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“None of your business,” Poe answered. “And don’t you dare interrogate your wife to get answers—”
“I’m not interrogating her, I’m interrogating you.” Jensen spun 360 degrees on his heels, faced Poe with rage. “You think it’s jealousy, don’t you? You think I’m this big, bad jealous schmuck who’s—”
“Steve, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You don’t goddamn get it, do you? Every time you talk to her and start reminiscing about the good ole days, it sets her back. You don’t see it. Because to you, your little talks are nothing but great fun. And because when she talks to you, she puts on her normal act—”
“Steve—”
“—but get her a couple hours later, when you’re long gone, out screwing your whores or girlfriend or playing your cards being Mr. Asshole Carefree Bachelor, then she’s left alone. And when she’s alone, she sinks, Rom. And guess who has to deal with her shit!”
No one spoke.
Jensen exhaled forcefully. “Every time you come to visit, you put her back six months’ worth of therapy.”
Again, there was silence.
Jensen said, “In case you haven’t noticed, she’s very fragile and disturbed—”
“I’m well aware—”
“You aren’t aware of anything except what she tells you. And that’s always her own slant. Her own bizarre thoughts. I’m not saying she can’t be helped. But you ain’t the one to do it, all right?”
Poe stuck his hands in his pocket, eyes looking upward, into a black, starry sky. “If I’ve been … causing problems between you and your wife, I apologize.”
“I don’t need your apologies, Rom. I need you to leave her alone. Understand?”
“Clearly.”
Jensen suddenly wilted, exhausted and spent. “Weinberg’s looking at me strange. You didn’t tell him about—”
“No.”
“She ask about the case at all?”
“Who? Alison?”
Jensen nodded.
“Yeah. She said you were very upset last night. She asked whether you had slept with the victim.”
“And you told her no?”
“I won’t dignify that with an answer.”
Neither spoke for a moment.
Poe said, “You find out anything?”
“About Brittany?” Jensen shrugged. “Nothing that points to a killer. Just bits and pieces.”
“We should meet, compare notes with Patricia.”
“Give me a time and place.”
Poe started snapping his fingers, stopped himself. “Back at the Bureau in what … two hours. Let’s call it for nine.”
“I’ll be there.” Jensen rubbed his face, looked up. “I’ve got to … don’t want to leave her alone.” His jaw tightened. “Although I don’t think she relishes my company.”
“Steve, I—”
“Forget it.”
Poe nodded. Jensen was right. Leave it unsaid.
The big man patted Poe’s shoulder, turned, and walked back inside his house. Poe remained rooted, his eyes racing across an endless inky sky, the sounds of his snapping fingers echoing in the stillness of the night. Slowly, he forced himself to move. To go away.
He had a giant headache.
Probably too much caffeine.
Next time, he’d cool it with the coffee.
9 (#ulink_72aa3456-0a7d-5d34-a8a0-4608e0d155ad)
Taking a couple of practice swings, the iron whizzing through the air. “How’s your game coming, son?”
Poe answered, “I don’t play golf, Mr. Lewiston.”
“Pity.” Several more slices into the air. Then the moment of truth. Lewiston bunched up his body in concentration, his eyes focused on the tee. He took aim and swung. A clean shot, the ball rising, falling, rolling across the ground. It fell into a sunken cup around fifty yards away.
That’s how big the office was.
Poe estimated that it took up over half the top floor of the Laredo. Floor number twenty-six. Twenty-five actually, because the elevator had gone from floor twelve to floor fourteen. Lewiston’s domain kept going and going, with desks and chairs and couches and tables, all of the furniture resting on a carpet of natural sod. Verdant, clipped sod. The temperature inside his working quarters was a muggy seventy-four degrees.
Lewiston leaned against his iron, said, “You say you don’t play golf?”
“Correct.” Poe was seated in a leather club chair whose legs were buried in the grass. The apparatus had settled slightly to the left, throwing his perspective off-kilter.
“Have you ever tried the game?”
“A few times.”
Lewiston straightened. Poe felt the heat of the casino owner’s eyes, peering at him as if sighting prey. Steely blue things that were reptilian-cold. A chiseled face with a strop-sharpened-razor shave, his complexion so smooth as to appear wet. Short haircut, the color too iridescent to be called gray. It was more like silver. At sixty, Lewiston stood erect and tall—about Jensen’s height. For the golfing demonstration, he had donned a pair of black silk-and-wool slacks and a white silk shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His feet were housed in black croc boots. He wore a string tie held together by a jeweled pendant—aquamarine maybe. He had thrown the tie over his shoulder lest it interfere with his shot.
“Son, you’ve never tried the game until you’ve tried it with me. Why don’t you join me on one of my courses this Saturday? Golfing always puts me in a social mood.”
“My handicap would be too big, sir.”
Besides, fraternizing with the big boys is a no-no, Parker. Sort of ruins the objectivity.
“You know how to aim a gun?” Lewiston asked.
“Of course.”
“Shoot a target?”
“Yes.”
“Then golf should be a snap.”
“I think holing a fifty-yard chip takes a little more finesse than blasting a cardboard cutout.”
“Well, it shouldn’t take more finesse,” Lewiston insisted. “Because shooting has a lot more ramifications than sinking a putt. You should work some finesse into your shooting, son.”
Poe was not about to be undermined. “Maybe it has something to do with split-second decisions. Difficult to have finesse when you’re looking down the barrel of a shotgun.” He whispered, “Hand’s shaking too hard.”
Lewiston smiled with brown-stained teeth. “You should work on that, too. Never let them see you sweat.”
“I’ll keep that in mind next time I’m running down an armed bank robber. Better still, I’ll call you. You can bring down your clubs and really show him who’s boss.”
“In a tight situation, a Magnum might be the preferred weapon. You can always borrow mine.”
“I wouldn’t mind, but the department may have other thoughts.” Poe balled his hands into fists to keep himself from fidgeting. “Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Lewiston. I really do appreciate it. Especially because you are a hard man to reach.”
Two hours of plodding through the channels had accomplished zilch. But twenty minutes at the blackjack tables had caught their attention. Place had a new pit boss. Shame on Parkerboy for not keeping his guys up to date.
Lewiston said, “My staff knows how I value my privacy.” The eyes squinted into small knots. “You seem to be a persistent fellow. One might even call you a pest … or a gnat … or something annoying.”
Poe appeared thoughtful. “With all due respect, Mr. Lewiston, I don’t agree. Like take tonight. Instead of getting all mean-mouthed and pushy when I kept being put on hold, I just left a couple of messages. Figured I’d wait you out. So I just plunked myself down at a table and bided my time.”
Poe took out a thick wad of bills with Ben Franklin on top. Slowly, he flicked the stack with his thumb, thousands of dollars dancing past like an old cartoon motion book.
“That’s all I was doing, sir. Just passing time.”
Again the apple-rot smile. “How ’bout we call it a going-away present?” A wave of the hand. “As in you … going away.”
Poe pocketed the cash and took out a notebook. “I’d like to ask a few questions about Brittany Newel, sir.”
“Brittany Newel?” Lewiston seemed confused. “Is the name supposed to be familiar?”
“She claimed she was one of your girls.”
“Claimed. As in the past tense. Is she denying it now?”
“She’s not saying anything, sir. She’s dead.”
Lewiston shrugged. “It happens.”
“Did you know her?” Poe asked.
“Not that I can recall.”
Poe took out a picture, showed it to Lewiston. “How about this girl? Did you know her?”
Lewiston looked at the photograph. “She’s a pretty little thing. Who is she?”
Is Parkerboy shittin’ me or what?
Poe said, “She doesn’t look familiar?”
Lewiston held a perfect poker face. “Son, she looks like a thousand other showgirls in this city.”
Poe said, “This was Brittany Newel.”
Lewiston took another look at the photograph. “Shame. Don’t think she ever worked here.”
“Her employment tax records said she did.”
Without missing a beat, Lewiston picked up the phone’s intercom. “Lois, can you get hold of personnel. Find out if a young thing named Bethany—”
“Brittany.”
Lewiston turned to Poe. “Spell the name for me, son.”
Poe complied.
“All right, dear,” Lewiston said into the phone. “Thank you, dear.” Turning to Poe. “It’s going to take time. Check in with me tomorrow afternoon.”
After you’ve raped the files. Luckily Poe had been there first. He said, “Thank you, Mr. Lewiston.”
The casino owner gave out a chuckle. “You’re obviously a bettin’ man, son. You’ve done well at my tables. I’ll give you another hour and we’ll give you double odds. How’s that for being daring?”
Most of the games in Vegas were clean, because house odds usually worked magic without cheating. Still, there were thousands of ways to rig a game. Especially since casinos had dozens of cameras, giving them eyes to everyone’s cards. Lewiston seemed out for revenge.
Poe wasn’t about to play dupe. He rose from his slanted chair, extended his hand. “Some other time. No hard feelings?”
“Never.” Lewiston took the proffered fingers, crushed them in his grip. “Not at all.”
Poe counted to three, then pulled back his hand, smiling all the way. Asshole! His bones felt as if they had been put through a winepress. Yet he wasn’t bothered too much. At least now his fingers were too sore to snap.
Lewiston said, “Now if you’re not going to join me for golf on Saturday, you’d just better be running along.” A slow grin. “Don’t make me call my lawyer. City Hall wouldn’t like it.”
“Not necessary.” Again, Poe pulled out his cash. “Can I get a cashier’s check for this?”
“Downstairs.” Lewiston intercommed his secretary. “Lois, can you show Detective Poe out, please?”
“Sergeant.”
