Private Vegas (20 page)

MO-BOT LOCKED HERSELF inside her corner office on the basement level, home to Private’s forensic lab. She heated water in her microwave, brewed an aromatic tea of spearmint, blackberry leaves, eucalyptus, and licorice root, then began to research Tule Archer, née Tallulah Amoyo of Bakersfield, California.

Mo-bot typed the victim’s name into Private’s search engine, which automatically clicked through the results, organizing data by type: criminal, biographical, automotive, educational, and social. After the first sort, the intelligent software highlighted the most pertinent information and composed a comprehensive record.

The computer finished this data collection before the tea was done steeping.

Mo-bot went over Tule Archer’s newly composed dossier, homed in and winnowed out, asked new questions of the search engine, and received collateral material to add to the file.

As she worked, Mo-bot took a call from Emilio Cruz, the sexiest person of either gender at Private Investigations Worldwide. She also consulted with Sci about a software suite, talking with him over the network even though he was only thirty feet away.

She relayed information from the LA lab to Sci on the chemicals used in the Wilkinson car bomb, noting that latex had been found inside what remained of the gas tank. After she finished with Sci, Mo-bot texted her husband, Trent, reminded him that he had a dentist’s appointment at noon and a meeting with their contractor at two, and that their youngest son had science club at three fifteen.

Mo-bot went back to work.

The key facts about Tule were these: Born in California of Filipino agricultural workers in 1992, Tule grew up in Bakersfield, where she went to public school, got average grades, and was known as a prankster and a bit of a comic. She attended East LA College, took courses in art and theater, and then moved to Las Vegas.

Her tracks became more dramatic once she was working as a dancer and cocktail waitress.

Mo-bot watched videos of song-and-dance routines at the Black Diamond Hotel and Casino and Tule often had lead parts. Mo-bot saw both talent and ambition in this young woman.

Same time that Tule was dancing and serving drinks to VIPs, she was cited for a DUI, then arrested for having a fight with another showgirl backstage. Not long after that, according to justice court, Tule and her roommate, Barbie Summers, skipped out on their rent, leaving their dogs and furnishings behind.

Leaving dogs was telling—but what it told, Mo-bot couldn’t be sure. Were they running from? Or running to?

Mo-bot got into the Clark County Recorder’s Office records and found the entry for Tule’s wedding to Hal Archer, and then she turned up Tule and Hal’s wedding announcement in the
LA Times;
looked like they’d decided to have a second wedding, a much bigger one, back home in California.

That wedding in LA marked a dramatic turn in the life of Tallulah Amoyo, a new Real Housewife of Beverly Hills. But a few days after their first anniversary, Tule was dead, and, indisputably, Hal Archer had done it.

Mo-bot attached the LAPD’s report on Tule’s murder, and when the dossier was cooked, she sent a memo to Jack, copied it to Sci and Justine.

Then Mo-bot, a woman who was capable of keeping innumerable plates in the air, stopped everything to look at Tule Archer’s
LA Times
wedding photo. The scene was Vibiana, a former cathedral in downtown LA, now renovated and reimagined as a thirty-five-thousand-square-foot way beautiful, over-the-top events venue.

In the picture, Tule wore a twenty-thousand-dollar wedding gown and an ecstatic smile on her face; next to her, Hal Archer looked proud and in love with his arm-candy bride.

“What happened, Tule?” Mo-bot asked the image on her screen. “What the hell went so wrong?”

LORI KIMBALL WAS in a black mood.

She pulled her SUV up to the 7-Eleven, parallel-parked it between a large motorcycle and a Chevy Volt.

What had put her in a bad state was the road repair work outside her office on South Hope Street, which had forced a detour around the block, where a red light had effectively canceled her death race home.

She couldn’t blame herself. There was no need to take a point penalty, but it was depressing to lose that excellent bridge between her go-nowhere job and the terminal tedium of house-wifery.

She knew that the adrenaline from the race was like rocket fuel, that it was probably keeping her brain from shorting out forty years before its time.

Damn it. She really hated being shut down.

Lori picked up her purse from the passenger seat and marched inside the convenience store, then sidled over to the cooler and selected an iced coffee, a pitiful consolation prize. She brought the plastic cup up to the line at the cash register, taking her place behind a shirtless, hairy biker and his sunburned girlfriend.

She was eavesdropping on their inane, mumbly, pothead conversation when she became aware that someone was speaking to her.

“Hey there. Ms. Kimball, right?”

She turned. It was a California Highway Patrol officer in the customary tan uniform: short-sleeved shirt with buttoned pockets and a brimmed hat. His bushy eyebrows looked familiar to her. She glanced at the gold-star badge above his pocket, saw the name Schmidt.

“Yes, I’m Lori Kimball.”

Then she remembered him.

He said, “I recognized your car. You’re not still speeding all to hell on the Five, are you, Ms. Kimball? Not still smoking up the freeway for the fun of it?”

“Absolutely
not
. You got through to me, Officer,” Lori said, managing to throw in a merry laugh. She touched her hair, twinkled her eyes. “I don’t want to lose my license. I’ve been very well behaved since you gave me that ticket, believe me.”

“Happy to hear it.”

Fuckin’ power tripper.

Lori paid for her coffee, said good-bye to the highway cop, and went outside to her car. She pulled out of the lot carefully, and when she got onto the street she noticed that the officer’s black-and-white Ford Crown Victoria was following behind her.

She kept well within the speed limit as she approached and then took the ramp to the 110 North. The trooper didn’t follow her, but regardless, he’d definitely brought her down.

Lori got into the right lane and gradually moved into the center, other cars passing her on both sides. She was the only person on the freeway driving the speed limit, for God’s sake.

The only one.

So, fuck it.

Two antique American cars were just ahead of her, one to the left, the other to the right. Lori jammed down the gas and pierced the opening between them like she was flying a silver bullet.

Whoo-hoo.
This was better. Way better.

She motored through the Figueroa tunnels at a cool eighty-three, covering most of the death race at record speed. She was so high in the zone that she almost missed her exit. She still had time to make her move, but in overcompensating for her overshot, she jerked the wheel too hard. Her wheels screamed as she took the right onto West Doran Street, the left side of her vehicle lifting off the asphalt, then dropping back down as she made a sharp right onto San Fernando Road.

Lori was panting from sheer exhilaration. She was in the homestretch now, turning onto Grandview, passing Pelanconi Park on the right, trees on both sides lining her up with the Verdugo Mountains straight ahead. Traffic was light, no one challenging her or getting in her face, so Lori gave the engine some gas and took the car up to a very sweet seventy-two.

But it was over too soon.

Lori sighed as she slowed, then took the left onto West Mountain Street, a boring block in the boring neighborhood where she spent two-thirds of every day of her boring life. She pulled into the driveway of a small, white cinder-block-and-stucco house with blue awnings over the front windows.

Lori sat in the car for another minute, feeling her heart rate slow, thinking things over. Today had been a setback. But there was always tomorrow.

Tomorrow was another day entirely.

I WAS IN court on time, clean-shaven, appropriately dressed, my face still the color of boiled shrimp from the car explosion. My brother was relaxing in the back row of the gallery, tanned and toothy, looking like a PR flack at an Oscar party. He fanned his hand in a wave.

I turned my back on Tommy and shut off my phone because there was nothing more important than being here for Rick. Didn’t matter what happened anywhere else in the world.

Judge Johnson entered the courtroom with her little dog underfoot, and in a few minutes, the jury filed in and court was called to order. After Her Honor had a chat with the jury, Dexter Lewis, fittingly dressed in a gray sharkskin suit, called a witness, Sergeant Michael Degano, a detective with the LAPD.

Sergeant Degano was balding, about forty, and had the kind of five o’clock shadow that colors the jowls by noon. When he took the stand, he looked at Lewis in a way that suggested this wasn’t his first testimony at a criminal trial and he wanted to get on with it.

Lewis asked, “Sergeant Degano, how did you come to be involved in this case?”

Degano said, “Our division was called and I was available to go to the victim’s house. I went into the room where she was lying, and Ms. Carmody was going in and out of consciousness. The EMT didn’t give her much chance of survival, so I went with her in the ambulance to the hospital.

“I sat right next to her, and when she was having what they call a lucid interval, I questioned her. I thought if she could speak, maybe she could tell me who her attacker was. That might be our best chance of bringing him to justice.”

The detective swung his head a few degrees and gave Rick a short, hard look, then turned back to the ADA.

“And did you interview Ms. Carmody?”

“I did.”

“And did you record this interview?”

“Yes. I got it on my phone. Later, I transferred the interview to a disk.”

The computer was booted up, and the lights went down as the monitor was wheeled into the courtroom. Degano sat comfortably in the witness box and watched as the video lit up the screen with his image.

It was clear that he was recording from inside the ambulance. Degano gave his name and division, the date of the interview, and the circumstances.

The camera eye panned to a woman, whom Degano identified as Victoria Carmody. She was strapped to a stretcher and in a neck brace; she had an IV going into her arm, and she was getting oxygen through a nasal cannula. Her face and head were bruised and bloody, making it impossible to tell her age, race, or even gender.

On camera, Degano introduced himself to Carmody, said his name was Mike Degano, that he was a detective. Then he asked her if it was okay to ask her a few questions.

Ms. Carmody grunted, and Degano took that as affirmation.

“Can you hear me okay?” he asked her.

Carmody made the sound again.

Degano said, “You were found inside your bedroom. On the floor. I don’t know if you know that you were badly beaten.”

Carmody tried to jerk her head and made a mewling cry. It seemed to me that she knew what Degano was asking her, and the memory was fresh and very painful.

Degano said, “I’m sorry to have to ask you, Ms. Carmody, but I’m here to help you. Do you remember what happened to you?”

Carmody made a sound. It seemed to be
yes.

“Tell me what you remember.”

To Degano’s credit, he used simple words, spoke softly, and had the patience to wait out an answer.

“Fight,” Carmody said.

“You were in a fight?”

No answer.

“Who beat you up, Ms. Carmody? I want to find the guy who did this to you.”

Carmody tried to twist on the stretcher but managed only to take in a strangled breath. Someone, presumably an EMT, said, “Wrap it up, Detective.”

Degano leaned over and took Carmody’s hand. “Vicky. Squeeze my fingers for
yes
. Can you do that? Good. Was your assailant a stranger?”

She gasped out, “No.”