“Well, Michael, what’ll it be? All you’ve been doing lately is going out to dinner on your expense account and writing restaurant critiques—and I’ve even provided you with a very capable assistant to help you with that. Don’t you think you owe this paper a little more effort than you’ve been expending?”
Michael was nonplused. When he looked at the situation from Geller’s perspective he had to admit the man was undoubtedly right. Despite the fact Geller seemed to think he was lacking in ambition, Michael really did want to carry his weight at the Times.
“I … I suppose I could do more than I have been—especially if it will mean a raise down the line. I’ll be glad to help out with civic and social events, political analyses, that sort of thing. I’ll even write the obituary column, if that’s what you want me to do. But please—no more murder investigations, no involved investigative reporting. Nothing dangerous. The stress is too great—not only on me, but also on Myra.”
Without rising, Geller reached over the top of his desk and shook Michael’s hand. “Thanks, m’boy, thanks. I knew you would want to do your part in making our team a success. Now, I have a small favor to ask of you. Just a small favor.”
“What’s that?” Michael asked apprehensively.
“Ruth and I are flying to Los Angeles this evening to take in a play. We’ll be staying overnight at her sister’s house and flying back to Las Vegas the first thing in the morning. I’d like you to drop Loxen off at the vet’s this evening and pick her up on your way in to work tomorrow.”
Michael reached down and rubbed the dog between her ears. “Oh, is that all? Sure. I’ll be glad to, E.J. But Loxen’s welcome to spend the night at my condo. Anytime. There’s no need for you to pay a kennel fee.”
Geller handed Michael the leash. “I appreciate the offer, but she needs to get her annual shots—I already made the appointment—so she might as well stay at the clinic tonight. Sometimes the shots make her a bit woozy.”
Loxen started dancing at the sight of the leash. “She’s ready to go now, E.J. Where do you want me to take her?” asked Michael.
“To the Royal Animal Clinic on Twain. Between Paradise and Swenson.”
“No problem. That’s right on my way home.”
Michael connected the leash to Loxen’s collar and stood. He was glad the horse-shedding was over.
Two
THE LATE-AFTERNOON TRAFFIC on Spring Mountain Road was exceptionally heavy. Michael sat through one traffic light a dozen car lengths from the Strip, then barely made it up to the intersection before the signal changed again, leaving him stranded halfway in the crosswalk. Hordes of pedestrians were hurriedly trying to make their way across the street before the light changed.
Michael mused that Las Vegas was the ideal place to people-watch, for in Las Vegas, as in no other city, tourists lose their inhibitions and let down their hair. People of every size, shape, color, and age paraded in front of him. The temperature was over 115 degrees, and shorts seemed to be the uniform of the day—even on old men, whose skinny legs protruding from polyester made the men look like exotic wading birds, perhaps storks or egrets or herons or flamingos. One woman, easily weighing upwards of three hundred pounds, wore a bright green skin-tight Spandex outfit, which made her resemble a gigantic watermelon—one that would garner the first place prize at any county fair.
Eventually, the light turned green, and Michael was able to proceed. East of the Strip, Spring Mountain Road becomes Sands Avenue. In a few blocks, the same thoroughfare changes name again to Twain Avenue. Inexplicably, the street has three different names in a little over a mile—confusing to tourists, accepted by locals.
He passed a lushly landscaped business complex, where a tall office building stands like a huge tan thumb hovering over a melange of lower-rise structures. Cumulonimbus clouds—thunderheads—were rising like giant white mushrooms to the south and east. A desert thunderstorm was on its way.
Michael crossed Paradise Road—an appropriate pun, in a city where many people earn their living dealing craps. East of Paradise, Twain Avenue is lined on either side with shabby furnished apartments, rented by the week, free color TV included.
Loxen—who had been sitting peacefully, nose quivering as she sniffed scents coming in through the air conditioner vents—began whining nervously. Michael quickly spotted the source of the animal’s angst—Royal Animal Clinic, located in a small strip shopping center between a beauty parlor and a Hispanic grocery store. The dog has a good memory, he surmised. She must remember coming here before, for her shots and boarding.
The veterinarian—a man in his early fifties with permanent creases on his face from spending a lot of time outdoors—stood impatiently in the doorway of the clinic. He held a small kitten in his arms. Michael thought the vet looked as if he’d just stepped out of a Norman Rockwell painting. He wore a lab coat that was probably immaculately white and freshly starched first thing in the morning, but the garment now bore the signs of a day’s work around animals and hung limply from his husky frame. The doctor’s face cracked into a big smile when he saw Michael approach with the reluctant beagle. Loxen had taken the leash in her mouth and was pulling furiously on the leather strap, but Michael was winning the impromptu tug-of-war.
“Hi. I’m Dr. Royal. Rex Royal,” the man announced. “You must be Michael Kaplan. It’s a good thing Mr. Geller called me and told me you were on your way over. I was just getting ready to close for the day.”
“Sorry I’m so late, Dr. Royal. I was stuck in traffic at the Strip,” Michael apologized. He handed the leash to the vet.
“No problem,” Royal said. He reached down and petted the beagle. “Loxen and I are old friends, though you’d never know it from the way she acts when she comes to visit me. I understand you’re going to pick her up in the morning?”
Michael nodded his head. “Yes. I’ll stop by on the way to work tomorrow, about nine. Will that be all right?”
“Of course. The old girl will be ready by then. I’ll have her bathed and all set to go.”
MICHAEL HOPED HIS WIFE MADE DINNER for the two of them, but the condominium was vacant when he arrived home. There was a message from Myra on his voice mailbox. She told Michael he should not wait for her, but go ahead and eat. A group of travel agents had arrived in town a day earlier than expected and she would have to work late entertaining them.
Michael looked at his watch. It was barely six-thirty, plenty of time to call Kim and arrange to meet her for dinner somewhere. There was a new restaurant in Green Valley he wanted to review, and he could kill two birds with one stone.
Suddenly, Michael felt very tired. The heat of the day had taken its toll. He decided to stay home, perhaps even watch a little television. He found some lamb chops in the freezer and put three of them in the broiler, scrubbed a potato and stuck it in the microwave, and cut up lettuce for a salad. It was not the first time he’d made dinner for one, and he knew it would not be the last.
Michael had just finished loading the dishes and utensils into the dishwasher and settled down in front of the television when he heard a loud whoosh of wind. He looked outside in time to see the first large raindrops hit the ground. A summer desert thunderstorm was underway, soon to be heralded by flashes of lightning and great rumblings of thunder.
Both Michael and Myra loved thunderstorms. They enjoyed watching the majesty of the brilliant blue bolts of electricity and listening to the mighty voice of the heavens. He opened the door and stepped outside on the small patio, regretting Myra was not there to share the experience with him.
Shortly, the cable TV service went out. Trash cans flew through the air like rampaging Scud missiles, banging loudly when they hit the wall of one of the condos. He heard the sound of glass breaking somewhere nearby. A few hundred yards away, a tall pine tree, felled by the wind, took with it an overhead power line, which sparked and arced as the wires danced in the street, and the entire neighborhood became clothed in darkness.
The r
ain escalated to a downpour. Due to the high winds, it seemed to be coming to earth at a nearly horizontal angle. In a matter of minutes Michael was completely drenched. He went back inside the condo and closed the patio door. He was wet, alone, and in the dark. There was nothing better to do, so he undressed, took a long shower, and crawled into bed. By the time Myra arrived home shortly after midnight, Michael had been asleep—though fitfully—for nearly three hours.
The following morning Myra was out of bed early and had breakfast waiting for Michael—cantaloupe, smoked whitefish chubs, toasted bagels with cream cheese, and steaming hot coffee.
“Good morning, sweetheart,” she said cheerfully. “Did you sleep well last night?”
Michael gave her a perfunctory kiss. “Not really. The storm kept waking me up. What time did you finally get in?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “A little after twelve, I think. The electricity was still off when I got home.”
“I was worried about you driving in the storm.”
She smiled. “I waited until the rain let up somewhat. The storms never last long here in Las Vegas. Some power lines and trees were down, though, and the streets were flooded. Many traffic signals were out, too. So, I drove slowly and carefully.
“On the news this morning, the weatherman said last night’s storm was the worst one we’ve had in years. Did you hear about the Sharpton sign?”
Michael looked at his wife quizzically. “The new sign at the Las Vegas Sharpton Hotel? What about it?”
“It was completely destroyed. The top third of the sign is now a pile of twisted rubble lying at the base—everything from steel beams to plastic panels to electrical wiring. Fortunately, no one was hurt.”
Michael was wide-eyed. “I can’t believe it. That sign was completed only six months or so ago. It was the largest free-standing sign in the world—thirty-six stories tall—and cost the Sharpton over five million dollars.”
Myra nodded. “I know. The sign was supposed to be able to withstand winds of 130 miles per hour. It didn’t. According to the news reports, the winds never exceeded eighty miles per hour last night, except possibly for a few gusts.
“Actually, Michael, I was getting pretty worried about you last night. I thought perhaps you had gone out to dinner and were stranded somewhere. I called home a number of times after the storm started, but you didn’t answer.”
“The phone was probably out. I was here. I didn’t feel like going to a restaurant, so I threw a few lamb chops in the broiler. Fortunately, I’d already finished eating when the power failed. Whenever the electricity goes out I wish we didn’t have an all-electric kitchen.
“Are you going to be home on time tonight?” Michael asked, hoping Myra would say yes.
She avoided his look. “I’m not certain. The travel agents may expect me to show them the city. I’ll call you at work this afternoon and let you know what my plans will be.”
Michael was noticeably displeased. It wasn’t as if Myra was deliberately avoiding spending time with him. Not at all. She was working, not partying or sitting in some casino in front of a video poker machine. He knew she had an important job, as head of public relations for the Gold Crest Hotel and Casino, and the position carried numerous responsibilities—including wining and dining important business contacts of the company. Between her job and his, which required him to dine in restaurants five times a week, they were seeing less of each other than they did when they were dating.
Michael remembered his conversation with Geller. The man was right. He was going to have to find a way to increase his income substantially so Myra would not need to work so hard. It wouldn’t be possible for them to start a family while she was putting in such long hours.
Michael decided he and Myra needed to have a long talk about the subject. But now was not the right time, for both of them were hurrying to finish breakfast and leave for work.
Three
WHILE DRIVING TO the veterinarian’s to pick up Loxen, Michael learned that the previous night’s thunderstorm caused considerable damage. Trees and signs were downed everywhere. Flamingo Road was closed due to a flash flood, and Michael was forced to take a lengthy detour. Swenson was blocked due to a power line still lying in the street. Another detour. He eventually reached the animal clinic and found an empty space in the parking lot.
Two workmen were nailing plywood panels to the front of the clinic where a plate glass window had been the day before. Another worker was picking up shards of glass scattered about on the sidewalk. The men stepped out of the way when Michael approached the door, so he could go inside. The veterinarian was standing behind the counter, talking on the telephone.
Michael waited until Royal had finished his conversation and replaced the instrument on its hook. “Hi, Dr. Royal,” he greeted. “I see the storm took out your front window.”
“Yes. No. Actually, I’m not sure. We had a break-in here last night. The glass could have been shattered by the storm. Or, it could have been smashed by the burglar.”
Michael looked puzzled. “A break-in? What’s there to steal in a veterinary hospital?” A terrible thought crossed Michael’s mind. If Loxen had been dognapped or injured, Geller would be devastated. Loxen meant as much to him as any other member of his family. “The animals … they’re all right, aren’t they?”
“Yes, of course,” Royal said reassuringly. “We are running a little bit behind this morning, though. Loxen won’t be ready for another twenty minutes or so. Can you wait, or do you want to come back later to pick her up?”
Michael shrugged his shoulders. “I might as well stay here. If I went anywhere else, even to get a cup of coffee, by the time I got to where I was going I’d have to turn around and come right back.”
Royal motioned for Michael to follow him into his office. The veterinarian dropped into an oak swivel chair behind a matching desk and pointed to a small upholstered couch facing the desk. “Please sit down, Mr. Kaplan. You might as well be comfortable while you’re waiting for Loxen. I just made some fresh coffee. Would you like a cup?”
Michael nodded appreciatively. “Thanks, that sounds great. Two sugars and a dash of cream, if you have any. And please call me Michael.”
“I will,” the doctor agreed, “if you’ll call me Dr. Rex.”
Michael chuckled. The two of them were almost—but not quite—on a first name basis. “Tell me, Dr. Rex—if the burglar wasn’t after the animals, what was he looking for?”
Royal gave forth with a hearty laugh. “Oh, that’s an easy question to answer. Medicines. Drugs. Veterinary offices are prime targets of druggies.”
“I always assumed veterinary medicines would be useful only for treating animals. I didn’t realize you had things drug addicts would want to steal.”
“Oh, my, yes. I have … rather, I had quite a bit of valium. And all of my anabolic steroids are missing. They’re what some athletes use to build muscle mass. The ketamine is gone, too.”
“Ketamine? What’s that?” asked Michael.
“It’s an anesthetic, used primarily on cats. It’s very effective, particularly when mixed ten-to-one with acepromazine—that’s a tranquilizer. One injection and a cat feels no pain at all.”
Michael was confused. “I don’t understand. Why would anyone want to steal cat anesthetic?”
Royal laughed again. “If I wanted to do so I could make a good living just by selling ketamine to prostitutes. They use it in trick-rolling their johns. They’ll slip a little ketamine into a man’s drink—it can be taken orally—and he’s out like a light for hours. Fortunately, in most instances, the drug doesn’t cause any permanent damage.
“By the time the trick wakes up, the hooker’s long gone with the man’s wallet and jewelry—and an accomplice has charged thousands of dollars to his credit cards. Most of the time, the victim’s too embarrassed to complain to the police. Or, he’s afraid if he files a police report the matter will become public knowledge—perhaps even make the newspapers—and h
is wife and friends back home will find out he was involved with a whore when he visited Sin City.
“The burglar also took sodium pentothal—an anesthetic most people know as truth serum. And apomorphine—tablets that make dogs vomit. And he got away with—”
A man popped into the office and interrupted the conversation. Michael immediately recognized his friend Mark Caruso, Chief of Detectives for the Homicide Division of Metro police.
“Michael—what are you doing here?” Caruso asked. He didn’t wait for an answer, but turned toward the veterinarian. “Are you Dr. Royal? I’m Detective Caruso.”
Royal stood to greet the detective. “Yes, I’m Dr. Royal. Thank you for coming out so promptly, Detective Caruso.” The two men shook hands vigorously.
“I … I don’t understand,” Michael stammered. “Why are you here, Mark? Nobody was killed in the break-in, were they?” He addressed the second question to Dr. Royal.
Blue Goodness (Michael Kaplan Mysteries) Page 2
