Stateline (21 page)

“Does it matter?”

“It doesn’t to me if it doesn’t to you.” She lit a cigarette, letting the smoke drift out of her mouth. Her voice didn’t sound jaded or disinterested; instead it was cool, aloof.

“Are you in Vegas with a convention or a gambling trip?” she asked.

I turned on my barstool, looking at her directly. Her eyes were a pretty dark brown, and she met my stare, our eyes locking long enough for both of us to consider who would look away first, and when I didn’t she finally did, with the beginning a smile, or maybe a smirk, on the corner of her mouth.

“Do you like my eyes?” she asked.

“Yeah, I do,” I said. I was aroused and felt stupid about it, but I let myself be drawn in. She mirrored my gaze, and after a moment she narrowed her expression, then stamped her cigarette out in the ashtray.

“I think we’d better go to my room,” she said. “You look like you’re ready to party.”

I followed her down the hallway to a door toward the end. Her room was just big enough for business: a queen-sized bed, a small lamp on a night table, a portable boom box set up on the dresser.

“Take a seat,” she said. “How much are you interested in spending?”

“Uh, I’ve got a hundred bucks.”

She made a clicking sound with her tongue. “That’s the house minimum, and I don’t work for that. I’ll show you a good time, but my rates start at four hundred.”

We bargained back and forth, and I finally agreed to two hundred. She told me to take off my clothes and wait, said she’d be back in a minute, then left the room.

I quickly went through her dresser. Only the top two drawers were filled, mostly with assorted lingerie and undergarments. I opened the drawer to her nightstand, saw a tube of lubricant, a box of condoms, and a small makeup bag lying on top of a
People
magazine. I looked under the magazine, and found a black, pocket-size address book. I zipped it into my coat pocket and sat waiting on the bed. A half minute later, she came back through the door.

“You’re supposed to take your clothes off,” she said, pulling her shoulder straps down.

“How about if we talk a while first, Samantha?” I said.

She froze—her exposed breasts looked plastic and unforgiving. Her brown nipples extended before my eyes, like a dog’s fur rising on the back of its neck. She pulled her top back up.

“Who are you?” she said.

“I came from South Lake Tahoe just to see you. The shit’s really hit the fan back there.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah, you do. Your gig last Friday at the Crown Ambassador. Somehow it went bad, real bad, and your trick ended up stabbed to death. I went to the autopsy and checked out the knife wound. Pretty damn gruesome.”

“You have the wrong person. I haven’t been–”

“What happened in that room?”

She stared at me silently, her cheeks hollow, the skin tight on the bone. “Hey, Samantha,” I said, stepping toward her. “You think you can hide out here and this thing’s gonna go away? If you’re an accessory, you’ll be a hell of a lot better off if you cooperate. Worst case, you can probably cut yourself a good deal with the DA, maybe–”

“Shut the fuck up,” she said.

“What?”

“You think I’m fucking stupid? I don’t know who you are or how you found me, but you have no right to come to where I work and start accusing me of whatever this bullshit is you’re talking about.”

“Listen to me,” I said. “The second guy in the room? The big dude with the flattop? He was fished out of Lake Tahoe Sunday with three bullets in his back. They say he was paralyzed but still alive when he was thrown in the lake. He drowned. Whoever’s responsible is dead serious, and I’d say as a witness you’re next on the list. You really want to live your life looking over one shoulder for the cops and the other for a murderer? That’s a lousy existence.”

“You know, you’d be funny if you didn’t have your head so far up your ass,” she said. The eyes I’d been so enthralled with were no longer pretty. Her brow furrowed and crow’s feet etched the side of her face.

“You’re a pretty tough broad, Samantha. But you’re being stupid. What do you think the cops are doing right now? They’re testing forensic evidence, and all they need is a person to match it with. I make a quick phone call, and the sheriff from Pahrump will be here in twenty minutes.”

She flinched at that, then opened the curtains, stared out the window, and dragged deeply on a fresh cigarette. She stood with her hand on her hip, her back to me, and after a few minutes she glanced at her watch.

“Your time’s going to be up soon,” she said.

“Look,” I said, making my voice quiet, “I’m not the heat. I just want to find out who killed him. Tell me what I need to know, and I can forget I was here. You don’t have to let this thing destroy your life.”

She turned toward me deliberately. “You gonna call the sheriff?”

“That depends on you.”

“You promise not to call, or let anyone know I’m here, I’ll tell you who to look for. No details, no questions, but I’ll tell you who stabbed him.”

“That’s pretty thin,” I said. “How do I know you won’t bullshit me?”

“How do I know you won’t walk out of here and call the cops?”

I could hear the heater start blowing warm air through the duct in the ceiling. “You have a name?” I said.

“Nope, just a description. But I’ll tell you where to find him.”

“That’s not enough.”

“Then hit the road, because we’re done here.”

I studied her for a moment, and said, “All right, go ahead.”

“You promise not to fuck me?” she said.

“Hey, I paid two hundred.”

She laughed, but it was more like a quick snort. “You chose how to spend your time, not me.”

“Okay. If your information’s good, I won’t rat you out.”

She sat on the bed and brushed ashes off her bare thigh, and paused just long enough to concern me. Then she said, “He’s a big, dark man, not black but maybe Samoan or something. He’s not as tall as you, but he’s a lot bigger. His body is shaped like a fat torpedo. You’ll know him when you see him. He’s one
ugly
motherfucker.”

“Why did he stab him?” When she shook her head, I said, “Where do I find him?”

“Go hang out at Pistol Pete’s in Tahoe.”

“Does he work there?”

“I said no questions. That’s the deal. You go spend some time at Pistol Pete’s, you’ll find him.”

I moved toward the door, but she stepped in front of me. “What happened to your ear?” she said, eyeing the damaged ridge of cartilage.

“An old knife wound.”

She rose on her toes and leaned in close, her voice a throaty whisper. “When you find him, you’ll have to kill him. Be ready, he’s psycho. Even if you put a gun to his head, he won’t back down.” She pulled back, and my hand was on the door handle, but before I could leave she grabbed my arm and said, “Kill him, then come back and I’ll give you a night of sex you’ll never forget.”

• • •

Back out at the bar, a group of college kids had taken over, happily drinking and horsing around, teasing the girls, arm wrestling, and playing the jukebox up loud. I felt a twinge of nostalgia, like I was looking back at a scene out of my youth, and for a moment I was tempted to have a drink with the boys. But my ski jacket was heavy with the weight of Samantha’s address book, so I went out into the night like a grown man with obligations, and drove through the desert badlands back to Las Vegas.

I
was dead sober when I pulled into the Excalibur at one in the morning, and I fell into bed and slept straight through to nine o’clock. When I woke I tried to figure my next move, but my head danced with visions of Samantha’s body, and I had to take a cold shower so I could think without the distraction.

The fact that Samantha had fled from Reno to work a six-week stint at a remote brothel in southern Nevada suggested she was hiding from the law, or the killer, or both. Actually, it was an ideal place to lie low, hide out, and make money. She could live there and never leave the building, or use a credit card, or leave a phone trail. It was a good place to turn invisible.

But if she wasn’t somehow involved in the murder as a knowing accomplice, why wouldn’t she go to the police? Was she that scared of the man she thought might be Samoan? Or had she become implicated by an unwitting circumstance, and felt she could be accused of a crime she didn’t commit? She could possibly even be the murderer, although I couldn’t imagine her having the strength to ram a knife all the way through Sylvester Bascom.

One thing I didn’t doubt was she knew a lot more than she told me. I began to feel increasingly uneasy about her story of the ugly man at Pistol Pete’s. It could be a complete lie—he could be anyone, maybe someone she despised for different reasons—assuming he actually even existed. She could have made up the story on the spot to buy time and get me out of there.

I cut myself shaving and threw down the razor in disgust. What about her boyfriend, Mr. 187? What was his involvement, and what did he know? If he drove Samantha to Vegas, he’d probably be in violation of his parole. I might be able to use that as leverage to get him to talk.

The coffee shop downstairs was still crowded for breakfast at ten o’clock. I sat at a small table, drinking coffee, waiting for the waitress to bring my order. A keno runner came by, and I filled out three four-spot cards for two bucks each. Then I opened my notepad and started working on a list of things to do.

After none of my keno numbers hit, I went back to my room and called Gloria Damone at Dana’s Escorts. Ten rings later I hung up and called directory service for her home number. She was listed and answered promptly. She didn’t sound happy to hear from me.

“How’d you get my number?” she said.

“You’re listed.”

“That doesn’t give you the right to call me at home.”

“I apologize for the imposition.”

“Well, please don’t call me here. Or anywhere, for that matter.”

“Can you tell me if you’ve heard from Beverly Howitt?”

“Not a word.”

“Do you have any idea where she is?

“None whatsoever,” she said, and the line went dead.

My next call was to directory service in Utah. There were six listings for Howitt, and one was in Salina. I called the number, and the woman who answered had a tired, impatient voice.

“Is Beverly there?”

“No, she’s not.”

“I’m calling from payroll services, and we have a check for her. Do you know how I can contact her?”

“I don’t know. I heard she’s back in town, but I haven’t seen her. I suppose you can mail it here.”

“Are you her mother?” I asked.

“No, her aunt.”

I took down the address, then booked a one o’clock Delta flight to Salt Lake City. Salina was a small town about 140 miles south of Salt Lake, nestled in a five-mile-wide valley between the ten-thousand-foot peaks of the Fishlake National Forest. I had spent a night there about fifteen years ago with Cody Gibbons. I was visiting him in Salt Lake, and we decided to road trip to the Grand Canyon after a boring night of trying to get drunk on 3.2 Utah beer. It was springtime, and I remembered the country as clean and verdant. Cody had insisted we stay in Salina because he wanted to check out a well-known country-western bar called Stigs. I wondered if it was still there.

I checked out of the Excalibur, and on the way out I saw the family from the airplane in the hotel’s bus terminal. The teenage boy sat close to his mother and away from his father, who was slumped over asleep at the other end of a long bench. There was a big group of older folks waiting in the crowded area, and some stood rather than sit near him, as if he had a communicable disease.

I dropped off the Caddy, found a bar in the airport, and dialed Wenger’s office number. I got his answering machine as I’d hoped, and left a brief message telling him I’d be away at least through the end of the week. Then I called Edward Cutlip.

“Mr. Bascom’s pissed,” he said nervously.

“At who?”

“Me, you, the world. Actually, he’s mad because the Tahoe detectives haven’t returned his calls. He’s making life miserable for everyone around here.”

“Maybe my news will put him in a better mood.”

“Yeah?”

“I found one of the call girls who was in Sylvester’s room. She’s a hard-core hooker who’s probably been riding around on the back of a Harley since she had pigtails. She claims to know who stabbed Sylvester and gave me a description and told me where to find him. Says he’s an easy guy to find, stands out like a chicken at a dog show.”

“So you’re on your way back here?”

“No, I’m flying to Salt Lake City.”

“Why?”

“I think there were two girls in the room. I want to talk to the second one and get her story before I do anything.”

“Okay. It sounds like you’re making progress. That’s good news, Mr. Bascom should be glad to hear it. How soon you think it’ll be until you crack the case?”

“I don’t know. Did you make any progress on the bank records?”

“Yeah, I’ll have them next Monday. They put a rush on it.”

“Good. Have you heard anything more from Raneswich and Iverson?”

“Nope, they’ve gone incommunicado since Mr. Bascom dressed them down yesterday.”

“Raneswich strikes me as so uptight you couldn’t pull a needle out of his ass with a tractor.”

Edward laughed. “Call me tomorrow,” he said.

I ordered a sandwich at the bar and declined a six dollar beer. Then I called Cody Gibbons.

“You’ll never guess where I’m headed right now,” I said.

“Gimme a clue.”

“Stigs.”

“What? You got to be kidding, you’re going to Salina?”

“You got it. I’ll be getting drunk at Stigs tonight.”

“Good luck. They closed that joint years ago. Remember I pulled that babe out of there and you ended up sleeping in the car?”

“You’d never let me forget it,” I said.

“She was good-looking too.”

“My ass.”

“What? You still sound bitter, Dirty.”

“Damn right. I froze my ass that night.”

“You’re going to Salina for your case?”

“Yeah,” I said, and gave him a short version of Bascom’s murder and my findings.