The more I read, the more I realized that I should still write Victoria’s story. It was the least I could do for her, I thought, but I knew that was only partly true. Victoria deserved an advocate, but I was also thinking about my journalism career. Truth be told, Victoria’s story might well be more compelling now that she was dead.
Except I needed to know more, and that meant I had to find out how to reach Heather, the woman I had met at the Sekhmet Temple. She’d not only be able to answer my questions, but she’d have good reason to want to know what really happened to her business partner.
Chapter 6
Around five, I had to start worrying about how I looked. I wouldn’t have cared very much, but the San Marino, a new casino out at Lake Las Vegas, was sending a limo to pick us up. Sierra said there might be photographers because the San Marino was hoping to get some publicity for helping out the Alliance. Fortunately, I had recently acquired the most awesome little black dress in the universe, and I also had a new little plastic clip that was guaranteed to trap my hair in a perfect French twist.
I was ready at six, but the limo still hadn’t arrived twenty minutes later. Leaving me to wait for it, Michael and Sierra took off in Michael’s Jetta. I wasn’t happy about being left behind until I met the limo driver. He was about my age, and his name was Adrian. He was very apologetic about the delay.
“I was taking care of a spoiled Japanese whale,” he said, and I was grateful I’d been in Las Vegas long enough to know he wasn’t talking about a decomposing marine mammal.
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “High rollers are bigger tippers than I’m going to be.”
I kind of wanted to ride in the front seat with him so we could chat, but I was afraid it might look wrong when we arrived at the gala. It turned out we could chat anyway through the window behind his head.
“Help yourself to a drink,” Adrian said as he got onto the freeway and headed north. “Because of the whale, the bar’s better stocked than usual.” What the heck, I figured, and I poured a slug from a Johnnie Walker bottle with a blue label.
“So how long you been living in Vegas?” Adrian asked.
“How do you know I’m not a native?” I said.
“You aren’t, are you?”
“No.”
“This job teaches you things,” Adrian said.
I’d finished my Scotch by the time Adrian pulled the limo up to the Astroturf in front of the white tent. I had imagined that there would be strobes flashing when I got out, but I was wrong. Nobody seemed to notice my arrival, and that was actually a good thing because when I stood up, I was suddenly aware that I hadn’t put much besides alcohol into my stomach all day.
“I’ll be over there,” Adrian said as he shut the door. He pointed to a dusty lot where other cars were parked. “We can leave any time you want to,” he added, taking my elbow. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I said, but I think I was wobbling a little as I went to look for Michael.
When I found him, he was talking to David Nussbaum.
“What are you doing here?” I said. “I thought things like this were Alexandra Leonard’s beat.”
“They are, but she got food poisoning at the St. Jude’s Christmas party. So here I am.”
Just then the red-haired woman who’d been on stage at the press conference grabbed Michael’s arm. She was wearing a black cocktail dress remarkably like my own, and I could swear she’d used the same kind of clip on her hair.
“Ozzie’s here,” she said, and no further words were necessary to spirit my brother away to greet the mayor.
“Do you know who she is?” David asked as we watched them shake hands with Oswald Brightman and his wife.
“An Alliance board member, I assume.”
“Her name’s Julia Saxon,” David said, and I turned to him with my mouth open.
“Julia Saxon? Really?” The name was all over the files in Victoria’s cardboard box.
“Yeah, but lots of people have other names for her.”
“She was Victoria McKimber’s lawyer.”
“Doesn’t surprise me,” David said. “Las Vegas is a very small town.” He draped his arm around my shoulders and added, “That’s why you see so many people with teeth marks on their asses.”
I had no idea what he was talking about, and my head was beginning to ache.
“I’m supposed to find Mirandela,” I said. “I’m her keeper tonight.”
“I’m not sure you have that assignment anymore,” David said, pointing to Julia again. She was greeting Mirandela and a paunchy guy in a baby blue tux as they stepped out of a lime green limo.
“I didn’t want the damn job, anyway,” I said, surprised at the flash of anger I felt. “I’ve got to go find my sister-in-law. I’m supposed to be helping her.”
My new job was to inform guests of their table assignments, and as I sat matching names with numbers, I was amazed at how many names I recognized. David was right. Las Vegas is a small town, but its global reputation makes everyone think it’s on a par with New York.
I kind of wished I could sit with David for dinner, but my assigned seat was at the head table with the board members, and David had to sit with the “press corps,” a small cadre that included the society columnist from the Herald-Dispatch and a freelance writer who hands out black business cards embossed in gold with her one and only name: Xenobia. Xenobia has got to be at least eighty-five years old. I’ve seen her at practically every opening I’ve attended, always clad in the same purple sequined dress and matching feather boa. A walking Las Vegas history book, she’s probably entertaining to talk to, but it takes a stronger constitution than mine to hold up against her perfume. I sat down next to her once at a restaurant opening, realizing a little too late why that particular chair was vacant in a filled-to-capacity room.
I wasn’t sitting next to Julia at the head table, but Michael was, and he introduced us. As soon as he had to leave, I took his place.
“I’m so sorry about Victoria McKimber,” I said.
That really got Julia’s attention. Up to then, she’d been far more interested in chatting with Mirandela, who was sitting on her left.
“You knew Victoria?” she said, and my brain had to work fast. This was my big chance to come off like a real journalist.
“I interviewed her on Monday,” I said, “for a story I’m working on for a—a major magazine. I was supposed to meet her again on Sunday—”
“What magazine?” Julia interrupted.
“Esquire,” I lied. “Victoria gave me an exclusive, and that’s why I wanted to talk to you. I’ve got all her files, and—”
Julia looked at me hard, and there was lots of activity behind her eyes. When she spoke again, she was much friendlier.
“Copper, we should have lunch sometime,” she said. “I’ve really enjoyed working with your brother, and I’d love to have the chance to get to know you better, too.”
After she gave me her card, and I’d written my phone number on another, Julia took a big drink of merlot and refilled both our glasses from the bottle on the table.
“Victoria didn’t give you any tape recordings by any chance, did she?”
“I haven’t come across any so far,” I said, remembering the tiny recorder Victoria used the first time I met her. “But I think there are things like that in the files I have. I’ll keep an eye out as I work my way through them.”
“Thanks,” Julia said, patting my arm. “I love your dress, Copper,” she added.
“Thanks,” I said. “AmaroDolce at the Caesars Forum Shops.”
“Hey, I got mine there, too,” Julia said. “It’s a great store.”
Meeting Julia made the Alliance dinner well worth the effort, even though my headache was worse than ever by the time I left. Sierra joined me in the limo for the trip home, and another shot
of Scotch from the blue-labeled bottle didn’t help.
“So what were you talking to Julia about?” Sierra asked.
“Victoria McKimber.”
“Be careful, Copper,” Sierra said. “It’s really risky to poke around things like that in this town. I’m not joking. Everybody’s connected here, and everybody’s got turf to protect. You could make some dangerous enemies without even knowing it.”
The window behind Adrian’s head was open.
“Where’d you go to high school?” he asked.
Then he and Sierra spent the rest of the trip talking about old prom queens at Bonanza.
:: :: ::
Saturday, December 17
It was past midnight, and I was exhausted, but sleep was out of the question. A cat was yowling outside the window next to my bed, which opens out onto the garage roof. Burying my head under two pillows didn’t succeed in drowning it out, so I finally gave up. I opened the window and stuck my head out, but before I could pull it back in, the cat was on my shoulder.
It was little thing—almost a kitten, really—a gray tabby with the most perfectly symmetrical face and huge green eyes. I was surprised. I’d thought a horny old tomcat was making all the racket.
I didn’t have any milk, but the cat happily gobbled up a whole can of tuna and half a carton of yogurt. After that, I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t bring myself to throw it out into the cold again, even though it probably had fleas. I finally made a bed out of a plastic bin and a beach towel, but all it wanted to do was sit in my lap, knead my thigh, and purr.
I finally fell asleep, and when I woke up around eight o’clock, there was a cat on my chest. After I tossed it out onto the garage roof, I threw on some sweats and went into the house to have breakfast with Michael and Sierra. Sierra watches a lot of cooking shows and owns at least fifty thousand cookbooks. She “creates something” most Saturdays, and I was hoping a big serving of something rich and buttery might take the edge off my hangover. She makes good coffee, too.
“How are you feeling this morning?” Sierra asked as she pulled breakfast out of the oven. “I’m surprised you’re up.”
“A cat did it,” I said.
“What cat?”
“One that yowled on the garage roof until I let it in.”
“Did you feed it?”
“A whole can of tuna and half a container of yogurt.”
“It’s yours.”
“What if I don’t want it?”
“Doesn’t have much to do with it,” Sierra said. “If the cat wants you, you don’t have a chance.” She sighed. “I’m jealous. No cat’s tried to adopt me since Sammy. I still miss him.”
Sammy the Siamese disappeared over a year ago, and suspicion hangs heavily over a big German shepherd two blocks over.
“How bad are the stories?” I asked Michael, who was buried in the first section of The Light.
“Oh, we’ll survive. Thanks to Julia. She’s got a backup plan she says is just as good as the original. The worst that can happen is that we’ll build our service center on the north side of Las Vegas instead of downtown.”
“Why hasn’t the deal closed? I thought you had all the zoning issues dealt with a month ago.”
“It’s complicated,” Michael said, “because we’re dealing with two different owners. Most of the land is owned by Paragon Properties, but like a lot of parcels in downtown Las Vegas, a little slice of it is owned by somebody else. Those people still haven’t signed off, but Julia’s getting it straightened out. She’s a real mover and shaker.”
Mover and shaker. I’ve always hated phrases like that, and I was mildly surprised to hear it out of Michael’s mouth. Did it mean I’d soon be hearing him describe people as having juice? Ugh. On the other hand, juice is exactly what Julia Saxon seemed to have. I couldn’t wait to have lunch with her.
Chapter 7
When I checked my email, I found a message from Heather, Victoria’s business partner, whom I’d met at the Sekhmet Temple. Victoria must have given her my email address, or at least mentioned that I work for The Light. Heather asked if I’d be willing to get together to talk about Victoria, which was exactly what I had in mind. Unfortunately, she was in Reno on business, and she wouldn’t be getting back to Las Vegas until Monday.
Heather ended her message with a sentence that made me even more interested in meeting her: “Unless we do something, those bastards at the Beavertail are going to get away with it.”
I called David on his cell phone, hoping I wouldn’t wake him up or disturb the breakfast phase of an overnight date. He was someplace noisy, though, and I asked him for a copy of the police report about Victoria’s death.
“Are you still playing sleuth?” he asked.
“Somebody should be,” I said, and I told him about Heather’s message.
“The police are investigating, Copper,” he said. “Her death really could have been accidental.”
“Sure.”
“Come on, Copper. Give them a chance. It takes time.”
“She had enemies, and she was a prostitute. Cops don’t care about people like her.”
David ignored me and went on.
“For one thing, they have to work with the Nye County Sheriff. Victoria was supposed to be at the Beavertail when she turned up dead. They have to look into the possibility she died there and then got dumped over here.”
David said he’d copy the police report and leave it on my desk.
“But you already know more than what’s in it,” he added.
As I continued looking through Victoria’s files, I came across an audio tape. I didn’t have a chance to check it, but I wondered if it was the one Julia Saxon wanted. What I did learn was that the madam at the Beavertail Ranch was named Bernice Broyhill. Victoria had written her two letters, one explaining about the beauty contest and another asking for her support in her feud with Kent Freeman, the Beavertail’s owner.
Bernice liked to issue commands on pink Post-It notes: “See me today noon,” and “See me ASAP.” Only one was more revealing: “See me re: Marks this p.m.”
Marks. That was a name I recognized. But then, everybody in Las Vegas knows that name. Charlie Marks has practically been deified for reinventing the Strip and building one blockbuster hotel after another. But why would a guy who owns megaresorts frequent a brothel? Surely he could afford full service blondes direct to his room! It can’t be him, I decided. Must be some other Marks.
On the Beavertail’s website, I found Bernice Broyhill listed as “shift manager” along with the great news that she was happy to give free tours, “Ladies welcome!” I was more than half tempted to drive to Pahrump and take her up on the offer.
I’d been to Pahrump only once before, when Michael and Sierra took me to the Pahrump Valley Winery for dinner when I first arrived in Las Vegas. “Going over the hump,” they called it, because we had to cross the Spring Mountains to get there. They didn’t mention anything about brothels, though, and it wasn’t until two months later that I learned that Pahrump’s X-rated attractions were hidden on the south side of town in their own little unmarked bordello zone. Fortunately, the Beavertail’s website provided directions: “West on Highway 160, south on Gamebird Road, east on Homestead to the end. Our doors are always open.”
They should have added, “And we’ll leave the red light on for you.”
:: :: ::
After thinking things over and realizing that Sierra’s breakfast had done a good job of making me human again, I decided to go to Pahrump. Even if I didn’t find anything out about Victoria, I’d never have a better chance to see the inside of a cathouse. I had Christmas shopping to do, but it would have to wait. As Auntie Melanie would say, the opportunity was too precious to let it get away.
When I opened my apartment door to leave, I almost stepped on the perfectly dissected i
nterior organs of a large rodent. The cat wasn’t gone after all. She’d brought me a gift. Sierra would have called it true love, but all I could say was, “Yuck!” I decided to give the cat a name, though: Sekhmet.
As I headed south on the freeway, I realized I would be driving very near the spot where Victoria’s body was found. I wondered if I’d be able to find it, and that thought was enough to pull me off of Blue Diamond Road when I got to Grand Canyon Drive. David had told me the site was less than a quarter mile south, on the right hand side of the road. The pavement ended a few hundred feet from Blue Diamond, and the ditches on both sides of the road had standing water in them. The sky was clear now, but there had obviously been a cloudburst in the area sometime recently. I bumped on down the gravel, and sure enough, I soon spied festoons of yellow caution tape.
I pulled off the road where several cars were parked and joined a few other gawkers watching three men in jeans, sweatshirts, and baseball caps. One was poking around in a creosote bush, and the other two were squatting over a big black stain on the ground. Their gloves, clipboards, measuring tapes, plastic bags, cameras, and little flags made it obvious they were on official business, even though they weren’t wearing uniforms.
David was right, I thought as I surveyed the scene. There was a lot of blood. At least I assumed it was blood that had created the big black stain.
“Fuckin’ drunk drivers,” the man standing next to me said. He was a bearded guy of about fifty wearing a Harley-Davidson T-shirt. “Las Vegas is a dangerous place to be a pedestrian, even way out here.”
“You think it was an accident?” I said.
“Happens all the time,” the Harley guy said. “Some asshole hit her, realized there were no witnesses, and took off.”
It made sense except for one small problem. Victoria was supposed to be at the Beavertail, not alone on an isolated desert road.
:: :: ::
I hung around a little while longer, watching the investigators take pictures and put dirt samples into little bags. One of them mixed up something I guessed was plaster of paris and poured it into a muddy rut. I was tempted to try to talk to them, but when the Harley guy asked them if they had any leads, the one who seemed to be in charge brushed him off with a well-rehearsed line that went something like, “We don’t have any information at this time.”
Full Service Blonde Page 5
