Sin City ccsi-2

by Max Allan Collins

  The three women-one detective and two criminalists-met up at the curb, where Catherine and Sara filled Conroy in on what they'd learned at Lipton Construction. Then the trio paraded single file up the stairs (Conroy, then Catherine, then Sara) to the third floor, around the back and up the far side of the building to 312. A picture window faced them, curtains drawn over it keeping out any sunlight that might try to sneak through.

  Strippers worked the night shift, too.

  Conroy knocked on the white wooden door. Nothing. They waited, then Conroy knocked again and said, loudly, firmly, "Police."

  Slowly, the door cracked open, chain latch still in place, and a tired woman peered out. "What?…Awful early…"

  Conroy flashed her badge. "Are you Tera Jameson?"

  The one visible eye widened enough to take in the badge. "That's me."

  "Ms. Jameson, could you open the door, please?"

  "Yeah. Sure." A sigh, and the door closed; they heard the chain scratch across the latch, then the door opened again. The voice of their hostess was more alert, now: "What's this all about?"

  The three stepped in, Tera Jameson closing the door behind them. She was a buxom woman, her curly brunette hair flowing down her back but also framing her heart-shaped face. Tallish, maybe five nine, she wore only a 49ers football jersey about five sizes too large for her and a pair of baggy gray cotton shorts.

  The living room was tidy if crammed with rent-to-own-type furniture. A low-slung dark coffee table with a glass top and piles of magazines crouched in front of a couch, and an overstuffed brown chair sat against the right wall with a hassock in front of it. In the opposite corner a twenty-five-inch color TV occupied a maple wall unit with a stereo, VCR, DVD and the attendant software.

  "Thank you, Ms. Jameson," Conroy said, and she gestured to the couch, adding, "Maybe you should sit down. I'm afraid I have some bad news."

  "What kind of bad news?" The woman's dark eyes flared, but she took Conroy's advice, sliding over to the couch and taking a seat. Sara sat down on her far side, not crowding the woman, and Catherine took the overstuffed chair, while Conroy got down on her haunches in front of Tera Jameson, parent to child.

  "It's about your roommate," Conroy said. "I know you were friends."

  "Best friends," Tera said. Then the eyes widened again, and she said, "…were?"

  Conroy sighed and nodded. "I'm sorry to report that Jenna Patrick died last night."

  Tera's hand shot to her mouth, her teeth closing on a knuckle as tears took the path over her high cheekbones down her face. "Oh, my God. But…she was in perfect health!"

  "I'm afraid she was killed, at work, last night."

  "What do you mean, 'killed'? An accident of some-"

  "Murdered."

  Tera covered her face with her fingers and began to sob.

  Conroy eased forward, a hand rising to settle soothingly on the dancer's shoulder. "Ms. Jameson, I'm very sorry."

  Now a certain anger seemed stirred into the sorrow. "What…what in hell happened to her?"

  "Jenna was in one of the private rooms…and she was strangled."

  "I told Ty those lap-dance rooms were dangerous. Goddamnit! I wouldn't work them…I refused. Goddamnit."

  Catherine asked, "You did work at Dream Dolls, at one time, Ms. Jameson?"

  "Yes…I've been at Showgirl World for, I don't know…three months?" Tera pulled a tissue out of a box on the coffee table and dabbed at her eyes. "Did you get him?"

  Conroy, still on her haunches, blinked. "Excuse me?"

  "That asshole Ray Lipton. It was him, wasn't it? It must have been."

  Sitting forward, Catherine asked, "Why would you think that? He was her fiancé; he loved her."

  She sneered, her lip damp with tears. "He's a fucking nutcase. He hated that she danced…and he hated that she lived with me, another dancer…I was a 'bad influence'! He fucking met her at the club! Jesus."

  Catherine tilted her head. "Mr. Lipton said they were going to be married, soon. Was he lying?"

  "Yes. No…I mean, yeah, that was the plan-they were getting married. Jenna was barely even my roommate anymore. To keep Ray happy, she moved out of here about a month ago."

  Sara asked, "Was she quitting dancing for him?"

  "Eventually, she planned to. I mean, most of us plan to get out, sooner or later. I have a nursing degree, you know. But she wanted to keep dancing for a couple of years, after they got married, to help build a nest egg. I mean, do you have any idea what those tits of hers cost?"

  "Around ten thousand," Catherine said.

  Conroy asked, "Well, was she living here, or not?"

  "Her name's still on the lease, but she'd pretty much moved in with Ray. She still had a few things here, but it was mostly just stuff she hadn't picked up yet."

  Conroy-squatting must have been getting to her-moved to sit down on the other side of Tera. She asked, "And why do you think Ray would kill her?"

  "Probably over the dancing. That she hadn't quit, that she wanted to keep going with it…. He hated that she danced even more than he hated her living with me. I mean, she liked it here-our hours were similar, it was close to work-but she moved in with him, to…what's the word? Placate the prick."

  Conroy asked, "You think Ray hates you?"

  Tera looked uncomfortable. "I know he does. You know about the restraining order Ty had against him, and what caused it?"

  "We know that he tried to choke a customer," Catherine said.

  "Well, that was just one particularly juicy time. It was me pulled his ass off that poor nerdy guy he jumped. More than once, when I was still at the club, he started trouble over our friendship, Jenna and me. He'd see us sitting together, or standing at the bar, laughing, and get all paranoid we were laughing at him. He'd start screaming at me. He probably yelled at me as much as he did Jenna."

  "Why was that?" Conroy asked.

  "You know how guys can be-jealous over their girlfriend's best friend. It's stupid, such a guy thing. He thought I had some…I don't know, kinda power over her. That I was this wicked witch trying to keep them apart."

  "Why would he think that?"

  Tera pulled her knees up under her, sat that way. Her chin was up. "Because I told her not to take any crap off him. If they were gonna be married, she still had to be her own person, and stand up for her rights, like dancing if she wanted to. I just generally encouraged her to do what she wanted to do."

  "And Ray didn't like that."

  "Oh, hell no. Ray's a typical control freak. He thought getting her away from me would make her fall in line with his plans. Get her to live with him, stop dancing, do whatever he said."

  "Ray ever try to get physical with you?"

  "No." She sat up straighter. "He's a coward, too-he knows I trained in tae kwan do. He figured, lay a hand on me and I'da sent his balls up to live in his throat…and he figured right."

  "Okay," Conroy said, an uncomfortable tone creeping into her voice. "You mind if we look around?"

  "Not at all. Anything that'll help." Tera shook her head, the dark locks shimmering. "Her bedroom's the one on the left, opposite the bathroom. Or it used to be."

  Suddenly Tera's tough talk dissolved into another round of tears, and that quickly built into racking sobs.

  Conroy stayed and held the dancer, tried to comfort her as Catherine and Sara moved to the bedroom. They slipped on latex gloves and entered.

  Tera hadn't been kidding-Jenna had moved out, all right: no bed, no dresser, no furniture of any kind, just a few stray clothes hanging in the closet and a small pile of CDs sitting inside the door, the final artifacts remaining of Jenna Patrick's life in this tiny apartment.

  The two criminalists went back to the living room where Conroy still sat on the couch next to Tera Jameson, holding the woman's hand-something she doubted Jim Brass would have done, and which would have mystified Grissom. Catherine caught Conroy's gaze and shook her head-they hadn't found anything.

  Conroy rose, looking dow
n at the young woman with a somber smile. "Ms. Jameson, we're sorry for your loss."

  Tera, who was drying her eyes with a handkerchief, nodded bravely.

  Conroy joined the CSIs at the door. "If we have more questions," she said to Tera, "we'll get back to you…. You have my card, if you think of something you consider important."

  "I do, yes-I will…and thank you."

  "Have you ever been back to Dream Dolls," Catherine asked suddenly, "since you quit?"

  Tera shook her head, her long dark hair swinging. "No way. Good riddance to that hellhole."

  Catherine knew the feeling.

  "Thanks," Catherine said, and exchanged polite smiles with the woman.

  Soon the trio from LVMPD were standing next to Conroy's car.

  Catherine asked, "You didn't search Lipton's place yet?"

  "No," Conroy said, "just picked him up and brought him in. We should get to that."

  "Since he's in custody," Sara said, "maybe it could wait till tonight-we're way past the end of shift, and I'd hate to get the day shift's sticky fingers in this."

  Conroy said, "That should work out fine. Meantime, I'll ask Lipton if he'll give us the go-ahead, and see if we have to get a search warrant or not."

  "You think he'll stop cooperating?" Catherine asked.

  Conroy arched an eyebrow. "Wouldn't you, if you were about to go down for murder?"

  "Yeah, I suppose I would…unless I was innocent."

  "Which you think he is?"

  "Well, he's cooperated with us so far-hasn't hidden a thing."

  Sara asked, "Tera didn't paint a very pretty picture of him."

  "She also didn't paint that violent a picture of him," Catherine pointed out. "Lipton and Tera hated each other, but it never went past shouting matches, didn't come to blows."

  The three traded expressions that were made up of equal parts exhaustion and perplexity.

  Catherine gave Conroy a wave, and she and Sara headed back to the Tahoe. They had plenty of work to do, though some of it could wait till tonight and, she hoped, the evidence would provide the right answers.

  Concentrate on what cannot lie,Grissom liked to say: the evidence.

  Hearing footsteps, Catherine turned to find Conroy right behind her. "I'm thinking of stopping at Circus Circus on the way back…you girls interested in some more overtime?"

  Catherine looked toward Sara, and they both sighed and shrugged-at this point, what was the difference?

  Twenty minutes later they pulled into the parking garage next to Circus Circus; then they were walking through the maze of halls to the second-floor casino where the familiar casino sounds-spinning slots, dealers calling out cards, rolling roulette balls-belied the breakfast hour. This large area was filled with slots, about half of which were in action; the cashier's cage stood immediately to the right, an Hispanic security guard making small talk with a cute redhead on the other side of the bars.

  Conroy approached him and displayed her I.D. and a professional smile. "Who could I talk to about one of your employees?"

  The stocky, wispily mustached guard had a radio mike clipped to the epaulet of his left shoulder. He used the mike to check with a Mr. Waller, who would receive the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police contingent in his office, which proved to be on the first floor, past the front desk, and down a deserted corridor behind a door labelled SECURITY.

  A tall, thin man in a well-tailored gray suit and black and gray tie extended his hand to Conroy even as the guard showed them in. With a smile just a little too wide and teeth just a little too white, the casino man introduced himself as Jim Waller, and I.D.'s were proffered, hands were shaken, Catherine finding the man's grip limp and his palm slightly moist.

  Waller moved behind the desk and sat in a massive maroon leather chair, a computer whirring behind him, the screensaver showing fish swimming around. He motioned toward the three leather-covered chairs in front of his large dark-wood desk.

  Waller was a typical casino security man: unfailingly polite and helpful to the police, but wary as hell. "What can I do to help you, officers? Something about an employee, I understand? Is it a criminal matter?"

  "Yes, Mr. Waller, it's criminal," Conroy said, and the security man's smile vanished, all those big shiny teeth tucked away in his face. "But the crime doesn't involve your employee."

  Conroy explained the situation and soon Waller was using a walkie-talkie to summon Marty Fleming.

  "Should only be three or four minutes," Waller said.

  It was five, a security guard showing up, escorting a slump-shouldered, medium-sized man in his late forties with sandy hair, a bad complexion and gold-rimmed bifocals. A walking cast peeked out from the man's left pant leg; Catherine found him a rather pitiful-looking character. Waller rose, came around the desk and approached the man.

  "Marty," he said, speaking to the dealer (though in a facility this size, the odds were scant Waller actually knew the employee), "these police officers need to talk to you."

  The dealer's face turned anxiously inquisitive as his attention turned from Waller to the women.

  "Detective Conroy," Waller continued, "I'll be at the front desk, when you've finished using my office."

  "Very kind of you," Conroy said.

  Then the security guard and Waller and the latter's shit-eating grin left them alone.

  "Wh-what is this about?" Fleming asked.

  Sara got up and vacated the chair next to Conroy, gesturing to Fleming to take it, saying, "Why don't you have a seat, Mr. Fleming, that cast doesn't look very comfortable."

  He sat down, Conroy made the introductions, and explained the purpose of their visit, including the tragic death of Jenna Patrick.

  "Damn it, anyway," Fleming said, shaking his head. He had a perpetual "why me?" demeanor. "I told Ty it was no big deal. Now he goes around telling the police."

  Catherine said, "Mr. Fleming, it is a big thing-Mr. Kapelos did the right thing informing us. If Ray Lipton did attempt to strangle you, it might represent a pattern-a pattern of violence that culminated with him killing that young woman."

  Fleming shook his head. "That's so sad…she was just the nicest girl. So beautiful. Nice and beautiful."

  Catherine pressed: "Is Ty Kapelos telling us the truth? Did Ray Lipton choke you at Dream Dolls three months ago?"

  Slowly, Fleming nodded; he seemed embarrassed. "About that-maybe a little longer ago. He saw me coming out of one of the back rooms with his girlfriend-I had, uh…you know, a private dance with her. Listen, you're not gonna talk to my wife, are you?"

  Conroy said, "No, Mr. Fleming."

  "I mean, she'll kill me, and then you'll be investigating that."

  "Tell us about that night, Mr. Fleming-the night Ray Lipton attacked you."

  He sighed, thought back, pushing his glasses up on his nose-they didn't stay there long. "Jenna, she gave me a hug, you know, as we were comin' out of the booth-that's not something they usually do, I mean, when the dance is over, it's over. But she was a nice girl, and I used to have a dance from her, I don't know, a couple times a week."

  Catherine nodded just to keep him going.

  "Anyway, she hugged me and I gave her a peck on the cheek and the next thing I know, this guy is all over me, like ugly on a bulldog. Knocks me down, pins me to the floor in that, you know, that narrow hallway? On the floor there, digging his fingers into my throat. His face was all red…mine probably was, too. The girl was screaming and all, and I started to black out. I tell you, I thought I was dead."

  Conroy asked, "Then what?"

  He swallowed, pushed his glasses up again. "This brunette, another of the dancers, grabbed him by the hair and pulled him off. Saved me, sort of. She wasn't a very nice person…kinda cold, the other one, dark-haired. I had a private dance from her, once, too…brrrrr! But she did save me, I guess, from that Lipton guy. Anyway, she doesn't work there anymore."

  "Tera Jameson, you mean?" Sara asked.

  Fleming shrugged. "I didn't pay any a
ttention to her name-I didn't like her. Anyway, the girls danced under different names, different nights…. So, then he and her started screaming at each other. He looked like he wanted to punch her, but he kept his distance. I just got up and a couple of the girls helped me back into the dressing room…only time I was ever back there."

  He stopped and smiled as he thought back to that experience.

  Conroy prompted him: "Mr. Fleming?"

  "Yeah, anyway-I stayed back with the dancers, in their dressing room, till Ty and that Worm DJ guy hustled this Ray out of the club."

  "Did you get the cast from that attack?"

  Looking a little sheepish, Fleming said, "No. Got that about a month ago-accident at home. You know. Most accidents happen there."

  Maybe his wife would kill him, Catherine thought.

  Conroy asked, "That night at the club, that the last time you had contact with Ray Lipton?"

  "Yeah."

  "You're sure?"

  "I'd remember."

  "Guess you would." Conroy gave him a smile. "Thank you, Mr. Fleming."

  He sighed, nodded. "You won't talk to my wife?"

  "We won't talk to your wife."

  Fleming rose and went out, and the trio lingered in Waller's office briefly, then did the same.

  They stopped at the front desk and Conroy thanked Waller, and they made their way out of the gaudy casino, that pioneer in making Sin City family friendly.

  Then they drove back to HQ, where they finally ended the night that had long since turned to day.

  7

  LAKE MEAD WAS BORN OF HOOVER DAM STEMMING THE Colorado River's flow; downstream Davis Dam had given birth to Lake Mohave, and together the pair of man-made bodies of water-and the surrounding desert-comprised Lake Mead National Recreation Area, a million and a half acres set aside in '64 by the federal government for the enjoyment of the American tourist. Lake Mead's cool waters were ideal for swimming, boating, skiing, and fishing.

  But some people had a peculiar idea of fun, which meant the CSIs were no strangers to the recreation area. They were at the end of another long shift, the day after the Toyota Avalon had been found at McCarran, when a phone call had come in, just as Nick Stokes and Warrick Brown were about to head home. Grissom had headed them off, announcing another discovery, this time a grisly one.