Edge of the Knife

by A. D. Miller

  Nyman looked for a moment as if he were going to respond, then closed his eyes. A deep flush had appeared among the bruises of his face and spread across his forehead and neck.

  Looking at the road, Mara said: “You’ve got nothing to say to that?”

  When Nyman didn’t answer she turned to look at him. After that she fell silent and drove more quickly. When the car pulled up to the Lady Luck Inn Nyman’s teeth were chattering and his hair was wet with feverish sweat.

  Mara came around to the passenger door. Looping his arm around her shoulder, she led him to the door of his room, then bent down to get his keycard, which was partly wedged under the welcome mat.

  Inside the room, she made him sit in a chair beside the door, then went into the bathroom. He leaned with his head against the wall and looked up at the ceiling, where seeping water had made yellow stains.

  Mara came out of the bathroom. “Here. Take these.”

  She dropped Tylenol into his hand and gave him a cup of water. When he’d swallowed the pills, she used a washcloth to clean some of the dirt and blood from his face.

  Then she removed the plastic sack that lined the ice bucket and went outside, leaving the door open. Nyman heard the clatter of the ice machine, then the clicking of heels as she came back along the sidewalk and into the room, the ice-filled sack in her hand.

  “All right. Lay down on the bed.”

  “S’okay. I’ll sleep here.”

  “Shut up and get in the bed.”

  Teeth chattering, he moved to the bed and lay down on the top-sheet. She went into the bathroom to get a towel, wrapped it over the ice, and put the ice in the palm of his hand.

  “There. Now hold that against the swelling.”

  He held the ice against his mouth. “Thanks.”

  Acting as if she hadn’t heard, she filled the cup with more water and put the cup and the Tylenol on the bedside table. Then, without a backward glance, she left the room and shut the door.

  Chapter 28

  He woke nine hours later. The sheets were wet with melted ice. The plastic sack was crumpled in his hand. The flush and sweat of fever were gone.

  He lay unmoving on his back for half an hour, then forced himself to get out of bed and fill the bathtub with hot water. Swallowing more Tylenol, he sat in the water and smoked what was left of his cigarettes. When he came out of the bath his muscles had relaxed and he was moving almost normally.

  He looked in the mirror and saw the same mass of bruised and bloodied flesh, but less swollen. In his mouth was a toothless red socket between his upper left incisors and bicuspids.

  He muttered hoarsely and bent over sink, flushing blood from the socket. Then he packed the socket with toilet paper, dressed in clean clothes, used the right side of his mouth to eat his last piece of bread, and walked to the manager’s office, where a woman with an expressionless face said:

  “Checking out?”

  Nyman leaned against the counter and took the wallet from his pocket. “Room one-eleven.”

  “Looks like you had a rough night.”

  “That would be one way to describe it.”

  “Vegas can be a rough town, sometimes.”

  “So I’m learning.”

  “Cash or credit?”

  “Credit,” he said. “All the cash is gone.”

  * * *

  It was a thirty-minute drive to Summerlin. He stopped once to buy coffee and cigarettes, then a second time to buy a disposable black flip-phone for fifteen dollars. It was past noon when he left the Summerlin Parkway and turned onto Mesquite Road.

  A dark green column of Afghan pines rose along the side of the road. Glittering in the gaps between the pines were swathes of fairways and putting greens. Rooflines came occasionally into view above the upper branches, hinting at the massive houses that lay below.

  After a mile or two the road jogged to the left and narrowed, winding deeper into the villages that surrounded a network of private golf courses. The road ended in a cul-de-sac with a cluster of palms at its center and a wrought-iron gate set off at a tangent. A strip of steel on the gate’s callbox was engraved with the name Searle.

  Nyman pressed the callbox button and told his name to the dry, businesslike man who answered.

  “Nyman with an Y? I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t have you down on the visitor’s list.”

  “That’s because Mr. Searle didn’t know I’d be visiting. Tell him I’m the investigator who’s been bothering people at Kasbah.”

  The man said: “One moment, please.”

  A yellow-headed verdin sat in the branches of the acacia that rose behind the gate. It looked down at Nyman with black, inquisitive eyes and made a whistling three-note call. From somewhere nearby came the pop of a golf ball being struck.

  The man came back on the line. “Mr. Searle says to pull your car around to the service entrance. He’ll meet you there.”

  The gate divided in the center and Nyman drove forward on a path of cobblestones. The path curved among trees and shrubs, rising steadily until the ground levelled off and he saw an enormous stone house in an imitation Tuscan style. Half a dozen luxury cars were parked in the circular drive.

  He followed the cobblestone path around one wing of the house and onto a wide apron of concrete. A mild-looking older man in a polo shirt and khaki pants stood waiting in the shade of a portico. He came forward with his hands in his pockets and then, stopping as Nyman climbed out of the car, said in a warm, avuncular voice:

  “My goodness. What happened to your face?”

  “A meeting with some friends of yours,” Nyman said, and held out a hand. “Tom Nyman.”

  The man’s handshake was dry and firm. “Howard Searle. What do you mean, friends of mine?”

  “Friends of your friends at Kasbah, at least. You’re the C.E.O. of Savannah Group?”

  Searle nodded. “We’ve got lots of properties, though—Kasbah’s just one. I don’t have a hand in the day-to-day operations.”

  “But someone’s been talking to you about me,” Nyman said.

  “What makes you think that?”

  “The fact that you let me through the gate.”

  He gave a mild smile and waved a hand. “Oh, I’m not too strict about who I let through my gate. I believe in being accessible.”

  Nyman said he was glad to hear it. “That should make my job easier.”

  “And what’s your job, Mr. Nyman?”

  “Finding out who killed Alana Bell.”

  Searle looked at him with eyes that crinkled with amusement. His body was soft but not fat and his face was relatively unlined for a man in his sixties. He held himself with an air of prosperous good health.

  “The name’s familiar,” he said. “She was a student of some kind, wasn’t she?”

  “A student and an activist. One who was trying to stop your Merchant South project.”

  “Yes, that’s right. Well, I’m sorry to hear she passed away, but I can assure you that no one at Savannah Group played any part in it.”

  “I’m not suggesting they did,” Nyman said. “But all the same I’d like to ask you some questions.”

  Searle glanced at the Patek Philippe on his wrist. “Actually, I have guests at the moment, so now’s not the best time.”

  “I only need a few minutes.”

  “I’m sorry, but now’s really not the—”

  “And this way,” Nyman said, “I won’t have to talk to the police about the woman you sent to my motel room.”

  The genial smile remained in place. “There’s no need to take an ugly tone. I’m happy to do whatever I can to help. Come with me.”

  Nyman followed him into a glassed-in solarium that ran along the backyard and gave a view of distant greens and bunkers. Interspersed among the chairs and couches were sculptures made in stainless steel.

  “I’ll leave you here while I have a word with my guests,” Searle said, steering him to a couch. “Something to drink while you wait?”

  �
��No thanks.”

  Nodding, Searle moved off toward the interior of the house and Nyman sat down. He lay back against the cushions for a minute or two, rubbing his temples and shutting his eyes against the bright desert sunshine. Then he sat forward and looked at his surroundings.

  The solarium was cold despite the sunshine and immaculately clean. Through the glass, he could see two women playing a game of lawn bowling on a green that had been laid out in the yard. They held glasses of champagne and occasionally rolled a ball across the clipped grass.

  Nyman watched them with narrowed eyes. The younger of the two was no more than nineteen or twenty and moved with graceful, self-conscious poise, as if aware of her own beauty. He got up and walked to the glass, shading his eyes.

  A moment later, smiling, he turned away from the window and walked in the same direction Searle had gone, leaving the solarium and coming into a large vaulted gallery. Faint voices carried in from a hallway leading into the other wing of the house.

  At the end of the hall Nyman went down a short flight of steps and found himself in a large room with a pair of glass doors standing open to the backyard.

  Howard Searle stood beside the doors, looking at Nyman with the same amused smile. Sitting in a chair across from him, his blue eyes wide with surprise, was Ethan Kovac.

  Chapter 29

  The room was a study. A desk and credenza stood in one corner; a muted T.V. on the wall was tuned to C.N.B.C. Laughter came in from the backyard, where the two women had abandoned their bowling and refilled their glasses with champagne.

  Nyman said to Kovac: “I recognized your wife, so I thought I’d come and see you. Sorry if I overstepped my bounds,” he added to Searle.

  Searle gave an indulgent shrug. “Like I said, I try to be accessible. I take it you’ve already met the Kovacs?”

  “I have. Good to see you again, Ethan.”

  Kovac had recovered from his surprise and was leaning back in his chair, chewing a thumbnail. “Nice to see you too, Tom. Face got a little banged up, I see.”

  “A little.”

  Searle said: “Have a seat, Mr. Nyman. This is a working weekend for us. We’re hammering out the last details on Merchant South.”

  Nyman sat down. Spread on a table between his own chair and Kovac’s were glossy fliers and architectural plans. One of the fliers showed a rendering of the same white condo tower he’d seen sketched on the banner across from Zamora Park.

  “That’s the Melville,” Searle said. “Eighteen stories and two-hundred-and-fifty luxury residences. We broke ground last week on the foundation.”

  Nyman said that he’d visited the construction site a few days ago.

  “Really? You make a habit of touring construction sites?”

  “I was there to look at the park across the street.”

  Searle laughed. “You mean Zamora? That wasn’t a park; that was a public health hazard. You couldn’t walk in there without stepping on a needle.”

  “Alana Bell thought it was worth keeping open.”

  Taking the thumb from his mouth, Kovac said: “She thought a lot of things, most of them pretty naïve. Once the Melville opens, you’ll have people moving in who care about the neighborhood and want to improve it. Not just transients.”

  Nyman asked how much the apartments in the building would rent for.

  “That’ll depend on several different variables,” Searle said, “some of which haven’t been decided yet. But we expect the value of the property to increase steadily as the rest of the neighborhood gets filled in around it.”

  “And you have to think about what the residents will be getting for their money,” Kovac said. “A pool, of course, and a spa, and a health club. In the ground-level spaces we’re putting a restaurant from my company’s portfolio—a Shinsen, probably—along with a private bar that’ll only be open to residents.”

  Searle said: “That’s why I wanted to work with Ethan on this. He can bring in all the brands Koda’s already established, and then give us something entirely new with the hotel that’ll be built alongside the Melville. It’s all about facilitating a particular lifestyle—a seamless luxury experience across the development.”

  Nyman said it sounded very nice. “Is this the same sales-pitch you gave to Alana when you talked to her?”

  Searle shook his head. “I never talked to the woman in my life.”

  “You’re sure? She came all the way to Vegas to see you.”

  “Did she? When was this?”

  “Two weeks ago.”

  Searle cocked his head, thinking. “Well, there’s your answer. I was in Florida two weeks ago. We had a ribbon cutting on Key Biscayne.”

  “And you never invited her to Kasbah?”

  “Of course not.”

  “What about Michael Freed?”

  “Freed? The man who did the city’s study?”

  “He’s also the man,” Nyman said, “who won twenty-thousand dollars in the high-limit room of your casino. With Alana Bell at his side.”

  “Well, this is the first I’ve heard of it. Like I said, I don’t keep a hand in the day-to-day operations.”

  Rising from his chair, Kovac took a bottle of mineral water from the refrigerator beside the credenza. Uncapping the lid, he said to Nyman:

  “I’ve met Freed once or twice. He’s what you might call a very devoted instructor of his students. Particularly the female ones. If he was here in Vegas with Alana, you can be sure it was for pleasure, not for business.”

  “And certainly not any business with Savannah Group,” Searle said. “I couldn’t even tell you what the man looks like.”

  Nyman took the handkerchief from his pocket and blotted the blood on his lip.

  “Doesn’t it seem like a strange coincidence,” he said to Searle, “that Freed won so much money at your casino right after analyzing one of your developments?”

  “I don’t see anything strange about it. We’ve got holdings in a dozen different states—assets of fifteen billion dollars. These little coincidences pop up all the time.”

  Nyman said he didn’t doubt it. “But if there’s nothing to hide, why won’t you cooperate with my investigation?”

  “Cooperate? You’re here, aren’t you? I’ve given you—what?—fifteen minutes now of my time? There are lots of people who’d like fifteen minutes of my time.”

  Nyman said: “Someone at your company told Stephen Emmler to get me out of the way. Emmler admitted as much to me yesterday morning.”

  “Ah, so you talked to Stephen. I’m afraid he’s never quite jelled with our organization. He’s very much a product of the old Vegas, whereas at Savannah we try to do things differently.”

  “You expect me to believe that Emmler acted on his own?”

  “No, it’s more likely there was a miscommunication somewhere down the line. Stephen can have trouble putting our directives into action.”

  Nyman said that the miscommunication had cost him a phone and nearly two hundred of his client’s dollars.

  Searle, reaching into his pocket, drew out a wallet. “If money’s what you’re after, you should’ve said so from the start. I’d be happy to make it up to your client.”

  “No thanks,” Nyman said. “I don’t want your money.”

  Kovac said to Searle in a tone of explanation: “Tom’s adopted Alana’s opinion about us. Money’s the root of all evil, so anyone with money must be evil. And developers are twice as evil as anybody else.”

  “That’s not what I think,” Nyman said.

  “Of course what you guys don’t understand,” Kovac went on, “is that every time we put up a high-density tower like the Melville, we’re increasing the supply of housing, which increases the vacancy rate and drives down rent across the city. For everybody—not just our residents.”

  “That’s fine,” Nyman said. “I didn’t come here to debate policy.”

  “No, I realize that. And you’re welcome to think whatever you want about us. But sending your henchman o
ut to harass people is going over the line.”

  “Henchman?”

  “Well, whatever you want to call that kid. He spent the last two days making Grace’s life hell, and I think that’s a pretty shady thing to do.”

  “Grace Salas?”

  Kovac nodded. “The city councilwoman. She told me you’d been out to her office to make a lot of wild accusations, and then you sent the kid to do the same thing. I really thought you were better than that, Tom.”

  “You think I sent someone to bother her?”

  “Where else would the kid get the idea? And frankly I think you bear some responsibility for what happened to him.”

  Nyman shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

  Searle said: “He’s talking about the homeless kid you sent after us. Trujillo. He was killed last night in L.A.”

  Nyman’s face, beneath the bruises, became pale and waxy. “What?”

  “Stabbed to death,” Kovac said. “You didn’t see it in the paper? We figured that’s why you came out here today.”

  Nyman’s voice was hoarse. “Who killed him?”

  “I don’t think the cops have any idea. But a kid like that, harassing so many people: it was bound to happen at some point.”

  Nyman said: “Where were you?”

  Kovac blinked. “Me?”

  “Last night. When Trujillo was killed.”

  “You really are a suspicious bastard, aren’t you, Tom?”

  Nyman repeated the question.

  “I was right here,” Kovac said, “along with about eighty other people. Howard hosted a party for the new oncology wing at Valley Memorial.”

  Nyman turned to Searle. “You were here too?”

  “Of course.”

  “What about Freed and Salas?”

  Searle shrugged. “They were in L.A., I imagine. Why would I invite them out here?”

  “Then you can’t vouch for them?”

  “No.”

  “And this harassment you say Trujillo was doing. It was directed only at Salas?”

  Kovac said: “Mainly at her, but we got calls from him at the Rexford. I think he might’ve even tried to get in the door.”