Ray raised one eyebrow. First sign of life he’d shown. “Yes. That’s it. He was wearing a hat. A black hat. Like Charlie Chaplin.” A pause. “He had a ponytail. I don’t remember the color. Just the ponytail.”
Patricia wrote quickly. Malealani returned. Big Ray said to him, “The Dewar’s guy was wearing a ponytail.” To Patricia he said, “He was clean-shaven. ’Cept he had like … this peach fuzz all over his face. Like guys get before the beard comes in. A peach-fuzz mustache, too.”
“Peach fuzz … so he was young?”
“Thirty. I checked his ID.”
Patricia felt her heart race. “You checked his ID?”
Big Ray nodded.
“Do you … happen to recall a name?”
Ray didn’t even ponder the question. “Not a clue. Just looked at his birthday. That I ’member.” He gave the date.
“You remember anything else about his features? His eyes, for instance?”
Deadpan, Big Ray said, “Yeah, he had eyes.”
Then the men laughed.
“Very funny.” But she was smiling. To show she was a good ole gal. Just keep ’em talking. “You notice the color?”
“They weren’t bright blue or green or anything.” A beat. “Maybe like light brown, but I’m not positive. I don’t stare at people unless they give me problems.”
“How about his mouth—thin lips, thick lips—”
“Thick lips.”
“And the mouth itself. Was it wide, narrow—”
“Just a mouth.”
“With thick lips.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And his face? Was it long or short?”
“Longer than shorter.” Big Ray looked around. “Uh, things are gettin’ a little busy.”
“I know. Can you give me another minute?”
“As long as you make it a fast one.”
Patricia organized her thoughts. No name, but a birth date. A short and skinny man with a hat and ponytail. A peach-fuzzed Dewar’s drinker with brownish eyes and thick lips. Not a photographic description, but it could have been worse.
“Big Ray, if you have about an hour tomorrow, I’d like you to talk to a police artist. Between the two of you, maybe we could draw up this guy.”
The Melanesian shrugged. “All right.”
A loud crash. The sounds of shattering glass. Someone yelling, “Yeah, well, chuck you, Farley!”
Big Ray peered over Patricia’s head, shouted, “What’s going on over there?”
Malealani was already at the scene. Big fat guy, but fleet-footed. His big, booming voice rang out, “Too much to drink, pal?”
“Fuck you—”
“Let me help you to the bathroom.”
“I said—”
“Better yet, let me help you through the back door.”
“Get your fuckin’—”
“Yeah, yeah!” Malealani started dragging some loud-mouthed jerk in a red shirt across the floor. Opened the back door and away he flew.
Big Ray laughed. “They never learn.” To Patricia, he said, “I gotta go mind shop.”
He turned and lumbered away. Malealani came back a moment later, wiped his hands on his pants. “You want a refresher on that club soda, Patty?”
“No, I’m okay.” Patricia slipped her notebook into her purse. “Actually, I think I’d better head back to the station. Write all this up before I forget.”
“So I’ll pick you up tomorrow at seven. I hope that’s not too early. We gotta fit dinner in between my gigs.” He waited a beat. “I’m off on Sunday. We can have a longer dinner then. There’s this great Thai place about an hour out of the city. You never tasted anything so good.”
Patricia said, “Uh, let’s see how tomorrow goes.”
Malealani scratched his head. “I’m being pushy. Sorry. Don’t mean anything by it. I just get so tired of desperate people. Especially women. So many desperate women in this city. I guess you see that in your work as much as I do.” He licked his lips. “All I’m saying is you really seem to have your act together.”
Patricia wanted to scream, Who? Me? Instead, she chuckled, politely thanking him.
Maintain the image, maintain the pretext.
Because that’s what Vegas was all about.
Looking more like a radio tower than a casino, the Needle in the Sky was started in the late eighties, completed in the nineties. It was the tallest building in Las Vegas, but it was lonely at the top. In the middle of nowhere, it sat in an isolated pocket between the glamour of the Strip and the light fantastic of downtown renovation. What could be said about it? The view was panoramic and the Sunday brunch couldn’t be beat. The interior sang paeans to the god of gaming future. But outside were the trenches. Behind the Needle sat a vacant lot of partial construction and piles of rubble. Dubbed Naked City by the locals, it had the dubious honor of hosting L.V.’s leanest and meanest.
Cab drivers were wary of people headed there at night. Knowing that, Poe always tipped big. He had left his own car in the Bureau’s lot. No way he was going to drive his baby, park it on the street, leaving it prey for any jive turkey car thief desperate for a fix.
Poe detested the place, carrying a weapon and knowing there was a chance that he’d have to use it. Shoot-’em-ups were for the uniforms, for SWAT or special teams. Not for gumshoe homicide detectives trying to trace a hooker’s last steps. Still, he’d cleaned the gun this afternoon. Sucker that he was, why hadn’t he given Steve this assignment?
The taxi let him off in front of the Needle, picked up another fare, then got the hell out.
Poe started walking. Turned up the collar on his coat and stuck his hands in his pocket, feeling the bulge of his holster through the coat material. Wearing his gun on his belt because it made for easier access than his shoulder harness. Past the Union 76 sign, past the block-long General Store and Toon Town toy store. Into the bowels of the bleak.
A weeknight, but there was still some
