Moon Music

The old man dropped another quarter into the machine. “Mormons and Paiutes had one thing in common.”

“What?”

“Polygamy.”

Poe smiled. “Guess pussy’s the great equalizer.”

Y managed to crack a begrudging smile. Then he turned serious. “You shouldn’t be talking to Alison about her mother. She’s delicate. Talking about the past sets her back.”

Poe sighed. “Steve already lectured me.”

“He’s right.”

“Are you staying here all night, Chief?”

“It’s warmer than the streets.”

“Want to crash at my place?”

Y considered the option. “But I haven’t lost all my money yet.”

“The machine’ll still be here in the morning.” Poe stood. “C’mon. We’ll take a cab to my car.” Y grumped as Poe helped him to his feet. “Where do you get all your chump money, old man? I’ve never seen you do a day’s work.”

“Uncle Sam.”

“That’s right. You’re a vet.”

“I’m a Korean vet. Then I went and signed up for Nam. Which made me a Nam vet. I was a real warrior in my past.”

“You’re a real warrior now as far as I’m concerned.”

“Then I get money for being an Indian or Native American or whatever shit they want to call us. Compensation for living in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Y staggered and tripped, but regained his footing. “Yeah, I am a vet of foreign and domestic wars. Old Uncle Sam got his money’s worth outta me. And now I’m gettin’ my money’s worth outta him. Do I have to sleep on the floor?”

“You can have the bed.”

“Such genuine Christian charity.”

“Call me Saint Romulus.”

The phone was ringing as Poe crossed the threshold of his single-room clay house. Still cradling the old man, Poe turned on a battery-operated lamp, then picked up the receiver, tucked it under his chin while spitting out the grit of sand. “Yo?”

“Detective Sergeant Poe?”

An unfamiliar voice who knew his title. Not a good sign at one in the morning.

Poe closed the door with his foot. “This is he.”

“Sergeant, this is Sergeant Willis Hollister up here in Reno.”

“Oh boy.” Y was getting leaden, his deep snoring interfering with Poe’s hearing. “Could you please hold on a second?”

“No prob.”

Poe settled Y onto the couch. He’d open it into the bed as soon as he’d dealt with this latest crisis. Because a call from Reno police always meant problems.

Into the phone, Poe said, “Is it my mother?”

“Yeah, that’s exactly what it is.”

“Where is she?”

“Unfortunately … at the moment, she’s in jail.”

“Oh my God.”

“We tried to … avoid this inconvenience. In the past, your brother has always been cooperative in these kinds of situations. But we’re unable to locate him at the moment.”

Poe checked his watch. Sometimes when his brother had big assignments, he worked late. “Look, I’m going to make some calls. If you could stall the arraignment, I’m sure I can find someone to take her off your hands. Why clog up the courts—”

“It’s gotta be soon, Sergeant. She’s takin’ up space and I gotta clear her from the books one way or the other.”

“Give me your number, Sergeant Hollister. I can call back within fifteen minutes. Would that be okay?”

“I can give you fifteen minutes.”

“Thanks. And if you’re ever down this way—”

“When I go on vacation, I go fishing.”

Hollister cut the line.

Frantically, Poe started dialing. His brother wasn’t at work, he wasn’t at home.

Shit, shit, shit!

Again, he checked his watch. Too late to catch a plane to Reno. And he really didn’t feel like driving north. Even speeding it still meant hours of monotonous driving on winding roads. All this on little sleep.

He thought about Aunt Shirley, wondered if it would make matters worse. But with his brother absent, what choice did he have? He dialed her number. Luckily she picked up. Equally fortunate, she sounded reasonably sober.

“It’s Romulus, Aunt Shir—”

“Romulus! How nice of you to call.”

“Thank you very much.” A beat. “I kind of need your help.”

“Oh, what can I do for such a nice boy?”

“It’s Mom.”

“Now what has that woman gone and done this time?”

Nothing you haven’t done yourself. Poe said, “I think she drank a little too much. I think that’s the problem.”

“So …”

Y snorted, rolled over, and tucked himself into the crevices of the sofa. Poe sniffed and winced. The old man was sweating alcohol.

He said, “Uh, Mom’s at the police station. I was wondering if maybe you could get yourself a cab and pick her up. I’d pay for it, of course.”

Shirley tsked and tsked. Then she hemmed and hawed, whiffled and waffled.

Poe added, “And of course, I’d compensate you for your time.”

“Oh, Romulus. How kind of you. But you know I don’t expect anything for helping out my own sister.”

“Of course. Just a little something. I insist.”

“Well, if you insist.” A pause. “Where is your brother?”

An excellent question.

“He must be working on something very important. Uh, could you call the cab now, Aunt Shirley? Better yet, I’ll do it for you.”

“Oh, that would be sweet.”

“My pleasure. Just … you know … you might have to pay something in cash for her release and sign some papers.”

“Dear, I know the drill.”

Despite his fatigue, Poe smiled. “Thank you, Aunt Shirley.”

“You know, Romulus, I’ve been thinking about coming down and paying you a visit. My arthritis is acting up …”

Groan.

But Poe said, “Aunt Shirley, you’re welcome anytime.” His head was throbbing—jackhammers in his brain. “I’m going to call you that cab now. Good-bye, and thank you.”

“Good-bye, Romulus. And tell the taxicab to give me a minute to get dressed.”

“Sure.” He hung up.

That was rich. One drunk looking after another. Still, what was the worst-case scenario? The two ladies would get pickled together, go out, cause a scene, and then both get arrested.

By then maybe it would be morning.

The howling of the coyotes aroused him. A commonplace sound but particularly fierce tonight. According to native legends, coyotes meant death. But coyotes had also honored man by stealing fire for him. So which kind of coyote was out tonight? Poe opened an eye, realized he was sleeping on the floor. He repositioned himself, his back aching, his head pounding. He glanced up.

From his perspective, it appeared that Y was gone.

Slowly standing erect, Poe rubbed his face, yawned, blinked several times. Moonlight streamed in from his bare windows, the rays sparkling with dust brought in by last night’s wind.

Indeed the bed was unoccupied.

Poe picked up his pants, checked his wallet. Being a hopeless compulsive, he made it a habit to start each day with five twenties in his main billfold with a single hundred-dollar bill tucked into a credit card slot for whores or emergencies. He diligently stocked his wallet every night before he went to bed.

Sure enough, two twenties were missing. Shrugging it off, Poe went to his hidden cache of money, refilled his wallet. He plopped down into the fold-out bed, then bolted up.

The sheet and cover were drenched with the stink of sweat and booze. He stripped them off the couch, placed them in his overflowing perforated bag. No getting around it. Tomorrow morning, he’d be at the Laundromat, drinking his coffee while soaping his clothes.

He picked up his sleeping bag from the floor. Sinking onto the bare mattress, covering his head with his bag, shuddering as the coyotes sang their dirges. The Mojave Desert hosted many wildlife preserves. Often Poe had espied bobcats, wild horses, mule deer, and errant bighorn sheep. And wherever there were free-ranging animals, there were coyote. Judging from the feral whooping, whatever the scavengers had caught was cause for celebration.

A big haul: Poe hoped it wasn’t a human one.

13

He arose just before dawn, stiff and cold. Poe put on a pair of slippers, turned on a battery flashlight, and carried it and a bottle of chemical solvent with him to the outhouse. Returning to his compound—an architectural composite of clay beehive and old shanty town—he swept the dirt floor, made the bed up with fresh sheets, then folded the ensemble back into couch form. He donned baggy sweats and took off for his morning run.

The sun had yet to break through a barrier of gray clouds, but the sky was endless. Not a hint of civilization as Poe jogged upon the desert floor, hugging the foothills of the Western mountain ranges. At these times, he realized why he put up with bare bones, trading in plumbing—even more desirable than electricity—for an outhouse. Yet, here he was at peace with nature as he raced in air filled with nothingness.

Arriving home sweaty and awake, he turned on a battery-operated TV, watching a staticky screen the size of a postage stamp. No new murders in Clark County, which was always a positive. In a backpack, he neatly packed his gun, a lunch of raw fruits and vegetables, and cold cuts kept fresh in a picnic cooler. He loaded the backpack and his laundry bag into his car. He planned on showering at the department’s gym.

Once on the road, he dialed his brother’s house in Reno on his cell phone. No answer.

Strange.

The next logical step would be to call up Aunt Shirley. But the day was too nice to be wrecked. If it was bad news, it’d keep. Instead, he punched in Rukmani’s number. She picked up after the third ring; her voice was groggy. “’Lo.”

Poe said, “Are we on for tonight?”

“Yes.” Sounding furtive. “I’ll talk to you later.”

“Want to meet for breakfast?”

“Hold on.”

She sent him into an electronic void, clicked back on a moment later. She whispered, “It’ll take me about a half hour. I gotta clear house first.”

Oh. That!

From the beginning, Poe had known he wasn’t the only one, just the favorite one. His own fault. She had extended an offer last night. And he had refused. Well, work had refused for him.

He said, “I’ll be at Beeny Boy’s.”

“You’re doing your laundry?”

“What else?”

“I’ll see you in about thirty minutes.”

“I think it’s fair to warn you that I haven’t showered yet.”

She laughed. “Romulus, I’m sure compared to the folks I work on, you’ll smell like French perfume.”

Weinberg dug into his pastrami omelet, shoveled a forkful into his mouth. He studied the composite drawing made by the police artist. “Mr. Bland White Guy.”

Patricia said, “Young-looking, too. But Big Ray said his ID put him at thirty.”

“I’ve seen faces like this before,” Jensen said. “Guys with not much facial hair and kind of nondescript features. They age like old women. And they’re hard to pick out in a crowd.”

Patricia said, “At least we’ve got something to work with.”

“That’s true.” Weinberg put down the drawing. “You did good, Deluca.” He picked up a saltshaker, began to rain sodium onto his fat-laden omelet.

Jensen stared in wonderment. “How do you eat like that and not come down with a coronary?”

“My cholesterol is one-seventy. Read it and weep, Jensen.”

Poe knocked on the doors of the locked restaurant. Myra scurried over, let him in. “You’re a little late for eggs, but I can put some rye in the toaster.”

“Thanks, but I had breakfast.”

“Coffee?”

“You bet.” Poe sat with the others, lifted the composite off the table. “Good going, Deluca.”

She said, “I’m a credit to my profession.”

Poe pondered the sketch. “Guy looks familiar, but I can’t place him.”

Jensen said, “My first impression, too. But the harder I tried to finger him, the more he slipped away.”

“He’s got a common face,” Patricia said. “Not a bad-looking guy.”

Jensen said, “He looks … I don’t know … wimpy.”

“I wouldn’t call him wimpy—”

“Ordinary.” Poe ran his finger through wet black hair. “It’ll make him hard to find.”

Jensen added, “Why the hat?”

“What do you mean?” Poe said.

“No one these days wears a felt hat except as part of a costume. I did that once for a Halloween party. Only time I ever remember wearing a hat.”

Poe put the picture down. “But what if you were interested in either hiding or changing your appearance.”

Weinberg raised his eyebrow, readjusted his yarmulke on his bald head. “I like that, Poe. Our man doffs the hat, it throws off our entire perception.” Again, the lieutenant considered the face. “Know what I’m going to do? I’m going to have Mel redraw the guy without the hat. Also, I’ll have him draw our guy with a mustache, figuring that he likes disguises.”

The loo polished off his breakfast.

“Next step is legwork. Start showing the picture around the bars to see if we get any bites. Who’s doing what today?”

“I’ve got a court case at twelve,” Poe said. “After that, I’m back at the Laredo to see if Lewiston’s secretary found the file on Brittany Newel.”

Jensen said, “Parkerboy ain’t gonna give you anything.”

“Steve, he’s got to give me something. Her employment taxes show that she worked for him. He can’t explain them away.”

“It still doesn’t prove he knew her personally,” Weinberg said.

“But it does prove she worked for him, even for a short period,” Poe said. “After the Laredo, I’m free, Loo.”

“So this is what we’ll do,” Weinberg said. “Patricia, you take the casino bars. Jensen, you take it to the bellboys and any other pimps.” The lieutenant’s eyes zeroed in on Poe. “What the hell got into you last night?”

“Pardon?”

“You going to Naked City without proper backup. That’s not the way we operate around here.”

“It worked out all right.”

“Don’t do it again.” A beat. “You learn anything?”

“I located a pimp that Brittany once worked for. She stole from him. He said if he ever saw her again, he’d slit her throat.”

Weinberg sat back in his chair. “He resemble our friend?”

“Not in the least. For starters, he was black.”

“He could have hired out.”

Poe shrugged. “I doubt if he thought she’d be worth the effort. Guy must have a stable of a dozen female flaggers.”

Jensen said, “How much did Newel steal from him?”

“He didn’t say. I don’t even know if she took cash or rock. Just that she took something.”

Myra came over with a pot of coffee, poured a cup for Poe. “Mickey, did you remember to order the extra chairs?”

“R and R Rentals,” the lieutenant answered. “They assured me they’d be here by four.”

“What a doll!” Myra said. “I’ve got a hundred and fifty people coming in tonight. Sam Silverman’s eightieth birthday. For the last forty-five years, Sam’s been celebrating his birthday in Vegas. Last year, his son turned very religious and started keeping kosher. Sam was distraught, thinking that his son wouldn’t eat at his party. Then he discovered my place.”

Her voice dropped to a whisper.

“He’s paying me double what he paid the trayf place who hosted his party last year, that’s how happy Sam Silverman was. Thank God for the Jewish born-agains. They pay the rent. How about some refills?”

Patricia put out her cup. She just loved coffee. It not only hyped her up, but had zero calories. “Thanks, Myra.”

To Weinberg, Poe said, “You know, I’m going to be downtown anyway for court. Why don’t I stop by Freemont and scan some mug books? See if I can’t find a candidate that matches our composite. Also I could run the Newel case through the Crime Analysis hookup down there. See if it gives me any other recent cases.”

“Like what?” Weinberg asked. “We haven’t had a desert dump in over a year.”

Poe’s brain worked frantically. “How about last February? The Filipina women we found in the plastic bags?”

Jensen said, “They were left in a truck-size communal waste container, buried under three feet of garbage. Rotting but otherwise intact.”

“Except for the gunshot wounds in their heads,” Patricia added.

Jensen said, “Newel wasn’t shot, she was ripped apart like an animal. She was also found in the open desert. I don’t see any connection, Poe.”

“They were both body dumps.”

“All bodies gotta be dumped somewhere.”

“It’s worth a shot,” Poe insisted.

Weinberg said, “I haven’t heard of any recent similar case. But sure, try it out, Poe. As long as you don’t waste time digging up bones that don’t mean anything.”

Poe agreed.

A couple of hours in Records was all that he needed.

The Downtown Metro building wouldn’t be winning any architectural awards, but Poe gave it an A for effort. It was an eight-story thing, shaped like a cylinder missing a wedge with its center hollowed out for a courtyard. The courtyard was floored with pavers and decorated with oversized concrete planters designed not only for interest, but also to prevent wayward cars from smashing into the structure. The streetside perimeter wall was made from stone and adorned with a cryptic primitive mural of tile in primary colors. The courtyard exterior wall was a continuous sweep of glass windows and concrete balconies.

Police records were stored on the first floor next to the Traffic Division. Thousands upon thousands of case files arranged according to number. To look up the case required a trip to the card catalog, then an exhaustive search through shelves of folders. Poe knew right away that he’d hit blanks. The files started in the mid-1990s.

Which necessitated a trip to IAD. Like Homicide, IAD had its own separate building, which housed past files stored on microfiche. In the meantime, Poe did what he could at Metro.

Ambling up the stairs to the second floor. Most of Metro’s detectives were housed here. Each detail had its own squad room. Ten detective quarters surrounded the interview rooms, which, like islands, sat in the middle of the floor. Spotting an empty Crime Analysis hookup in Fugitive turf, Poe pulled up a chair and entered the particulars of the Brittany Newel case.

Waited as the cursor blinked.

Over the next hour, the computer spit back twenty similars which had taken place in the last two years.

Serial killers who took body parts as trophies—lots of scalping.

Serial killers who gouged and mutilated.

Serial killers who cannibalized their victims.

Grisly stuff, but none screamed Newel’s MO.

When the clock struck three, Poe had had enough. He logged off the computer, then took out the composite and scanned the recent mug books. Finding nothing applicable, he gave up, left Metro, and headed to Internal Affairs Division, arriving at the building five minutes later.

Clearing the reception room at IAD, he made his way to the bowels of Records, where he was blocked by the file clerk. A very efficient young lady who wore her hair in a bun. Her name plate read Madison.

“You haven’t filled out the papers correctly.”

Poe politely explained that he was not sure what case he was looking for, only that he’d know it when he saw it.

“Detective, you know and I know that you can’t go browsing through files without authorization. It’s a violation of civil rights—”

“A dead person has no civil rights.” Poe kept his temper in check. “It’s a twenty-five-year-old case. She isn’t going to come back to sue.”

The clerk frowned. “Do you at least have a year for the case?”

Poe rubbed his face. “Nineteen seventy-two or -three.”

“I said a year. In the singular.”

“I gave you a two-for-one. C’mon. Give me a break!”

Madison rolled her eyes—an old schoolmarm who didn’t believe his excuse for not having his homework. “How long are you going to be?”

“Maybe an hour.”

Madison motioned him inside the crypt.

Within fifteen minutes, Poe was alone with the films, cases flipping by with a flick of the wrist. He felt his heartbeat, heard his steady breathing; he was the only one in the room.

There was no Bogeyman case file: that was the sensationalized name invented by the media. He found only one twenty-five-year-old unsolved murder case that had all the elements.

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