Molina would put the medical data into a socioeconomic framework. Already she had observations: mid-fifties; middle-class, starting to lose the battle of the bulge but not particularly worried about it. Most telling detaiclass="underline" the base of the third finger on the left hand pinched in, as if it had worn a corset for many years. A wedding ring.
She left.
Many had tried and failed, hut the graffiti artist/killer said that this woman had succeeded, at least for a while.
It was an epitaph for too many women across the country, for too many daily newspaper front-page stories: bodies of women who had left and too many sisters left behind who had not yet summoned the courage to leave.
The medical examiner picked up an electric implement with a small circular saw at the end.
It began whirring like a can opener. The slicing of the cranium to expose the brain was about to begin.
Behind her, Alch cleared his throat.
Curious fact: autopsies usually shook men more than women. She knew Alch would leave very shortly. She would stay, and every moment she stayed the dead woman she had found sprawled by her car would become a dead body, would become a case number, would become more an event she could decipher in the course of many days' work, and less an affront to her very soul.
Chapter 10
Grapevine
"The first task of the canny operative is to scout the victim's place of habitation."
"You mean where he lived."
"Lives. We do not know that anyone is dead here."
Midnight Louise is too busy checking out the traffic on the Strip to object to my correction.
"That neighborhood is seven miles from here," she says. "Already we are losing money. How much did that dame slap down for a retainer anyway?"
"Er. . . enough for me to know and you to forget about. I handle the money, kit. Got it?"
"I do not 'got it.' that is the whole point. But I am not in this for the money anyway."
"Oh?"
"I thought I would like to see how you operate . . . when you are not dishing out the dopamine to the dames, that is."
"Dopamine? Are you implying that I need the aid of drugs to fascinate the ladies?"
"You are a catnip user."
"That is a legal aid to . . . circulation."
"Yeah, Pops. To your social circulation."
"Do not tell me that you do not take a little nip now and again."
"Not a bit Not a sip. Not a dip. I believe in holistic medicine."
"Wholistic?"
"I believe in natural highs."
"Such as?"
"The fresh air of springtime."
"I see what you mean," I say as an air-conditioning truck goes by.
What it actually is becomes clear in a moment: It is a Dust Devils housecleaning service truck pausing at a red light. The rear door of the van trails a vacuum cleaner cord and thus is handily ajar.
"Come on, kitten! Move your tailpiece! Our limo has arrived."
I charge the idling van, Midnight Louise fierce on my own tail. That babe is so competitive she would imprint on a cruising great white shark...just because.
I pry the door open and leap into the cluttered dark, counting on my darling would-be daughter to be close behind.
She is, and talkative.
"How do we know that this dust-buster bus is heading in the direction we want?"
"We do not. But every time it stops for a red light, someone jumps out and checks the intersection." I am silent for about six beats.
"I take it this 'someone' is I?"
"Where did you learn such impeccable grammar? Let us say the 'someone' is the junior member of the firm."
"Let us say this job sucks."
"Perhaps. But somebody has to. Oops. We have stopped. Hop to it."
Thus, via frequent stops and my encyclopedic knowledge of the Las Vegas street map, Midnight Louise and I are conveyed to within a mile of our goal, at which time we forsake the Dust Devils van for a bit of fancy footwork.
"Now I get it," she observes between pants as we mush along to the lively Miss Fanny FurbeIow's neighborhood. "The secret to your success is a memorized guide to the streets of Las Vegas."
"There is a lot more I know that is not obvious."
"So I have noticed."
"Now hush! We have arrived. See! The matching windows.
And, if I am not mistaken, the lissome widow even now keeps vigil at her lonely station."
" 'Lissome widow.' Dial a twentieth-century dictionary, mein papa. 'Lonely station.' I bet she did him in."
"First, we reconnoiter the alleged victim's domicile."
Miss Midnight Louise is already sniffing around the back door of the house next door.
"Someone left. I would say more than two days ago. I detect a clump of. . . hmmm, this is a commercial brand of cat food, Pops. Unfortunately, my palate has been accustomed to Chef Song's ministrations."
"An Asian chef feeds you Italian soup?"
"Not 'minestrone.' Daddio. 'Ministrations.' You know what ministrations are . . . you just pucker up your lips and ministrate."
I am not about to answer that one.
So I dutifully sniff the back stairs.
Say!
A clear "footprint."
"Not just food, my dear. Also a lilt of litter scent. Pretty Paws, it I am not mistaken. The divine Yvette's brand, that allows no piece of litter to cling beyond its time. The missing Mister Wilfrid's employer spares no expense for her domestic help."
"So she is a saint. They are all dead, too, are they not?"
"The fact that the owner is gone does not mean that the lady or even her feline companion are, er, goners in the existential sense."
"Cut the theorizing. Can you crack this door?"
"Why must I do all the difficult jobs? I found us transportation.
Perhaps you can get us entry. It would be a good exercise."
"Fine," she says, "but the back door is locked. I shall return."
With that threat, she stalks off around the side of the house, and I settle down for a long winter's nap. No doubt the chit will soon be back, begging me to enlighten her to the fifty nifty feline ways to gain illegal entry.
Chapter 11
Heard It on the Grapevine
Matt stopped at a discount electronics store to buy a shelf unit stereo.
He had never heard that phrase until he got there, and he wasn't sure what he had bought when he left after arranging for the item's delivery to Electra Lark at the Circle Ritz. Motorcycles weren't useful for bringing home big, heavy sound equipment boxes.
What Matt needed had been a machine to record and play back Ambrosia's show on the radio.
What he thought he got was a combination tape player, CD player, juke box, and Atari slot machine, a high-tech melange of buttons and digital light-up visuals with two accompanying speakers that looked and sounded like Darth Vader's helmet-head: black, bristling, and booming.
The setup also came with an instruction book a quarter-inch thick. Matt hoped that was because it was in three languages, none of which he could seem to translate, including English.
Matt suspected that all he had really needed was a cheap boom box, but even the term
"boom box" had sounded immature and obnoxious. The earnest yet superior salesman had eagerly pointed out the advantages of the mini-tower system, so Matt had nodded and produced plastic. By the grace of Chase Manhattan Bank and his own ignorance he was another four hundred dollars poorer.
But . . . for poorer, for richer.
The first thing he did when he got back to his apartment was to get out his address directory--a notepad with a pharmacy phone number logo that had been dropped into his grocery store bag--and dial most of the few numbers recorded in it.
First was landlady Electra Lark, to see if she'd mind accepting delivery on the mini tower unit in the next couple days.
"l love getting packages!" she insisted, as if he had offered to do her a favor.