by P. D. Martin
Darren rests Janice’s file on his lap. “So, at some stage when Cindy and Malcolm are in the Mojave, somebody finds out that Janice knows where Cindy is. Knows what she’s really doing.”
“Information they didn’t want anyone to have.”
“For the moment we have to presume ‘they’ is our femme fatale and her new boyfriend, Cindy’s killer,” Darren says. “But who killed Janice?”
“The murder is totally different than Cindy’s and Malcolm’s. Cindy and Malcolm were pleasure. Janice was business.”
Darren runs with it. “She was killed quickly and the murderer wanted to make it look like a drug overdose. Janice wasn’t one of their normal victims.”
“No. She was just damned unlucky that Cindy talked.”
“And that the killers found out about it.”
I look across at a photo of Janice. “I wonder if Cross has told Janice’s family that her death is now suspicious.” I stare out the window. We’re closer to the ground, but I can still mostly see desert.
Darren leans over slightly, looking at the view too. “Janice’s family might be happy to know she didn’t relapse.”
“Maybe. But they’ll want answers. They’ll want revenge.”
“Family always does.”
The pilot comes over the loudspeaker and announces the impending touchdown. The plane banks and I glance out the window again. Now I can see Vegas.
In my imagination, Vegas is a surreal city—neon everywhere, shows, slots, blackjack and Elvis impersonators—and from up here it looks even more toy-like than I’d imagined, almost as though it was built as a movie set. A bloody big movie set.
I turn back to Darren. “Speaking of families, we should call the Jacksons.”
“And tell them we’ve got no leads?”
“I think they’d rather hear that than nothing.” I stack the files neatly on the center seat and then put them back in my briefcase. “And what about Cindy’s family?”
“Dunno. I guess we’ll find out soon enough.”
We touch down and as soon as we’re out of the gateway I turn on my phone and pick up my one message.
“Rivers wants an update,” I tell Darren.
“Great, see if you can get some more bodies on this case.”
“I’ll give it a go.”
He smiles. “And find out if I’m getting reimbursed for this,” he jokes. His smile fades. “I’ll call the Jacksons.”
We move into a quieter corner of the airport to make our calls.
I dial Rivers’s cell and after three rings he picks up. “Hi, Anderson.”
“Hi, boss,” I manage before a boarding announcement comes over the PA, drowning out my voice and temporarily putting a stop to our conversation.
As soon as the announcement finishes, Rivers speaks. “Where are you?”
“Vegas airport.”
“Vegas?”
“The latest victim—the woman—well, we found out her roommate died of an overdose only last week.”
“Sounds suspicious.”
“That’s what we thought. So we’re here to check it out.” I pause. “Actually sir, I wanted to talk to you about resources. This case is taking off and I think we need more people on it.”
Rivers doesn’t respond.
I trudge on. “What do you think?”
Rivers starts talking but another boarding announcement drowns him out.
“What’s that, sir?”
“Things are tight here at the moment. I did contact the Arizona field office, but they’re overloaded, too.” He pauses. “See what you turn up in the next week. Then we’ll look at it again.”
“But in a week someone else could be dead.”
“We don’t know that, Anderson. Two murders don’t make a pattern. We wait.”
“What about Evans?” I ask as a last resort. Evans isn’t field trained, but he knows the case.
“Keep Evans in the loop but you’re our only full-time resource on this. For the moment.”
I can tell his decision is final.
“Well?” Darren asks, coming over.
I shake my head. “No go. Rivers wants to wait another week and see what happens.”
“But—”
“I know. I told him. It’s the same old story. Too many crimes and not enough of us.” I’m angry as hell but I understand. Every case is important, not just the ones I’m working on. I put my phone back in my purse. “How’d it go with the Jacksons?”
“They’re still in the denial phase.”
I nod. “What about Malcolm’s body?”
“It’s being flown back to Chicago today.”
“That’ll help them accept their son’s death.”
“Nothing like a dead body to hit you with a dose of reality, right?”
“Exactly.” I grip my bag tightly and try not to think of Mr. and Mrs. Jackson being shown their son’s body.
Twenty minutes later we’re driving out of the Vegas airport, in our dark green Chevrolet Classic rental. We head for the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department and Detective Cross.
The airport is pretty much in the center of Vegas, and we can see the world’s gambling capital in all its glory. Darren takes a couple of rights and within less than five minutes the over-the-top casinos are looming.
“This is the famous strip, The Strip,” Darren says. “Las Vegas Boulevard.”
I nod, overwhelmed by the number and extravagance of the casinos. I’m not sure whether this is the most direct route or if he’s taking the scenic route for my benefit.
“So, what do you think?”
“Wow.” It’s actually the number of people that shocks me more than the spectacle of the town itself. I was prepared for the glitz, the neon and the sense of a darker underbelly, but the number of people flocking to be part of Vegas… “My God, look at all the people!” This sure isn’t a place for someone with demophobia. Or claustrophobia for that matter. The crowds move en masse, leaving only small spaces to move through.
We pass the welcome sign in the middle of the highway but it doesn’t simply say Welcome to Vegas. No, it says Welcome to the Fabulous Las Vegas, Nevada. They had to put “fabulous” in there! I smile and keep looking ahead and to the left. Now we’re really in the core of it all, hit by swarms of tourists. The casinos are more tangible, but there’s still something so over-the-top glitzy about them that I have to remind myself they are real. On the left is a plainer one, Mandalay Bay, but directly next to it is the first themed casino, Luxor, in all its Egyptian glory, shaped like a pyramid, with an almighty sphinx guarding its entrance.
“Oh my God,” is all I can manage.
“Impressive, isn’t it?”
I’m speechless for a few seconds, already focusing on a miniature skyline of New York up ahead. “What the…?” I stammer.
Darren follows my gaze. “Ah, New York—New York.” He pauses. “It’s the name of the hotel.”
“Of course it is.” I laugh, and look at the addition to the New York skyline, a roller coaster that loops its way around the Statue of Liberty and the Empire State Building.
“But we’re not just about America.” Darren points to the right-hand side of the road, which I’ve been neglecting as I ogle New York—New York. Rising up only a block down is a mini Eiffel Tower. “That’s Paris-Las Vegas.” He pauses. “Oh, and we just passed Hugo’s. Where the girls worked.” Darren points backward and to the right.
For a minute or two I actually forgot what we were here to do. I’m not here to take in the sights, I’m here to solve a murder. And hopefully save the brunette from my dream. I turn around to the front again and take in the rest of the Vegas skyline, but without the same enthusiasm. We pass the very regal-looking Caesar’s Palace—complete with columns and a fiery chariot at the entrance—Mirage, Circus Circus and finally the Stratosphere. New York—New York isn’t the only casino with a ride built into its impressive architecture.
Eventually we take a left off Las Vegas Boulevard o
nto Stewart Avenue and arrive at the police station. I’m still focused on the case, but my senses are overloaded withVegas stardust. Stardust… “Hey, I just realized Cindy’s last name is Star and Janice’s last name is Dust. Stardust.”
Darren starts laughing. “I get it. They must be stage names. A Vegas specialty, like the Elvis impersonator who changed his name by deed poll to Loveme Tender. It’s Vegas, baby!”
We clamber out of the car and head for the front desk. Within a couple of minutes a burly detective in his fifties comes out. The desk sergeant points toward us and Cross comes over.
Darren puts out his hand. “Thanks for seeing us, Cross.”
“Nice to meet you.” He turns to me. “And you’re from the FBI.”
I introduce myself and shake his hand.
“So, why’s the Bureau taking an interest in this case?” From Cross’s tone of voice, it’s hard to tell if Cross is appreciative of the Bureau’s presence or if he resents it. Cops, like most people, can be territorial.
Darren answers the question. “It looks like these recent murders are linked to a female killer that the Bureau’s had their eye on for quite some time.” Coming from Darren, it shows Cross that Darren asked for our assistance, rather than us trying to push the local forces around. Plus it lets Cross know that Darren’s playing ball with me, and so Cross will be more likely to follow suit.
“Ah.” Cross smiles. “Terrific.” His tone is genuine.
He leads us through to the station proper. “I’ll tell you this much, this case has got me now.”
I follow him. “It’s intriguing all right.”
“The more I think about Janice’s death, the more I can see the characteristics of a professional hit. Are you guys checking the mob angle?” We come to some stairs and Cross slowly climbs them.
“No. But I guess that’s a factor in this jurisdiction,” Darren says as he catches up to us. We stay level on the stairs, letting Cross set the pace. Wouldn’t want to give the guy a heart attack, especially when he’s probably only a few years from retirement.
“You betcha. But what Janice and Cindy have got to do with the mob…” Cross trails off and shakes his head slightly.
It’s an interesting take, but I don’t think the mob rings true. “Cindy’s and Malcolm’s murders are both sexual. Classic serial-killer stuff.”
Cross looks at me. “That your specialty, serial killers?”
“Yeah. That’s what I mostly concentrate on.”
“That why you came to the States? Not enough serial killers in Australia?”
I’m impressed that he picked the accent. Many Americans think I’m South African or even English because I don’t have the broad Paul Hogan accent.
“I came for the profiling, for the Bureau. But yes, I do enjoy working on serial cases.”
Cross nods. At the second floor he takes a left. “Do you have many serial killers in Australia?”
“We’ve had a few.” Several is more accurate. “But nothing like here. It’s largely a population thing. We’re not even twenty million. About one-fourteenth the size of the U.S.”
He makes a small grunting noise as he takes another left. “But I bet you don’t have one-fourteenth the number of serial killers.”
He’s right. The stats are high in the U.S. I remember the first time I read the Bureau estimate—it sent chills down my spine. They think the U.S. has more than two-thousand serial killers at large. I do the arithmetic in my head of what the comparative number would be in Australia, given our population difference. I come up with around one hundred and forty. Australia doesn’t have anywhere near that many—and certainly not at large.
Cross doesn’t wait for a response. “How’d you get past the U.S. citizen thing?”
All FBI employees must be U.S. citizens, so it’s a good question.
“My dad’s American,” I explain. “I hold dual citizenship.”
Cross takes a right, into an open-plan office. “I see.” He walks toward a desk in the far right-hand corner. “This is me,” he says as he takes a seat behind the desk. There are two chairs on the near side, which I can only assume he’s set up in anticipation of our arrival.
Darren and I sit and Cross flips open a file. The chitchat is over. “Well, I thought first we’d go out to the house where the girls lived. Then I’ve got us set up for an interview with their boss at one.”
I smile, thinking of Hamill’s approach in Chicago. What a contrast Cross is. Hamill was helpful, to a point, but Cross is efficiency personified. Something I wouldn’t have guessed if I’d judged him solely on his rather shabby appearance.
“I tracked down Cindy’s parents. Her real name is Cindy Bass and she’s from Yucca Valley. Interestingly, not that far from the southern tip of the Mojave. One of the locals went out and informed the parents. Apparently they hadn’t seen or heard from their daughter since she was sixteen.”
“Really?” I say, curious about what caused the family rift. That’s something else Malcolm and Cindy have in common.
Darren looks at me “What’s up?”
I must have the light-bulb look on my face. “Both Cindy and Malcolm were estranged to some degree from their parents.”
Darren purses his lips. “You think it means something?”
I shrug. “Who knows? But it is a link between them and interesting in terms of the victim profiles.”
Cross moves it along. “I also spoke to Janice’s parents. They live in L.A. Told them that we’d had a break and that we were now investigating Janice’s death as suspicious. As you can imagine, they had lots of questions.”
“I’ll bet they did,” Darren says.
“Anyway, I told them that her roommate’s body had been found in Arizona, and that it seems like too much of a coincidence that both girls should wind up dead.”
Darren takes out his notebook. “It’s possible it’s a coincidence.”
Cross scratches his nose. “Possible, but what are the odds?”
“Were they surprised?” I ask.
“No.” Cross shakes his head. “Not at all. I spoke to Janice’s mother and she said she knew Janice hadn’t ODed. Knew her daughter was off the stuff for good.”
It makes sense and ties in with our hunch that Janice knew something.
He places one file down and pulls out another. “So, Cindy. I pulled what I could on her and had a look through it yesterday. Don’t know if it’s worth our while actually going to the Yucca. I mean, her fam ily hasn’t seen her for over five years.”
I nod. “I doubt they’ll know much about her life.”
“What’s she got in common with Malcolm?” Cross asks us. “Other than a falling-out with her parents?”
Darren hesitates, but only for a second. “The signature elements at the crime scene are a perfect match—”
I interrupt Darren. “Almost.”
Cross looks at me, waiting for the explanation.
“They both had a red love heart painted on their chests, but Malcolm also had a rose tattooed on the inside of his right wrist. That’s how we linked him to these other cases that the Bureau’s interested in. Cindy didn’t have the tattoo.”
“Seems odd,” Cross comments.
Darren takes over again. “We think we’re looking at two killers. A couple.”
“Really?”
We both nod.
“So which one was responsible for Janice?”
“It could have been either of them. Like you said, Janice’s murder was carried out like a professional hit. In my opinion, Malcolm and Cindy were killed for pleasure.” I pause to let this sink in with Cross. “But Janice’s murder was business. Quick and quiet, the killer didn’t get off on it. Janice knew something and had to be silenced, full stop.”
We’re quiet for a little while, before Darren continues with the victim comparison. “Both Malcolm and Cindy left around the same time. Both lied to those around them about where they were going and what they were doing. And forensics tells us that bot
h were in the Mojave Desert.”
“Anything else?” Cross asks.
“Occupations.” Darren and I haven’t spoken about it, but I see a similarity between being an escort and being a dancer. Both traded in their bodies, albeit at the upper end of the market.
Darren raises an eyebrow. “Maybe.” He turns to Cross. “Malcolm was an escort. High-class.”
Cross looks at me. “But they were killed by different people.”
“Yes. We’ve got the original profile on Malcolm’s killer.” I pull the photocopied report, with my small changes, from my briefcase and hand it to Cross. “This was drafted two years ago by the FBI and we’ve made a few updates.”
“What about cause of death for Malcolm?”
I take the question. “Strangulation. Female killer who seduces her victims and strangles them during the sexual act. Been active for fifteen years.”
Cross’s face crumples. “No wonder the FBI’s been looking for her.”
“Exactly,” I say.
Cross’s eyes go back to the sheets of paper in his hand and when he’s finished reading the profile he looks up. “Never tracked a female serial killer before. Y’all—” he looks at me, but obviously refers to women in general “—tend to murder for love or in self-defense.”
He’s right. When women kill—and we certainly do kill—it tends to be because we’ve been jilted or cheated on by our lover or because we’re in a domestic violence situation that escalates to the point where it’s “him or me.” Everyone who works this case will be slightly enthralled by the presence of a female serial killer.
We’re silent again. After a few beats Cross gathers his coat from the back of his chair. “Let’s visit our crime scene.”
15
We leave our rental out front and Cross drives. The ride is quiet, and I use the down time to take in my surroundings. I can’t really experience Vegas, not this trip, but I can look at it from afar, as a visitor if not a tourist. We drive out of the station and along Las Vegas Boulevard until Cross jumps a few lanes and lands us on the I-515. We get off at the airport exit, and after a left and then a right, Cross pulls up in front of a small brick house in what seems like a very nice neighborhood, more family orientated than trendy. A red PT Cruiser sits in the driveway.
