance.”
Nyman found the photo of Alana on his phone and showed it to him. “Do you remember checking her in?”
“Nope. Sorry.”
“You’re sure? Take a closer look.”
“I don’t need a closer look. She checked in at four in the afternoon. My shift doesn’t start until ten.”
Nyman asked if he could talk to the employees who were working that day.
“If you go away and let me start the night audit,” the clerk said, “you can talk to anyone you want. The break room’s through there, at the end of the hall. Knock and someone’ll let you in.”
Nyman crossed the lobby to the red brocade curtain. On the other side he found a tufted-leather door through which the dance music could be heard more clearly. Moving past it, he came to a plain metal door at the end of the hall.
The woman who answered his knock was only a year or two out of her teens. Her brown hair was pulled back into a lank, stringy ponytail; the thinness of her body was partly obscured by a maid’s uniform.
She nodded to the tufted-leather door. “The club’s through there.”
Nyman told her who he was and what he was doing. With no sign of surprise or curiosity, she stepped back from the door and waved him into a brightly lit room with a sink and refrigerator and a row of lockers. Through an open doorway he could see part of a laundry room.
An older maid was eating a meal of machaca and eggs at one of the tables. She leaned low over the food and ate slowly, watching Nyman in her peripheral vision. A sign on the wall said that employees were required to report injuries to the management.
He sat down and took the cigarettes from his pocket, wordlessly offering the pack to each woman in turn. The younger maid’s face became friendlier as she took one.
“You really think this girl was murdered?”
“I think it’s possible.”
“You have a picture of her?”
He showed her the picture on his phone. She looked at it intently, then shook her head. “Sorry. Don’t remember her.”
He held the phone out to the older maid. She glanced at it, then looked directly at Nyman for the first time.
“No,” she in a voice that was hardly audible.
Nyman asked if he could have a look at the room Alana had stayed in. “Assuming it’s empty.”
The younger maid said: “It’s been cleaned a bunch of times since she left. If there was anything in there, we would’ve found it already.”
He said she was probably right. “But I’d still like to see it, if you don’t mind showing me.”
She looked questioningly at the older woman, who shrugged and went on eating. Rising from her chair, the younger maid said:
“Well, I guess it wouldn’t hurt.”
She led him through the laundry room and into the hallway beyond. During the elevator ride he learned that her name was Alicia and that she’d been working at Tryst for two years.
“I won’t be staying here much longer, though.”
“You have a new job lined up?”
“Pretty much. The shows on the Strip are always holding auditions for singers and dancers. It’s only a matter of time before something works out.”
“You’re a performer?”
She nodded. “I’ve heard there’s lots of openings in L.A., too. Sometimes I think about going out there if I can’t find anything here.”
Nyman said he’d met people who’d moved to L.A. for that reason.
“Did they make a living out of it?”
“Some did.”
“You don’t think it’s just a pipe-dream, then? People are always telling me it’s a pipe-dream and nobody ever really makes it.”
Nyman said: “I wouldn’t listen to other people.”
At the fourth floor, Alicia unlocked the door of suite 410 and led him inside.
It consisted of two small rooms and a kitchenette. Beyond the ordinary furnishings, it had a circular bed, a partially mirrored ceiling, and framed reproductions of Mapplethorpe nudes. A bar cart was stocked with vodka and tequila and mixers.
“Mind if I look around?”
“Go ahead.”
Working slowly and methodically, Nyman searched the suite, starting with the bed. From the bed he moved to the living room, bathroom, kitchenette, entryway. He found nothing.
“Sorry,” Alicia said. “Told you it’d been cleaned, though.”
He nodded and walked to the window, where he looked down on the headlights moving on Desert Inn Road. He was checking the time on his watch when the door opened and the older maid came in.
Her face was shy and uncertain. Looking first at Alicia, then at the nudes on the walls, she met Nyman’s gaze and said in her quiet voice:
“The girl who stayed here. She was really a friend of yours?”
“We didn’t have a chance to become friends. But she came to me for help.”
“And now you’re trying to help her?”
“Something like that. Her family hired me to find her murderer.”
“They trust you?”
“They seem to. Why?”
Hesitantly, she reached into the pocket of her uniform and brought out something small and round, then held it out to Nyman.
He moved away from the window. In her palm was a fifty-dollar chip with a picture of what looked like a minaret in the center.
“She gave it to me,” the maid said, passing it to Nyman. “As a tip.”
The chip was new and unblemished. Holding it up to the light, he saw that the minaret was a stylized sketch of the Kasbah casino tower.
“They had lots of them,” the maid said. “Chips like that, and money.”
“They?”
“Your friend and the man. The one staying here with her. One day they came in when I was cleaning. He told me he’d just won a jackpot.”
“At Kasbah?”
She nodded. “He said he never had any luck before, but maybe Vegas was a lucky town for him. I said I was happy for them, and then the girl gave me the chip. She said they had plenty more.”
“Do you remember the man’s name?”
“He never told me.”
“What about how he looked?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. Average.”
Nyman opened his mouth to ask another question, then closed it. Taking out his phone, he found a photo of Michael Freed on the Pacifica website and showed it to her.
“Was that him?”
She squinted at the photo, then nodded. “Could be. Probably.”
“Did they tell you why they came to Vegas?”
“They didn’t need to tell me. They were here to be together.”
Nyman asked her if she’d had any other interactions with them.
“No, just when she gave me the chip. I’ve been here eight years and no one ever gave me more than a couple dollars.”
“It was generous of her.”
“Very generous. That’s why, when you showed me the picture, I thought you were after her money.”
“I didn’t know she had any money. She told me she didn’t have any at all.”
The maid nodded sadly and took the chip from his hand. “Maybe she didn’t. The way the man looked at her when she gave it to me—I thought maybe he wouldn’t let her keep any for herself.”
“He was upset that she gave it to you?”
“He didn’t say it, but you could see it in his eyes. You see it all the time. Somebody gets a little something, they don’t want to share anymore.”
“You think he was greedy?”
She shrugged and put the chip back in her pocket. “No more than the rest of us.”
Chapter 20
Nyman took a cab from Tryst to Kasbah. It was one o’clock in the morning, but the clerks at the registration desk were bright-eyed and smiling. At the elevators, security guards were checking the keycards of anyone trying to ride upstairs.
He made his way past slot machines and roulette wheels, past the smoke-clouded sportsbook and the roped-off entrance of Souk, and crossed to a side-bar where a graying woman was pouring shots for two young men.
Nyman waited for her to make eye contact with him, then said: “If I wanted to ask about someone who won a jackpot here, who would I talk to?”
Ignoring him, she tore a receipt from the credit-card machine and put it in front of the smaller of the men, who didn’t seem to notice it.
He was looking at a woman at the end of the bar. She sat alone on a stool in a strapless black dress that accentuated her figure. Her face, catching the light off the mirrored bar, was pale and angular, with heavily shadowed eyes and lips painted a dark glossy red.
The bartender turned to Nyman. “Sorry, we’re not supposed to discuss our guests’ winnings.”
“Not even with the police?”
“You’re a policeman?”
“I’ve been working with the L.A. coroner’s office.”
Holding up a forefinger, she turned back to the young man, grabbed his wrist, and forced a pen into his hand. He looked down at the pen in surprise, noticed the receipt, signed it with a flourish, picked up the shot glasses, and handed one to his friend. They toasted and drank and moved to the end of the bar to talk to the woman.
“Well,” the bartender said to Nyman, “if you’re here on coroner’s business, you should probably talk to Stephen.”
“Stephen?”
“Mr. Emmler. The casino manager.”
“Know where I can find him?”
She looked at a clock on the cashier’s terminal. “This time of night, he’ll be in the high-limit room. It’s back that way and under the awning.”
Following her directions, he found an awning of green silk and came into a high-ceilinged room with gaming tables arranged around a pool of water lined with zillij tile. Moorish arches and potted lemon trees gave the illusion of an open-air atrium.
The illusion was belied by the room’s quietness. Cards ruffled in the hands of the dealers. Chips dropped softly on cushioned green felt.
Behind the nearest table stood the same man he’d seen earlier on the escalator: tall and heavyset, with boyish features and blond hair cut so close to the skull that it was almost translucent.
Nyman went past the pool of water and stopped beside the man. Without speaking, they stood together and watched an older, well-dressed woman play a hand of mini-baccarat.
With fingers lengthened by false nails, she put two chips on the square of felt labelled Banker. The croupier plucked four cards from the shoe, put the first pair on the right half of the table, and said: “Three.”
He put the second pair on the left half of the table—“Eight”—and dealt a third card to each pair. After a pause, he pushed the right-hand cards forward and said: “Player. Nine over eight.”
Then he swept away the cards and chips and looked at the woman expectantly.
While she considered her bet, the blond man leaned toward Nyman and whispered: “Anything I can do for you, sir?”
“Are you Stephen Emmler?”
The man nodded. “And your name?”
“Tom Nyman.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Nyman. Why don’t we go where we can talk without bothering the players?”
Nyman followed him out of the high-limit room and onto the gaming floor. Emmler cast a proprietary glance over the floor, then looked at Nyman with a smile. His face was smooth and entirely hairless.
“You were here earlier, weren’t you? One of our floor ambassadors pointed you out to me.”
“I was asking about a friend of mine.”
“That’s what she said. Your friend’s not in any trouble, I hope?”
“A lot of trouble. And I think it might’ve started here.”
“At Kasbah?”
“In the casino, at least. She was involved with a man who won a jackpot here two weeks ago. Michael Freed.”
Emmler’s face was composed but his eyes were moving quickly, as if trying to look at Nyman from different angles at once.
“What kind of jackpot?”
“I’m not sure. He came away with a lot of cash and chips. Do you keep a record of your big winners?”
Ignoring the question, Emmler said: “I’m sorry, but I don’t see what you mean by being in trouble. Most of our guests think winning money is a good thing.”
Nyman told him what had happened to Alana Bell.
Emmler’s eyes stopped moving; the hairless face flushed pink. Glancing at the people on the gaming floor, he touched Nyman’s arm and said:
“We’d better go to my office.”
He led him off the floor and into a windowless room hardly big enough to hold a desk and two chairs. On top of the desk was a photo of a woman and two young girls.
Emmler took a pen and sheet of paper from his desk and said, sitting down: “All right, start at the beginning.”
Nyman started with Alana’s arrival at Tryst. Emmler listened attentively and made notes on the paper in large block letters, biting his lip as he wrote. Then he sat back in the chair and tipped his head to one side.
“So she came to Vegas with Freed. Then Freed won some money at our casino. Then she died two weeks later. Correct?”
“Correct.”
“Well, I don’t mean to be stupid, but I don’t see the connection between Freed’s winnings and her death.”
“I’m not saying there is a connection. I don’t have enough information to know either way.”
“So that’s why you’re here? To get more information?”
“Right.”
Despite the chilliness of the room Emmler was sweating. “That’s where the trouble comes in, unfortunately. Our business is all about giving guests the highest level of service. A key part of that is discretion.”
“I’d think a casino would be eager to advertise its big winners.”
“Most of the time, sure, but you need the winner’s permission. Some people don’t like the publicity.”
“People like Freed?”
“I don’t remember Freed offhand, assuming he was even here.”
“I’m sure you have records you could check. And some of your employees might remember him.”
“Again, though, protecting our guests has to be our top priority.”
Nyman nodded to the photo on the desk. “If it was one of your daughters, you might have different priorities.”
The sweat had descended to level of Emmler’s eyes. At the mention of his daughters, he picked up the pen and looked down at the paper.
“Maybe you’re right about that. If you’re willing to give me a little time, I’ll see what I can find out.”
“Thanks. I’d appreciate it.”
“Of course it might take me a while to get back to you. You’re staying here in town?”
“At the Lady Luck on Paradise. But you can just call my phone.”
“Always a good idea to know where to find you, though. You remember your room number there?”
Nyman frowned. “One-eleven, I think.”
“And you’ll be going there now?”
Nyman’s frown went away and he looked at the man’s bowed head with new interest. “Not right away, no. You know of a good place to get a drink at this time of night?”
Still not looking at Nyman, Emmler said: “The Aloha Lounge is pr
etty good, if you want to avoid the crowds. It’s around the corner on Harmon.”
“Sounds perfect.”
Emmler put down his pen and finally looked up. “Well, I can’t promise anything, but I’ll do what I can. The security guard outside will walk you back to the casino floor.”
Nyman thanked him for his help, went to the door, and paused there with his hand on the knob. “It’s private investigating, by the way,” he said.
“What?”
“My profession. You never asked what it was.”
The pen in Emmler’s hand was trembling. “Didn’t I?”
“No.”
“Well—I must’ve just assumed it, then.”
Nyman smiled. “I guess you must’ve.”
Chapter 21
The Aloha Lounge was a dark room with rattan-covered walls and a bar made of lava stone. The only light came from imitation torches hanging from the ceiling and slot machines lining the back wall. Nyman sat down at the mostly deserted bar and asked for a gin and soda.
“Lime?”
“No thanks.”
Lying in a puddle on the bar was a discarded copy of the Review-Journal. He opened the paper to the front page and glanced over the headlines, his expression dull and incurious.
He read a pair of stories about local politics, started to turn the page, then stopped, frowning. He took the phone from his pocket and opened the website of the L.A. Times. In the archives he found a list of articles about Merchant South; the most recent was dated July fifth.
Report Calms Fears About Downtown Development
Under fire from critics, the Los Angeles city council today released a report claiming that the proposed $900 million redevelopment of downtown’s Merchant District will bring jobs and housing to the moribund neighborhood.
Michael L. Freed, a frequent adviser to the city on real estate proposals, found after a months-long analysis that the city’s plan represents the best possible use of the four parcels of land earmarked for the project.
“In terms of maximizing revenue,” Freed wrote, “the mixed-use complex outlined by the developer will create much needed benefits not only for the district, but for the city and county as a whole.”
