“I’m Karyn,” she said, pronouncing her name as if it were spelled Corinne.
Stride wasn’t familiar with her as an actress, but Amanda had already prepped him. Us magazine, Amanda told him again. Karyn was an up-and-coming soap star, trying to make the leap to the big leagues. She was L.A. stunning, with straight blond hair that reached well below her shoulders and glowed like a summer wheat field. She had a model’s long face and cool blue eyes, which reflected the sharp intelligence of someone who knew exactly how much power she had simply because of how she looked. Through the glass tabletop, he saw a red skirt that ended at the middle of her thighs, and then a long, silky expanse of bare legs.
“Thanks for coming in to talk to us, Ms. Westermark,” Stride said. “Can I get you a cup of coffee?”
“A skinny no-foam latte would be great,” Karyn replied.
“I’m afraid we have black coffee, and we have white powder with little plastic spoons,” Stride replied. He added, “The powder goes in the coffee.”
Karyn smiled at him, but there was ice in her eyes and the barest nod of appreciation. “No coffee.”
“I’m very sorry about MJ. It sounds like the two of you were close.”
“I don’t think I’d go that far,” Karyn replied.
“No? We heard you spent a lot of time together. Including last night at the Oasis.”
“We were fuck buddies,” she said with a shrug. “We’d hook up when we were both in Vegas. Party. Gamble. Screw. That’s all.”
“Were you shocked to hear he’d been murdered? Right after you left him?”
“Sure.”
Stride didn’t think she was likely to break down crying.
“Do you have any idea who killed MJ? Or why?”
Karyn shook her head. “None at all.”
“When the two of you got together, was it usually at the Oasis?”
“Most of the time, but we’d go other places, too. The Hard Rock. Mandalay. If there was a fight or a concert, we’d be there.”
“How long had you known him?” Stride asked.
“A couple of years. I met him at a party at the Oasis. You know, he was young, cute, threw money at everyone. What’s not to like? He had a limo with him that first night, and we went for a ride, and I guess that’s how it all got started.”
“You had sex with him?” Stride asked.
Karyn leaned forward. Her breasts grazed the tabletop. Through her smile, he saw a glint of her cherry-red tongue. “I made a bet with him at the party that I could make him come using nothing but my right nipple.”
Don’t ask, don’t ask, don’t ask, Stride told himself.
“Who won the bet?” he asked.
Shit
Karyn’s eyes danced. He could see gold flecks in a sea of blue. “We had a bottle of Krug at Spago that night. MJ’s treat.”
Stride cleared his throat and tried to stay on track. “Was this a serious relationship?”
“What, like marriage? No way. I didn’t want to sign an eighty-page prenup.”
“Did MJ see other women?”
“I’m sure he did.”
“Like who?” Stride asked.
“I didn’t really keep track, Detective. The only one I. knew about was Tierney Dargon.”
Stride wrote down the name. “What can you tell me about her?”
“Tierney likes to pretend she’s part of our crowd, but she was just a cocktail waitress who got lucky and married some rich old comedian.”
“Comedian? You mean Moose Dargon?” Stride asked.
“That’s the one.”
Stride had heard of Moose Dargon, a comedian from the Rat Pack days who had a reputation as a bad boy in his prime. He had seen him on television a few times and remembered almost nothing from his act except that the man had an amazing set of eyebrows, which rippled on his face like giant caterpillars. He hadn’t even realized that Moose was still alive.
“What does Tierney look like?” he asked, thinking of the brunette in the video they had seen in MJ’s condominium.
“Brown hair, sort of kinky. Thin. Pretty.”
That description fit the girl in the video, as well as half the women in Las Vegas, Stride thought.
“Moose must be in his eighties,” Stride said. “How old is Tierney?”
“Maybe twenty-five.” Karyn laughed. “I’m sure it was a love match, Detective.”
“Was Tierney around last night?”
“I didn’t see her, but MJ said Tierney was always hanging on him. He was looking to get rid of her. I mean, she’s got a tight little body, but she’s still just a waitress.”
“Did Moose Dargon know that MJ was having an affair with his wife?”
“You’d have to ask Moose,” Karyn said.
“If MJ was seeing other women, what were you getting out of the relationship?” Stride asked.
“He was rich,” Karyn replied. “I like to live that way. Besides, whenever I was with him, the paparazzi usually hung out. I’m not at a point in my career when I can afford to find that annoying. I need them.”
“There were no photographers last night,” Stride said.
“I only got into town that afternoon. I guess they hadn’t smelled us out yet.”
“Who else knew the two of you were going to be together that night?”
Karyn thought about it. “My assistant. She’s in L.A. And my parents in Boca Raton.”
“Who did you tell here in town?”
“Well, the people at the Oasis when I checked in. I also used a bodyguard while I was shopping in the afternoon; but I told him I wouldn’t need him for the evening. And I made reservations in our names at Olives.”
“Who do you think MJ would have told?”
“I really don’t know, Detective. I didn’t know much about the other parts of his life.”
“How about the videotape of you and MJ?” Stride asked. “The one that wound up on the Internet, How did that happen?”
“You mean, why did I make it?” Karyn asked, licking her glossy lips. “Or do you want me to autograph your copy?”
“I mean, how did it get stolen?”
Stride thought he saw a ghost of a smile on Karyn’s face.
“I have no idea,” Karyn said. “But I’m sure glad it did. I got more ink from taking it up the ass in that video than I would have got with an Academy Award.”
“How did MJ feel about the tape getting out?” he asked.
“He thought it was cool. No one knew who he was before that.”
“Let’s talk about the parties at the casinos. Any drugs there?”
Karyn’s eyes narrowed. “I’m starting to feel like I need a lawyer.”
From the doorway, Amanda broke into the conversation. “This is Vegas, Karyn. What happens here, stays here, remember? We’re not out to bust you for anything. We just need the real dope. So to speak.”
Karyn noticed Amanda for the first time and gave her a long, careful look. She nodded approvingly. “Okay. Sure. We’ve been known to take the occasional snort.”
“Who supplied?” Stride asked. “You or MJ?”
“I don’t want to know where it comes from, okay? If it’s there, then I’ll be a recreational user like anyone else, but I don’t buy, I don’t sell.”
“And MJ?”
“Supply was never a problem with MJ,” Karyn said. “I don’t know where he got it.”
“Any ideas?”
Karyn shrugged. “There are always hangers-on. People at the fringes. Maybe it’s a driver. Or a waiter. When you’ve got the kind of money MJ did, and you lead the kind of life he did, you don’t have to worry about it. Those people find you.”
“Did they find MJ last night?”
“Not that I saw.”
“What kind of life did MJ lead?” Amanda asked. She was doing her best to look cool and cynical, but Stride thought that Amanda was a little star-struck by Karyn’s presence.
“He was the life of the party,” Karyn replied, pinning Amand
a with her blue eyes. “It’s fun being in the fast lane, you know. You should join us sometime, Detective.”
“I’ve got more than you can take,” Amanda replied, laughing.
“What, because you’re a tranny?” Karyn asked. She smiled as Amanda’s mouth dropped open in astonishment. “You can pass with a lot of people, Detective, but a real woman knows the difference. Not that I have a problem with it. A lot of people in our circle would find it a turn-on.”
Stride interrupted. “Here’s the problem I have with all this, Ms. Westermark. MJ may have been the life of the party, but someone followed him and put a bullet in his brain. So somebody had a beef with him.”
“I don’t know who,” Karyn said, reluctantly breaking her eye contact with Amanda and turning back to Stride. “MJ was the gravy train. He was the one paying all the bills. Who’s going to mess with that?”
“He never lost his temper?”
“MJ? No. He was a little kid. He wanted everyone to like him. The only time I ever heard him arguing with anyone was with his dad. They went at it all the time.”
“His dad is a movie producer in Canada, right?” Stride asked.
“Sure, like Tom Hanks is some actor,” Karyn replied dismissively. “Everyone in the business knows Walker Lane. Hell, I admit it, I first came on to MJ because I thought he would put in a good word for me with the old man. But I learned fast enough that MJ didn’t want anything to do with Walker, except take his money.”
“He tell you why?”
“No, but it was always something. They argued about money. They argued about his mom. They argued about MJ living in Vegas. I was at MJ’s condo a few weeks ago when Walker called. MJ went ballistic. Took the phone and threw it against the wall. I’d never seen him like that.”
“Do you know when he last talked with his dad?” Stride asked.
“Sure. Last night.”
“What were they talking about?”
Karyn shrugged. She played with a scrap of paper on the desk, rolling it into a ball and rubbing it between two long nails.
“I don’t know. But MJ was pissed. So was I. We took a break from the blackjack tables and went up to my suite to fool around. I was really in need of a good fuck, you know? But we barely got started when MJ’s cell phone rang. It was Walker. They yelled at each other for a few minutes, and MJ wasn’t in the mood anymore. So I left. I told him to grow up.”
“Then what?”
“Then nothing. I went to a club, was there until almost five. I hear MJ went back to the tables and kept drinking. And then he went out to find a hooker. Bad choice, huh? If he’d stayed with me, this never would have happened.”
Or you’d be dead, too, Stride thought.
“I’d really like to know what he and his father were arguing about,” Stride told her.
“And like I told you, I don’t know. You’d have to ask Walker. But here’s something for you. I mean, I heard something MJ said to his dad. Pretty ironic, given what happened to him.”
“What did he say?” Stride asked.
Karyn gave him a catlike smile. “He called Walker a murderer.”
SEVEN
Serena felt it as soon as Linda Hale let her inside her Summerlin home. Grief.
It hung in the air, multiplying like a virus. It clung to the furniture, gathered in the deep carpet, and threw a blurry film over the lights. Each room carried a tiny echo of loss, unmistakable, heartbreaking. There were toys still littering the floor in the den. A kid-sized Wilson football. PlayStation cartridges. A Harry Potter book. No one had picked them up, Serena knew, because no one could bear to touch them. You’d get grief on your fingers.
The silence was the worst of all. It wasn’t meant to be a quiet house. Twelve-year-old boys made noise. Shouted. Turned up the volume on the stereo. But there wasn’t a sound anymore. Right now, a marching band could have come down the hallway, and Linda Hale would have smiled.
They sat around a solid oak breakfast table, in a porch off the kitchen that looked out on a small, carefully landscaped cactus garden. Linda clutched a mug of coffee with both hands. There were family photos, a lifetime collection of memories, strewn across the table, dumped from an old shoe box.
“We found the car used in the hit-and-run,” Serena told her.
Linda nodded but didn’t react. She was staring at the photos, shiny eyes moving from one to the next.
Like Serena, she was in her midthirties. Her blond hair was cut in a short bob, a functional cut for a stay-at-home mom, quick out of the shower and off to Peter’s soccer practice. She didn’t need much makeup, but she wore silver earrings and a slim silver chain around her neck. She had on a stylish Kuhlman shirt with the cuffs folded back.
“Your husband is an executive at Harrah’s, is that right?” Serena asked.
“Yes,” she replied softly. Her mind was still on the photos. On the past.
The house was large for a family of three. Linda kept it well appointed, frequent trips to Pottery Barn, every china knickknack carefully placed and dusted. Precise. Ordered. She probably used to have trouble getting Peter to pick up after himself. Once upon a time, it must have driven her crazy.
Serena studied the photos. They spanned decades. She picked up one, staring at a little boy’s glowing eyes. He was at the beach.
Linda brightened. “That’s Cocoa, on the east coast of Florida. We took Peter with my mom to Orlando five years ago.” She slid another photo in front of Serena. “Here he is with Mickey. He was so scared at first. Then he gave him a big hug.”
More pictures. Peter on a bicycle with training wheels, his dad beside him. Peter in a soccer uniform. Linda’s mother-it had to be; the resemblance was striking-nose to nose with her grandson at Christmas. Husband and wife in a hospital room, Linda looking tired, holding her new baby.
“Peter looks happy,” Serena told her. It was something to say.
“Very.”
“You look a lot like your mom,” she added, hating small talk, especially with a mother who had lost her son.
“I know, everyone says it. But I’m not glamorous like her. She has showgirl looks, like you.”
“Maybe a decade ago, I did,” Serena said, smiling.
“No, no. You’ve got it, of course you do. So does Mom. Me, I just get older.” She shuffled through the pile and found an eight-by-ten print among the family photos. It was a black-and-white publicity shot of a dancer in full costume, wild with silk and sequins. The girl in the photo, who looked about twenty years old, was a dead ringer for Linda Hale.
“See? Forty years later, and my mom still can have any man she wants.” She laughed. “Usually does, too.”
“Is your dad alive?”
She shrugged. “Oh, yeah. Somewhere. Mom’s on number four now. Number one was a lot of years ago. Stepdad two was as close to a father as I got. That’s one of the reasons my husband and I worked so hard to give Peter a normal up-bringing. Why I stayed home with him.”
She took a sip of coffee and put it down on a wooden coaster. She was distant again. Asking questions, Serena thought. Talking to God. Why us when we did all the right things? Made the sacrifices?
“You said you found the car,” Linda said. Serena watched her emotions shift. Despair became anger, and her jaw hardened. “Does that mean you know who did this?”
“It’s not that simple.”
“I don’t understand,” she replied.
“The owner of the car wasn’t driving it at the time Peter was killed. He has an alibi. Someone stole his car and then abandoned it after the accident.”
“What does that mean?”
Serena explained. “One possibility is that Peter was struck while the driver of the car was fleeing from somewhere, or rushing to get someplace. Another is that we’re dealing with a psychopath, who set out to kill someone, and Peter was in the wrong place at the wrong time. And the other-well, the other is that Peter was the target. That someone killed him deliberately.”
“But th
at’s crazy! He’s just a little boy.”
Serena nodded. “I know. We have to consider the possibility that someone was trying to inflict pain on you. That’s why I wanted to ask whether it was possible the two of you had any enemies.”
“Enemies who would murder our child?” She shook her head. “There’s nothing remotely like that.”
“I know it’s hard to believe. But a mother in Texas hired a hit man over her daughter’s cheerleading squad. People are capable of anything. So it would be helpful to know about any disputes, even ones that may seem trivial to you.”
Linda sat back in the chair. Her hands dropped to her sides. “This is too insane.”
“I know it seems that way. But if there’s anything-”
“That’s just it, there isn’t. We’re your average middle-class family. We keep to ourselves. We’re not in the public eye. My husband is an accountant, for heaven’s sake.”
“Has he dealt with any funny numbers lately? Or received any threats?”
“No, no. This isn’t the old days. It’s all public companies and SEC filings now. If a casino exec picks up a quarter from the floor, you can find it in a financial statement somewhere. Everything’s out in the open.”
“How about the personal side?” Serena asked. “Please don’t take this wrong. I have to ask. Are there any problems with drugs? Money?”
“Sorry, I don’t have a secret life. What you see is what you get. Same with my husband.”
“You two are happy? Have there been any sexual issues? Affairs? Things like that.”
Linda’s face screwed up. “Once a week on Friday night is enough for both of us. I hope you don’t need to know our favorite position.”
“I’m sorry,” Serena said. “I know this is intrusive.”
“I just don’t see how our sex life is going to help you find out who killed Peter.” Her voice rose sharply.
“I understand your impatience, but this is a very unusual hit-and-run. Most accidents like this involve someone local, often someone who was drinking. They’re scared, and they flee the scene. Usually, within a few days, a friend or family member turns them in, or the guilt overwhelms them and they come in voluntarily. There’s no motive. No intent. But what happened to Peter no longer feels like an accident.”
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