"I think we should go to bed now, my darling. I have class tomorrow. And you have a very big day. You understand that, don't you?"
"Y-Yes."
"Trying to get to a C-list celebrity backstage at the Florence-that's going to be a good deal more complex than catching a workaholic lawyer in his lair. Not that you can't do it. I know you can. But you're going to need your strength. So why don't we toddle on upstairs-"
"Esther?"
She stopped, brushed the hair tenderly out of his face. "Yes, Tucker, dear?"
"I-I am doin' the right thing, aren't I?"
"Do you doubt it?"
"No, I just-I just-"
"You understand what I've told you, don't you? Why we're doing this? Why our work is so important?"
"I…try. But it's hard for me…"
"And you know I can't do it myself. Not in my condition. I need a big strong man, someone I trust." She took his face in her hands again. "Someone I love."
"You…love me?"
"You know I do. Don't I show you that? Don't I show you every night?"
"Yes." He straightened. "Then I don't hafta…understand it all. All I hafta know is what you want me to do."
"Dear boy. Dear sweet boy." She took his hand and stood. "Now let's go upstairs, shall we?"
"Okay. And-"
She turned again. "Ye-es?"
"Are we gonna have time for-for-you know."
She smiled beatifically. "Do you think we should? I don't want to deplete your energy. Not when you have so much work to do."
"I'm sure I could manage both."
"Very well then." She took his hand and laid it gently on her left breast. "I want you, too, you know. I crave you. When you're not around me, I burn."
"You-You do?"
"Oh, yes. Come my love, let us go upstairs and give our bodies what they so urgently require. Just-try not to get too violent this time, would you?" She led him up the stairs. "We must be careful of the baby."
24
July 19
"JOSH, JOSH, JOSH," The chubby man in the bolo tie said, his arms up in the air. "Calm down. It's not good for your heart, baby. You want I should get you a scotch and tonic before you go on?"
The tall thin man in the satin tuxedo whirled on him. "No, I do not want any damn scotch. I want some butts in all those empty seats."
"Josh, you know what the economy is like."
"I know what my bank account is like!"
"It's hard times. People don't have disposable income like they used to."
"That's bullshit. Vegas is filled with disposable income. It's the goddamned kingdom of disposable income!"
Charlie Halliwell mopped his brow, wishing to God he hadn't made the mistake of meeting his client backstage. Sure, he'd been doing it for over twenty years now, religiously, before every show. But Joshua was in one of his moods, usually induced by a combination of booze, phenteramine, and the odd glance at the no longer young face in the mirror. When he got in one of those moods, he could not be reasoned with. Best just to stay clear. Worse, there were about twenty stagehands watching, hearing every ugly word his client ranted.
"Look at that crowd," the man continued. "Pathetic! There was a time when the name Joshua Brazee meant something. I was the first performer to sell out the Sands for three months straight. Did you know that, Halley? Did you?"
"Of course I knew it, Josh. I was the one who booked those gigs at the Sands, remember?"
"Yeah, I remember. Back then, you knew how to be an agent. You knew how to rustle the bushes. Now you're a has-been."
Halliwell bit back the obvious reply. "Vegas has changed, Josh."
"Bullshit."
"It has. They don't turn out for crooners the way they used to."
"You're wrong, Halley. There's always an audience for talent. And that's what I am. Real talent. Not some bimbo teenager lip-synching and thrusting her navel into people's faces. Real talent."
"You're not a teen idol anymore, Josh. Your audience is aging."
"So is the competition! I'm probably the greatest standards man left alive today."
Halliwell suspected Tony Bennett might have some thoughts on that score, but he kept his mouth closed. "You know, Josh, I have tried to get you to liven up your act. Bring it into the twenty-first century."
"People don't come to Joshua Brazee to see flashing lights and hydraulic sets. They come to hear a man sing."
Halliwell mopped his brow. Where to begin? "Have you looked around lately, Josh? Take a look at the Strip. The new Strip. Giant video displays. Escalators that cross highways. Roller coasters. A monorail, for God's sake. Times have changed."
Brazee thunked his manager on the chest so hard it knocked him back a few steps. "There's always an audience for a good show."
"Good show!" Halliwell knew he should keep his mouth shut, but the anger was building inside him with such intensity he feared he might burst an artery. Why had he gone into show business? Why hadn't he stayed home and run the family farm in Dill City, Oklahoma, like his mother wanted him to do? "You wanna know what a good show is, Josh? Then why don't you go see one? I got you tickets!"
"I don't need to see some hyped-up gimmicky-"
"You need to know what you're up against. Celine Dion doesn't just warble. She puts on a show! Dancers! Acrobats! Stagecraft!"
He rolled his eyes. "The woman can barely sing. And that accent-"
Halliwell slapped his forehead. "The woman plays to four thousand people every night! Because it's a show."
Halliwell was bouncing up and down. At his height, he looked like a leprechaun. "Did you go to the Mirage? Did you see 'O'? They got a stage with more water than a swimming pool. They got people descending into the water and disappearing. I don't know how they do it. But I know that's a show!"
"Not for my audience. My people grew up when Liberace and Wayne Newton owned this town."
"Even Liberace knew how to put on a show! You think people came to hear him play piano? They couldn't care less about the piano! He wasn't even that good at it. If they craved piano, Van Cliburn would've ruled Vegas. They loved Liberace because he knew how to put on a show. Hell, people still love Liberace. He's been dead for years, but his museum is the top non-casino tourist attraction in town!"
With a sudden calm that bordered on the eerie, Brazee stepped closer to Halliwell and grabbed him by his wide lapels. For a split second, Halliwell thought the man was going to kiss him. As it turned out, his intention was considerably less affectionate. "Let me put this to you in words that I think you can understand, Halley. You're fired."
"What? What!" Halliwell shook himself free. "You can't fire me, you son of a bitch. I made you!"
"See, that's where you're wrong, Halley. I made me. You were helpful, in your day. But that day is long past. We both know your agency contract expired years ago. So now I'm making it formal. You're fired."
"Think for a minute, you ass. You'll never find anyone who can replace me!"
"Actually, I already have."
"But-You can't-You-"
"And now, if you'll excuse me, former manager of mine, I believe I hear my entrance music."
"You can't do this to me!"
"Halley-I already did it!"
"You can't treat me like this, Brazee. Not after all these years. Not after I worked my butt off for you!"
"As I believe I just said-I already have."
"I'll get you for this, you bastard. I won't take this lying down. You don't work with me, you don't work with anyone. You're dead in this town, understand me? You're a dead man!"
Brazee smiled and fluttered his eyelids. "Love to stay and argue with you, Halley, but I can't. My audience is waiting for me. What's left of it."
"You slimy son of-"
But it was too late. Brazee was already onstage, playing to somewhat less than thunderous applause. "Las Vegas, Las Vegas, that toddlin' town…"
Halliwell turned away from the stage, his fists balled, his face white.
And saw about
twenty stagehands. Watching. Miracle they had remembered to turn on Joshua's spotlight.
Halliwell stared at his shoes and marched off the stage. If that bastard thought he'd take this lying down, he was very much mistaken. He'd had bigger and better clients than Joshua Brazee, at least at one time, back in the good old days when the mob ruled this town. He'd deliberately chosen to slow down, winnow his list, ease toward retirement. But now, what with the gambling debts and the paternity suit…
He had to get Joshua back. He had to.
So he'd just talk to the man. Once the show was over, and the pill buzz had faded, and he was once again basking in the better-than-sex afterglow of a room full of applause. Then Joshua would be reasonable, and he'd re-hire the man who'd put him where he was today. And maybe they could start making some real plans for the future, find some way to broaden the audience. Maybe Joshua would listen. Maybe for once he'd be reasonable.
He had to. There was no choice about it. He had to.
"All right," Granger said, trying to keep his wits about him, which for him I suppose took some doing. "Let's try to get organized here. Go over what we know. This investigation needs some direction. And I guess we'll have to go with the forensic experts. Since we don't have a psych profile."
"How can I write a psych profile when the whole damn case changes every day!" I screamed. Which was a mistake. You should never start a meeting screaming. Leaves you nothing to build up to.
"First," Granger said to the staff gathered around the conference table, "we know the killer broke into the office."
I wasn't in the mood to give him a break. "Actually, he didn't."
"We all saw the glass on the floor."
"Guess you haven't bothered to talk to Forensics." Granted, this was obnoxious, even by my standards, but it's not exactly as if he was trying to be my friend. "The glass was broken from the inside."
"Th-Then how did he get in?"
"Obviously, they let him in. Like the secretary said."
"You're saying the expert witness was the killer?"
"Ding-ding," I said, touching my nose. "So instead of running all over the sign-in sheets at the security desk, you should just look in Spencer's appointment book."
"He would've used an alias," said one of Granger's detectives, Holly Laird.
"Yeah. But logically Spencer would've asked for some way to contact him. Maybe you can find a phone number or address somewhere in his office."
"It's worth a try," Laird said, gracefully saving her boss from having to admit the obvious-that I was way ahead of him.
I looked at Granger. "Want me to tell you what else we know about this murder?"
"Oh, would you be so kind," he said, his voice dripping.
"I could be persuaded. Amelia found an earprint that could be useful to establish a positive ID, if we catch this guy. Dr. Rennard found two formulae which, when solved by Darcy-"
"Who shouldn't have even been there," Granger growled.
I ignored him, one of my favorite pastimes. "-led us to a videotape in the TV. In which we see the killer-wearing a mask-hack off that poor pathetic lawyer's arm, while the killer makes…taunting remarks to the police." Which would be a nice way of putting it. I watched the whole thing in grisly detail, not once but twice. He toyed with Spencer for a while, babbling a lot of rot about numbers, most of which was too whispered for me to make out. And then I got to hear him say, in a voice so loud he obviously wanted the tape to get it: "And there's nothing the police can do to stop me. Not that windbag Lieutenant Granger. Not that bitch Pulaski. No one." And then: "Next we venture into the wonderful world of showbiz. And after that-the next victim will be someone you know very well."
He knew us by name. He'd been following the investigation on television, in the papers. And we didn't scare him in the least.
Then I got to watch Dane Spencer scream and plead for his life, for the well-being of his daughter, for the clients and others who depended upon him. With the mask on, it was difficult to tell what was going on with the killer, but I didn't get the impression he was enjoying this. No psychopathic pleasure. No hysterical laughing, like The Joker or something. Just as if he were a man on a mission.
And then he sliced Spencer's arm off, just below the socket. Right before my eyes.
I was glad I was in the video room by myself. Because I couldn't stop crying for half an hour.
"I assume someone has performed a stress analysis test on the videotape," I said, careful to keep my voice steady.
"To determine what?" Granger asked. "Whether he was telling the truth when he called you a bitch?"
I almost lost it. So almost. But I couldn't afford to, not now. "I'm more concerned about the part where he threatens that the next victim will be someone we know. Especially since he knows at least two of us by name."
Granger waved it away. "The Courier is constantly printing our names. That doesn't mean he's coming after us."
"He didn't say it would be us. He said it would be someone we know, Granger. Like, maybe, your mother?"
His head jerked up.
"Or my niece. Or-anyone. No one is safe. Not one of us. Not anyone we know."
"The video team ran a PSE-a psychological stress evaluator on his voice," Laird said. I was familiar with the gizmo. The basic concept is that when someone lies, the pitch of their voice rises, ever so slightly. The recorded voice can be printed in graph form that allows them to detect even the tiniest gradiations in pitch. It's the next generation of the CVSA-Compressed Voice Stress Analyzer. Problem is, neither of them were generally considered entirely reliable-less reliable even than polygraphs. And there still weren't any courts that would accept polygraph evidence, much less this stuff. "They think he was telling the truth. About his future plans."
I thought he was telling the truth, too, but it wasn't because of that analysis. I couldn't even claim I saw it in his eyes, since he was wearing a mask. I just…knew.
"Anything else?" Granger asked. Now he was the one who sounded as if he were begging. "There must be something."
"Purcell's team found some hair and fiber," Laird said, "but nothing that's going to help us catch him."
"The only way we're going to catch him," I said, "is if we can figure out what his methodology is, no matter how twisted or irrational it may be. So we can be waiting for him the next time he tries to strike. We have to get inside his head."
Granger grunted. "Which is what you're-"
"Yeah, I know already, okay?" Yes, I snapped at him. But I didn't call him an asshole, which I thought showed remarkable restraint.
"Pulaski, I want a preliminary profile on my desk tomorrow morning."
"I can't-"
"I don't care how rough it is, or how many spaces you have to leave blank. I want something." He glared at me. "Unless you're not capable of doing it."
"I'll do it." You bastard. "I'll give you everything I've got." I only wished it could be with my fist. But I probably would've missed my target. My hands were shaking even as I thought about it.
25
"Mr. Brazee?"
He didn't look away from his bulb-studded mirror. "That you, Halley? Come to grovel for your old job back?" He chuckled. "Ain't gonna work."
The sound of the door closing was followed by the deadbolt sliding into place.
"Hey, what's the big-" Brazee swiveled in his chair. "Who the hell are you?"
The short stocky man behind him did not answer. He heard the jingle of a pair of handcuffs, and a second later, felt the snapping around his left wrist. The other end of the cuffs clamped onto the arm of his chair.
"What the-" He tried to stand, but the cuff chain jerked him back into his seat. "I don't know what you think you're doing, but all I have to do is say 'Boo' and there'll be people crawling all over-"
"I don't think so." Calmly, Tucker opened his overcoat, withdrew a long-handled axe, and placed the blade against Brazee's throat. "First, near as I can tell, everyone else has gone home already. Like rats f
rom a sinkin' ship."
"My act is not-Anyway, even if the crew has left-"
"I told your driver you wanted to walk home. Clear your head. Said you had some thinkin' to do."
"He wouldn't believe you."
"He did. Got the impression he didn't mind leavin' early all that much. Got the impression he doesn't like you so much. Tell the truth, Mr. Brazee, I get the impression no one likes you much."
"That's insane."
"I remember when you were somethin', when you had that song on the radio, what was it called?"
"I've had many hits." He sniffed. "But the one you're remembering is probably 'I Miss You So in Springtime'?"
"Yeah. That's the one. That was a good song. Damn good song."
Brazee's eyes moved slowly from Tucker's face to the blade still pressed against his throat. "So…are you an…enthusiastic fan?"
"No. But I liked that song."
"Then why don't you let me go?"
"Can't do that."
"If you free me, I could…sing it for you."
"Nice offer. But nah." He grinned a little. "'Fraid your number is up. And I really mean it."
"I don't understand. If you like my song, why don't you let me-"
"This has nothing to do with your songs. You were chosen, that's all."
"Chosen? But-" His eyes slowly widened, the horror dawning. "You're that man. The one I read about in the paper. You killed two people."
"Three."
"And then you-" His head fell. "Oh, my God. Oh, my God."
"Like I said," Tucker replied, looking away, "it's nothin' personal. Well, it is, in a way. But it's still all about the numbers."
They both heard the creaking sound outside at the same time. "Halley!" Brazee shouted. "Halley! Help!"
Tucker dropped the axe, ran to the door and flung it open.
No one was there.
"Just the house settlin', I guess," Tucker growled. "But that was stupid. I coulda killed you."
"Then why didn't you?"
"Because there's supposed to be a…a procedure." He spoke each syllable slowly, as if it were its own word. "A pattern." He put the blade back against the man's throat. "But don't get the wrong idea. You screw up again, I'll kill you right here and now and do the rest of the stuff later. It's not the best way. But I'll do what I gotta do."
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