Authors: Teri Riggs
“Nah. I don’t like that angle. A dead prostitute isn’t a big enough story in Vegas. Not even one thrown out with the garbage.”
Frank’s eyes flicked toward the blonde, and he smiled at her.
“Besides Hersh, the issues the candidates argue over will change a dozen more times before the election rolls around. Why the hell they start campaigning this early, I’ll never know.”
Frank’s gaze was still fixed on the blonde. It annoyed the hell out of Ed.
“Frankie, why don’t you try paying a little attention to what I’m telling you? Maybe keep your head over here. The blonde will still be there after we talk.” The older man shook his head. “I heard every word you said, Hersh. I’m sorry, that angle doesn’t work for me. Besides, the race for mayor is Sammy Teasdale’s story, not yours. He’s our political expert.”
“Are you sure you’re listening to me?” Ed asked, “It’d be a great chance to stir things up. Sammy sure as hell wouldn’t think of combining the two stories.” He slapped the paper down on his desk. “I’d do a much better job with it. I could follow it through to the election. Follow the candidates’ views.”
Frank was still shaking his head.
“Give me a break here, Frankie.” Ed stared into his eyes. “You know it’d be a damn good story.”
“It’s not going to happen, Hersh. You just want to cover the race for mayor so you can dick around a little with Campenelli.”
Ed recoiled. “Why would I do that?”
“Because your ex-wife had a thing for him. This is a news station, not the Jerry Springer show.” Frank shov
ed his bulk out of the chair.
“I’ve got nothing against Campenelli. If he wants my ex-wife, he can have her. Vivian goes after any man who’s loaded or famous. She’s an equal-opportunity bitch.” Ed shouted at Frank’s retreating backside.
Frank spun back around. “Then it’s because Campenelli wouldn’t give you an exclusive interview. Though I don’t know why that would have your tightywhities in a twi
s
t.
Hell, he hasn’t given anyone a one-on-one.”
“I don’t give a shit if I could or couldn’t get an exclusive with him. No station in Vegas has gotten one. Campenelli doesn’t play favorites—or so he says.”
“So he says.” Frank hesitated a moment and when he spoke again, his lighter tone let Ed know he’d lo
st
“By the way, could you try not to disturb me when I’m about to score? Your timing really sucks. I had her eating out of my hands until you interrupted. Have you seen her knockers?”
Ed shook his head, not bothering to hide his
disgu
st
.
Frank was the ultimate, clichéd, treat-em-like-shit, chauvinist pig. “Christ, Frankie, do you sweet talk your women like that to their faces? These days women prefer the term breasts, not knockers!”
Frank shrugged as he turned away.
“You’ll regret your decision not to let me do this feature when another station’s news director puts it together and uses it to make their ratings soar. The station manager isn’t going to be a happy camper.”
Frank kept walking.
Ed, who considered having the skin of an armadillo an asset, couldn’t stop. “Two old friends doing political battle over the legalization of prostitution issue. We even have a dead hooker to throw into the mix. It’s going to be a big story.”
Frank spun around, catching Ed off guard. “God Almighty, Hersh! That was one hell of a sales pitch, but the answer’s still no. I’m impressed you’ve put so much thought into a crummy idea. Now, shouldn’t you be logging some interviews or doing something useful?”
“At least think about it.”
Frank turned and walked away again, probably in search of the blonde. Horny old bastard.
“Screw him,” Ed mumbled. “Frankie’s a smart man. Once he thinks about it a while, he’ll change his mind. Right now, he’s just more interested in getting laid than a good story.”
He shook his head.
“Some news director.”
CHAPTER FOUR
ON THE JOB, KENNEDY O’BRIEN WAS ORGANIZED, DETERMINED AND HARD-HITTING.
Her tough, take-no-shit persona had rattled the chains on more than a few perps’ handcuffs. She could walk into a roomful of gun-toting, murdering drug dealers, know at any given moment where each man was standing, and take charge. At home, she was totally and completely the opposite.
At home, Kennedy was a disorganized slob badly in need of a personal Suzie Homemaker. Not that it mattered. With the exception of Wilder, she made it a point to avoid friendships—work-related or otherwise—and all the emotional commitment involved. She didn’t invite people to her home to hang out and shoot the shit, so why waste time cleaning?
Kennedy used her apartment for sleeping and eating. When she was working a case, she slept only a few hours a night. Eating mostly involved ripping open take-out bags and eating on a TV tray while studying her make-shift murder board, a copy of the one she worked from at Metro, tacked on her living room wall.
Kennedy was officially off the clock. After squeezing in a few hours of sleep and a nice hot shower, she tore through her apartment looking for a clean pair of underwear. Dressed in only a well-worn, oversized LVPD tee that had belonged to her father, Kennedy searched futilely under her bed. Nothing there but dust bunnies. Hordes of dust bunnies.
“Well, shit! Where in the hell did I put the last pile of clean clothes I washed?” She really wanted that last clean pair of panties. Her only other option was to go bare-assed under her jeans or, God forbid, do laundry.
Moving past her dresser, she paused for a moment to lightly touch a picture of her parents and felt her heart tighten. They’d died before Kennedy’d celebrated her fourth birthday. Hesitantly she pulled her hand away from the photo and continued with her search.
“Didn’t I just do laundry two weeks ago? Well, maybe three weeks ago.”
Talking to herself was definitely one of the down sides of living alone. Wilder’d suggested she get a pet. Kennedy’d suggested he mind his own business. When would she find time to take care of a pet?
She began throwing the clothes out of her dresser onto her unmade bed, and then moved to the small laundry closet that held the stacked, apartment-sized washer and dryer. Nothing in the dryer but old dryer sheets and lint balls. The washer? Also empty.
“They didn’t grow legs and walk away.”
Kennedy moved to the living room and looked around. “Okay, I give up.”
Discouraged, she flopped down on her big, overstuffed chair and tucked her feet up under herself, ready to study her murder board. Her copies of the crime-scene pictures and information-filled note cards were tacked directly to the wall. Other than the crime scene pictures, there wasn’t much for Kennedy to analyze this early in the investigation. Lab results would start coming in later today, and the CSU analysts would have information to add. Kennedy and Wilder would add their own findings to the board at Metro and she would copy it all to the board here.
Eager to get a head start, Kennedy flipped open her cell phone and dialed the number for Lenny Sparks, a fellow homicide detective at Metro. He answered on the third ring.
“Detective Sparks.”
Earlier that morning, Detectives Sparks and Tenuta had arrived at Metro just moments before Kennedy had gathered her things to leave. Assuming the dead prostitute had had a purse with her when she was killed, Kennedy asked them to follow up on the search for it.
“Did you and Jimmy get any hits on the missing purse?”
Sparks’ deep voice grumbled back at her. “What? No good morning, hello, or even a nice, friendly kiss my ass? You need to get out more, O’Brien.”
“Hello, Sparky. It’s Kennedy. Any chance you found out anything on my victim’s purse? Is that better?”
“Much better, thank you.” She heard a loud gulp, Metro’s excuse for coffee, no doubt. “The uniforms did a thorough sweep of the area, including dumpsters, and came up with zilch.”
“Zilch? As in nada?”
“As in nada. As in not a damned thing. Jimmy and I had a look around for ourselves.” He took another gulp. “Are you sure your victim even had a purse, O’Brien? Maybe one wasn’t found because there’s nothing to find.”
She picked at a thread hanging from the arm of her chair. “That seems unlikely, we didn’t find condoms and cash stuffed in her bra. If it doesn’t turn up, I guess we’ll have to assume someone else found the body and liberated the purse, or the killer took it and dumped it somewhere, or kept it as a souvenir.”
“It could show up later. You know, maybe a passerby found it.”
“What, Sparky, you think a Good Samaritan might turn it in? Yeah, right. I won’t be holding my breath waiting for that to happen. We’re talking Hooker Haven. Not exactly the place where do-gooders hang out.”
“You’re right.” Sparks paused and Kennedy heard the sound of papers shuffling. “The door to door was a bust too. Like you said, people living in that part of the city just aren’t big on offering help. I doubt they’d help their own mother if she was being raped and murdered.”
“That area is a better known hangout for sinners than for saints.”
“I hear that. What else can we do for you? Our case load is light; we can put in a little time if you need us.”
Kennedy wasn’t about to turn down the offer. “If you could pick up copies of security tapes from any businesses willing to cooperate that’d be a great help. Wilder and I can view them this afternoon.”
“We can handle that. What did you want? About a five or six block radius?”
“I’ll go with six.” She gave the thread she’d been toying with a hard tug, jerking it from the chair’s material, and left a small hole in the arm.
Sparks pointed out what she already knew. “I’m not sure how many shops actually mess with security cams and even if they do, no telling how many will fork over the film voluntarily.”
Kennedy wound the loose thread around a finger. “Then we get warrants in the works for those not willing to co-operate.”
“That always goes over well.”
“We don’t have many options to work with for now, Sparky. City Hall is working with Homeland Security to install cams in all the high crime areas. I hear it’s going to happen before the year is out.”
Kennedy heard his grunt of frustration and knew exactly where he was coming from.
“You think John Q. Public is eventually going to fight having their civil rights infringed?”
“I don’t know, Sparky. Surveillance is kind of turning into a necessary evil since 9/11 isn’t it?”
“Maybe.”
She didn’t think he sounded too convinced.
“As a cop, it’s going to make our jobs a little easier. As a citizen, I’m not sure what I think.”
“I hear you.” Kennedy was pretty sure the public would lean towards hating it.
“Jimmy and I’ll follow up on the security cams. If we don’t catch a new case, we’ll get another door to door going.”
“Thanks, Sparky. Wilder and I appreciate the help.”
“No problem,” he said with a laugh. “Now you and Wild Thing owe us one.”
Sparky’s laughter still echoed in her ear as Kennedy flipped her cell phone closed. With a little foot work and a lot of luck, she hoped she and Wilder would be able to close the case soon.
Glancing down, she saw a squished bag of salt and vinegar potato chips stuck half in and half out of the well-worn chair cushions. “No underwear, but not a total loss...”
She reached between the cushions and pulled out the no-telling-how-old bag of chips. Holding it at eye level, she found herself pleasantly surprised. Stuck to the chip bag was a sock. Actually, it was stuck by a wad of grape taffy. Standing up, Kennedy lifted the cushion and found a small pile of clean socks and two pair of clean underwear. “Yes!”
She didn’t remember putting the stack there, but she wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Grabbing a pair of panties, she squeezed them in the palm of her hand. “Hiding from me, huh?” She smiled to herself. “Forever perfecting my detective skills.”
Kennedy slipped the panties on, sat back down and ate her lunch of stale, squished chips, happy that she wouldn’t be wearing yesterday’s dirty underwear or going commando under her jeans today.
“The Case of the Missing Undies... closed.” Kennedy sneered, “Eat your heart out, Nancy Drew.”
If only her homicide cases were as easy to solve.
She’d been a detective in the Homicide Division of the LVMPD for four years. Kennedy had never considered being anything else but a cop. Her father and grandfather had both been police officers. Being a cop was in her blood. It was a part of her genetic make-up.
Her grandfather, Thomas O’Brien, was a retired patrol cop. Her father, Patrick, had been a Detective in the Robbery Division before he was killed in the line of duty. Both were well respected, and Kennedy was determined to keep the tradition going. After four years in Homicide, she had a spotless record and an almost perfect homicide solve rate. You weren’t going to find her name on a lot of cold case boxes.