Moon Music

by Faye Kellerman

  "Oh, that! I sent Y as my proxy, since I didn't want to be spotted. He took a couple of rolls of film. I hope they came out. Chief's not exactly a techno-guy."

  "It's pressing a button and waiting for the snapshot to eject."

  "Yeah, uh…we decided against the Polaroid. It made too much noise. Instead I gave him Rukmani's Canon."

  "So where's my Polaroid?"

  "In my car. I owe you a pack of film."

  "What happened to the film?"

  "I used it up." A grin spread across his face. "Family photos."

  Patricia eyed him skeptically, but didn't further the conversation. "That was a good idea, Sergeant. Sending in Y."

  "A decent thought does flit through my brain every millennium." He drank his now-tepid coffee. Into the phone, he said, "This is Detective Sergeant Romulus Poe from Homicide. I've got an emergency situation here and I need to see a personnel file on one of my men. He's on vacation and his mother died. His records should have a list of close relatives—No, I'd rather you don't give any information over the phone. I'll come down in per—I know it's an unusual request, but like I said, it's an emergency…. All right. All right. I'll be down in ten minutes."

  He hung up the receiver.

  "Photographs won't be ready for an hour. Might as well try to get a fix on Steve and Alison."

  "I'm sure they're fine, sir."

  Poe stood and finished off his coffee. He took out his car keys. "Must be nice to be sure, Deluca. But I'm from a dysfunctional family. Ergo, I'm never sure of anything!"

  Following a trail of credit-card charges Poe found out that the Jensens had last eaten at a chophouse in an outpost called Vista de la Mesa, where they had taken a room at the Dunes Inn Motel. Looking for the name on a map, Poe found the speck—a high-desert hole in the wall about fifty miles from the Nevada/California border. It was also around twenty miles from Highway 15, the main artery linking L.A. to L.V. Maybe the couple were headed home.

  When Poe called the motel, a young, dull male voice informed him that the Jensens had checked out about two hours ago. Poe asked the clerk, "Have you cleaned the room yet?"

  Silence. When he finally did speak, he seemed to be working hard. "I dunno."

  "Could you check for me?"

  Another protracted pause. "I suppose."

  "Could you do it now?"

  "Want me to check the room?" A beat. "Or want me to find out if the room was cleaned up?"

  Simplicity, Poe. Not everyone understands complex sentences. "Just check the room, please. See if it has been cleaned up."

  "Can you hold on? I gotta find someone to watch the desk while I check the room."

  "I can hold."

  Poe heard the clunk of a receiver being placed on a hard surface, followed by the sound of receding footsteps. In the background, he heard a voice shout, "Kathy? Kathy, are you around?" The wait seemed interminable. Poe drummed, snapped, rocked on his feet, took out a cigarette he had bummed off Y last night, then put it back in his pocket.

  It took ten minutes for Mr. Dull to return. He sounded shaky. "Uh, the room's a real mess."

  "A mess?"

  "Yeah, a real mess. There's blood on the sheets—"

  "Oh God!"

  "I think I should call the cops."

  "Good idea."

  "Where you callin' from again?"

  "Las Vegas Metro Police Department. What police department services your area?"

  "Police department?"

  Poe enunciated each word clearly. "I want to call up your local police. Who do I call?"

  "Who?"

  "Yes, who. What is the name of your Police department?"

  "Vista de la Mesa Sheriff's Department."

  "Thank you. That's good. Now. Do you have a phone number?"

  "Uh…sure." Another wait. Finally, Dull came back and slowly spit out the number. He said, "If you call 'em, then the line'll be busy when I call."

  "Give me a minute to call first. Then you go, ahead and call. Please make sure the room isn't touched."

  "I already touched the doorknob."

  "That's fine. But don't touch anything else. I'll make that call real quick."

  "That's good. Because it's a real mess there. Spooky."

  "Bye now." Poe cut the line, called the Vista de la Mesa Sheriff's Department. An upbeat, elderly female voice answered the phone.

  "This is Detective Sergeant Romulus Poe from the Las Vegas Metro Police Department. I need to speak to someone in Homicide immediately."

  "We don't have a homicide department," she answered. "Don't need it."

  That's what you think. "Anyone in charge who I could talk to?"

  "How about Sheriff Bruckner?"

  "Sheriff Bruckner would be fine."

  A short wait. Then a deep male voice. "Bruckner. Who's this?"

  Poe introduced himself, explained the situation as succinctly as he could.

  Bruckner said, "Thanks for calling. I'll get right over there."

  "Could you call me as soon as you get there? If it's as bad as the kid says, I'll want to come up."

  "That's nice of you to be concerned, but it's not necessary. Our guys know this town pretty well. Think we can handle it locally."

  Marking his territory. Poe kept his patience. "Of course. But Jensen is one of our men. There's a personal interest here. Hell, if it was one of yours, you'd do the same, right?"

  A long pause. Then Bruckner said, "Sure, come on up. Just don't bring a big-city posse with you. We're low-key here, do things differently than in places like L.A. or Las Vegas."

  "I wouldn't even bother you except Jensen is a colleague." Poe thought a moment. "You know, if I leave now, I can be there in two hours. Maybe you could hold off—"

  "Not for two hours."

  "Okay. I understand. The investigation will probably take time. The clerk described the room as a real mess…lots of blood. Sounds like you're going to need your techs."

  The line went quiet. Then Bruckner said, "If it's real bad, I'll wait. Do you the courtesy, since it's one of yours."

  Cold feet at the sight of blood, Bruckner? Or just no techs?

  Poe said, "Thank you, sir. I'll see you later." He hung up and grabbed his car keys. As soon as he pulled out of the parking lot, he paged Weinberg. The lieutenant called back a minute later and Poe recapped the situation.

  Weinberg said, "I'm at Myra's. Pick me up. I'll get me a couple of sandwiches to go."

  "I'd like to bring Rukmani Kalil along."

  "Good idea. What kind of sandwich does she like?"

  "She's a vegetarian."

  "Does she eat eggs? I could get her an egg salad sandwich."

  "She eats eggs as long as they aren't fertilized."

  "No fertilized eggs here, Poe. They aren't kosher."

  "Sir, what about Alison and Steve? Should we put out an APB for them?"

  The loo said, "This is the plan. First, we hit the road. As we ride, we call up the motel—What's the name of the place?"

  "Dunes Inn Motel."

  "In what town?"

  "Vista de la Mesa."

  "Never heard of it."

  "Me either. Sure doesn't sound like an ideal spot for a second honeymoon."

  Weinberg hesitated. "Let's not jump to any conclusions. We'll talk to Bruckner directly. See what he has to say. If it's really bad, I'll issue an APB. You say this town is near Highway 15?"

  "About twenty miles away."

  "And they left the kids in L.A."

  "Yes."

  "So they're driving southeast. Could be they're coming back here."

  "I thought about that."

  "Maybe we'll pass them as we drive up."

  "Wouldn't that be nice."

  "You bet," Weinberg answered. "Save us all a lot of speculation."

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THEY CONGREGATED in the motel's parking lot—Poe, Weinberg, and Rukmani, along with Bruckner and Byron, the dull desk clerk. Heat sizzled off the blacktop, the sun relentless in the open
terrain. The sheriff wasn't what Poe expected. About fifty, he was tall and thin—his khaki uniform hung on his stick frame—with a pencil mustache and clipped hair which had silvered at the temples. A beanpole with a radio announcer's mellifluous voice.

  "Lieutenant?" Bruckner asked.

  "No, I'm Sergeant Poe." The two men shook hands. Bruckner's grip was firm, but not overbearing. Poe cocked a thumb toward his superior. "This is Lieutenant Weinberg."

  Mick stuck out his hand. "Thanks for waiting for us."

  "Since it is one of your own." Bruckner glanced at his watch. "You made good time."

  "Driving with a speed demon," Weinberg answered. "This is Dr. Kalil. I hope you don't mind. I've asked her to come."

  Rukmani held out her hand. "Pleased to meet you."

  Poe noticed Bruckner hesitating a fraction of a second before taking her hand. The sheriff said, "Likewise. Hope no one will be needin' your services, Doctor."

  "I hope not, because I'm from the coroner's office."

  Weinberg wiped his face with a handkerchief as he scanned the one-story dive—a gray stucco bunker. A long time ago, the motel had been painted white. There was some residual blue window trim, but at least half of it had chipped away. All the rooms—twenty-four total—were under one tar-paper roof. The check-in office held two vending machines—one with soda, the other with snacks. No other food establishments were in sight. The town was nothing but parched desert terrain. Why in the world would Steve take Alison here?

  Poe seemed to read his thoughts. He mopped sweat from his forehead and said, "Byron, can I take a look at the guest book?"

  Byron looked at the sheriff. The clerk was in his early twenties, of medium stature, with a round face and a flabby stomach. He had a circular button nose and wore glasses which dimmed his dark blue eyes.

  Bruckner said, "Show the sergeant the book, Byron."

  Without a word, the clerk turned and headed toward the office. Poe shrugged and followed.

  Weinberg asked, "Which room was it?"

  "Twenty," Bruckner answered. "In the back. I gave the inside a quick once-over. Byron wasn't lying. There's blood all over. But no bodies."

  "You checked?" Rukmani asked.

  "Yes, ma'am," Bruckner responded. "Had to make sure that someone wasn't lying in there, injured."

  Rukmani noticed the condescension in his voice. "So you walked around?"

  Bruckner smiled. "For about thirty seconds."

  Poe came back. "Someone checked in under the name Stephen Jensen with a wife named Alison. Spelled the right way—with one L. It looks like Jensen's signature. Could it have been forged? Sure."

  "It doesn't make sense," Weinberg said. "Steve taking Alison here."

  "No, it doesn't."

  No one spoke. Then Rukmani said, "I don't know about you gentlemen, but I'm ready to have a look."

  Bruckner smiled. "Yeah, it's mighty hot out here for a lady."

  Rukmani smiled back. "In Punjab, Sergeant, this weather is called springtime." She started forward. "The unit's number is twenty, correct?"

  "Correct," Bruckner answered.

  They hadn't taken more than a few steps when Poe felt the presence of another person. He turned around, saw a video camera pointed his way. Bruckner looked backward as well. He shouted, "Byron, get that damn thing outta our faces."

  "A couple of shots, Sheriff—"

  "Byron, we're doing serious business," Bruckner shouted. "Now turn that off before I crack it over your head."

  Byron lowered the video camera.

  Rukmani said, "Can I borrow that?"

  Bruckner paused, beckoned Byron over. "Give it here."

  "But I'm not doing nothing—"

  "This lady wants to borrow it."

  Byron looked at Rukmani with suspicious eyes. She held out her hand. "I'm from the coroner's office. A video camera would be helpful for my official business. If I can, I'll even send you a copy when I'm done."

  "Give it to her," Bruckner pushed.

  Reluctantly, Byron handed her the camera.

  "Thank you," Rukmani said.

  Bruckner said, "I think you should go back to the desk, Byron."

  "Kathy's watching the desk."

  "Well, go back and help her out."

  Poe said, "I don't mind if he tags along. As long as he doesn't come in the room with us."

  Bruckner stiffened, displeased by Poe's undermining his authority.

  "C'mon, Sheriff. Be a sport."

  Through a clenched jaw, Bruckner said, "I suppose it's all right."

  Byron smiled. "Hey, thanks, Sheriff. Promise I won't get in your way." To Rukmani, he said, "Are you really gonna send me a copy of the tape?"

  "No."

  Byron was taken aback. "No?"

  "Against regulations." Rukmani gloved up and broke a yellow crime ribbon that had been taped across the door. She turned the knob. "Ladies first, right, Sheriff?"

  Bruckner told Byron to stay back. They entered single-file with Poe coming last.

  His stomach dropped.

  He had expected lots of blood—on the crumpled sheets, on the furniture, on the threadbare pink carpet that covered the floor. But he hadn't expected so much spray. Big, crimson abstracts on the walls and ceiling as if shot from an aerosol spray can. His eyes swept over the inkblots, then scanned the room. A rickety queen-sized bed, a worn pink spread batiked in red and brown blood. Two cheesy plastic wood-grain nightstands. Reading lamps attached to the walls. Across the bed was a dresser supporting a twenty-six-inch TV and its movie box. The TV was bolted to the dresser, the remote control was attached to one nightstand by a chain. Everything was nailed shut as a control against theft.

  He swallowed dryly, felt his hands shaking. To cover his nervousness, he took out his pad and began to take notes. A mild stench permeated the stuffy room. Enough to wrinkle the nose, but not quite enough to upset the stomach.

  Weinberg was unnerved by the horror. To Poe, he said, "You're sure the signature was legitimate?"

  Poe looked up from his notebook. "No. But someone checked in under Jensen's name, and used his credit card."

  "Christ!"

  Rukmani had come out of the bathroom. She lowered the camera. "No body in the shower à la Hitchcock's Psycho." She sniffed, took out a mask. "But it smells pretty rank. Anyone look for a body in the closet?"

  Poe dabbed some VapoRub under his nose. He opened the small door, gingerly peeked in. "Looks harmless to me."

  "Let me get a shot of it." Rukmani started the tape rolling as she studied the closet. "Indeed, there's nothing dangling from a coat hanger."

  Bruckner winced.

  Rukmani stepped out into the open. "It's clean inside." She shut off the video camera. "Well, it's dusty, but there's no blood."

  Poe pointed. "See those drip marks on the wall? They're coming from the seam between the north wall and the ceiling."

  Rukmani said, "There's a crawl-space entrance in the bathroom ceiling."

  The men eyed each other. Poe said, "Get me a ladder. I'll do it."

  Bruckner said, "I can do it."

  "Fine," Poe said. "It's your territory."

  Bruckner paused. "But it is your man. It's up to you."

  "I'll do it," Poe repeated.

  "I'll get you that ladder."

  As soon as he left, Rukmani said, "Ain't he a love?"

  Weinberg said, "Have a little pity. He's probably never worked a homicide…probably scared shitless." He turned to Poe. "Are you up for this?"

  "It's what they pay me to do."

  "Not when there was a personal relationship," the lieutenant answered. "You know who could be up there."

  "I know." No one spoke. Then he said, "It could be her, it could be him. It could be both—"

  Rukmani interrupted, "On the surface, it doesn't look like enough spray for two people."

  Poe said, "Alison couldn't possibly be strong enough to shove Steve into the crawl space. That would require her to lift around two hundred and twent
y pounds of dead weight over her head. Not to mention that the crawl space is above her reach. So she'd have to find something to climb on. She couldn't do it." He shook his head in disbelief. "She couldn't do it."