Moon Music (3 page)

"Wha—"

"He fucked her."

Rukmani was quiet. "So maybe he's acting guilty."

Poe started snapping his fingers. "Nah, he didn't do it."

"You're sure?"

"Well, I'm not
positive
of anything." Still snapping. "But it doesn't look like Steve's style. He likes his meat young and
alive
."

Rukmani took his hands, held them in her own.

"You've got more tics than a clock. You really should be on Prozac."

Poe remained serious. "I should have pulled him off the case."

"Why didn't you?"

He shrugged. "Don't know."

"It wouldn't have anything to do with Alison, would it?"

He jerked his hands away, but hesitated before he spoke. "Maybe…probably."

Alison.

Poe said, "I figure let him run loose for a day or two. He'll be watched. If he's guilty, it'll lead to something. If not, why screw him up prematurely? The man does have a wife and kids."

A wife and kids.

"Despite what he thinks, I'm not out to ruin him." A beat. "He does a decent number on himself without my help."

Rukmani straightened her jacket. "Well, I'm off to the morgue. How about you?"

"Guess I'll dig up a ghost named Brittany Newel." He scratched his aquiline nose. "She might have been a dancer for the floor show at Havana. Might as well start there."

Rukmani gave Poe's long, lean face a gentle pat. "Evil critters out there, Rom. Watch your back."

He nodded. Living in a city that never slept, her words were good advice.

TWO

I
T WAS
well past three, so Alison knew Steve was working a legitimate case. Which didn't surprise her, given the circumstances of the evening.

No matter how many times she bathed, it still remained with her. The smell of sweat, the taste of blood, the adrenaline rush that appeared from nowhere. Scratches scored her arms, chest, and back. Superficial. They didn't hurt…would probably disappear in a day or so. But they looked suspicious. If Steve saw them, he'd ask questions. Like how did they get there.

As if she knew.

What was
happening
to her?

Washing and scrubbing. First with soap, then with alcohol, lastly with bleach. Burning and stinging her until she had to rip and tear at her skin to make it stop.

She thought a moment.

Maybe
she
had put the scratches there. With her nails. Or with her loofah. Or her bathing sponge. Or the thick tufts of steel wool.

Why was she doing this?

And still she felt horribly dirty…contaminated.

That was the key word.

Contaminated.

Thinking it over. Trying to make sense out of it all.

Which was a dangerous thing to do. To think. Instead, she should be doing her research. She should try to discover. Because there had to be reasons for everything.

Her research. It grounded her. All the information in the green book. It was
all
there. If she could just piece it together, she'd have answers.

She stood at the bathroom sink, her body covered in Steve's oversized Turkish terry robe. Standing bulky and fluffy, like a snowdrift. More like the yeti of Las Vegas. Her wet blond hair was still knotted, her red-rimmed hazel eyes shelved with dark circles. Turning the cold-water tap on and off.

On and off. On and off. On and off. On and off.

Quietly…so as not to disturb the boys.

Trying to think it through.

Like when she was little.

All the rituals. They had started after Mom had died. Everyone agreed on that. The tragedy had been the triggering factor. At first, the rituals had been harmless enough—silly, childish obsessions. Checking windows before she went to bed. Opening and closing dresser drawers before she pulled out an article of clothing.

But then they had progressed into lengthy codes of unstoppable behavior. Kissing her bedpost a thousand times before she went to sleep. Closing and opening the curtains for a full hour. Constantly checking her closet for hidden burglars. Straightening her desk so many times that she fell asleep before she could study. Her native intelligence had kept her afloat—an A/B student without even trying.

Years of therapy had followed her mother's death. Dad carting her to every psychiatrist in the city. Yes, the gambling mecca boasted shows and entertainment. But go past the casinos, past the stars, the glitter and glitz. That Las Vegas—the city of her youth—had been a small, naive town with little to offer except heat and sand.

This medication, that medication. This therapy, that therapy. All of it rooted in
the tragedy
. Because no one had dared to speak the word
suicide.

Still, something must have taken hold. Because during her adolescent years, when most of her classmates had gone off on fanciful flights of psychosis and self-destruction, she had become a model teen. Calm, cool, very popular, because she had been smart, classy, pretty, and experienced in all the right places. No, never had problems attracting boys…more like keeping them away. She had treated them like playing chips—discarding or hoarding them at will. Somehow, her compadres had magically forgotten about that weirdo, psycho little girl who sat by herself and never spoke a word.

Not Rom, of course. Rom was different. Rom had eyes in the back of his head—saw and heard everything. Honoring her request, he had left her alone in high school. Yet, he had always been there…lurking in some corner…completely at ease with himself and his geekiness. Nothing had ever bothered him…not the insults, not the taunts, not the rejections. Slings and arrows had bounced off him as if he were protected by chain mail. She had admired him for it. Told him so when they had turned adults.

But back then, she hadn't been able to accept him. Because she had been popular. And popular girls didn't say such things to geeks.

Shame suddenly coursed through her veins. Feeling the heat in her face. But it wasn't
her
fault. Because she had no one to guide her. Besides…it was all working out. Everyone
loved
Alison.

Gliding through high school because she had managed to condense her routines into one or two tidy rituals.

Like handwashing. Infinitely better than kissing bedposts. Now, at least, her hands were always antiseptic.

Ten minutes had passed.

Water on and off. On and off. On and off.

Then she took the plunge. Forced herself to turn off the water and pick up the hairbrush. Major anxiety—an accelerated heartbeat, jumpiness in her stomach, light-headedness. But she talked herself through it.

I'll be okay, I'll be okay, I'll be okay.

Running the hard nylon brush through her shoulder-length locks. Combing out the knots. With each successive stroke, her agitation lessened. By the time she was done, she only needed to turn the water off and on a couple of dozen times. Then she told herself to
leave.

Practicing an exercise she had learned years ago. To literally take her own hand and guide herself out of the high-frequencybehavior area. Tugging at her own fingers until she was back in her bedroom.

Now lie down!

An order.

She always listened to orders.

Except when the voices told her not to.

But that didn't happen very much. No, not too much anymore. Because she knew they weren't real, and often she talked back to them. Of course, when she did, it made her feel like she wanted to wash her hands again.

Longing to go back to the bathroom.

To run the tap.

On and off.

On and off.

On and off.

No, no, no. Better to do research.

You have a brain, Alison. Just learn to use it
. Steve's pithy encouragement to his young, new wife.

It had been right after they had been married. About a month after their fabulous honeymoon in Hawaii. She had burned something in the oven…probably a chicken. She figured that if it took a chicken two hours to bake at 350 degrees, why not cook it for one hour at 700? Except the oven didn't go up to 700. So she had turned the sucker on the highest temperature—broil—and waited.

The small wooden house had been moments away from becoming tinder. The firemen had said she had been very lucky.

She hadn't felt at
all
lucky.

It hadn't been her fault. What had she known about cooking? Her dad's idea of homemade grub had been picking a grapefruit from their backyard tree. Poor little thing…languishing in the clay soil. Still, Daddy had been persistent. He had fed it, nurtured it. And eventually it had given fruit…beautiful sweet, pink fruit.

Just like her.

Two beautiful boys. Daddy loved them so.

Her
boys.

Have to stay sane or else they'd take away her boys. She knew that. Not that anyone ever said that to her
explicitly
. But she knew the score.

She had to stay sane.

It really wasn't that hard to fool them. She could be sane when she had to be. It was just staying sane…as in all the time. Who could stay sane
all
the time?

Her research kept her grounded.

To read and write. To write and read.

Anything.

So long as the mind was occupied.

Because when the mind was occupied, there was no room for voices.

THREE

"I'
M NOT
telling you to spy on him. Just keep him out of situations that could come back to haunt us."

There was a long beat over the line. Patricia asked, "Am I supposed to play dumb? I don't feel comfortable with that, Sergeant."

"No, you can tell him I called…tell him what I said verbatim. Knowing Steve, he'll do a true confessions as soon as he sees you…get all the garbage out of the way." Poe raked his hair with his fingers. "Probably'll say some choice words about me. So be it. Let him rant. Just keep an eye out."

"All right."

But she sounded wary. Poe knew he was putting her in the middle. Not a choice assignment, but since he had kept Steve on, someone had to watch him. He said, "Jensen should be there any moment."

"He's pulling up now."

"I'll be at Havana. Beep if you need me. After that—unless I get some hot lead—I should be back at the Bureau to finish up paperwork. Let's all plan on meeting in a couple of hours."

"Fine."

"Bye." Poe cut the line, started the car, let it idle in neutral. Before he jerked the stick into reverse, he took off the plastic protective slicker he'd been wearing and slipped on a lightweight ebony blazer he kept in the trunk for emergencies. It wouldn't keep him warm, but it gave him a look.

Black jacket, black turtleneck, black jeans, black socks and shoes. All-purpose clothes. He'd fit in anywhere. Again, he combed his droopy locks with his fingernails. Checked himself in the mirror. He needed a shave, which gave him the appearance of pulling an all-nighter. Casinos like that image.

West on Charleston, he headed back into town, making it to Main in under five minutes. A few more blocks, then Poe merged onto Las Vegas Boulevard. Some cars and cabs were still on the road, but the Strip was essentially deserted. Things slowed down as night inched toward dawn. People calling it quits, roosting in their hotel rooms, licking their wounds or sleeping off a bender. Besides, the weather wasn't conducive to strolling.

A pleasure to drive the boulevard empty. Devoid of life but not light. He had spent most of his life in this fabulous city—a bizarre combination of horse town friendliness and metropolitan frenzy. For Poe, the tacky street spectacle held comfortable familiarity. Like his own dysfunctional family—hard to be around, but it
was
home.

Gaudy Day-Glo colors still sparkling at three in the morning. Silly but actually much tamer than the Vegas of his youth. Yes, hotels continued to erect idols in the neon wilderness. There was the Hard Rock Cafe's electrified Gold Top Les Paul pointing up toward the all-powerful Guitar God in the sky and an emulsified hologram of King Tut floating in the night air at the Luxor. But since the eighties, the city had tried to class up its act. Instead of eighty-foot pink clicking champagne flutes, the hotels opted for the more corporate marquee look. Besides being perceived as better behaved, the signs provided free advertising for Vegas acts—a Madison Avenue integration of form and function.

Passing the thousand-foot-tall Needle in the Sky—more of a space station than a hotel—then the dowager Sahara, which had once been the hottest showgirl of the Strip, and the Big Top, a tangible homage to P. T. Barnum's adage "There's a sucker born every minute." A family-oriented place replete with theme park, circus acts, RV hookups, and cheap rooms and food. Keeping the kids stuffed and occupied with roller coasters and high-wire acts, allowing Mom and Dad free time to squander away the college tuition. Four separate casinos providing everything and anything—from penny-ante slots on up. Lest the homey facade fool the innocent, old Steve had found Brendon, AKA Bebe—Mr. Connected Bellman. Jensen had been using the hotel for his second bedroom for over three years. Bebe gave him hourly rates in the city's off-season.

Like now.

Tourism had been especially light the past couple of weeks. April blues. With Mr. IRS Man waiting in the wings, disposable cash was suddenly scarce. Poe had yet to file himself. This year, as in the years past, over half his income had come from gaming wins. Blackjack. He'd been kicked out of most of the big casinos. But there were always ways to work around it.

Poe loved the pits, loved to play. It provided him with a place to sit, cards to hold, and a set of rules to follow. It prescribed his life for a couple of hours, warding off urges to bounce off walls. Just like the job, cards kept him occupied.

Driving past the Stardust, the Mirage, and Treasure Island—the brainchild of the Golden Nugget's onetime wunderkind Steven Wynn. On warm summer nights, the sidewalks were jammed with gawkers watching buccaneers battle on grounded galleons. Others piled up to stare at a fifty-four-foot fiery volcano complete with spewing lava. Once, Poe happened to be in one of the hotel rooms overlooking the smoking mountain. Peering into the bowels of the man-made Vesuvius…seeing all those gas jets and pipes…