Brian Freeman - Stripped

“Any regrets?” Serena asked. “Wish you’d stayed in bed? Wish you’d stayed in Minnesota?”

Her voice was light, but he heard a pointed question there. Every now and then, she wanted a reality check on where they were.

“I definitely wish I’d stayed in bed,” he told her.

He didn’t take the bait about Minnesota. He knew it was too early to tell about the job and Las Vegas and what that meant for their future. They hadn’t really talked about it, because they both liked things the way they were and didn’t want to screw it up.

“What’s the case?” Serena asked.

Stride told her about the body and heard her whistle long and loud when he said the victim was MJ Lane.

“How come everyone knows about this guy but me?” he asked.

“If you read my Us magazine in the bathroom now and then, you’d know these things,” Serena said.

Stride sighed. “I’ve already been told that I’m culturally deprived.” He added, “We’re heading over to MJ’s condo now.”

“You got a partner with you?”

“Amanda Gillen,” Stride said.

“Amanda?” Serena retorted.

Her voice was loud enough to be heard throughout the truck. Stride glanced at Amanda. She stared discreetly at the lights of the city as he drove, but he recognized a smirk twitching on the corner of her lips.

“Nice girl,” Stride added.

Amanda laughed out loud.

“Uh, Jonny, you do know…?” Serena asked.

“Yeah, I know.”

“I hope this means I have nothing to worry about,” Serena told him.

“Never assume.” He added, “You’re up early, too. What’s going on?”

“A cop spotted an abandoned car in the parking lot at the Meadows Mall. I’m picking up Cordy. The uni thinks it may be the vehicle used in the hit-and-run on the boy in Summerlin last week.”

“That’s good. You needed a break.”

“Yeah.”

She sounded more tired than excited. Stride understood. Child killers were the toughest cases to handle, and the death of the boy, Peter Hale, had hit Serena hard.

“I should go,” Stride told her. They were nearing MJ’s condominium.

“I know. Me, too.”

Neither one of them hung up. Even the silence of air on their phones felt like a lifeline, connecting them.

“Hey, Jonny?” Serena added. “Watch your back. This isn’t Duluth.”

Stride pulled off Paradise Road in front of the Charlcombe Towers condominium complex. He leaned forward and stared upward through the windshield. The old and the new, he thought.

The three forty-story white towers, gleaming and new, reached for the night sky on the west side of Paradise. The balconies of multimillion-dollar apartments crept up the building walls like a stairway to heaven. A scant block away, crumbling and dark, was a vestige of old Las Vegas-one of the last of the 1960s-era casinos. A princess of its time grown tired and haggard. Still standing, but not for long. Stride had already learned that old didn’t last long in this town.

Amanda pointed at the derelict casino, ready for implosion. “Boni Fisso owns it. He’s launching a big new project called the Orient over there, once they detonate the old place. An Asian-themed resort. It’s supposed to cost almost two billion dollars.”

“Why Asia?” Stride asked.

“Lots of whales in Japan and Singapore, I guess. And I think they figure China’s the next capitalist up-and-comer. The outside’s going to look like a Ming Dynasty palace.”

“Too bad MJ won’t be around to enjoy the view,” Stride said.

He pulled up to the security gate and waved at the guards. Their faces were stony and suspicious, studying Stride’s dusty truck.

“Should have brought the Spyder,” Amanda told him.

It took them almost forty-five minutes to talk their way past the guards and into MJ Lane’s one-bedroom condominium, which was midway up the northern tower on the twenty-eighth floor. Inside, Stride snapped on gloves but lingered in the wood-floored foyer. He wrinkled his nose. “Pot,” he said.

He wandered down two steps into the living room, which featured a giant stone fountain in the center, two rich leather sofas, and an entertainment system that took up most of the west wall, including a seventy-two-inch high-definition television. The place was a mess, despite the tens of thousands of dollars that someone-MJ’s father?-had plowed into chrome art, a cherrywood dining room set, and chandeliers sculpted out of silver and crystal. MJ treated it like a college dorm. A skin magazine lay open on one of the sofas. Dozens of DVDs spilled onto the floor in a messy pile in front of the television. Remnants of breakfast for two-cereal and soured milk, cold coffee-littered the dining room table; the scent of a half-smoked joint hung in the stale air. He saw men’s underwear and women’s panties on the carpet near the open doorway to the master bedroom.

“MJ had a guest,” Stride said.

“And it wasn’t Karyn Westermark,” Amanda added.

Stride’s forehead furrowed. “How do you know?”

“No way Karyn wears underwear.”

Stride chuckled. He studied the unmarked DVDs on the floor and pushed the play button on the digital recorder. An image jumped onto the oversized television screen. Guttural moaning surrounded them from hidden speakers throughout the condo. Stride saw a man spread-eagled in bed, with a naked girl straddling him, her conical breasts dangling over his mouth. He thought for a moment that he was watching a porn film, but this was a home movie. The man on the bed was MJ. He didn’t recognize the woman, but her wiry chestnut hair didn’t match the straight-arrow blond locks they had seen in the security footage of Karyn Westermark at the Oasis.

“Some guys don’t learn,” Amanda said. “You’d think winding up on the Internet in your own nudie flick would make you a little more careful about this kind of thing.”

Stride stopped the playback. He noticed a phone and an answering machine on the glass skirt surrounding the gurgling fountain. The red light was flashing. When Stride tapped the button, an electronic voice announced that MJ had three messages.

“MJ, it’s Rex Terrell. I thought we could trade some secrets. I showed you mine, how about you show me yours? Give me a call, okay?”

Terrell left a number, which Stride jotted down in his notebook. The call had come in just after noon on Saturday.

“You know who Rex Terrell is?” Stride asked.

Amanda shook her head.

The next message was from Karyn Westermark, short and sweet.

“It’s Karyn. I’m in town, baby. Seven o’clock at Olives. See you then. Love ya.”

“So we know they had dinner at Bellagio,” Amanda said. “I wonder if Karyn knows about the brunette in MJ’s latest porno movie.”

The last message began with several seconds of silence. The tape crackled. Stride heard movements in the background, a man clearing his throat, strains of classical music. Finally, the words came, in a growly voice split by halting, uncomfortable pauses. Gaps where he didn’t know what to say. There was raw pain in his tone.

“MJ, it’s Walker … please don’t stop listening, don’t delete the message. We need to talk … You’re wrong …”

Stride hit the pause button. “Walker?” he asked.

Amanda nodded. “Walker Lane. The producer. MJ’s father.”

“What you’ve heard isn’t true, and I wish there was something I could say to make you believe that …”

The last pause went on longer than the others, and Stride thought the message was over. Then the voice continued, softer, pleading.

“I wish you’d come home. I wish to God you didn’t live there… I want to tell you the truth, face to face … I’m going to try your cell phone. If we haven’t talked when you get this, call me.”