Stripped

by Brian Freeman

  Stride listened for a false note and didn’t hear one.

  “Do you remember Helen Truax?” Stride continued. “Her stage name was Helena Troy.”

  “Sure. She was a dancer at the Sheherezade.”

  “How well did you know her?”

  “Well enough to have a drink now and then,” Moose said, “but that was it. She was Leo Rucci’s gal, so I kept away from her, Where are you going with this?”

  “Less than two weeks ago, Helen’s grandson was killed in a hit-and-run” Stride explained. “Then Walker Lane ’s son. Now your wife. We think the same person was responsible for all three murders.”

  Moose sat up. “You think this is all connected to the Sheherezade?”

  “All three of you were mentioned in the article Rex Terrell did about the murder of Amira Luz. Did you talk to Terrell?”

  Moose’s upper lip and eyebrows seemed to curl in disgust at the same time. “Me? Talk to a fucking worm like Rex Terrell? No way.”

  “Rex says you, Helen, and others benefited from Amira’s death.”

  “I won’t deny I wasn’t too sad to see the little bitch dead and gone,” Moose said. “She played me. Used me to get to Boni and then kicked me in the balls.”

  “Helen says you told her Amira was the best lover you ever had,” Stride said.

  “That was no secret. We were involved. That Spanish blood, it runs hot. But she was no better than a hooker, using me to make her way up the ladder.”

  “Where were you the night Amira was killed?” Amanda asked.

  Moose laughed. “Drunk. In jail. Like I said, that happened a lot in those days. As it turns out, it was fortunate that I had an alibi.”

  “So you don’t know what happened that night?”

  “Just the rumors,” Moose said.

  “You mean Walker Lane?” Stride asked.

  Moose nodded. “Everyone assumed he did it. That story about a stalker, that was pretty convenient. I figure they wanted a fall guy. Like I said, I’m glad I had an alibi, because I would have made a sweet target.”

  “So you believe Walker did it, too.”

  “It makes sense,” Moose said. “But it surprised me.”

  “Why?”

  “I never thought Walker would have the balls for it. He was soft. He liked to dance with the devil, but he was just an L.A. rich kid. Killing Amira, that took guts. I can’t believe he’s still alive after doing that.”

  Stride and Amanda looked at each other. “What do you mean?” Stride asked.

  “Most people didn’t know. I knew, because I knew Amira. She told me, just to rub my face in it. And Walker would have known. He had to have known. I know he loved her act, went to all her shows. But he would have gotten word from Leo Rucci that the high-roller amenities didn’t extend to Amira.”

  Stride’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

  Moose’s eyebrows did a little dance, like caterpillars wriggling to the music of the Sugar Plum Fairy. “Amira Luz was the sole property of one man and one man only,” he said. “The man you didn’t mess with. Boni Fisso.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  Serena parked in her driveway at home. She didn’t get out of the car. She turned off her cell phone and sat silently in the darkness.

  She remembered the first time it happened with Deidre, when she was eighteen. She was in the shower. Deidre knew that she went into little fugues sometimes under the water, letting it pour over her head as the memories came back, hoping it would somehow rise above her mouth and drown her. In Phoenix, she used to take showers after Blue Dog, her mother’s drug dealer, was finished with her. Brown water, lukewarm, then cold.

  She wasn’t sure how long she had been standing there that first time. Frozen. Lost. She felt like a quadriplegic, aware of her surroundings but unable to move or react, helpless to stop what was happening to her. Forced to rewind her past and watch it occurring over and over. As if, in the two years since she had escaped from Phoenix, she had not escaped at all but been consumed by a single, silent scream.

  Then she felt someone else crawl inside her cocoon. Without a sound, out of nowhere, Deidre was there with her. Behind her, in the shower, naked flesh against naked flesh. Deidre’s lips were by her ear, and she was cooing over and over, “It’s okay, baby.”. Deidre’s hands encircled her stomach and held her gently, nurtured her, saved her. Serena leaned back against her, and something seized inside. A cofferdam of fear and shame began to grow fissures and give way. Serena sobbed. Her whole body trembled, and she was indescribably cold, frigid to her soul, except for the warmth of Deidre behind her. The more the tears fell, the more Deidre held her and soothed her.

  It’s okay, baby.

  Serena turned around and buried her head in Deidre’s shoulder, and still Deidre held her, letting her cry herself out. She didn’t know how long they stood there, as she climbed out of her flooded cave and back into the light. The water of the shower was still on; it was cold, but they were warm. When Serena finally looked into Deidre’s eyes, she felt free. She stared with exhilaration into Deidre’s damp, beautiful face and felt love and gratitude overwhelming her, morphing into passion. Deidre began, and Serena didn’t stop her. She joined in. Their lips came together. Their slippery bodies seemed to merge. She felt Deidre relishing her touch, and the more Deidre responded, the more Serena strove to give her pleasure. Kissing her. Massaging the hollow of her back. Hearing her whispered pleas to go further. Sliding fingers inside her, everywhere, front and back, deep and probing. Wanting to climb inside her.

  In her memory, they seemed to glide, dripping, from the shower to the bed, then to spend hours together as night fell outside, making love to each other over and over in the squeaking twin bed where Serena usually slept alone. When they had sated each other, they fell asleep, exhausted, entwined.

  They spent six months as lovers. She knew that Deidre wanted it to stay that way. In the beginning, so did Serena. She was afraid of men and felt safe in Deidre’s arms. She had no mother, and Deidre played that role for her, too. That was enough for a while.

  As Serena’s confidence in herself came back, though, she realized that their relationship was built on sand. She loved Deidre, but she didn’t want to be her lover anymore. She wanted to see what she could build for herself, on her own, not leaning on anyone or running to someone to rescue her.

  They argued about it. Deidre became hysterical. It finally dawned on Serena that Deidre was the frightened one, the one who needed love and was afraid of men. Deidre was the one who couldn’t live without Serena.

  Serena ended it anyway. That was how Deidre’s new life started-the dive into prostitution and drugs. She always thought Deidre did it to get back at her, to throw it in her face. Serena still blamed herself. Her fault. Her guilt. Deidre had been there for her at the worst time in her life, and in the end, Serena walked away when Deidre needed her help. She just let her die without going to see her, without trying to comfort her.

  Serena sat in her car, watching the memories play out in her head. She was eighteen-again. That was how it felt. When Claire walked out on that stage, Serena saw Deidre. When Claire touched her, she felt Deidre’s hands. They were nothing alike, but that didn’t matter. Claire was right. Serena wanted her. She wanted to follow Claire back into that shower, strip, kiss, touch, and find a way to make love to Deidre again. To tell her how sorry she was. To tell her everything would be fine.

  It’s okay, baby.

  TWENTY-TWO

  What’s next?” Amanda asked. They stood outside Moose’s house.

  “I’m calling Walker Lane again in the morning,” Stride said. “I don’t care what the hell Sawhill says.”

  “ Walker won’t admit killing Amira.”

  “No, but he may know who’s doing this and why. This isn’t some random vendetta. It’s personal.”

  “If Walker did kill Amira, why didn’t Boni erase him?” Amanda asked. “Assuming Moose is right about Boni and Amira being lovers.”

  Stride thought a
bout the penthouse suite in the Charlcombe Towers and Boni Fisso looking down on his old casino-and his new Orient project. “It’s one thing to kill members of the family, but a CEO and a celebrity like Walker-that’s a lot harder to cover up. If Walker Lane was murdered or disappeared, people would ask questions.”

  “ Walker did disappear,” Amanda said. “He ran to Canada.”

  Stride nodded. “Maybe he was running from Boni. Maybe he’s still running.”

  He heard his cell phone ringing. He grabbed it, expecting a call from Serena, but he didn’t recognize the number on the caller ID.

  “Stride,” he answered.

  He heard a man’s voice, flat and unemotional. A stranger. “Have you found her yet?”

  Stride knew without having to ask. From the moment he had seen the killer leave the fingerprint for them at the Oasis, he had suspected that a time like this would come. The man would find a way to make contact. To make it personal.

  He snapped his fingers sharply at Amanda to alert her. She read his face as he gestured at the phone. He punched the speakerphone button. “We’re at Moose’s house now,” he said.

  “Not her,” the voice retorted impatiently. “Not the girl.”

  “Who are you talking about?” Stride asked. He mouthed to Amanda, Another victim?

  “You’re going to have to move faster, Detective. I don’t have time to spoon-feed you clues. I drove out in a silver Lexus. That should narrow it down.”

  Stride listened for gloating in the man’s voice and didn’t hear it. He didn’t sound unbalanced, like a monster. “Why call me now?” Stride asked.

  “I’m doing your job for you, Detective. I’m going to catch a murderer.”

  “Why commit murder to catch a killer?” Stride asked him sharply. “These people, the ones you killed, were innocent. Why not just come in and tell us what you think you know about Amira’s death? Let us get justice for her.”

  “Like you’ve done for forty years?” the man asked.

  “You killed a little boy,” Stride snapped. “That’s worse than any thing that happened back then.”

  There was a long silence in which he thought he’d succeeded in finding a vein and drawing blood. He heard the man’s breathing become more rapid and harsh.

  “You don’t understand what happened back then,” the man said finally.

  “Explain it to me,” Stride said. “And tell me what all of this has to do with you.” He wasn’t talking to an older man-at most, maybe someone his own age. There was no way he had been a participant in the events that happened at the Sheherezade.

  “Are you there?” Stride added when the man didn’t reply. “Hello?”

  The silence stretched out into dead air. He checked his phone and found the call was over. The caller had disconnected.

  When he punched a button to redial the number, it rang and rang without being picked up.

  “Shit,” he said. “There’s another body here.”

  This one was alive.

  Half an hour later, they found Cora Lansing, a seventy-five-year-old widow, tied to an oversized walnut chair in her dining room, in another house not far from Moose’s MiraBella estate. A strip of duct tape was pasted across her mouth. Her eyes were wide with fright, and she had soiled herself, throwing a stink into the lavender-scented home, but she hadn’t been harmed.

  They called in a medical team, who gave the woman oxygen and carefully removed the tape from her mouth. It left behind a rash and a sticky residue that she picked at with irritated flicks of her finger nails. She was bird like and frail, but she was hopping mad, even after a shower and a change of clothes. Stride poured her a large glass of Rémy Martin from her liquor cabinet to calm her down.

  They soon extracted her story. She had been shopping at Neiman’s and returned to find a stranger in her Lexus. The man forced her to drive back through the hills to the south shore entrance to Lake Las Vegas, and he hid in the backseat while she greeted the guard. He made it clear that if she tried to alert the guard, he would shoot them both, and his tone was such that Cora had no doubt he would do it.

  She drove him to her home, where he tied her up, gagged her, and waited until night fell. Then he took her car and left.

  “Did you see what he looked like?” Stride asked.

  “I certainly did,” Cora replied immediately, surprising him. “I’ll never forget his face.”

  Stride felt a rush of excitement, mixed with apprehension. He told Amanda, “Get a sketch artist down here.”

  Stride looked at Cora and thought to himself what he would never say to the woman aloud. Why the hell are you still alive?

  “Can you describe him for me?” he asked.

  Cora swiftly painted a man similar in build to the man Elonda had seen at the bus stop before MJ was killed: not as tall as Stride, lean but very strong, with short dark hair and an angular face. Either he had shaved his beard or the one he had used on Saturday night was a fake. Cora provided enough detail that the police artist would be able to do a solid rendering. Stride glanced around at the tasteful, expensive art in Cora’s house. She had a good eye.

  “Did he say anything to you?” Stride asked. “About who he was or why he was doing this?”

  Cora shook her head. “Not a word. He hardly said anything. But he was very intense, very scary.”

  Stride thanked her and tracked down a policewoman to sit with her while they waited for the artist to drive in from the city. He left Cora’s living room and made his way back outside. The killer’s phone call was vivid in his mind. He wished it had lasted longer, because he wasn’t sure the man would call again. He had said what he needed to say, enlisting Stride in the hunt-but the hunt for what?

  Amanda joined him. “You don’t look happy,” she told him. “Isn’t this what we call a break? A lead? That’s a good thing, right?”

  “We’ve only got it because he gave it to us,” Stride said. “He could have killed that woman, and we wouldn’t have a damn thing, but now he wants us to know what he looks like. Why?”

  “Maybe he’s an arrogant bastard. He wouldn’t be the first serial killer to get tripped up by his own ego. Look at BTK. They never would have nailed him in Wichita if he hadn’t started sending letters to the papers again after thirty years.”

  Stride shook his head. “He knows he’s taking a risk. He knows we might find him. His picture is going to be all over the papers. Someone could spot him.”

  “He may think he’s covered his tracks so well that it doesn’t matter.”

  “I don’t think so, Amanda. I’m sure he’s covered his tracks, but I don’t believe he’d give us something this big if it wasn’t part of his plan. Hell, he could have killed Tierney in the city any time he wanted. He didn’t need to figure out a way to get inside the security out here. And he sure didn’t need to give us his face.”

  “He was showing off,” Amanda suggested.

  Stride thought about it. He heard the killer’s voice in his head again. Cool, focused. Complaining about spoonfeeding them clues. As if the police were interfering with his schedule.

  “Or sending a message,” Stride said.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Serena appeared in the doorway of his cubicle on Wednesday morning. He was leaning dangerously far back in his swivel chair, and he had his feet propped on the laminate desk.

  “Hey, stranger,” he said. He had arrived home long after Serena went to bed, and he had been up and out at dawn, leaving her to sleep.

  “Hey yourself,” she said.

  “You really should try the perp power breakfast,” he added. Serena gave him a confused look, and he gestured at the desk. Her brow unfurled, and she laughed, seeing a sack of Krispy Kreme doughnuts and a large plastic bottle of Sprite,

  Serena came in and sat down, but Stride could see that her body language was uncomfortable.

  “Something wrong?” Stride asked.

  He was glad that she didn’t try to bullshit him with a fake smile and pretend that
he was imagining things.

  “Something happened last night,” she said.

  “Oh? Are you okay?”

  “Yeah.” She hesitated and added, “I’m not really ready to talk about it yet.”

  Stride was good at poker. Nothing showed on his face.

  “Should I be concerned?” he asked.

  “No. Maybe. I don’t know.” She shook her head. “Clears that right up for you, huh? Sorry about that.”

  He stared at her for a long while and tried to see behind her eyes and understand what she was hiding.

  ’I’m here when you’re ready,” he told her. “But don’t push me away.”

  “You’re not that lucky,” Serena told him. She winked, trying to make everything fine again. It made him feel a little better.

  Amanda came around the cubicle wall with a sheaf of white paper. “Here’s our perp,” she said. She handed each of them a copy of the sketch the police artist had produced from Cora Lansing’s description. Stride was immediately drawn to the man’s eyes, which were dark but remarkably expressive. He thought if he hung it on the wall, the eyes would follow him as he walked around the room.

  “We’ve got uniforms reworking each of the neighborhoods where the murders took place, to see if anyone recognizes him,” Amanda said. “I faxed it to Jay Walling in Reno, too. Sawhill’s going to be releasing the sketch to the media at a press conference this morning.”

  Stride smiled, knowing that Sawhill loved the limelight. He’d make it seem like this was the product of brilliant investigative work by his division, not a gift from the killer.

  “Did you call Walker?” Amanda asked.