said, “I should be getting back.”
Poe said, “Do you have a fix as to what kind of instrument made the gouges?”
“I was hoping you wouldn’t ask me that.”
“Go on.”
“I’ve found flakes of metal lodged where it touched bone … consistent with a rake or some kind of tool. But I’ve also found bits of tooth enamel.”
“Consistent with biting.”
“No bite marks, Rom. More like … methodical tearing at the victim with the teeth.” She looked away. “There was something very animalistic about this death. Like he was … eating her—”
“Oh Christ!”
“—or more like grazing.”
“This is truly nauseating.”
Rukmani scratched at her hair tucked under a scrub cap. “This has not been an easy autopsy. It’s going to take a while before I come to anything definitive.” She stood. “I’ve really got to go.”
Poe got up as well. “I can’t entice you with a quick lunch at my place?”
“Lunch?”
“Well, lunch and munch.”
Rukmani laughed, hit his shoulder. “I’d love to, but I’ve got this corpse—”
“Aha! Okay for you to refuse me, but—”
“Rom, you leave a body exposed for more than a short period of time, it screws up every—”
“When it’s your ox that’s being gored—” Poe stopped talking. “Why did I say that?”
Rukmani smiled with fatigue. “My place, tomorrow night?”
“It’s a deal.”
“We are really too busy. We never see each other.”
“Guess that makes us a true ideal American couple.”
“If we’re going to lapse into mindless treadmilling and burnout, we might as well get married.”
“Name a date.”
She waved him off, kissed his cheek. “Mind if I don’t walk you out? Brittany Newel is calling my name.”
Poe snapped his fingers. “You actually think of her as Brittany Newel?”
“You bet I do. She had a name in life. I’ll be damned if I’ll take it away in death.”
Day, night, it didn’t matter, the bars in Vegas looked the same—dimly lit, smoky atmosphere, lots of tabletop slots and poker machines. The saloon at Casablanca sat in the center of the casino, a giant disk with tables and chairs rotating a full circle every hour. Usually lounges-in-the-round were reserved for places with a view. But the only vistas here were the gaming pits and rows of slots. Patricia knew that was the point. To entice the drinkers to leave and gamble.
It had been one hell of an afternoon. Productive, though. She had been the first to find evidence—a spike-heeled shoe. More important, she had found the purse—an ecru macramé thing about fifty yards from where Brittany had been dropped. Blended in perfectly with the sandy layer of Las Vegas desert. It contained her driver’s license, two maxed-out credit cards, three hundred bucks, and several plastic cellophane packets of rock crystal cocaine.
Superficially, it appeared that neither robbery nor drugs had been a motive. But she knew that the whole thing could have been a setup to deflect Homicide.
Still, she had been proud of herself. Weinberg had congratulated her, slapped her back, then given her a list of bars to comb. Twenty of them.
And here she was, feeling as gritty as unwashed spinach, as dirty as a desert rat. She sat at the countertop along with a couple of pickled stragglers waiting for fresh crowds of gamblers to come and liven the evening, her eyes observing the natural ebb and flow of the casino. Cocktail waitresses with big bonkers, wearing gauzy stuff, their flat stomachs with jewels in the navels. They walked two and fro—from casino to bar, from bar to casino.
The bartender approached her. Aladdin he wasn’t. Then again, she was no Jasmine. He was Samoan or Tongan or something that screamed Pacific Islander—an extra-extra-large with frizzy black hair. He wore black harem pants and a purple satin vest over a white see-through shirt. Sandals on his feet. His name tag said Nate.
Wiping the countertop, smiling with white teeth. “’Lo.”
“Club soda,” Patricia answered.
It was now six-thirty. Two hours of scouring the bars for Brittany’s last stand had produced sore feet and a half-dozen hits—servers who somewhat recognized Newel’s face. Unfortunately, no one remembered seeing her yesterday.
Casablanca was bar number twelve on the loo’s hit list. She had consumed twenty—count ’em—twenty club sodas, which necessitated about a dozen trips to the bathroom. How she suffered for her art.
Patricia took out her badge, showed it to Nate, who looked at it without flinching. Didn’t even back away. She was encouraged. Maybe he’d talk without a cattle prod.
“You want a twist with that, Officer?”
“Detective. Homicide.”
His eyes blinked. “Would you like a twist, Detective?”
“Lime.”
“You got it.”
His eyes yo-yoed up and down over her girth, then jumped to her left hand. Patricia smiled to herself. Two humping rhinos.
Not that she was that bad.
Not like after she had left the service—honorable discharge, of course. She had thought she had it together … everything under control. But putting on those civvies, walking out of the base, feeling so dirty and violated. Then seeing him with that evil smile, giving her his famous little wave.
She had gone back to her apartment and had thrown up.
She hadn’t ever been a thin girl. But there was chunky and there was obese, and she had crossed over to the latter. Within two years, she had ballooned to 250 pounds. She had never really figured out why she had suddenly reversed her self-destructive gorging. Maybe she had been sick and tired of letting Homer get the last laugh.
She had starved herself in order to pass the department physical, surviving on air and a can-do spirit. But as soon as she made detective, she had started eating again. Stuffing her face until she had been sure that no superior could possibly be interested in her.
And no one had been. Never even a hint of sexual impropriety.
Perversely enough, the guys had been nice. Supportive. Helpful. Even a pussy hound like Steve was always available to answer questions. Slowly, the pounds started melting. She plateaued
