“And from that day forward, Boni owned his soul,” Stride said. He took out his cell phone and began dialing. “Let’s find out who the bastard is.”
“Helen didn’t know.”
“Maybe Moose will.”
Stride heard the big comedian’s voice on the phone, and he reintroduced himself. Moose began to fall all over himself, congratulating Stride on catching Tierney’s killer. Stride let the man gush. He could imagine his eyebrows dancing with joy.
“I have a question for you,” Stride said when Moose finally took a breath.
“Anything.”
“Do you remember a lifeguard at the Sheherezade back in 1967 named Mickey?”
There was a long pause on the phone, and Moose began to backtrack. “There were a lot of college kids around back then.”
“That’s not an answer, Moose. Did you know him?”
“Why? What’s this about?”
“It’s just a loose end we’re trying to clear up.”
He could hear Moose breathing. “Well, I don’t think he makes a big secret of it. He put himself through law school working at the Sheherezade. A lot of the big shots did.”
Stride began to feel uneasy. He wondered if he had made a mistake that would get him and Serena killed. “So you’ve stayed in touch with him?”
“Of course. Mickey Durand is the best damn friend the entertainment industry has ever had in this state. God and the voters willing, he’ll be reelected as governor next month.”
FIFTY-TWO
Beatrice Erdspring punched the volume button on the television remote control repeatedly, but it didn’t make any difference in the sound. The newscasters kept whispering, and she couldn’t hear a thing.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she grumbled, pulling the cream-colored blanket up over her nightgown.
She tried several channels, but it was all the same, so she went back to the local CBS station, where that nice Hispanic man with the black hair read the news. Raul was his name. He looked strong and trustworthy, and he had an attractive mustache. Her husband, Emmett, had always worn a mustache.
It wasn’t like Raul to whisper, but even when Beatrice craned her neck and cupped a hand behind her ear, she could barely make out a word.
“Speak up, Raul,” she said to the television.
Beatrice was frustrated, because she recognized the attractive woman in the old photograph on the screen, and she wanted to hear what they were saying about her.
“Can you hear that, Rowena?” Beatrice called to her roommate. “I think the television is broken again. Or maybe the remote control needs batteries.”
Rowena was in the other bed in the one-room studio they shared in the assisted living facility in Boulder City. Beatrice looked over and saw that Rowena was sleeping again. She slept most of the time. Beatrice had gone through three roommates in the past year, and she was afraid that Rowena would be gone soon, too. It was too bad, because when she was awake, Rowena was a stitch. She had raised six children on a dairy farm in Iowa, and the stories she told could keep you laughing for hours.
Like the one about her eight-year-old daughter trying to “milk” a bull. Well, wasn’t that a surprise for both of them!
Beatrice stared at the television again and sighed. Raul had moved on to another story.
She looked out the window at the main street of Boulder City. Cars whizzed by, heading off to Lake Mead or Hoover Dam. Flora had taken the residents on an outing to Lake Mead the previous month, and although the wind had mussed her hair, it had been lovely to see the water again. Not that Lake Mead was as pretty as Lake Tahoe, where she had lived for so many years, but it was good to be outside again. She enjoyed the heat, although she did miss the chill of those winter nights long ago, when she and Emmett would snuggle under the quilt together. She couldn’t handle the cold anymore, though. That was why she had retired in the southern part of the state.
Flora came running into the room, her hands over her ears. She made a beeline for the television, clicked it off at the switch, and then put a hand over her heart, breathing heavily. She wagged a finger and said something that Beatrice couldn’t hear.
“You’re mumbling again, Flora,” Beatrice told her. “Speak up, will you?”
Flora came up to the side of the bed and looked like she was shouting, but the words were far away. “Bea, honey, you forgot to put in your hearing aids.”
“Oh, dear.”
Flora rustled in the nightstand drawer by Beatrice’s bed and came out triumphantly with two beige plugs that Beatricefitted in her ears each morning. She helped Beatrice insert them and then stood back, laughing. Flora was a three-hundred-pound Filipino woman, and her body jiggled all over when she laughed.
“Is that better, honey?”
“You don’t need to shout, Flora,” Beatrice said, which made Flora laugh again.
“Do you want the television back on?” Flora asked.
Beatrice shook her head. “No, I missed the story I wanted to see.”
“Wha t story was that?”
“Well, I missed it, so I don’t know! But they were showing a photograph of a lovely girl I knew back when I was a nurse.”
“That’s nice,” Flora said. She was bustling around the room, straightening up, and had stopped paying attention. “Did you see they caught that terrible man? The one who killed all those people? Shot him off the top of a building. Bang, bang.”
Flora fussed at the bedside. She nudged Beatrice forward, then grabbed and fluffed her two pillows with a meaty brown fist. “It’s romantic, though. He killed all those people to get revenge for his mother. His mother! My boys, it’s hard enoiigh getting them to show up for my birthday party.”
“Who was his mother?” Beatrice asked.
“What? Oh, one of those showgirls from the 1960s. She had to give up her baby. Isn’t that tragic? Can you imagine? I would go crazy giving up one of my babies. I’d be happy if they were living here when they were fifty. Of course, the way my boys are going, they might well be!”
Beatrice frowned. “Are you talking about Amira Luz?”
But Flora was already on her way out of the room and didn’t look back. Beatrice was alone again, except for Rowena, who was snoring. She remembered now-that was why she had taken her hearing aids out. Rowena snored like a 727 on takeoff.
Beatrice thought about Amira Luz and smiled. It was so funny to see this beautiful, pregnant woman on the balcony of the suite, trying to do these strange, erotic dance moves while her bulging stomach got in the way.
Flora must have been talking about Amira. Why else would her picture be on television after all these years?
It didn’t make sense, though. Flora must have got it wrong.
Beatrice turned on the television again and quickly lowered the volume with the remote. She waved at Raul, then began switching channels to see if someone else would have the story. Amira? No. They had made a mistake.
FIFTY-THREE
The invitation came, just as Stride expected. The following night at ten o’clock, they found themselves back in the bone white foyer of Boni’s penthouse suite in the Charlcombe Towers. Boni himself let them in through the double doors and guided them into the mammoth cowboy room. The light was low, just a few pale lamps and the glow from the tower outside.
Boni wore a dark suit again. Stride caught the aroma of cigars and cologne. He still had an easy, charming smile, and Stride wondered if he was like the Cheshire cat, who could disappear and leave only the smile behind to fool people. He used a two-handed grip to shake both their hands.
“You saved our lives, Detectives. Me and Claire. I felt I owed you a celebratory drink.”
“That’s why we’re here?” Stride asked, suspicion in his voice.
“Of course. You will drink with me, won’t you? You’re certainly not on duty now.”
Message received and understood, Stride thought. This was all off the record.