Brian Freeman - Immoral

"Cordy's something of a sociologist of tits," Serena explained dryly.

"Am I wrong? You tell me if I'm wrong."

Serena didn't have a chance to reply. Three women in their twenties, two blondes and a brunette, ran through the stalled traffic in front of them. The brunette passed closest to Cordy's cruiser, and Stride's eyes were drawn instinctively to her chest She wore a low-cut T-shirt, from which her breasts overflowed. Cordy honked the horn and gave her a thumbs-up. The girl stuck out her tongue at him and wagged it lasciviously.

Serena sighed. "I didn't say you were wrong."

"Uh-huh. Good thing, mama. The only reason this town can put so many strippers through college is that all of the men are so wired from watching the rest of the girls, they'll pay anything to see what's underneath."

Serena just shook her head.

When they passed Flamingo, traffic loosened slightly. Serena pointed out the next wave of mega-resorts, stretching from Caesars at the southern end to the Stardust in the north. As they passed the Mirage, the resort's street-side volcano exploded into action, cascading columns of water, steam, and fire into the air before a crowd of gawkers. He had never seen a city that pulsed with life the way Vegas did. The sensation was electric, watching the streams of people flowing in and out of the casinos and jostling to cross the street. Cordy was right: There were loose, jiggling breasts everywhere, plus the smell of sex, cigarettes, and money.

Even so, Stride noticed that the glitzy aura of the Strip faded quickly the farther north they went. Instead of expensive casinos catering to high rollers, he noticed porn shops and massage parlors, bars with nickel video poker signs, and motels with burned-out neon signs. The crowds of tourists on the sidewalks thinned; most of them were smart enough not to explore these neighborhoods. He saw hookers on every corner, grinning at them from behind garish lipstick and dyed hair. Several homeless people slept in doorways.

"No volcanoes here," he murmured.

Serena shook her head. "We call this the Naked City. And that's not a breast joke. You've got the Stratosphere tower, but all around it, there's more drugs and murder here than anywhere else in the city."

After another mile, they turned off the Strip on Charleston, leaving both the casinos and the Naked City behind them as they headed west. Out here the town looked like any other inner-ring suburb, with strip malls, discount stores, and chain restaurants. They reached Serena's town house complex in less than ten minutes. The gated community was a beehive of bone white, two-story stucco buildings with bright red roofs. Serena waved at the guard, who opened the electronic gate and let Cordy's Cruiser slide in. Cordy, who was obviously familiar with the grounds, navigated a bewildering maze of intersecting roads and driveways, pulling up to a unit at the far back of the complex.

"Home sweet home, mama," he announced.

Stride and Serena recovered their luggage from the trunk. Heat radiated from the pavement. The stiff, dry breeze out of the mountains offered no relief. Stride felt the urge to wipe his brow, but he realized the arid landscape was too dry even for sweat.

"Let's meet here at nine o'clock tomorrow morning," Serena told Cordy. "Alert the search team to meet us at the site at ten."

Cordy winked at Stride. "You sure you want to stay here? We could hit some clubs I know."

"Good night, Cordy," Serena said.

"But hell, mama, how can you let him stay in your boring town house? It's his first time in the city. The man deserves to have some fun."

"He'll have fun," Serena told him.

Morning sun streamed in through the vertical blinds in Serena's bedroom. Stride, long since awake, watched Serena sleep.

She lay on her stomach. Her hair fell loosely across her face. Her arms were tucked under the pillow, leaving the swell of her right breast visible where it pressed against the mattress. Her back sloped downward to the valley at the base of her spine, then rose again at her buttocks. She had one leg under the sheet and one leg above it.

Serena rolled over, and he was treated to the sight of her naked breasts and soft brown nipples. Her eyes blinked slowly, then opened to narrow, unhappy slits, unwilling to face the daylight. She brushed her long hair from her face. "What time is it?" she asked sleepily.

"Late. Almost eight-fifteen."

Serena groaned. "Shit. Cordy will be coming soon."

He moved to touch her breasts, but Serena nimbly slapped his hand. "None of that, Lieutenant. We only have five minutes to shower."

"I can do five minutes," he said.

"Hush." She scrambled out of bed, and his eyes followed her as she retreated into the bathroom. He heard her shout, "Make coffee, okay?"

"Okay."

Naked, he made his way downstairs. He hunted through cabinets and found a mason jar filled with ground coffee. With some difficulty, he figured out how to use her Scandinavian coffeemaker and started it perking, then returned upstairs. Serena was back on the bed, rubbing her damp hair with a towel. Beads of moisture glistened on her bare skin.

"I know what you're thinking, and don't think it," she told him casually.

"How do you know what I'm thinking?"

Her eyes traveled southward, and he looked down. "Oh."

"Yeah, oh. Now get in the shower. I suggest cold water."

When he emerged from the shower, he smelled the aroma of coffee. He didn't see Serena, but a few seconds later, she came back into the bedroom with two steaming cups on saucers in her hands. She was half dressed, wearing bikini panties and a white V-neck tee.

"We better get moving, Jonny. Cordy's always on time."

"So if we're going to do something, we better move fast."

"What you're going to do is get dressed," Serena told him. Then he saw her eyes slide down his body again. She cocked her head. "Can you really do five minutes?"

Stride sat in the backseat of Cordy's Cruiser as they headed south on I-15, leaving the Strip behind and heading into the wasteland. He felt a rush of anticipation. Somewhere ahead of them, on the fringe of a desert road, was a man who knew Rachel after her disappearance. Someone who had seen her in her life after death. Someone who might be able to give him answers to four-year-old questions.

They were also about to meet a man who might have bashed in the back of a young woman's skull and dumped her body in the desert. Serena had retrieved her 9 mm SIG-Sauer pistol from the locked glove compartment of her own car and lodged it securely in a shoulder holster under her loose, waist-length bluejacket. Stride's own Ruger was similarly holstered inside his charcoal sport coat.

Cordy turned off the main highway and kicked up a trail of dust on a frontage road. He pointed down the road a quarter mile, where Stride saw a ramshackle trailer just off the north side. "Down the road, that's him."

"This is where she was found?" Stride asked.

"This is it," Serena said.

Cordy parked the car directly in front of the trailer, leaving the engine running. Serena turned to Cordy and said, "Give us a few minutes with him, okay?"

Stride and Serena both got out. Stride studied the surroundings. The trailer was gray, permanently encrusted with dirt and grit blown from the expanse of desert around it. There was no sidewalk, only a worn path where visitors went to and from the door. He pricked up his ears, listening to a strange cacophony that rose and fell on the wind. It was a grotesque tune, without any rhythm, just a tinkling noise like a thousand children playing with toy bells.

"What the hell is that?" he asked.

"Wind chimes," Serena said. "A lot of them."

Serena led them up the trailer steps, which sagged under their weight. At the screen door, she stopped, banging on the aluminum siding of the trailer. There was no answer, just the singing of the chimes.