Moon Music (8 page)

"Go on."

"I've found flakes of metal lodged where it touched bone…consistent with a rake or some kind of tool. But I've also found bits of tooth enamel."

"Consistent with biting."

"No bite marks, Rom. More like…methodical tearing at the victim with the teeth." She looked away. "There was something very animalistic about this death. Like he was…eating her—"

"Oh Christ!"

"—or more like grazing."

"This is truly nauseating."

Rukmani scratched at her hair tucked under a scrub cap. "This has not been an easy autopsy. It's going to take a while before I come to anything definitive." She stood. "I've really got to go."

Poe got up as well. "I can't entice you with a quick lunch at my place?"

"
Lunch?"

"Well, lunch and munch."

Rukmani laughed, hit his shoulder. "I'd love to, but I've got this corpse—"

"Aha! Okay for you to refuse me, but—"

"Rom, you leave a body exposed for more than a short period of time, it screws up every—"

"When it's
your
ox that's being gored—" Poe stopped talking. "Why did I say that?"

Rukmani smiled with fatigue. "My place, tomorrow night?"

"It's a deal."

"We are really too busy. We never see each other."

"Guess that makes us a true ideal American couple."

"If we're going to lapse into mindless treadmilling and burnout, we might as well get married."

"Name a date."

She waved him off, kissed his cheek. "Mind if I don't walk you out? Brittany Newel is calling my name."

Poe snapped his fingers. "You actually think of her as Brittany Newel?"

"You bet I do. She had a name in life. I'll be damned if I'll take it away in death."

Day, night, it didn't matter, the bars in Vegas looked the same—dimly lit, smoky atmosphere, lots of tabletop slots and poker machines. The saloon at Casablanca sat in the center of the casino, a giant disk with tables and chairs rotating a full circle every hour. Usually lounges-in-the-round were reserved for places with a view. But the only vistas here were the gaming pits and rows of slots. Patricia knew that was the point. To entice the drinkers to leave and gamble.

It had been one hell of an afternoon. Productive, though.
She
had been the first to find evidence—a spike-heeled shoe. More important, she had found the purse—an ecrumacramé thing about fifty yards from where Brittany had been dropped. Blended in perfectly with the sandy layer of Las Vegas desert. It contained her driver's license, two maxed-out credit cards, three hundred bucks, and several plastic cellophane packets of rock crystal cocaine.

Superficially, it appeared that neither robbery nor drugs had been a motive. But she knew that the whole thing could have been a setup to deflect Homicide.

Still, she had been proud of herself. Weinberg had congratulated her, slapped her back, then given her a list of bars to comb. Twenty of them.

And here she was, feeling as gritty as unwashed spinach, as dirty as a desert rat. She sat at the countertop along with a couple of pickled stragglers waiting for fresh crowds of gamblers to come and liven the evening, her eyes observing the natural ebb and flow of the casino. Cocktail waitresses with big bonkers, wearing gauzy stuff, their flat stomachs with jewels in the navels. They walked two and fro—from casino to bar, from bar to casino.

The bartender approached her. Aladdin he wasn't. Then again, she was no Jasmine. He was Samoan or Tongan or something that screamed Pacific Islander—an extra-extra-large with frizzy black hair. He wore black harem pants and a purple satin vest over a white see-through shirt. Sandals on his feet. His name tag said Nate.

Wiping the countertop, smiling with white teeth. "'Lo."

"Club soda," Patricia answered.

It was now six-thirty. Two hours of scouring the bars for Brittany's last stand had produced sore feet and a half-dozen hits—servers who somewhat recognized Newel's face. Unfortunately, no one remembered seeing her yesterday.

Casablanca was bar number twelve on the loo's hit list. She had consumed twenty—count 'em—twenty club sodas, which necessitated about a dozen trips to the bathroom. How she suffered for her art.

Patricia took out her badge, showed it to Nate, who looked at it without flinching. Didn't even back away. She was encouraged. Maybe he'd talk without a cattle prod.

"You want a twist with that, Officer?"

"Detective. Homicide."

His eyes blinked. "Would you like a twist, Detective?"

"Lime."

"You got it."

His eyes yo-yoed up and down over her girth, then jumped to her left hand. Patricia smiled to herself. Two humping rhinos.

Not that she was
that
bad.

Not like after she had left the service—honorable discharge, of course. She had thought she had it together…everything under control. But putting on those civvies, walking out of the base, feeling so dirty and violated. Then seeing him with that evil smile, giving her his famous little wave.

She had gone back to her apartment and had thrown up.

She hadn't ever been a thin girl. But there was chunky and there was obese, and she had crossed over to the latter. Within two years, she had ballooned to 250 pounds. She had never really figured out why she had suddenly reversed her self-destructive gorging. Maybe she had been sick and tired of letting Homer get the last laugh.

She had starved herself in order to pass the department physical, surviving on air and a can-do spirit. But as soon as she made detective, she had started eating again. Stuffing her face until she had been sure that no superior could possibly be interested in her.

And no one had been. Never even a hint of sexual impropriety.

Perversely enough, the guys had been nice. Supportive. Helpful. Even a pussy hound like Steve was always available to answer questions. Slowly, the pounds started melting. She plateaued at 175. Not bad for someone who was five-eight and bigboned.

Then this whole army sexual harassment thing hit. And Homer had called her—all sweetness and light. Eating to calm her nerves, she gathered her strength, called him, then told him off in explicit terms. It felt good! Unfortunately, she was suddenly back over 200. After a steady diet she was down to 185—holding steady.

Nate placed the club soda in front of her, along with a bowl of peanuts and a bowl of chips. Patricia pushed the bowls aside, took out a picture of Brittany Newel, laid it on the countertop.

Nate turned it around, studied it. "Yeah, I've seen her before."

Surprised by his honesty, she took out her notebook. "When?"

Nate shrugged. "Don't remember. Maybe a week ago. Maybe two weeks ago."

"Yesterday?"

Nate actually appeared to be thinking. "This is weird."

"Go on."

"I don't work nights here. I work at Barry's…a little nothing place, but you wouldn't believe the tips."

Patricia nodded as she wrote.

"It's a workingman's bar. Not like this." He screwed up his face in concentration. "I'm not sure. But she might have been
there
last night."

Patricia almost choked on an ice cube. "I see."
Calm, girl.
"About what time did you see her?"

"I'm not even sure if it
was
last night. I see a lot of people. I don't trust my memory." Nate paused. "You know, I'll be at the counter there at ten tonight. Why don't you come down and I'll introduce you around."

He gave her the address. She thanked him, said she'd be there at ten.

Suddenly sweating bullets. Moist armpits. Good thing her deodorant was holding. She wiped her face with a napkin. Sand and dirt blacked the pristine white paper. She knew she was filthy. She was embarrassed.

"I need a shower."

He cleared his throat. "You live far from here?"

She eyed him. "Why?"

"Dinner at eight?" He smiled boyishly. "I know a
great
Italian buffet, better than
anything
you can get on the Strip."

In other words, she looked like a woman who'd eat.

Patricia said, "How about tomorrow?"
By then I will have run
you through NCIC
. "I still have work to do tonight."

Nate smiled wattage. "Tomorrow would be great!"

She took a final swig of her club soda. "Thanks for your help, Nate. Do you have a last name?"

"Oh sure. Malealani." He spelled it.

"And where do you live?"

He gave her his address, along with his phone number. Shyly, he said, "I gave you mine. Can I have yours?"

"In due time. I'll see you tonight at Barry's."

"Yeah! Great!"

The guy looked downright goofy. Of course, the costume didn't help.

She stifled a smile.

He seemed rather innocent…dare she say it, unspoiled. Now, it could be an act. Yet he projected the genuine article. But that was Vegas—a mixture of predator and prey. And even she, as cynical as she was, had trouble telling the teams without a score card.

EIGHT

E
XERCISE. EXORCISE.

Stomping furiously on the treadmill, sweat dripping down—
pouring
down—as if her entire face were crying. Her wet palms were barely able to hold on to the handgrips. In a minute, they'd slip off and she'd go flying into space. Off the belt and into a wall like some Hollywood slapstick stunt. So as long as she could, she pumped her legs, running aslant on the instrument's full tilt. She felt it in every vertebra of her backbone.

To keep her mind off the pain, Alison thought of her research. The green book. All the answers were there if she'd just take the time to look in it. If she could only get off this blasted treadmill and
concentrate
on her research.

It drove her crazy. To
have
to run. But she did it because she was too afraid not to do it. If she stopped, terrible things might happen. The nasty voices could come back. The horrid visions might return—flashing images of blood and guts and sticky stuff. They never came when she was busy. Why leave anything to chance?

Running.

Running to nowhere.

An adequate assessment of her life.

To run, run, run without any fun, fun, fun.

But she stopped short of bludgeoning herself. She had come so far. It used to be that the fear kept her in bed almost twentyfour hours a day. Steve had to carpool, Steve had to cook meals, Steve had to shop and go to parents' conferences and do everything.

Now she could function. She could shop and pick up the kids from school…smile at the teachers and say hello. Often they'd smile back and say hello, too. And when she left the house, she made sure she was well groomed and presentable.

At times, she was oh so normal. A normal woman doing normal things. But then there were the other times….

So that's why she ran.

If Mama had run, she might still be around today. But Mama hadn't run and that had been the problem.

The steady whir of the machine's motor buzzed through Alison's head. Her leg muscles contracting and expanding, the exertion building up her lungs and heart and stamina. The exercise was making her
strong.

If only Mama had run.

But of course, in her own way, Mama had run. But not in a healthy way. Her strange forays during the night. Two, three o'clock in the morning, she'd be gone. Her disappearances had terrified Alison as a child. Papa had been no help at all, as he had been frantic with worry. Sometimes Mama had stayed away for days in a row. And when she returned…the way she had looked. There had been times when Alison had wished that Mama hadn't come back—this stranger so silent and sullen, her eyes feral and always bloodshot.

Drinking maybe.

Because her breath had turned fetid. As if she had lived on carrion.

The ensuing arguments. Papa asking her where she had been. Mama saying she didn't remember. Papa accusing her of lying. Mama going hysterical. Papa begging her to see a psychiatrist. Mama stalking out of the house.

The scene repeated over and over until finally it became moot.

Mama's nighttime escapades. When she was ten, Alison had asked one of her own psychiatrists about them. Dr.

Jones had called them fugue states. Alison looked up the word
fugue
in her junior dictionary.

A musical form or composition in which a theme is taken
up and developed by the various instruments or voices in
succession according to the strict laws of counterpoint.

Had Mama been playing music all this time?

The idea puzzled Alison for years. Until she was older and looked the word up in an unabridged dictionary. There were two meanings, the second one stating:

A state of psychological amnesia during which a patient
seems to behave in a conscious and rational way, although
upon returning to a normal consciousness, the patient
cannot remember the period of time nor what was done
during it. A temporary flight from reality.

A temporary flight from reality. Not so temporary in Mama's case.

When Alison didn't answer the doorbell, Poe took out his picks. A minute later, he was inside the house. She was exercising on the treadmill, her face as red and wet as a rain-washed plum. Her long legs were cutting long strides to keep up with an unnaturally fast pace. Her fingers were so tightly wound around the handlebars that the knuckles had turned bloodless. Her breathing was fast and furious and much too shallow.

Poe went inside her hallway closet, pulled out an octagonal red stop sign mounted on a dowel handle. He took the sign, placed it in front of her face.

As if she were looking at air.

Even before Poe did it he'd known that this time, it wasn't going to work. She was running too fast…out of control. Time to take action. Slowly, he reduced the machine's rate until she was barely walking. He let her go for five minutes, then turned off the treadmill.

She stood in place, not uttering a sound.