Brian Freeman - Stripped

“So we have the same killer,” Serena said. “And the guy is leaving his calling card behind at each crime scene.”

“Did Jay Walling run a match for prints at the scene in Reno?”

Serena nodded. “No match.”

“So maybe there’s no connection,” Stride said.

“Or we haven’t found it yet It’s possible the perp didn’t think about leaving a print behind until the hit-and-run. Then he decided he wanted to lead us on a merry chase. So he left the receipt as a clue to tie in the murder of Alice Ford at her ranch.”

“Except Helen and Walker Lane are both mentioned in Rex Terrell’s article in LV. They have a connection to Amira Luz. The Fords don’t, as far as we can tell.”

“You think the article by Rex is the connection?” Serena asked. “That’s what got this started?”

“Maybe,” Stride replied. “No one cared about Amira for years before he started nosing around. Rex may have got someone’s attention.”

As they climbed up Nick Humphrey’s driveway, a little blur of white came streaking like a comet from next door. They stopped as a West Highland terrier sped around their feet, dancing on its hind legs and then flopping over on its back. Serena laughed and crouched down, rubbing the dog’s belly. It closed its eyes, in heaven.

An elderly black man limped over from the neighboring house. “I’m sorry about that.”

The dog leaped up and began jumping for attention at the man’s legs, wanting to be picked up. He bent over with a groan and scooped her up. “Some watchdog you are,” he grumbled at her. The dog kissed his face.

“What a sweetie,” Serena told him.

“Yeah, she loves people,” the man replied. He added, “I’m Harvey Washington. You coming to see Nicky?”

They nodded.

“He’s inside. Probably watching ESPN. Me, I prefer the History Channel. I love it when they do those dinosaur shows.” He put the dog down, and the dog sat and stared up at him. “You wouldn’t have liked those days, huh, missy? You would have wound up an appetizer for one of them T-Rexes.”

The dog looked unconvinced. It pawed at Serena’s leg and then flopped over on its back again.

“Oh, you’re a lady, for heaven’s sake,” Harvey said. “Don’t go offering up your tummy like that. You want people to think you’re easy?”

Harvey had gray curly hair and a broad nose. His chocolate skin was wrinkled and hung like ill-fitting clothes on his arms and legs. He wore navy blue shorts and a white polo shirt.

“Have you known Nick long?” Stride asked.

“Oh, for years. Long before both of us moved here.”

“Were you on the force, too?” Serena asked.

“No, nothing like that. I can see you two are on the job, though. You both have that look. I’d know it anywhere.”

Stride saw a twinkle in Harvey ’s eyes and wondered if the man knew the police from personal experience. He wouldn’t have wanted to be a black man in Las Vegas in the old days.

“I won’t keep you,” Harvey said. “I’m sure you’ve got ground to cover with Nick. When you see him, ask him if he’s taking his lisinopril. The man’s blood pressure could pop a champagne cork.”

He waved good-bye with his dog’s paw and shuffled back to his yard.

A small plane floated overhead, its engine whining. They weren’t far from the North Las Vegas Airport. Nick Humphrey lived on a street of tract houses just off Cheyenne. There was still a lot of open land out here. Stride could hear the rumble of bulldozers digging up the rocky soil somewhere, giving birth to another look-alike development like this one. Each unit was cheap and without any soul, painted the same mute beige, dropped next to one another like part of a build-by-numbers master plan. Stride was sorry to think that this was the best Humphrey could afford, after several decades on the job.

Stride and Serena continued to the front door and rang the bell. Humphrey answered immediately, as if he had been waiting for them. His eyes were hooded with suspicion. Stride explained who they were and that they wanted to talk to him about an old case, but his granite expression didn’t change.

“Amira Luz,” Stride added.

“Yeah, I thought as much,” Humphrey said. With a shrug, he let them in.

Humphrey had a shock-white crewcut and a goatee. He was bulky for his age, and when he shook their hands, his grip was crushing. He wore jeans and slippers, but no shirt, and a green terry robe tied loosely at his waist. He led them into a small living room, trailing an aroma of Bengay.

“You guys want a beer? If anyone asks, I can just say it was bottled water.” They declined, and he didn’t seem surprised. He added, “That’s okay. No one would believe I kept bottled water in the house anyway.”

His living room had the look of a bachelor’s house, messy and unorganized. Prescription pill bottles and beer cans were strewn across a coffee table, its wooden veneer scratched and dotted with water rings. Books and newspapers sat in stacks on the floor. Stride took a seat on a sofa and heard its sagging frame squeak through the cushions. Stuffing spilled out through the ripped floral fabric on the arms.

Stride saw an old baseball rolling around on the coffee table. He picked it up and noticed the ball was autographed in a faded blue scrawl. Willie Mays.

“This must be worth a lot,” Stride said.

“Yeah, so what, I’m not allowed to have some nice things?”

“I never said that.”

Humphrey snorted. “I’m a collector.” He took a seat in an old leather recliner across from them. “So I hear Sawhill is in charge of homicide now.”

“That’s right,” Serena said.

“Bunch of Mormons running Sin City,” Humphrey said, curling his lip. “Ain’t that a fucking joke? But I suppose you got the Indians raking in the gambling bucks everywhere else. Take your pick.”

“Did you work with Sawhill?” Serena asked.

“Sure. Ambitious but smart. Politics first, God second. I hear he’s got his eyes on the sheriff’s campaign next year.”

Serena nodded. “But the word is that the sheriff will endorse someone else.”

“Don’t be so sure. He’s going to feel a lot of heat. Sawhill’s got a brother who’s a top aide to the governor, and he’s got a sister who does political ads and worked on the mayor’s last campaign. And the old man, Michael Sawhill, is a big-shot casino banker. The whole family’s connected.”

“You didn’t sound surprised that we were here about Amira Luz,” Stride said.

“I saw the article in LV ,” Humphrey retorted bitterly. “That little snot Terrell all but accused me of being on the take. I called a lawyer who told me there wasn’t much I could do. Too bad. A libel suit would pay for a few upgrades around here.”

“A lot of people back then seemed to think Walker Lane was involved in the murder,’ Serena said.

Humphrey shrugged. ‘There was no evidence he was involved, and there was plenty of evidence that this guy in L.A. did it.”

“ Walker was in Las Vegas that night,” Stride said.

“Hell, I know that. It was that goddamn article that said we were clueless about it. But I had six people who told me that Walker Lane left town before the second performance of the show. He drove back to L. A.”

“Could they have been lying to you?” Serena asked. “Sure they could, but if they were, they got their stories straight.”

“Did you talk directly to Boni Fisso about what happened that night?” Stride asked.

Humphrey shifted uncomfortably and tugged at his groin. “Boni talk to the cops? Fat chance. I dealt with Leo Rucci. He was the fixer, Boni’s boss on the casino floor. Everything went through Leo. Meanest asshole I’ve ever met.”