Lie Down with the Devil

by Linda Barnes

  “Second one can’t be Gianelli,” Dailey said.

  “Why not?”

  “Ask your pal.” He turned his eyes on Mooney and lowered his voice. “Some of the guys don’t believe you tipped Gianelli off, say it isn’t your style, but I think you’re just the sort to pull a play like that.”

  Mooney clamped his jaw.

  “And once I prove it, you can kiss the job goodbye. Pension, too. The BPD will take the hit on this, and it’s time. The bureau’s taken a lot of crap about keeping mobsters out of jail. This time we’re going to put one in.”

  Mooney decided not to ask whether any mobster would do.

  Thurlow said, “Look, we just got a possible lead on one of Wilder’s former boyfriends, name of Kyle?”

  Farrell, the Indian Affairs man, turned on Dailey. “For chrissakes, you mean nobody at the Boston office has told them? If you guys didn’t try to play it so close to the vest, this kind of thing wouldn’t happen.”

  Thurlow said, “Yeah, why not tell me? You got the goods on Gianelli? CW? Or what?”

  Farrell folded his arms across his chest, and a look that might have been faint satisfaction flitted across his inexpressive face. “I don’t think we’ll have to rely on any confidential witnesses. Not when we’ve got DNA.”

  “Well, okay, that’s pretty final.” Thurlow nodded. “Wish I’d known so I could spread the word around, calm folks down when they start ranting about how the killer’s still out on the streets. That’s pretty final, all right. All they had in the Worthington case was DNA and that guy sure got nailed. Jury convicted first-degree.”

  DNA. Dammit all to hell. Mooney, who’d been listening with increasing dismay, swore inwardly and thoroughly.

  He’d been right, but he’d been wrong, too. Danielle Wilder’s death hadn’t struck the right note as a sex crime. So much for his vaunted street smarts and investigative skills: Turns out it wasn’t a sex crime. He had tried to eliminate Gianelli as a suspect and he had discovered the man’s true motive instead. Gianelli must have been trying to move in on the tribe, trying to find a way to use them as a gateway to get the mob “legitimately” involved in Massachusetts’s casino gambling future. Wilder, clever girl, had found out. Wilder had threatened to expose him.

  There was solid DNA evidence. He might as well go home.

  What would he tell Carlotta?

  PART FIVE

  THIRTY

  I had already lifted my hand to knock when I noticed the small button to the right of the door. The high-roller suite sported a doorbell and why not at the going price? I sucked in a deep breath and pressed my index finger to the glowing disk.

  The woman who answered the bell looked every bit as expensive as the high-ceilinged room and the sweep of deep pile carpeting. She wore a clingy silk sheath in an icy blue that matched her eyes, and for a moment I thought of Katharine, Big Tony Gianelli’s latest wife, Jonno’s mother. This woman, just as formidably well-groomed, was younger.

  “Solange,” I said.

  Her wide eyes did a careful survey of the hallway. The penthouse suite was on a key-only floor. She had every right to demand how I’d gotten access, but instead she regarded me with calculating eyes in which I thought I saw a glimmer of recognition.

  “But don’t I know you?”

  When I gave my name, she nodded gravely, and opened the door wide. The vast living room, by far the most sumptuous rental accommodation I’d ever set eyes on, was ivory and gold, with furniture in the style of some former king of France, all swirly and gilded. Plump pink cushions dotted overstuffed gold sofas that contrasted nicely with heavy rose velour drapes. A fur throw rug decorated the marble floor in front of the gas fireplace. Classical music played, a light air, piano and orchestra.

  I won’t lie; I’d thought about faking it, offering a phony business card with a new name, wearing a wig. But I’d seen Solange once before. Her face was burned into my memory and I’d thought it possible that she would remember me as well.

  Sam travels to Las Vegas fairly often. I’d accompanied him twice, once more than I should have. I’m a slow learner when it comes to men.

  The first time I was nineteen and it was easy to forget exactly what kind of business meeting his business trip fronted. There were plenty of other conventioneers, guys from United Fruit and amalgamated arms, and I sold myself on the story that there were worse things in the world than some quaint old-country protection racket. The first time, I gawked my way along the Strip, amazed that so many grown-up kids wanted to see gaudy replicas of real places. The Venetian only gave me the itch to see the real Venice, minus costumed actors steering phony gondolas.

  I got bored as hell during the day. The nights were fine; we had tickets to any and every show around, but, tell the truth, the town’s attraction eluded me. Too many lights and mirrors. It seemed garish and cheap, a smooth gigolo with no soul.

  The next time I went back, I was a grown-up. I stuck too close to Sam and saw things I wished I hadn’t.

  There was this woman, a pseudo-Frenchwoman named Solange, probably Susan at home, who looked at Sam with ice-blue eyes that altered when I entered the room. When she wasn’t aware of me, Solange regarded Sam with a proprietary gaze that told me volumes about what he did when my cop work kept me home. When I brought it up, he said he wouldn’t be questioned, wouldn’t be treated like one of my suspects. I got angry, left off being a suspicious cop, became judge and jury instead. We broke up, not for the last time.

  If “something happened in Las Vegas,” I had decided Solange might know about it. I was grateful for her unusual name.

  I was able to describe her; I doubt there was a woman I could have described better. She was drop-dead gorgeous. Tall, the way Las Vegas showgirls are tall, with long tawny hair. I thought she was a pro, a demi at least, a showgirl who rented out for the occasional evening or two with a top-of-the-line clientele.

  I thought I could find her quickly. I did.

  She worked the Bellagio and she was very little the worse for wear. I thought her eyes were harder now, but my own aren’t baby soft anymore, so who am I to talk?

  “You are not here to make trouble?” she said coolly.

  “Not for you.”

  Her mouth smiled but her eyes stayed wary. “I have not a lot of time.”

  “Mr. Strathmore never leaves the gaming tables till one.”

  She pivoted on a pair of the highest heels imaginable, glided over to a wall of fancy stereo equipment, pondered a variety of dials before choosing one and lowering the volume of the music so that it faded into the background. When she turned to face me, her features were expressionless. “What is it you want?”

  “Sam was here in December?”

  “You should ask him. You are going to marry him. So you can ask him.” Her face was curiously immobile, but her eyes seemed to mock me.

  “Can I buy you a drink?” I asked.

  “I cannot leave the room.”

  “That shouldn’t be a problem. They have room service, right?”

  She considered the gold wristwatch on her slim left arm before deciding. “White wine and do not put it on Strathmore’s tab. He will check.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  She floated across the carpet, and sank onto the largest of the sofas in front of a cluttered glass coffee table. The clutter consisted mainly of bottles, nail varnish in several different shades, polish remover, clear plastic containers of orange sticks, files, and cotton balls. Until Strathmore returned to the roost, it looked like the agenda had been doing the nails while listening to music.

  I located an ornate phone on a gilded table. A leather folder nearby looked like a menu.

  “And you wish to talk about Sam?” She had slipped her shoes off and was scrutinizing her toenails. The polish looked good to me, but she soaked a cotton ball in acetone and started removing it.

  I nodded, then said yes, out loud. She wasn’t looking at me.

  “Make it champagne then, plea
se.”

  “Will I get my money’s worth?” Her intonation was still vaguely French, but not so much as I recalled. I wondered if her accent had faded or if she only made the full effort with men.

  “Oh, you’ll get what you want.”

  I ordered a bottle of overpriced bubbly, hung up, and shoved a chair close enough that I could study her eyes. When she glanced at me, I said, “I don’t want you to tell me what I want to hear.”

  “Bullshit. Everybody wants to hear that.”

  “I’d prefer the truth.”

  She gave a silvery practiced laugh. “And which truth is that, cherie? I have stories for all occasions.”

  “I don’t have time to play games.”

  “Oh? And what kind of game do you play, coming here? Is Sam with you? Maybe you’re getting married in the Elvis chapel? Maybe you want me to be a bridesmaid?”

  A wineglass with a lipsticked rim sat on a low table by the stereo. She’d already had a drink or two, which was a good thing, I decided.

  “Which color are you going to use?” I said, holding up a vibrant crimson, then a soft pink.

  “I don’t know. Why don’t you choose for me?”

  “What does Strathmore like?”

  “I haven’t known him long enough to say.”

  We went back and forth like that, whiling away the time until the champagne arrived. I didn’t want any waiter interrupting. His arrival didn’t take long. When the penthouse suite wants champagne, the penthouse suite gets it right away.

  I can’t say that the waiter was surprised to find two women in the room. He was a fiftyish Latino with eyes that made me think he hadn’t been surprised since he was five years old. He did the whole routine, displaying the label, popping the cork, catching the fizzy liquid expertly in crystal.

  I paid cash, added a healthy tip, and saw the man out the door. By the time I got back to my seat, Solange was pouring herself a second glass.

  “Please, turn the music up a little,” she said.

  It took me a moment to find the volume adjustment. The piano was firmly in charge, playing a progression of quick, trilling notes that ran lightly up and down the scale. Solange had closed her eyes to listen more closely.

  “You like this piece?” I asked.

  “I love it. I adore it. I used to play Chopin quite well. Does that surprise you?”

  “No.”

  “Bullshit. Of course it does. You think you know me because you have an idea of who women are who sleep with men for money. I was once a student at a conservatory. Very promising, they all said. You don’t know me.”

  “I never said I did.”

  “Look, why don’t you pack up and go home? I won’t tell him you came here. Trust me, you don’t want to ask questions; you don’t want to know. Men come here, they do what they do, and they leave it here. It’s time out, playtime, free play, whatever. It’s got nothing to do with you, nothing to do with what your life will be. There’s this place and then there’s the wife at home and the children and the parent-teacher groups and painting the house, yes? It’s like Tina Turner says, you know? ‘What’s love got to do with it?’ Love’s got nothing to do with what goes on here. It’s like a business.”

  “Yeah,” I said, “it’s like a business.” I fanned ten fifties out on the coffee table.

  The money made her eyes grow warier.

  “Solange,” I said, “I don’t know you. You could be a concert pianist with a worldwide reputation. But you don’t know me either. Okay? We don’t need to know each other.” I tapped my index finger on the spread of bills.

  “Why—?”

  “You don’t want to know why.”

  “What is it you want?”

  “Christmastime,” I said. “From December nineteenth to the twenty-fifth. Was Sam here? With you?”

  She hunted around the room until she found her bag, a small clutch made of deep blue leather. Her calendar was leather-covered, too, and slim. She guarded it so I couldn’t see the pages and I wondered whether she kept it in some sort of code.

  She looked at me with speculation in her eyes. “Cherie, if you were about to divorce the man, I could understand. But you are not married to him yet. You will not collect one dime on this, no matter what I say.”

  “But you will. If you answer.”

  “He was here. With me. Yes, he was here, and then he came back, right at the beginning of March, just— what, not a month ago—yes. He asked me about December, too.”

  “Your glass is empty.” I poured her more wine and asked about other dates. Then we talked about classical music. She told me how she hadn’t been quite good enough, how she felt sick to her stomach before she performed. It took time, but I didn’t want to be direct; I thought she might lie if she sensed I valued her information too much. Slowly, I led her back to the night of December 20. The night Danielle Wilder was killed. She seemed very sure of the date, of the fact that Sam had definitely been in Vegas.

  “Which hotel? Here? The Bellagio?”

  “He moves around. Most guys like one place, but he likes to move. Always a nice room, but never the top of the line. Keeps it toned down, not showy. I don’t mind. Some men are just dazzle and no guts. You ought to marry him. Someone should.”

  “Would you?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “In December? Where did he stay?”

  “At Caesar’s, I think. When I close my eyes, I see a lot of marble.” She’d seen three-quarters of a bottle of champagne. “Yes, Caesar’s Palace.”

  “And then, in March, you said he asked you about the December trip?”

  “Just to see whether anybody had questioned me about it.”

  “Had they?”

  “No. But he said, if they did, I should say I remembered nothing. I shouldn’t talk about it. That’s what he said: Don’t get involved. As though he would have to tell me that. I go on a limb for no one. He was very sweet. He didn’t want me to get in any trouble. He said I might want to disappear if anyone started asking. He gave me money.”

  “If who started asking?”

  “I assumed a man. Should I be frightened of you?”

  “No.”

  “Cherie, you don’t think he’s fooling around with another man? Sam? So what are you after here? I may be a little drunk, but I’m not dumb.”

  If she was drunk, I’ve never seen a woman handle it better. There was nothing sloppy about her; she just downed the golden liquid like it was ginger ale and never missed a brushstroke on the nail varnish.

  “Did Sam tell you who might be asking?”

  “I’m certainly not dumb enough to name any names.”

  “Did he give you a hint?”

  “You don’t name names around here.”

  I circled around and went at it again and again. I don’t think she knew who Sam was worried about. If she had, she’d have spilled it, just to get rid of me. She didn’t want me in the room when Strathmore came back, that’s for sure.

  I gave up on her at a quarter to one.

  Hours later, after visiting Caesar’s, New York New York, the Mirage, the Venetian—practically every hotel and every hotel detective on the Strip—exhausted and stinking of cigarettes, I got ready for bed.

  I could still hear the echo of Solange’s voice: “You ought to marry him.”

  Marry a man who’d proposed marriage to me at the beginning of March, then flown to Las Vegas to spend a few days and nights with a tawny-haired showgirl.

  I was hearing her accented voice for maybe the twentieth time when my cell rang. The impulse to ignore it died as soon as I double-checked the unfamiliar number.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Gravel crunched as I turned onto the winding road, and I welcomed the noise, willing it to keep me awake. Stay with the crunch, I ordered myself, flicking a strand of hair off my nose. Stay away from the silent grass, the lurking ditch.

  Paolina’s summons had grabbed me and shoved me on board eight hours before the flight I’d consi
dered my earliest possible return; after her call, I’d have rented a private jet if I’d had the money. I’ve never been good at relaxing in metal cylinders, so I hadn’t slept on the plane.

  The collegiate buildings rolled by, red brick, yellow brick, old and older still. I negotiated the abrupt turn into the parking lot and rolled the rental to a stop. I used the rearview mirror to determine that the shadows under my tired eyes were seriously dark, decided it couldn’t be helped.

  As I fumbled with the unfamiliar door handle, I heard the snick of another door opening. Mooney emerged from the nearby Buick and I blinked, wondering how I could have missed the vehicle’s presence.

  “Bring the handcuffs?” I made it light, but I scanned the area for undercover units as I spoke.

  He folded his arms and gave me a look. “Where in hell have you been?”

  “I can’t talk now. Later. Paolina called and—”

  “Paolina will wait. She’s still not sure she’ll see you.”

  My turn to stare at him.

  He said, “Yeah, I got her to call you. Actually I told her to leave word at the desk that she wanted you to come, but she couldn’t sleep and— Anyhow, she found an unattended phone.”

  “Excuse me? You used a sick kid to—”

  “I’m trying to keep you out of a cell. Fat lot of good you’ll do her in jail.”

  “You didn’t tell her—”

  “I didn’t. And I didn’t bring backup either.” He raised his hands in a gesture of surrender.

  “I tried to talk to you, Moon. Weeks ago.”

  “And I should have listened, but I didn’t. Let’s get out of the cold, okay? I had my reasons.”

  He was right about the cold. The wind tore at my thin jacket.

  I said, “Paolina first.”

  “Talk first.”

  “No way.”

  “You’re stubborn as a goat.”

  “Mule.”

  I got to see my little sister only by Mooney’s good graces, with Mooney present, for less than half an hour, and while she barely spoke, Paolina looked better. Her hair was shinier, her eyes more expressive, her gestures less restricted, looser, as though something deep inside her had relaxed for the first time since her kidnapping ordeal began.