I sometimes find the same thing. But my cold beverage of choice is typically a beer.
“What’ll you have?” the Italian guy asks without looking up. He’s knuckling the dough like mad, stretching it out thin, forcing it to the edge of his pie pan.
“Something without caffeine, please,” says Ceepak.
“We got Sierra Mist.”
“What’s that?”
“Lemon-lime. Like Sprite or Seven-Up only it isn’t.”
“Sounds good. One Sierra Mist, please.”
“What about you, chief?”
Guess that’s me. “Red Bull.”
“All we got is Amp.”
“Great.” Amp is from Pepsi. It’s like Mountain Dew but even more caffeiney.
The pizza guy goes to the cold case, gets our drinks. Ceepak hands him a $10 bill. The guy slams down some keys on a register. Bells ding, a drawer pops open, he finger-scoops up our change, slams the drawer shut.
Ceepak slips a dollar bill into the blue paper tip cup.
“I was wondering,” he says to Guido, oh-so casually after a sip of soda. “My friend and I are from out of town and would like to catch a magic show at one of the casinos.”
“So?” says pizza man.
“Can you make a recommendation?”
“What? Do I look like the fucking chamber of commerce here or something?”
“No, sir. I simply thought—”
“Yeah, yeah. Whatever. You could check out that ‘Rock ’n Pow!’ they got over at the Xanadu.”
“Is it good?”
Pizza man shrugs as best he can while twisting his pan and stretching his dough. “How should I know? I work nights. But I met the star. This Richard Rock character. He’s the big-shot magician. That’s why they call it ‘Rock ’n Pow!’.”
“I see.”
“He’s kind of a prick. Thinks he’s hot shit. The ‘most amazing illusionist in the Western world,’ whatever the fuck that’s supposed to mean.”
“Does he eat here often?”
“Three or four times this week, he stops in for something sweet. Likes the funnel cakes.”
Ceepak subtly tilts his head, directing my attention to an autographed black-and-white publicity photo taped to the wall behind the pizza man: Richard Rock in his tux and cowboy hat.
“That’s him, I take it?” says Ceepak.
Pizza man glances over his shoulder. “Yeah. Guess he’s a magic cowboy or whatever.”
“I think I’ve already met him.”
“Next door?”
Ceepak can’t lie, so he doesn’t. “No. Elsewhere.”
We get another shrug as pizza man reaches for a ladle to scoop tomato sauce out of a five-gallon tin drum. “This strunz Rock? He’s next door a lot. Comes here after going there. Sometimes before—takes the ladies a little treat. He tells me Lucky Lilani’s has the best Chinese massage chairs, as if I got time to have some Oriental chick knead my neck. Rock says it’s therapeutic, like visiting a chiropractor. All that sawing his wife in half gives him muscle cramps. Wish he’d saw my wife in half, you know what I mean? That would definitely take care of the pain in my neck, not to mention the one in my ass.”
Ceepak gives our Italian fountain of information a two-finger salute. “Thank you again for the cold beverages. Very refreshing.”
We walk up the boardwalk, away from the pizza stand.
“You saw Rock’s photo, right? Behind the counter? That’s why all of a sudden you were thirsty?”
“Indeed, Danny. It is circumstantial evidence, but the pizza parlor employee more or less corroborated our prior suppositions.”
“Yeah.”
“We also learned something else quite valuable on this seeming detour.”
We did?
I wish I knew what it was other than the fact that Richard Rock is a jerk, can’t stop talking about himself, and likes funnel cake more than zeppole.
“We now know,” says Ceepak, “that whatever the killer is so desperate to locate has little or nothing to do with Mr. Rock’s activities at the massage parlor.”
Really? We know that?
Ceepak reads my face. “If, Danny, Ms. Lilani’s silence can be purchased so easily, the incriminating evidence must not be related to her or her establishment.”
Got it. Why go through all the trouble of torturing and killing people when all you have to do is write a check or drop off a bag of cash?
“So what do we do next?” I ask.
“Since Cyrus is keeping an eye on Mrs. Rock, I think we should redouble our efforts to locate her doppelgänger.”
“Her what?”
“Sorry. It’s a German word. Means double or look-alike—most commonly an evil twin. The literal translation is ‘double walker,’ meaning someone who is acting the same way as another person.”
With Ceepak, you get beverages and a Berlitz lesson.
“We could go talk to her pals, again,” I suggest. “The two dancers. Blaine and Jim Bob. They always seem to be the ones hauling Sherry Amour home when she gets plotzed.”
“Roger that,” says Ceepak as he rocks his wrist to check his watch. My $10 Swatch knockoff tanked the last time I did dishes and discovered that it really wasn’t water resistant to fifty meters so I scope out my cell-phone window instead. Six-twenty-four PM. The sun is starting to set behind all the casinos towering to the west.
“When’s your dad supposed to call?” I ask.
“No set time was given.”
“That’s a pretty weird thing to ask for in a plea deal, isn’t it? A phone call to your son.”
“My father, as you may recall, Danny, is an extremely manipulative man. He is playing mind games. Making me wait. Hoping he can, once more, ruin my day. These murders, however, beat him to it.”
I nod. Ceepak keeps staring at his watch. People breeze past us on the boardwalk. A couple rolling chairs. I fiddle with the green tab on top of my Amp can.
Ceepak’s head snaps up. He’s back.
“We could reclaim our ATVs, ride back to the dancers’ motel,” he says. “However, Blaine and Jim Bob should be arriving at the Shalimar Theater within the hour. Backstage might prove a more advantageous location for our next conversation.”
Yeah. We can talk to their dressing-room door this time.
“Remaining close to the theater will also allow us to monitor Mr. Zuckerman’s movements.”
I nod. That oily dude is definitely worth continued monitoration.
Now Ceepak’s cell phone chirps. He flips it open.
His asshole dad?
“This is Ceepak. Go.”
He shakes his head to let me know it isn’t Joe Six-pack.
“Yes, ma’am. That is how I typically answer my phone. Sorry. Will do.” He covers the mouthpiece so he can whisper who it is. “Dr. McDaniels.”
Figures. She’s back to full chop-busting mode. Might be a good sign.
“I see. Interesting. What’s your confidence level? Excellent. Roger that. Appreciate it.” He folds up his phone. “Dr. McDaniels’s team has worked up Katie’s eye-jelly numbers.”
That means they have a more precise estimate on her time of death.
“And?”
“Dr. McDaniels states with what she would label a ‘very high degree of certitude’ that Ms. Landry died at approximately nine-oh-five PM. About ten minutes before the conclusion of ‘Rock ’n Wow!’ ”
“During that last trick,” I mumble. “Lucky Numbers.”
“Roger that,” says Ceepak.
A lightning bolt hits me. “That means Katie was murdered while Jessica Rock was onstage, working with the volunteer from the audience and her double, the dopple-whatever, Sherry, was nowhere to be seen!”
“Or,” says Ceepak, “vice versa.”
34
“Go away!”
We’re backstage at the Shalimar. At least this door has a sparkly silver star on it. No peephole.
“We need to determine Ms. Amour’s current whereabouts,” s
ays Ceepak to the cold steel panel two inches in front of his face.
The dancers on the other side of the door are unmoved by our requests for cooperation.
“Go. Away. Now.”
Blaine sounds particularly peeved.
“We are not talking to you!”
“Gentlemen?” A new higher and even huffier voice is heard from. I’m figuring it’s Mr. Magnum, Jake Pratt’s former roommate and the only other male dancer still alive. “Please go away. We have a show to put on!”
And we have a murder or two to solve.
“Very well,” says Ceepak. “If you gentlemen change your mind about discussing this matter, please give us a call.” He slips another card under another doorsill. If this keeps up, he’s going to need to hit Kinko’s soon.
We’re in the cinder-block hallways behind the Shalimar stage, to the left of that T in the corridor. If we had turned right, we would’ve wound up outside the crime-scene suites. The doors to AA-4 and AA-6 are still sealed shut with tape from the ACPD and the state major crimes unit. There are some other dressing rooms further up the hall, including two with gold stars affixed to the doors. I’m figuring that’s where the Rocks dress.
David Zuckerman comes boot-heel-clicking up the hall. He wears a wireless headset and is once again carrying that sleek aluminum clipboard case. “Fifteen minutes, people,” he announces. “Fifteen minutes.
It’s 7:45. The curtain goes up at 8:00.
“You gentlemen need to clear this area,” Zuckerman says.
“Actually,” says Ceepak, “we still need to locate Ms. Amour. Have you heard from her?”
“No.”
“Do you know how to reach her?”
“No.”
“How will you do the show without her?”
“We’ll manage.” He flicks his wrist dramatically. Makes quite a show of examining the time on what looks to be one of those very expensive TAG Heuer jobs NASCAR drivers supposedly wear even though their wrists shake so much while they’re doing 195 MPH I wonder how they could ever see what time it is.
“We also need to talk to Mrs. Rock,” says Ceepak.
“Maybe after the show.”
“Now would be better.”
“Fourteen minutes, everybody. Fourteen minutes.”
Okay. That last announcement was just to piss us off.
Zuckerman touches the talk button on the belt pack linked to his headpiece. “Toohey? I need you outside the boys’ dressing room. We have a situation.” He releases the switch, simpers at us. We’re his situation. “Mr. Tuiasopo will escort you gentlemen out to the lobby.” His voice is as buttery as an ear of corn at a county fair.
“We would like to see the show again,” says Ceepak.
Zuckerman blinks. “Did you purchase tickets?”
“No. We have been otherwise engaged.”
“Right. Did you stay at Lucky Lilani’s long enough to enjoy a soothing neck rub?”
“Negative,” says Ceepak.
“We had a cold drink, instead,” I say, just to see if it makes butterman melt a little. “At the pizza place next door.”
“Fascinating.”
“What’s up, boss?” The giant Samoan lumbers down the corridor toward us in his security windbreaker. He sees me and Ceepak. “Yo, dudes. You two stayin’ loose and keepin’ mellow?”
“Twenty-four-seven,” I say.
“All right, little brother. That’s what I’m talking about.”
“Mr. Tuiasopo?” This from Zuckerman.
“Yes, sir, boss?”
“Kindly escort Officers Ceepak and Boyle out of my backstage and into the auditorium.”
“House seats?”
“Fine.”
“You got it, boss. You ready to lock it down back here?”
Another flick of the wrist from Zuckerman. “Yes. Gentlemen?” He extends his arm to the left, indicating which direction we should hurry up and leave in. “Enjoy the show.”
Toohey ushers us up the corridor, under the single security camera, and out the authorized personnel-only door.
When we hit the hallway outside the Shalimar, Ceepak’s the one checking his watch. “Mr. Zuckerman is now activating the security-camera cloaking device.”
We move into the theater lobby. It’s packed. Parents. Kids. Families. At the souvenir stand, I see a little redheaded girl slipping a bolo tie over her head, trying it on. It kind of breaks my heart. Katie was a redhead.
“You boys are living large tonight,” Tuiasopo booms. “Emperor’s row. Box three-oh-one. Mega-VIP section.” He pushes open the auditorium doors. We follow. “You need a program?” he asks when we pass the usher handing them out.
“Yes,” says Ceepak. “Thank you.” He rolls up the mini-magazine, secures it in a cargo pants pouch. No need to read it. We pretty much know the cast list.
“Enjoy,” Toohey says when we reach our seats, the same ones Lady Jasmine and her entourage occupied last night. “Yo, Valerie?” He snaps his fingers. A China-doll waitress struts over, balancing a tray of beer bottles. “Fix my friends up with whatever they want, dig?”
Valerie looks bored. Her tray looks heavy.
“What’ll you have?” she asks, most of it coming out her nose.
I order for the table: “Two cranberry juices. Each.”
We need clear heads.
“Later, dudes.” Tuiasopo departs, undoubtedly to once again become invisible and stand guard outside the stage door.
“Pay close attention, Danny,” Ceepak whispers once the cocktail waitress scribbles our order on a napkin and slumps away. “Particularly, note any discrepancies with what we witnessed last evening.”
“Got it.”
A minute after 8:00, the house lights dim.
“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, are you ready to be amazed?”
The show begins.
A couple of things are different right away.
First of all, there are only seven dancers. Well, that’s not really different. It was that way last night, too. What’s different tonight is nobody looks like they expect Jake Pratt to show up. They’ve reconfigured the choreography so it doesn’t seem so off-balance and out of kilter.
Second, little Richie Rock does not make his pajama-clad entrance. Only Mrs. Rock and bratty Britney float down to the lip of the stage tonight. I figure Richie is too distraught over the death of his nanny. He and Katie seemed pretty tight.
Then, of course, Nanny Katie doesn’t make her entrance either. It’s Nanny Maria. I think she’s a seamstress with the show or something. Looks miserable being in the spotlight. Keeps acting like she wishes she could disappear.
The show moves on. They do the catching-a-bullet-in-the-teeth bit but tonight they use an old-fashioned musket since the Dick Tracy pistols are both currently tagged as evidence in an ACPD storage room.
They totally skip the whole transporting-Mrs. Rock-from-one-side-of-the-stage-to-the-other trick. Hard to do when your body double is AWOL. Instead, they work in a quick-change trick where Rock has the missus in and out of a dozen different outfits in under two minutes.
“Dang!” Rock cracked as his wife stepped into a curtained box wearing a shimmering red gown and, one step later, came out the other side in some kind of cheerleader outfit, complete with pom-poms. “Reckon I ought to take away her credit cards!”
Yee-haw. Family-friendly fun.
A few illusions later, Rock launches into his familiar patter.
“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, I hope you and your families are enjoying your time here in Xanadu, a palace more incredible than the stately pleasure-dome the mighty Kubla Khan did decree.”
I see Ceepak glance at his watch.
He jots down the time on the napkin coastering his cranberry juice cocktail.
2044. That’s 8:44 PM in non-militarized time zones.
According to Dr. McDaniels, Katie died at 9:05 PM.
2105.
Twenty-one minutes from now.
Roc
k’s sight gags about Marco Polo’s exploding fireworks and falling spaghetti receive their ooh’s, aah’s, and groans from the crowd. He plucks a fresh fortune cookie out of thin air, launches into the whole Lucky Numbers spiel.
“I’ll bet I could make a lot of money if I played my lucky numbers out on the casino floor! But I don’t have any lucky numbers in my fortune cookie.” The house lights, once again, come up a little. “Do you folks? Do any of you have a lucky number?”
Hands shoot up. People shout.
Ceepak jots down another time coordinate: 2048.
Rock banters with a new volunteer. It’s a man tonight, so I guess yesterday’s lady wasn’t a plant. Rock plucks at the air and conjures up another $50 purple poker chip.
“What’s your name, sir?” he asks as the volunteer climbs the steps up to the stage.
“Larry Robert Bugal.”
“Larry, have we ever met before?”
“No,” he says.
Jessica Rock, dressed in that dazzling low-cut gown, strolls onstage like Vanna White, just like she did last night.
“Very well, Larry,” says Rock. “Do you have a lucky number?”
“Yes.”
“Is it between one and thirty-six?”
“Yes.”
Mrs. Rock waltzes into the wings and pushes that rolling easel on stage.
“You know, numbers can be dadgum powerful,” Rock says like he said last night. “Now, I know what you’re thinkin’: my cow died so I don’t need your bull anymore. So, I’m gonna prove it to you. Larry, I want you think about your lucky number.”
“Okay.”
“You seeing your number? Visualizing it?”
“Yes.”
“Good,” says Mrs. Rock, beaming her brilliantly white beaver teeth. “Concentrate on it, Mr. Bugal.”
“I am.”
“Larry,” says Rock, “I want you to stay here with Jessica.”
“Okay.”
“It’ll be fun,” says Mrs. Rock. “We’re gonna make you rich!”
“Okay.”
And that’s when the second lightning bolt hits me.
Last night, Mrs. Rock didn’t say a damn word during this whole entire bit. Tonight, she’s Chatty Cathy.
Mind Scrambler Page 19
