Sleepless in Las Vegas (12 page)

“Buddy,” he said, motioning his head toward the baggie of ganja, “you need to ease up on that stuff.”

He looked thoughtful for a moment. “Think I’m a marijuana addict?”

“Yes. No. I’m no expert.”

“But you’re a gambling addict.”

Drake nodded.

“You go to those twelve-step meetings?”

“No, I went to a therapist.”

Li’l Bit did a dramatic double-take. “
You?
I don’t mean that negative, man. It’s just…you talking for, like, an
hour
is like matter absorbing space and expelling it into the past.”

Drake paused. “I can’t believe you actually say things like that…and mean them.” When Li’l Bit opened his mouth to speak, Drake cut him off with a halting gesture. “On to the next topic. I want to install an outdoor surveillance camera with motion-detection ability at Mom’s.”

Li’l Bit blinked. “Dude, you’re overreacting. No way Yuri’s going there. Anyway, your mom…” He blew out a whoosh of breath, scenting the air with Cheetos and beer. “She has a heavy antisecurity thing, man.”

“I know.” When his dad had insisted on putting bars on the windows, his mom had a fit.
I live in a home, Benny, not a prison.

“Glenda, though, she gets the twenty-first century. Eighty-five and still rockin’. She’d dig a surveillance camera pointed at the porch—then she’d know if it was worthwhile to drive across the house to answer the door. That new wheelchair of hers is slick. Goes up to twelve miles an hour.”

“She said five.”

“Probably didn’t want to worry you.”

“What could worry me about her driving fast…” The truth hit him like a Mack truck. “She’s taking it outside.”

“You didn’t hear that from me, man.”

“She’s
driving
that chair
outside?
She’s too old to drive alone!”

“That’s what she said you’d say.”

“In this
heat,
too.”

“She only goes out at night.”

Drake took a last draw on his beer, not taking his eyes off Li’l Bit. He set the bottle on the steamer trunk. “You know more than you’re letting on.”

“I promised Glenda I’d keep my mouth shut.”

“Yeah. Wouldn’t want matter devouring space and the universe doing a backflip.”

“Dude, don’t be angry. It’s not a bad thing I can’t talk about. It’s about love and life force, man.”

It pissed Drake off that Li’l Bit wouldn’t open up, but he couldn’t begrudge his friend keeping his promise.

“Whatever’s going on,” Drake said, “I need to spark some common sense in Grams about driving in the dark. Especially after her nightly martini.”

“She’s a strong-willed lady.”

“Tell me about it. Mom’s just as bad.”

Seemed as if every women he crossed paths with lately had a beef or an agenda. He admired Jayne, loved his mother and Grams…was mostly confounded by Miss Who Dat…but each of them had a way of being demanding and defiant. Like somebody had called a war between the sexes and forgotten to tell the men.

He was going to emerge from these entanglements either angry, frustrated or, God help him, a feminist.

“You visiting Glenda soon?”

“Was thinking about doing it now, before I pick up Hearsay. Need to talk in person about the fire.”

“Yeah, man, heavy news is a drag over the phone. Do me a solid?”

“What?”

“Got a box of cigarillos for Glenda. Can’t get over there for a few days, and I know she’s running low.”

“I’ll take them to her.”

A few moments later, Li’l Bit handed over the box of cigarillos. “Good Times, sweet. They’re her faves.”

Drake stared at the illustration of a classic convertible and palm tree on top of the box. Made him think of Yuri’s Benz parked in front of palm trees outside Topaz…and an old memory of Yuri smoking those stubby, exotic French cigarettes.

“Gitanes Mais,”
he murmured, meeting Li’l Bit’s eyes. “Those were the kind of French cigarettes Yuri used to smoke. Strong, exotic tobacco rolled in yellow
mais,
corn, paper.”

“Wow, man, I almost forgot about that. Those things smelled bad.”

Drake smiled knowingly. “That’s the beauty of them. Distinct scent and look. Can’t buy them in the U.S.—have to buy them online or on the black market.”

“You’re having dirty thoughts, aren’t you?”

“Real dirty. I’m gonna pull a trash hit on Topaz, look for any
Gitanes Mais
in their garbage. Would be handy to run ‘em for DNA, which I would bet good money matches Yuri’s, then cross-reference those results to any DNA a certain arson investigator might find at my old place.”

“Told you this Tony dude could help you.”

“First, the trash hit. And some gumshoeing in my neighborhood.
Then,
and on
my
terms, I’ll touch base with this Tony dude.”

Li’l Bit grinned. “Aqua Man, you got your family’s strong-willed gene and then some.”

* * *

T
HE
NEXT
MORNING
, Drake woke up to something wet lapping his face.

Hearsay.

He rubbed him behind his ear as the dog licked and nuzzled and wiggled his morning salutations. Drake gave him a reassuring pat. “It’s good to have you back, too.”

He fumbled on the floor for his phone, picked it up and squinted at the screen. Ten o’clock. Groggily, he figured out he’d slept fourteen hours, but he still felt tired. As he sat up, he winced at the black-light poster of Jimi Hendrix on the wall behind the couch. A man needed strong, black coffee before dealing with that much glowing neon paisley.

By eleven, Drake had showered and dressed. Yesterday afternoon he’d dropped by his mom’s, but she had been at her bowling league, and only his grandmother was home. She had been taking a nap, Maxine curled up at her feet, and although he had the urge to wake her up and give her a scolding about carousing at night in her power chair, he had instead pulled the light throw over her, left the cigarillos on her nightstand, and tiptoed out of the room.

On his way to Li’l Bit’s apartment, he’d bought some jeans, a pile of polo shirts in assorted colors, sneakers, dog food and a few other odds and ends. Then he picked up Hearsay from the vet hospital. He’d managed to feed himself and Hearsay, take the dog for a walk and watch some mindless TV before crashing.

Before dropping by his mom’s again, he needed to talk to Val and explain the investigative task he wanted them to conduct over the lunch hour.

Drake rubbed the dog behind the ears and stared into his big brown eyes. “Can’t take you with me today, buddy. You need to rest. It’s cool in here, you got food and water, and Li’l Bit will be back from his senior-citizen dog ranch soon, and he’ll spoil you rotten.”

It wasn’t easy leaving.

“Love you, buddy,” he murmured, then stepped outside and shut the door behind him.

* * *

A
FTER
A
HOT
drive steeped in exhaust fumes, Drake hit downtown Vegas, a mix of courthouses, old-time casinos, tacky wedding chapels, restaurants and the odd retail shop. He used to see more shuttered businesses, their windows as dark as a Vegas pawnbroker’s heart, but big money was pouring back into the area, creating what one politician called a “dense urban core.” He hated to see vintage Las Vegas torn down, replaced by futuristic chrome-and-glass buildings that had no history, no soul.

When he reached Diamond Investigations, he pulled into a parking space in the back behind a tall wooden fence that separated the rear entrance from the street. He liked how Jayne hadn’t altered the architecture of the World War II-era bungalow office.

Old, dense ironwood trees lined the fence and the other side of the parking space, making it private. One thick trunk curved over the space, its blue-green leaves providing a mottled canopy against the blistering sun. Peterson Law, an adobe home renovated into law offices, sat at the far end of the asphalt. To any passersby, the parking lot appeared to be for the law firm only.

After locking the pickup, he headed to the far side of the bungalow. There, just as Jayne had texted, sat an old doghouse. Over the doorway, he could make out the hand-painted letters P, A, T and C. Patches?

He reached inside and felt under the roof. There. The duct tape. He peeled one end and retrieved the key. Smart to hide it there. No burglar in his right mind would reach into an unknown doghouse.

Batting at a pesky mosquito, he headed to the bungalow office. Weather report claimed possible light showers this afternoon, but the sky was an endless, washed-out blue. Not a single cloud.

Inside, the cool air swept over him, stinging cold against the sweat on his brow. He flipped on the light switch. There were two windows, one with a picturesque view of his rusting pickup, the other a view of traffic along Garces Avenue.

He made a mental note to keep those blinds closed.

Turning, he let out a low whistle. In the center of the room sat a massive cherrywood desk and a high-back, tufted-leather swivel chair. Pretentious, and even though he hated to admit it, damn impressive. Not the kind of look one found in private investigators’ offices, unless they had a lucrative business on the side, like neurosurgery.

He wondered if it had been Jayne’s partner’s former desk at her law practice.

Somebody had been in here polishing, based on the scent of lemon oil and the high gloss of the wood. A desktop computer sat on top, ready to go.

Against the wall were wooden bookcases, also polished. No books, though. Probably moved so the polish didn’t stain the bindings. The scuffed hardwood floor had been vacuumed. Next to the computer were a stack of yellow legal pads, a jar of pens and a small box of paper clips.

He was mentally scolding Jayne for playing housekeeper last night, time better spent on packing and resting for her trip, when he saw what lay in the corner.

A new doggie bed. And on it, a big pink ball.

A fissure deep inside him opened up.

Since the fire, some force had kept him moving forward, through the terror, around the obstacles. Despite how much there was to do, and how much had been left undone, he kept progressing, kept advancing like some kind of android whose mechanical reflexes had taken over.

It wasn’t about his being patient or accepting. He couldn’t claim those traits. It was about his standing up to pain. He was good at that. Proved his strength. He could take a punch and hardly flinch. Face death and negotiate covenants.

Brush up against love and not get touched.

He walked over and picked up the pink ball. It felt soft yet firm, its color vibrant like life itself.

Until this moment, he hadn’t really understood that standing up to his own pain was not about being strong, but self-indulgent. If all you saw was your suffering, your back was turned to others’ hardships.

He set the ball on the doggie bed, wishing he had looked into his father’s eyes and told him he loved him.

After a quick check of the rest of the bungalow, Drake headed down the narrow hallway to a wooden door, bolted, that led into Diamond Investigations. He wondered if it was bolted shut on the other side, too, but guessed not. When Jayne lived here, she would have wanted the final say on whether or not that door was open. This had been her private world, the one she protected above all else.

* * *

T
HE
GRANDFATHER
CLOCK
was on its twelfth chime as Val headed into the kitchenette. She pulled a large paper bag out of the minifridge, which she had purchased on the way into work this morning with her ill-gotten honey-trap proceeds. She had hoped if she did something nice for the office maybe she wouldn’t feel so bad about breaking her word to Jayne. The fridge cost eighty-nine dollars, a good deal, but it hadn’t done what it was supposed to do—though it was cold inside, she still felt guilty.

Sitting at her desk, she opened the paper bag that Char had packed for her this morning. Inside was a blackened-chicken po’boy, a container of corn
maque choux,
the Cajun version of creamed corn, another container of green gumbo and a fat wedge of bread pudding.

“Made it for you, sugar,” she’d said, handing Val the bag, “‘cause today you need a little extra lovin’.”

Char had made the thousand-hundred calorie lunch because Jasmyn told her about Jayne’s cancer diagnosis, and that Val was winging it until her boss’s return. All of that Val had said Jaz could share.

But no, Jasmyn, on a roll, had continued to run off at the mouth to her mama about how Val had dressed like a hooker to seduce some strange man in a sleazy parking lot, only to learn later he was a private eye who blamed her for burning his house, and that although Jayne talked him out of pressing criminal charges, he was now Val’s temporary boss, and neither he nor Val was very happy about it.

After Jasmyn apologized for “maybe sharing a tad too much with Mama,” she’d insisted Val wear something other than one of her little black dresses—“Dawlin’, yesterday you needed grace. Today you need a miracle”—and loaned her a vintage bluish-purple lace dress, so sheer Val had to borrow a slip to wear underneath.

She was getting ready to take her first bite of the chicken po’boy when something moved into her peripheral vision. Something large and dark and…

She emitted a raspy shriek, more air than voice.

“Sorry,” Drake said, his voice rumbling from deep in his chest, “didn’t mean to scare you.”

Gone was the retro suit. Today he wore jeans and an orangey polo shirt, the kind of casual clothes men wore all the time, but she doubted other men filled them this well.

She peered up at his face, wondering what looked different. Ah, he’d shaved. With his stubble gone, she saw the tan on his face better. Saw his lips better, too. Wondered when they pulled back into a smile, did his teeth look startlingly white against his brown skin?

Like she’d ever see that. Smiling and Drake were like drinking alcohol and walking stairs—they didn’t mix.

He gently touched her shoulder. “Your sandwich.”

She looked down, surprised to see she’d squeezed it so hard, pieces of tomato and chicken were erupting out of the top.