Authors: Teri Riggs
“Wow! Whatever the hell that was, it sure was interesting.”
Minutes later, while Kennedy was doing her best imitation of a Hoover vacuum cleaner, crawling around on her hands and knees picking up the spilled chips and popping them into the empty bag, her cell phone sang out.
“O’Brien.”
“Hey, Kenny, did you happen to catch the news tonight? Nicolas Campenelli was featured in what looked like a pretty good story.”
“Yeah, Wilder, I caught most of it. I couldn’t make out a word the woman said, but she sure has a good bitch slap going for her. I was impressed.”
“It was a beaut, that’s for sure. What do you think was going on? I only caught the tail end. Ed Hershey said something about the woman didn’t care for Campenelli’s plans for prostitutes. But I got to tell you, the woman looked like a working girl to me.”
“I thought she did too. Did you notice Hershey got in a few good digs about whether or not Campenelli would be the right man for the mayor’s job?”
“Missed that part.”
“Maybe Hershey’s just gunning for him, or Grandpa’s snitch was right and Campenelli has some sort of a hidden agenda for legalizing prostitution. Something that could drive him to murder.”
“Like what?”
“Hell, I don’t know. Maybe he’s a closet sex addict and wants the goods close at hand.” Her eyes grew wide. “Or maybe he’s got plans to build a resort-style brothel on the Strip, or maybe he owns property elsewhere on the Clark County side. The man could certainly afford it.”
“Opening a first-class whorehouse makes sense. He could earn millions from an enterprise like that. We’ll have a little chat with him and see what shakes down.”
“Okay. Hey, I thought you were romancing the little woman tonight. What the hell are you doing watching the news and calling to tell me about it?”
“At my age, romancing doesn’t take as much time as it used to. If you go too slow you risk your lady falling asleep or even worse, dropping dead in the middle of doing the whoopee waltz.”
“Whoa, buster. That is so much more than I need to know.”
“I just like to keep you informed. You’ll be an old fart someday too.” Kennedy heard a slap in the background and knew it was Sally. In the next instant, she heard Wilder whisper. “Just kidding, honey.”
“I’d like to get my hands on the un-edited version of the confrontation between Campenelli and the hooker and see what the full story is. I don’t trust Hershey at all. He seems to be gunning for Campenelli.”
“Agreed. See you tomorrow, Kenny.”
Wilder hung up, leaving dead silence echoing in Kennedy’s ear. She kept the phone to her ear for another few beats, thinking, and then went back to her vacuuming.
Across
town in his upscale penthouse, Nicolas Campenelli had just finished an unsuccessful attempt at blowing off his anger at Ed Hershey with a long workout in his gym. Now, pacing back and forth, wearing a path in the living room’s plush area rug, , he talked—make that yelled—on the phone with his press secretary, his free hand waving wildly in the air.
“God damn it, Jeff. That son of a bitch has pushed me too far this time. I want the legal department on this. He’s not going to get away with it. Not this time. I’ve taken more shit off him than any one man should ever have to.”
“I know, Nick, I know. We’ll get legal on it right away. Hershey really has pushed it too far this time. Man, that guy has a hard on for you. That was pretty damn slick the way he twisted the film. He stopped the reel before the woman realized her mistake, which makes me wonder if he’s the one who set her on you in the first place, and why.”
Nick ran a hand through his hair twice. He could, for the first time ever, understand why people pulled their hair when aggravated. “I don’t care what his reasons are. I only want him stopped. Where’s John tonight? He hasn’t called in since the piece aired and I haven’t been able to reach him. What kind of campaign manager is he?”
“John hasn’t been seen since he left the dinner. Remember, he left early. Said he was getting the flu. But even if he’s home in bed sick, you’d think he’d at least pick up the damned phone.”
Nick stopped pacing, moved to the window and stared out at the glittering night lights of Vegas. “We just talked about that on the ride home. Sorry. My mind is on overload. I imagine if he was sick enough to cut out early, he isn’t going to be picking up his phone calls. Hell, John probably slept through the newscast, too, or he would’ve called in by now.”
“You’re probably right.”
“Jeff, I’ll talk to you and legal first thing in the morning.” He glanced at his watch. “Hell, it already is morning. I’ll talk to you later.”
Nick clicked off his cell phone and tossed it on the cushion next to him.
Damn Ed Hershey.
Phoebe
Mixer wondered how anyone could want to ruin such a nice man as Nick Campenelli and felt guilty for causing a scene. She’d heard about the earlier newscast, which made her feel worse. She’d have to call his campaign manager with another apology.
Distracted, she struggled to work her corner on Washington Street. As hard as it was to concentrate on work, she couldn’t take the night off. Overdue bills were stacked up on her kitchen table and needed to be paid. One of her kids had been sick last month and the extra doctor bills and medicine had set her back considerably. It was close to two AM and not only was she suffering from guilt, her feet were killing her.
Standing around worrying wouldn’t pay the bills and she forced herself to focus. Thankfully, business picked up and soon she only needed two more tricks and she’d call it a night.
Phoebe strolled half-heartedly up and down the block looking for a spot with a slight breeze. Realizing there was none to be had, she returned to her corner. Four doors down from her, she watched a drug deal taking place. Across the street, two gay men argued in front of the neon lit window of Peter’s Porn Place. A three-foot-long lighted penis, complete with electrically illuminated balls, dangled front and center in the window. She’d seen it all over the years, but that light-up penis was one of her all time favorites.
Phoebe didn’t have to wait long for a client to show up. He walked past twice to check her out, and then stopped on his third time by. He looked familiar, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on where it was she’d seen him before. She was surprised, she rarely forgot a face.
“How much for a quickie, sweetheart?”
God, how many times had she heard that line? “Normally fifty dollars, same as most working girls this part of Vegas. Less if you have an air conditioned place we can use.”
“I don’t have time to go to another place. I’m on a tight schedule. I’ll pay the fifty, but I want it my way. Nothing kinky, though. I think you’ll like it.”
“Kinky doesn’t bother me none. The damn heat does. Pay up front, please.” Phoebe held out her hand for her money.
“You hookers don’t trust anyone do you?”
“First lesson I learned at Hooker High—you can’t afford to trust anyone. If you have a problem with that, hit the road. It’s too hot to stand around while you’re trashing my business policies.”
“Don’t get all bent out of shape,” he said as he passed her a ten and two twenties. I’m just trying to make conversation.”
“Sorry, I’ve had a bad night. I shouldn’t take it out on you.”
“No problem. Let’s just slip over there. Like I said, I’m short on time.” He took her hand and led her away.
Phoebe hesitated.
“What are you looking at?”
“I know you. From the speech tonight!” She smi
led slyly at him. “Decided to
look me up afterwards, huh? That is so sweet. This
is going to be real nice isn’t
it?”
“You figured it out. I couldn’t help myself. I saw you and I wanted you. Now come over here and turn around. Stay still and stay quiet. Just relax.”
She complied and he began massaging her neck. She could feel his heart begin to beat faster against her back as his excitement grew.
“That’s the way I like it. Like you said, it’s going to be real nice. I promise.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THE MORNING WAS STILL YOUNG WHEN KENNEDY AND WILDER ENTERED THE BUSY LVTVS NEWSROOM.
They’d just spent the last four hours digging through a crime scene where another prostitute had been murdered and another hour getting the ass-eating of a lifetime from Lieutenant Hazelwood. Media attention had hit like a royal flush this morning and the reporters were on a mission to destroy Metro’s credibility.
Kennedy looked around the station, observing the hurried movements of the staff as they put together the stories that would run during the day’s newscasts. “I can’t imagine Hershey won’t receive another AFTER picture this morning.”
“You’re probably right.” Wilder stepped aside to let a young woman pass, her arms stacked high with papers.
“The killer is having too much fun taunting us not to send one. And so far, he’s sticking to his modus operandi. The usual BEFORE picture was left behind, tucked inside her sparkly black tube top. He didn’t wear a condom, once again leaving behind semen that could be used as a prosecutor’s dream weapon... DNA. He’ll send Hershey an AFTER picture all right.”
Wilder moved back to stand next to his partner. “At least this time around we were able to identify the victim at the scene. I bet that wasn’t part of his M.O.”
“Wilder, we only got lucky on Ms. Mixer’s ID because she made the eleven o’clock news last night. That wasn’t exactly great detective work.”
“We’re handling this case just fine considering how little we’ve had to work with. We’ll get the cocky bastard.”
She agreed. They’d solved cases with a lot less to go on. “I guess we should be glad Ed Hershey and his camera crew caught Phoebe Mixer going after Campenelli on film and identified her on last night’s newscast.”
“LVTVS aired that clip again this morning, complete with new film from the crime scene where the vic’s body was found. And let’s not forget to mention how thoroughly he reamed Metro Homicide for failing to bring the prostitute killer to justice.”
She let out a disgusted snort. “Didn’t waste any time, did he?”
Wilder nodded towards the back of the room. “There’s Hershey. Looks like he’s busy trying to be busy.”
“Yeah, no cops to trash for the time being.”
They made their way to his desk.
“Morning, Mr. Hershey.” Kennedy leaned one hip against the side of his desk, Wilder at her side. She knocked on his desk. “Have you received any mail from our killer this morning? We have another victim. Of course you already know that, don’t you?”
He didn’t acknowledge her or her questions.
She slapped her hand on his desk. “You’ve already plastered the victim’s face all over the damn air waves this morning, before we were able to notify next of kin, as if last night’s news feature wasn’t enough. How in the hell do you weasels get to the crime scenes so fast?”
“What can I say, our film crews are efficient.” He shrugged a shoulder. “Please, Detective, call me Ed.”
“Answer my questions, Mr. Hershey.”
“Because of the murders we had a crew out filming prostitutes at work. It was pure luck they came across the crime scene.”
“And did you receive mail with an AFTER picture?”
Ed blew out a long breath and looked up at her. “No, I haven’t received mail from your psycho killer this morning. I chose to run the film of her and Campenelli arguing because it was newsworthy. I report news. That’s my job and I happen to like it.”
Wilder didn’t bother to hide his sneer. “Well good for you.”
Ed was wearing that shit eating grin of his again, the one that no one could stand. “I said I didn’t get mail from the killer this morning. I did, however, find this sitting on my desk when I came in around seven this morning.”
Ed picked up a large manila envelope and tossed it aside, exposing a legal-sized #10 envelope beneath it. When he started to reach for it, Wilder shoved his hand away.
“I’ll get it with gloves, Mr. Hershey.” Wilder opened the envelope and pulled out a photo. “Are you the only one who’s touched it?”
“I think so. Apparently it didn’t arrive via the mailroom.”
“The killer was here? Damn.” Kennedy couldn’t think of much else to say, but threw in a “double damn” for good measure.
Wilder put the photo in an evidence bag and sealed it. He held it up. “There are smudges on the corner of the picture.”
“Didn’t we ask you not to touch any evidence?” Kennedy snapped at Ed. “You were supposed to call us if you were contacted.”
“Sorry. I’m a newsman. I’m supposed to be nosy. Besides, how would I know what’s in the envelope if I don’t open it?”
That’s bullshit and you know it.”
Wilder and Kennedy studied the photo, knowing ahead of time what they’d see. Phoebe Mixer was lying on the ground dead. The picture was taken at the murder scene they’d just left. As expected, it was labeled AFTER.